Nice digs, chadroc.
We finally got a break in the weather so I bailed on work and explored a small stream an hour from the house; most folks blow by it on their way to the reservoirs.
Buddy worked down here for years and says it was settled by one Mister Wilson back in the 1840s. Wilson and his wife shacked up in a cave at the head of a nearby tributary a couple years, before the missus convinced him to build a proper cabin. Wilson loved that cave, though- wrote in his will he wanted to be mummified and sealed in one of its alcoves along with a hundred dollars and a keg of peach brandy. After seven years the tomb would be opened with the keg and the cash blown on a party with Wilson as the guest of honor. The Civil War intervened, and well after the appointed date someone remembered Wilson's final request. The tomb was robbed and everything taken- the keg, the cash, and whatever remained of Wilson.
I poured one out for Wilson in the parking lot and photo'd some nearly DSFK.
Worked upstream switching flies until the water got skinny and I scared up a pair of bald eagles- when they're not being charismatic in nature documentaries, they sound like squeaky grocery carts. Chadroc's fly got love, ironman's fly got love, SOBF's was too pretty and I was certain a gar would slice it off at any moment, but a little smallie came out of nowhere and smashed it in the one place I felt safe throwing it. The smallmouth were shy, they'd come unbuttoned at my feet, so no photos.
Everything liked Fred's fly.
Spent the evening backroading unfamiliar country looking at new accesses and taking in the local flavor.
Wonder if the paint will outlast Canon.
...but on the other hand, the ability to compartmentalize is right up there with reading the water for the modern fly fisherman. -stillsteamin.