It's not a decision to make. It was made a long time ago. I knew where I'd be, what I would use, and when I would use it. My mind has gone over and over this time, and time again. To be here today, just at dusk, needing the right weather, the proper air temp and the exact color and size fly, if only to play in the magic this water affords with thee fly. One rise, of the many, has my complete attention. Those perfect circular ripples whose creator lurks below the surface with his mouth set to feed, to kill the weak, kill the ones that didn't rise in a timely nature on nature only fashion, well he is under the rise, and the hatch is coming off. There is a breeze swishing the grass fronds on each side of the river. I can see it and feel it, yet, this gentle breath of air leaves no mark upon the water's surface. I look downstream and the smallest of tail outs shows flowing water, but oh so soundless in its drifting. The breeze brings my eyes back upstream and grass is swishing again. I mimic the swishing, with false casts, reaching further, then farther, and finally I'm just above the rise. The fake one die's on the waters film. So light, so winged it rides the sheen. From its most nimble setting comes a set of rings only a trout would take notice of. I hope one does. That forever wait, that infernal pause, I lose track of if the grass is still swaying, have I taken a breath of air myself. I think, has it really been an entire year. A very small, exceptionally fine piece of metal wrapped in hair, part of one feather, intricately laced and knotted with thread has been softly sucked under so I set the hook with more enthusiasm than one trout possibly deserves but this isn't no regular store bought fly. This is a fly hand tied, tied during one of many snow filled days of remembering a river that was frozen for the better part of five months and that I would not be able to get back to until the very end of July one year later. It's a small fly, but its having a big day, and so am I. the trout whisperer
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