Perfect. All of it. Until...

All afternoon the Bro and I had cursed the breeze that blew our boats around and chopped the surface of the pond, making rises impossible to see and imposing the usual difficulties on casting. But we waited it out, hoping the late afternoon would bring calm air and flat water, and we were rewarded. By five o'clock the pond was glassy and we could see lazy rise rings as the trout inhaled mayfly emergers just under the surface. The fish were being very, very selective as they fed, knowing exactly what they were after and disdaining all else. Impatient after a long frustrating day, we pulled anchors and began gently cruising, heading for rise rings, trying to anticipate the trout's course and get within casting distance. This is nearly always a mistake. One of the immutable Laws of Angling says, "Shall an angler haul anchor and move his boat to a more promising spot, fish will immediately begin rising in the spot he just left." In fact, the Bro and I had been successful in the Moby Dick approach ("Lower the boats and after him, me hearties!") only one other time, but that was such a memorable evening that we're always game to try it again, and now seemed like the right time because the rises were not confined to one area but were sporadic and widely separated.

We paddled slowly, creating the least possible disturbance of the still waters, until I spied exactly what I was hoping for. A big trout was wallowing on the surface, dorsal fin waving as he snacked on what must have been a cluster of emergers. And he was heading straight for my canoe! I had on a dark Hendrickson fly. I gathered my line and false-cast just once, and then made a perfect -- I mean perfect -- cast. The fly settled gently on the water a foot ahead of the oncoming fish. I held my breath. In less than a second the fly disappeared, sucked in by a very large brook trout. Perfect!

What happened next is what is described in accident reports as "Operator Error." When the fly landed on the water in front of that big trout, my whole body, nay, my entire being was coiled tight as a steel spring. When I saw the fly disappear, the spring uncoiled. If I had been using 50-pound-test line and a saltwater boat rod, one of those stubby warclubs that bends only when hooked to an outbound freighter, that fish would have catapulted out of the pond and soared to a height known only to birds and Big Papi homers. What a view of his world he would have had! What a tale he could have told his fellow fish once he returned to his natural realm: You should have seen it! It was magnificent! The tall pines, the sun setting over the mountains! The clean, cool air!. But of course I had a 4-weight flyrod and the fly was attached to a 5X tippet, so what actually happened was that the tippet snapped and the fish swam away with the fly. I hope it disintegrates soon and doesn't interfere too much with his feeding. And I hope -- against hope, it would seem -- that before I die I will learn to control my response to strikes.