
“Ain’t no fish in there.”
I’m confident that by fish he meant trout. Because there was, without a doubt, fish in this creek. Suckers finned in the clear pools. Dace chased little olives and midges. Suckers and dace are certainly fish. But few people with full vests and fancy fly rods are actively looking for suckers. Few folks with worm buckets and cane poles are looking for suckers, for that matter.
“Well, that may be,” I said. “But I’m going to give it a whirl and see if I can find anything swimming around.”
He eyed me suspiciously. I imagine he was considering what kind of nefarious or seedy deeds I was actually planning such that I’d put together such an intricate ruse of fly fishing for trout in a stream that he knew held no trout. For all he knew I was going to go and get high. Or worse, that I was a fed.
“Why don’t you try Spring Creek?” (actually, “crick”) he asked with equal parts benevolence and apprehension. “They’ve got that whole fly fishing only section. You’ve got to throw them back and everything.”









