The stream is cool through my waders. The moving water makes me feel clean again. Aches from the day are dulled by the heavy water from yesterday’s thunderstorm. Most other anglers are gone. I’m tired from a long day’s work and readying myself for another. My family is away, and there’s nothing but an empty house, leftovers, Netflix and the last cold beer waiting for me a few miles from where I stand, relishing the cool, evening air and the abundance of insect life that has suddenly emerged.
The bugs are grayish white. I’m sure they’re caddis flies, but entomology has never been my strong suit. I pick out a size 16 white, dry fly tied by my friend, artist C.D. Clarke. I asked him what it imitates. “Nothing,” he said. “Just looks buggy.” Good enough for me.
Rainbows rise at the tail of the pool near some rocks, feasting on whatever insects pop up, mate and die. The trout are fat and happy, and even though it’s late in the warmer months, the rain and milder temperatures have kept the stream cool for longer than usual, which is why I’m here.
Two drifts with C.D.’s pattern, and I’ve caught a fish. It’s plump, respectable and feisty, and
