Call me a loafer, but don’t say I have bad eyes

I’m sitting on the side of a gorgeous stretch of river Sunday. Yea, I’m loafing – we’d been hiking and casting all morning long, and already had a dozen plus fish each – I was using “changing rigs” as an excuse to take a break. And while fiddling with my flies, I look over and see two curious shadows just below the surface about fifteen feet out and across. My buddy is bugging me – throwing jabs because I’m sitting on my butt. I tell him “shut up and go catch one of those fish lying over there!”

He thinks I’m kidding, but goes ambling cross-river and tosses out a cast. I watch as he throws again. And again…then, wham! A 4-weight rod doubles over, and all I can think is “oh shit.” Off goes a fish, bolting downstream like a bat out of hell. As I was the only one carrying a net, my break was over.

This wild brown trout will live to feed another day (and yes, the photo is unretouched, so don’t give me crap about the slight overexposure):


There’s an epilogue too…

After the two of us scrambled downsteam chasing this beauty like monkeys in the circus, we watched a guy upstream from us walk off the river. We assumed he was miffed and leaving (that happens sometimes), but he showed up in front of us just a minute later. We had a nice chat, exchanged some flies, and wished each other good luck. Later, we bumped into another fisherman that commented on how all the fish on the stretch “were in the eight to ten inch range.” At first we chuckled – then we set him straight by pointing out some portions of the waterway he should check in on during his next visit. The lesson here: fly fishing is often called the “quiet sport.” I’d rather call it the “social sharing sport!”

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