The far Cascades glitter in the sun as I make my way south to Rocky Ford.
When I get there, another milestone: the Pelican is back. In other years his mate hasn't been far behind.
Then a Cormorant, shiny black, paddles by. I look around for any other newcomers, and there they are: Violet Green Swallows arcing over the water. Glory be.
I rig up with an indicator and run through the usual suspects. Not much happening. So I go with a WD40, tied the night before. They haven't seen that one from me yet. Some bumps, and then a solid pull and hookup.
Things slow down from there. The computer weather said that the fishing today would be "Fair." Maybe that means one medium fish, period.
It's a warm, wonderful Spring day, though, and things are hatching, including Blue-winged Olives. I'm not going anywhere.
Well, except maybe to the other side. A breeze has picked up, and gotten brisker. It's blowing from my right and limiting my casting options. So I cross the bridge.
I stop and look down at the fish that are always hanging here so tantalizingly. Someone is usually fishing right here, continuing the higher education of these trout; so my experience has been that this is the "Look, Don't Touch" section.
I work around on the fisherman's trail.
I come out right across from my usual stand. The wind is quartering from the left and slightly behind me. Couldn't be better.
I settle in.
There's a Marsh Wren right next to me singing its heart out in celebration of this glorious day.
I fish. The casting is good, but the bright sun is blinding me. The fishing remains slow.
Then the sun begins to slide behind the ridge, and the trout come out. I see them tailing out in the channel. I've stayed with the indicator, so I lay out some more drifts. I get some bumps and pecks but no committed takes.
There are more fish swirling on the surface now, so I decide to try a dry. I tie on one of the only emergers I have, a CDC PMD pattern tied by Rene Harrop that I got from my brother John on one of our trips to the Henry's Fork.
I cast it out.
I'm watching it, a little white dot shining in the last of the sun, drifting slowly along the edge of the wind riffles. A big head comes up and goes down. I've got him. He lets me strip him in as he angles to my left. And then he turns and runs and runs way out into the wind. I turn him and start to work him back, and the fly comes out.
It was perfect. The only way it could have been more perfect was if I had gotten him in the net. But even without that--perfect.
It turns out to be the perfect ending to a perfect day.