Just four days after the last trip I make it back to Yellowwood. One day left in the sweet month of August and signs of fall are declaring themselves. The fishing is slow but I fool a couple bluegill--and one little pumpkinseed who I shoot through the air with a yank meant for a bigger fish.
At the dam, alas, the hatch seems to have played out. Only a few splashes up by the weeds. I try to squeeze out as much as I can of what's left but get only three hookups in 45 minutes. Two of those come undone, and the one I bring in is a baby.
All good things come to an end. You can count on that, too.
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