Headed up a trout stream about eight last night, The place where we stopped was really quite a sight. Just above a diversion dam by a quiet pool, Where the Cutthroat congregate in a little school.
The fish were swiftly rising to a little fly, Looking in my fly box pondering what to try. The gray one looked good but I tried the red, They nudged it with their noses- oh, the words I said.
Then I tried the green with a little white and brown, Floating on the surface a cutthroat sucked it down. The rod began to bend, the line it went tight- Old mighty 'cut' and I were in for quite a fight.
Up and down the river, out around the bend I began to wonder how it all would end. Never taking to the air he put up quite a fight, In that cold, clear water, what a pretty sight.
The sun's rays in the water shine on silver gray, The mighty little cut surely made the day. Two feet from the bank he made his final run, Then out upon the grass, shining in the sun.
Looking at the leader and that number fourteen fly, Knowing that it held and wondering why. Back upon the water that number fourteen goes, Just above the ripple where another cutthroat rose.
Now the sun is dropping down behind the trees. The beauty and the greatness weakens me at the knees. Moments like this make me grateful for where I live, So I can enjoy these great wonders only God can give.
August 25, 1971 Jocko River above St. Ignatius, Montana
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