Rays of soft morning sun woke me, and I sat on the edge of the bed, groggy. Gazing around the room, there they were, crouched in the corner, ready to go – fly rod, assembled, reel in its seat, chest pack, waders, all the necessities for a great day out on the stream. It was to be today, a short drive through the meadows and forests to the upper Beaverkill, one of America’s first and best trout streams. I know this place where there is an old covered bridge over the water…the name escapes me…and a large quiet pool stretches some 75 yards up stream. Riffles fall out of the tail end of the pool, downstream into more cool, clear, New England troutness.
Making some coffee, the elixir of life, I mused about just how much fun it would be today, me and the fish competing to have our way. I really like to see it as more of a sharing experience, where my finny friends are allowing me to walk in their home, to see their neighborhood, trying my best to entice them to take my fly. Most of them are smart enough to realize that it is unreal, even surreal, the ‘bug’ that I present, for , on close inspection in this water, they usually quickly figure out that there is just something not right about the ‘insect’ floating their on their ‘roof’. Oh, well, it’s part of the game. One that I play with them, against their will, as often as I can. Today, a 16” rainbow falls prey to my offering, only to be photographed, appreciated, and returned to grow and live on.
...keep the rod bent...
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