BLOOD KNOT

Little redemptions

2012-01-30T16:00:00.000-08:00

Staring at the river I began to wonder what we are when we are alone.
Jim Harrison, The English Major

A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.
Robert Schopenauer

The memories of success are always in equal measures offset by the questions borne of unfinished business.
Steve Moss

They all start out the same way. Simply a hook in the vise. As I sit and stare at the hook, the bobbin slowly twisting on the few thread wraps that anchor it to that hook, countless combinations of fur, feathers, wire and synthetic materials align and then realign themselves in my head, overlaid on backgrounds of locations as various scenarios run like snippets of a feature length movie behind it all. Slowly, inevitably, a specific event, or incident, will begin to play itself over and over, and then, through the ever-changing amalgam of possibilities there emerges a distinct image. A fly. One that I might, given the ability to learn from the original scene, create and implement perfectly into that clip now playing over and over in my head. A tangible response to a still vivid memory. I seem, over the years, to have not only developed a rather extensive library of these events but also the knack for bringing them to life again and again in order that I may learn from them. But these sequences in and of themselves infer much more; in prescribing to this process, I offer to myself the chance to enjoy a small level of redemption.

But, even as the transformation from hook to fly takes place, my mind travels ahead. I am well aware of the caveats. There is always so much more to success than the simple task of concept and creation, although I do allow for a short period of appreciation upon perusal of the finished fly. In a perfect world, the completion of this stage alone would negate all of the peripherals I might encounter from this point onward, although even early on in my fishing life I found that to be far from true. I think back, now finding satisfaction in the fact that it didn't. If successes were always so easily come by, where is the necessity to learn and thus hopefully carry forward into subsequent experiences that which was learned?

A well crafted fly is a delight to behold. A showcase of artistic skill, knowledge and creativity. A confidence builder. Another chance. But not even the masterful level of skill and dexterity necessary to create such a work of beauty will necessarily translate into success on the water. Because after all is said and done, especially after a particularly frustrating series of casts culminating in that familiar feeling of abysmal failure, the reality of the rest of those peripherals involved takes center stage. Or they should, anyway, because, when I think back on so many of those incidents that left me goggle-eyed and talking to myself, more times than not it wasn't the fly that begged for change. It was my method of application.

Every now and then, usually immediately following a mild triumph, I am made aware of how much I tend to take for granted. The first being able to effectively discern in any given situation a simple descending order of a specific set of challenges and the second to skillfully implement the adjustments I have come to deem necessary. True, not all the fish in a given area are there for the same reason, and, more to the point, few of them are going to be turned on by the same stimulus unless there are circumstances that cause them to be. A hatch is the most prominent factor coming to mind. And that's going to show you either a lot of noses or whole heads and sometimes bodies dependent upon what stage of development the prey are in when they become food. Not that they haven't been food until now; I use the surface, or near-surface feeding as a point of reference to help illustrate a point or two. If they're eating nymphs it's pretty safe to say that most of the activity will be subsurface. I say most. There are, as always, exceptions to that rule.

I do not pretend to know what goes through the mind of a trout. As long as I have gone in search of them, and as much success as I have managed to enjoy over the time spent, I still can honestly say that all I do know is that they spend a lot of time either eating or in search of food. I know that for each food item, or stage of whatever it is they eat, there are ways to get flies that imitate what they are looking for in front of them. I also know that more often than not, in the final analysis, it will be something other than the fly that causes that trout to either rise and eat it or embarrass you. It won't matter how well tied it is, how far you cast, or how well placed that cast was. It'll be a combination of other things. And, I am relatively sure, that as it is with all animals, there are no two trout in any given area that are attracted by exactly the same thing. However, having said that, the ONE best way to increase the odds, the absolute BEST way to level the playing field is to have the tool box open and ready.

If I was to admit to you how many hours I've wasted putting the same dry fly on the water to drift magically through a minefield of rising fish without it being eaten, you'd be amazed. I know I am, because I suffered for the longest time from the "oh, he'll eat it next time for sure" syndrome. I got so submerged in my own pattern of attack that I couldn't understand that there may have been a solution other than to just stand there and continue to bomb away frantically. Yeah, they may have a brain one umpteenth the size of ours, but unless we actually use ours, well, as they say, size doesn't matter. Gradually, and in the company of a few well-spaced 'accidental' discoveries, I came to understand that there was more to it than what I'd liked to think. I came to realize that it would be beneficial to develop certain techniques that would (hopefully) increase my chances. I was all too ready for a huge pity party, thinking the hill too steep to climb, but since I already knew that I was in it for the long haul, it became easier to spend the time necessary to work to improve my skill level. I might add here that it's also always an added incentive when you see good things begin to happen as a result of the work you've done. It makes the decision to go fishing an easier and easier one to make, and starts a cycle. The more I go, the more I learn. The more I learn, the more I have to work on. The more I work on, the more I get adept with and comfortable using. The more I get adept with and comfortable using, the bigger my tool box gets. The more I dig through that toolbox, the more I use. The more diversified my toolbox gets, the better the odds. An amazing aspect to toolboxes; no matter how stuffed with all the tools you could ever hope to acquire (and then more), they're always easy to haul around. And something else; as my toolbox grows, I carry fewer and fewer flies, which means less time spent staring into space and scratching my head and more time wisely spent utilizing the tools I have honed.

It's amazing, this journey. I've learned so much, including the fact that I will never know enough. There will never come a time when I am satisfied with what I have come to understand. There will always be more to learn, situations to ponder, flies to conceive, skills to perfect, fish to catch. But, and most importantly, I've come to see that there will always be one more chance for a little redemption.

(on) What I know

2012-01-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
Robert Frost

You've got to be very careful if you don't know where you are going, because you might not get there.
Yogi Berra

The problem was with where the rings were regularly, maddeningly originating. Lying on the far side and just downstream of the leading edge of the rounded granite slab that provided a food-funneling current break. It was not hard to suppose there was a bit of impudence in this trout's casual foraging. I wondered...

I stood there a good ten minutes, waiting for the nose not to appear again so that I might continue my trek upstream. There was no one around to witness either my prolonged observation or the feeding trout, therefore nobody to shake their head in disappointment should I shy away from this challenge, so moving on would've been that much easier if only that damned nose wouldn't keep popping up in exactly the same spot. So I stood there, and then I stood there a little longer, hypnotized, letting the rhythm of that feeding trout punch bigger and bigger holes in my argument for continuing my walk. But, the longer I stood there, a plan by which I might, with a little skill and of course some dumb luck, place my #18 parachute 'hybrid' in a tenable position began to formulate itself.

Having two rods available is advantageous when one of them happens to be rigged for this very occasion, which served to finally tip the scales in favor of the decision to give it a try. It would've been a lot easier to rationalize moving on if some lengthy preparation, considering the fact that it was a very cold day, was necessary. Somewhere in this chain of thinking I'd already realized that moving on despite having a rod ready would've added a weighty 'what if' to the rest of this day. Better to address the situation and be done with it. Give it my best shot and then move on.

Fishing with dries during the winter months here can range anywhere from pretty frustrating to downright silly. Only occasionally will even a perfect imitation that is deftly managed draw more than passing interest, and if it does, there is the distinct possibility of your fly becoming some obscenely large trout's temporary nose ring. You never know, unless it's visible, what's causing the disturbance that drew you into thinking dry, but the odds are better than even that it's big enough to infuse a tippet-snapping dose of adrenalin into your reaction the instant you see the take. I speak from experience.

As my tying craft progressed, I came to appreciate being able to sit back and enjoy the fact that there, sitting in my vise was a pretty damned good-looking classic dry fly, tied with the materials of the original recipe. But then, being a Gemini meant that I also got a kick out of innovating, creating something brand new (for me). I am a stickler for certain things no matter what I tie; less thread is better, proportion is paramount, and detail is relative, meaning that depending on the pattern I will employ only that which I am relatively sure are triggers, and the fewer the better. I am reminded of a shiny yellow '66 Chevelle I saw several years ago one night at a stop light. The light turned green and as the Chevelle began to move a synchronised bank of hideously blue lights illuminated the underside of the car as first the front, then the rear began rising a good three feet above the tires, which by the way had red lights in the gaudily chromed wheels. And while possibly in this case there is no such thing as too many triggers (attractors?), my experiences with overloaded flies have taught me well. I've said it before and it bears repeating; there is no substitute for a well-managed presentation. Especially in the winter, especially when there exists the possibility of hooking a trophy, if only momentarily.

hybrid - a thing made by combining two different elements; a mixture

It was for the specific reason of devising a small dry fly with this situation in mind that drew me to the vise one afternoon several weeks ago. I'd been visualizing a combination of two different flies, both of them classics, and there, in the vise, when the feathers settled and the head cement dried perched my concept. A little bit Adams, and a little bit baetis. And a parachute to boot. Its appearance satisfied me, so I tied a couple more, dosed them all with Watershed, and put them aside. No use getting too carried away yet, at least not until I had a chance to employ them.

I had to laugh out loud. What a way to try out my latest innovation. The scenario in my head did not look like this. I was supposed to be delicately placing the fly just upstream of a large, regularly appearing nose not more than twenty feet downstream. Instead, as I ripped more and more line off of the reel, I'd be casting on a diagonal a good sixty feet upstream right out into the middle of the creek. And then, if I put it where I wanted to, I had maybe a couple of seconds of drag-free time. The last thing I wanted to see was a wake, either from my fly dragging at the wrong time or the larger one created by a rapidly exiting fish. I decided that the fact that there really were no spectators was actually a good thing. As my son likes to say, Nobody will observe.

As I lengthened my false casts, I thanked the gods for backcast room and the lack of any noticeable breeze. A tiny dry fly at the end of a twelve-foot leader in a long cast is no match for even the slightest breeze. Only a wizard would be able to compute and allow for even the lightest air movement at this distance. There's always luck, but that's the reason I don't gamble anymore. The rod felt good in my hands, and my comfort level transmitted itself into tight loops and arrow-like direction. I was aiming a bit downstream as I fed line into my casts, sizing up the distance.

Every single one of us who has ever been in a similar casting situation has been faced with what I call the Inevitable Release. Delivery time. Sure, your false casts have been perfect. Every one. So perfect, in fact, that you hold on, making one or two more just because it feels so good. But that's not why you're here. Now it's time to get the fly on it's way. Everything else is just preparation, and even though it all went well you're still not there yet. You visualize that tightest loop extending out and across the distance, your leader inches above the fly line as the fly, carried by the remaining, ever dissipating energy turns over at full extension of your line and settles perfectly. A sound visual process also helps calm the nerves, at least up until the IR (inevitable release), but here's where a successful delivery separates the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

We've all done it. We've all fallen prey to the anticipation, let our impatience shine through at precisely the wrong time. It doesn't matter how technically sound all those false casts were if it falls apart at Delivery Time. It doesn't matter how many times we've told ourselves to stay the course, don't get in a hurry, don't change what got you this far. But all too often, something somewhere at the end of the prepping process goes haywire and what got us so close to finally realizing success goes flying out the window because of a systemic failure. This failure, as I relate it to myself, lies not in our process, but in our heads. And, for me, the failure lay in my overall lack of confidence in my system. Not that my system was lacking anything, or was it? I came, over time, to realize that indeed it was. It was without a key component; my belief in myself.

The Choke
(state of mind)

Seems intrinsic, almost an intangible, and maybe it is. But then again maybe it's bigger than that. Maybe it's a bit of a window, allowing us to see more about our lives and our infirmities than we'd probably care to admit. A certain hiccup that we have unconsciously cultivated for many years suddenly taking shape again and again. But there is always another chance to learn to deliver when the time comes, when the time is right. The chance to begin to dismantle, to bury The Choke. You're standing there facing up to a challenge that only you decided to take on, and it's probably not the first time. You stand there taking it on again because way down deep there's this voice asking for one more shot, for another chance. Sure, a lot could go wrong, and that's part of the reason for all those failures in the past, but, as difficult as it is, that shouldn't be your mindset no matter how many of those you've endured. You're still there, hatching a plan, willing to give it a shot again. Each new opportunity provides another chance to begin the task of re-programming yourself. Maybe the fish will eat my fly, maybe he won't, but I will do everything I can to make sure that my fly is right where it needs to be doing what it should do. Then and only then is it out of my hands. I will have accomplished that which I set out to do. And that will feel very satisfying, although, after saying all of that, I'd really much rather he'd eat it.

The current seemed to me to be compelled toward my side beginning about eight feet upstream of the rock. I found that to be to my advantage because I doubted I'd have much slack in my leader to play with once the fly had settled, and it had to be just that as it moved into the trout's window. Anything landing above and to the far side of the rock would be siphoned back over the trout's lie and basically be coming right back at me, which was of some worth. I guessed that I'd also have to successfully gauge just enough distance above the rock to allow for as much drag-free time as possible without destroying the drift before it arrived. In this regard, I felt fortunate that the flow above the rock was very consistent. No threads of faster or slower water as far as I could discern. All of these peripherals paraded round and round through my head. And then I stopped thinking. Enough input. Deliver it... NOW.

I've always been enchanted by the cast, so practice, for me at least, was never time misspent. Quite the contrary, it was time out of time; the feel of the rod in my hands, the sensation of the pull of the line on that rod, everything concerning the perfection of every nuance influencing my cast. And, as far back as I can remember in my fly casting life, the cast defining the tightest loop was always the pinnacle of sheer beauty. Early on I was captured by its elegance and thusly spent years in search of the techniques by which I might acquire the ability to reproduce it time after time. The quest for mastery taught me much about all of the peripherals involved; the rod, the line, the method, and most of all, the mindset.

And it was with this mindset that I delivered my fly, dropping my rod as I watched the tight, arrow-like loop reaching out across the creek's even flows to turn over and land my fly almost exactly where I'd hoped. True to form it immediately began its drift downstream toward me, and then it was in the trout's window, in his line of sight. And then it was drifting past, spilling into the riffle that ran along the rock's leading edge.

I stood, rod low, slowly retrieving line, running the sequence through my head. I wondered if I'd spooked him, or if the fly I'd conceived, tied, then placed so adeptly was not to his liking. I wondered if I'd miscalculated his lie. But I didn't hesitate to pick up and start the whole process again. Another opportunity awaited.
Again I measured my distance, aiming for the same landing zone, noting with satisfaction as the fly settled that I was in close proximity to the first cast. That was about as far as my thought process got, because by then the fly was in the window and then I saw the nose emerge to intersect it and now the fly was in the trout's mouth. I lifted the rod and felt the weight a split second before he broke clean of the surface into the cool morning sunlight and tumbled, body contorting this way and that, with a splash back into the water.

Nobody, nobody but me, observed. But I smiled the smile of success. Until the next time.

Validation

2011-12-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

It wasn't until late in life that I discovered how easy it is to say "I don't know."
W. Somerset Maugham

I was gratified to be able to answer promptly, and I did. I said I didn't know.
Mark Twain

I hooked a nice fat one on my first cast. The articulated leech curled up and across through the water column as I began my retrieve and it didn't take long. My son stood upstream, hands deep in his heat-packet engorged muffler.
"Yep, just like you've been telling me", he remarked. I brought the 14-inch trout to hand and slid the hook out of his lower jaw, watched him wriggle free back into the depths then dropped my rod and worked my hands deep into the warm sanctity of my muffler. I watched the water quickly freeze in the rod guides.
"You're up", I said. "I'm done for awhile. In fact, I'll trade with you. Come on down here and give it a try". He took me up on my offer, and soon enough was in place, stripping line from his reel as he false-casted.

I stood by, waiting for my hands to regain a semblance of normality. The reality of fishing this time of year can be just this; a few casts, maybe up to seven, and then go for the muffler, or, fewer casts because a fish has been hooked, the ensuing battle, hopefully netting it, removing the hook and releasing it, all before your hands go so terribly away (that you can't get them back) before burying them in the marvelously regenerative warmth of the muffler. Then, once they've regained some feeling, quickly chip the ice out of the reachable guides then stick the rest of the rod in the water to open the upper guides again and go for the muffler. These sequences will be repeated ad nauseum throughout the day, which is really a small price to pay when I think about it, which I do.

As I regain feeling in the tips of my thumbs and forefingers, Aaron picks up and casts again. As I watch, I'm suddenly aware of how much stuff I've come to take for granted, stuff that has become second nature, when I am fishing. And it all comes down to 'being in touch'. Being 'in touch' with the little things, like the tiny adjustments made during each cast, feeling the rod reacting to your movements, correcting little imperfections in each forward or back cast, things like that. I have fished with great casters as well as those who seem to, despite their accumulative years holding a fly rod, have no clue as to what they're supposed to feel or do should something start to go south on them. It reminds me of Einstein's quote regarding insanity; doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. That has to be frustrating, but, who am I say.

