Knowing where they are, but not how to count them


This is not the steelhead in question. 

I knew where they were because that’s where they are.
Those sort of statements make sense to fishermen who daily deal with the paradoxical, overtly obvious, not-so-scientific but dependent on experimentation, world of hooking fish.
With the water low and clear, the prospects of getting a steelhead were reduced further than usual, but I knew where they were. I call the spot the back corner because the fish stack up in a spot on the opposite side, just downriver before the water riffles out again. It makes sense to me.
Anyway, people have been bombarding the general area with a buffet of metallic treats as well as bright flies, so the steelhead have wised up. In fact, they have wised up so much that people are doubting the amount of fish actually in the river.
Steelhead can easily and coldly reject you like a Mercedes-driving sorority girl with a Gucci bag dismisses a pale-skinned, socks-with-flip-flops-wearing Alaskan dude on financial aid, all while holding perfectly still. As a result, you think they are somewhere else.
But I knew where they were.

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