It has been many moons since I ever so gently dropped a goofus bug on a river I was standing in. Some of my best memories in 66 years are of fly fishing in Northern California (and mountain quail hunting). I lived in the same town where Walton Powell made his rods, took one fly tying class and taught myself the rest. Fishing was never a social event for me but probably similar to going to church. I'd spend a lot of time getting to barely accessible places to really feel alone in the wilderness.....catching fish was secondary to being out there. I tried to camp when I fished as often as possible to have that joy of waking up near a wild river and maybe getting to sit on a rock with cowboy coffee and watching a Dipper do the incongruous....bob up and down a little, then dive underwater for some grub. Rainbows and the occasional Brown, mostly catch and release, but if I was camping, I would keep one for dinner and considered it sacred food.
