© John Schreiber; published Trout Unlimited Minnesota, December 2000

More years ago than I want to count, when we didn't catch any fish, a friend would often glibly state as we left the water: "That's why they call it fishing." Our laughter at his inane comment eased the disappointment of carrying an empty stringer.

As the years have passed, though, and my experiences have grown along with my satisfaction with catch-and-release, I've learned this absurd comment disguised a great truth: it is called fishing, not catching. And when you really fish, you may catch all sorts of things, many of them unintended.

I was reminded of this several summers ago in the Big Horn Mountains on a shallow mountain creek as it meandered at 8,500 feet above sea level before plummeting in a rushing torrent toward Sheridan, Wyoming. On a grassy peninsula where the stream swung out in a long arc, my wife, daughter, and I set up camp in the late afternoon. After securing the tent and unloading the car (priorities must be strictly observed: the women, after all, outnumbered me), I finally felt free to walk along the stream.

It was my first time fishing in Wyoming and the stream was nothing like what I fished in southern Minnesota. Yes, tall, fly-snatching grass was plentiful and tree branches still grew at the most inopportune places and the cold stream was as clear as water could come, but the stream lacked any vegetation. If I had not been told that fish were in the creek, I wouldn't have given it a second look. But I had been, so I did.

Near the tail of the stream's arc around our campsite, the stream swirled around two large boulders, one in front of the other: a perfect sheltering lie for a large fish. Noting it, I walked downstream and found several fallen trees that created a nice pool, but I saw no fish lying near the stream's bottom, no undercut banks where they could rest, no mats of watercress under which they could hide. Discouraged, I headed upstream of our campsite. I found several long riffles, but they were too shallow to be very promising. I returned to camp. If a fish of any size lived in that mountain stream, it would be by those boulders.

I helped my wife prepare supper while my daughter gathered sticks for an evening fire.
After supper my wife saw me again scanning the steam. "Why don't you fish tonight?" she asked.

"I bought a three-day license, and it starts tomorrow."

"Why didn't you start it today?"

"I didn't want to buy a license for an entire when I only had an evening to fish."

Such are the decisions of a cheapskate. Such are the consequences. A short time later, a gangly boy about fourteen years old worked his way upstream, casting a spinner. He was heading to "my" two rocks.

No, I thought, just keep going. Keep going.

No such luck. He tossed his spinner between the rocks. After one cast he lifted a large trout out of the water and began dancing around on the shore like a leprechaun who had just found his pot of gold.

I ambled downstream a bit, as if out for an evening stroll. I intercepted him as he was running pell-mell downstream.

"Nice fish," I casually said.

He held up his trophy, his fingers in the gills of a sparkling, full-bodied brook trout, somewhere between 14 and 15 inches.

"Will my dad be surprised!"

"There probably aren't many that size in this stream," I said.

"I know. All we ever catch are little ones." And little ones are all that anyone will catch, I thought, if big ones are never released. He ran downstream, swinging his trophy.

Give it time, I told myself. Another fish will take that spot.

I walked back to our tent, saddened by the loss of the beautiful fish but also admitting to myself that I too would have kept the fish at his age.

The next day I was ready with rod and active license and a feeling that had grown sometime during the night, the feeling that a gauntlet had been flung at my feet: if that kid could catch a good fish with a spinner, I could find something bigger with a fly. Since no fish were visibly feeding, indeed, no fish were visible, I chose an attractor fly, a royal coachman. It took me a few casts to find my rhythm, but once I did, almost every good cast delivered a small brookie. I don't know where the fish came from, but they attacked with a vigor many times their size. I could only imagine how fiercely a large fish could fight.

I tried the water between the two boulders but nothing seemed to have taken the place of the 14-incher. Finally I gave the area a rest and walked upstream where I saw two other fly fishermen flailing the water with their line. The more they cast without catching, the more earnest, the more desperate, their casting became. In their frustration, they were losing their focus and slapping the water with their fly lines.

I caught another small brook trout on my way up to them. We crossed paths as they worked downstream. They were high school kids with new vests and many gadgets and a lot of lessons yet to learn.

"Any luck?" I asked.

"No," they said, disgusted.

"What are you using?"

"A royal Wulff," one said.

"A yellow humpy," said the other.

"Should be good," I commented.

They were young, I thought, inexperienced: it's easy to lose focus.

I moved to where they had been. My casting was precise and effective, and I caught several brook trout. I felt confident, and, I must admit, foolishly proud when I returned to our tent.

The next morning I caught several tiny brookies on my way to the two boulders again, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, another large fish had moved in. The royal coachman was performing flawlessly. I only needed to deliver it gently.

I focused on my cast, trying to make it as perfect, as gentle, as possible. Nothing struck the fly as it landed downstream of the first boulder. I tried a second cast. Again nothing. I waded into the center of the stream, directly below the spot I was trying to hit.

A fish had to be there. I knew it and I would get it. I added more line and aimed for the swirling water between the boulders.

The line stretched out and the coachman floated down onto the water. This was it.
A dark shape rose. The water bubbled.

Set.

Too fast.

The fish was gone.

I groaned as my line drifted down to me.

I had been too quick, too concerned with catching, just like the two high school boys from the previous evening.

That's when I looked across the stream into the trees on my left. Less than twenty yards from me stood a huge bull moose, pulling at some low shrub with his mouth. I'd run across several moose before on hikes, but few this close.

He must have heard me groan, for he glanced up, his wide rack facing me. We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes and his dark eyes calmly regarded me as he munched some leaves.

Finally, as if he had all the time in the world, he glanced toward the campground, saw other people running toward him with cameras, and ambled off.

Since then I've encountered other moose, but none as memorable. For when I missed a nice trout that morning, I saw something else, just as awe inspiring. I realized again that time by the stream is not about catching fish, not really. It's about fishing. And when you're fishing, really fishing, you catch a lot more than fish. Keep your eyes on that, and you'll never be disappointed.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll catch that big trout between the boulders too.