I know my last blog post left you on the edge of your seat. Today I’m going to answer the question that has doubtlessly been on everyone’s minds: did I catch a fish?

Let me tell you, it was getting down to the wire. I’d been out many times with the incredibly patient Claude, to no avail. Not even a bite. Claude’s patience was really commendable as I stubbornly, astoundingly refused to improve. He kept telling me the same things (mend, don’t go so far back, don’t get stuck in the tree, etc) and untangling my fishing line, which got wildly tangled every thirty seconds. But his patience was unsinkable, even as I failed to get so much as a bite, though I tried dry flies and nymphing, different locations and different times of day. Claude’s motto became “We’re gonna catch you a fish!”

Except his unsinkable patience began to sink, Titanic-style, when I failed to catch a fish nymphing with about 100 visible whitefish in Warm River. I could tell he was giving up on me. It was my eleventh hour. I begged him to take me out one last time (I have no car. I need assistance.) and he agreed. I knew I had made the honorable Henry’s Fork Foundation blog readers a promise, and I had to keep it.

We headed out on the evening of Claude’s last Sunday, the day before this blog post was due. Claude got me set up with a dry fly. I don’t know what kind. I still know nothing. But I set my sights on a batch of trout on the left side of the Warm River, not too far from the bridge. A fire lit within me. I knew it was now or never. I realized it was not only the last time I’d fish with Claude, but maybe the last time I would ever fly fish in my entire life. Time was running out.

And I’m happy to say. 

I CAUGHT A TROUT!

Is it the tiniest trout you’ve ever seen in your life? Yeah. Maybe. But it’s a trout. And Claude said it was actually kind of impressive to catch a fish that small, because the hooks can’t fit in their tiny mouths. So. I thought it was three inches, but when I said this to Claude, he made a face that let me know it was probably actually closer to two. But a trout’s a trout. I said I’d be holding a trout in this blog post. I didn’t specify what size.

I redeemed myself slightly by catching a larger mountain whitefish afterwards, but that doesn’t count since I promised y’all a trout. Claude said the moral of the story was “It’s about the journey, not the destination.” And the journey, from embarrassing myself wildly in front of Claude’s friends on my first time out, my slow but steady (ish) progress on technique, seeing ospreys catch and lose fish, sunsets and deep blue river skies, almost falling in the river a million times, and finally starting to hook some fish, was incredible. But I’m just as happy with the destination. I am very grateful to this tiny fish for falling for my tricks. I’m alright with not having caught a 30-incher. I’m just proud to be able to leave HFF with my promise to catch a trout kept.

This might have been my last time fly fishing. I don’t know a single avid fly fisher, though both my brother and my best friend are pretty good with a spinner. So while this won’t be my last time on the water, and it (probably) won’t be the last fish I catch, I can’t say for certain that I’ll ever fly fish again, or that I’ll ever be back on the Henry’s Fork. But one can hope. I’m wrapping up my time here with immense gratitude for everyone that’s helped me grow over the summer, and for one tiny fish.