The picture is from Scotland on the Tay River. Darling is Scottish, and I really felt Scottish while I was there. The trip was a gift from the Cortland Line Company and Hardy and fulfilled a longtime dream.

When friends and I sat around tying flies in our family housing apartment during the early '80's, we always talked about our dream trip and dream fish. My fish was an Atlantic Salmon, first, and various saltwater species, second. This was, of course, in addition to our weekly outings for trout or, if the season demanded, bass, bluegill and other warm water species. We tied lots of flies, but we fished at every opportunity, too.

When the call came from Cortland's Sales Manager asking me if I'd like to go to Scotland and fish for Atlantics, I asked him when we were leaving. It turned out that the trip would take place in about three weeks. What kind of flies would I need? He said they would provide all the gear - Hardy was a sponsor of the trip - and flies. Yeah, but I'd just as soon fish my own flies, if it wouldn't cause offense. He'd find out, and get back to me. The names of the flies were foreign, so I called my friend Nick Wilder at Hunter's Angling Supplies in New Boston, NH and asked him what pattern books he'd recommend. He sent several right off and I did some reading and began tying. Tom Whiting sent me a young jungle cock casualty, so I used all the natural materials I could to tie some small, dark flies that rather followed the patterns, as well as making a few up along the way. I filled a Wheatly swing leaf fly box, packed my bags and headed out.

There would be six of us, including a Cortland rep, another shop owner, and a magazine writer on the trip. Andrew, who designed Hardy rods and reels was on the river with a group from Europe, and John, who worked in the Hardy factory would be our driver and fellow angler.

After an all night flight to London and short hop to Newcaslte John picked us up and we headed to Alnwick where we toured the Hardy factory. The people were friendly and serious about building rods and reels. Combining new and old technology workers took care to build great gear one piece at a time.

We ate lunch, talked shop and then headed north to Stanley, a small town just west and a bit north of the Firth of Forth, which is where the River Tay enters the North Sea. (For the golfers out there, one side of the Firth is where St. Andrews is, the other, Carnoustie. There was no time for golf.) We put up in a lovely hotel, had dinner and went to bed anticipating three days of Salmon fishing. I'd read about Atlantic Salmon fishing and knew enough to expect to be skunked. Before we left, I told everyone that I'd be ecstatic if I saw one fish roll.

The morning of our first day dawned cloudy and drizzly - perfect Scottish weather, and, according to our host, not bad for fishing, either. After a wonderful breakfast in the hotel, we were off. After a very long trip to get to Stanley, the ride to our fishing beat took about three minutes. The gillies were waiting, and the rods were strung. Our host pulled out the fly box - a huge wooden box with trays of salmon flies in it. I feebly asked if I could fish one of my own, which they said was just fine. We pulled on our waders and boots, put on vests and raincoats, tied on flies and headed through the trees to the river.

It was lovely. The Tay is the largest river in the British Isles, with lots of tributaries and history along its banks. Even though the area has been inhabited for hundreds of years, our beat was lined with trees, grass and bushes and felt wild. As we walked to the river's edge, we saw salmon rolling all through the stretch. I had to remember that I was now happy and fulfilled: I could tell everyone I'd seen an Atlantic Salmon. Two anglers went with Bugsy, the young gillie, and walked upstream to his boat so they could fish on his beat. The rest of us loaded into Jordy's boat - Jordy had been a gillie on this beat for 40 years - and headed across the river. We spread out along the bank, and Andrew asked who knew how to Spey cast.  I'd never tried before. He and John gave us a few tips and we started fishing.

The rods were 15 feet in length and fitted with 10-weight lines. That sounds unwieldy in many ways, but the size of the river made them seem just right. I watched as Andrew explained the casting to each of us and then gave it a shot. I was doing it wrong, and he soon straightened me out. I asked lots of questions, got good answers, and kept working on the casting while luxuriating at being "home". The rain continued to fall. The fish continued to roll. Soon, someone hooked a fish! It was a grilse, but it was an Atlantic Salmon, by George! I allowed myself a quick thought that I might just hook a salmon, then remembered that I was already fulfilled many times over.

I kept casting - two casts in the same spot, then one step downstream; two more casts and another step. At the end of the run, walk back to the top and start again.

Andy kept helping with the casting technique, encouraging me to relax and let the rod load. Another fish was hooked and landed. Then, another. An so on. We were actually catching Atlantic Salmon! As far as I could tell I hadn't had a touch.

Jordy and Bugsy kept track of the time, and announced that they were going home for lunch and would be back at one. We went across the river to the Fish Hut, where a fire was going and a fine lunch was laid. Everyone had a bite and discussed the morning's fishing. As it was, everyone had landed a fish but me! Andy, who fished the least amount of time, had hooked three. It was still raining. The fish were moving and the gillies, John and Andy were pretty excited about how active the fish were. While a few of the guys remained in the Fish Hut to sample local Scotch, I went out, grabbed my rod and started walking the bank, working on my casting and hoping for a fish.

