The first stretch of Appalachian trout water I laid eyes upon, boulder-strewn and narrow with isolated pockets, was just what I’d imagined it would be. I approached each run camouflaged by the vast green of the forest and, thanks to the diminutive 7-foot 3 weight rod I’d strung up before hiking into the creek, was able to unfurl precise casts despite the ever-present, overhanging limbs. Just around the bend, however, the creek and the forest opened wide. Long runs trailed from the prime pockets, and if I wanted to reach the best water, I’d need a bit more range on my casts.

When I was learning nymphing in the 1990s, it was commonly said that 50 percent of all strikes went undetected by the angler. In other words, half the time a trout ate your fly, you didn’t know it. Given the tools and approaches most often employed back then, I’d wager that estimate probably held water.