Ripples have long since faded from its last gurgle as the black popper sits motionless on the mirror-surface. The calm harbor it rests in is formed by a quarter-circle of boulders choking off the current as it races silver across algae-slick rocks. The pool is small for this creek but more than waist deep. And it’s the only still water among the riffles before the shoal dumps into a much larger pool of aquamarine twenty yards or so downstream

It’s classic smallmouth holding water. There has to be a fish in here.

I was talking to my friend Chris while I drove to the river this past Saturday. It’s a short drive, so it was a short cell phone conversation, crammed full of the unending travails of writing — it’s an affliction we both share — and fly fishing.

We stayed on the phone as I parked and pulled on my waders, and Chris asked me a question which I’ve heard any number of times over the years.