Salvation

Fifty feet is a long way to crawl for an adult human being. Just how far it really is doesn't occur to you until you're down on all fours, a rough beast slouching streamward with a fully loaded vest, chest waders and carrying a fly rod in one hand. Now it seems like 50 miles. And yet you crawl, knees on fire, back aching, pulse roaring in your ears. Imaginary rattlesnakes lurk behind every rock, and yet you crawl. For what, a trout? Not just any trout, The Trout. The one you've watched all season. The one that always stops rising the moment you're in range. Twenty-five feet from the water, the urge to stand up and peek is almost overwhelming. The urge to stand up and walk like a person instead of some trout-crazed quadruped is even stronger. Almost there. You strain your neck up and peer through the grass.

Nothing. Just a miniature regatta of tiny baetis floating down the smooth, unbroken surface. Your heart sinks. And then, way back under the willows, farther back than you imagined, you see it. A dimple. A rise so delicate another angler might pass it off as a fingerling. Suddenly, your back doesn't hurt, your knees stop screaming, and you are sure. It's him.