Trout Fishing in the Battenkill River
“Any luck?” he asked cheerfully.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Say,” he said. “You got the time?”
I glanced at my watch. “Three-fifteen.”
“Thanks.” He waved. “Well, good luck, then.”
I watched the canoe’s bow waves roll toward the banks. The canoe became a shadow before the mist enveloped it. I waded to shore.
Three-fifteen. I had parked at the covered bridge at nine. In effect, I had been stalking that toad for over six hours.
I waded carelessly back to the car. There was no need to worry about my waves spooking fish. Every worthy trout in the river had been sent scurrying by that one man in his canoe.
I stopped at the diner on the state line for coffee. The guy behind the counter said, “Been fishin’, huh?”