Page 8 - The Color of Trout Waters

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Thomas G. Lewis
I was at work on a canvas in my studio
contemplating an in-process painting, when beyond
the picture window my attention was attracted by a
fisherman in the river. He was in waders, hip deep in
the stream, casting again and again into the swirling
It was near a hypnotic scene. I watched his long
casts sweeping out over the current and my thoughts
drifted, as did his line. He mended the line and
mended it again. The fly drifted in the current. I was
transported back in time and memory.
It was a similar day on that same stream. I had
spent the morning in pursuit of a strike.
The sun was pleasantly warm though not at
all hot. Insects drifted through the air. The sun kept
slipping behind fluffy clouds now and again, only to
reappear as if to reassure me it was still there. The still
whitecapped Swan Mountains, the rich deep greens in
the firs and pines and the mustard yellow grasses at the
edge of the riverbank seemed to become more intense
in color with each lazy moment.
The sky had begun to darken after the beautiful
bright morning and was threatening one of the
summer’s common daily rain showers. Usually this
presented a good prospect for a strike. Early in the
afternoon I had rounded a bend and spotted a jumble
of logs upstream that had backed up the waters
forming an impressive and inviting pool. I had crept
up on a closeby river bank and surveyed the scene.
Suddenly, I was back in my studio, my mind
pulled back from this reverie and I reached for a new
canvas and quickly began to sketch on its fresh white