TR - It's a "good" hurt

I pulled up at the prearranged meeting spot a few minutes late, and, sure
enough, Danl was waiting. We said our hellos, watched a trio of deer for a
few moments, then hopped in the cars and headed off through the forest to
chase some wild little trout. The stream we were planning to fish runs
along the bottom of an extremely steep and rugged canyon, and we hoped to
access it somewhere near its midpoint by scrambling down a
yet-to-be-determined "trail." The first access point that we considered
quickly revealed itself to be suicidally steep, so we settled on another
route that would drop us into the lower third of the creek.

It was a short 20 minute walk from the parking spot to the floor of the
canyon, and almost certainly would have been quicker if we hadn't used ropes
(seriously) to slow our descent along the more vertical stretches of trail.
Spring has sprung in the canyon, and we pushed our way through lush, wet,
head-high thickets of poison oak, admiring the new growth up close as the
branches slapped our faces. Danl's a hell of a good sport!

Once we reached the creek we rigged up and started upstream, happily tossing
flies into every likely looking pocket or pool. I've mentioned it before,
but I'm still amazed at the size of the fish here that make their homes in
pockets no larger than a double sink. The creek along the section we fished
contains many stretches of small to medium pockets with enough larger pools
thrown in to add some variety. The beautiful wild trout that inhabit this
water are definitely not giants, but they are feisty and will aggressively
attack a fly. What's more, they're plentiful. We worked upstream for at
least a couple of hours, fishing at a leisurely pace and taking in our
surroundings. There was an almost unbelievable amount of new growth along
the streamcourse, and the smell of a wet growing world was a rare experience
in the desert of southern California. Gathering clouds and a (distant?)
thunderclap turned us back much earlier than we had expected, and the rain
was beginning to fall by the time we reached the trail that led back up the
cliff. We had each had many strikes, and one of us---not me---had brought
several fish to hand. I managed a few, but it was a pleasure to watch the
professor show me how it's done.

Relying heavily on the ropes, we scrambled up the muddy, poison oak-covered
cliff in the rain. Wet to the bone and overheating, I could honestly see
the steam rising from my wet skin whenever I stopped to rest. While I
grumbled, Danl just plugged away up the trail, as happy as he could be.
Humbling. Back at the cars we dried off as best we could and congratulated
each other for possessing that special insanity that leads some people
almost anywhere for a shot at a few 6 inch fish. My legs hurt a bit this
morning, and some joints are a little stiff, but it's a good, good hurt.

Cheers,
Bill