And I am aware, as I watch my son cast, that despite his infrequent fishing opportunities he has gotten 'in touch', developing into a more than proficient fly caster. His casts are quieter, I can see that he is feeling the rod, the line, understanding mechanically what goes into a successful delivery, and able to translate that into adjustments. The arc of his rod is shorter, his line is hanging in the air fully extended now as he starts forward with just enough energy to feel his rod pulling the line into a tight-looped arrow, stopping higher and gently dropping the tip while his line is uncurling at full extension, the fly just pulling the leader taut as it drops to the water's surface. I glow on the inside, happy for him because I know what a truly sweet sensation that is. Once experienced, the drive to recreate that exact feeling over and over again adds more pull to the already powerful magnetism. For me, it is the center, the bulls eye. It is one of The Reasons, and I quietly thank my son for unknowingly reminding me.

The ability to cast a fly further can often be an advantage. And while it remains true that what you do with that fly no matter how far you cast will always be what makes or breaks your chances for success, there are times, lots of them, where the ability to successfully manipulate both can increase the odds even more. The ability to execute a long, well placed cast, coupled with effective line and fly management be it a dry or subsurface, can be the key to the fish of the day, or whole trip for that matter. But, knowing that and then doing it are two different animals, and I believe that for the more serious fishermen among us, it's what separates 'the men from the boys', no slight meant toward the female gender. Moving from being a 'flock shooting' spray caster to a marksman able to isolate specific locales or fish not only exhibits an advanced ability and knowledge level, but it opens the door for more exhilarative successes.

That's precisely what was going through my head when I decided to make a suggestion. "Aaron", I said, pointing, "put a cast across and just upstream from the rocks, into that corner there". In days gone by I wouldn't have brought it up knowing that he didn't have the tools to attempt it. I'd hooked several big fish out of that slot on earlier forays and now, seeing him in command of his cast, well, it was a no brainer.Besides all of that, I just had an idea that it would be a perfect time...

His first attempt fell a little short, probably due to the ice that had been building up in his guides, maybe a little to do with now having a specific location to shoot at. He fished it out anyway as would a patient, confident fisherman. The second cast was longer, perfect, landing his leech about six feet upstream from the rocks, where the current would pull his slowly sinking leech out of the subtle eddy and into the trough that edged the rocks as it moved downstream. I watched, waiting, wondering, as he began his retrieve.

When fishing with a leech pattern here, especially in the colder months where the water temperature will be a good five to seven degrees cooler than what is normal, the takes will sometimes be surprisingly subtle. Not what one would expect from fish known for their ability to explode on flies of this nature. And so it was when Aaron felt weight and lifted his rod, and in a split second the knowledge that he'd hooked a fish changed from "fish on" into, "Oh man! Big fish!", but I knew that already because I could see how much water she moved every time she put her tail into it, and now she was taking line, having it all basically her way. It's one thing to make that cast, yet another to move that fly, but when those two work and you get a result, then the game changes again, and that means a whole new set of anxieties to deal with.

A proficiency at making well-directed casts and coaxing the right type of movement from your fly will no doubt occasion the need to develop another tool. If you get better at hooking fish, then you're either going to get better at playing them or tying up whatever it is they took and are wearing as a souvenir. It's a numbers game. More fish hooked means more time spent learning about what happens next. For the fisherman, it is the beauty of the fight. The sport of it all. To a trout, it is The Fear. It is the urgent need to escape. It is all there is. The escape. There is no book for us on this subject. There are no patterns to discern, no stock moves to look for. Every battle with a hooked fish is unique.

The best way to begin to understand this is, of course, to hook more fish. Gain an overall understanding of how to react when they do what it is they do, and they will often do it better than we expect, no matter how much experience we have. In short, for this reason alone you can never catch too many fish, although I must admit that some of us, and I include myself in this group, place not as much emphasis on landing a fish as we do on the take. A well-made cast, an effective fly management, and The Take. Those are my favorites.

I can, however, certainly understand the need to land the fish. It's the ultimate validation. To hold the object of your desire, your labors, in your own two numb hands. To maybe get a picture or two; standing there, big grin on your face, irrefutable proof of your accomplishment right there in your swollen, frozen hands for everybody to see. I can totally understand it. I guess the main reason I'm not more inclined in that direction is that I most often fish alone. It's hard to hold a big fish and a camera at the same time, and it's probably also why many folks just roll their eyes if I have a big fish story to share. Fine, Steve, but where's the proof? That's okay, I understand their reluctance to believe. I've heard that some fishermen, especially fly fishermen, have a tendency to uh, exaggerate a little.

There's another, more important reason to land a fish, though. It trumps all the others, and I was overjoyed to have that very reason to snap a photo of Aaron and the biggest trout he's landed so far in his time being a fly fisherman.

When a father teaches his son, I believe there is a twofold mission undertaken. The first is the obvious one. We want them to enjoy that which we enjoy, which will promote future engagements together doing what it is we have both come to enjoy. But here's where our mission becomes a bit subversive, and more than a little heroic.

It is our way of determining our fate. Of increasing the odds of a successful life. Through all the years of frustrations and disappointments, of missed opportunities and broken dreams, here is our chance at a little redemption. The chance to make a connection, albeit probably only in our own minds, with something that will bind us together for eternity.

Validation.

I plead guilty to both counts your honor, and in lieu of begging the courts forgiveness I ask only that you put yourself in my place.

No pictures, please.

Thanksgiving Last Cast.

2011-11-30T09:41:00.000-08:00

To give thanks in solitude is enough. Thanksgiving has wings and goes where it must go. Your prayer knows much more about it than you do.
Victor Hugo

For a few moments after arriving, I just sit, feeling the wind gently buffeting the car. It animates the grassy clumps between me and the edge of the hill in the receding darkness of this late November morning. In the distance, across the channel where runs the creek, a lone red-tailed hawk slides slowly, easily through the back-eddy of turbulence under the cliff's edge.

I was up early this morning, earlier than usual. Partly because I couldn't sleep, partly because I couldn't wait to get going, but mostly for what I'm experiencing right now. There were no vehicles at any of the parking areas as I drove in. True enough that it is still early. I am not so naive as to think I might spend the entire day here without company. There may be a few who manage to break away for a short time from the ritual of their Thanksgiving Day, although in years past I have fished the whole day alone. That is what I wish for today.

It is true enough according to a lot of people, those being relatives and even close friends (of which I have blessedly few), that probably I shouldn't be here at all on this day, although for some of those in this group I would offer that their sentiment is a product of a certain amount of envy. It's often easier to use the energy of jealousy to infuse more vigor into the argument for adherence to customary behaviors rather than to simply admit that they too would rather be somewhere else doing something else. As for most of the rest, I'm relatively sure that for them there is no other way to observe this day, this whole 'holiday' season other than to stay the course no matter how rugged and exhausting that course may be. If that's that's the way it's always been done, well then that's the way it will always be done, damnit, no matter what! That sounds awfully narrow-minded, I know, and it definitely omits all of those who genuinely appreciate the timeless traditions of family, food, gifting and togetherness, but, that's how I have come to perceive it. I for one can think of several better ways with which to test my patience. So, for me, there is no finer way to give thanks for all of those wonderful people in my life than to be somewhere else, somewhere alone, with only my rods accompanying me, on this day. And secretly, knowing full well that this particular eccentricity of mine will surely continue to develop as I grow older, I pray others will recognize that and finally just 'let it be', although at this juncture I admit to having my doubts about that.

By the time I don several layers of clothing, my waders, boots, rig up two rods and set off, it is well past six. The chill, steady breeze in my face dictates a walk across the bridge to the other side. I don't hurry, reveling quietly in my solitude. The surface of the creek is here and there ruffled by the short tantrums of occasional gusts as well as the itinerant ring. A group of resident Mallards leisurely feeding in the shallows are indignant at my approach and noisily take flight as I turn into the cattails to my first destination, gingerly testing the ground as I go. The painful memory of a bottomless muskrat hole in the vicinity is the reason for my caution.

Some thirty feet behind my current position stands a Chinese elm, the only tree on the banks of nearly the entire length of the upper creek. How it came to be here, how it came about that it is the only Chinese elm and the only tree for miles, I do not know. In the fork of the elm there is an old, but regularly inhabited raven's nest, abandoned now, but along about the middle of March a pair of the biggest, blackest birds I have ever seen will take up occupancy again to raise sometimes two, but more often just one youngster. They'll hang around this area until late fall, but where they go once their job ends I have no idea. Even though I know they're gone now until spring, I miss them. The hours I've spent in the past here, one eye on my fishing and the other observing them, have been some of the best times I've spent anywhere. I enjoy ravens and crows. I come away from my many hours of coexisting with them here with a profound sense of respect. Even with my limited level of knowledge of these creatures, their intelligence, and more to the point their individual personalities make them desirable, if mostly very distant companions, although I like to think that there exists between me and these two ravens a more than intrinsic affinity. But that's for me think, to enjoy. Who knows what they really think, but I have seen them take flight and stay away from their nest when other fishermen approach and fish where I am standing, while my presence seems to be at least tolerated. I miss their presence today.

My experiences have taught me that spring creeks are the 'best game in town' during the winter. My home water, the Spokane River, is still fishable, the flows remain low, but consistent success in the face of the falling water temperatures dictate major changes in method. Namely, a healthy ability to be patient with and attract fish who aren't about to go but a very short distance out of their way for much of anything no matter how delectable my offering(s) may have been a month ago. Winter on the Spokane forces me to deal with a system I for aesthetic reasons abhor, thus haven't really mastered and therefore am not as comfortable employing. It invariably entails some sort of nymph imitation or two, or sometimes even three, usually very small, rigged under a bobber; uh-oh, I mean indicator. I have, on occasion in the past, brought fish to hand with streamers, but only often enough to give me a short-term reason not to face the reality of re-rigging, made all the more difficult by numb fingers. I have nymphed a little during the winter, but, and there's no getting around it, I really should be more adept with it. I say that to myself all the time, but usually escape having to deal with actually going there because either an Olive hatch comes off and I can go to my little dries or I'll try out a new sculpin imitation, or the river will rise sharply and go off-color to boot.

Then, I can opt out completely and drive west to my spring creek winter fishing playground, Rocky Ford.

My long rod, a five-weight, is rigged with scuds, two of them, about a foot apart. I set up my other rod, a six-weight, with a short, heavier leader ending with a black articulated marabou leech. I have had days here at this time of year, dark, gray, windy ones, where I cast nothing else but the leech, because quite simply, it worked all day. I certainly don't have any preconceived notions about the possibility of that happening today, but what the hell, I always start with it anyway. My first cast lands the leech across the creek right above a rocky outcropping that bends the current. I let the unweighted pattern sink for a time as it travels slowly down along the rocks before beginning my retrieve. And then, not more than three slow hand twists into it, I'm in business, reminded again of the best fix for cold hands; the adrenalin pump of a bent rod from a solid take.

And so it goes as the day unwinds. I alternate between scud and leech. It doesn't really seem to matter. The resident trout population are by and large obviously appreciative of my investigative research and subsequent offerings, and even though my prayer about spending the day without other fishermen has been answered, I catch myself more than once thinking, "gee, it's a shame no one's here to see this", only to a split second later regret having had that thought at all.

I get to end Thanksgiving day my way, with the fish of the day on the last cast.

Last casts are an ambiguity. First of all, it's a bit like the tree falling in the forest. If no one hears it, does it really make a noise? So, if no one sees the cast, was it really the last? And, how many 'last casts' are allowable? I stay an hour or so longer than is my usual, making that 'last cast' over and over again successfully, disdaining the walk back in lieu of the possibility of yet another hook-up and my theme then turns into 'I'll just fish my way back down to the bridge' which in turn morphs into 'one cast here before I start back up the hill...'

And I do. My 'last cast' is from a position right at the bottom of the hill where the trail back to the parking lot starts. I never fish from this spot. Fishing from here, on, say an average weekend day reminds me of sitting near the door of a coffee shop. Your attention is constantly diverted from the conversation or your laptop or your book because of the endless traffic in and out the door but then again why do people who are 'trying' to talk or read or do anything other than watch the parade decide to sit there other than seeing every other seat occupied. Indeed, that is exactly what I've observed in the folks I see fishing at this location. By the time I get here my mind is already on the drive back and I'm usually head down eyeballing which rocks to step over on the way back up the hill all the while aware of and avoiding any errant backcasts from those who attempt to cast. Ending the day with a fly in your ear is a real possibility.
But today, it's just me, and my last cast nicely drops the two scuds upstream about three feet from the bank. I let them sit, allowing the current to belly my line which drags the scuds slowly along through the detritus but as I see a bulge in the surface over there my line is slowly working back upstream. I lift my rod, feel the weight, and then all hell breaks loose...

Ghosts

2011-11-15T13:24:00.001-08:00

You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions.

Denis Waitley

I wouldn't describe myself as lacking in confidence, but I would just say that the ghosts you chase you never catch.
John Malkovich

"It absolutely terrifies me that someday my decline will begin and I will no longer be able to improve."

That's a sentiment conveyed in my son's latest post (From what do you flee) from his blog (130 Miles).
It more than caught my attention.

I don't for even a second pretend to know the minds of others, how they think, what causes them to formulate thoughts and experiences into their specific system, their platforms of belief and actions, any of that. But as I read his post, I was struck by a couple of things; being made aware (again) of the symmetry of our thought processes, and secondly, the connectivity he'd found with that particular statement and some of the other arenas of his life; a very full, almost hectic (as it seems to me) at times, life, although he would take issue with that. I guess it's like everything else in that it's all relative. One man's mayhem is another man's cozy fit (I suggest also that in saying that I exhibit amnesia-like symptoms as far as my former life is concerned, but that's another story for another day).

On occasion, something I read or hear will cause me almost reflexively to stop, literally in my tracks. It is a brightest beam piercing darkness, exposing detail that was always a part of the whole but still a mystery. It is the phrase that bridges the gap between idea and realization, the missing variable in a perplexing equation.

My life, the focus of my life, has gotten very narrow. I readily admit that, though not in the form of a confession. It's more of a concession. I grant myself the reality that I have given up much of what I had previously known or done in or with my life. That goes not only for activities but also, and probably more importantly, my need for interactivity with others. I did that willingly, almost eagerly, now that I bother to really examine it. I guess the way I've come to live really has to do with a couple of things; the fact that I'm getting older, and the idea of real quality.
I have no control over the former, even though I hear every day that 'you're only as old as you feel' (Okay Pollyanna, you can let yourself out), but I do have direct control over the quality of my life, and for one part, superficial relationships with people that I can't be around for more than a few minutes certainly doesn't qualify as quality. In their defense, they are not to blame. I am. I admit that, having willingly cultivated a definite aversion to social niceties and interactions. I have gotten to the point where I can count my quality relationships on one hand and not use five fingers. I treasure my relationships with these people. As the years continue to grind past, they have ingrained themselves into the essence of my life, and I know they will always be there.
How I got here is for yet another story. Let's just say for now that the absence of alcohol in my life has really sharpened my vision, and therefore my outlook, and that made it extremely easy in subsequent years to simply vaporize.

It's all about what's really important to each of us. There's no way that I can substantiate the reasons each of us have for doing whatever it is we do. I can only take a stab at why I am the way I am, and my son unwittingly helped me immeasurably by writing what he wrote. I'm pretty damned comfortable with who and what I've turned out to be, but he sure helped me clarify the reasons why.

Like I said, it's all about what's really important to each of us. A line from a song written by Paul Simon comes back to me...

"... when I think of all the crap I learned in high school..."

... and so I began to wonder how much of that which I spent years learning really applies to life. To my life. What's it worth in terms of holding onto? How much of it is so insinuated into our lives that we aren't even conscious of it? Yes, it can be said that everything we 'learn' is somehow incorporated into our ever-evolving personality, but when it was time for me to actually sort things out and in the process identify myself, I had some searching to do, and found a lot of crap I had to throw out. Maybe we all reach a point where we do what I did, I don't know, but what I saw when my head finally cleared enough for me to see who I was, well that was really sobering. Don't get me wrong; there were those times and people I will always hold close, and I wouldn't trade them for anything. But for much of it, well, let's just chalk it up to a general lack of confidence accompanied by an overwhelming need for constant approval, and say good riddance.

Thankfully, at about the same time I discovered how lost I was, I re-discovered fishing. Fishing with flies.

Funny, that a single ever-expanding set of concentric rings could point the way to the rest my life. Could define the rest of my life. Captured? No. Released? Most definitely yes.

