01/16/14 - 8:46am
It was one of those perfectly still, fog-draped mornings on Trout Lake, so tranquil its surface looked as though it might shatter if I put paddle to water. My buddy Jim and I, as we had so many mornings, angled the canoe toward a favorite weed bed and glided to a stop, each of us quickly playing out about 30 feet of fly line.
We were sure it wouldn’t be long. It was a spot we knew well, an exceptionally fishy spot. Yet when my line went tight, there was no holding back, no restraining myself, the excitement too much to bear.
“I can’t believe it,” I cried out.