It's a pretty stream: one of those little mountain rivers that wind through pine and aspen, wide enough to support bigger fish but shallow enough that one could go across in waders. There's a hatch on, little scuds of mayflies rising from the water, wings iridescent against the morning sun.
Boone stands beside you, her eyes watchful as she looks out at the stream. You hadn't expected her to be a girl. With her occupation and name, you thought that she'd be one of those mountain man types: broad-shouldered and full-bearded, coonskin cap, real hunter, angler, and trapper of the old school.
Instead, Boone is a skinny, gangly girl with brown eyes and a splash of freckles across her tanned nose. Her auburn hair is choppy across her shoulders. She seems young, too: around twenty, if you had to guess.
When you met, she shook your hand and asked that you show her your cast. You did so, feeling a little foolish—you had never held a fly rod before, and all your Youtube watching did little to prepare you for the actual act of casting with a real rod. After you sufficiently embarrassed yourself, Boone gave you some pointers. With your marginally improved casting, she deemed you ready for the stream.
After pulling on waders (yours spanking new, Boone's worn and patched), Boone led you through the brush to here: this little stream where the gentle gurgles of water and the sun shining through aspen almost make you believe you're out in real wilderness.
Boone pulls out some ziplock bags from her vest. "I prepared a couple of rigs," she says. "One is a dry fly: Parachute Adams. The other is a dry dropper: a stimulator and a bead-head pheasant tail nymph. Which do you prefer?"
"Um," you say.
Boone looks at you. "Let's try the dry dropper, then."
She sets up the rod: putting it together, seating the reel, sliding the flyline through the guides. She attaches the leader from one of the ziplock bags, applies Gink to the dry, hitches the nymph on the hook keeper, then hands you the rod.
"Eight foot four weight," she says. "I suggest casting upstream from the banks first. If you do get in the water, wade slowly, sliding your feet. Try to keep your ripples in the immediate area of your body to avoid spooking trout."
You nod and creep up to the bank. You squint at the water. It's a clear stream, with plenty of seams and eddies. A couple of rocks poking their heads out of water too. A logjam formation up ahead throws shadow and structure. Seems fishy, though you're not sure if you can cast to it without getting into the water.
Then, you see it: a rise. Opposite side of the bank close to the logjam, the trout's snout barely breaking through the water. A brown, you think as you look at the air bubbles the fish left behind. A big brown.
Boone sees it too, crouched on her haunches as she sets up a fire for camp coffee. "Maybe try a roll cast," she says quietly, as though hunting.
A roll cast: you remember the mechanics of it. Draw the rod back till the line forms a D-loop, then cast forward. Ideally, the line will unfurl out where you direct it in a rolling fashion, hence the name.
You hold your breath and creep forward on the bank, staying low to avoid casting any shadows over water. You unhook the nymph and toss it out onto the stream, then let a little line out so that the dry is on too. You ponder your options, trying to decide whether to take Boone's advice. You look at the line of trees behind you, trying to measure how much line you can shoot without getting tangled in the branches. It's a bit tight for a full backcast, but at your skill level, you're not sure if you can get enough line out to the fish with a roll cast.
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