I would love to say that I tore 'em up last weekend, but the truth is I had only one real strike the entire day Monday and I slept most of the afternoon Sunday listening to the chatter of a tumbling creek. When I opened my eyes Sunday, it was dark. I went home without even wetting the line, though I did manage to rig up and tie on a little dry fly.
Monday, I voted. Cut some grass too. I also ran errands while in the tiny town of Brevard, knowing the fishing was not forecast to turn on until late in the afternoon.
The forecasters were correct - I never saw a rising trout until after 5 p.m.. And those trout, friends, were tough to entice.
For my trouble I got one 30-foot handshake, then lost the fish.
The photo you see here is from the weekend before last. Now, that was fun.