I awoke to gentle rainfall this morning, hopeful that it will continue throughout the day as promised, and provide real relief to our parched groundwater, rivers and trout. Hancock still lies along the boundary between the bands on the television weather maps: one to two inches of rainfall or three to five inches. Should we be able to avoid torrential downpours, I am praying for at least three inches. We need rain soaking into the ground, not running wily nily over it.
I still long for the wonderful summer fishing of the past, The rain, and the seasonal temperatures forecast for the balance of this week, are a big step toward the realization of my wishes.
I was fortunate to steal a couple of hours Sunday afternoon, as John and I met up again to see if the sulfur hatch might bring a trout or two to the surface once the onslaught of canoes, kayaks and inner tubes subsided. The afternoon and early evening was beautiful, and we both found a fish or two to keep us occupied.
We enjoyed the game: fly pattern selection, tippet changes, short takes and refusals. As the afternoon waned I thought I had solved the puzzle, the seven foot bamboo in my hand throbbing with the struggles of a good fish. I slipped a fine, buttery golden brown into my net only to find the fly had pricked the skin of his belly, not his mouth. He had come up and refused the fake, my strike catching him on the way down. Victory this day to the trout, soundly!
The air, the sunshine and warm blustery winds, and most of all the company made it a good time, the kind that neither of us would trade.