It was just before dawn as I strolled through the fog
to discover the one that I sought resting on a log.
Through the mist and early light I struggled to see
as the man stood up and slowly turned to me.
I approached where he stood and looked into grey eyes
That despite their age seemed somehow wise.
A glance at his hat revealed a tan Tilley Endurable
making a sun grizzled face seem all the more amiable.
His worn wading shoes were made with a Goodyear welt
and for the slippery rocks had soles shod with felt.
His hand was outstretched from a shirtsleeve of wool
the handshake was firm with a strength that was full.
He smiled seeing my graphite fly rod by Fenwick
I saw all that he carried was an old split bamboo stick.
He said “The cutthroat will give your rod some good work.”
as he motioned to follow with a wave and a smirk.
Tied to the dock was a green float fisherman’s dory
Whose scrapes and dents told a long traveled story.
We pushed into the stream as we welcomed the sun
I felt trust that he’d show me a whole lot of fun.