by AJ Morris
Half of my home creek no longer exists, victim of progress and the self indulgent needs of society. The half that does is merely a shadow of its former self. But I have only to close my eyes and I am thirteen years old again, standing under the arching canopy of alders, the air thick with the heady musk of devils club and salmonberry. The creek gurgles merrily, bright turquoise and clear. The trout are here, streamlined and spotted, with the vivid neon stripes of wild rainbows. I don’t yet own a pair of waders and the icy water burns as I step into the creek. From my left shoulder hangs the comforting weight of a twelve gauge. In my right hand is a fly rod.