Image by Mike Doughty

Eye of the Beholder

You lift it from the net and are instantly dumbstruck as the scales shimmer like jewels. Its form perfectly suited to life beneath the surface. Its fins chiseled by the currents—precision engineered for propelling these creatures through their liquid realm with enviable grace. And those eyes, ancient and wise, offering glimpses into a world both familiar and alien. In these brief moments of connection, we're humbled by the wild beauty we hold, grateful for just the chance to witness perfection before releasing it back to the depths.

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IN THE RIFFLES

We sipped and relaxed. The day came to a sort of pause. Dust floated in tiny rays as sunlight poked through the door. A barstool scraped on worn maple. Then silence. Midway through his second beer Brant exhaled, long and slow.


“I have never,” he said, “been happier in my life.”


I knew what happened. The trout streams and little towns had got to him. The church steeples, the diners and hardware stores, the pastures, the rolled hay bales, the ancient barns, the gravel roads leading nowhere except to more bluffs and deep valleys, to creeks with their gin-clear water.


My friend had been captured. It would wear off.


It has to. Otherwise, you buy an old truck, fool your wife into moving into a peeling Victorian, take up life in a small town in the heart of trout country, and spend all your time fly fishing…

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