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In the pretty Eastern Sierra, fish don't bite and dinner doesn't come

We have found Longfellow's forest primeval, the murmuring pines of the Eastern Sierra. The trees breathe out; we breathe in. Soon I will be up to my ankles in snowmelt, casting out to the most elusive of creatures, the rainbow trout, which eat like actresses (hardly at all) and turn up their noses at commoners (like me). I hate rainbow trout, the beautiful idiots. Like the perfect sentence, they elude me. You can actually spot the little snobs in the pristine waters, swimming lazily, shaking their slender Alpine butts at the bottom of the creek. I have caught brook trout before, but it seemed almost a fluke, like finding a fifty on the sidewalk, or an old Ali MacGraw movie on TV....

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