
The river was wide. Wider than any eastern trout river I had ever been in. It was so wide, that I had to turn my brain off to the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to fish every pool. Not every pool in an upstream/downstream manner, mind you: I wasn’t going to be able to fish every pool from bank to bank.
That might be a bit of hyperbole, but that is how it felt. After an hour or so of flailing around, changing flies, and feeling overwhelmed, I decided to make a mental adjustment. I quit. Well, I quit looking at all of the river. So, after I turned my brain off to the vastness of the water before me I decided to cheat. I didn’t get out treble hooks or dynamite. My specific form of angling gamesmanship entailed going to the easy spot.
In any given river, bridge pilings are often the natural barrels in which one can shoot a fish. The bridge itself provides a false sense of security to the fish. The construction creates a swift run, below which a deeper pool forms. Furthermore, little critters like bridges. And trout eat little critters.
Positioning myself just downstream from under the bridge, I endeavored to nymph the opaque green hole. A few casts in, I caught a rainbow. It was the first fish of the day, and a hair above ten inches. On my very next cast, I caught another fish. Another rainbow, also about ten inches. For the next half an hour or so, I didn’t go more than three casts without catching trout. All rainbows; all just shy of a foot in length.








