I remember when I was a kid, my family was camping somewhere here in California when I learned a lesson that I never forgot or thought would help me.  I was strolling up a rocky hill (if I remember right, to find a place to pee) when I came upon a rattlesnake.  I was somewhere between 8 and 10 years old and when the rattler sat up and started shaking, I took off back down the hill.  The problem was; the hill had rocks - sharp rocks - and gravity quickly outran my little legs.  I ended up with two bloody knees, two bloody hands, and my father yelling at me to "never panic!".

Here is the result (I will explain)...

Today I hiked back into the local National Forest about 6 miles, set down my gear, and went to scout the stream.  The first thing I see with my polarized sunglasses is a fish that looks like someone parked the 'Red October' in a storm drain, and just like a submarine, she was boldly attacking everything she saw.  My pulse quickened.  I wanted that fish so badly, and I hustled over to my gear to quickly set up.  That's when I remembered the lesson - well, to be honest it had been on my mind since I had spent the better part of the morning in rattlesnake country - that my father taught me.  "Never panic!  When you panic you lose to ability to make good decisions, you hurry when you should think", blah blah blah... you get the picture.  He told me this as I was crying over scraped knees and hands.  He told me this because inside he was panicked to know that if that rattler had bitten me, my increased heart-rate would have rushed the venom through my system.  I know that today.  As a father myself, I know that now.  For the longest time I couldn't understand how he could yell at me when I was bleeding and scared.

I don't panic today.  And when I saw that fish, I went to my gear with my fathers advice fully 30 years behind me and went through my fly collection slowly and methodically.  I tied the best knots I could, and slowly made my way to the bank to not spook the beast.  My first cast was poor.  My second cast got caught up in a tree and I lost the tippet and fly.  My pulse quickened again.  I was going to miss this fish.

Don't panic.  I calmly hunkered down in the bushes to re-tie the tippet and choose another fly, reminding myself to take my time and tie good knots.  When the rig was finally ready again, I cast and let the nymph sink.  As I was twitching it, I saw the Red October rise from her hole and chase, then strike.  I saw the strike before I felt it and the hook-set was too soon.  I pulled it right out of her mouth.  The next cast resulted in nothing, the same as the following attempt.

On the third cast of this particular fly, she hit it again.  Hard.  I saw her roll on it, and she was beautiful, but I was too quick on the hook-set again.  I retrieved the fly, sat on the bank and again thought of what my dad would tell me.  "Don't get so excited, think!" and it was then that I realized that seeing the strike was throwing off my timing.  So this time I decided to let her turn back - to actually watch the strike without reacting - before trying to set the hook.

She hit again, and this time I was calm.  I set the hook hard in her upper lip and all 4 or 5 pounds of her left the water.  She panicked.  I breathed.  When she took off downstream, clearing out my fly-line down to the backing, and almost around a large rock, I decided calmly that it was time to test the rod and my knots and force her back to me.  She turned, and eventually made it into my net.  The finest creature to ever bless my fly rod.

That's my thumb near the gills.  I am tall and have big hands - another gift from dad - and the net without the handle is 18" long.  It was my distinct pleasure to release her after capturing the moment with all I had: a cell-phone camera.  If I hadn't learned the lesson so many years ago, I am sure that my inner-child would have rushed and spooked this trophy trout, and I wouldn't have even known why.

I ended up catching another almost as big a while later, but my phone really failed to capture its beauty.

Thanks, Pop.  I love you.  See you soon.