He walked and whistled bird songs in step, upon a four count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. He would catch his trout on dries, he said...that's all I brought. And I admired that -- his confidence, and his integrity. He has standards, this man...the trout will come to him. They will rise, and they will want him.
I on the other hand, was prepared to cast a wet or a dry, or even in fact, drop both. I felt desperate -- like one of those women with juicy written across her. Easy. She'll go for whatever. And my parents had taught me better.
Yet as I watched this man, and as I watched trout after trout rise and take his dry, I wondered about the "good things," as Maclean would say, in front of me. The trout, the salvation by a dry fly, the grace -- the art. These things, they don't come easy. And these trout weren't either -- wading into a baptismal of glacial melt is a hard doctrine to swallow. But the good things in life never should come easy, and I know that art never does. In that, I have confidence. And this art in life that rest on a hope -- on the hope of a rise -- is beauty. And waiting on that hope -- is integrity.
I wondered again, as I looked at this man and his dry fly and the splash of a take in the evening's last light, whether all that really matters is the confidence you have in your hope...