The Hole

      The water shoots from a tangle of fallen softwood trees that fell into the stream, rattling down a riffle into a sharp left-hand bend, where the water has carved a hollow out against the streambank. From there the water eases through a long deep pool guarded by fallen tree trunks. It possibly is the longest pool on the entire stream. Tall spruce and fir trees shade the riffle and pool.
      There had to be a big trout in there. Only a few pools in the stream are deep enough to hide the bottom and this was one. But fallen trees and sagging limbs shielded the fish.
      Stealth! It cannot be overstressed when fishing small streams. A stony outwash created space to work from, but the stones underfoot were noisy. Crouched low, to remain unseen, line was stripped from the reel.
      The flow of the riffle carried the leader and fly into the shadows. Overhanging softwood trees blotted out the sunlight. Patience. The bead-head woolybugger danced unseen in the current. Mending the line would let the fly sink, tightening would raise it up. Moving the rod tip out over the stream swam the left and right.
      It felt like an automobile snagged my fly.