When Bugsy and Jordy returned from lunch, they took folks to their boats and started fishing again. I liked the look of the bank I was on and asked if I could just keep walking the edge, fishing on my own. They said that would be fine and pointed out a couple of good looking runs. When I arrived at the lower end of the beat, I waded out as far as I could.

I'm pretty tall and sometimes tend to get into trouble by getting into deep water, but there was a fine looking spot out a ways where fish were rolling. I felt I had to give it a try. Jordy was there, on the other side of the run, in the boat with John, who owned a shop near Detroit. Jordy told me to be careful, but keep casting where I was; it was a good spot. In a bit, Jordy took the boat back upstream to fish another run; I stayed put.

I was as alone as could be with six anglers and two gillies fishing that stretch. Several guys were on the other bank, and Jordy and Bugsy were in the boats, fishing with the others. I kept watching the water, hoping against hope that one of the fish rolling in front of me would "take" the fly. ("They'll take a fly, Dale, but they don't eat it." This was the admonition I received from Andy every time I asked him what the fish were eating.)

I continued casting, praying, hoping and telling myself I already had had a completely fulfilling trip. I'd tried several flies. The guys had hooked fish on small, dark flies. The water was rising a bit with the rain. I opened my box and examined the flies I'd tied and selected one that looked like it would work. It was one I'd made up.

At the tail of the run there was a large, submerged rock. In front of the rock was a substantial lip current. I often found trout lying in lip currents while fishing my local pocket water streams and wondered why a migrating salmon might not do the same. I took a good look at that spot and somehow felt - somehow even knew - that my salmon was lying right there. I didn't know if I could make the cast or not, but I was going to give it a shot. I kept working my way toward the rock, trying to concentrate on the rhythm of the casting, the length of line and swing of the fly. I was focused; something was about to happen. At the end of a swing, as the fly began to rise up right in front of the rock my concentration was keen. All the things Andy had said were on alert - don't hold the line, let the fish take the fly, then lift the rod. They'll set the hook themselves. And so on.

As the fly came to the very end of the swing I let the rod tip drop just a bit more and pushed it toward the rock. When the fish rolled in the lip current, and before line began ripping out of the lovely Hardy reel, I knew I had an Atlantic Salmon!

And I did.

It "took" my fly, too! The water was pretty fast below the rock and the fish - my fish - took full advantage of this, pulling plenty of line off the reel. The jumps were lovely. The fish pulsed through the water. I was wading pretty deep and the bottom was slick and very uneven. Using the weight of the fish for balance, I started backing out of the run towards the bank. My concentration was fully on the fish, the water, the thrill and the abundant thankfulness that filled my heart.

I hadn't seen anyone around for some time. When I felt the fish was more or less under control - the line was on the reel, the drag was set properly, the pressure was even and the hook had been holding just fine - I turned toward the bank to see how close I might be.

All of a sudden, an audience had appeared. On the bank a gentleman with a tweed coat and hat was smoking a pipe, adding to the light mist that clung on everything. A pair of pointers obediently sat by his side. They were all watching and seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. Bugsy was racing down the bank from above, net in hand, and the writer was just behind with his camera. In the boat upstream, Jordy was hollering, "Well done, Dale; well done." Andy, across stream with the others, was doing the same. I could see their smiles and sense their warmth.

Bugsy began coaching and walked next to me with the net. As the fish got closer, he commented on its beauty and size with a sense of awe that expressed what was the fullness of my heart. He knew. I was experiencing it for the first time. Bugsy netted the fish, dragging it through the water to the bank. The gentleman with the tweed, pipe and dogs gave a nod, keeping his distance but apparently enjoying the moment. The writer took out his camera and began snapping pictures. I asked Bugs if he'd take a few with mine, then the writer took a few of Bugs and I with my camera, too.

Bugs asked me what fly that was, and I said it was one that I'd made up before the trip. "Have you got another, Dale" he said seriously. I always tie three of each, minimum, so I gave him a fresh one, which he stuck in his hat. I cut the one off the leader that was in the fish and put it back in the box for the fly wall of fame.

The fish was magnificent. It was silver and bright, with sea lice still clinging to its body. As I luxuriated in it's beauty the entire experience was being saved in my memory banks for all of my thoughtful future.

Now, what to do with the fish? I didn't really know what protocol was, and I didn't want to say or do anything that would offend the Tweeded observer, his dogs or Bugs.

"What do we do with the fish, Bugs?" I asked.

"It's your fish, Dale; what do you want to do?"

"I'd just as soon let it go, if that's alright."

He looked at me, then at the fish. "It's your first salmon, eh?"

"Yes."

That was it. Bugs pulled out a knife and quicker than I could say "Loch be Lorn" - or some such thing - he had slit the fish's throat, plunged his hand into the blood and was smearing it all over my forehead.

"There you go, lad. Would you like us to have it smoked for you? Jordy will take care of that; just leave your address, and we'll send it."

My wife loved the salmon. I tried one bite, but that was all.

I had all I needed. It was much more than I'd expected.

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