The really high end whiskey makers call the liquor that escapes over time in the aging of the spirits, the Angels Share. A wooden barrel year after year expands and contracts and in so doing the alcohol gently finds itself misting into the ambient.
It’s a mild, calm, slow and even slower, time into time, gentle process.
And the little bit wafted into the air, according to the experts is the price they pay for a spirited perfection.
The lake, one of the truly great lakes this morning in late April is giving off what the commercial fisherman call, Dragons breath.
Its raw, cold, harsh. A silent violence from air currents rushing over open water tearing the warmth from the wet and shredding it into gray vapors causing land to disappear.
Riding out in three to five foot waves, spying the buoys, tying off, all is well, then in a blink, the winds blow even harder, the air charges the lake, the lakes answer is voluminous clouds graying everything, how just a moment ago I could see the shoreline, now I can only see the stern of the boat.
The inexperienced are warned, when the Dragons breath is upon the water, no matter what, don’t let go of the net. Ride the net until you can once again see land that may be more than a mile distant. Then and only then, make your run back to shore.
Because, unlike the Angels share, if you get it wrong, the Dragons breath will consume you….. The trout whisperer