Tailfeathers

continued from page 74location unknown, and catch a mess of huge trout.

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Our agreed-upon day in July was a scorcher. Temps at 2 p.m. were in the low 90s. By the time Jon arrived at 7 o'clock, things had cooled down considerably, to 88.

The hike from our parking spot to the river was nearly an eighth of a mile long. Then we faced an overland slog of nearly 100 yards into the woods. What a grueling trek! What's worse, I'd be trudging along in my stocking foot waders and wading boots while hauling a massive #2-weight, 6 1/2-foot-long fly rod and a plastic bag of a half-dozen dry flies, an ordeal I faced with no small degree of disquietude.

Sure, I could have waded in shorts and enjoyed fresh air on my legs as I strolled to the river. But to get to the fishing spot, we needed to step down from the road and cut through the woods, and the slope was choked with poison ivy.

By the time we reached the fishing hole, the soles of my dry-rotted wading shoes had vaporized, leaving me with nothing to protect my feet but the thin inner liner of the boots. The lush vegetation of the river plain had trapped the midday's heat. A light, hovering mist enveloped us, and the residue from an earlier, brief rainfall sizzled away on the thick, green foliage.

Once we reached the hotspot, the worst thing in the world happened: My first cast enticed a small trout to rise and take a swipe at the fly.