Another hour passes, and now, a mile from the truck, we know we have to get back or we'll get caught out in the storm. We zip in our lines, and we make it within a hundred yards of the truck when it starts to downpour. We dry off inside the truck and eat the sandwiches we've saved, watching the rain drum against the windshield. The day is over. We've caught dozens of fish, no doubt, but I can't help but feel irked that the trip has ended this way. What a lame reason to cut short a trip—rain. With no end to the storm in sight, Caroline and I consider heading back to camp, but, in the end, we decide to wait it out. We've come thousands of miles to fish the Brazos, and, frankly, we have nothing better to do than to watch the sky and hope it clears.