The downhill trail to the stream, through the meadow, degenerates to a push through willows to get to the water. The weather warm, the sky blue. The sound of the stream and the repeating call of the spotted sandpiper echo off the rock wall opposite. Catching and releasing rainbow trout in a pool so still and clear you can watch the fish rise, not to the fly on the surface, but to the nymph dropped two feet below. Fish within our sight, holding behind underwater structure, watching for their favorite food to drift by, some choosing what we offer instead. Fish farther out, fish we can’t see from where we stand, responding the same, when we cast our flies to the other side of the stream to float to them in a similar fashion. Sometimes nothing works. Sometimes everything works. As the evening progressed, a beaver surfaced, circled, eyed us squarely from that broad head, turned away, slapped the water hard with his tail, a sound like a boulder being thrown into the water with both hands, and dove. It was his turn in the pond, but we didn’t leave. He did it again. We stayed. After six times we left. We moved downstream and fished some different water. Sploosh! He did it again. Every pond in the stream was his. Our time was up. An experience to remember.
