The spring creek trip

We drove out before sunrise. The creek had been on the list for two years and we'd kept finding reasons not to go — work, weather, the long drive — and finally we just blocked the weekend on the calendar in February and didn't talk ourselves out of it.

The first hour was nothing. The second hour was nothing. By mid-morning we'd worked our way half a mile downstream and the water was clearer than any of us expected, and you could see the trout holding in the seams. Seeing them and catching them are different problems.

M. got the first one on a hare's ear, a thirteen-inch brown that fought like it had been waiting all year for an argument. I got mine an hour later on the same fly — smaller, a rainbow with a stripe so pink it looked unreal. We released both. The third fish was the one we'll talk about: a rainbow that took J. into his backing, ran twice, and came to the net looking like a small king. We took a single photograph and put it back.

Drove home tired. Sandwiches at a gas station. Already planning the next one.