There is something wonderful about the naive expectations  children possess about fishing. They assume that if they cast their bobber, hook, and worm into a body of water that they will catch a fish. It makes sense. This is what fishing is, after all. Fish eat worms. Fish live in water. It really isn’t that complicated. Why doesn’t everyone do it?

The only angler with a similar level of optimism to a child is the small stream fly fisher.

He  can see the breadth of the entire river. Clearly defined riffles, runs, and pools instill a sense of comprehension. The ecosystem is beautifully complex, yet there are a few key variables: one being the opportunistic nature of the trout which compels them to give most flies a nibble. Most fishermen know that they can walk just a little bit beyond that first impulse to stop to get to water that hasn’t been disturbed. This may yield more fish, or at a minimum, more willing fish.

Those aspects of fly fishing on small mountain streams lead to a high level of positivity about the entire endeavor.

Plunge pools are a microcosm of this principle. Moving upstream, the angler’s heart flutters a bit when they glimpse any sort of falling water. Eighteen inches or eighteen feet,  the hydrological implications of water going from somewhere higher to somewhere lower in at a steep angle means something good. The result is deeper water, cover, and a funnel of food for the resident trout. For the trout fisher, there is a bullseye for his cast and the assumption of a payoff.

Certainly there can be some concerns in this moment. Choosing a particular fly pattern isn’t really vital. A nymph may yield a higher chance at a fish seeing the fly, whereas a dry will guarantee the strike is seen. There is an equation to contemplate but it almost always equals out after umpteen calculations. Approach is important. But the stream dictates the number of possibilities. He’ll move from downstream. That is the only reasonable option, with overhanging trees, currents, and rod length setting the precise course.

Once he has been fishing these creeks for a few seasons, all those decisions are hammered out as if by instinct. In the same way slippery boulders and downed limbs are navigated with little thought, plunge pools and similar holes are targeted with automatic confidence.

Perhaps this entire thesis is best illustrated by failure. If there is a bad cast, if the fish is spooked by shadows, if a pool is mysteriously devoid of trout: well, there is another spot just upstream. Like a baseball player after a bad at-bat, shake it off and get out there again. There may be a lesson learned that ought to be put into practice. Just as likely he needs to do the exact same thing again. It is optimism, not certitude, after all.

And that is what makes it enjoyable. 99 fish out of 100 pools is more authentic, more real, more fishing than 100. That never happens, of course. But the house winning keeps him coming back. He can always pop up over one more rise. He can always peer around one more bend. He can always make one more cast. In that pool there will be a feisty brook trout. In that hole there will be a hungry cutthroat. In that hole there will be that brown that has grown fat and hook-jawed, now just waiting for his puffy dry fly to drop into the churning foam of the waterfall.

It really isn’t that complicated. Why doesn’t everyone do it?