Well, actually my experience was priceless, as they say. But as is often the case, the big one(s) got away.

It was a glorious day and a lovely little river. We parked the car just off the road and agreed to meet up again in two hours. Ann walked downriver on a hike and I, with waders, net, pole and sundry other fly fishing gear designed expressly to CATCH fish, headed up stream.

You couldn't ask for a more beautiful spot.

Let's go fish!

I was wading slowly through calm, gravely water when suddenly I realized I had “snuck” up on a huge trout. Moby Trout it was. It was so big, I actually thought it was a tree branch in the water and paid it no attention until I saw its tail twitch.

HOLY SMOKES!! “This is it!”, says I. I prepared to make a brilliant cast over Mr. Moby Trout’s head when I noticed the wind had started gusting. Right down the river. I did a couple false casts up over his head and let loose. Nothing. The wind grabbed the tiny feather fly and gossamer line and tossed it aside, sneering at my mere mortal attempt at a brilliant cast. Another try was a little better , but not great and the fly floated past Mr. Trout off to one side. I think he looked at it, but No Joy.

I tried a couple more false casts and as the wind seemed to ease, flicked the line out, but it slapped the water a bit and Mr. Moby Frickin’ Trout gave a little kick and slipped upstream a dozen yards or so.

Now that he’s seen the fly, and rejected it, I have to change to a different one. At this point I found I had what’s known in hunting as “Buck Fever”. I was so excited at seeing such a damn big fish, I was shaking too hard to tie the damn knot on the new fly!

Oh, such are the tragedies of fishing big fish in little streams. It went like that for two hours. I saw big fish. They saw me.

Oh, well. I had fun. Lots. And we’ll do it again tomorrow.