Retrieving my line as dusk fell heavy on the water; I hooked the diminutive size #18 bead-head on the keeper and drew the rod snug. My eyes rose above the high water mark on the far bank, greeting me with a dark grey overcast sky and the darting of bats in the heavy summer air. As my mind slowly caught up to my eyes and the rest of the world I was struck by the realization. My mind had not registered a conscious thought of anything save for the feeding trout in the pool before me for nearly three hours. Not in a compulsive nature however, where the act of fishing consumes a person with a drive to beat the fish.