I remember kneeling in the snow. I can recall the exact spot. It was right at the apex of a gentle bend. There was a log jutting into the water that covered the entire stream’s width but for a few feet. I held the trout firmly. I did so because I didn’t want it to fall onto the snowy ground. I could do so because the girth of its tail filled my left hand. I cradled its belly in my right hand. Overall the fish was lighter in color than it looked in the water. That red patch was more vibrant out of the water. Jeff was just downstream from me. He took the picture. I can remember it all very clearly.
But it is only a memory. I can’t find the picture.
I had seen this particular brown trout for months. At first I was sure that the big fish was a rainbow. Its distinguishing feature was a bright red patch. My mistake makes sense. Usually red means rainbows. But upon closer inspection it was clearly a brown trout. The golden belly. The hooked jaw. The bronze, hunched back.
The gin clear water of the spring creek made these observations simple. But the street went two ways. Any movement beyond a gentle, deliberate cast would force the trout right back under the bank. It moved slowly. It moved confidently. It appeared more bored than intimidated. It certainty didn’t appear enticed.
