The following article was also published on the FF@ Fly Fishing list server.

The day’s measure of Hope arrives riding sunbeams that wind through overhead foliage as I park the car and begin my slow, deliberate preparations cuddled in a stillness broken only by the sounds of gently falling waters and the occasional morning call of the winged occupants of the surrounding environs as they go about their morning chores.

My usual thrill of anticipation is heightened by the presence of three small containers in a pocket of my vest. Just the previous evening, I discovered a cache of forgotten midges tied and put aside for just such a day as today. Like the discovery of a ten dollar bill in the pocket of a coat that hasn’t been worn since the departure of last year’s Winter, I feel giddy with my “found” treasure.

The Stream is once again beginning to feel familiar, and my confidence has begun to resurface through the rusty flakes of inactivity. Today, not even my degenerate knee intrudes on the serenity wrought by the confluence of forces that have brought me to this place.

I used to stride along the bank, paying only cursory attention to what was going on in the water below me. Today, I make my way deliberately downstream memorizing as much as I can of the water through which I plan to return, making mental notes of likely gathering places for the trout I seek, looking intently for small incongruities in the stream’s surface that might betray the presence of my prey.

Time means nothing. I cannot be rushed and I have pushed the pressures of getting to the office out of my mind. I will get there when I get there. For now, there is just an exquisite sense of being; another chance to partake of the bounty of Planet Earth before the threat of global warming remakes this sacred place forever.

My only companion today is my eight foot, three weight rod loaded with my favorite olive colored, weight-forward line. At the end of the line is a seven foot leader to which I attach a twenty inch, 6x tippet. The leader is of my own making and I know it will respond properly to my casting motion, turning over as required and propelling the tippet so it deposits my fly with minimal disturbance to the water’s surface. The only variable that can impede the smooth operation of this machine is me.

I approach my first cast knowing there will be casts that go awry, casts that go badly awry and casts that are complete disasters. But I also know there will be those few near perfect casts in which every motion is as it should be; when the body, arm, rod, line and tippet act as one and deposit the fly gently in the exact spot for which it is intended with almost no disturbance to the surface of the stream. And each such cast will erase the memory and frustration of all the lesser ones that went before.

Lack of mobility in the knee causes my movement into the stream to be measured in inches per minute as I am forced to take extra time ensuring the security of my footing. This has the benefit of reducing the amount of silt I stir up, while also mitigating the spooking effect of my wading on any trout in the vicinity.

I finally position myself mid-stream, a marvelous stretch of ripples downstream of my position and a nice stretch of quiet, deeper water above me. From here I can choose to send my fly through the miniature rapids or cast to the trout I am certain lie in wait in the depths of the upper stretch.

Despite the absence of any surface activity, the nonexistent insect activity and the emptiness of the used piece of my wife’s hose after several minutes of seining in the sixty degree water, I elect to try to “rise a trout.”

Half an hour casting in each direction with several different midges and a couple of small “all purpose” flies produces no results, save the two overhanging tree branches I snag with the seemingly unavoidable occasional errant cast.

I decide to give up on the “I’m dry until I die” commitment, and pull out a #18 bead head Pheasant Tail nymph. Twenty minutes of fishing wet with no action has me just about ready to give up on the PT, when I finally get my first, and only, strike of the morning.

He is small, less than 7” in length, but he comes to hand and allows me to briefly bask in the fullness of this sport we call Fly Fishing.