I do remember......

Anticipation, waiting for this seemingly never ending winter to let go of us New Englanders and allow us to seek greener paths along a chosen small stream, and with a smile on our faces cast a dry fly in hopes a willing wild trout will strike.

A wonderful late Spring day. Days such as these when there is an intoxicating sound of water rushing over wood and stone. 

In a quiet eddy, or a break, a trout sits. His territory is staked out, this is a prime place on the little stream.

The Bomber is cast into the current, it floats and is carried several feet downstream. The fly is cast again, as it nears a quiet spot in the flow you notice a swirl, then another the trout having trouble in eating the fly. The line is picked up and again is tossed into the stream. As it approaches the spot where the trout hit before a second rise takes place. You feel tension, and the hook drive into the fish. He makes a run putting a nice bend in the rod. Several more dashes for freedom are turned back. As the trout accepts defeat and now lies at hand. The brown is lifted and admired, a quick photo and he is released into his pristine home.