It had been a very slow day on the catch and release section of the South River that April day, even on the usually productive stretch below the dam behind Ramworks Apartments. I'd tried almost every fly I had. Dries, streamers, nymphs, nothing moved the fish I knew were there. Finally, casting my purist scruples to the wind, I tied on the olive Wooly Bugger with gold flashabou in the tail. Normally, of course, I wouldn't have such a fly in my box. It was a recent gift from a friend and I didn't want to offend her by putting it into the back of an odds 'n ends drawer where it really belonged.

Lo and behold! On the third cast that nasty attractor did its work and I was onto a nice fish. It fought well but finally, exhausted, it let itself be landed. As I reached to release the fly from the fat 14 inch rainbow, I saw it had got itself in trouble in its eagerness for the fly that matched nothing. The hook was lodged deep in its throat close to the gills. I had to get the fly out or the fish would starve with that olive monstrosity blocking its throat. Using my hemostats with the gentleness and precision of an eye surgeon, I tried to dislodge the hook without harming the fish. But to no avail. The fish's valiant fight had driven the barbless point deep into the rakers, which bled profusely when I freed the fly from the fish. Knowing the slow death by suffocation or bleeding that now faced him, I gave the rainbow warrior an honorable--and quick--death by snapping his neck. I sadly laid him to rest in a side eddy.

Later as I shed my waders and other paraphernalia, it struck me that my only catch of the day was about to come to an unduly ignominious end as supper for suckers. Surely my belly was a more fitting place of dissolution for such a fine fighter. With studied casualness, I strolled back to the side eddy where the rainbow still floated. Assured, but not reassured, by a guilty glance towards the apartments at my back, I dropped my carefully unfolded bandanna on top of the trout, scooped up the fish in its cloth coffin, and sauntered somewhat less casually back to the car.

As I savored my evening's repast of perfectly broiled fresh rainbow trout almandine, I hoped that the Native American legends I'd heard were true. They say that the victor in battle honors the vanquished, and gains his courage as well, by eating his flesh. I also hoped this passing on did not include the foolish impetuosity of a trout that went so hard for a damned olive Wooly Bugger adorned with gold flashabou.

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