One river. Nine trout. A whole summer of rising water. Read the hatch, choose the fly, and follow the Larkspur to its source.
You carried a fly box up an entire river for this: a fifteen-inch fish the color of the hour before sunset, in water cold enough to ache. Nobody will believe you. That was never the point.
The Larkspur keeps flowing. The hatches keep turning. Every legend swims again.
TURN YOUR PHONE UPRIGHT
THE RIVER RUNS TALL