To fling flies or arrows?

Saturday September 7th 7:06 am second day of Maryland archery season. The sun has just risen up over the tree line. The warm rays kiss my face and melt away the chill of the cold. I sit elevated twenty feet closer to god, concealed in this leafy canopy kingdom. The dropping of acorns can be heard throughout the forest, alongside the chirping of songbirds inspired by the morning sunrise. The two sounds are so different yet somehow blend together so well to form a forest symphony. I sit as one with the tree, a concealed camouflage stillness as if an extension of the trees limbs. I sit waiting for a deer, the lords and masters of this woodland realm. Hoping for the velvet racked king of this kingdom to by chance, fate, or luck walk down a trail that leads him my way. I sit here and with the hunter part that's inside of me I'm in heaven. Within this forest surrounded by all these sights and sounds of nature and wildlife, the fresh smell of the soil and the moss on the trees. The crisp air rising up the ridge line swirling, lifting the fog off the river's surface and ascending it towards the heavens.... alas the river. For as I sit here the battle within my heart, between the wood and the water begins. For there is another part of me, the fisherman. Sitting here within this tree, within eyesight of the emerald pools amongst the rocks and boulders. Only longing for the hour in which to descend from this skyline and immerse myself withing the current and flow of the river. Sitting here wishing I only had another type of stick and string within my hand. Wondering which trout I am missing rising to a fly, which pool and log jam is holding that golden speckled river beauty today. Longing to maneuver over the rapids and riffles and break my stone like stillness that numbs the limbs. Dreaming of the river in all it's glory. But for now I sit, the battle of the passions within my soul continues. A never ending struggle seems persistent with no resolution in sight. For when amongst the trees I dream of the river. When wading in the river I dream of the trees contemplating the deer, the massive river hill racked brute that will surely pass by as soon as my passion for fishing eludes the trees. These are the predicaments of a sportsman, the curse of a man who wants to experience it all. A lover of all things wild and free, must choose between river and tree, and to fling flies or arrows.