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Page 15 · column 4 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
WE CAMPED at the confluence Saturday and half a day Sunday. The fishing water was so good—pocketwater, pools and glides, that we never fished more than 300 yards down or up from camp.
All the while, we heard the rapids, so that Sunday’s paddle on the big, flat water of the lower Rappahannock seemed unnatural. From our campsite we watched a few canoeists come by, and listened to them hit rocks all down through the rapids, even after it was boring to watch their progress.
Saturday, a strange character stood out on a rock upstream on the Rapidan, nude, and surveyed the river. First I thought Robin had lost his modesty. Then I saw his flyrod working line. The man disappeared and re-appeared, always on his -rock, so that when I saw a fisherman or two couples in canoes, I imagined. But the nudist continued to reappear all through the evening’s fishing, like a scene out of “Deliverance.”
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