When the sun warmed my back, I finally got lucky and the glittery thrash was mine. But fly-fishing isn't about numbers; it's about windless blue skies, the push of the current against your waders, and the mystery of what lies beneath. Each stream has a voice of its own. Later that day I tackled the Big Wood, a bossy freestone river that runs right through Ketchum, with plenty of public access. It's suitable for all levels of fly-fishers, though some parts are limited to catch-and-release.

My biggest thrill, however, arrived the next day. The Big Lost River is an hour's journey into the mountains. My personal guide, Tommy, from Bill Mason Outfitters, drove hell-bent over gravel roads to what I call heaven: dazzling private waters, sagebrush, and the yellow splash of a western tanager among the cottonwood trees. In the midst of this idyll, Tommy growled about my casting, disapproved of my slow uptake on a strike, and corrected my reeling style. Annoyed, I nonetheless adjusted my technique and soon a three-pound rainbow whomped on the line. Tommy cheered. By day's end I'd not only landed (and released) several more monster fish, I'd added new skills to my creel.

That night, happily fatigued, I was welcomed back to the historic Sun Valley Lodge radiating its rugged elegance. I pictured Hemingway returning from a day with Gary Cooper, lugging in a string of trout for the European chef to prepare. Before sleep, I could almost hear the clickety-clack of typewriter keys down the hall in Room 206 where he completed For Whom the Bell Tolls. I uttered a blessing to the ghosts of Papa and Boppa and dreamed everything silver.