A pair of Picket Pins drift downstream. The brown trout begins moving from its shaded resting place. It grabs the lead fly swinging in the current. The combination of flowing water and the trout's weight set the hook in the brown's lower jaw. The fish makes a downstream run, leaps from the water twice and heads for the safety of a log. The pressure exerted from the fly rod is too strong and the brightly spotted wild brown fins at my feet. It is carefully released and slowly returns to its lair. The trout will sulk before it begins actively feeding again.

I continue fishing downstream, the sun is intense, temperatures are in the mid-eighties. My destination is a deep hole of water in the river bend, half of a mile farther down. Moving downstream, I only catch a few shiners, chubs and rock bass. My hopes arise as I approach the bend. They are quickly dashed as I see that the area has filled in and is now only ankle deep. No good fish habitat remains in this stretch of water. Dejected, I make my way through a rhododendron thicket and begin a long, sultry hike back to my truck.

I unlock my vehicle, ready to leave, and the light bulb comes on. This is the only chance that I have had to spend an evening fishing this year. I am going to fish until dark, even if my heart isn't in it. I grab my rod and vest from the back of the truck and head upstream. As the sun dips behind the mountain, a fish swirls against the far bank. A roll cast sends the Picket Pin duo on their way.

Minutes later, after an acrobatic display, I land a hefty rainbow. Birds begin feeding on insects, an olive-sided flycatcher swoops from its vantage point and catches a mid-stream meal. Fish start feeding on the surface for as far as I can see. A green drake hatch has started, providing a buffet on the water and in the sky. I catch fish constantly, until darkness forces me to quit. Enjoying this intense feeding period, I caught and released sixteen trout (brook, brown, rainbow and golden), from fourteen to nineteen inches long. I also caught a few nice smallmouths on the surface. Fish rose to every cast.

The thing about this trip that really makes it memorable is the fact that I should have caught a lot more. This action took place in early June of 2006. I hadn't touched a fly rod since sometime in the late 80's on the Beaverkill River of New York. My flies were all old and rotten. If the fly didn't fall apart after catching a fish, the hooks would break off. My casting skills were not all that great either. I spent a lot of time hung up behind me. I used every fly and piece of leader material in my possession.

Fly fishing is often referred to as "The Quiet Sport." Give it a try one evening in June and you will be hooked.