Camp Creek

The fishing wasn’t great. In a couple of hours I missed one fish that felt pretty nice while it was on, about 15 seconds, landed (if that’s the word) a tiny brown trout (4”), and had a nice brown (12”) flip off just as I was reaching for it (a thankful near release). I lost three flies, one from a fish break-off, one from a rock (and bad knot), another from some underwater obstruction. It seemed like I spent as much time tying on tippet and flies as line and flies were in the water. There was much cursing (at myself). But when I got back to my car and began taking off my fishing gear, I realized once again why I’m out here — the peace of the singing stream, the birds I’ve never been able to identify, and even the rumble of the red Dodge Ram with the rattling empty trailer along the gravel road, raising gray dust, underscoring the stillness as it fades away up and around the hill to the north and quiet, leaving me again alone, pulling off my soggy socks, gazing off beyond the stream and across the valley. The fish lie safe in pockets behind stones and under banks.