Freshly brewed coffee warms my hands and opens my veins. Standing on the frost glazed dock I watch the top of Russell Mountain wake up. When the sharp line of the sunrise works its way down the slope, the muted autumnal reds, oranges, yellows, and greens of the leaves begin to pop in my eyes. The fog lifts and the waking bird song begins to fill the warming air. Everyone wakes up happy in a warm and calm streak in late September.

Across the pane of the pond small perfect circles appear, scattered and consistent: the eastern brook trout feeds. When the nights begin to grow colder in the fall, the water goes through a turnover, resulting in consistent temperature and oxygen levels at all depths, triggering within these little fish a voracious desire to consume. Winter’s coming.

Fly casting, when done correctly is an elegant and effective method of catching fish. As I’m only a few years into my time as a fly fisherman, elegance eludes my style, to be sure. But if I can manage to gently lay down a yellow tailed muddler near one of those ripples on a calm fall morning, it’ll be shocking if I don’t get a hit.

This does not mean I’ll be catching that fish. No, that’s a whole different litter of owls. The anticipation, timing, wrist flicking, and playing of the quarry all need to be confidently orchestrated into fluid movement. I’m told this will develop with practice.

Provided I do land a appropriately grown native brookie or two, my small pocket knife makes short work of gutting them. A simple evisceration of the belly, tail to teeth and they’re almost ready for the cast iron fry pan that hangs on a nail behind the stove in the ranger station. Decades of care have resulted in truly non-stick perfection.

The whole fish gets a light dredging of flour, salt, and pepper and into the hot buttered pan it sizzles. No more than a couple minutes per side. The meat is sushi grade. A fine and fancy feast, made simply with rice and greens, and a hint of the decades of meals the pan has cooked.

Back at the dock, I watch Orion slowly dance across the black unbroken glass of the pond. A couple strange night birds gab with each other out in the woods.