As I stand there, high above the canyon, looking down at the magnificent river, I am filled with excitement and regret. The excitement comes with knowing that within the hour, I will once again be standing knee deep, in the strong, swift current, with a number 16 Elk Hair Caddis at the end of my leader, trying to get a perfect drift over the broad-shouldered Redside trout that continues to ignore my offering, while gently slurping the naturals from the surface.

The regret is twofold. I sincerely regret not spending every spare moment I have had over my many adult years, there on the river, trying to coax these wily trout into taking my offering of fur and feathers.

The second regret is that one day in the future, I will no longer be wading this river or for that matter, any other river and will be confined to remembering the great times and the wonderful experiences that have taken place in my many years in the outdoors. I look at my face in the mirror and can't believe that I am sixty five years old. What happened to the young man, full of energy and enthusiasm, who could spend all day, every day, in the outdoors, and still look forward to the next outing? A young man, who didn't wake up in the morning apprehensive about which muscle or which body part would rebel that day and remind you of your age.

They say that "you are only old when regrets take the place of dreams". I have a lot of regrets, but still have some unfulfilled dreams. This must be the transition phase.

As I wind my way down the long, narrow, gravel road my mind wanders to all of those trips, chasing pheasants in the stubble fields with my first single shot shotgun, one that has a primitive pheasant carved in the stock, when I fancied myself a woodcarver.

I smile when I think of the many hours spent in a duck blind, in the wind and rain with good friends and hunting companions, eyes searching the sky for any movement that could materialize into a flock of Mallards. I should have spent more time there. The feeling of coming out of the field, wet and hungry sounds to some as an exercise in self flagellation, but there is a warmth and satisfaction that can only be described and understood by someone who has been there.

My first trout on a fly happened fifty five years ago. It was a ten inch hatchery trout, caught with a Black Gnat that was attached to regular fishing line on a level wind reel, and dangled off a bridge. I saw the fish jumping, and some older man, (probably about 25-30) told me that the fish were eating black flies from the surface and if I had a Black Gnat, I would probably be able to catch one of those trout. A short ride to town on my bike, a quick purchase and a long trip back with a Black Gnat in my hands resulted in my first trout on a fly. I caught the trout, but it was me who was hooked for the rest of my life.

The drive to the bottom of the canyon seems longer than usual, as I hear the rocks from the road drumming in my wheel wells and watch the dust billowing out behind me. Then, all of a sudden, I am at the river and there doesn't appear to be anyone else around. I can't believe my good luck. The tree lined banks, the smell of juniper, the slightly off colored, yet deceptively clear water is just as I left it. The high, rust stained walls of the canyon complete the setting. Even the red winged blackbird is there to welcome me back.

Twenty years ago I would have been so excited about being in this almost sacred spot, with no one else in sight, that my heart would be racing and I would be stumbling around trying to get my waders on, sweating and cursing at how long it was taking to get in the river. Today, the passion is still there, but I am slower and more methodical in my preparation.

The waders don't go on as easily, and it takes a monumental effort to pull on my felt covered wading boots and get them tied. I don't remember my feet being so far from my hands. I laugh when I think perhaps I'm growing taller.

Next, I assemble my five weight rod and matching line and reel and push the line through the guides. Just as I get the line through the tip or last guide, the line drops back through all of the guides and I reluctantly start over. I don't remember it taking this long.

Finally, I put on my vest, lock my rig and wander down to the edge of the river. That familiar feeling, of entering a spiritual place, that is both humbling and consuming, is still there. What a tragedy it would be to stand in this place and feel nothing.

I search the surface of the river for some telltale sign of insect activity, hoping that there is a hatch that will cause my quarry to feed with abandon, but all seems quiet. No slurping or dimpling just the quiet, dark flow of the water in its hurry to reach the Columbia.

When all else fails, tie on a #16 elk haired Caddis, with a green body, and that's what I do.

I ease into the river and immediately remember how slippery the rocks are and how glad I am to have my wading staff. I call it a wading staff; it is really a ski pole with the basket removed.

The current is strong against my legs, and the chill of the water penetrates enough to remind me to be cautious. The thought of being here, wading in the river, without anyone around is both comforting and foreboding. Falling in would spoil my whole day, in fact it might spoil my life.

I am now far enough out into the river to cast back towards the bank, without needing to think about getting my back cast hung up. So I begin the false casting, looking for a likely spot to drop and drift my fly.

A small riffle, with a deep run below it, with an overhanging alder looks like perfect spot for a heavy bodied, Redside rainbow, to feed. My first cast falls short, and drifts without incident and quickly develops enough drag to swing the fly quickly through the edge of the run. I shuffle two steps up and repeat the cast, this time with the fly landing quietly, in the center of the small riffle. I methodically mend the line, and the fly is off on a perfect drift.

It is not the slashing rise that I envisioned, and it is not the obvious telltale sign that one associates with a rising trout, but a small break in the surface and the fly disappears. I set the hook, stumbling backwards and somehow I have hooked the sought after prize. One jump, two jumps and another jump and fifty five years is forgotten and I find myself as excited as I was with that first ten inch hatchery trout caught with a Black Gnat and a level wind reel.

