The rivers run low, flowing slow and cold in winter.
It amazes me, every year, that so much life could abound, dormant beneath the seemingly still currents that I see in winter. Even the water that gurgles and trickles over the riffles seems to run slower — although in my mind I know that physically it doesn’t.
There will be three, four, five times as much water running in the rivers in the spring when the trout are breaking the surface everywhere to feed on the myriad of bugs that like them now lie dormant, semi-comatose, and still except for enough motion to keep them alive, on the bottom.
I...
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