“There’s four nice fish in this hole.” He said it as we pulled over along the side of a narrow dirt road. I did not ask how he knew. I am a bit envious of the fly fisher who knows a stream inside and out. Those that have re-caught fish. That know all their spots. Where they tuck in behind rocks or sway downstream from dead drifts. That name the trout they catch. Each day on the river is still discovery for me. Maybe someday I will know a stream that well.
Stop. Wait. There’s a fish there. You see him?
Wading along the bank of the Bighole River, I found myself in an unfortunately familiar and somewhat sub-optimal position of biting off a bit more than I could chew by way of wading out a bit further than my stature allowed in pursuit of an upstream seam that I knew held fish.
If I get out of the drift boat, you may not see me again until the evening hatch. Yeah --- it’s a problem.