Stranded

I PUSHED OFF FROM the bank onto a patch of glass. My paddle sliced open the chilly water, dripped, then cut in again under a rising sun. A ring-necked duck dipped its beak before disappearing beneath the surface, then rose a moment later, drifted, and pushed off—the story of its departure spelled out across the water.

My new Thomas & Thomas eight-weight rested between my legs. I had taken a firm stance that I needed to invest in another rod, and any opposing arguments were ignored by the unrelenting devil on my shoulder. This was our first trip together, and she was riding shotgun.