Fly Times

bass pond

I know they’re in here.  I drop the anchor in a spot where I can cast to a piling, a sunken log, overhanging branches, a weed bed and that mysterious looking dark hole up against the bank.  I slowly work the fly through every piece of cover. Then pull the anchor, work the shoreline; paddle, anchor, cast, retrieve.  Nothing moves to the bug.  The sun’s long set when I drag the boat out of the pond. On the drive home I think about bass flies and what would have worked.