The hardwoods turn to conifers as the stream narrows, forming a series of plunge pools, like steps tumbling down through a cedar forest. I release two brook trout, scrappy fish—one a fingerling, the other palm size, with a fierce-looking jaw. In a larger run, I call Landing Pool because it appears at the top of stairs, I make a decent cast, the pheasant-tail floating down a seam until taken by a nice fish that zigs and zags before coming to my hand.
A brown trout this high up is a surprise and I decide it is a good fish to end the afternoon. I close my eyes for a moment, let the sound of the current carry me along with it, when a rustling under the cedars draws my attention away from the stream. Trilliums rise through the duff. A colony of lady’s slippers spreads outward from the trunk of a fallen tree. Higher up, red-and-gold flowers of a columbine, like little trumpets, rise from between a crack in a large boulder. And then I see her. Lying perfectly still, tawny sides, white dots duplicating the surroundings. It’s the eyes that give the little scamp away. I slowly step back down the stream, not wishing to disturb the newborn fawn.
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