I am a young man again, and my heart beats faster as I ease out into the river in an attempt to keep it from getting into the brush. The first run is long and my line is into the backing of my fly line. I wade downstream and pickup line, but a second run gives it all back. The trout is holding in heavy water now, and slowly, as I feel him tiring, I gain line. One more, short run and I begin to think that perhaps I will win the contest. Suddenly, the fish turns sharply, shakes his head and is gone and I am left with my fly skipping on the surface of the water.

Many years earlier I would have been upset at having lost such a fish. Today, I only give thanks for a few minutes of excitement, and I mentally congratulate the trout on being such a worthy adversary. I realize at this stage of my life that this is not just about catching fish. Perhaps it never was. This is about the whole outdoor experience of being on a clear, cold river, filled with native trout, with no one to intrude in my world. No sounds other than the river and nothing that would blemish the landscape. Heaven can't be much different than this.

A movement in the sky reveals an osprey, searching for a meal along the edge of the river. He continues to move upstream constantly hunting for the dark shape of a rainbow or a whitefish. Suddenly he dives into the river and emerges with a fish that will no doubt serve as his dinner. This place is magic.

Back to reality and once more I survey the water, looking for a drift that could be the feeding station for a large rainbow. Directly upstream and to the left, I spot the telltale sign of a feeding trout. Once again, it is just a tiny break in the surface of the water. I cautiously slide off to the right and begin to silently stalk the feeding fish. The surface of the water is broken as the fish continues to feed. I am now in casting range, and my false casts are slightly upstream of where the trout appears to be feeding.

I drop the fly into the water and almost instantly it disappears into the dark water. This time with a slight lifting of the rod, the fish is hooked and we are off to the races. The fish does not jump; instead he begins a long powerful run that leaves me well into the backing of my line. Immediately I realize that I have hooked a fish that most people only dream about hooking. At the end of the first run, the huge trout moves in behind a snag in mid-stream, apparently hoping to wrap my line around some hidden branch or rock and set himself free. I think about its size, the effect of the current and my four pound test tippet. That thought is a little scary and I recognize this is going to be a real battle. I continue to put as much pressure as I dare, hoping that the trout will slip from behind the snag and into the current, where I will have a better chance of tiring him. Just at that instant, the trout, as if it can read my mind, dashes out from behind the snag and begins a second run, not upstream as I had hoped, but downstream towards the center of the river. At the end of this second run, this huge fish jumps once, twice and I am stunned and in awe by the size of my adversary.

I begin to have doubts as to my ability to land such a fish. My backing is almost gone and I can see the dark lines at the bottom of the spool. I must get downstream or risk having him break off when he hits the end of my backing. I slide down 10 yards, 15 yards, all the time gaining line as the fish comes to rest in a pocket behind hidden rocks. I continue to make my way down and to the side until I am within 30-35 yards and almost across from where he is holding.

Now, I begin to put more pressure on the fish and he slips out from behind the rock and into the current, moving upstream towards the spot where he was hooked. I start to move upstream after him, slipping again on the moss covered rocks. I can hear my heart beating and see my hands shaking as I continue upstream trying to close the distance between myself and the fish. Swiftly, he turns and within a matter of seconds he is once again below me and once again heading towards the middle of the river. This run is not as strong and I can feel the fish beginning to tire. How will I ever land such a large, strong fish? I once again begin my pursuit stumbling and slipping downstream, hoping that I can get across from him and try to exert a little control. It's been about 15 minutes and I can feel the perspiration running down my back.

Three more runs, each one shorter and I begin to think that I may have a chance to land this trout. Finally after the last run, I am able to put enough pressure on the fish that he begins to move reluctantly towards me. All at once the trout turns partially on his side and I ease him close enough to see the large gills working, as he attempts to regain some of his lost energy. Standing in some slack water I bring the huge rainbow close enough to slip the net under his body. What a fish. He looks to be 21-22 inches and shaped like the proverbially football. He thrashes in the net, which is still in the water, and at the same time I am admiring him, my thoughts turn immediately to setting this great fish loose. I remove the fly and move the trout out of the net in into the water, holding him upstream until he regains his strength and is able to swim away on his own. With a final flip of his tail, he dives quickly into the dark, depths of the river.

I stumble to a large rock on the edge of the river and sit down, realizing that, I am exhausted.

I sit there on that rock for over an hour, replaying the battle in my mind and watching a red tail hawk, lazily, riding the thermals in the canyon. I realize that of all the many red tails I have seen on the edge of the woods and in the fields, I have never actually watched one successfully capture its prey.

Years ago I would be after the next trout hoping to catch enough of them to be able to brag to my friends. Now I am content to just enjoy being here.

The sun begins dropping behind the canyon wall and a check of my watch reveals that if I am to be home before dark, I had best leave soon. I have noticed that my night vision is not as crisp as it was and reaching home before dark will ensure a happy ending to a perfect day.

I struggle up the hill, slipping on the loose pebbles and after an effort, using my wading staff as a cane, I arrive at my rig. The boots and waders come off easier then they went on and soon I am ready to begin the long drive home.

All of a sudden, I am saddened, thinking the same thoughts I had when I drove in. Could I live with the thought of this being the last time on this river? I push those thoughts out of my mind and open my duffel bag and get a small glass and a bottle of Single Malt Scotch. I pour just enough to provide a toast, and I raise my glass and toast this river, knowing I will be back, hoping my companion will be there too.