Very early last June I went to Reynolds bridge on a cold morning to try and
catch a fishy. I suk at nymphing and hate it .... chicken, egg? ... not
sure which follows what, the suking or the hating.


But sometimes it's really the only sensible thing to try.

I rigged a couple nymphs and a big hunk-o-yarn and went to work ( accurate
word and remember this was supposed to be fun, not work ). After a
couple tangles and re-rigging exercises I was starting to get the feel for
'not casting' and was moving up the river without too much hassle, or, any
fish.

It had started to snow, and it was sticking to the ground. I was getting
cold and I didn't want to drive in bad conditions so I picked a spot and
decided to leave when I had fished up to it.

Then I tossed the entire mess out of my tackle in front of a very likely
looking boulder and tensed a little in expectation as I tried to watch into
the water and the indicator both. Then out of the depths a very large
Brown came up slowly and inhaled that huge, puffy, ball of hook-free yarn
floating on the surface, fighting his way past my nymphs to get there.


Outloud, but to nobody other than the grey sky, I mumbled, "Thanks! That
is a clear sign I'm not really supposed to be a nymph fisher, if ever there
was one."

I left G