You've tied up a new muddler with a bright orange marabou tail. You throw it up against the bank in John's Cove, give it a strip, and a Rainbow comes clear out of the water--and misses the fly.
You cast it in again and let it sit. The Rainbow comes clear out of the water again, but this time it hooks itself. It's a heavy fish, too thick to grip one-handed.
You turn the corner out of John's Cove and head down the shoreline into the south lake.
You cast the fly up along the shoreline, or in openings in the weed mats. You go through the drill: first let it sit, then strip it in. On this day the strip is the trigger.
The predicted rain begins to fall, and the evening looks even more like Fall.
You get another hard hit. The fish runs, then thrashes. It feels like a ton of bricks. You suspect what eventually is confirmed: foul hooked. How did that happen?
You're having so much fun that you just keep on going all the way to the south end.
You get another hard hit, and the fish jumps and thrashes and twists and rolls. It's another nice Brown. You get it close and get its head up and see immediately that the fly is barely hooked in its upper lip. You try to be careful. You try to hurry. But you're still fumbling for the net when the fly pops out and the Brown fades away like the summer.
You troll your way back. You get tugs, and bumps, and one temporary hookup. It was a good evening.
Good bye, Summer. Welcome back, Fall.