You make another evening of it. You drive past the south campground, as you have every time you've come, then hit the brakes. The Rv's and tents that have been there for two months are gone. Not a soul is there. You turn around and launch at the south end for the first time this season. All evening long it's just you and the fish.
You work the far shoreline with a stimulator and get no action. You keep hearing big splashes out in the main lake. So you kick out. The wind has picked up, and you let it scoot the stimulator through the ripples.
Against all odds you get a take. The fish is a good one. It rips line off the reel, and your knuckles get a good whacking from the reel handle. You keep tightening up the drag, and the fish keeps taking out line. He jumps, and lands with a big whack. You work him in close. You're reaching back to get the net when he's suddenly gone. You figure he broke you off, and when you pull in the line you discover he did. But he didn't break off the fly, he broke off the hook. Kudos to you, fish.
You hope lightning will strike twice, but it doesn't. The lake gradually calms, and you tie on a little dry and begin chasing rises.
The sun breaks through for a few minutes, and you soak in the beauty. You love this south end.
You find a fish rising multiple times in one area. You drop the little fly in his circle and wait. He takes it and you finally have a fish in the net. He fights hard, too. He won't hold still. You get one shot, then he flips off your lap and off the hook and is gone.
More fish are coming up. They head off purposefully in one direction, chain rising. Usually that direction is away from you. You see some good fish porpoising, but you can't get close before they're gone. You're loving it.
Sometimes you can intercept them with a long cast, and watch as they get nearer and nearer and then suck in your fly. You catch a handful of small fish. They're small, but they're strong and fight with persistence. They want nothing to do with you and the net.
They're rowdy and uncooperative, too. They thrash in the net, splashing you and the camera lense, and they don't want to pose for pictures.
You love them for it. You want them to grow up and have a chance to see if they can break your hook off.