He walks to the little rocky stream, something he has done for as many
times as there are flies in his fly box. It's a stream that flows clear
and cool through the oak, maple and hemlock forest, its origin in the
hills of northeast Connecticut.
As he stops to tie on the little Wulff dry fly to the tippet he notices
movement in a tree. His eyes make contact with a regal looking Blue Jay.
Soon the Jay's loud scolding begins and is relentless for a few
moments. Soon the Jay feels that the woods are aware of the fly fishers
presence and departs to another tree.
As the fly fisher prepares to release the little fly, he looks into the
water and thinks, what a tough way of life for those who inhabit the
little stream. Everything floating in or on it maybe food, or perhaps
death.
As the fly starts its drift along the riffled water it moves to the far
bank towards a fallen tree branch, a sudden swell is seen on the
surface, the sign of a trout trying to take the little fly.
As the fly fisher pulls on the line he realizes the attempt has failed.
He then sends the fly out a second time and as the fly nears the branch a
flash of orange appears from the ten inch depths of the stream and a
wild brook trout takes hold of the little fly. After a brief but
spirited fight the six inch jewel is held in his hand.
For a few moments he admires its beauty, wild icy colors, and heavenly
halos that cannot be reproduced by any artist. The fly fisher places his
hand in the water and the wild one darts away into the stream.
As the fly fisher steps back onto the bank, he says, Thank You
By,
Brk Trt
