I love good days. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some are lazy. Some are long. Some flyby and they're gone before you know it.
Saturday was a good day.
Saturday was a good day.
We enjoyed a night in on Friday, and Saturday morning we walked to the park after a fresh pot of coffee and a quick breakfast. I had to run into work for about an hour but made it back in time to play befor a midday nap. While Sara and David slept, I went for a long run. Longer then I've run in a couple years. 9.75mi. It just felt so good to be out in the hot August sun, so I kept going. I came home to a well rested house, and we headed straight to the neighborhood swimming pool for a hour of water play under the fountains and bubblers. We walked home in our suits and the little guy in a diaper and towel drinking a bottle of milk.
The next stop was the Salem Glen Winery just 15 minutes south of Rochester. All the grapes are grown on site. The property rests on a hill where the observatory waits for nightfall. The wines were wonderful. Typically I think most northern wines end up being very sweet, but these were much more of the traditional variety with something for everyone. My favorite was the Marquette. It was dry, cherry flavored and peppery. Sara liked the LaCrescent and the Cygna.
Tempting fate with a day that was already perfect. I rushed out to the stream after putting David to bed. I haven't used my new rod yet and I wanted to fish a section of the stream I hadn't tried. I had a limited window before dark so expectations were low.
David paired his milk and matchbox cars with cheese crackers. He is wise beyond his years.
He quickly moved onto the red wagon and explored the grounds.
Not in the mood to cook dinner and hankering for smooth custard, we stopped by Culvers on the way home. A satisfying dinner was topped off with a game of Choo-choo while standing in a wok. Sara and I still aren't quite sure why David enjoyed this so much, but good things don't always need explaning. We just rolled with it.
However, this day could do no wrong. The Walton Powell Hexagraph casts beautifully. I was tossing a mini hopper into spots I shouldn't be able to. It felt like all I had to do was look where I wanted to cast, and I could make it happen. Still, I hadn't seen a fish in the 30 minutes I was there and darkness was upon me.
There was a downed cottonwood that was creating some great structure, but it was the type of structure you normally pass up because it is understood you will lose every fly you cast anywhere near the tempting pools. (It brings to mind ships wrecked on the rocks after hearing the sirens call.) Today, however, a last chance at a fish seemed well worth the risk.
I ended up walking out on to the cotton wood, balancing on the beam, mid stream. I landed the fly in a stretch the size of a 10-gallon bucket and the fish hit immediately. He hid under two trees before I finally got him to the surface. My balance got me so far as to net the fish before I fell backward chest high in the cool water. On a hot August night, with a big brown trout in your net, it is hard to be upset at something like that. I laughed because Sara had just gotten me a new waterproof case for my phone. I smiled because I couldn't think of a better way to initiate my Hexagraph.
Not all days are good, but when one comes along it pays to relish in it. It even felt good to walk back to the car soaking wet. So good I tried to give my very best Breakfast Club fist pump to the sky, fly rod in hand.
Another one in the books, I guess. Tomorrow, we start all over again.
Here is to another good day ahead of us.