The one pair of bootprints I had been following along what looked like to be a path in the sage covered desert chaparral soon faded into animal tracks. The animals tracks soon gave way to nothing, and an hour after departing my truck, I had finally made it streamside. Aside from the sound of the gentle creek that was flowing gin clear at 7 CFS, the canyon was eerily quiet. It was hard to believe that 2 hours earlier I was driving past the Capitol Records building, shaking my head at some guy in a Prius who had just cut across 3 lanes of traffic, and ended up hitting the wall on the off ramp. And now I sit peering through the thick canopy, shaking my head watching these oblivious wild rainbows tail in the current.
That first cold IPA flew down the gullet faster than the CFS on that stream, and while enjoying the sight of two ten inch fish rising in a seam created by the plunge pool above them, I selected the first bushy dry fly that I grabbed from the bill of my hat. There's not much fly shop "science" involved here. Below the Small Bushy Brown Fly with the White Wing pattern, I tied on the first beadhead fly that my fingers felt while pecking at my hat bill again. We're not exactly fishing the Armstrong or DePuy here. Why make things complicated for the sake of complicating things, so that you can tell yourself you did something complicated? We're not deriving equations here, as much as we'd like to tell ourselves that. We're all just tossing chicken feathers that are wrapped around a hook. Same as the guy who wraps a freshly dug worm around that same hook.
Put some miles on those boots! Those fish aren't just going to land in your lap. And always make sure to catch and release.