We live in a cynical world. Recently, the Powers That Be at my place of employment declared a temporary moratorium on overtime. Some have cited the decree as another example of executive greed, assuming that a decrease in blue collar annual wages somehow equals an increase in white collar annual bonuses. Such cynicism disturbs me, yes it does, because I know better. I know that management is endowed with an extraordinary degree of goodwill towards its employees, that altruism--not avarice--is the motivating force behind all decisions affecting the production floor. Probably, the Powers That Be were just hand-wringingly worried about the health and happiness of an over-worked work force. So, in hearty compliance with the express wish of corporate wisdom, I punched out right on time last Thursday--and went fishing.

I drove straight to the Swift River, stopping en route in Belchertown for a hamburger and a few Woolly Buggers. I was hungry and hoping the brookies were, too. "Never leave home without a fly rod," that is my motto. Always resident in the trunk of the Topaz is a trout rod of some sort, usually a 5-weight since that is all I own, sometimes glass, rarely graphite, this time bamboo.

I love bamboo. Glass and graphite are symptomatic of man's preference for the synthetic, but bamboo represents--at least to me--God's preference for the genuine. Plus, I cast cane a bit better because its natural slowness so readily embraces my own.

I love brookies. They are native to New England, and even the stocked ones convey the sense of the way things should be rather than the way things are.

I love Woolly Buggers. Some men are dry fly purists and other men are nymphomaniacs, if you catch my drift. I tend to be a fly fishing pragmatist: whatever works, and lately the olive Woolly Buggers have been working quite well.

The Swift is a stretch of tail water flowing from the Quabbin Reservoir via the Windsor Dam. Gin clear and ice cold, it provides the perfect environment for trout, so the Commonwealth crams it full of rainbows. Mingled in there are some decent browns and brookies as well. Certainly no true fly fisherman fancies the hatchery versions, but this is Massachusetts--not Montana--so we take what we can get. And we can get some pretty good fish out of the Swift.

There is a slow and narrow section of the river not far from the dam that doubles nicely as a feeding lane and rest area for the trout. A happy trout is one who does not have to swim too hard for its next meal. When I stepped into the Swift I was surrounded by a number of happy rainbows. They were sucking in sub-surface critters with ease and efficiency. Big smiles could be seen on their fishy faces.

Cast after cast produced nothing; then suddenly a solid strike--Woolly Bugger magic. I held the rod high and the bamboo arched greatly under the strain, telegraphing every movement of the battle to my right hand. I was thrilled; the trout at the end of my tippet was not. There was a lot of head slashing, a bit of violent tugging, yet none of the top water dancing typical of rainbows. Paradoxically, it was a strong but sluggish struggle. Imagine my surprise when I found out my finned adversary was not a rainbow at all, but a nice brookie--the best I have caught in several seasons. I was elated; it was a beautiful specimen, fat and full of color. However, at close to sixteen inches it was probably a tired middle-aged fish. It takes a while for a brookie to grow to that size. Middle-aged and worn out, but still fighting to survive; I can respect that.

Further downstream was another brookie, almost a twin of the first, but slightly smaller and somewhat smarter. I wanted that trout badly and tried for it in vain--no Woolly Bugger hocus pocus this time. Mick Jagger became a trout. He sang to me, "You can't always get what you want... ."

Bamboo, brookies and Woolly Buggers, plus a fewstream side lessons in life; this is classic New England fly fishing at its finest. I suppose I should thank the Powers That Be at my job--especially "Uncle" Jimmy--for such a serendipitous opportunity. However, these guys are just pawns on the cosmic chess board. The real POWER moves them at will. So, to Him I offer my heart felt praise; to them I just nod my head and laugh.