Pale Morning Dun

It was in the snowy mountain range of Wyoming, on the telephone lakes. 

You had to hike in a couple miles at over ten thousand feet elevation, but you can’t beat the Brookie’s or the views. 

It was Labor Day and we trudged through the dark morning hours, ice crackling under our felt soled wading boots. At first light we cast line and set hooks well in to the evening hours. 

It was at dinner we noticed his piercing. My father’s eyebrow adorned with a pale morning dunn, his reward for a failed morning cast. He never said a word, just clipped his line, tied on a new fly, and cast the day away. 


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