
He had ducked under the chain link fence so many times in his mind that doing it for real felt normal. Trespassing wasn’t something he normally fantasized about. However this particular temptation was too hard to resist. The map showed that on the private stretch the river cut deep into the valley. Upstream was always crowded, and separated from this off-limits portion by what was essentially a waterfall. Downstream was private, as well; privately owned by a club too expensive and to pretentious for him to ever join. But too expensive, mostly. Both adjoining segments held fat, wild trout. The forbidden water was surely to die for.
Abandoning his scruples for good fly fishing drove him to the edge of the fence. Its dilapidated nature and singular, modest sign practically pulled him under. It wasn’t “NO TRESPASSING.” It wasn’t “PRIVATE PROPERTY.” It definitely wasn’t “NO FISHING HUNTING TRAPPING.” All that kept him and all the other anglers at bay was a rusty sheet of metal nailed to a tree, scrawled with “KEEP AWAY” in poorly applied paint.
Once he was on the other side of the fence the heat of the moment transformed into a cool damp all over his body. No one was here. No one would know he was here. He just would have to exercise caution when resurfacing on the road.
He had never been on this side of the fence. And while he didn’t expect a maintained trail down to the water, he was surprised by how the hillside of the valley was remarkably steep; much steeper than the public water only a few hundred yards away from where he had entered. The vegetation was thick, too. Pines with low boughs and shrubbery made moving difficult, yet he simultaneously struggled to stay upright because of the pitch of his footing.
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