Not quite epic

I've had some good days on the water this year, but I haven't had an epic day. I'm not even sure how to define an "epic day", but I'll know when I have one.

Saturday was the closest I got so far. Over four miles of hiking, 20 native brook trout, and two flies. The first seventeen brookies came from the same royal wulff, which, by the end of the day, was reduced to a few strands of peacock hurl, battered hackle, and a piece of red thread. So why didn't Saturday classify itself as "epic"? I'm not quite sure. The number of fish was strong (though not amazing), they were all caught on the dry fly, and I didn't see a single person the entire time I was out. Still, something was missing.

I think the missing element will be something completely unexpected, something that makes a fly fishing trip completely memorable. Saturday will blend into the foggy memory of good days spent on the water,  but it won't stand out. When I think back on the really special days, Saturday won't be on the short list. I don't take days like Saturday for granted, don't get me wrong. I'm thankful for the thousands of "good days" on streams. They mold together into one giant memory of fly fishing. It's as if they're one more piece of foil to PeeWee Herman's giant foil ball. It's the good days on the water that keep me going out in search of the epic days.