It was the kind of hatch most fishermen dream about but only rarely experience. Mayflies dotted the water and the trout were up. Rings covered the surface of the pool, and we were the only ones in it - me and my then-new buddies, illustrator Jack Unruh and two Montana guides, A.J. Derosa and Tom Montgomery. Tom and A.J. knew that river about as well as a river can be known, but their knowledge was hardly tested that afternoon. Anyone who knew the butt end of a fly rod from the tip could have caught 50 fish that day. I caught a tenth that many.

After three or four nice trout, A.J. asked me a simple question. "How many of these easy fish does an angler need?" I didn't answer as he quietly lifted anchor and rowed me off into a side channel where two trout dimpled the surface beneath a large cottonwood that shaded the water. There was no way to approach them directly without putting them down. The channel was so narrow a passing boat would frighten them, and wading toward them from where we were would do likewise. A.J. looked at me, grinned, and said, "Try for one of them, Steve," as he anchored the boat upstream from the cottonwood and took out a cigarette.

I slipped over the ash gunnel of his green Keith Steele dory, left the river to walk through the woods, circling beneath the rising fish. I entered the river again when I was well below them, and wading very slowly managed to get close enough for a cast. After a few drifts of my dry fly, one of the rising browns ate the imitation. After the struggle and the release, the other trout was nowhere to be seen. He'd gone down.

"Nicely done, Steve," A.J. commented when I got back to the boat. With hundreds of easy trout rising all over main river, with dozens of fishermen scattered along its length whooping their fish frenzy glee, A.J. and I chose to spend some time in those woods gathering morels to fry up with breakfast the next morning.

Later, back in Fort Smith, over a beer and a heaping plate of onion rings at Polly's, somebody asked me how I'd done that day. "Oh, only a handful today."

"What, are you kidding! I musta caught a hundred!"

I turned to A.J. and chuckled. It was as good a day of fishing as any I'd ever had.

*     *     *

One of my all-time favorite short stories was written by Nick Lyons nearly 40 years ago. Anyone who knows Nick or his writing knows that he is refreshingly self-deprecating about his angling ability - especially so in his early work, before he'd unraveled the mysteries of a particular western spring creek. My favorite Nick Lyons piece is called Mecca, and it's about a neophyte angler (Nick) eager to fish a famous Catskill river with an equally famous angling legend. Ready to fish at the crack of dawn, Nick spends the day in utter frustration as the angling legend takes his time getting to the river. The story unfolds with agonizing slowness as The Legend wanders from place to place savoring strong liquid spirits, as The Legend waxes eloquent about the infinite joys of life, as The Legend pauses to admire the loveliness of each moment that transpires on the way to the water. The story, written from Nick's excruciatingly eager perspective, feels almost as long as that painfully long day, and it at long last ends with the sun quickly setting as they finally reach the river.

A hatch begins, and trout rise to take duns off the surface of the water. The Legend ties on a single dry fly, and proceeds to hook trout after trout during the furious few minutes between the beginning of the hatch and dark. Nick sees his own dry fly refused by a wise, old brown trout, and dejectedly watches as the sun sets, fishless, his long awaited angling day over.

*     *     *

Fishing is not about flailing the water from dawn till dusk. It's not about how many, or how few, fish we catch. It's about private rewards defined uniquely by each angler. A beautiful sight or taste as important as any fish in the net. The brush of a lush breeze laden with pine scent. A brief, tip-of-the-iceberg chat with a passing fisherman, your many common interests only hinted at in the few words you exchange. A few wild mushrooms in the pocket - perhaps an even weightier reward than a large trout landed only to be bragged about later.

On that Montana trip, the one where I gathered trout, mushrooms and memories with A.J., Jack and Tom, it was Tom who most vividly reinforced the lesson Nick had introduced me to in his short story, Mecca. I was new to Montana then, and I spent a great deal of time fishing even when the trout were not active. During those moments of inactivity, Tom napped beneath a tree, read a book, or took out his Leicas and made photographs. When the trout fed, Tom fished. I've never seen a person fish as little and catch as many. And always, even while napping, Tom was smiling. Tom knew well what every happy angler eventually learns.

Angling is a journey, not a competition, and nobody's keeping score.

Steven J. Meyers is the author of On Seeing Nature, Lime Creek Odyssey, Streamside Reflections, The Nature of Flyfishing, Notes from the San Juans and San Juan River Chronicle.