Dries, nymphs, emergers, attractors, streamers.
So many flies to choose from,
But only one will spark the fancy of that elusive trout.
I tie on my fly of choice,
A Kelly Gallup special, brown in color,
Affectionately named the Sex Dungeon.
On this windy, cool, late-fall day in November,
This fly will do the job.
I cast into the 25+ mph winds.
Rain spits in my face,
And the icy water of the Madison runs around me.
I cast and I cast again.
Each time letting the fly, which has become submerged in the green, cloudy water
Dead drift for a ways.
Then slowly I strip in my line,
Doing my best to simulate the pulsating swim of a tiny brown sculpin
In hopes that the big brown trout of my dreams is lying in wait for a meal.
When I least expect it, I feel the tug.
“The tug is the drug,” they say.
I set the hook.
A silver spotted explosion arises from the depths.
(I yell for joy.)
He splashes, glistens,
Then goes back under to fight with all his might.
I strip the line in slowly and ready my net.
Any bigger and he wouldn’t fit.
What a beautiful sight this brown trout is.
Tones of pewter and brushed nickel,
With black speckles adorn his shiny scales.
I keep him submerged partially, doing my best not to stress him.
I admire him, thank him for the chance to take part in this moment.
Then I release him back into the freedom of the river.
I listen to the ebb and flow.
I look forward to the moment I get to do it all over again.