The fly tyer in winter, vol. 1

A few days ago the morning sky was shrouded in dark gray.

The traffic on the East Side Highway, usually clear and visible from my perch above it, moved slowly, like wraiths passing slowly through the barely-visible edge of the mist.

You wouldn't even know the mountains were there if you hadn't seen them beforehand. The valley could be a mostly flat plain in eastern Montana or Nebraska for all that we could see.

By mid-afternoon the day heated up just enough to evaporate some of that dense moist air. When it did, I could look to the west and barely make out the silhouettes of the mountains. Tra...


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