"Dave, what are you getting them on", I heard his voice faintly from the distance. "A fly. Something brown!". Dave was being as specific as he could. Don resumed fishing, frantically spraying casts in every direction. Another ten minutes and I looked up to see Dave's rod bent over again. Don is nearly out of sight, trashing the water to a froth. The wind barely carries his voice to me. "Describe the fly exactly for me", he yells to Dave. "It's small, and fuzzy, and brown," Dave yells back. Don slumps down on the bank, a beaten man. About this time I'm nearing the boats and realize Dave's rod is bent, but not moving. Dave is sitting on the bow of the boat trailing the rod downstream. As I wade up through the shallows to the boat I pass a 12 inch fish hanging mouth agape in the current. I reach down and take the leader and lift the fish. It's stiff as a board. "Just got the one on, eh?" Dave smiled. "I was just sitting here and this fish started splashing below me so I took your rod and sort of trailed the fly over it. When it ate the fly, I didn't know what else to do, so I just held on until you got here. I hope it's O.K.. Looking upstream I couldn't see Don anymore, which meant he was on his way back downstream to the boats along the tracks. "Don was sort of yelling at me. What was he so upset about?" "Nothing he didn't deserve. If he asks you anymore about it, just be vague about how many fish you caught and how big they were." Trump Doyle McKenzie Flyfishers August 1990
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