Fish Bites Man

Yesterday, Tom, his brother Ed and I made a trip out to the stream. It’s one of those things a person has to do from time to time to maintain a socially acceptable level of sanity. And if you have a fly rod in hand, so much the better.
For some, fly fishing is synonymous with frustration. You do the same thing over and over, expecting different results. That’s also a fair definition of insanity, I think.
The odds are against the fisher. In the course of casting, assuming he’s chosen the right fly and is casting to where a fish might actually be, there are a thousand mistakes waiting to happen. For the fish, he has only one mistake to concern himself with. And even a fish is smart enough to know, if he keeps his mouth shut he’ll stay out of trouble.
The three of us had a good day on the stream. As we were heading back to the car, I could not help but make another cast, or two, along the edge between a gravel bed and the stream bank. The water was about three inches deep and gin-clear. I could see there were no fish in the spot. I don’t know why I decided to cast there. Maybe just because I could. Much to my surprise, a black rock that I had been casting toward, grew fins and a huge mouth! Wham! He almost ripped the rod out of my unready hand.
While he held the advantage for the first 30 seconds, we both eventually won the match.
The gorgeous brook trout, when seen from the side, had been just another dark stone in the stream when viewed from above. There’s probably some important life-lesson in all of that. All I know is that while the fish might be nursing a sore jaw this morning, my left thumb is taking it easy since he nipped me as I released him back into the icy water.