I gave him a 'hell yeah' when he said the golden stones would still be on the river when we get there. Nothing better than fishing stone flies to rising trout in Montana. Nothing. It's been a year since these grasshopper sized flies crawled across my fingers unaware of their fate. Not that it matters. By the time these flies are flying about and crawling over fingers, their life span is near an end anyway. Maybe it's better to go out swallowed by a big brown trout versus slowly falling to the water, drowned by the churning current.
Regardless of how the fly feels, I feel just wonderful when fishing these giant bugs every summer. When Dan called to tell me the stoneflies would be there this year, I was flipped out to find a golden stone in my refrigerator immediately thereafter. Two thousand miles away from its fate. Like some mafia warning sign, the proverbial head in the bed, it lies there in the vegetable crisper. What the hell man? I like it, I really do, but it trips me out.
A sign, Dan says. It's a sign! We are going to have good fishing this year. Really good fishing. Sure, I get it. I believe. But why the refrigerator? Is it going to be cold too? No, I don't think so. The weather looks perfect. There is a damn golden stone fly in my damn refrigerator days before driving two thousand miles to Montana to fish to trout using golden stone fly's. I don't know what it means, but I am taking the son of a bitch with me. And I am going fishing.
