A shadow moves slightly as the trico imitation rides the currents towards its holding place. The trout lies suspended in a pillow of water that’s eddying in front of a mid-stream boulder, watching for food in the faster flow on either side, ready to eat. It starts to rise as the fly approaches the soft spot but at the last second the leader tightens and pulls the tiny mayfly a fraction of an inch off-line, perpendicular to the flow. Startled by the unnatural movement, the fish spooks, turns into the faster water and is gone.

I just got back from the river a few days ago. A friend and I spent an evening on the quiet stretch near Last Chance and, through a quirk of fate, nobody else was around. Still, the fishing was tough — insects blanketed the water's surface as if someone had spilled a giant bowl of aquatic mixed nuts, and the trout were sorting through the smorgasbord, picking out whatever caught their fancy.