The lake is June beautiful. A fitful wind comes and goes. You hope for some risers, but none are to be seen. So you begin a long troll. Down the flower-bedecked shoreline...
Past the islands...
Across to the cliffs...
And past the gnarled remnants of a long ago fire.
You've tried a variety of flies, and found nothing. Back at the west end you look for risers again, throw a muddler along the snags and deadfalls--just in case--but move nothing.
Some people come to swim. One young guy asks you how you're doing. He says, "I hear woolly buggers are doing well." Woolly buggers. You haven't tried a woolly bugger. You tie on a black one with a clear glass bead head and grizzly hackle. You start up the shoreline again.
Halfway up, the lake opens, and the wooly bugger is the key. A big cutthroat pulses at the end of the line. He's beautiful. You let yourself go with the camera.
That feels good. The wind calms and you tie on a dry and bob at the west end hoping for risers, thinking about the colors of that fish. Some callibaetis, some caddis. A few fish rise once or twice, then disappear. Your hopes rise, too.
Then the sky darkens and a rain squall blows through. The rain quits, the wind stays. Dusk settles in early.
So you tie that bugger back on and go back for more. It comes through for you again. You have to buck the wind to get back to the truck. But that's alright with you.