had fished yesterday, and with what result. More prams began arriving, the next pulling in next to me, and so on alternating up and downstream from our original pair. Considering these prams were only 4 or 5 feet wide, we were literally elbow to elbow. There was that slight 3 foot gapbetween Don and me "in case Bill shows up" which several late arrivals eyed momentarily, but Don had measured it precisely. By the time the southeastern horizon lightened into visibility there were 25 prams lined up precisely parallel with the shoreline. Some began fishing immediately, rods swishing in the dark. Intimidated by the closeness, I wanted to wait for real light before I ventured any more casts. And Don wasn't fishing yet. Everyone was, or soon was, on a first name on a first name basis. Most were from San Francisco, or its suburbs. Most had been fishing the Smith for years. Most had run up on short notice, hailed by the underground information network. Bill Schaadt's name came up every fifteen minutes or so, where he fishd yesterday, where he might fish today, his biggest fish or number of limits last week, his latest run in or conflict with the rest of the world at one hole or another. Finally I could make out the shoreline, the slight downstream current, the flat dune and beach area to the west at our backs, the first coast range foothills, heavily logged, to the brightening east. The tempo of rolling fish seemed to pick up slightly. Someone grunted into a slow, determined strike, then "lost it". Don stood up and pointed out "the bucket". It was marked by an indentation on the shoreline. Flies were raining into a two foot wide invisible circle if you looked just there like basketballs into the hoop during pregame warm-up. We began casting. I slowly became aware from the conversation and increased visibility that, stretched out on both sides of me, were four or five of the biggest names in west coast flyfishing, people I had been reading or reading about for decades; Dan Blanton, Mike and Chris Fong, and Hal Janssen. Bill Schadt was nowhere in sight. Now the fishing began in earnest. To be continued.......... Trump Doyle McKenzie Flyfishers October 1991
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