I am alone in a canoe, skimming effortlessly across a tranquil lake shrouded by a cloud of fog that closes in on me from all around. It is deathly quiet, the silence occasionally punctuated by the cry of a loon somewhere out on the lake. My fly is trailing about two hundred feet behind the canoe. I am fishing a Magog Smelt tandem streamer tied by a friend who understands a thing or two about ounaniche.  The surface of the lake is completely flat, with white wisps of fog mist rising off its polished metal surface like cumulous clouds travelling across the sky. There is silence all around. All of a sudden my line straightens and I gently raise the rod tip to set the hook. For an instant there is nothing, the line is slack, but then a series of wild splashes echo through the thick fog as the fish jumps for his freedom. The line begins to peel off my fly reel at an astonishing rate. It is a big fish and we settle into each other for a long and protracted battle…

This is my favorite recurring dream.