With an eye on my backcast and my mind on a starwort seam, I threaded a careful loop through the reaching limbs of a Massachusetts pine barren, over a jungle of grass, and delivered a hairwing streamer to its intended slot. A gentle current pulled the fly subsurface, and dream became reality when a golden flash erupted from a tannic shadow to consume the end of my tippet and my rod tip shot skyward.
The salters of Red Brook
by Matthew Reilly - Monday, Jun 20th, 2016