we brave cold wind in morning light, while wading water mid wader height. we barely notice the can go by, staring intently at our fly. only hours old, fresh off the vice. we feel certain the fish will rise. the rising pattern sporattic at best, for him its survival, for us its a test. this cast feels different, a little slowed down. you add a small mend, so your fly wont drown. the stealthful rise, a sip of your fly. then all goes quiet and you realize. the years of flogging and ambled casts, all lead to this moment, the ultimate test. like a primal instinct, you set your hook. no one can learn this from reading a book. why do we do this? im asked by some guy. all reasons are different, but we'll do it till we die.