When I look back, I realize I was given a second chance. A fresh start. It was, I think, a gift I was finally ready to appreciate. One that, as is said, would keep on giving, for a lifetime. One of quality. And all of my energy, my focus, my needs, wants and desires have been directed into developing the craft surrounding my fishing ever since.

Aaron, in his post, says;

"I suppose the point of this rambling is that no matter what the event or subject matter or activity, some of us are born to question ourselves."

Another pearl. He is wise beyond his years. Some years ago, a woman, a massage therapist who was also very wise, said of Aaron that he "has an old soul", which reflected her respect for him. I'll never forget that, either.

He's right on the mark with his observation, and I could not help but apply it to just about every facet of my past. From activities to personal relationships, always wondering, no, worrying, if it was good enough to the point that I was literally paralyzed whereupon I did, and therefore accomplished, nothing. I was so paralyzed. I had no dream, no big pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, to follow. I was day-to-day, minute-by-minute, searching for nothing more than another way to postpone the inevitability of growing up. Look those up in the dictionary and there's a picture of a young Steve smiling his empty, lost smile for all to see. Years later, I ask myself; where was the quality in an existence like that which of course is a rhetorical one because there was none.

Now, finally, I know what quality is. True enough that it is up to each of us to discover and nurture that sense of appreciation for whatever we do with each parcel of time in our lives, and it is a gift beyond measure to be confident in one's approach to and participation in those things. That, to me, is quality. It pays dividends, too, for if we enjoy what we do, we do it well. We gain confidence. And if we do it well, we do it often. And if we do it often, we continue to improve, and it's all a concentric, ever-expanding set of rings, feeding itself, and you, for as long as you wish.

Thank you, Aaron, for helping me see more clearly.

Regatta (ya gotta) Get Small

2011-11-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

Many a small thing has been made large by the right kind of advertising.
Mark Twain

Hundreds of thousands of them. Sizes twenty and twenty-two, and every fish, no, let me say every fish, is up and dining at their leisure.

From my vantage point about a third of the way through this particular section to downstream past where the current has begun to slow, a distance of approximately two hundred feet, the surface teems with activity. It is about here where I stand, at a little past one on a cloudy, chilly afternoon that the olives begin appearing, their transformation from nymph to imago kicked into gear. As my eye travels further down the run, the numbers of newly hatched mayflies multiplies geometrically. It's no wonder that I see so many rings, so many noses. The number of blue-winged olives and the rings that itinerant individuals disappear into is simply amazing. For the next two and a half hours the trout will feed heavily.

It has long been my belief that a certain, almost palpable energy level evidences itself when trout are setting into the feed. Now, watching the tiny members of the flotilla aligning themselves in perfect randomness across the width of this run, I can feel the electricity. The urgent need to get my imitation into the mix is underlined by the fact that I know I have only a small window, for time is the enemy, because soon familiarity will breed contempt for any and all imitations I might utilize that do not fit the bill to a 'T'. In other words, the longer the hatch, the more perfect the match needs to be. And after a couple of days, or, on a daily level a couple of hours, these trout know exactly what they're looking for. Both in appearance and behavior. Add to that the fact that the surface is dotted with such numbers of imagos that the fish, always eager for the easy meal, will not often, if ever, move more than a foot out of their feeding lanes to eat. They don't have to. So I have to keep that in mind, too. Not only will they refuse my imitation on the grounds of insufficient debauchery, location, location, location, to overwork a phrase a little more, is also paramount.

My dexterity is slipping. I've been at it for a little more than two hours, and even with my wader pockets stuffed with heat packs the cold has sapped more and more of my ability to perform the necessary operations quickly, deftly. It becomes a conscious, arduous effort to complete the simplest tasks, making it imperative to get it right, be it the choice of flies or the knot, the first time. While I labor, a blue heron stands on a rock a hundred yards downstream from me staring into the river at his feet, quite oblivious to my struggle. I am envious of his comfort level, not to mention his approach. My rod goes back under my arm as I again bury my hands in among the packets, cursing my DNA as time just keeps ticking away...

I'm rather proud of my parachute upwing. It's not an easy tie. I figured out that I could use 4x mono as a post for the wings and the hackle, which adds rigidity to the structure of the feather components while preserving the overall look of the fly specifically as far as what the fish sees. And it lands right side up. Every time. It's now at the end of a nice 'S' cast and settling slowly toward the water. When it lands, I am pleased to see that I can't tell the difference between it and the hundreds of real ones close by. And apparently it looks good enough to the fat rainbow who barely disturbs the surface as he rises to eat it. I hesitate for a split second after feeling the jolt, then raise my rod, and involuntarily gasp as he flies skyward, one, two, three times before streaking away across and downstream. I know it's not the case, but I go ahead and wonder if half of the energy a fish uses in his attempt to flee is a result of the chagrin at being fooled. I realize that by saying that I've given all of you a view of the way I would react. I'm not a real good subject for practical jokes.

I back the hook out of the fish's upper jaw and release the trout, thanking him for his infinite appreciation. After pulling my fly through the water to clean the slime off, I cut it off, park it in my foam patch, dig out the box, and pluck another one from it's perch. Experience is a good teacher. I know better than to think I can fool another fish with that one. It's in good shape, but it'll be a while before it's put to use again. Probably not today. C'mon hands...

What Never Changes Never Stays the Same

2011-10-06T14:42:00.000-07:00

If there were only one truth, you couldn't paint a hundred canvases on the same theme.
Pablo Picasso

Nature is commonplace. Imitation is more interesting.
Gertrude Stein

It's a swimming caddis; my newest rendition. This must put me somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred different concepts since I decided to get serious about this particular part of the journey.

And this one works. By 'works', I mean it's proven itself to me enough times in enough different situations to be worthwhile of a spot in my box. I don't consider one, two, or even three successful outings enough proof to rationalize spending a lot of time tying more. When a new concept is introduced into the rotation, each day is a brand new ball game. If the fly proves to be consistently functional (catches fish) over a period of time (said period of time may vary according to, for example, season, time of day, or section of the river), then, and only then will I begin to consider it part of my arsenal. Like I've said in earlier posts, I've got a boatload of 'one-hit wonders', flies that really looked good in the vise which later, after several frustrating hours of application, turned out to be duds, although I must, at the risk of jinxing myself, say (in my defense) that that is happening much less frequently lately. And, I think that the reason I'm relegating fewer and fewer flies to the 'glass of shame' has a lot to do with what I'm finally seeing as the most important details. Often the simplest factor can be overlooked; sometimes it's easy (for me) to get so caught up in all the minutiae of a particular specie that I blind myself to the most obvious, most practical ones.

Triggers. Stuff incorporated into any fly, be it the way it's tied and, probably most importantly, the way it's fished that activates a trout's urge to eat. A long time ago I listened to a gentleman I genuinely respect as a caster tell me that ninety per cent of catching a fish with a fly is how you fish it. I took that as gospel then, even before I had much experience under my belt, remembered that lesson in the most frustrating of times, and am today more than convinced that he spoke the truest truth. In fact, I am sure that as the fisherman becomes more and more adroit with his fishing 'skills', the smaller and more utilitarian becomes his fly box, although I know there're many fly fishermen out there who, if they read that, would no doubt take umbrage with my statement. They've got way too much money invested in all those flies to do anything but.

My interest in marrying the overall effectiveness of a soft hackle to the surface capability of a simple elk-hair caddis has taken me on a pretty neat journey. Having as my home water a river that is such a caddis factory made the choice of flies, and therefore journey, a rather easy one. Good choice of natural, but sometimes a frustrating journey; the beauty of it all being found somewhere between the fist-pumping highs of success and the sobering lows of utter, frequent failure.

My river, as stated, is a cornucopia of caddis, both in number and variety of type. All year long. And, when the temperature and humidity are right, all day every day. Yes, there are other flies that will work, like the olives, the PMDs, the tiny psuedos and midges, all in their time. There are hoppers ,ants, and beetles in the late summer as well as crane flies. Salmonflies are resurgent here, too, making a viable nymph pattern for that big bug a must in the early summer. I have a good sculpin pattern again (another journey), a badly-in-need of work minnow, and a workable crawdad streamer. But in my mind, all of those pale in comparison to the real mainstay for the amazing trout of the Spokane River.

As the years passed and the experiences added up, it became a worthwhile endeavor to attempt to create patterns and fishing methodry that would cater to the trout's strength. That is, to conceive of and learn to tie and fish patterns imitating caddis of every phase of their life cycle, as they seemed to me to offer these trout the best, most constant food supply. It was a great way to incorporate my favorite style of fishing the river. Little could I have known then how much this task would improve my fishing skills.

Confession. I more or less stumbled into swinging flies, most notably the soft hackle, early on. It wasn't a style or a pattern I deliberately set out to learn, or to utilize here. God knows at that time I had little or no formal training other than what I could, in my uneducated state, glean from my own first few forays. It's always easier to learn when you have a bit of a platform to stand on. I had to build one before I could progress, and it was a shaky one at that.

But one chilly afternoon on my river many years ago led me to a (here it comes) serendipitous, but timely discovery and I've been enamored with the swing ever since. If the truth needs to be known (and I suppose it does, somehow) my first success with the soft hackle came when I cast to a rising fish to let it drift as naturally downstream as I could cause it to; when I realized it was outside of the fish's feeding lane, I knew enough to let it continue downstream out of the harm's way before retrieving it to cast again. As my line bellied in the current and the small olive soft hackle began its rising swing across the riffle, lo and behold a nice, fat trout separated himself from the anonymity of his lie, darted up out of the depths and ate it.

In enlightening you to that piece of the puzzle, I need to add that my roots lie in fishing dry. My father and his two fishing buddies were loyal, almost exclusively dry fly fishermen, and so logically, because that's where all the pertinent information came from to me, that's what I was. I do recall, however, one day finding a box of flies in my dad's duffel that contained several variations on the old wooly worm theme. They were big, heavy, light olive chenille affairs palmered with a short grizzly hackle and a stubby red marabou tail. I asked him one day as we tooled through Distillary Bay looking for rings what those flies were for, and he said, "Maybe some day I'll take you up north. You'll see."


Well, some years later I 'saw'. We went 'up north', dad, his buddies and I. And on the last full day of our stay, a rainy, windy one, he stood for a long time looking out the cabin window watching the rain blowing horizontally across Hatheume Lake. After a long silence, he turned to me and said, "Steve, wanna go fish?"
Reflexively, I nodded.
"Good. Better bring your raincoat. Let's go see if we can catch a fish."

That was my introduction to fishing wet flies. A size six triple-x long wooly worm on a sinking line towed by a twelve foot boat powered by a five-horsepower Johnson into a twenty knot wind that was pure water it was raining so hard. Yes, my dad really was a fisherman! I'll never forget him, squinting into the gale, a soaking wet half-burned cigar clenched in his teeth, one hand on the motor and one holding his rod. As we approached the upwind shoreline, I turned in my seat to see which way he was going to angle the boat for the turn back downwind. It couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds after the nose of the boat had started to come around that I watched his rod jerk violently. "Get on your reel!", he shouted. Being a rookie, it took a few seconds for it to sink in that I needed to be busy getting my line out of the way of whatever it was he'd hooked. And it was downright scary the way whatever it was battled, running directly away then diagonally, first this way then that at terrific speed then going as deep as it could with spastic head shaking the whole way. And then, it came out of the water, tumbling head over tail and I swallowed hard when I saw just how big these fish really were. The struggle went on seemingly forever until finally I was told to grab the net and be ready.

Twenty-seven inches. Over ten pounds. Sleek and muscular, with that faraway look in his eye. With a size six triple x long wooly worm firmly stuck in his upper right jaw.

And then, about a half hour later, it happened to me. Good lord it happened to me!

The fish hit my wooly worm just as we straightened out of a turn at the other end of the lake. I'd been, for awhile, so acutely alert that I had the whole body shakes ever since dad had hooked his fish, but in the past couple of minutes, I'd lapsed back into more of my 'spectator' mode again. The jolt of my rod nearly being ripped out of my hands brought me back in a hurry. I'd never felt such instantaneous raw power. The fierce shaking and contortions were spaced between careening leaps and lightning quick runs directly away and then, most horrifyingly, right back at the boat. It was impossible to keep up with, and I was surprised that he didn't shake free what with all the slack line in the bottom of the boat. The battle seemed to go on for hours until finally he turned on his side and slid up next to to the boat and I could see how deeply embedded the hook was in the top of his mouth; what I couldn't possibly see (yet) was how deeply embedded the hook had set in the rest of my life.

Both fish had attacked the fly as it changed direction and began to rise in the water column. I didn't ever forget that. And as I began to assemble sets of experiences with fish into my very primitive tool box, the lesson I learned on Hatheume Lake that day stayed with me.

I was then more and more drawn to the idea of fishing flies beneath the surface. For me, there was a certain fascination involved with causing a fish to chase and eat a submerged fly. As my ability to cast and tie improved, I spent more and more time, much of it early on quite frustrating, fishing subsurface patterns. Indeed, the vast majority of knowledge I've acquired was through trial and error, a fact that now, when I look back on those years, brings me large measure of pride. I did it myself, but I won't call it the hard way. I like to call it the best way.

Squinting into a rising sun one fine September morning a few years back, I stood knee deep in my river at the bottom end of one of my favorite sections. I'd named it A Hundred Yards early on. It's not really that long, but I liked the name and it stuck in my head. This piece of water has a pretty consistent current broken only infrequently here and there by hydraulics thrown upward as the river flows over structure, and there's a trough that runs almost the entire length of it paralleling the shore about twenty feet out. At certain times of the day, usually less than an hour after sunrise and then again an hour or so after sunset, noses begin to appear on the surface up and down this section. Rings on the water's surface, caddis in the air. Hm... nice combination.

On this fine September morning I opened my green Propp's Rod and Fly Shop fly box, waited for my eyes to adjust, and pulled out a small(#16) elk hair caddis that I'd tied with some gray elk over a cream-colored body palmered with a light brown hackle. It was primitive, as were all my flies back then, but it fit the bill, and my hands were shaky as I double-terled it to my tippet. I was in easy casting range of several regularly occurring rings.

The temptation was overwhelming at this stage of my experiences to immediately get busy; put the caddis on the water above the bottom-most fish. It's not the right way to go about things, but that's precisely what I did, not taking the time to notice the nuances in the current, not taking time to actually study the situation at all. Rookie mistake. My cast was decent, but as soon as my primitive little caddis settled it was pulled wildly sideways. I either said a silent prayer or cursed as I hurriedly stripped in line. A couple of quick false casts and I sent it out again. This time was better, good enough for the lowermost ring maker. He hardly broke the surface in taking it, and must have decided that he didn't want to disturb the others as they fed because he ran to the middle of the river and stayed out there for much of the fight. I brought him to hand, pulled the hook from his jaw, held him briefly underwater to make sure he was ready to be freed, and thanked him for his existence when he wriggled free and disappeared into the clear green. I examined my caddis. Hardly a dent. Good deal. Feeling pretty good, I pulled line off the reel while watching the water for my next target, who showed me his nose almost immediately. I stripped more line off the reel, electing to lengthen my cast rather than risk spooking him by trying to wade closer.

It was a good cast, about thirty-five or forty feet, with even a touch of dexterity thrown in this time. I pinned the line to my rod as my caddis flew past the landing zone causing the leader to recoil a bit which allowed a few more seconds of relatively free drift. All was well in my world until I realized that I couldn't see my caddis anymore. It had floated only long enough for me to see where it landed, and was now, even as I stood there searching, wending its way back downstream underwater. This time I did curse, and began stripping back line. I got halfway through the first strip when the line pulled back, followed by a fish flying out of the water precisely where I had been aiming to drift my caddis, with said caddis firmly embedded in his jaw. Stunned, I raised my rod with way too much gusto, perfectly countering his upstream surge wherein we, to his relief and with my caddis, parted ways.

An hour or so later, I had reached the top of A hundred Yards, at the same time pleased and thoughtful. I had done fairly well as I worked my way up despite the angst of losing another (my next to last) caddis near the top of the run to a larger fish when my attentive skills deserted me. I simply spaced out on a blue heron across the river from me. As I watched the large bird awkwardly attempt a landing in a cottonwood, I felt a good tug on my rod and struck back with the adrenaline of one who has just been shocked. Another souvenir for a disgruntled fan. I was debating whether or not I should go with my last caddis or call it a good morning and head back to a bowl of oatmeal and the rest of my day when what should appear but a healthy set of rings! Not more than twenty feet downstream! I'd just worked my way up through there! The oatmeal, and the rest of my day could wait. I dug out the caddis.

