Standing on the banks of that fabled river, I felt a deep connection to all the anglers who came before me. The rocks, the water, the trout themselves vibrated and flowed at a frequency that resonated across space and time. And I was amidst all of it, fingers trembling as I sought to attach the fly to the end of my tippet. The delicate dry fly was tied with great care. Perfectly proportioned wings, expertly wound hackle, and a finely dubbed body came together to perfectly imitate  the pale mayflies that danced across the surface of the water. Although it was a facsimile, it should serve as a worthy surrogate.

With a drag free drift, I expected it to glide naturally over the lie of a healthy trout I had observed. With a quick flick of my fly rod, the line uncurled and propelled the gossamer-thin leader outward. The fly naturally followed; fluttering down with the whimsy of an actual insect caught in some heretofore unseen zephyr.

In those moments, time seems to stand still. The entire endeavor of angling crescendos in a  series of events that are ever so still and ever so silent. Minute adjustments of the fly line were made with surgical precision. All the while, my attention was split between the fly itself and the position of the targeted fish. Eyes, unable to focus upon two objects at once, attempted to defy the laws of physics and dart quickly from one to the other. Then, the already protracted clock slowed even more. The trout, seeing or sensing a possible meal, changed the cadence of its tail ever so slightly.

Rising from the translucent depths, the figure of the healthy fish became more perceptible. Tilting its head upward, it hung in the current motionless. Like a still frame, the trout and the fly appeared to be frozen while being carried downstream in unison. The telltale white mouth was the only visual cue that something other than a dance was actually occurring.

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