The quip about doing something over and over again – expecting a different result is insanity – would very well describe me and fishing a certain area.  For months over a year I’ve been sneaking away for a quick half hour of casting early in the morning, or at dusk, searching for gold – only to come away with broken rigs and lost flies.

Fueled by tales from other anglers though, I keep going back to this spot – hoping that someday the treasure is found.  That someday was yesterday.  A friend had posted a picture of an adult stonefly in the Town Water – so I decided to tie up a box of stones and try to strike gold once more.

The wind was fierce, and snow was spitting intermittently, but undeterred I walked down to the familiar bank, towards the rumored gold mine, and strained a cast into the wind… and another… and another.  Around the fourth cast or so, my line went taught and a sluggish tug was at the end of the line – my friend the whitefish.  I was still happy to hook a fish, and the catch kept me casting.

The wind died down momentarily – and I was able to get a good cast and mend my line for a great drift.  One of those drifts you feel is in the zone, a drift that if your bobber doesn’t dance a bit – then you mutter expletives to the wind.  And then it stopped, and I set up, and it was most definitely not a whitefish.  The fight was lovely in the driving snow and wind, my body felt electric – that rush felt when finally figuring out a puzzle – the rush of finding gold.

The balance of the hour was magical.  Another brown to hand, a few hooked and fought and lost, and even another whitefish for good measure.  All of them enticed by the stone fly nymph I had just tied.

The sun came out, and the wind died down, and the fish grew wise to my ways.  I waded back to the bank, and had to sit and admire the river for a bit – and let the experience steep into my mind – as a reminder that insanity is a wonderful thing.