I'm not sure how many times I drifted my caddis over that trout, but at about a dozen good ones my fly began to take on water. Soon I was getting maybe a foot of visible fly before it totally immersed itself. My last drift was one of resignation. I let it ride even though I couldn't see it, wondering what I could try next. Meanwhile, my line went taut and the fly, which had obviously been slowly sinking as it tumbled downstream, pulled out of its free fall and rose toward the surface...

It's when from down to up happens. The fact that it's a dry fly that's not on top has less to do with it than the fact that my caddis, my dry pattern went from down to up. That's what turned that fish on. That's why I went home that fine September day with a huge grin on my face. In the years to come, I'd understand and successfully implement that what I learned there that day. And I came to find out that it wasn't uncommon knowledge, that fishing a dry caddis pattern that way is very acceptable technique. Another lesson learned the right way; from experience.

Tools are cool. The more the better. The beauty of the art of mastering them, though, lies in one's ability to continually synthesize these tools for whatever needs may arise. These tools are your clay. Your craft. How you shape them, make them work for you, defines your level of knowledge. Their application shapes your journey. They are your badge, your status quo. What you gain from them is immeasurable. Acquire and master. Adapt. Grow.

Night Shift (They Only Come Out at Night)

2011-09-21T15:24:00.000-07:00

There is no such thing as darkness; only a failure to see.
Malcolm Muggeridge

I am watching what must be the twentieth spasmodic drift of my third variation on a tiny blue-winged olive theme down through a series of contorted hydraulics. If I'm really lucky, I'll get maybe four seconds of relatively drag free drift, if being the pivotal word. Several ribbons of conflicting current, all deflected in different directions at different speeds, run through this slot side by side. Yes, they do eventually all end up downstream somewhere in basically the same place, and that's just about the only place where any sense of congruity exists. But, that's not the real problem. The real challenge here is the abundance of willows at my back. Not a great spot for a back cast, therefore not a great spot for a classic delivery, therefore not even a very good spot, except for that trout, whose subtle rises in the riffle caught my eye. The only thing I've got going for me, and I've talked about it before, is having a few utilitarian casts up my sleeve. They're not real pretty, but surely the only ticket, especially here. I can't get any closer, which would put some space between me and the bank. The rising flows have made wading any deeper here a fantasy. It would be a stern test for even an expert, athletic, younger wader. So, no deeper. I fish waist deep from as close as I can get and still be upstream. There are easier places to cast and drift a dry fly over more willing fish, and I will, before I'm done here, question my sanity, but then what fun would that be. All the challenges aside, I'd really like, with all this adversity, to fool this fish!

Halfway through and smack dab in the middle of this particularly nasty set of dissimilarly behaving ribbons about thirty feet below me lies a better than decent rainbow. Leisurely, at his own unhurried pace, he rises to the surface, barely disturbing it, to terminate the journey of hatching naturals. I know he's better than decent because his technique is flawless. He's obviously had some time to perfect it. In this roiling mass of confusing currents, the trout, hidden by both his choice of lies and perfect coloration, rises and adeptly sucks in his targeted prey. I secretly revel in my practiced, albeit aging eye for spotting him, while at the same time cursing him for knowing exactly what he wants and only that. Fortunately, despite my efforts, he maintains his position and his (somewhat) selective feeding, which is probably a testament to my inability (so far) to get anything close to him, fly or line. But it won't, it can't continue much longer. It never does. If I don't figure something out soon, he'll hunker back down into anonymity to wait, as do most of the trout in my river, for darkness.

But then, so do I. This preoccupation, while captivating, is in all reality simply a time-killer. I hold my next candidate, a classic up-winged artificial close to examine my tie, but I wait for the light to fade. The temperature to drop. I wait with the trout for the darkness. And the caddis.

It's the middle of September. We're losing close to four minutes of sunlight every day now. The shadows have already crawled halfway up the cliffs across the river, and I reflexively look to my left wrist to check my watch but then remember I lost it in the river last week. I figure it's probably past six now, and there's maybe a half hour until the sun dips behind the trees at my back. It always amazes me at this time of year how light it stays long after the sun has gone. Maybe it's like that at the end of every day, but it seems to be more protracted now, in these hazy, late summer days, as though summer is refusing to admit the inevitability of fall. I cannot appreciate this time of year too much now, although I feel, as I wait, like a child lying in bed counting the minutes until Santa arrives. Every evening, after darkness comes on and the caddis appear, it's Christmas.

The transformation is unbelievable as the evening progresses. This summer there have been days and days of one of the most prolific blue-winged olive hatches I have ever witnessed. The surface was literally alive with them, but only a few smaller trout rose to eat. Not believing my eyes, I'd dutifully dig through my rather extensive collection of olives thinking that surely such a tasty, timely morsel as this could not be refused. But that mindset soon changed into one of near panic. After quite a few days of utter frustration, including a last very long afternoon, it all culminated in a memorable evening whereupon I witnessed The Transformation, had The Epiphany, and was delivered into heaven. Literally. God Bless the Caddis.

I was chatting online with my son this morning and he posed a couple of interesting questions after he'd heard my latest 'after dark' account; this in conjunction with his perusal and appreciation of a picture of the latest version of my never-ending search for the perfect soft hackle. It's a real piece of work, if I do say so myself. Got all the bells and whistles I'd innovated and used one at a time on previous editions. This one's got 'em all, as you can see at the top of the page. Anyway, I put it on my Google Plus page early yesterday right after tying it, and followed that up later with a short comment as to how well it worked last night. And it did work. Really well. But, I digest...
After he listened to me tell (again) of The Transformation and the numbers of fish as well as the numbers and varieties of caddis that I saw, and having a prior knowledge of the sparsely attended blue-winged olive hatch, he typed;
1) Does what the fish are eating have anything to do with the number available, or is that an arbitrary thing?
2) Are they really selective when there are so many varieties of the same bug available?

That's why he's a damn doctor. He's thinking. All of the time. And asking questions I have trouble answering. Truth is, I don't know. I suppose the only way to get a handle on any of that would be to pump esophagus after damned esophagus, in the light of a damned headlamp. I don't know why it is that (this year, anyway) most trout are foregoing the BWO appetizers and concentrating on the caddis, or more to the point, the many varieties of caddis, but they are. They sure as hell are. In that regard, maybe Aaron's onto something; maybe it is a numbers game.

I'm way behind the curve when it comes to understanding why they'll eat this and not that even when this and that are on the table at different times of the day. I'm having trouble understanding why it is that ten million BWOs can float past and not draw a single customer, and why two hours later the river is filled with splashing trout chasing caddis all over hell. I don't think it's because the BWOs suddenly taste bad BUT, to be honest here, and I am; I have never, in all my years of fishing this river, seen so many caddis both in numbers and varieties. It's simply incredible to watch The Transformation as darkness intensifies. At any given time if you breathe with your mouth open you have the opportunity to inhale 3 different kinds of caddis. I know. I've got first-hand experience. Why, if you don't mind, they'll crawl right up your nose! You become THE A. P.(anchor point)!

I've attempted to document this nightly occurrence more than a few times. I pull out my trusty water-proof (thanks again, Aaron) camera and fire away, hoping to capture the event digitally. But when I get home and download the pictures to my Mac, it always looks like it's either snowing or I got caught in a meteor shower except for that dark blurry spot which was a caddis (or several) that landed on the lense. Not to mention that I'm waist deep in some pretty fast water standing on really slippery rocks praying that I can still find my way touchy-feely back to terra firma without going for a swim and I probably just jinxed myself by mentioning that, but oh well.

It's not true that they only come out at night, though. That was a witty (?) way of describing The Transformation, which I capitalize because to me it assumes biblical proportion every time I am witness to it. There are fish that can be tempted by various flies during most hours of each day. Problem is finding them. After my first Transformation, I began to question my need to be on the river for so many hours during the summer months when I could pop on down for just a few hours each evening, and come back home with a sore arm! And up to this juncture it's been near to impossible to get anyone to accompany me, which would go a long way toward thereby validating it. That's okay. Call me a liar. Call me crazy. Call me crazy and shake your head. Call me if you want but I'll be back later. I've gone back down to get ready for the next Transformation.

Priceless

2011-08-17T14:28:00.000-07:00

You have to give people something to dream on.

Jimi Hendrix

I had one hell of a time getting this post started. Nothing worked. I literally wore out the delete key. I threw out beginning after beginning, re-worded, re-phrased, re-everythinged everything time after time, only to read it back and then (with my eyes closed) hit the delete key again and again ad nauseum to the point that when it was time for some shut eye I couldn't sleep. Yes, I couldn't sleep. It was that important to me.

Sometimes, as I go through my days (fly rod always at the ready) the things I make important in my somewhat narrow life's repertoire have to be set aside. Life is (and to not sound so full of myself as to think I speak for everybody I'll say this just for me) chock full of a kind of point and counterpoint, in that there do arise those occasions where I need to not only comprehend, but transcend (if you will) to the 'bigger picture'. And, for the most part, I have managed to keep my eyes open when it really mattered. It's always been too easy for me to get so immersed in my own little spectrum, and stay that way for months, years, or a lifetime. Maybe it's that way for all of us, I don't know, but I confess to thinking that's probably not the norm. Like I said, I don't for a second, with my less than infrequent social interactions and nearly non-existent circle of friends, pretend for that same second that I have any modicum of insight into what anyone else's lives, thought processes, or priorities, are, and at the same time I admit that I like it that way. I knew a long time ago, that as fickle as they may be, trout, and the ways they think are so much more important, meaningful, to me than what goes on in the minds of most human beings... most of the time...

At this point in my post I'd wanted to insert the word 'legacy' and it's definition, but then I read the definition and it just didn't work. True enough that yes, the definition loosely circumscribed the meaning I was after, but in truth, to me, it didn't even come close to what I was looking for. It had no punch, no weight, no depth. It didn't do any justice to what I'm trying to talk about here. So I'm left with the task of attempting to convey to you, my pathetically few but fervently faithful readers just what in the hell I'm trying to say. We'll see if I do, otherwise you won't be reading any of this.

"Delete key is operational as always, sir." (I know, I know!)

Hand-me downs. I grew up in a family that subscribed heavily to this tradition. Hand-me-downs ran the gamut from socks to books to athletic equipment and every entity in between. If you were lacking something, odds were nearly always better than good that someone who'd superseded you had just what you needed. I grew up in a neighborhood full of kids around my age whose families operated around the same principle. And there we all were then, wearing, reading, playing, competing; doing whatever it was we did with the same stuff our predecessors had used. It wasn't until either the existing stock on hand was depleted or we could consistently exhibit exceptional ability that any of us enjoyed the opportunity to experience doing what it was we did with something that was then purchased specifically for us. That's how I first learned to fish and then how I learned to fish with flies, and that's how my son learned. Hand-me-downs.

But in the long run, often the most important aspect of the hand-me-down was the information, or knowledge that was also dispensed. Sure, you had the mitt your grandfather, father, uncle, or older brother once used, but there were usually viewpoints/tips/inside stuff that came along with it. A set(s) of direction(s) to make your ownership of said item(s) more enjoyable/productive. I look back and understand why some of us went further than others from this fairly common starting point. Some of us had better equipment, that is, more relevant information than most of us. The kind of stuff that substantiated wanting to persevere, to get better, to even excel. To get better meant someone had rewarded your effort, and if they did, you upped your chances of reaping the benefits of those efforts; a new mitt, or backboard, a new pair of skis, or, as in my case, a new fly rod, which in turn supplemented the skill level already attained with a fresh outlook on progressing further. And so on and so on...

When I look back on my youth and my relationship with dad, who was an excellent athlete/student/musician in his own right, what I see is a man who though dearly wishing to never grow old, knew that good ol' Father Time was nevertheless proceeding with his master plan. Dad, in his classic short-tempered patriarchal way taught me everything he knew as far as athletics (and the piano) were concerned, albeit to a certain point. It was when I began to best him in different categories that he felt his input was not necessary anymore. For example, I still remember the very last time we played badminton. It was the time I beat him in a no-holds barred three game match. He'd walked off the court showing little or no emotion, but I sensed a certain pride in my accomplishment. How could he have not been? He'd taught me well, and better than that he'd taught me the right stuff, the kind of stuff that kept me playing, and striving to get better to the point that I was the Ferris High School badminton champ for four years in a row!

It was the same for fly fishing. He was a perfectionist. A knowledgeable, if somewhat impatient teacher. I didn't go past the lesson at hand until I'd completely satisfied him that I had it mastered. There were guidelines set down, practice was a given, and the reward was graduation to the next set of skills, until The Day arrived when I was asked (required) to accompany him in the Chris Craft up to his beloved Distillary Bay to fish big hairy dries for Cutthroat Trout. And, would I please rig up my new graphite fly rod before we went? I'd done it! I'd graduated to the next level, which was going to be as tough (or tougher) than the previous ones because this was the first one that actually dealt with everything concerning actually finding, casting to and catching a cuttie, which meant that my education as far as flies, insects, habitats, anything having directly to do with locating and enticing trout was beginning.

So, then, was the rest of my life. I just didn't know it at the time. How could I? I was twelve. There would have to be many years and many events come to pass before I would realize that. But when I did, I knew I'd been given the firmest of foundations on which to build my own sets of experience and knowledge. That will always be the most thoughtful gift I have ever received.

I stand in my river upstream from him, staying just busy enough so as to not to let him see me watching, but I have no reason to fear being found out. He is unaware of anything other than the job at hand. His roll cast is decent, and now he mends line in behind it, allowing his fly to settle as it is carried downstream before it begins to rise while carving its arc. His concentration is palpable, his demeanor, though, relaxed.

And I am quietly amazed by his ability, his method. It then strikes me that he is utilizing a set of tools I have taught him to use here, on my river. His movements are confident, unhurried. While he watches his line, I can almost see the wheels in his head turning. His fly reaches the end of its arc. I know it has because he is letting it dangle so it will be feathered back and forth, up and down by the current. Then, suddenly he lifts his rod which bends, and shudders as he does so. My son has hooked a very nice rainbow. It is only then that he chances a look upstream in my direction, a broad smile on his face. I can easily see that. Right through my own. And I'd have several more chances to grin on this morning and more still two mornings later, when he showed me his ease with something else I'd talked to him about.

The Spokane River is not a fly fisherman's river, at least not in the classic sense of dry flies, long casts, easy wades, or predictable hatches. It is almost never easy, takes years to even begin to understand, and is more than frequently a severe test for those who have spent their time here wisely. Its currents are never less than a hydraulic hell, demanding a fluent understanding of many odd but utilitarian casts and mends (other than the ones you're probably used to). It's all about putting the fly, nymph, dry, streamer, or wet into the strike zone.

But most importantly, it's really more about knowing that on this river there are no rules. And if there really are no rules, where does that leave the fisherman who has not only spent a good majority of his time playing by those rules and has also learned to make them work to his advantage? They usually don't stay long. One visit is quite enough, if they can't 'throw out the blueprint'.

Monday morning was a carbon-copy of the previous Saturday, weather-wise. Cool morning warming quickly as the sun rose into another bluest sky. We were on the water again before 6. But that's about where the similarities ended. It's like I've said a million times about the Spokane; every day is different. And if you wish to be consistently successful, you must remember that there can be no box, no routine, other than a routine centered around consistent creativity.

Two mornings. Different, for sure, but identical in that on both days as I watched my son he not only utilized some of the tools I'd taught him, but used them creatively, innovating and then implementing a basically new set of skills with which to be successful. That, my friends, is powerful stuff when you witness it happening. And it bodes well for his future fishing endeavors, because although he will undoubtedly fish more classically oriented waters in his lifetime, the lessons learned here will always be there, in his toolbox, waiting to be put to use again and again. And, most importantly, beyond making his dad quietly prouder than hell, is his mindset. Knowing that there is a solution, and knowing that he has the tools is the best gift I can ever give him. That's one hell of a legacy.

There. That's why I wanted to use that word.

But the lessons really never do stop. Not for me, at least. My fish count for those two mornings is not worth mention. Why? Well, beyond admitting that I landed very few fish, that wasn't really the point. How could I have enjoyed that over seeing the torch get passed. I'll take the way it all panned out every time over a big fish count. Besides, I have tomorrow and the next day and the day after that...

... and I'll figure it out all over again, and again...

Sunset

2011-07-29T08:07:00.001-07:00

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.

Rabindranath Tagore

All men think all men mortal, but themselves.

Edward Young

The trail takes me back upstream. I've walked it hundreds of times, both up an down, at all times of the day, in every kind of weather. Today I see it winding ahead of me into the fracturing light, revealing itself slowly as I go. I take my time, quietly reveling, appreciating the way the ebbing light is filtered through the tall pines. The refracting rays from the water below and to my left itinerantly highlight the undersides of the canopy branches above me. It's a bit surreal, and I smile.

