(A writing to Dewey Gillespie from a very respected friend AJH)

Cock Robin

 The powerful rod responds to the heavy line and pushes his fly into the wind, a great fuzzy thing that will float high in almost anything short of a cataract.  Made of deer hair and thread, the big fly, jokingly called a “Haystack” seems to live atop the foamy flood, turning a little despite the hampering leader.  The angler casts and then inches forward a foot and tries again.  His back aches a little from the rigid bracing against the river.

There is some sort of a flash beneath the fly, an obscure change of colour that some how does not fit the bottom pattern.  He casts again and tries to duplicate the drift.  A dark shadow appears, shooting up quickly in two feet of water to erase the big fly and show a broad fin and the edge of a wide translucent tail.  The angler sets the hook violently against eight pounds of leader test line.  The line sings up stream, throwing a little geyser of spray.  The angler backs awkwardly towards shore, his fish working in spurts and pauses against the current, then tiring suddenly and sweeping down stream to hold behind rock after rock with angry head shaking, four pounds of sea trout aided by tons of swift water is finally beached.