Charles smiled with gratitude as he stood a bit back from the bank below the bridge on Mossy Creek to replace his slightly bruised fly. He'd not been able to get much fishing in that summer, so was hoping the day would turn out to be what the weatherman had promised. Contrary to usual practice, the prediction on the tube had turned out correct: the day was hot but not too hot; the sky was almost entirely blue but for an occasional scudding cloud; and there was a wind just strong enough to dump an occasional unwary hopper into the stream but not strong enough to make casting his trusty if somewhat battered graphite rod a tribulation.

So far as Charles could tell, the fish were fairly cooperative today, at least as cooperative as Mossy's browns ever get. The hoppers he'd been throwing out seemed what the fish wanted, since he'd had six fish at least express interest in his offerings over the past couple of hours. Granted, only three had been interested enough to actually take the fly, and one of those immediately spit the artificial food out with what seemed a jaded variety of disdain. But the two who had hung on, one 10" and the other a bit bigger, had given a pleasant fight before they came docily to hand to be released gently home to nurse their troutly pride.

As he tightened the knot on his fly and clipped the tag end, Charles wondered how things were going with his buddy Don, who was fishing about 100 yards upstream. As Charles glanced upstream, Don was just starting his graceful casting motion. Charles felt a slight greening of his gorge as he saw Don's bamboo rod flex with the weight of the line. It wasn't that Charles begrudged Don the rod; after all, Don was one of very best casters Charles knew and could appreciate the subtle suppleness of the rod better than Charles could. Charles just wanted a chance to really work a rod of the sort Don had in his ever expanding collection. Charles'd have been happy to use the one Don had today even if it wasn't by any means the best of Don's lot, but Don was protective of his babies. Charles had babies of his own that drained his financial well to the point that even a second rate bamboo was in the dim and distant future.

"Well," thought Charles as he swallowed the lump in his throat," You may not be the prettiest rod in the world, but you give me the comfort of an old sweater and do a pretty good job of catching me a fish or two--something Don can't say about many of his prizes."

After his second cast to the far bank sparked some interest, Charles lay back in the grass and rested the spot and himself for a bit. Nothing on the next two casts, but as the fly drifted under a bit of overhanging grass on the third, the brown rose unhesitatingly to the fly and munched hard. The trout came to his hand after a couple of tries for the thick vegetation in the middle of the stream. As he let his third 10incher of the day swim from his hand, he heard Don call his name from upstream.

"Come quick--and get your net out," Charles heard as he straightened from releasing the fish. That bit about the net made little sense to Charles, since from where Charles stood Don's rod looked straight as a ruler out over the stream. Thinking that he might as well see what was up, Charles strolled upstream while he fiddled with the net hanging off the back of his vest.

"Come on, will ya? I need your help with this fish."

Fish? thought Charles. There sure didn't seem to be anything on Don's line; his rod was still straight enough to be used by a cabinet maker. But Charles picked up his pace a bit to be a good buddy.

Things still weren't clear when Charles arrived at Don's spot. Sure, there was a handsome brown, looking to be 16" anyway, sitting still in the flow a bit below Don. It took a moment for Charles to connect Don's just barely tight line to the fish, but eventually he did.

"Net him for me, will ya? I can't get close enough to do it myself."

"Bring him closer to the bank. I don't have waders on."

"Can't. Horse a fish that big, could put a set in the tip."

"Wet feet don't suit me either. Wait, there's a dry hummock downstream a bit. Can you let him drift down there?"

"Think so. Let's go."

Charles gingerly put his foot on the hummock and leaned out with his net--"Beautiful color" drifted through his head as he leaned--for the fish Don was drifting down to the net. As the brown beauty slipped into his net, Charles's right foot slipped off the hummock and into a foot of one of Mossy's mud holes. His left foot joined its mate as Charles tried to leverage himself out of the stream without dropping the fish from the net.

"Unhook him," Charles almost growled after he'd set his net onthe bank and turned once more to the task of getting his feet out of the muck without losing his shoes.

"Still too active--you do it, Charles."

"Oh, alright. There, he's off. He's a gorgeous fish, look at those spots, that belly. Want to hold him?"

"No, that's O.K."

"C'mon, this looks the biggest you've gotten on Mossy."

"Yeah, probably is, but doesn't matter. Let him go," replied Don as he ran his hand and eyes carefully up the length of his rod.

Strolling back to his spot to the dulcet tones of mud squishing from his shoes after the trout had swum forcefully from his grasp, Charles smiled slowly and shook his head.

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