I fished hard. I fished enough that I was almost satisfied . . . until the next morning. I walked and waded nearly a hundred river miles in those six weeks. I caught about eight-hundred trout, fished just one pattern, went through two dozen cicadas and never tied on another fly . . . until today.
Because it really is over.
I’ll miss the simplicity of shirt pocket fishing. I’ll miss facing off with some of the best and wisest trout in these rivers, day after day. I’ll miss the confidence in fly selection, knowing exactly what fly to use, all day long. And I’ll miss watching our selective, cautious wild brown trout turn into sharks for a two-inch top water fly.
And I’ll do it again . . . in seventeen years.