The leaves are changing colors, the fishing is good, and I know it is fleeting, so I try to store the sunshine in my skin and fish as much as I can. I sit on the porch of Red Quill and write this as a warm breeze blows over my bare arms. The breeze carries the remnants of the summer warmth and tells of the coming cold. At night I have to wear a sweatshirt and hat when I walk down to the pond or along the woods-path behind the camp, but right now I am soaking in the last warm rays.
The fishing has picked up again for the last few weeks of September and I can hardly stand to be without a fly rod in my hand. Recently as I stood along the Magalloway River at pump house pool I watched a friend pull out a good sized salmon from the water, it’s shiny silver sides catching the eye of a great blue heron upstream who was standing stalk still and undisturbed by us. Later my bike tires crunched over orange and red fallen leaves along the Rapid River as I searched for more fish. It’s fall in New England and it only lasts for a few weeks. I keep trying to imprint the smell and feeling of the air into my memory so that when November comes I will have something to hold onto to get me through to the powder days of winter.
Last weekend I resurrected the old wooden skis from the corner of my Grandparent’s box attic and dusted them off. Delicately carved into the wood above each of the binding are my relatives’ initials: my great grandmother, great uncle, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is even a pair that my grandfather used in the 1930’s Olympic Ski Trials. As I wiped away the dirt the hand painted mark of the maker started to show through the years of wear. Carefully I put all the skis in the truck and drove them to Red Quill where they can be seen and enjoyed. I unloaded them on the porch and rested my fishing rod next to them—fishing and skiing tools illuminated in the fall sunshine —what a perfect image of being at camp.