It will be the last Friday at the lake for awhile. I wish I could have had more time, but I was taking advantage of a two-hour window.
I launched on the south end. It had rained earlier in the day, and was trying to decide whether to clear up or rain some more.
It was warmer than predicted, and calm as could be.
I was fishing muddler No. 5. I kicked across the lake to this little bend in the shoreline by the beaver grove. This is a prime location throughout the season, high water or low. I've had good luck here this week, shallow as it is, catching the first brown of the week, and that amazing tiger trout, right off the waterline.
This time I dropped the fly in and, sure enough, here came another wake. Once again, there was a swirl under the fly, and I raised up--and missed. I felt the hook scrape out of the fish's mouth. I went right back, and got a follow, but that was it. So it goes.
I started down the shoreline. The fishing itself was enjoyable, as it has been all week. I will miss that absorbing process of carefully breaking down a shoreline with delicately probing casts.
A chilly wind had picked up from the north, and conditions for catching seemed to be moving rapidly from favorable to questionable.
Then, luckily, at the far south end, right up at the waterline, I did what you have to do in a situation like that: I found a brown. Nothing delicate about this guy; he walloped the fly as soon as it hit the water.
I looked for more, but that would be it for this day.
That was OK. I was cold, my time was up, and I still had one more day to come back and catch that next fish.
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