It feels like I was laying on that rock for hours. Like I got there in broad daylight and left as night approached. However long it really was, it was a long time. I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t catching fish after fish. I wasn’t exactly having fun laying on the rock. I was trying to figure something out.

I saw fish. Probably a half dozen of them. Knowing the stream, they were most likely brook trout. The largest of the bunch could have been a brown. Regardless, they were in the pool right below me. They were right in the center of the pool, but they were deep. I guessed them to be about three feet down, with another two or three below them. A log, with bits of debris stacked in front of it, cut across the hole. That probably gave them a greater sense of security. It also did a great job of concealing me and what I was attempting to do.

Cast after cast, fly after fly, I couldn’t figure these trout out. I can remember using a prince nymph. I can remember using a hare’s ear nymph. I can remember the woolly bugger, the egg pattern, and the hornberg wet.  I’d try to cast at different points at the head of the pool, seeing which currents would take my fly in front of the fish. A few inches difference at the point of entry translated into very divergent depths, trajectories, and speeds. It was hard, from a prone position, to cast with enough accuracy to effectively replicate any particular drift with precision.

Watching the flies was hard, because I was really watching the fish. I began to notice things: tail twitches, slow descents, jockeying for position among each other. I could see fish slow their movements while somehow maintaining their position in the current. Conversely, I could see others speed up every part of their body while staying in the same spot. Depending on my fly and where it was, trout would dart away and then back again. Mouths opened and gills flared. At times fish would allow the current to move them under the log, whereas others would dart back hurriedly.

I don’t believe that fish are curious, anxious, skeptical, or excited in the same way people feel or express those traits. I do believe that there is some sort of correlation between a fish that doesn’t want to be bothered by an artificial fly and behaviors we perceive as “annoyed.” Being a good fly fisher, specifically being a fly fisher who can observe subtle cues in fish  behavior, requires some level of anthropomorphic projection. It can be as simple as “that trout is looking for food” and “that trout looks skittish.” Tail twitches and gill flares become like language after enough observation.

By the time I was done I was sore. My lightweight olive green pants and cheap fishing vest were lichen stained from shifting to get comfortable and from all the casting. I had caught fish earlier in the day, but wasn’t able to pull anything from the deep pool below the rock. I was disappointed in that. I can remember it clearly.

That day was nearly 20 years ago. I can recall some other details of the day, but they are fuzzy and may very well be composite memories from other trips to the same creek. This moment in particular stands out in my mind because of the time spent watching trout behavior as they ate real food and interacted with my inadequate offerings. In the decades since, I often think back to that pool and those fish and my time pursuing them. It wasn’t a lot of fun to not catch fish in that moment, but I can honestly say that moment led to a lot more fish being caught.