AT THE NARROW PULL-OFF ALONG THE QUIET TWO-LANE COUNTY ROAD, WHERE A WEATHERED WOODEN LADDER STILE STANDS AS AN “ANGLERS WELCOME” SIGN, MY FRIEND CLIFF GATELY LETS OUT A LOW WHISTLE. “CHECK THIS OUT,” HE SAYS AS I WANDER OVER TO SEE WHAT HE’S FOUND. HE’S POINTING AT THE PASTURE BEYOND THE STILE, WHERE BILLINGS CREEK MEANDERS BETWEEN LIMESTONE OUTCROPPINGS, BUT I DON’T SEE ANYTHING.
“Exactly,” he says. “Not a blade of grass disturbed. No worn path. Nobody’s parked here or crossed this stile in, what, maybe weeks? How can that be?” Then, a few minutes later, on a still pool below a small riffle, where I lay out a short cast, something suddenly pulls my indicator under, shakes its unseen head with authority, bends my 4-weight rod nearly double, then…
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Fly Fisherman (Digital) - 1 Issue, June/July 2024