I wasn’t so much walking through the flooded timber as I was sliding. It was by choice and predicated by caution. Sometimes I could see fallen leaves resting under the surface, and in those places I did walk. But sometimes the coffee-colored waters hid the bottom, and there is where I slowly scooted each booted foot in the packed mud. As I searched for solid footing, I tried to keep my weight shifted toward the back because with every tense, tentative toe feel there was a chance that that foot could slide off into a channel or flooded critter hole.

I've been sitting here at the kitchen table, thinking, and I just realized that I haven't been fishing in a long time — more than a month — and that winter is here.