My journal entries are meant to be about the hatches, the fish, the flies, the weather, but on certain occasions, you realize that those aren’t the things you really want to read about years from now. I recently introduced two old friends of mine who had never met: my venerable fishing buddy Matt and Bear Creek. I’ve been fishing on Bear Creek for many years. It’s a special place. Matt and I have fished together from Montana to Mexico, and he is fond of “big water,” so I was pleased at how enthusiastic he was about going up to my little home water, which runs down a mountain that I can see clearly from my driveway. I enjoyed watching these two get acquainted. We caught fish — most in the size range one might describe as “pretty darn good for a creek that size.” The best part was that I didn’t count, I didn’t measure, I didn’t take notes. I didn’t feel the need to get the camera out. I listened to the water. I felt that cork grip in my hand. I watched my friend discover this jewel. He did enjoy it, and I warned him to be careful, or he may end up actually liking small streams. I got an e-mail from him two days later. “Bear Creek this Tuesday?”
