Twenty feet to my right, downstream from the fish, was a big pine barely clinging to the edge of the bank. I marked the spot, then hiked another 100 yards or more downriver. Here the bank was only three feet high and I eased down the slope into the stream. I was focused on getting to the spot near the pine and made only perfunctory casts as I worked my way upstream. But I could not rush. The bankside channel was near the top of my boots and toward the middle the river deepened down to fast water over slippery cobbles.

In my impatience — wading hastily and too far between casts — I spooked a trout close in by the bank. I did not see it until it shot out into the main current. Then I spooked another, almost underfoot. I stopped for half a minute and talked to myself.

“You came a long way, it’s been a great trip, slow down.” But the lecture had little effect and in five more minutes I was almost below the pine and watching the water ahead.

I made a couple of casts, moving slowly upstream, then spied a dimple on the water 30 feet ahead. I took another step and my right foot sank into soft sand. I felt a trickle of water down my leg and stepped up onto a rock, still watching the fish and not my footing. Both feet shot out from under me and I fell backward with a splash, ending up sitting down in the water up to my chin, slowly floating downstream.

The cold took my breath away for an instant but I used the rod for balance and quickly regained my feet, clothes dripping and clinging like baptismal raiments, boots filled to the brim. I started to curse and then laughed and laughed.  “Too fish hungry,” I said. “You got too goddamn fish hungry.”

Half a minute later, still intent on stalking the fish, I looked up to see a tough-looking character with a face of old cordovan and a badge pinned to his shirt standing on the bank 20 yards upriver and motioning me over.    

As in most places, Spain requires that you carry your license with you but, foolishly, I had left mine in the car. “Licencias de pesca,” he said when I sloshed ashore. “Auto,” I answered, pointing up the gravel road.  He probably heard it from poachers all the time: Left my license in the car.

His eyes got dark and I could not understand the words he started yelling but with the help of his hand gestures I got the picture all right: Keep your license in your shirt pocket.

His eyes got dark and I could not understand the words he started yelling but with the help of his hand gestures I got the picture all right: Keep your license in your shirt pocket.Then he noticed the fly rod. He checked the tippet and, seeing the dry fly, gave me a quizzical look and nodded and some of the hardness went out of his eyes. We marched back together, water sloshing out of my boots with every step. Dave was sitting in the car reading and still fiddling with the radio. He watched us coming but did not say anything when we walked up.

When I pulled the license out of the glove compartment the warden broke into a broad smile and motioned for me to open my fly box. He raised his eyebrows, chuckled and shook his head at the “muy grande” No. 10 mayflies and yellow Wulffs. But some of the smaller flies — blue duns, gray duns and light Cahills in 14 and 16 — were “muy bueno.”

He pointed to himself, then the fly box, made a casting motion and held up three fingers: “Solamente tres.”

I thought for a moment and could not figure it out. But when he repeated the gesture I got it: He fished with only three flies. After a few more minutes of angling talk he headed back down the road to his Land Rover, wishing me luck with a wave and a grin.

When he had gone I sat on a rock, pulled off my boots and poured out a couple of gallons of water. I took off my pants and shirt and socks and wrung them out the best I could, laid them out on rocks in the sun and got dry ones from my backpack.  Then I had a sandwich and a soda sitting in the car with Dave.

“What was that you said yesterday? Who’s gonna check way up in the mountains?” I said. We both laughed and he told me he had gotten a shot of my dunking.

“I think we should title it ‘The Intrepid Angler.’ ”

“Or the ‘Spastic Caster,’ ” I said.

It was a thick, solid fish, with the dark coloration of some wild browns. In the waning light, shimmering bronze against the clean-washed gravel, it was a living piece of the river.I returned to the river, still resolutely ignoring the axiom that most trout are caught within a few hours of sunrise or sunset. The sun was warm, the air dry and brilliantly clear and I was content to feel the cool surge of the river against my boots and follow the motion of the line against the vast blue sky. As the sun traced its descending arc, curving down toward the jagged skyline, transmuting the river to tarnished silver and finally blue-black steel, there were no minutes, no hours, no time even — only change.

At dusk the valleys of the Pyrenees cool quickly as mountain shadows lengthen across them. I had begun to feel the river’s chill and was casting by rote, resigned to a fishless finish. Pick up, back, stop, forward, stop, strip. . . . pick up, back, stop, forward, stop, strip. . . . SMASH.

The fish tore across in front of me, thrashing at the surface as it went. In three or four seconds it was surging toward the willows that overhung the right bank. I put on more pressure, stopping the run, but had to ease off and let it go when I felt the strain on line and leader. The trout splashed with its tail and then it was in under the branches.

I kept the rod high but in a moment the line was caught. I quickly walked up, reeling in the slack. When I bent over and reached in under the willow branches to the snag, I could see the flash of the fish among the leaves that trailed in the current. I gave a tug on the dead branch and broke it loose and the fish shot off downriver, revving the reel spool like a dragster engine before the light turns green.

Swimming with the current the trout had more power, but in another minute it was finished and I eased it up onto shore. It was a thick, solid fish, with the dark coloration of some wild browns. In the waning light, shimmering bronze against the clean-washed gravel, it was a living piece of the river.

The next morning Dave and I packed up and started the trek back to civilization.