She sure did look like someone they'd call Upstream Sally. Her waders had far too many holes and slits to keep her legs and feet dry. She wore a man's red and blue checkered flannel shirt outside of heavily stained overalls. The shirt's colors were faded to milky pastels and the edges were frayed.

You could tell that fishing was serious business to her. Her cast was a thing of beauty-like the way Willie Mays used to shag balls in center field. I stood still and watched her from behind, sensing that she was fully aware of me. I guessed that her backwoods radar indicated that something was intruding on nature's normal ballet. My radar told me that although she knew I was there, at first she chose to pretend that she didn't. Then without turning around, her gravelly voice sounded loudly:

"Not too many come this far upstream."

"I know," I said.

"Probably the sweet-smellin aspens that pulled you along."

"You may be right."

"No. You don't know your aspen from your aster. Now, what is it you want mister?"