Line flicked out across the brisk river, sunlight dancing off the beads of water that clung to the leader, then settled softly, nestling the fly in the haven of the eddy. A quick flip mended the path and sent it bobbing gently down the current. He was waiting there, watching, selectively eyeing his prey. He sauntered slowly to the surface. With a quick flash of his belly, the fly was gone, his for a second, mine to retrieve. I pulled hard, setting the hook, then hung on. We were going straight to the bottom, down, down…below the rocks. I rode his back, catching a glimpse of his hole, now just out of reach, then pulled strong and steady on the line, changing his direction. He dodged left and right vigorously before conceedinging to land on the bank after a domineering game of tug of war. A healthy ”orange throat”, as my daughter would say. He opened his mouth wide and I spied the fly near down to his belly, gently prying it free with my pliers. He measured a solid 18 inches…today…tomorrow he’d be longer. I gave him one last admiring look, then let him rest before turning him free. He turned quickly, not one glance back, and swam swiftly down, down to his hole, ready to play again.
