As I bounced across back roads I haven’t run in 11 years, it all came rushing back to me. I spoke to Alex in half sentences. “I think…” “If I remember correctly, this takes me…yup…nope.” I took a few U-turns and drove in one complete circle but I was finally standing in the shadow of an old steel bridge. One of the same bridges I stood in the shadow of years ago, taking my first of many false casts, and it all came rushing back. This was my favorite spot. The one I fished the most. Not because it held alot of big fish, but it was a place that I felt truly alone, one with the landscape, and at home. I smiled because there was water in it, I knew there would be considering this was one of the wettest springs and summer I had witnessed in a while and I knew there would be fish around. I also smiled because I was about to show a friend where I grew up, fly fishing wise. In life, I was growing up too, more mentally than anything physically and I chose this very classroom for my education. It was the last place I fished before heading to Alaska and one of the places I dreampt of returning to every year. That had not worked out as planned but now I stood watching the same currents I had all those years ago. I hoped she would welcome me back. The currents are too narrow for 2 anglers and when we used to fish her, one would go downstream and fish up. The other fish upstream and walk back down. The 2 stretches take about 4 hours to fish so it’s a great place to go. Since I was acting as defacto tour guide we took turns fishing the cuts and runs of the upstream beat. In the relatively high water, she fished well but made us work for it. The easy spots were barren giving me the impression that she had been fished within the last couple of days. Probably by a worm dunker or someone chucking little mepps into the larger areas. It was in the tight spots, usually ignored by these intrudors that the stimmies were attacked. Crouched behind a stump, casting over 2 logs and dropping the stimmy in the tight eddy next to the undercut yielded many wild jewels. The mix of small brookies and browns were exactly how I remembered it and I kept telling Alex about the 15 inch browns that we would connect with once or twice a season. About a mile from the road Alex’s fly landed on the water and was exploded on. A shadow streaked across the pool and hid in the undercut un-tethered to the fly line. Alex’s eyes said it all, I muttered, “I told you so.” At the end of our four hours we walked back to the truck, travelled over to the next valley and hit the old bar. The kind of bar that stands alone in the middle of farmland and serves 1lb burgers with 3 pieces of cheeze, two Jack and Cokes and Onion rings for less than $10. It was good to be home. River #2 was more of the same, tight spots and beautiful jewel colored brookies in all the spots I remembered them. Then it slowed down and we decided to hit one last spot. The next valley must have gotten more rain because this river was almost unwadable. Having a fuzzy memory, I made it to the spot we used to go and was greeted by posted signs that highlighted that fishing was against the rules too. Not wanting to test the resolve of rural upstate landowners, I hightailed it out of there and hit a popular farm access. This spot resembles the spring creeks of the west and there were some yellow drakes coming off. The first rising fish was a wild brown which completed my wild trout tri-fecta and my return trip. Alex connected with a wild brookie completing the wild brookie tri-fecta and a feet not easily duplicated. Wild Brookies out of 3 different rivers…on the same day and fly. Too cool. The night ended with a spinner fall and the wild browns went nuts…which made up for their lack of size…4 inch browns with Napoleonic complexes…just a perfect evening. As we headed home, Alex asked why I didn’t come here all the time and I promised myself that I should at least a few times a season…of course I probably won’t.