I remember kneeling in the snow. I can recall the exact spot. It was right at the apex of a gentle bend. There was a log jutting into the water that covered the entire stream’s width but for a few feet. I held the trout firmly. I did so because I didn’t want it to fall onto the snowy ground. I could do so because the girth of its tail filled my left hand. I cradled its belly in my right hand. Overall the fish was lighter in color than it looked in the water. That red patch was more vibrant out of the water. Jeff was just downstream from me. He took the picture. I can remember it all very clearly.

But it is only a memory. I can’t find the picture.

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I had seen this particular brown trout for months. At first I was sure that the big fish was a rainbow. Its distinguishing feature was a bright red patch. My mistake makes sense. Usually red means rainbows. But upon closer inspection it was clearly a brown trout. The golden belly. The hooked jaw. The bronze, hunched back.

The gin clear water of the spring creek made these observations simple. But the street went two ways. Any movement beyond a gentle, deliberate cast would force the trout right back under the bank. It moved slowly. It moved confidently. It appeared more bored than intimidated. It certainty didn’t appear enticed.

I tried cress bugs first. These small crustaceans  covered the aquatic vegetation. All a trout had to do was rub its nose in the weeds, fall back into the current, and gorge itself. The small green fly had to be cast into the all green weeds while the trout was feeding. I had to strain to watch the weightless and indicator-less nymph. The trout would tolerate two or three drifts. Repeated casts or dragging flies or boredom sent it back under the bank.

The big brown trout with the bright red patch wouldn’t come back out for hours. Fishing for the trout meant multiple visits. I would have one shot. The fish would spook. I would move on.

I tried streamers second. I tried large patterns and small ones. I tried presenting flies when the fish was feeding. I also swung flies beneath the undercut bank. Unlike the cress bugs, streamers visibly got its attention. But all they yielded was momentary pauses. The fish would gently slide back into its den.

Two, three, five times I tried for the big brown with the bright red patch. I caught other fish. I caught a few rainbows in that time that pushed twenty inches. I caught wild brook trout that shot in front of the larger fish I was pursuing. The big brown wasn’t quantitatively better than any of the other fish. It was just unique. It was also in my head.

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The spring creek was popular and accessible. In good weather you would need to be there first thing in the morning to sight fish for the largest trout. Fish were still catchable after another angler went through. Angling just required more nuance. Rain and snow allowed for a more leisurely morning. These days had their drawbacks. But they affected the angler. Not the fish. The spring creek environment was constant.

We took advantage of a snowy Saturday morning. The snow was fresh. There were no tire tracks in the lot, let alone footprints along the creek. We noticed fish rising in the first large pool. Nine out of ten times these fish would be rising to midges sized in the mid-20’s. The swirling currents from the submerged vegetation made these presentations challenging. Plus midging trout rarely exceeded ten inches. Bigger fish took the easier paths to nutrition.

I walked upstream looking for the big brown with the bright red patch. No one else had bothered it for hours. I was sure I’d see it. But it wasn’t out feeding. The equation in my head weighed fishing for it now and potentially putting it down against fishing for it later in hopes it would start feeding. Impatience won out. A cress bug wasn’t going to work if the fish was hiding. All I had to do was cast a large streamer across the creek, mending to avoid the large log, and hoping a favorable current pushed the fly under the bank.

The cast was far upstream. This gave me more chances to mend. It gave me more chances to push or pull the fly into the right spot. I was used to these minute manipulations of line and rod. The cast was too far upstream. A sideways current pushed the fly right to the bottom. It sat on a rare patch of exposed sediment. The marabou pulsated. I debated how to jerk the line to pop the fly back up into the drift. Too much might spook the unseen fish. Before I could act the big brown trout emerged from under the bank. The fish didn’t change its speed or trajectory as it moved towards my fly. It barely opened its mouth. The fly disappeared.

I set the hook and the trout’s mouth opened wide. Its broad body and tail flexed. There was no mistaking which fish I had on. I held the rod high and the line tight to keep everything away from the log. Enough tension to avoid weeds. Not so much so as to risk snapping a knot. The fish swam downstream and none of my tackle got snagged. Thankfully the fish ran for the far bank and not the log. I was able to work it back and forth. The fight only lasted  for a few minutes. Spring creek fish are big but not particularly strong.

The vibrancy of the red patch was amazing. It contrasted with the rest of the fish. Big sparse spots popped right off of the crimson band. Its fins were opaque. Its tail was thick. I held it securely so that Jeff could take the photo.  He snapped a picture with the disposable camera I had in my vest. Then, I sent the fish back into the creek. It swam under the bank.

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I have seen that picture. I’m kneeling in the snow. I know it was developed. I have on a green jacket. I just haven’t seen it in years. It isn’t with the rest of my old fishing pictures or high school pictures. It might be tucked into an old fishing magazine. It could be in a box in my mom’s garage. It could be gone.

We don’t have more memories because we have digital media. The amount of memories is quantitatively the same. Thankfully the quality of any given memory stands out against the rest regardless of what you have outside of just your head. The beginning of my life has much fewer pictures than my life does now. The adventures and the fish from the beginning of my fly fishing weren’t documented like my trips are now. Thankfully there are plenty of adventures and plenty of fish that are just as bright without  photographic  evidence.