It was a beautiful midsummer late afternoon. I had just checked into the “Inn” in Woodstock, Vermont. I grabbed my fly rod and hurried over to a picturesque covered bridge and waded down into the cool rushing water. I stuck a $20 cigar (spiced Maduro wrapper) in my mouth. With long sweeping rhythmic motions, I cast the fly wherever I wanted. It was a scene out of a Norman Rockwell illustration. Could life be any better?
After an hour or so, an old codger with a thick New England accent approached me and said, “there haven’t been any fish in this brook for 50 years.” In the south, we use “creek” to describe any tributary flowing off a river. At first, I was confused and merely retorted “Sir?” He repeated himself. Even though I hadn’t caught anything, I was enjoying myself, but now the fun was over, so I limped back to the Woodstock Inn. Had he not told me there were no fish, I would have stayed in that spot until well after dark and would have thoroughly enjoyed every cast!
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