Every angler’s got one. A place that lives at the forefront of your mind’s off-season slideshow. A place that always lives up to its reputation. Mostly on account of it being, hackneyed as this may be…about more than just the fishing. You visit it more often than other places, or you may not visit it at all. It may be a brook trout stream tucked two thousand miles away, where you learned to use flies for fooling trout. Or it may be like mine, about an hour outside of town and full of hungry cutthroat.
Friend Ben Pepe with a good one on my favorite creek. *do not forget to soak a couple beers in the cold waters of a rock pool on your way upstream.
Bring grasshoppers and other terrestrials. My favorite creek is not very big, and tall grass and bushes line the banks.
Open loops for “splatting” your fly.
When a plan comes together, all seems right and well with the world. Especially when they want to eat on top. You are once again impressed by the fish of your favorite creek. You remember why daydreams so often lead you here >>>
You send them back home. Back to your favorite creek.
You’re already a ways from the truck so you fish more, just a few more bends for the walk back.
They are cold, they are perfect. There’s a shady spot on the grassy bank behind you. Hecuba mayflies, a strange shoulder season drake of sorts, are hatching en mass and you watch the pool in front of you erupt with feeding fish. You don’t fish. It isn’t to prove some point, but it seems better to just watch the thing unfolding over there. Did I mention how cold the beers are?