And, as I walk, the memory of the past two hours plays and replays in my mind; the current's constant push, a well placed cast, the swing bending into an elongated 's' just long enough to portend the jolt, and I remember, when it came, how good it felt...

It has been quite a ride, these past few weeks. My river has been stubborn this year, giving up its high, racing flows only grudgingly, sometimes resisting for days at a time any inclination to slow. My anxieties compounded themselves as each day dropped away from the calendar to be replaced over and again by days of similar frustration. My burning desire to be fishing would compel me to be here day after day if only to once again confirm what the cold, hard reality was. So I would spend that time exploring, retracing the trails to my beloved places all the while knowing full well that this was indeed a true measure of my patience.

I near the fork in the trail and start up the hillside. It is steep here, and stays that way clear to the crest, some two hundred yards above me. There will come that day when this climb will be so formidable as to give me pause. That thought recurs now to me more often, and pushes me each time to climb steadily as though it is nothing, but I know there will come a day...

Everything looks different to me today. The river is new, a gift from the same torrents that tortured me. Silver lining, I guess, but it really is true. The carnage has changed my river; scoured, augered, bludgeoned, destroyed, redesigned. The finished product is now a hundred thousand new puzzles to solve, one piece at a time, and time always runs out. I stop as I near the crest and turn so that I can see my river as it comes around the corner upstream. The cerise light of the just settled sun ripples off of the water as the crisp western line of shadow steadily advances. A ring appears on the inside of a seam, and then another, expanding as they slide, quietly swallowed by the darkness. I cannot for the life of me imagine how a trout could survive the hydraulic holocaust of a run-off like the one just concluded even though I know they have not only survived, they have prospered. They, as always, have the edge. They were there, witnessing the change. They are ahead of the curve. That makes me smile again.

I would like to live forever, please. I want, each day into eternity, to walk down the trail off of the hillside, stop and wonder where it is I will fish today. I want to stare into the setting sun reflecting off the riffles and feel the cool current surge against my legs. I want to feel the rush of a solid take as my soft hackle carves another perfect arc, or as my Adams settles quietly above a perfect rainbow. And I want to walk the trail back home, into the sunset, thinking about where I will go tomorrow, and then the day after that...

Report.

2011-07-11T11:53:00.000-07:00

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.

Dr. Suess

Children learn to smile from their parents.

Shiniki Suzuki

As you can see from the above pics, it was a good day.

My camera worked.

In my last post I promised to keep me (and anyone else who might stumble into this blog) posted, so here it is; the OFFICIAL follow-up to my previous post.

As I(and you) may recall, I was looking forward to fishing with my son Aaron, the Doctor of Philosophy in Pharmaceutics (sorry, I just love seeing that in print) who had a small window of time with which to wet a line with me. It's not often I get the opportunity to share fishing time with him, so, as could be expected, I was pretty excited.

And, since the only real game in town at that time was still (but not for long now, finally) Rocky Ford, well, need I say more. Besides that, in the preceding months I'd discovered THE COLOR of a favorite food source always available to the big, rather feisty rainbow population there and had been subsequently enjoying the spoils of my scud 'research' in each ensuing visit. All I had to do now was to make sure we got out there, which was easy because I'd kept him up to speed with periodic reports and now he was champing at the bit. The possibility that my high fish counts were influencing his decision was not lost on me.

I have to hand it to him; I've never seen anyone be so productive on such little sleep. I'd like to think that ability is in his DNA, but it's more than likely a product of both the intensity of his years of college and graduate school and mostly his penchant for not only overcoming but overwhelming anything that might be considered an obstacle. In other words, I'm pretty sure his ability to make all the thousands of hours of sleep deprivation pay off for him did NOT come from me.

He didn't arrive until after ten Friday night, and wasn't in bed until after I'd slapped a new leader and tippet on his fly line, which put it a little after eleven. The next morning, after our traditional bowl of oatmeal and raisins we were on the road by four-thirty, nursing steaming mugs of Gold Blend, with road music provided by Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Beck, respectively. That's yet another unbelievably cool thing about my son; his taste in music.

I've driven the hundred and twenty-six miles from Spokane to Rocky Ford for a lot of years, but I've never once thought I'd gotten there too quickly. At least, not until our drive Saturday morning. Not only did I have company, I had the best companion ever. It's such a gift to travel with someone (and there are blessed few of them) who's presence I really enjoy. I know he was eager beyond words to get there and feel again the bend in his rod, and so was I, but this outing, for me at least, was so much more than that. They always are when we go fishing.

To put it simply, the older I get, the more I appreciate the few parcels of time I can spend with Aaron. It goes way the heck beyond fishing, although to spend that time with him doing something that is so close to my heart is of course an added bonus. And he's a good fisherman.I know, as I watch him, and I know that if he had more time to apply to it, he'd be world-class. There are some things that can be taught, and he's learned these lessons well, and then there are the intangibles; things that deal more with creativity, hunch, and other senses that one either possesses and is able to tap into and utilize, or not. I've known many fishermen in my lifetime, and I know that not all of us have these more innate abilities.

He's got them. All of them. About the only thing he doesn't have going for him yet, besides time, is the fact that, like his dad, he's as much an out and out perfectionist as he gets impatient with himself. But the years will take care of that. They'll spread an experiential patina of patience over his fishing. I know of what I speak. I can look back on my years and see that same thing happening to me. It's an ongoing process. It's made me such a better fisherman to this point, and I know that it will get even better. Why?

Ask me that in ten years and maybe I'll be able to tell you.

I can see the light through the trees now, but I'm still pretty much in the forest. And let me tell you, that light is not a freight train. The closer it gets, the more it looks and feels like the purest satisfaction, the greatest peace that I have ever known. I know that shit happens, but now, when shit does happen, it doesn't seem nearly the catastrophe that it once was. Oh, I'm still prone to occasional fits of disgust with myself, but somewhere along the way I seem to have discovered a more efficient way of dealing with them. To me, the ability to effectively deal with 'the shit' is worth a thousand big fish brought to hand.

I'd barely gotten Aaron set up in the spot where I usually start my fishing, having then moved upstream about fifty feet. I was still pulling line off my reel when I heard him yell, "Fish on, dad!" I dropped my rod and raced, or, more or less stumbled through the cattails as I dug out the camera, praying that the benevolent god of good memories was with me; that my finicky Minolta was going to work.

Hot damn. It did. For awhile, anyway.

Just long enough to capture a couple of memories, for which both he and I are thankful. Never mind that fact that I threw a nice shadow all over his fish. Talk about disgusted with myself!

No sooner did I get back to my position when I heard the sound of a splash; the kind of sound a large trout makes after leaping crazily into the air. He'd hooked another one. Two fish in five casts! How cool is that! And there I went, dropping my rod again as I repeated my stumble back down to get another shot,

So it was a great day. Me? Oh, I hooked a few fish here and there. I know I lost more than my share because of my inattentiveness, but that's okay. This day wasn't about me, wasn't about needing to catch as many fish as possible. It was about just being happy to be there with my son. It was about watching him relax, watching him get lost in the moment, and most importantly, just being out together. That's more of the sweet stuff that I mentioned in an earlier post, if there's anybody out there...

Turns out my scuds were The Ticket for the most part, too, although Aaron got creative in the afternoon. He started fishing a scud with one of my soft hackles on point, and hooked some really hot fish with that set-up. I remember at one point we were set up about thirty yards apart above an area on the creek where the channel narrows and runs through a series of huge granite boulders. He was casting directly upstream along the bank and put the flies right smack dab in front of a large bright buck that was slowly foraging along the weed line. I watched the flies slowly settle, saw the trout instantly come to attention and dart straight toward the scud. His mouth opened and Aaron was spot on with his strike. That fish instantly hit the afterburners and lit out for the other side of the creek, and I wish I'd had the camera ready because it was such an awesome sight to see Aaron, rod high, pinned at sixty odd feet to a very hot ten pound fish. That will stay with me forever, as I'm sure it will with him! And there were several more of those as the day progressed!!

Those are good memories. They will be with me forever, as vivid and fresh as the moment they occurred. And, I live for the creation of more just like them.

"... preserve your memories, they're all that's left you."

Simon and Garfunkel

Rings... of a sort.

2011-06-20T11:26:00.000-07:00

Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.

Herman Hesse

Summer warily approaches. On the calendar, anyway. Daylight, in its extended version, is really the only bowing to what should ordinarily be occurring . For this year, that's just about the end of any similarity to most of the summers in my recallable lifespan.

Yes, it's almost summer now, and yes it's been blazing hot elsewhere on our mudball, but here? Well, let me just sum it up with this;

Here in the great Pacific Northwest (where we all swear to the gods of our four wonderful seasons) we have yet to even crack the eighty degree mark. In fact, we are setting records (albeit a dubious standard)with each passing day for taking so damned long to get there. That may happen some time this week. I've got my fingers crossed, but I'm not holding my breath... yet.

My tomato plants(and I) should be given medals. Beyond the cold, moist month just passed, they (with my constant help), have survived (so far) vicious assaults from an unprecedented horde of slugs. I have never seen such numbers of the slimy little warriors, but maybe soon, just maybe, I will have a new ally with which to do battle, beyond the wet boards, carpet remnants and beer tubs.

Heat... but I'm not, as stated above, going to count on it.

But that's not where I'm going to take this post. TDR, which is my river, or for those of you who don't often visit, officially the Spokane River, is still running at over twenty-two thousand cubic feet per second. And here it is almost the first day of that period of time we love to call SUMMER.

Twenty-two thousand cfs!! Some years, that's more run-off than we experience at peak run-off time in May! And you should've seen it this year. I marked it on the calendar. On May twenty-eighth the gauge a mile above several of my favorite fishing haunts registered thirty-three thousand eight hundred cubic feet per second. And that's not even a month ago! All of which means that, whenever flows do finally drop low enough to fish (hopefully down to under six thousand by mid-July), I'll be putting in some extra time just re-acquainting myself with all of the structural changes, because that much force for so long really changes the landscape of the river's bottom, which means changed lies and current breaks, to name just the obvious differences. The biggest difference will be the flows themselves when I can go fish it again. I cannot remember ever fishing the river in July when the flows were even close to six thousand. Usually it's been maybe three, or even under.

With that in mind, I think I mentioned (I did) in an earlier post our obscenely low (record low) spring temperatures, and I also made reference to record rainfall totals. Well, little has changed since that time, both facets serving to retard the usual time frame for run-off, also taking note of the fact that we had a bumper crop of snowfall last winter (150% of normal) which is still visible on the mountains to the east and north. So, yes, this year will be very different from all the others, or at least any that I can remember, and I've been fishing my river for quite a while.

But I've got a secret weapon. Not that I can say I acquired it for just this reason, but this year it's really going to come in handy, probably until August or even later. I've used it on occasion in the past, as kind of a way to break up the routine. And it's provided me with success in that with it I can reach water that's normally out of range.

IT is a twelve-foot four-piece five weight, made by Sage and lined with a Windcutter seven weight-forward dry line.

I even named it. Sting. A good snap roll will send my bead head soft hackle out a good seventy feet or more if/when I time it perfectly. That's upping the odds when I'm thinking I'll be working with even less room for any kind of backcast this year. I'd be a little worried if there were better chances for dry fly opportunities as this rod, however well designed to deliver weighted flies, is a bit too much for any delicate presentations of blue-winged olives, caddis, or smaller patterns requiring some technical skill as far as a soft landing is concerned. It can be done, in a pinch, but since by far and away the best and often the biggest fish are hooked by subsurface methodry, I doubt I'll press it into service for that. And, later, into the fall as the lower flows create space for actual casting, I have a spot where I can overhand Sting. Now we're talking about about putting some distance into the equation. It's so cool to feel the power of the rod as it uncoils, sending my soft hackle over a hundred feet down and across. Not bragging. It's awesome. I wish I had a movie of me casting there. Hell, I wish I had even a picture! I won't go into that again. Hard to take pictures of yourself, unless you have the whole thing set up and on a timer and yeah wouldn't all that be just grand except who's mule is going to carry all that expensive stuff down the river for me?

But, I wander, which is in all reality probably okay because I'm pretty sure (at this point) that I'm the only one reading these things! Honk if you're reading along!

I'm going to write the final chapter on this spring/summer's Rocky Ford experience on Saturday with my son Aaron. It's so cool that he found time to break away from his new job at Seattle Genetics to head over this way to fish with me. I've been tying like crazy. In addition to what's already in the box, I've tied up a couple dozen dark scuds, a dozen or so chironomids, a few teeny tiny pheasant tails, some articulated leeches and a couple of itty-bitty dries, although I doubt we'll actually use them. Nice to have them there, but this scud thing has gotten serious, especially lately. Having dialed in the color has been the key and made it my go-to pattern when I'm there. Hopefully all I've come to understand about the Ford in the past few months will translate into a bent rod for Aaron. There's nothing like hooking big, hot trout, but that takes a backseat to watching my son hook up. That's the real stuff!

We have a great new fly shop in town. I've mentioned it in earlier posts. It's an awesome shop. I spend an inordinate amount of time (when I'm there) talking fishing with the owner(s), and we've made tentative plans to fish my river together this summer/fall, and so we spend a good amount of time picking each other's brains. Turns out that John is intimate with the river above my uppermost reaches. Places where I've always wanted to explore but haven't gotten to as yet. Likewise for him as far as my area of expertise. So, if it pans out, and we all know about making plans, this year on the Spokane might just be the most interesting yet. I'll keep me posted.

The Box

2011-05-16T07:41:00.000-07:00

Reality is a sliding door.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'd again chosen to fish the other side. Actually, a threatening sky and the tempermental winds out of the south accompanying my arrival had aided me in that decision. And as the hours ticked past, it turned out to be a rather wise one, but not because of the weather which was to phase into a decidedly beautiful day.

It's early in the turnover stage at the creek. Last year's ubiquitous growth of water-borne vegetation, now dead and brown, is slowly being loosened by the warming sun and longer daylight hours. The new growth helps to break it loose and it drifts downstream. As the sunlight warms the creek in days to come, the volume of detritus floating past will make it increasingly difficult to get a fly into the water without it becoming tangled in or coated by the slimy dead stuff. Casting will become an exercise in precision, seeking out those few open areas inside which a fly will at least enter the water cleanly. Trouble with that approach is that below the surface, it may an altogether different story. The flow distributes the muck evenly from top to bottom. So, even though you have dropped your fly cleanly in the middle of open water, and unless the fly either sinks very fast or continues its floating drift in the middle of that same area, you'll be shaking off the clinging dead stuff after almost every cast. And as many of you already know, especially when it involves very finicky, sun-shy trout, even the smallest particle of non-substantive material on your fly is enough reason for them to pass on it, no matter how well you have matched whatever it is that they are eating. It can be more than frustrating.

So if I decide I'm going to fish dry, I better be in one of the few areas where the flows are fast enough to isolate more than just a few open areas of water, but the trouble with this approach is that that's not always where the fish are. In fact, I've found that foraging fish often shadow these drifting hunks of goo, casually scooping up any tasty morsels that occasionally drop away from, or still reside in them. They're like mobile diners/shelters, providing cover as well as food.

This process usually takes a couple of weeks to run its course, but today I will have, until well into the afternoon, lots of open water to work with. One of the keys, as this process progresses, is to be fishing as early as possible. That allows for a few hours of relatively gunk-free fishing each day. As the passing days warm and 'turnover' reaches its peak, that optimum time span in the early morning will shrink radically.

I choose a muddy point marked by only a few tattered stands of cattails from where I have command of several feet of casting area and nearly a hundred yards of water. My usual routine of starting up much higher on the creek and ending here was tossed when I saw that the 'turnover' had begun. That and the fact that no matter how early I leave home in the morning now I just can't seem to get here before the sun comes up. That event alone takes several fly choices out of the program, namely my articulated leech. When the sun hits the water, put away the leech patterns, unless you want to search for the one fish in every two hundred feet of water that's willing to chase it. But by and large, when the sun lights up the reeds and rushes on the north side of the creek, it's too late. The fish are hunkering, waiting for the next course, which will usually be midges or blue-winged olives, while some foragers are in the meantime tearing through the new vegetation for scuds, sowbugs, and chironomids, meaning that it's time to think smaller, and more scientifically, when the sun comes.

That's why I chose the title for this post. But don't let that fool you.

Everybody's 'box' has a different shape, color, and size. There are no two that are alike. Each of our boxes fits somewhat neatly around the sets of experiences and notions (pre-conceived or not) that we have developed throughout our years of fishing for each and every place we may frequent per times of the year. Contained in our 'boxes' are not only the concrete manifestations of our experiences but also the intrinsics, the intangibles; the stuff of how we fish, how we think about fishing, what and why we comprehend what we do, and how we put it all together into our process.

