A pale, washed out sun peers sleepily out over a lake ringed with frost. The water ripples in a breeze you can't feel, but which carries a sharply noticeable chill. You can hear your waders crunching through the winter morning. Your breath hangs in the air, a brief moment of mystery and magic. In the trees, birds begin to wake, while out on the water, quiet, subtle signs catch your attention, drawing you down to the bank, rods in hand, sunlight picking out the bright lengths of spooled line, the aluminium gleam of reel housing, the sleek sheen of carbon blanks, refined to create an almost invisible silhouette. In the fading frost behind you, footprints.