It was late May when I headed up to Nova Scotia, Canada to visit my sister. Her boyfriend at the time was from a long line of avid sportsmen so a trout-fishing trip was in the works. We set out early one morning to the Fish River in Halifax County. It’s a river that would be nearly impossible to find for a couple of reasons. It is deep in the back woods of the province and is one of 15 Fish Rivers listed in the map book of Nova Scotia.We focused on the head of each pool, which were the size of small lakes in Rhode Island. We would fish for 30 minutes, release a dozen large brook trout and hike 30 minutes to the next pool. We had such an outstanding day that we decided to fish the afternoon on the following day. He knew of a way to cut down to one of the last pools we had fished so that we would have an opportunity to cover some new water. A 20 minute hike down into the valley and we were into some beautiful fish in one of the most spectacular surroundings imaginable. We worked our way from one pool to the next in constant anticipation of what we would find around the next bend. With each new pool being sexier than the last we found ourselves staying longer than originally planned and hurried back to the pool at which we started.It was dusk as we set out up the trail back towards the truck. The sun was dropping out of sight with the last bit of light being blocked out by the dense forest canopy. Fifteen minutes into the hike my “guide” let me in on a little secret. He had lost his way, asking me to stay put while he circled around with hopes of rediscovering our path. He looked out towards the fading sunset and picked a northwesterly route. “This is the way back to the car!” he said with the level of confidence I was hoping for. We crashed thru brush for a while before he stopped to adjust our route. “It must be this way…” With my confidence fading faster than the last glimpse of light on the horizon, I was struggling to avoid thoughts of spending the night hopelessly lost. Another ten minutes of being slapped in the face by countless branches passed before he stopped to break the bad news to me. He has no idea where we are, which way to head and that making the wrong choice in this remote area could mean spending days recovering from our mistake.As we stood in complete and udder darkness the only familiar sound we could make out in the distance was the river. We made our way back down the mountain into the valley to find comfort on the bank of Fish River. It is there that we knew we could hike up river towards our previous days fishing destination and the one bridge built by loggers to cross the river. With one flashlight and tired legs we began the long hike along the river back to the logging road. Climbing over boulders the size of Volkswagens, under the tangles of countless blow downs and marshes that seemed never to end we marched passed the pools we had been so enchanted by before.Like an actor in a bad western I pleaded, “I am only holding you back. Go on without me.” With every muscle in my legs in a knot we finally reached the bridge after a little over 7 hours hiking in neoprene waders with fly rod in hand. Collapsing on the logging road I chose the possibility of being eaten by wolves over the long hike back to the truck. I’m not sure how long I laid in wait but at last we were heading home with the thoughts of our fishing success blurred by exhaustion. I have not made the trip back to Fish River since but know when I do; I will be fishing the upper pools and will be getting an early morning start.