There are times when, on occasion, our boxes will appear to be somewhat related. I think that this occurs more often with the accumulation of similar sets of experiences, and is usually an aggregate of many years of knowledge. But, even though we may agree in broader terms of what to use, that's just about where any semblance of similarity ends. For me, this is one of the more (if not the most) fascinating aspects of fishing with a fly. It's also the reason you'll find such a wide variety of flies, methods, and thought processes at work wherever even time-tested folks fish with flies.

Usually.

But, let's get back to the fishing, particularly this day.

My choice of fly (having disregarded the impulse to strip the leech anyway despite the sun) was an easy one, based on the success I'd enjoyed with it the previous week in about the same time frame. My soft hackle. I was sure that I'd pick right up where I left off last week, hooking big fish after big fish, but after a half hour of casting and trying many styles of retrieve, I'd as yet had no action. Interesting, and yet so normal. I knew it wasn't a one-hit wonder, and so then pondered just what I use next.

My 'box' is full of the systemic interactions of 'what ifs' played out against the experientially immediate reality of now. A scud seemed to be the logical next step, so I went to my vest pocket, pulled out a box and opened the scud section, but then stopped. Sitting on the back of my hand was a midge. My attention turned back to the water, and after a moment or two of observation, I respooled my line and played on a hunch, moving downstream several hundred feet to a section of faster water broken by a series of rocks. A perfect (in my eyes) place for a chironomid, a brown one with a silver rib, drifted under an indicator. Put the fly upstream just above the rocks and let it drift down, with the current pulling it around the rocky outcropping.

The indicator bobbed and then submerged. I lifted my rod, but felt nothing. Another cast, and the same result. Tentative takes, I deduced, based on what was in my 'box'. I then stepped out of it a bit, deciding that I'd add another chironomid to the mix. I tied a similar, albeit slightly darker one below the first. Maybe there's success in numbers, a theory I'd frequently entertained, but had been reluctant to subscribe to up until now.

The next drift had barely begun when the indicator suddenly disappeared. I felt the weight of a good fish, and battled him carefully. Three-pound test tippet will demand that; patiently absorbing his runs and head shaking until finally bringing him to hand. Another cast, and the same result. It went on like this for a good hour. I hooked, landed, and released many fish, all the while being sure after every other fish to re-tie my set-up. But, eventually, I got lazy, chose not to re-tie, and lost my bottom fly. I wondered if two really were better than one, and cast the lone chironomid several times, not surprised that the takes were fewer and much less violent before again adding a second chironomid similar to the one I'd lost back into the equation. I was again rewarded consistently for the next half hour.

And then, as is so often the case, it was as though some one (or some thing) had suddenly flipped the switch. It was palpable.The energy level had changed. Dropped right off the scale. Drift after drift with no activity.

I respooled my fly line, observing the water again. There were still thousands of midges in the air, clustering in the air where it was out of the wind, but I sensed that a change in location and fly were in order. I returned upstream to my original location, using the travel time to ponder my next move.

I'd all but decided to drift the same set-up through the slower, deeper water that ran by me, though I had reservations about this method now, especially here. I could see many trout cruising upstream and then down again, occasionally darting this way and that, their mouths opening and closing...

Scuds. I clipped off the light tippet, returned the chironomids to their section, went again to my scuds, and had an idea; if two chironomids had proved more attractive than one, could the same be true for scuds? Hm. I got to work. A larger, more lightly colored scud on top (point) with a smaller, heavier, much darker one on the bottom, about a foot apart. I cast short, slightly upstream and waited for them to sink. I didn't have long to wait. It was crazy. For the next couple of hours it was crazy. Fish after fish. I fished from this one position. And they all ate the bottom, darker scud. Most of the takes were within eyesight. I was able to see the scud, see the take. And even when I couldn't, the takes were so aggressive that nearly all the hook-ups were solid.

My 'box' had been expanded a few weeks ago when I'd been forced by the brutally hard winds that day to abandon fishing. I'd then taken some time to search out and hopefully collect specimens of some of the food sources available to these trout. My findings, for the most part, were in accordance with what I'd surmised without having first-hand knowledge. But, it was what I had not known until I took the time to see for myself that provided the structure for this success. I'd hit upon this in an earlier post, but the real significance didn't make itself apparent until I finally leaned on that new-found knowledge hard enough to actually put it to use. The color of the scuds was infinitely darker than the color I'd long thought was right. It was incredible, the difference. My choice of colors was the product of my limited success here with scuds, and mostly (I hate saying this) the result of looking at too many imitations of scuds that I'd seen in many fly shops and read about in several publications. Turns out that they were not even closely similar in color (or size) to what I'd found in my 'research' here. And, to take that a step further, even after tying several scuds with 'correct' color, I was hesitant to implement them, choosing marginal success over change. The 'box' imprisoned me.

In a few weeks, mother nature permitting, I will be back in my river. But I think I will be fishing it with a better 'box' now. The lessons I've learned in my time away from there will be of inestimable value. They will extend far beyond the locale and the specific realm with which they dealt. And, it seems that finally I have acquired the patience necessary with which to deal with the idea that indeed I have as much still to learn as I have already learned. For that I am grateful, because I am also, maybe because I am finally old enough to really see, that even though the gift of fishing consistently well with a fly can be either bought or acquired, I'll take the latter. I'll gladly take the latter. It's so much more satisfying.

Every box is different. I'm proud of mine. I built it myself.

2011-05-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance.

Socrates

Being tired, but not so as to yet be inclined to turn out the light, I sought the mind-numbing refuge of the television. This is always a sure-fire mechanism, serving to remind me that indeed sleep is always preferable to the half-conscious, slow-burning stupor induced by staring at that which I find less than palatable for even the briefest amount of time. A good book is the best way to coaxe oneself to the precipice, but, being in between the last and the next, and not quite sure as to what would be the next, I grabbed the remote, got comfortable, and settled in to a channel-by-channel march through the morass.

"... I'm the slime oozing out of your tv set..."

Frank Zappa, Overnight Sensation

I didn't get far, but found, much to my delight, bobbing perilously in the sea of biliousness, hidden away on the city's community-access channel (of all places), substance. Real, unabashed get-down-to-it-say-it-like-it-is substance!

I had happened on an impassioned speech, a plea, really, delivered by a well-educated, eloquent, driven gentleman to a group of arts-conscious individuals gathered in Seattle. He was not only a motivator, but a sentinel, and visionary. His intense desire, compelling observations, and message were captivating. His audience embraced every word, and I could not help but be moved by his conviction... and then smiled to myself as I turned out the light, knowing full well, somehow, that no matter how much sanity may still exist in the minds of those willing to sacrifice everything, and how righteous their agenda, it was as inevitable as midnight...

For how long I had heard it, I do not know, but now I stood there, just listening. It was almost as though it had always been there, but I was hearing it for the first time, the oddest sound, somewhat muffled, yet quite distinct. There was a stillness about me, not even the rustling of the dry grasses, as though even the unseen animals and birds, usually busy in the underbrush, had frozen so that I might understand what it was.

Soft. A pulsing whoosh, barely audible...

My fly line line bows slowly. The current is steady, its imperfect roils barely visible in the shadow of the rocky outcropping of hills. The sound perplexes me. I cease my retrieve and turn my head, first this way, then that, listening...

I think out loud sometimes. I know this is occurring when I hear my own voice. It is as though suddenly I've been granted audience to a dialogue inside my head and I become a third person, commenting on, or responding to that which I have just overheard.

It is just this that is occurring when a sharp tug jerks me back into the present. My thought hangs, breathless. I raise my rod and feel resistance for a split second before it is gone.

As I stand there, realizing what has happened, the sound that has eluded definition is there still, but with a quicker cadence. Louder. I realize I have been holding my breath, and exhale sharply as if coming to the surface after a lengthy submersion. I breathe. The cadence decreases, and fades slightly, as if stepping back.

I swallow hard, as if altitude is the key, and pressure is the answer... a snake slides silently across the water downstream, disappearing into the rushes filled with new growth. I cast further this time, a long diagonal that lands my fly inches short of the spot I last saw the snake...

The small stuff.

2011-05-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

I try stuff. I synthesize what's of value with some of the other things I have at my disposal.

Herbie Hancock

Nothing can have value without being an object of utility.

Karl Marx

Every Thursday. Every Thursday. In fact, I'm going on sixteen straight weeks of Thursdays.

Out of bed at two-thirty, and on the road by no later than three forty-five. I've (almost) got it down to a science. It's all in the preparation, and listen to me; why, I sound like I'm organized!

It's a hundred and two miles from my garage west on the freeway to the exit. Then another twenty-five through the town of Moses Lake then north toward Ephrata (or Soap Lake) to Trout Lodge 'road' which washboards me (sometimes savagely) for a couple more miles to the bottom parking lot (there are three). This journey takes me approximately (on average) a hundred and fifty minutes. I'd say two and half hours, but that makes it seem so much longer.

When I hit the dirt road, I plug in the cassette (remember them?) which is full of old Deep Purple, and by old I'm talking late sixties/early seventies here.

"Nobody knows who's real and who's fakin'

Everyone's shoutin' out loud..."

That's the stuff (some of that 'sweet stuff') I talked about in an earlier post).

It's been a long winter. I say that on this twenty-eighth day in April, which is, according to 'them', the second coolest (and wettest) March/April ever. We've topped the sixty degree mark maybe once, or twice, so far this 'spring', with daytime highs averaging a good ten degrees below normal. Not that I'm complaining; I've still got half a boxful of hand warmers left, and a 'muffler' I found in a Duluth catalogue, so I'm probably good through the end of next month. Last week I had ice in the guides past noon. Lost a couple of nice flies (and fish) because I thought I could put off the removal process for one more cast. You'd think by now I'd have learned, and you'd be right. But next year's a ways off. I'll probably forget the lesson (again) by then. I think I've forgotten more than I ever really knew, but I've always been kinda hard on myself.

It's almost five thirty. I'm the first one here, except for a couple of campers parked near the potty at the middle lot. I could never understand why anyone would actually want to set up camp here. It's not a pretty place. In fact, except for the fishing, there's little to recommend as far as amenities, or scenery for that matter. And, whenever it decides to warm up, you've got not only the dust but all sorts of disagreeable creatures, from fleas and ticks to snakes of the poisonous kind, to deal with.

But I can put up with all that for a few hours once a week. The fishing more than makes up for whatever shortcomings there are. And really, the time span from late February through the spring until the run-off subsides on the rivers to the east and southeast marks the boundaries of my time here. I lust for that time when I can be back in my river (the Spokane) again, but for now, well, this is the place.

A good place here to say something about getting older and fishing alone, or, in my case, having no one to go fishing with. Don't get me wrong; I have more than enjoyed my years of solitude on the different waters I've fished, but slowly, especially over the course of the past year or so, I've found myself wanting to further expand, or should I say reclaim my fishing horizon. I'll pull out my Gazateers, wondering what it'd be like to do some fishing a bit further from my usual haunts, of which there are increasingly fewer. I'd like to explore Montana again, be free to roam the Beaverhead, or the Big Horn, the Gallatin, or the Bitterroot. I'd love spending time again wading the South Fork of the Snake and the Henry's Fork. Or, as I thumb through the Wyoming Gazateer's blue squiggles, the North Platte...

I could go on and on. The list is long. I spend an awful lot of time searching, investigating, plotting just exactly how to get to all these places. I know what I'd use once I was there, and I know it'd work. Problem is simply getting there, which isn't a problem if I had some one to get there with. If I was twenty, or even ten years younger, it'd be a done deal. I'd be on the road the hell with everything (and everybody) else and think nothing about it. But now? Now I feel my age creeping into the picture. What if this, and what if that? And then I can't help but start to wonder if this, then, is the starting point of the slow but inevitable process of the beginning of the end, no matter how protracted it turns out to be, and it makes me sad. It makes me want to go fish. Again, and again. Turn back the hands of time. Isn't it quite the conundrum that it takes a lifetime to attain a satisfactory level of wisdom?

The years pass into futures short, memories made, and then all but forgotten. I need to get past this. I need to remain convinced that I can do it still. So I shall. It's worth it. It's worth everything, to me.

Rocky Ford is one of those places that the 'cool' guys who fish a lot never want to talk about. It's the back alley. It's the underside of the otherwise fairy tale dreamlife that is their fly fishing. They will never go there. If they have, they will never go back, and they will never admit to ever having been there. No high-end fly shop sits on its banks. No expensive drift boats drift past. Indeed, there is no wading even allowed here. The road in is primitive and dusty, which in itself does not make it prohibitive, but upon arrival there are no expensive SUVs parked with haughtily garbed fishermen walking about. There are no facilities whatsoever, other than a cement block of a smelly latrine which rarely has toilet paper. There is no tavern, no eatery, no nothing. What there is, at the top of the 'creek', is a hatchery. This hatchery provides the trout found in this 'creek', that runs seven miles down to an arm of Moses Lake, of which only the top two miles are fishable unless carp, bass, tench, or walleye are your intended targets. And even though these trout often get very large, are quite wily, and can be very hard to tempt, the fact that they are not 'wild' trout is another,probably the second most compelling reason for many of these guys not ever wishing to come here. These fishermen will collectively roll their eyes when someone not 'educated' in the ways of 'true' fly fishermen or fly fishing begins (ignorantly) relating a story about Rocky Ford in front of these 'gentlemen'. I know of what I speak. The years spent at the shop gave me plenty of chances to witness this.

I took offense to this rather pious attitude, and it helped to congeal some thoughts I have about them. It galled me to no end. Early on in my tenure there at the shop I remember (rather naively) trying at different junctures to talk some of the guys I'd gotten to know into accompanying me to Rocky Ford. I got polite refusals, and embarrassed glances. Confused, I eventually gave up. But, when it came to hopping in their SUVs and driving for five or six hours (at least) to well-known rivers in Montana, Idaho, or BC, well, I was more than welcome and by the way would I mind tying up a couple dozen of my BWO emergers for them? The interesting (to me) part of all this is that eventually I was successful in convincing some of them to go with me, and what I discovered was that maybe the biggest reason they didn't go there was the fact that the fishing could be very difficult. Technical, even. Precise casts, and perfect drifts. Convincing imitations. Knowledge. Experience. Patience.

Through my years spent fishing, I have discovered that there definitely is a group of fly fishermen who, when it comes right down to it, are extremely defensive about what they know, where they go, and who they go with, and I believe this is because they know less than they care to say. Their high-end rods and equipment, their expensive trips, are all facades behind which exists a pretty fragile ego. And rather than possibly expose themselves as being like all the rest of us, they choose the pack mentality and associate themselves only with like thinkers. Kind of sounds like life, doesn't it? Rather than being curious and asking questions for fear of being found out, they hide behind a thick wallet and smug aloofness which other fishermen often mistake for wisdom. It is this fear of being found out that keeps many from truly enjoying that which makes certain aspects of fishing with a fly so wonderful. They spend their whole lives imitating and stealing. Makes me wonder about their private lives.

It was easy to disassociate myself from this type, and to go it alone.

Couple of weeks ago I took my bug balm, some small jars and my screen out to 'The Ford'. I had decided that I would try to obtain some samples of the various food sources of the habitants of the 'creek'. And what I dredged up from the muddy bottom was an eye opener. Nothing like seeing so many of the trout's actual food sources up close and personal. I hate admitting this, but for a very long time I'd gone on other people's word and my own hunches when it came to size, color, and type, so the first time I dug through the contents of that screen, I was basically shocked. There were organisms in there that I knew trout ate, but I'd never thought they could be found here. And, the ones that I knew were there? Well, let's just say that a good majority of my ideas, or preconceptions, about color, and even size were in reality not very good guesses. It was a big piece of humble pie to swallow, but I gulped it down and spent a lot of hours at the vise trying to make up for lost time.

In the meantime, I discovered that a pattern I fish on the Spokane River quite successfully works very well at The Ford. It just took some modification of technique. That discovery (one of those accidental things) was very satisfying. That pattern is my TDR soft hackle, and it's tied the same way I've tied it for many years.

In any fishing fishing report you may uncover concerning what flies to use here, it's safe to say that the soft hackle probably won't be on anybody's list, and I've yet to discover any data that would refute my investigations. And, although I've used it sporadically over the years, I can point to very few (if any) occasions where it was one of my 'go tos'. My decision to use it in the past was usually almost a sign of frustration with every other fly and method up to that point. Like throwing in the towel. Raising the white flag. A fly that I could stand back and cast as far as I could. After hours of frustration it felt good to just let out the shaft and pop some long ones.

