It's been a nice little tradition to do a some fishing on Good Friday in Virginia. It hasn't been an intentionally designed tradition, but rather just seemed to have evolved. Stranger then the fact I seem to end up fishing on Good Friday; I keep ending unintentionally doing the same thing year after year.
I didn't really put the trend together until this last Virginia trip when I passed the same tiny white mountain church with their 20' white cross and a purple cloak blowing in the wind. It's a striking scene at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains and I certainly take notice.
The rest of this experience is for me, but these fishing days are special. There is a certain peace that I have never been able to find anywhere but on a solo trip to a the mountain stream, especially in late March. The entire forest appears dead from winter, but if you looks closely, you will send the first signs of rebirth. Lots of symbolism. The entire valley through the promise of spring is closer than we realize. And on this day, a couple of the biggest brookies in the stream were kind enough to take a dry fly.
