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[Editor’s note: Here’s a great note—and photo of what he calls a “redneck steelhead”—sent in by blog reader Dean Kennedy.]
Seeing I have no one to fish with, I deemed it absolutely necessary to share my story with the blog that I credit over half of what I’ve learned in the measly year I’ve been fly-fishing. I’ve never been one with words, but I feel I owe it to myself and the fish to try to explain the absolute placidity I gained from the experience.
This place… I call my home water. It’s the place where I cut my teeth on sloppy loops and tangled rigs. It’s no nationally ranked “class A” river, and you’ll find it in no magazine. But you know what? I think that’s why it’s so special to me, and I’m ecstatic I can be just a small piece of the gigantic puzzle that is the place I’ve come to love.
After many trees hooked and flies lost, I cast once more into the pool that had gotten the best of me all day. As my line twitched, I set the hook. The fish began to rise from its deep hold and start to roll; I soon realized what I’d gotten myself into. After an incredible run and a few prayers, the fish was brought to hand. We shared a brief moment before I released him to fight another day.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story and thanks for all the help!!! I couldn’t have done it without you.
It’s a great fish and a great story.
In fact, I’m in a similar spot – little time to spend on the water with others and I’d just as soon find my niche place rather than a renowned river.