My second cast snagged in the jaw of a 14-inch cutthroat trout, and Tawney howled to the sky, “It’s on, brother!” He pulled on the oars, and I could feel the bones of the creek in the bottom of the raft, and we gave them what they wanted—again. I cast like I was playing whack-a-mole, firing at every piece of water large enough to wet a fish. The trout were as hungry as baby birds, and I fed them rapid-fire, without thinking, because I don’t get this that often. The fish told me exactly what they wanted, and I had a fly box stuffed with exactly the right fly. What had most likely occurred was I blundered into the right place at the right time with the right stuff, but I still felt like the best damn flyfisherman in the world. I would have patted myself on the back, but I simply didn’t have the time.