I held my rod high over my head and leaned forward pushing through mats of bowed tules, whip willows, and rose bush. After the five-minute battle, I arrived on a sand-filled beach where a long run ran into a deeper pool. A single trout rose on what looked like white mayflies. I looked at my leader where a heavy pheasant tail anchor ran with a size 16 blue-winged olive emerger pattern as a dropper.

I unhooked the anchor from the keeper and contemplated changing the rig. Dropping the fly, I pulled several handfuls of the line from the reel and false-casted toward the pool. The fish continued to rise all around my presentation until an errant cast stopped the action. I reeled in and sat in the sand.

Lifting the rod tip over my head the wind blew across the fine 5x tippet, and the pheasant tail danced before my face. I smiled at my willful negligence and reached for the fly. Pulling the rig down, I nipped the leader just above the dropper tag. I pulled out my fly box, trimmed the knots off the used flies, and pushed them into the silicone box liner. The few feet of left-over tippet I balled and stuffed into a vest pocket.

Pulling another fly box from my vest, I selected a white mayfly, tied it to my line, and laid flat the barb with a crimp of my pliers. Caddis streamed past me as I brushed grasses on my way to a stand. I shook my head at the sight, sat back down, and pulled out my box of flies. This is fishing, I thought.