It seemed like the perfect day. The sky was overcast, but not raining. It was almost 60 degrees out and hadn't gotten below 50 during the night. We began dreaming of baetis hatches and big browns. It was bound to be the perfect day.

I pulled out my waders for the first time this season, they'd been tucked away in a corner for the past eight months. I need to remember to wash them this spring before I put them away. I fidgeted around the car, trying to get used to the foreign objects restricting my movement, but sure to keep my feet dry and warm.

Camera? Check. Water bottle? Check. Peanut butter sandwich? Check. Rain Jacket? Check. I had squeezed everything I could into my little sling pack and was ready to spend the whole day down in the valley, catching all the fish.

The moment I saw the river, again I thought, "this is going to be a perfect day." Jacob and I gently made our way downstream to get in and fish back up. Seconds after my first cast I saw a little slip and down went my fly. Set! Flying through the air, I saw a silver blur sailing over my head. I brought back my fly and cast again. Another slurp, another set, another blur. By the third slurp, I drastically lightened my hook set only to find a smoky mountain cutthroat on the end (commonly known as a war-paint shiner, less affectionately known as a peckerhead).

Six hours later, with an empty bottle and a half eaten sandwich, I felt tired and defeated. No trout were caught, but I had successfully enticed about 50 peckerheads to eat my fly (30 were relocated throughout the river and 20 made it to my hand, only to be shaken off). It may not have been the perfect day we were hoping for, but at least the views were good.