
“Of course it would be on my last cast.”
He muttered this primarily to himself. He was also aware that he was muttering those and other, more colorful, sentiments to any startled woodland creatures in the immediate vicinity. That is if they all hadn’t vacated the entire valley from the noise he had quickly stirred up. Hanging there, stinging from hip to armpit, he hesitated to move again and disturb the silence. One can’t offend the squirrels, grouse, and toads.
It had been a relatively normal day of fly fishing. A pleasant drive. Fine weather. Willing trout. In some ways, it was a banner day of fly fishing. A greasy fast food breakfast that satisfied without causing gastrointestinal discomfort. A full parking lot; a parking lot full of hikers – not other anglers. These are the kinds of days one expects when blocking off a calendar square for fly fishing.
The drive was only an hours, but the hike in took about the same amount of time. Just go a little farther. Once you get there, hike for five more minutes. That patient penance might not yield significantly better fishing. But it is a discipline that he had developed over years of wanting one more cast. Looking at the next pool, peering around the next bend, he always wished he would have started farther upstream. “A little farther, then five more minutes,” was his hike-in motto.









