But inside me resides the primal urge to forage for myself, to wander off on my own, explore my surroundings and treat no one but myself to the splendor of fly fishing.
Selfish? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely.
A few weeks ago I ventured out for an afternoon of solitary fishing. Hot and sunny, as has been the norm this summer, I waded into the cool Thompson River at 2:00 PM. Certainly not prime time by many standards, but I was not deterred. The fish were there. I knew it. A bit of shade cast from a large, steam-side cottonwood raised my confidence just a bit.
An hour later, fishing the same stretch of water, I'd landed five of the seven I'd hooked. Continuing up stream I fished a leopard hopper which suffered severe injury on the first cast. Three casts later, fishing the same fly with only the head and legs left from the original strike, I landed another.