But, every once in a while, I'd hook fish; either close to the end of the very slow swing or as I began the retrieve, the latter being performed in much the same fashion as done on my river. The takes were, as I've said, aggressive, some to the level of breaking me off with such gusto that I had a macrame project on my hands for awhile. But success with the softie was fleeting, inconsistent. I began to change fishing locations more frequently, hooking a fish or two in each new location before moving again. I came to think that with this method I was hooking either the more aggressive or the dumber fish in each area I moved to. Didn't matter. Despite the inconsistencies, it was enough to keep me occupied until it was time to go.

Sometimes.

Most of life is routine - dull and grubby, but routine is the momentum that keeps a man going. If you wait for inspiration you'll be standing on the corner after the parade is a mile down the street.
Ben Nicholas

I'd fallen, quite consciously, into a routine through the years I'd fished 'the Ford'. There was an itinerary of sorts; a certain starting point and then the usual subsequent stops until I'd exhausted those and then, well, then it was time to get creative. Time spent at each location was totally dependent upon the successes or failures at each, which left, on average, a solid three hours or so of actual creative fishing. It was time, after satisfying my pre-conceived notions, to get down to the business of 'figuring it out'. This year I broke out a new routine. I decided that I'd not fished the far side of this 'creek' enough, and it was true; I'd really become fixated by the north side.

The north side offers more area unencumbered by the ubiquitous stands of cattails which had made the south side not as attractive to me. I had room to cast and also less mud to stand in. A fly line really takes it in the shorts here. It collects mud, gets heavy, sinks, and transfers that gooey stuff to your reel.

But, the south side, as I discovered when I began accessing it more often gets less pressure in many areas, especially near the top of the 'creek'. It's a bit of a walk, has only a few scattered openings in the dense forest of cattails, and, most importantly, its deeper water halfway across seems to hold bigger fish that I think have not seen as many flies. This particular observation may or may not be factual, but so far every time I hook up here, which has been often, I am pleasantly amazed.

It was here that I made my serendipitous discovery.

Time is a factor here at the top of the 'creek'. If I get here before the sun has hit the water, I go to my black articulated leech. It's a great pre-dawn pattern. If I ever stay here long enough to fish into the evening, it would be my first choice. On a dark, rainy, windy day here several weeks ago I fished only the AL for most of the day and landed more than a dozen nice fish.

But today the sun beats me to the water. The wind has yet to rise, and the chill in the air precludes any hatch activity on the surface other than a few midges. I reach for my soft hackle, intent on at least having something in the water until the warming rays of the sun kicks the process of the hatch into high gear. I strip a lot of line off the reel and stand on it while pulling, stretching the kinks out. The 'creek' here moves past very slowly, and is at its widest. My casts will drop the soft hackle more than halfway across. After letting it sink as it drifts downstream for a few seconds, I begin my retrieve, strip strip... strip.... strip strip... strip... I am midway through my fourth or fifth series when there is a sharp tug in the opposite direction. I raise my rod, feeling the spasmodic pull of a desperate trout. He races frantically away, nose up, halfway out of the water into frenzied contortions on the surface, and then dives for the safety of the depths, each turn punctuated by violent head shaking. My rod soaks up the shock, bending, recoiling, bending radically with each determined effort.

I hook one more large, bright fish. Then, two casts turn into four, and then eight, and I ponder my next move. There is another opening a hundred or so feet downstream. As I study the water off of that opening, I resume my retrieve, a bit half-heartedly, just fast enough to keep the fly moving. There is a tremendous pull and a split second later a trout shoots skyward. Again and again he breaks the surface, dashing first downstream, then across. He goes ballistic once more, swimming in the air as he tumbles, and my soft hackle is shaken free.

As I ready the next cast, the change in rhythm and speed of my retrieve are not lost on me. I wonder... and am rewarded as I duplicate the last retrieve. Another solid take. Another nice fish.

By the time I had fished my way back down to the narrow rock-filled chute (about a half-mile), I had landed seven more, all enticed by the soft hackle and my slower, less erratic retrieve. In that time I went through three flies, chewed and mangled, barely recognizable after being eaten so many times.

And so it was a good day. A remarkable day, actually. I have been back at the same positions to fish the soft hackle that very same way, and it has been nearly that good each time. All because I was able to locate and then duplicate the mechanism that drew in the first fish.

So, yeah, it took me awhile to figure out what I'd done, and I'm still not sure why it works so well, or what food item the trout think it resembles, but by simply changing the style of retrieve, I've added a lethal weapon to my complement. The takes are aggressive, and it's been working for several weeks now. Excellent!

By early afternoon, the wind had really picked up. It was one of those spring days where one minute the gusts are out of the north, and the next, out of the east, and so on. I moved downstream to an area where I was somewhat sheltered from the various wind directions by a thicket of cattails. It was here where I discovered why I hadn't touched a fish for nearly an hour. In reaching for my fly box to check my scud supply, I saw on my vest and waders several dozen midges clinging to me. There were at least four different varieties, and I never would have known they were out had it not been for the windbreak this slot offered. The light bulb came on. I lengthened my leader, adding a two-foot section of tippet, then opened the section in my box that contained my smallest chironomid patterns, sizes twenty-four to twenty-six. I grabbed a brown one with silver ribbing topped by a silver bead, tied it on and attached a small indicator, puling it up about eighteen inches above my tiny chironomid. The cast was difficult, waiting for lulls in between gusts to quickly put the fly out into the water. The results were almost instantaneous. My indicator floated with the slow current for only seconds before suddenly disappearing, and I quickly, but gently, raised my rod. Another small victory. I finished up the day right there, ducking the wind while hooking several big, feisty trout. It was a very nice walk back through the mud and the wind at the end of the day.

That's all small stuff. But it's huge. Makes my world continue to spin on an even keel. I love figuring things out, and am fascinated by the sometimes inadvertence of discovery.

It's the small stuff that can slip by. It's the same small stuff that can make or break a day.

That's some sweet stuff.

Silence (decipher)

2011-04-15T08:10:00.000-07:00

Silence wears many hats.

It is the tear that forms. It is the secret smile of hours lost. It is the end, or, it is the beginning. It is the purest joy. It is pain. It is relief.

It is the clarity, or it is ignorance. It is nothing, and yet, it knows.

It is the vivid sunset. The new dawn. It is the question never asked, the question never answered.

It is a cry for help. It is the solemn pledge.

It is focus, confrontation. It is flight.

It hides us... then gives us away.

Always silence is eloquent, relating more than any verbiage or contrived set of carefully manufactured phrases, asking far more than what it gives.

Silence is a riddle, a puppet, an actor. Silence pleads for understanding, or turns its back.

Silence is the cement. Or the axe.

Silence is the consummate artist, painting different pictures in every mind.

It is the storm on the horizon. The rage. The submission.

Silence is the universal language no one understands.

A man is known by the silence he keeps.
Oliver Herford

Daylight insinuates itself in degrees. Tiny definable increments to me, although I know better. There are at least a hundred billion shades of gray, and they flow one into another seamlessly, as if to comfort us with the thick warm blanket of a sort of rhythmic continuum, as do the days.

An empty promise? Fulfillment? Or something else. The days don't just begin. Time is a seasoned sentinel, marking the passage surreptitiously, methodically. I don't understand and therefore will not question the premise. How can one question that which one understands so little? But, all of a sudden it's daytime. Again. Technically, isn't it some sort of daytime all the time? I ruminate on this subject way too long, watching the endless, timeless, grayness of another early spring sky reflecting off of, but not imitated by, the slow moving water at the creek.

The terns wheel above surveilling as the white pelicans cruise the surface. They all patrol the slow moving currents. A disgruntled cormorant dodges the twisting dive of an interloping osprey, crashing its daily business of survival long enough to pilfer a meal for two nestlings, while downstream the otters always find time to make life interesting for the dogged muskrats. Suddenly, up on hind legs, they freeze, there, on a muddy point dividing the cattails, long enough to paint my portrait until I shift my attention, pick up and cast again. When I look back for them, they are gone, but I hear them sprinting through the dead backbrush in an endless game of chase, rousting shorebirds and small rodents as they chatter and romp. A large red-tailed hawk teaches the finer points of the hover to a youngster, waiting, watching for those who panic and break cover. High against the ridge line to the south a small pack of coyotes provide background vocals for the terse ribald call of a brilliantly colored red-winged blackbird who still searches for a mate.

Two giant ravens perch nearby, watching it all. They speak to each other quietly. There is a wiseness, and genuine dignity in their ways with each other. I've always thought that if anything were to survive what it is we as men do to this planet, it will be the raven.

My #14 callibaetis parachute floats high in a barely discernible eddy some fifty feet across the creek. I count it down. 3 - 2 - 1. It spins, right on cue, halfway around, pulled by my bellying leader out into the main current. I retrieve quickly, the fly skimming the surface, and cast again to the eddy behind the great submerged granite stone that breaks the flow, pinching the line to my rod as I gauge the fly to be just past the target. My fly snaps back, creating slack in the leader, and drops softly, barely disturbing the surface of the quiet water just downstream of the rock. More slack means more time. More time for the big rainbow at the bottom of the eddy who is feeding casually on the surface to decide whether or not this is the real deal.

My fly beckons, and I see the big fish come to attention, but a younger, more aggressive trout who is obviously not well versed in the proper protocol has entered the scene. He attempts to take up station directly in front of the big buck, and the bigger fish will not have any of that. He immediately darts forward, and the offending youngster is forced to vacate his position. But, as he does, he spots my #14 callibaetis parachute floating high in the top end of the eddy, and makes it his, sprinting to the surface to gobble it before fleeing. Hm. There might just be a lesson in this somewhere, but that's not what crosses my mind as I steer the smaller, younger trout away from the eddy behind the great granite stone. I slide the hook out of his jaw and wonder about irony. All kinds of it, because when I stand and look back across the creek to the eddy behind the great granite stone, I realize the big fish is gone.

Ebbs. And flows. Ups. Downs. The in-betweens. Damn the in-betweens.

I remember a day a lot of years ago. I was flying a kite. I was attempting to fly a kite. The field I ran across was spacious, and that was a good thing, for there just wasn't enough wind to keep my kite aloft without me running to keep it there. So I ran. And as long as I ran, it stayed up. And although I enjoyed seeing that kite get high in the sky, well, soon enough it got to be too much trying to keep it there. Never mind that wisdom which simply states there will be other days... and besides, when there's not enough wind, it doesn't matter how long the field is.

I see more now. I understand more. I don't know if or how much of all this wisdom I seem to be collecting is really going to do me, or anybody else, for that matter, any good. I'll just keep on accumulating and storing this stuff anyway. I guess that's what I'm supposed to do. I guess we all do that, more or less.

I'm prone to not calling people back, and I still put my head down a lot. I'll stare out the window and wonder why even though I already know. And I still get teary-eyed at stuff most people don't even think about. The words of songs I lived on and through still mean more to me than anything else I will ever hear. There was always a lot more between the lines than in them, not like the way it is now. That's what I do know. And there's what I call the 'sweet stuff' and then there's the rest, and I don't much care about the rest, and that's probably not a real solid way to live a life, because (I'm told) thinking that way won't make you wealthy and it sure as hell won't help you live forever but the older and wiser I get (or think I get), the less inclined I am to want, or believe that.

But I am, and will die, a very wealthy man. Go figure.

Or, just go away.

Realities

2010-11-24T13:27:00.000-08:00

Humans live through their myths and only endure their realities.

Robert Anton Wilson

Sometimes you have to look reality in the eye, and deny it.

Garrison Keillor

Reality is a quart of icy water in your waders. Deny that.

It was inevitable. Now, or...

Early one morning in a string of blazing hot days late last summer the decision was finally made. My aging waders, my beloved Simms Guides, were leaking. In both feet. In both legs and both feet (type 'both' often enough and it ceases to look like a word).

Not just leaking. It's more than 'just a leak' when I realize that I'm wet wading, in my waders, after ten minutes in the water. And I'm realizing this over, and over again.

Truth. And, looking back, I have to laugh. It was really becoming an arduous task to make the simplest wades; the extra weight of the river water that seemed to be (very quickly) insinuating itself into my once impervious waders was playing havoc with my already age-challenged balance, and the weight I carried back to the car, or as far as I could go before stopping to pull them off and dump them out, was more and more of a hassle for my increasingly age-challenged legs to haul around. Not to mention the pile of wet socks (that I could not for the life of me remember to grab) accumulating, stinking, in the back seat of my car.

So, after convincing myself that (in the long run) it was okay to miss a couple of days of fishing, I took a deep breath and stayed home, setting about the time consuming task of first drying, then finding, and finally patching (after proper assessment) a few 'minor' leaks I'd been 'enduring' through the previous month (or so) of fishing. Said leaks were not, at that point in time (the weather being what it was) anything I considered serious; yes, but all of a sudden it seemed there were more than a few. The cooler temperatures of autumn were silently stealing closer. A few days prior I'd 'come to' and realized that my policy of 'putting it off' was very soon to be in question. But, being the 'selectively' obsessive compulsive that I am, well, I somehow managed. I fished, and fished, and got wet, but kept fishing.

I'm not sure what the rest of the fly fishing fraternity considers the best and most 'proper' method of fixing leaky waders to be. That more than one of my 'fraternity brothers' would likely volunteer that my beloved, beholed waders should really find their way to the wader graveyard (a hanger in the basement), and I should 'move on' to a new pair is not lost on me, but, sorry guys, I'm not throwing in the towel without first attempting to save them.They mean that much to me. And these are the same guys, by the way, who show up every year with a brand new pair, mostly, I think, because they think it looks really cool (my take on that).

Maybe there's another, more efficient way of locating those pesky pinhole-sized holes, but for now I'm content with my process, thinking that I'm getting pretty damned good using my own time-tested technique. It's based less than loosely on the 'flying by the seat of your pants' theory.

First thing I did, on the morning of Day One was to actually get the waders out of my car and hang them up to dry; to actually get them totally dry. I hung them over a lawn chair on the patio in the shade, wondering how long it had been since they were last (1) out of the car, and (2) when they were last 'totally dry'. That's probably why it took so long for them to get totally dry (on the outside), even with afternoon temperatures reaching well into the nineties. Then, I turned them inside out and was shocked at the quantity of sand and tiny pebbles that had somehow collected in the feet (oh, that can't be good), and repeated the process.

By mid-morning of Day Two, I was busy (even worked up a pretty good sweat) with the whisk broom, making sure that any of the surfaces I might need to address were clean. It took a little longer than I thought it would. Upon turning them inside out I couldn't help but be more than a little surprised by how much sand kept falling out as I whisked. Amazing how far into the fabric those tiny grains of sand can get. When I took into account how long it had been since I'd done this, my initial surprise was replaced by a growing concern that procrastination may have irreparably damaged my beloved waders. The idea that I'd been walking around (for how long?) grinding those tiny pebbles and grains of sand into the bottoms of the feet made me cringe, and that shot adrenalin into my cleaning efforts. I thought of the princess, tossing fitfully, tormented by the peas under her mattress, with some chagrin, wondering why I hadn't been blessed with a comparable sensitivity, or, in this case, some common sense. But, after all, the fact of the matter, the overriding reason I expedited such a procrastinary move, as it always is for all things and not just the repair of waders, was because of the fishing, which very simply had been so good that I wasn't about to take a day or two much less three to fix anything unless the failure to do so had a direct ability to prevent me from being on, or in, the river.

But the piper now demanded compensation.

It is still Day Two. Noonish. High eighties already. My waders hang from a hastily-designed and constructed pair of wooden L-shaped stands, connected and supported by a piece of ash handrail. All the materials were easily available (thanks again, dad). I stand, poised with the garden hose; Sharpie and White Out pens ready in my back pocket. The plan is to gradually fill each leg with water, stopping often to search for any telltale signs of a leak. I italicize gradually for a reason. The first time I attempted a repair job it went badly. Ignorantly, I filled a leg, without stopping, right up to the knee. The droplets of water that did appear ran, acting on the request of gravity, quickly down, blending in with the ooze from other leaks closer to the foot. As a result, albeit getting the upper holes marked, I missed most of the more serious pinholes in the black foam of the bootie that were masked by the tiny rivulets from above, especially in the area of the heel; a sobering discovery made, of course, only after so confidently wading into the river.

It took quite awhile. I don't think I had more than a couple of inches of water in the right bootie when, and not surprisingly, I began to see dark areas appear, and there were several, some bleeding profusely. I marked them with the White Out, and proceeded upward, repeating the process. I worked my way up past the bootie onto the fabric of the leg, switching to the Sharpie, and didn't stop until I'd nearly reached the apex. Then the whole process was repeated on the left leg. It was close to four, and over ninety degrees when I finished this part.

