THE LAST HATCH (fiction)
It had been a hard year in trout country. The winter snows had been thin and the spring runoff never really developed. By early summer the streams were low and warm, and the trout were lethargic and spooky in the warm shallow water. The prospects of having any quality fly fishing this season were quickly fading with the last days of summer. I had given up hope of any fall fishing and was preparing to store away my gear for the season when my wife called me to the phone.