The wiley veteran and his two young padres stood on the bank surveying the terrain. Twenty steps out, across three strong currents, down 32 degrees and behind the large rock, he was there, a well fed, 25 inch brown waiting to play. They spoke in hushed tones formulating the best strategy. Much to there chagrin, a young novice, unskilled in the art of crossing, hurriedly rushed out mid stream, poorly suited, and splashed in the hole. 
They grimaced and chuckled, huddled, reformulated. Then, he stepped forward. 
Armed with a 9 foot 4 weight Sage, shin guards in place, sun protective, mosquito repellant shirt tucked neatly at the waist, wading staff in hand, he went in. Wading cautiously at first, then proceeding with deft speed down river, he took aim. He cast, then cast again, and again, and again. With the skill of a seasoned angler, he touched the fly to the waters edge, twitching it gently, baiting his prey. The veteran brown could not resist the sight of the well placed treat. He streaked to the surface, retrieving the snack.
To the bold brown’s dismay, he had been tricked by the wits of a fellow veteran. His speed and agility would save him he thought. He raced down stream, pulling his captor along with him, knee deep, waist deep, chest deep then fully under. 
He would bring the wiley veteran down he thought, a win for all future fish on the West fork of Kelly Creek.
Then, just when he thought he had drown the old man, he felt a strong tug on his upper lip. The trusty wading staff had lodged deep in the crevice between two boulders. With the strength of just his finger tips, the white haired wonder turned back the tide. A strong grip now round the middle, he pulled himself to his feet and began to reel in his bounty. After much struggle, the old brown agreed to submit, proud to have been wrangled by such a worthy opponent. On the banks, the crowds were a light, fretting at first at the veteran’s disappearance under the water’s ripples, then cheering with delight as he surfaced, fish in hand. 
He trudged back to the banks, across the slippery rocks, to be embraced by his two young, proud padres. They beamed as they helped their teacher, their hero to a grassy seat. The wiley old veteran would live to fish another day.
