My fingers are tired now. My eyes have had enough, so I shove my chair back and stop tying, just one more. Itâs always, just one more, when youâre on a good roll and then I know, okay itâs really time to quit. I think about this specific fly, and remember. This little blue dun pattern looks nothing like a mayfly to me, but one stocked lake of rainbows loved them one day last summer. So did a kid. The kid I had with, was a paid for, fishing day, as a birthday present, from his father. Junior had a new everything. Rod, reel, fly line, flies, vest, chest waders, net, you name it, he had it. Dad wasnât coming with tho, he had some other appointment. We started on a Friday afternoon casting in my yard across open mowed lawn. Dad dropped him off, dad left. I had him set his gear up and I told him, showed him, how. I did the ten and two thing until he stopped snapping the lawn behind him. No sense ripping flies off for no good reason. Two hours later dad appeared, loaded son up, and left. The next week he was to be delivered extremely early on Saturday morning and he was promptly dispatched in my yard. His Older brother basically tossed him and his stuff in my yard without even shutting off the car. When we got to the lake, the surface looked as soft as saran wrap and pocked marked everywhere you looked with rising trout. We couldnât start legally fishing for a half an hour so I unloaded the boat, loaded our gear and poured myself a cup of coffee. I asked if he wanted some, nope, no thanks. He was visibly excited, seeing all the rises. I wanted him to ask me anything, but he didnât. He was a young fellow in many respects, but no more would he be considered a boy, and I asked questions that he one word answered. He was polite, but nervous. I decided no more questions; I was going to give him only directions. That seemed to relax him. When we got in the boat I started the little motor, headed into a bay and dropped the anchor. I told him to watch me, for a few casts, so in his legs; heâd get the hang of what it feels like casting a fly in a moving swaying boat. On my first cast the dun rests. Rings move out and around the faux, the slurp of the trout was text book. So after I released that huge massive eight inch rainbow I had him stand on the casting deck. He gathered himself, He ten and twoâd, worked the length into the line, chose his spot and released at the four pm position. The fly as I watched went in semi slow motion, maybe because I was hoping so hard, it lighted as if it was an emerger bound for heaven. I told him that was a perfect cast, as good as I had ever seen; he looked at me and said thanks. The trout set the hook for him. When we were done fishing, I gave him every blue dun I had. The trout whisperer.