A Fishing Tale
“To him, all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - came by grace; and grace comes by art; and art does not come easy.”
Norman Maclean
Cottonwood Creek is nestled in the cradle of Teewinot and murmurs through the ranger and guide’s cabins of Lupine Meadows. There had long been a friendly rivalry between the finest anglers of the two “families” and when rumor of a trophy cutthroat living in the eddy near the footbridge arose, the pulse quickened for each fisherman. Hound Dog and Warrior, as we’ll call them, spent weeks trying to land the fish with no luck. The peanut galleries on each side began referring to the fish as Moby Dick. Reputation, but not money, was on the line. But so far, not the fish.
And so it came to be one late afternoon in September that Hound Dog tricked Moby Dick with a caddis fly and slowly started to bring him in. You can picture it: termination dust high on Teewinot, golden cottonwoods lining the riverbank, coolness in the air. Hound Dog only smiling with his eyes until SNAP! the line broke.
He heads to the bar but tells no one of his secret. Home by dusk only to find his caddis fly pinned to his screen door.
