We sit in someone’s barn next to fresh bales of hay with the rain running more through one side of the roof, than off it. Were miles from the vehicle and the rain doesn’t look to be letting up. Some farmer may never know. The pigeons coo and coo from the gray rafters, they weren’t going out in it either. I stack my fly rod, creel, and vest next to the door and peel off my chest waders. Everybody else piles there gear much the same. The expanse of the barn with fresh hay and rain smell, is an elixir I could get used to. I walk a fair distance from my overly heated waders. With just my socks I dodge all kinds of pigeon poop. Crossing the open field I got soaked from the rain but its warm, and piling into a hay bale makes it not too bad. The group selects a rest spot of their choosing, almost groaning in unison, and we laugh at each other. We all called in sick when the fourth guy said he found the holy grail of brook trout water. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t lying just to get us to go fishing with him, and that’s bad because before I didn’t trust him one angling bit. From Now on, I have to wonder. We’d go no matter what; we’ve known each other too long not to. Except for the fishing gear, as I look around the dilapidated barn we could as a group pass for bank robbers from years gone by. Since we have no food, no water and more importantly, no whiskey, I mention I’m taking a nap. I wonder to myself when did I get to be this age. Why do those guys’ with me look so darn old? Do I look old to them? My hands after I dried them, have wrinkles that weren’t there, in what seems like just days ago. I won’t ever say out loud to them, you are good guys, good men. That would be too mushy for manly men like us, but I hope they know I think there my buds. When I wake up, there all by the door and it’s still pouring buckets. There planning our escape and why should we all get wet, how about one guy go find the truck. When I got to the suburban, the rain quit. The trout whisperer

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