It is a chilled, late-fall day. The first snow has rested on the ground for nearly a week, and your favorite mountain stream, normally rushing with freedom, now struggles to move under its new icy cap.

You stand there in shock, fishing pole at hand, creel slung over your vested shoulder, worms packaged in a Styrofoam dish at your feet.

"I've never seen it like this before," you mumble to your companion, who has never been here before. What does she care that the stream is halfway frozen? It's such a far removal from the rancid, turgid waters near her former home in the Florida Everglades. She sees it as beautiful, while you stand there in disbelief. She knows that the journey never completely matches the one that's planned.

"Maybe if we go upstream a little," you hope as you bend down for the worms and move up the narrow valley. She follows, sliding a bit here and there, her hiking boots not suited to the rough Utah terrain.

She swears a little; you pause to let her catch up. "Aggressive soles, Scottie," you tell her, shaking your head slowly from side to side. "What you need are aggressive soles."

She laughs, face flushed from the effort of keeping erect and perhaps a tiny bit of embarrassment. You turn and continue leading her up through the pines and underbrush.

The girl lags behind again ~ not just because of the failing boots, but also to soak up the atmosphere. It's so clean, so quiet. So different. Almost what she needs.

You watch her watching the forest. Her hair is woven into an impromptu braid down her back, a tan fleece tied around her waist by its arms. You don't know what to think. She's an attractive woman, nicer than you'd hoped, but she would certainly distract you from your everyday life. Still, the world would be a different place when she got on that plane tonight and flew east, away across the ocean.

On up the valley, the situation is even worse. As the stream narrows and shallows out, the ice has gotten a firmer toehold. She — Scottie — is still coming behind you. You study the ice. There are a few holes where a fisherman could dip a line and hope for the best. You set the bowl of worms on a rock and open the lid. Slowly, carefully, you inch one fat specimen onto your tiny hook. Then you bait hers. "I don't know how much luck we're going to have today, Scottie," you apologize. She just sees the stream, thinking it is like life. The narrower the focus, the icier and more bottled up one becomes.

The tops of the mountains, too, are always colder than the sheltered valleys. She smiles at you. "Let's try anyway," she says.

You're having more success than you'd reckoned. The water is cold, the fish are slow, but you still manage to entice a few into your canvas creel. Scottie's downstream trying to figure out the reel and where the fish are hiding, footwear forgotten. The sun glints on her gold hair and you memorize her before looking away.

Another bite ~ another brookie destined for the frying pan. This hole is fished out.

You move down, past the girl. She isn't catching anything, but there is a contented smile on her face. You say nothing.

In a moment, she, too, moves downstream. She's surprised to see your retreating footprints in the snow. She didn't hear you pass. Now she passes you.

Her next hole is better; she's had a hit, and you move down to join her. A tiny brook trout, no more than six inches long, lies on the ice, gills working in the frigid air, just out of reach. It has fallen from her hook.

She looks at you sadly. "Don't worry, Scottie. It'll find its way back to the water." She looks doubtful. You study the prostrate fish. "Then again, maybe not." You prod it with the tip of your fiberglass pole until it finally falls through a hole in the ice with a little plop. Now she looks happy again.

"I'm not doing so well," she says, as you check her worm. It doesn't matter, you assure her.

"You're right," she suddenly grins. "What a beautiful place."

So why doesn't she stay? But you haven't asked her.

You catch two more fish as she looks on, trying a new hole nearby. She doesn't want to risk catching the same fish. She figures it's already had a bad enough day.

Now she's gotten another. You help her with the hook extraction ~ she didn't even have to ask. Although smallish, it's still a fine fish. She likes the glistening dapples on its heaving belly. It joins the others in your creel, others you will have to eat alone because she's leaving tonight.

She takes a picture of you as you reach around a bush to free your hook, lodged under a rock. You look up and smile just as the lens snaps open and shut. One second of your life, frozen on film.

Hook free, you work over to her again. "Let me take one of you, Scottie," you say, reaching for her Olympus. She pats her unruly hair nervously. "Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I look like hell." You let yourself look at her. She stands out from the rest, somehow. But you can never tell her how.

"Anyone who fishes is beautiful, Scottie," you simply say. She lets you take her picture.

The girl catches another, too small to keep. You gently toss the fish back, wanting it to grow so you can catch it again next spring.

The biggest fish she ever nearly caught was a six-foot tarpon off Sanibel Island. She had it snugged up close to the boat where girl and fish met eye to eye. "Then it took off, and I had to let it go," she says, looking far away, remembering. The fish took a giant leap into the tropical sky, silver against blue, then spun, cleverly slicing the filament with the sharp edge of a fin. She was glad it went free, she tells you, looking sideways at your face. "Something that glorious deserves to make its own decisions."

Fish stories. A companionable silence falls between you. You are bonded forever in that moment. Then you admit, "The biggest fish I ever caught are these right here." You laugh, and she wonders if you are serious. Her eyes hold the tiniest hint of regret. She knows that, although you like these brookies right enough, there are bigger fish you'd like to fry.

Back at the bottom of the valley, the stream widens, flowing stronger now, making it harder for the encroaching ice to clot. She's already there, trying for one last fish. But her worm is nearly gone, and she finally leans her pole against your car door, content with what has already happened at this little Utah stream. She points at your creel as you emerge through the trees. "How are the brookies?" she calls.

You pat the damp bag of fish resting against your hip "They're fine." They're not moving around much." Her heart turns over, melting, as you continue: "They're cold. And they're dying."

You don't see the tears at the corners of her eyes as you dig into a blue-jean pocket, retrieving two pieces of foil-wrapped chocolate. Out of your trunk, you snap open two cans of Coors beer, and you hand her one, along with the chocolate. You sit on separate boulders, looking at the pine trees and the ever-flowing trout stream.

The girl is moving to Scotland next week. Not just across the country, but across the Atlantic. You can't believe she's actually going. "Scottie," you begin, hesitant. "What is the attraction in Scotland?" She looks closely at you, but you refuse to meet her gaze.

Finally she reaches out her arms, encompassing the miles of forests, the oceans of streams, the mountains of boulders. "Because of this," she whispers, hoping you understand.

Ask me to stay, she silently pleads. Just ask. You hear her unspoken words. You want to ask, but you're afraid of the changes it might bring. Let her go, get on with your life, and maybe someday you'll meet again. Maybe someday the ice will thaw, the brookies will once again activate, and you can fish under better conditions. Maybe in the spring.

At the airport, after she loads her shoulders with her backpack and carry-on, you turn to face her goodbye, confused, sad and glad at her departure. Your lips feel frozen as you kiss her. "Aggressive soles," you say. "Remember, next time, Scottie. Aggressive soles."

And she laughs and walks away. She walks into the chilled October twilight, into the terminal, gone now, just like that, from your life.

You start the car, waiting for the engine to warm a little before driving off. The fish lay on the backseat in the creel, the only real proof of her visit, now just a memory. Soon, they too would be gone.

Boy, you think, putting the car into gear. There was a lot of snow in the woods today. A lot of snow.

It will be a cold winter.