A mountain of reasons to go were in my head as I hung up the phone with Wilkie to think it over. It did not take long before I re-dialed his number and made the arrangements. Departure as soon as I crank out some Woolly Buggers and a Woody or two. Hooky of the finest kind. Fuck everything else hooky. Fish your ass off tomorrow or sit on it all day pissed off you didn't go hooky.
Days like these happen so infrequently, yet for some reason I just knew it would be one. Two or three of my previous days like this were in Maine; the rest in northern Quebec. Days where you decide at numerous moments that you'd like to catch a fish pretty damn soon and then you do. Days when you take turns. Days when you can't help but smile when you've got another one on. Days when you keep count to see what it actually ends up at. Days when you catch a fish on your last cast. Days like these.
Why is it that Poseidon gives a smile and a wink to us every now and then? A thank you for all the liquor and beer offerings you've given him? A touch of reward for all those skunks? More likely, a false sense that you actually know how to catch some fish. Or perhaps he likes to see you have a good time. At any rate, I better get my next skunk out of the way sooner rather than later.
The actual story: Just like Wilkie wrote in his post, the fishing was just nuts. Flies you love to catch fish on, Stimulators and Buggers, doing the trick in every pool we came to. Fish in the first three casts at, no joke, every single pool. Water temps a dozen degrees cooler than the mighty Kennebec and a perfect flow to match. Gravel-bottomed riffles leading into deep drop-off, ledge-banked pools around each bend in the stream. Ask me for the count and I'll give it to you.