"After ten hours of sleep I hit the river again. It was a beautiful day, sunny, and warm enough that I bought a new hat. I had left my old battered fishing hat at home (thinking it was in the trunk) and had only a stocking cap. That would have been too warm, and I had discovered in the glare of the sun the day before how much I needed a brim on my hat. I looked for a wide-brimmed hat, but could only find the ubiquitous ball cap. So I bought one. I may never wear it again, still wanting to find a good Stetson-style hat, but I'll keep it in the trunk in case I want to be trendy once in awhile.
On this day I rigged my 10-weight with floating line and used a strike indicator. I started at the same run as the day before, and after half an hour or so I was drifting my fly through a deep run under an overhanging tree. I was using a Nuke Egg. On the third cast there was a take right under the submerged branches of the overhanging tree. It was nice while it lasted.
The line tightened and the drag sang and then the line went limp. The fly was still on, and as far as I could tell there had been no contact with branch or root. I still don't understand how hooks can be in deep enough to pull line through the water, arc the rod, and make the drag whine, and still just pop out.
That was it for the day. I covered a lot of water and lost a lot of flies, mostly ones I had tied myself. Everyone I met, both in boats or on foot, were also fishless, though some had caught Browns up along the bank. (I think my brief encounter was probably a Brown.) All were looking for Steelhead, too, and were perplexed that none were up on the gravel, where they are eminently visible in their spawning rituals, along with the trout that dog them waiting for drifting eggs. I read later in the week on the web site of a tackle shop in Baldwin that they had come up on the gravel the day after I was there.
I didn't stay until dark, my usual summer routine, but left for home with the sun setting before me. Next time."
To be continued.