Ploink. A rise. I had hoped for that. Ploink. Behind. To the left. Another. Ploink. Ploink. The white, yellowish sheen of the large fluttering bugs that dance up and over the stream must be what I have come here for. Sulphurs? Ploink. Yup, sulphurs.
I lose my breath, just for a second. Swallow hard. Calm now, man, choose the right fly. Ploink, ploink, ploink. They all look so similar in the fly box all of the sudden. Concentrate. Ploink. How could all of these pale flies even be in here?? Settle. Settle...
Choose. Now tie a good knot. Getting tough to see. Ploink, ploink, ploink...you get the idea.
There, across the stream under that overhanging limb, is the most consistent rise. It'll demand a good drift across a couple of these currents. Easy now...easy...and...Thwack. Shhhuuup. And the fly line is ripped up off of the water. Novice. Stupid.
I shrug it off. Breathe. I address another rise. A take. Fish on. Okay...I can do this. Another cast, another fish. Here we go. Good choice on that fly, hey? Little guys but they stoke the confidence.
The last of the light is fading. The chill in the air on the back of my neck after the first hot day of the season. The place really comes alive now with an abundance of sound as sight slips softly away with the day. The environment becomes something that I am no longer separate from. It shrouds my existence and welcomes me into it as an equal part. I stand, watching. Listening. Calm.
Back under the tree, the rise is back. I try again. The cast effortless, thoughtless.
Photo By: Nick Boehme