At seven a.m. on a bluebird day in April, the only fisherman on the trout-stream was the old guy, working the tail end of the spring hole, and handling a fly rod like he knew what he was doing. "What the heck did you do with all the people?" I asked.

"I sent them to the bathroom." He said.

Maybe I didn't hear him right. I'd fired a shotgun enough in my youth to be a little hard of hearing, but I kept an eye on the old codger anyway. Slowly, downstream from him, I crossed the river, and asked, "Do you mind if I go behind you? I can go up above and fish the head of this hole."

He smiled a little. His white hair and mustache almost glowed in the sunlight as he kept his concentration on the line in front of him. It was impossible to tell, because of his sun glasses, but when he answered me he never looked at me. He spoke as a father spoke to a child.

"You'll want to go up about twenty yards. Just out from the bank you'll see a square rock below the surface. Now be careful! Stand right in the middle of the rock and you'll be alright. Don't trip. Stand right in the middle. We wouldn't want you falling in, now would we."

He never looked at me, but cast again. I tried to see what he was fishing with, but couldn't, and since he obviously didn't want any more conversation, I climbed out and went up river.

At about sixty feet I saw the rock he was talking about. It was below the surface of the gin clear stream and out about a yard or so into the current. I entered the stream, stepped up onto the rock, and saw dozens of trout in the pool. Maybe hundreds. More trout than I had ever seen in my long life.

Small fish, the size of your hand, and bigger. I mean huge, as long as your arm and heavy. The spring seemed alive with color as the fish kept on the move. I cast hurriedly, not nearly as far as I would have liked, and the brown woolly was taken almost as soon as it hit the water. The small trout tail danced and I felt the same old surge of success at setting the first hook of the year. He jumped again and I glanced in the direction of the old man, anxious to show off my prize, but the stranger was gone. I thought no more about it, but landed the trout and cast again, better this time.

I lost the lure when a big trout broke it off just as the line straightened, and I hurried to replace it with another brown. I didn't have one.

I looked in my vest and on my vest and in the clear plastic box in the front of my waders, and then I remembered that I had a dozen new ones in my tackle box, back at the truck. Before I walked that far, I would try something else, so I tied on a black and yellow maribou. I lost it to a big fish on the first cast.

Maybe the knot slipped. That must be it. I tied on a red and white lead-headed maribou and was extra careful tying the clinch knot, that I checked and stressed as much as my two pound test and my nerves would stand. I cast, let it sink, twitched the line once and set the hook on a two pounder...

My luck stayed as good as the weather, which was perfect. No clouds marred the clear blue sky, If there was a breeze, I couldn't feel it. The only sound was a song from a mockingbird, proclaiming this to be the perfect time for an avid trout fisherman to be on the water. I released another small rainbow and continued having the time of my life.

I know it was nine o'clock because I looked at my watch when the first people arrived from the direction of the road. 'I guess he let the people out of the bathroom,' I thought. I could hear people talking on the high bank behind me. More fishermen were coming upstream, and still more came from the road. I netted the small trout that I was playing and left the stream. Why mess with a perfect day?

Back at the cabin, the trout cleaned and on ice, I had changed and was standing in front of the mirror, combing my hair, what there was of it. Actually, I thought, if I was better looking, I might look a little bit like the old guy with the white hair. Maybe more than a little bit.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, tying my shoes, when Roy came in, as close to cursing as I'd seen him in forty odd years. Roy was my age, my weight, and about six inches shorter than me. He had been born with some kind of fishing rod in each hand. Whether it was Bonefish or Bass or Tuna or Trout, I'd learned a lot from him.

"How'd you do at the bridge?" I asked.

"No good." He said. "I fished my way back here, when ever I could find a yard of water that wasn't already beaten to a froth by twelve other guys. How'd you do at the spring?"

"I think I just had my last fishing trip." I said.

When I woke up in the I.C.U. it was the afternoon of May fourth. The surgeon said I'd had a stroke on the twenty-ninth of April, and they were able to fix the leaking artery that was putting pressure on my brain. He said I should be alright.

Now, two years have passed. I don't play tennis anymore and my golf swing probably looks kind of funny, but I haven't written up my last fishing trip yet. I went last week. It was April.

"How big was that one you caught?" Roy asked.

"He was a four pounder," I said, "but the big one got away."

"I know, I watched you fight him for about five minutes, but then he broke off. You know you can't horse in the big ones on little bitty line, no matter how bad you want to. You've gotta have faith."

"Well, where'd you go?" I asked.

"I went up to your favorite hole, lookin' for your rock."

"That's fine." I said. "That rock is the best place to fish that hole. The water is right, the current is right, and when the wind and sun are on your side... How did you do?"

"I couldn't find it." He said. "In fact, the entire fishing hole looked different. Completely different."

"I didn't make up the old man," I said. "Angel or not, he was as real as you or I, and so was the rock. You must have found the rock."

"No," he said. "I didn't find it."

Suddenly there were tears in my eyes. I couldn't help it. If on some future day you find yourself alone, except for one other person, who may or may not resemble someone you know, and the person suggests that you stand in the center of the rock...Well, I would do it if I were you, and you may or may not be on a Trout stream.

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