Below the bridge

I parked next to a bridge over a spring creek yesterday where I had spotted fish in the past, but I didn't see any. Until I did - it must have been 20 inches and was definitely fat. It was sipping near a cutbank almost directly under the bridge. So I literally sprinted back to my car, wadered up, strung up the rod with a medium purple hopper, and jostled down the opposite bank (the knee-deep shit-storm from the muck was okay because I'd skillfully entered the creek downstream of the fish). I got into position then took a minute to slow down. I didn't want to go home mad at myself...

No time for good photos!

...I tossed a decent cast in the realm of the fish...

Slurp. But instead of a 20-incher, it was a 10-inch brown trout. So I trudged off in defeat, taking one last look over the bridge on my way back to the car. Grandpa was still there! I assumed the two fish wouldn't coexist, but the splishing apparently didn't bother the elder trout. So I ran back down and tried again... Then went home in defeat.

Deciding in September

It's the time of year when the trout decide if they want hoppers or streamers. I had to decide if I wanted to wet wade or wear waders. My body then had to decide if it wanted to acclimate or go hyperthermic. Ben had to decide if he wanted to approach a trout with a baetis nymph or a hopper. We collectively had to decide if we wanted to stay. Then we had to decide which beer. Meanwhile elk bugled, leaves turned, the sun fell and we drove home.