It's a long afternoon for standing beside still waters, soaking it all in.
It's still not Spring, but spring-like weather persists.
I fish every manner of fly, from mayfly dries to scuds. The trout are resting. I hook up once, somewhere in the middle of time, but lose the fish after one or two strips. I continue to fish.
I achieve a certain zen-like detachment. I fish to fish. And that's enough.
It's twilight, and Robins are raising their evening chorus. One frog, two frogs, three frogs add their counterpoint.
It's dusk now, the right time for negatively phototropic organisms to become active. Maybe that's it. But as the light wanes into darkness three trout come in quick succession to a scud under an indicator.
The last one is large and heavy and tirelessly resistant to capture. I get him in the net for a fleeting photo moment. Then he rolls out, hits the water with a splash that drenches me, and swims into the night.
My zen-like detachment is gone. I'm happy as a kid.
