My eye trained on the white plastic bite indicator as it bobbed down a riffle in Tarryall Creek. Outwardly I must have looked completely at peace — standing in nature, breathing the mountain air, surrounded by the Lost Creek Wilderness and Pike National Forest and taking the occasional glance downriver at Shanti, my daughter.

She also appeared at ease as she waited, waited, waited, then whipped her line back upriver. We were short-line nymphing, letting our flies float downstream, then flicking them back up, without any slack in the lines and, hopefully, in a big circular arc above the water.

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