It flows out of a cedar swamp. It is what's below a beaver dam, at the end of a wet bushwhack with silt up your knees. A foot deep and few wide, a little spring creek with green moss and mayflies. Choked with alders and strainers, filled with sculpins, a flowing silver fountain.
That is where you go. And when the sun sparkles low on the water, even if you catch no fish, you've had a good day.
Aldo
