Crickets chirped  incessantly, shadows deepened, and the vividness of day faded to a grey obscurity. I like seeing the fly I'm fishing and the white tufts above the Psycho were fading quickly against the black water.    

  Just a few more casts, one or two drifts along the edge of the current. First drift was on my side of the flow, white specs of foam dotted the water as the big fly floated toward me - maybe I had out-stayed my visit for the evening and I should have been happy with earlier fish. But, I knew larger prey lurked as night returned. 

  Fishing, insects, and what happens on creeks has intrigued me ever since my brother Mike and I stayed in a pup tent along Lycoming Creek - all night long there was sipping, slurping, and enough large splashing sounds coming from the stream to keep this eight-year-old's imagination and interest fresh for almost 60 more years. The drifting fly itself a metaphor for the possibilities each cast engenders, probably creating even more for the fisherman than the fish.

  Another cast in the same area with no takers told me to give it another drift along the deeper water cross-current. I'd have to strip a little line out to have a drag free float, even with my nine foot rod. The Psycho presented itself with some authority on the surface and the drift was right along the crease with the smooth water. There was no swirl or splash as had I heard and envisioned so many years ago; there was a hollow sort of kissing sound and the big ant disappeared. 

  The fly went down, my rod came up, and the fight erupted. A few twists of my reel had the line recovered and the fish did battle with the continuum of my arm, the bent rod, the smooth-dragged reel, and the line, leader, and fly that enjoined predator to prey. It is that simple, but, on another level, it is far more complex. Responsibility always seems to rear its head with whatever fish I catch - an extra thought of the fortune we have to sample from this earth's abundance, and, somehow with that sense of responsibility comes the job of caring for and maintaining the great gifts.

  I felt each straining tug, each turn in direction, each run toward the deep, and the reel did its business; it was as if we were alone - the fish and I, and somehow the fight was a union in the near-dark, where the fish taught the fisherman just a little more about the mysteries of those nights along the Lycoming now so long ago. The brown had a few large black spots, a dark olive-canvas back, and deep belly. The Psycho easily came free of its lip, and he finned away to the darkness and disappeared. I hope, in the dwindling light of a future late evening on Pine, I get to meet him again...