I left work Thursday night after all of my 36 residents had their meds and were tucked into bed. Caught the ferry at 10:30 pm and arrived in the Beaver Creek campground by 1:30 am. Got 4 hours of sleep and made coffee. Had some Old fashion doughnuts and went to my hole below Sappho. I was almost through the pool when I looked down and saw a fly hooked around a rock. At first I thought it was my fly that I had lost a couple weeks before, but it was different. I looked across the river and the other flies I had lost were still in the trees. My fly, or version of the Aleutian Prince/Queen Hareball, has pink shoulders/purple body/ purple tail. Yours had purple shoulders/cerise body/silver flashabou tail. Actually it was a crinkly flashabou like MOP strands. A kind of hareball flasher. I retrieved it from the bottom and tucked it into my box. While that fly was in the water, it had such great action and look, that it just made sense. I thought, what a great spot to trade flies as I had left some pink ones for you. I finished that hole without losing any flies and dashed off to the hole by Shuwah, mixing Old fashions and beef jerky. I walked in and started fishing at the top using my cop car wannabe (by tying from vague descriptions, I ended up with a white hareball with cerise hare tied wing style and flanks of cerise golden tippet with jungle cock eyes). No luck, but I really thought the hole had some potential so I started over back at the top. Your fly was calling my name and I said, OK. Half way through and wham, but as soon as I had the hit, it was gone. It was the most significant evidence, other than sightings, that there is big Steelhead on the peninsula. Slowly stepping back, I started over 30 feet up. Wham, another hit with no connect. This time it was 10 yards farther downstream and away from the bank. About this time, a gear chucker appeared and started fishing my run. I cast 115 feet across his line (thanks Goran Anderson, Andy Murray, Tim Rajeff, George Cook, Steve Choate, Way Tin, Mike McCune, Scott Odonnell, Dana Sturn and Dennis Worley) and then he realized I was there. He was kind enough to move downstream, but it was too late. There were no more hits after that chunk of metal had dredged my run.

I have a few questions for the maker of the most important thing in my life this year (except my tax refund). What do you call your fly? And what is your name?

Matt

'Twas not mine ... I left mine on the mouth of that big fish at the end of the run