It's not always about the fishing

The sun was achingly bright, like new snow. I huddled in the shade, tying on a long, light tippet and a little red quill dry fly while light poured through the hemlocks and splashed on the giant rocks that lined the sides of the little creek I intended to fish.
There were a few rhododendron blooms scattered through the branches, and the water's edge was littered with sprinklings of fallen white petals.
Wild violets dotted the bank. I hardly noticed the old Mountain Dew can.
It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and wild trout fed on little flying insects that fell into the water.
I slid down the craggy bank, brushed aside some branches slapping at my hat and crouched under the darkness of the bridge, looking into the sun-drenched pool just outside the edge of shade, searching for a tell-tale movement or shadow that would indicate a trout awaiting my fly.
I spotted one, about 10 feet upstream. It was a narrow creek, with overhanging rhodos making the cast more difficult. It would have to be perfect. If I was just a little off center, I would catch one of the branches and the game would be over. If the fly lighted to the right too far, the fish would either ignore it or run scared upstream when the fly skidded through the water.
I gave it two false casts, then let her rip.
It was a little to the left, out of my field of vision. I never saw it land as I held my breath hoping it would not catch on a leaf.
I waited.
Then the splash.
I set the hook and within seconds I held a beautiful, brightly colored brook trout in my wet hands. All I could do was stare in wonder and amazement. It was the biggest brookie I had caught this summer and certainly the prettiest in a couple of years.
After a quick photo, I slipped him back into the water and watched him scoot up the creek and melt into the cool shade.
One cast. One fish.
I was feeling pretty good about myself, for this sort of thing is rare indeed. Most of the time, I catch nothing but air, or perhaps a tree, when fishing this little pool, and when I have caught trout they were all wild rainbows. This was my first speckled trout from the spot, which will remain nameless of course.
The feeling was short-lived. The remainder of the day was fishless. Not even a splash at the fly after I drove to the other side of the mountain to hit the bigger river in Haywood County.
The water, though warm in the late afternoon, felt good, even when I slipped on a rock and busted my butt.
A black and blue butterfly made a couple exploratory landings on my leg as I examined the damage to my shin, now red with water and blood that looked a lot worse than it actually was. All around, flowers bobbed in the breeze like laughing children. A gentle breeze brushed my face.
I know I could have quit earlier with a perfect fly fishing batting average, but there was more out there Monday afternoon than just the fish.
I drank it all in. The sun started to dim, dipping out of sight behind the surrounding hills where the tall pines leaned over, as if to get a better peek at the foolishness down below.
And home I went, happily at peace.