The nights we fished the Ranch, the surface was blanketed by dead and squirming insects, broken only by the occasional nose of a sipping trout. Without moving my feet, I could cast to any of a dozen feeding fish. A few hundred yards downstream, Sally was casting to a dozen more. We kept changing flies, watching our drifts, squinting into the fading light. Was that rise to the dried fly on my line, or to a natural bug nearby? The fish kept it up for more than an hour, steady, relentless, selective, giving us dozens, no, hundreds, of drifts. I caught one trout, a football-sized rainbow.
The Ranch was very, very fun.