There are a lot of tense moments on the stream. Seeing a trout rise, and hoping that it – like most trout – didn’t see you the moment after you saw it. Making a bad cast to a spot you know holds a fish, and gritting your teeth knowing you screwed up. Hearing crunching in the underbrush that sounds very un-squirrel-like behind you in the backcountry. But none of that compares to the utter anxiety that accompanies those moments on the approach to the pull-off for your favorite spot. Will there be a car there? Will there be, heaven forbid, two cars there?

You begin to assume the worst, and then begin to rationalize: Maybe it is a scout troop cleaning the roadside. It could just be some teenagers making out. Hey, I’d be content in skirting some shady drug deal. As long as nobody has fished through my holes.

In fly fishing, there is real community. The fly shop is a social hub. The bar at the lodge is filled with kindred spirits. Message boards are generally pleasant, if not just a bit guarded with the information that you really want. But notice that all of these places are not on the steam. No one can catch my fish whilst leaning on the counter of the local bait and tackle. No one is going to spook my trout by asking questions about chest packs online.

Sure, fishing with a friend is okay. But there, unless you have some sort of weird, passive-aggressive, or dysfunctional fishing buddy, you have an understanding. There are also those circumstances where lots of other people are okay. Not ideal, but okay. Opening day, for instance. If I fished in some places where there is an opening day, and arrived to an angler-free scene, I’d nervously get back in the car assuming I was a day early.

On a particular spring creek that I fished four or five times a week a few years back, I’d encounter the “is there going to be another car” anxiety at the same spot during my drive there. I’d turn off the main road, chipper and enjoying the journey. Then I’d pass through a half mile of cornfields, generally pleased to be in nature and enjoying life.

Then came the stone wall. Symbolic, really. As if the ancient marker physically held back all of my optimism and joy, leaving me only to my angst and panic. I’m pretty sure that every time I went fishing there I sped for those last two miles. I can remember passing the “slow down, our kids play here!” sign, always thinking “your kids and their playing cannot compare with my want – no, my need for fishing over unmolested trout!”

The last turn, down the little hill into the valley, provoked my body to physically attempt to assuage my uncontrollable anguish. I craned my neck, peering to see if a trunk or side view mirror could be detected. The next summer a box truck took out a side guardrail of the concrete bridge immediately preceding the parking spot. I was empathetic, assuming he shared my singular focus.

There was rarely a car. It is up in the headwaters, and there are much more popular and productive access points. The odds never comforted me, because deep down I felt that my few hours hinged upon solitude. The stream and the trout already had everything going in their favor. The last thing I needed was some blundering fisherman mucking up the water. Or, much worse, a skilled angler catching the trout. Part of the reason I fished there was the high chance of having it to myself. I chose that spot, that stream, to maximize my opportunity to fish the way I wanted to fish.

So I’d gear up by myself (quickly, as you never knew when another fisherman might parachute in already in waders with their rod strung up). I’d walk over to the streambank, surveying the water / being generally pleased with myself for beating everyone there.

Then, I’d notice him.

How’d he get there? Who fishes without driving to the stream?

Pleasant waves would be exchanged. Less of a greeting, more of a “well played, you sneaky knave.”