Did ya' see that fish?

It begins with the Fly Fishing Show in early February.  Then the endless catalogs.  Finally, the magazines.  They whisper, then taunt, that the season is changing, and it's becoming time to think about fly fishing.

One of the reasons I love to fish is it is time outside with the dogs.  Murphy has become (become being the key word here) the perfect fly fishing dog.  Now, she finds a sunny spot on the bank, or if it is hot, underneath shade, and sleeps until I come for her.  I know she can hear my whoops and shouts of glee, or my frustrated mutterings when I tangle lines, loose a fish, or fly to an unexpected shrub in the back cast.  In her sleep she gauges where I am along the river.  If she can't hear me, she usually wakes and barks, knowing I will call for her.  But before the "becoming," she was focused on the adventure of being on a river.  There were sticks to retrieve, funky smells to roll in, and best of all, me to frustrate.  It never failed I would have fish-on and she would be dropping a stick at my feet.

Sage, on the other hand, is a great fly fishing dog.  Maybe it's in the name.  Knowing she is named after a Pacific Northwest fly rod manufacturer.  Somehow it doesn't offend her to be named after something prosaic.  She's taken to fly fishing just like my 4 weight Sage rod.  She spends an enormous amount of time doing her entomology experiments.  From digging at nymphs, to chasing caddis flies, she loves the bugs.  Then she will explore the riparian areas, looking, of course, for something smelly.  Don't ask me about the time we drove home from the upper Yakima with dead salmon smell in the car.  Only when she is bored will she swim out to find me, circle around my legs, then head back to shore.  

Fly fishing is easy enough that I think Murphy can continue until she no longer wants to ride in the car.  There is nothing better than a spot in the sun, the smells of the pines, a cool drink of water from a fast flowing stream.  It is still important time together, where the end of the day we can both sit at the car, eat slices of cheese, and dream of the next time, of catching the one that got away.

Murphy's day.