running on our side. Nearing delirium,
I threw another cast and eyed the drift
of my indicator. It disappeared. With a
movement that can only be described
as controlled panic, I set the hook.
Suddenly taut, the line cut left and
up, a tail broke the surface and dove
again, then turned downstream.
“Fish on!?” I hollered with
noticeable uncertainty.
He surfaced again, farther
downstream now, and I stumbled after
him. My buddies came quick, offering
advice and encouragement. In the
following minutes, the fish kicked my
butt left and right, downstream and
up. Somehow, my sub-par angling skill
kept me with him, and he with me.
When he finally came to hand, I was
all but played out, and my arm shook
like a sapling in a high mountain gale.
The hatchery buck wasn’t a monster
by any means, maybe 27 inches
on a good day, but he was my first
steelhead on the fly. I was ecstatic.
That night, the weather cleared
and the stars crept out as the open
flame slow-cooked the hatchery
fish. Sunday came and went without
another encounter, but I didn't mind.
I suppose that just means we’ll have
to head back next spring and spend
a few more days on the water in wild
country. No complaints here.