The weekend turned out to be a serious workout. I spent a lot of time crawling over boulders the size of Humvees and kneeling on sharp river rocks to keep from scaring some very skittish wild trout. I missed a bunch, scared a lot more and caught a couple.
The toughest fish was a little brown trout I discovered hiding in the Pigeon River, just upstream from a gaggle of giggling teenagers swimming in the deepest pool.
The water was a comfortable 65 around 4 p.m., and I never had the waders on all weekend. It felt good to be in the water.
The Highway Department workers scared my favorite bridge trout, but I returned late in the day to catch another little wild trout from the other side of the bridge, a first!
Alas, the larger fish skidaddled after my first not-so-sloppy cast.
I cut way too much grass with the new lawnmower, leaving it in the middle of the yard for the stepson to tackle and finish the job.
That and that long stretch of boulder-strewn Pigeon River - I spent about 4 hours hopping those rocks - wore out this hacklefaced fly fisher. I slept well that night.
And dreamt of wild trout.