
“KER-SPLOOSH!”
Before the last of the water from the aquatic eruption had fallen, one of my fishing companions let out a string of expletives. The punctuation on the end of the profanity-laden, run-on sentence was “…big fish.”
It was a big fish. A big trout, to be exact.
“No way. It was just a beaver,” was my attempt at humor. I handle mildly stressful situations with mild attempts at humor.
“No,” Scott replied. “It’s not a beaver. It was a trout.” He was laser focused.
Chris was just casting and casting and casting.
It was nearly dark, and we had all anticipated this moment. That special time at twilight when big trout leave their spooky inhibitions under streambanks and their usual carefulness down in dark pools. Dusk is when predators act like predators. We had counted on this and decided to predate on those very trout ourselves… releasing them, of course.
Mice were on the menu.








