I visited a Class 1 last week — there are so many of them now! — and what the outing lacked in action was made up for in sentimentality. I’ve been fishing these waters for a long time. Walking down its banks is like opening the restaurant door when you’re meeting a friend for lunch. Like many of the newly minted Class1s, this stream has fallen on hard times in the last decade-plus. Gone are the days when I’d pricks multiple dozens of brookies and browns, some of them a fairly impressive length for such small stream in the middle of nowhere. On this day, I managed only handful of swipes and one to net.

The water was an ideal height, probably about the same temperature as the air on this chilly day, in the mid-40s.

This is typically the time of year when I’ll wade through an unproductive pool after blanking in it. My gait is rather haphazard, as I’m hoping to spook some fish and suss out their lies. I rousted virtually no one; one languid stretch had about a half dozen fish, but they were all small yearling size. I did get to enjoy a cigar, and even when I stumbled and sat in the river, soaking my hindquarters, all was right with the world. I fished a dry-dropper system for most of the outing, but what was interested showed a clear preference for the dry. But, funny thing! The only one I landed came on a micro streamer.