He stood, inched towards the edge of the pool, and kneeled. This was something he’d learned over the years when approaching clear water. You don’t want to let the fish know you’re there. If they do, pack your fly rod and go home. He unhooked the fly from the holder, pulled out extra line, and dipped the rod behind him, then forward. He did this several times until thirty feet of line sailed in the air. Then, one final push and the line arced forward in a well-formed loop. The red humpy propelled straight and true, nipping the water with nary a circle. Matt watched the bushy fly, eyes locked in hawk-like focus.

Nothing.

He continued to work the pool, but no takers. He even tried the “lucky spot,” as his father had coined it. It was the hardest water to reach, a pocket hidden between the sheer rock face of the falls and the two protruding logs. The bigger fish used this as shelter and a feeding area. No eagle or bear would try and swipe the trout from such a precarious position. But on this particular day, the “lucky spot” wasn’t so lucky. It didn’t matter, though. He was entranced by the rhythms of nature, the cadence of falling water, the gurgling over multihued substrate.

Something screeched high up in the trees, breaking his meditative state. Maybe a barred owl, but he couldn’t be sure.

A beautiful day, he said to the woods. He gazed into the hypnotic pool, his thoughts pure and free. There was nothing but this canyon and the beauty. Or so he thought.

“Hey guy, you got your fishin’ license?” a gruff male voice asked behind him.

Matt jumped and whirled, trying not to show fear when he realized it was just another outdoorsman. The man looked to be in his fifties with slick, black hair, a thin face, and a long nose. The man wore an orange hunter’s vest and held the chains of several steel traps in his right hand. The trap receptacles swayed above the rocks like small iron plates. The circular outline of a tin of chewing tobacco pressed against the right chest pocket of the orange vest.

“You got your fishin’ license, guy?” the man asked again.

Matt cleared his throat. “Always. Why, are you a warden?” He doubted this guy was a warden, but you never knew up here.

“I’m asking because they a waste of money, guy,” the man said, laughing. “I don’t give no crap if you ain’t got a license. But be careful, if the warden shows up he’ll pinch ya. He pinched me and Davey last year. You don’t wanna get pinched. Watch yer back, guy.”

“I have a license,” Matt said.

“You ain’t trappin’?” the man asked.

“Nope.”

“Everybody traps up here, guy. Woods are full of ’em. You can’t walk ten feet without steppin’ on one.”