Yesterday I fished the Railroad Ranch for the first time in a while. I’m not sure why I haven’t been back other than the fact that the fishing has been up and down for the last few years with more downs than ups. But its coming back, or perhaps it is back (depends on who you are talking to, I think)
I probably wouldn’t know because I went at one of the worst times to fish the Ranch–a hot August afternoon. The morning hatches were all done and I was mostly counting time waiting for evening caddis, but I spent some time walking and thinking and reading and even fishing. Each time I enter the Ranch and see that flat blue water ribboned out across the park floor, I feel like an imposter or an intruder of some kind. My gut says that I don’t belong there. I haven’t earned it. I’m not good enough. Which is all true, in most ways. In short, The Ranch makes me feel like an amateur who has stumbled onto a field reserved for professionals. I am certain the river will expose me.
And it usually does.
Yesterday wasn’t much different. It was hot and the only rising fish I saw for most of the afternoon were finger-length. Finally, after fruitless casting with a variety of terrestrials, I got a solid rise to a hopper and came up tight on a nice rainbow. It was one fish. But I felt as though I accomplished something. The small fish I caught during the evening hatch were a little bonus.
Such fishing brings to mind the variable world of numbers. One good fish on many rivers would be a poor day. Heck, one good fish on that river is probably a poor day for many fisherman. But for me it was a good day. For a moment I got the upper hand on a stretch of water that often steals my lunch money. One fish was enough.
