Student in Athens, GA
I cast my line into the alpine lake and rings of ripples erupt around the fly. I strip the green caddis back to the mossy bank of Scab Lake. Nothing...as usual. I cast again. Nothing. I cast again. In the tree! Turning to trek up the hill, flurries of snow pelt my eyes and land on the nearby trees. This is going to be a cold and miserable night. My feet soaking in damp socks, trek up the snow painted path. Dinner smells fantastic. I glance back at my friend, George, who is glued to a rock a few feet out into the lake. He casts his line out near the lily pads about thirty feet away from him. He strips his fly back to the rock, and a massive brook trout rises to surface and gorges the fly sitting on top of the stagnant water. Look at that! He fights the fish all the way back into his hands. I caught a glimpse of that massive brookie and let a deep sigh of relief out because someone finally caught a fish. I go back down to wet my line a couple more times. I finally find another spot with enough room to cast. It's time to catch a fish. I tie my fly onto my leader and toss it into the freezing cold water. I have almost stripped my line back into the bank when a fish goes after it. Tension surges up my line. Is that a fish? I almost lose it, struggling to set the hook in time. After fighting this fish for a few minutes I manage to drag it to the bank. I exhale seeing the size of this cutthroat.