
I parked my car at the familiar gravel pull off. Without waders or fly rod, I walked up the road to a low bridge that crossed the stream. I had plans to write a number of articles featuring the spring creeks I fished so often when I lived in Pennsylvania. Standing on top of the bridge, I took some pictures facing downstream. I crossed the one lane road and took more pictures looking upstream. The photos looked good. But I had a particular shot in mind: a good shot of the creek meandering up through a willow-lined meadow.
This required me to climb down the side of the bridge and get positioned on the ground, at creek level. Jumped over the guardrail put me right where I wanted to be. It also put me someplace I didn’t expect.









