It is the dawn of the month of March and the waters of the Castaño River still show the celestial tint of the haulage of the thaw.
In the Castaño River the small torrent bagres slips away of stone in stone being about not being dragged by the main and speedy current, what would represent a sure death among the teeth of the brown ones of mountain.
What I found somber rock mastheads until that moment is now brilliant mountains that reflect in the river a golden aura where the brown one is devoted to make twirls, while a duck that observed me indolent it begins a to beat of wings before the proximity of the jumps.
Suddenly I sit down it that it has chopped a fish and beginning to try to bring it, the fish doesn't surrender, I can feel with clarity the close contact of the leader against the stones of the bottom, but I am already close and he has all the played letters. I am ahead to the current and I draw the flake, a finta and I decide the battle.
I don't see close anybody no matter how much looks, so I deposit the trout on the wet sand, I regulate the camera and I freeze this gift of the Castaño River for the eternity.
Then the refund to the liquid, and while it leaves, I sit down in the beach and I allow myself to levy for that reason that I don't know how to describe, but that it fills my chest and makes me laugh alone. The Castaño River and I understand each other.