The gravel road near the top of the Blue Mountain was a welcome sight and I knew it was only another quarter mile or so to my car. There was only half a gulp of water left in the bottle and my legs were nearly ready to call it a day. It had been a little over a mile hike back from the little ribbon of water, but the 700 foot rise in elevation had made it feel more like five. The travel was steep and slow in places, and at times I would stop and rest every 50 feet or so to rest, catch my breath and let the heartbeats in my neck settle back down into my chest. My smart phone said I had walked up 43 flights of stairs and covered 3.3 miles to fish that morning. I’m the last person at times to realize or admit that I’m not a kid anymore, but I love exploring these quiet places that the natives call home and the footprints of others are seldom found. The pull is magnetic and it’s where I go to find my center and restore my soul along with finding a few speckled little beauties in the cold, shadowed water flowing there. A little rest and I’m already studying the thin blue lines that run in the creases between the close brown lines on a topo map and planning my next morning at the office. Who the hell ever said brook trout were easy?