The misty fog had risen above the stream. It is that fog which is generated by the cold water and warm air early in the morning. The only sounds to be heard were the running stream as it moves through the ripples and splits to go around boulders and some splashes. Sounds of trout jumping out of the water, then belly flopping back in. The splashing could be heard but not seen. The sun is still hiding behind the high, snow covered peaks of the massive Rocky Mountains.

At the edge of the stream, she appears. She is wearing a big, western style hat, covering her beautiful red hair, dressed in waders that confirm her feminine stature, sporting a salmon colored fishing shirt with long sleeves to protect her soft skin. Her fishing vest has the latest fly fishing gadgets. A wool patch to hold tried fly’s, nippers to cut line, forceps to help remove fly’s for the many trout she is sure to catch and release, some gunk to help the dry fly’s float high in the water like a natural insect. She knows the stream, having fished it often. She slowly steps in to the cold water, her waders protecting from the instant chill. As she moves through the water one step at a time she thinks of her destination. One rock, her favorite spot; that is flat like it was made just for her. It allows her an excellent view of the stream in every direction – upstream, down stream and both banks and that important stability. Ah, there it is. She plants her feet solidly on its surface.

The sun’s rays are darting around the mountain tops. The light beams penetrate the fog making bright spots on the water’s surface, kind of weird in its own way. The fog is disappearing rapidly. A sudden noise on the bank from which she came grabs her attention. She turns and sees him. He has placed one foot in the water, starting to join her. The look on her face, the one all males learn from their mother – “You don’t stop it now, I’m going to rip your head off!” sends the message.  He turns and wanders away –wondering why. Still in sight but not a bother.  Her attention is focused back on the job at hand.

As the light grows, she sees an insect hatch occurring and trout rising. The insect is one of those long Latin names that only college professors and Catholic priests can pronounce. Trout know it as one name – food.  Nature has a simply way of taking care of its own, but man can complicate anything. In this instance, it is simple. It only takes a few elk hairs and a hook to create a counterfeit. She ties on an elk hair Caddis fly. Life is good.

She spies a trout rising to the Caddis flies as they drift by, trying to complete their nature cycle before becoming breakfast for a hungry trout. She studies the trout’s feeding pattern. He comes up, sips a fly, and drops back down. Then he repeats the cycle in the same spot. The bubbles he creates on the surface are tell-tell signs that he is snatching the bugs from the surface. It’s time to start the casting. She has now moved in to the “zone” - that special place were the hunter and hunted go. The pieces of evolution that tell us we must hunt to live and to hunt we must focus on the pursuit. Nothing else matters. Genetically, food is at hand, the essence of survival.

She strips some line from the reel and allows the stream to carry it behind her. The current straightens it out. She starts her cast by using the water to bend the rod. Suddenly, the line and fly are in the air. She moves the rod with grace and elegance like a seasoned ballerina performing a pirouette. The line and fly follow. The target has been chosen. On the forward cast, she delivers the fly to the spot just above the feeding trout. A very nice presentation (she can cast! – she was taught by Gary). The fly drifts toward the trout, then over him, but nothing! She wonders if it was the fly, size of the fly, drift, or just the trout. Just as she is ready to pick the line and fly off the water with the rod, the trout rises to sip another fly. Too bad we can not control the trout like we can many of our daily activities, but nature is in control – not humans. She starts her casting again, shaking water off of the fly.

Another perfect presentation. About six feet above him, fly in his feeding lane, a drag free drift (no wakes or motor boating around the fly) – it looks good. She watches with the intensity of cat watching a bird. The fly is within a foot of the trout, and then a loud splashing sound snaps her out of the zone! She jerks her head in the direction of the splashing and sees him in the stream! As she turns to watch the fly, the trout had just come up and sipped it in his hungry mouth. Realizing it was a fake food, the trout spits it out. She missed the trout – darn it! Her focus is back toward the edge of the steam and him.

The “look” is not working this time. He is determined to join her. He continues to walk to her. As he gets closer, her face transitions from stern to yearn, a reflection of her emotions turning from a flash of anger to one of happiness. Seeing his golden, reddish, hair and those big, brown, eyes makes her heart skip a beat. His unconditional love is hard to resist. You can tell he is smiling also. As he gets closer she bends down to brush his head with her extended hand and hug him. He returns the love and attention in kind by sweeping her cheek with his red, wet, tongue. Buckshot, the Golden Retriever; is more important than any silly trout. There will be many more trout to chase. But like most loved ones, time is limited and must be spent wisely. She and Buckshot exit the stream to wander the wilds of the stream’s tree lined banks together. Whoever said dogs are man’s best friend was partially right. They are also woman’s best friend – a rock.