Squatting on the bank while looking at the water, I could feel the soft squishy earth through my shoes. It felt good to be there, grounded in that moment and place. Playing out a bit of line, I flex the fly rod in a familiar rhythm and dropped the fly in the darkest corner of the pool. The fly lay bushy and lonely on the water’s surface and doubt began to creep in to my mind as I waited for an unseen quarry. My patience was rewarded when the fly on the end of my line disappeared and was replaced with a spirited trout. The light 3 weight rod pulsed and bent until the small brookie found his way to the net. A quick photo, a quick release, a quick check of the fly and then repeat it all again.