Six Days in September
“Once I was well downstream from her and around a bend, I set my gear against a tree and walked quietly back through the forest until I could see her. She stood still and well back from the river, just a few feet from where I had left her. She craned her neck to look over the river, examining every aspect of it, then she noticed something, took a few steps to the left, loosened her line, walked back from the water about five feet, bent forward slightly at the waist, and made a couple of false casts before dropping her fly onto a small pool on her side of the river, just off the current. The fly sat on top of the water in the quiet pool for just seconds, then it was engulfed by a huge brown, its dorsal fin piercing the surface as it headed back into the depths with its fly. She set the hook, screamed, and walked toward the water, stripping in line as she moved. Just as she reached the water she bent down and gently landed the giant brown in her hands. She was a master.”
