FlyAnglers.org

It was in the autumn of 1987 on the River Tay in Scotland. After several days of very slow fishing, and in the drizzling gloaming, a salmon finally took the #6 Stoat’s Tail on the swing. It would be the first fish of the week at the Kenmore Hotel.
I beached it, used the priest and laid it in the wet grass of the bank. On the next cast, another take but I failed to recite the obligatory, pause-demanding, “God Save the Queen,” and pulled the fly right out of the salmon’s mouth.

Quit fishing and walked to the car. Broke down the rod and stashed away the gear in the boot. I carefully placed the salmon on the rain-wet roof of the car and admired it. There was a little malt left in the flask so I sat in the wet grass, back against the car, and drained the last bit. Out loud, I said, “If only Grandpa Wild could see me now. How proud he would be of his only grandson.”