You give the waning drake hatch one more go. June is moving on toward Summer, and the life of the lake is moving on as well.
Damsels are already moving to the top of the available food list.
Along the way down the shoreline you see the nymphal husks of dragonflies. You remember the big green and blue adults scything through the rising gyre of drakes at the height of the hatch. The dragonflies, too, will need to move on.
You move out of the hot sun into the shadow of the mountain.
You're throwing a muddler, and you find a hungry rainbow just where you thought you would.
You make your way down to where the shoreline bends. It's a pilgrimage. This has been the holy water in past hatches.
You've tied one more variation on a drake dry just for the occasion.
There is a smattering of drakes, rising like the last sparks from the embers of a dying campfire. It takes patience, but you find some rainbows still looking for a last taste.
You see a sipping rise right up under the tree tight against a floating driftwood branch. You set the fly down in the rise ring, and a nose comes up and sips it in. A pretty brown. The last fish of the drake hatch this year.
You begin to work your way back with a muddler, but the excitement is over.
At dusk you don't even bother to change flies for the troll back to the truck. You just let the muddler drift along behind you. And you let your thoughts drift through the remembered sights and sounds and sensations of the hatch that was.
Time to move on.
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