Well, it was no wonder why I got wet so quickly. I couldn't help but wonder how I could have put so many holes in them. It was like I'd been hit by the shrapnel from an explosion. There were more than twenty tiny black and white circles when I finally satisfied myself that I had finished.

How utterly disconcerting!

Good thing I'd used some of my employee discount at the shop (before we shut down) on repair implements like tubes of goop and patch material. I actually do look down the road once in a while; just enough to keep me from wondering too often what it is that does run through my head most of the time.

There were several holes in the fabric just above the bootie that required some special care. They were rather large. I was going to have to actually apply a patch, and that entailed some dexterity as far as making doubly sure that there were no wrinkles or folds left in the patch as it dried.

One of the 'gushers' was the result of a slip during a descent to the river through a dense thicket bordered on the downhill side by an old barbed-wire fence. I'd navigated my way successfully through the thornberry bushes and then stepped clumsily over a decaying cottonwood log right into that fence. I knew it was a good sized puncture as soon as I entered the water. Damn.

Some of the others were wind-related. Casting in a crosswind with a heavily-weighted number two marabou leech can be risky, even when you think you know what you're doing. I was at my favorite spring creek early last spring casting down and across into a strong, freaky cross wind. I'd try to time my casts with the gusts, and of course got a little cocky. Next thing I knew I was staring down at my leech as it dangled in the wind from my left leg. I remember thinking that it would be wise to mark that spot immediately because I'd probably forget about it. That was sage advice. I forgot anyway, until my repair project came up, although my memory was jogged each and every time I went fishing until then.

The others were easily attended to by simply working a copious layer of Seam Grip into the area affected. I worked fast. I had to. The goop was almost drying on contact with the material because of the high afternoon temperatures, which dictated a flawless and rapid application and distribution of product.

By about seven o'clock that evening I was satisfied, and therefore done. The thermometer read eighty-nine. I adjusted the waders on my rack to keep the legs from coming into contact with each other. The patches would need at least twelve hours, preferably a full day, to completely set up and dry. Until then all I had to do was to for my sake be patient, which was going to be tough because I was eager to see how successful my mission was. I was hoping for nothing less than perfection. After all, winter is coming faster than I will still admit, and while I will be on the river then, it will be an even better experience if I'm dry.

I was heroic. The very model of discretion. I did not pull my waders off the rack until the afternoon of Day Three. After gingerly testing the patches with a finger, I turned my 'new' waders right side out and threw them in the now sockless car.

Test time. I remember the anticipation as I turned into the parking lot. For the very first time I can remember, fish were the secondary reason for this trip.

As I suited up, I decided to fish a spot where I had pretty easy access, not wanting to risk doing any further damage, at least not until I knew if I'd been effective in stopping all those leaks. Plus, it was perfectly calm, and I was rigged with a soft hackle. A small, lightly weighted soft hackle. Perfect.

The trail here is wide, pretty flat, and leaves me only a hundred feet or so of obstacle-free descent to the river. I'm careful as I go anyway.

It was a warm, clear evening. I stood on a round granite boulder and sized up the area. Directly in front of me was a fifteen foot wade into waist deep water that would take me out to a set of three rocks. Directly downstream is a shallow where the deflecting currents have deposited a ridge of sand and smaller rocks. This is my testing ground.

The shadows creep down the side of the hill across the river now. My watch tells me it's close to nine. Amazing how time flies right by when you're fishing.

And you're dry.

Pieces

2010-11-15T13:38:00.000-08:00

Bad weather always looks worse through a window.

Tom Lehrer

There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.

Aldous Huxley

Fall teeters on the edge...

I walk quickly over the fallen leaves, under and around bare trees and bushes. The river seems loud, whether it is because of the lack of acoustics or the increased flow is a toss-up. It is starkly visible as I go, in places where up until very recently I could barely hear though still not see it.

Dark days.

They string together monotonously, deceiving my sense of time, of perception; passing innocuously into each other without pause, leaving time behind, unrecorded, unremarkable, waiting, each day, for this, the slow, steady descent into winter.

I reach what is left of the rocky promontory where just a few weeks ago I ruled the seam curling away from the now submerged point. The river has tipped the scales again. Evened the playing field. Changed the game. Cooler, higher water. The character, the peculiarities, are now hidden beneath flows that will not reveal their secrets again until well into the summer of the coming year.

I wade in. Look for white rocks. Find viable purchase on the granite that was for months exposed to the sun, that has not yet acquired the slippery patina of microscopic growth. Waist deep is again a bit of a gamble. I took a fall, and then a swim here last December, simultaneously hooking a nice buck, slipping off a precarious perch, jamming my foot into a crack between two rocks and creasing my forehead on another as I fell, nearly losing consciousness for a moment. Figured I was in the water for about two minutes. I've heard stories about 'dry drowning', although I admit to not having faced up to the reality of it happening to me. Sobering thought. I tell myself I'm more cautious now, but I wonder. I know about the risk I take, but, even at this age, well, here I am. And by the same token, nothing ventured, nothing gained, even if it's just a memory. Besides, when the snows blanket the river's edges it will become that much more difficult. But, as I already know, that will quite simply make it more enticing. Something about just my tracks, about a tight line, and weight. Something about a lone figure profiled against the whiteness tight to a trout in the middle of a city living life for real.

The swing will be deep. And slow. The river is colder, and deeper. Its inhabitants move slowly, preserving resources. The take, should it occur, will be at the end of the swing, where my weighted soft hackle will dangle at the end of its arc, moving back and forth in the fluctuating hydraulic for several seconds before I begin a slow, methodical retrieve. I roll a short cast straight out into the flow, and mend, watching the end of my fly line. The arc completed, I wait several seconds before beginning my retrieve. Each cast carves an arc further from me. The rhythm is narcotic. Time passes, carrying my wandering thoughts surreptitiously downstream.

This is not the season for swinging flies. It is not the most efficient method. It would be to my advantage now, should I be so intent on hooking fish, to drift two, or maybe even three small weighted nymphs or chironomids, or a combination of the above, under an indicator. Lob the whole assortment upstream and watch it pass me in its drift, waiting to see my 'bobber' do its thing. I have fished this way, and have had success. I guess it's really a matter of the relativity of that success, though. The desire to go through the expansive task of first finding then affixing a certain set of weighted flies underneath an indicator that will be somehow (given the severe lack of casting room available anywhere on this river right now) be transported, usually by an ingenious cast of a hybrid nature upstream to land safely (without fouling) several times before either hooking a fish or, after a lengthy but frustrating trial being hauled out and completely refurnished... well, let's just say, at this particular point in time I'd rather not put myself through that. Success isn't always measured in statistics, although I know I'm here of the minority opinion.

I continue to cast, and mend as my mind travels itinerantly across the landscape of my life. Over and through the fields of memory, the webs of interaction, the scope of joys and losses. People in my life who have come and gone, those who have left an indelible mark, come into view. In one way or another, they all have left me with something. It should be a requirement that at some point in our lives we acknowledge all of those who have affected the substance of our existence, and, for me, there have been many. And then I think that it probably would have all been infinitely easier to do this had I the quality to know then what I know now. Maybe the fact that even though it's later rather than sooner, I still did have this thought, although unless there's some kind of magical way that this epiphany gets relayed to the subjects in question, how much real good it would do is up for discussion. I quietly vow to give this further thought, even though I cannot imagine now where I would start, or where it would take me could I d efine a way to do that.

I travel on, down the dusty, dimly lit corridors, here and there stopping to open doors and peer inside. The smiling young faces of my sons as they chase the big Malemute around the back yard... their comfortable attentiveness as I read to them... the horribly painful years of conflict they were subjected to...

... and it is again made clear to me that just as there are those who have effected changes in the substance of my life, so too have I been a factor, (no matter how important or insignificant)in the lives of those I have known. I still really have a hard time with this one, not being one to ever put much stock in the importance of my life in general, especially when it relates to interactions with those around me. Talk about feelings of insignificance! But, that's something for me to work on; to continue to work on. The idea that I have ever had anything of real substance to offer is, to me privately, sometimes more than a bit of a stretch. But, also privately, I'm okay with that. All I can do is work with what I've got, which is not really a lot, but it is what it is.

I think forward, as I tie another soft hackle, a smaller one, onto my tippet below the heavier, larger one, into the days and years to come. I think about what it will be like when I am gone. There is a relativity here that I have become aware of in the months following my father's passing. I think of my brother, and my sisters, how they, in my eyes, have changed since dad's death. I wonder if they see a change in me. I wonder if they miss him. I find it odd that he seldom,if ever, comes up in conversations that take place between us. My mother rarely, if ever, speaks of him. I wonder why. And although I have asked her would she care to visit his interment site, while appearing to be eager to go, has yet to do that. Neither have any of the others. I wonder why.

I miss my dad. Still. Odd, too, in that we were, for so many years, not close. But his absence has exposed a huge hole in the fabric of my life. I wonder why that is. I wonder if my siblings feel the same way...

There is presently a strong, jerking pull. My rod bends, and pulsates. The coils of line on the surface of the water at my feet are quickly ripped up through the rod as the fish strikes out across the current. I realize that my hands are cold. They react slowly to what needs to be done. The last coil of fly line snaps upward, loops around my reel, and the line goes taut. Urgently I attempt to unwrap the line, unsuccessfully. I feel one last strong pull before the tippet, stretched beyond its limitations, snaps. The line goes limp.

Across the river a Great Blue Heron jumps into flight, turning away downstream.

I wonder if he's grinning.

The wander of it all.

2010-11-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

Not all who wander are lost.

J.R. Tolkien

Blocked.

Aware of the silence coming from the fireplace. This room is just a garage without a fire going. Pull back the curtain to peer through the rain dabbing the window. The trees sway, shedding needles which fall randomly around a squirrel who seems very busy either burying future snacks or digging up somebody else's, I'm not sure, until I see something in its paws being delicately adjusted for consumption. To the victor...

Fire duty. Still have some nice coals. Keep the home fire burning. I check my inventory. Only 3 good chunks of red fir and a couple of birch left in the box. The birch burns too fast all by itself. I select one of each and arrange them accordingly on what remains of the grate.

Just then an idea comes to me. I quickly retrace my steps back to the Mac and get it into print. After reading it back out loud, I just as quickly highlight it, hit the delete button, and reach for my hat. Maybe a run out to the woodpile will help. In this case, one of the secret joys of aging is that I know I'm going to forget everything I was thinking about prior to going out to the woodpile so when I return it'll be a whole new ball game.

A classically-tied number twenty-two baetis sits, drying, clamped in the jaws of the Regal. Four more are snagged on the styrofoam angle board awaiting dispensation. Now and then I wonder how many of these I've tied over the years. I'd probably be amazed. But, then again, maybe I wouldn't. I guess I'd be more amazed by the number of flies I've tied at different junctures thinking that they might work better than this particular pattern, or, better still, at the number of times I thought something else would. Impossible to know, right up there with how many more times I'm going to be so inclined as to do it again. And again.

I remove the classically-tied number twenty-two baetis from the vise and snag it next to the others, pausing for a proud second to admire them. Lucky thing I'm not a trout. I wouldn't last very long out there.

I have this rather cumbersome Sterilite box. I chose this model over the next size up which is on wheels. That, for some reason to me, seemed like a bit much, although secretly in the years hence, I wish I'd gotten it. I keep some of my important feathers and fur patches in there, and when I go on the road, I pare it down to only what I deem to be 'the essentials' and pack the rest of my tying stuff in there, too. It still takes up way too much space according to just about everyone I've ever traveled with, but I'll put up with the needling. It goes where I go, and that's that. Besides, the needling invariably ceases when that oversized-box supplies me with the materials that enable said needler to hook a fish or two when his supply of flies runs out. I particularly enjoy that circumstance. Call it a smug smile.

There is more than a bit of my father in me. I can tell there is when I look at my collection of tying materials and tools. I remember at some point deciding to actually sit down and sort through all of it. I would keep what I thought I could use, and find a way to dispose of the rest, either by donating it, or by just plain throwing it in the garbage. That was the plan, anyway.

It went bad, or should I say good, almost from the beginning. I'll save you the details, mentioning only that the stuff in what started out to be the 'discard' pile was examined, then re-examined, and finally then put back before I'd gotten a tenth of the way through. I still shudder when I think that I could've actually thought I was going to somehow 'streamline' my stash of stuff. What a colossal error in judgement. I've used some of the stuff I almost chucked, but the important thing to keep in mind is that yes, I did use it. The same might not be said for the rest, should I have been so remiss as to think hm, I'll never use that... Safe to say I don't ever think that anymore.

Thanks, dad.

Trick? Or treat.

2010-10-28T14:54:00.001-07:00

It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.

Henry David Thoreau

There were at least three types of caddis fluttering about. They danced and bounced across the surface, hovered close by, or crawled across the lenses of my sunglasses. I know there were at least three types, because this is the number of differently-sized, shaped, and colored caddis that simultaneously perched near the bottom guide on my fly rod. The largest was a dark mottling of grays and brown. The smallest was almost black, with long antennae. The mid-sized model was a mottled light gray, almost a peppery appearance. All three of them contented themselves, as long as I held still, with crawling around and around the shaft of my rod. I had a lot of time to closely examine them in between bouts of removing other, blurry ones from my glasses, but none of them were in a hurry and didn't seem the least bit nervous about my presence.

I should have taken a cue from this behavior, and later, rather than sooner, I did. I'd just finished working my way down one of my favorite fall runs, fishing my usual go-tos; all of my now increasingly wide-ranging types of swingable caddis imitations which according to my observations, experiences, and inclinations for this time of year have nearly always provided me with some great fishing. I repeat. Nearly.

So, you wonder, why the above picture of a diminutive, classically tied baetis, Steve?

Because about an hour later, as I stood pondering, by now quite frustrated, at the bottom of this particular favorite fall run of mine bemusedly perusing those three dissimilar caddis, I noticed, perched near the tip of my rod, a perfect, quite authentic number twenty-two baetis imago. I carefully lowered my rod, and brought the tip slowly, hand over hand, closer to me. And as I performed this as delicately as is possible(taking into account my current level of frustration), rings began to appear on the surface of the water just fifteen feet or so downstream from where I stood. Hm. And as I was about to start wondering what it was that these fish were rising to, and good Lord look at just how many fish are rising all of a sudden (because indeed it was just as if someone had flicked a switch), I bent forward a little, swatted away a cluster of fluttering caddis, and focused my aging, far-sighted eyes up and downstream along the bubble line I'd just worked.

And there they were. Baetis.

Thousands of them. A veritable carpet layering the surface, spinning this way and that in the convoluted hydraulic that carried them along. A river-wide flotilla of tiny mayflies silently, discreetly, sliding past me, some of them now getting airborne, escaping the grasp of the surface tension, while others were meeting unfortunate ends in the mouths of trout.

I looked at the sky and laughed. I really did. I stood there in the midst of all the rising fish and spinning, drifting baetis, tilted my head back, and laughed.

I'd been had. Big time. And I'd been had by none other than me. All the lessons that had supposedly found permanent purchase in my book of knowledge. The careful, patient methodry supposedly stitched together through practiced, careful adherence to the rules of observation. The understanding accumulated from years of trial, and error. All this ran through my head, as well as the creeping awareness that even as I was making all this supposed progress as a fisherman, I was also slowly, but steadily, blinding myself.

The large hat, while comfortable, will eventually slip down over the eyes.

I saw, as I waded into the top of that run, what I wanted to see. And then, having had my preliminary inclinations validated by the many visible caddis, got busy with what I took for granted to be the correct course of action. Little did it matter that prior to seeing the tiny baetis on the tip of my rod I had seen no surface activity. Little did it matter that if I would have been alert, I would have sensed that a change was in the air. I mention this, and deem it important enough to do so because of what else but prior experience. I've been there, experienced the 'calm before the storm', seen the river go from eerily quiet and empty to flush and vibrant.

There was still time. I lengthened my tippet, found the box with my tiny baetis, and with humbled, shaking hands set about the task of redemption, or more aptly, salvage.

But it was already almost too late. While the sheer numbers of baetis on the surface make for easy pickings by the trout, it adds a difficult dimension to fishing. Your artificial must very closely resemble the real deal, no matter what stage you are attempting to imitate. It must sit on or in the surface film and drift in just the right way. And even if you are successful in doing this, there is the one big unknown; will my fly be the one out of hundreds of bona fides that will be selected? I guess all I can say about that is yes, there is indeed this thing called luck. You can do everything right and your chances will improve, but yeah, a little luck definitely comes into play. I think, at this point in the hatch, that you can improve your chances by looking for rising fish that are separated from the others. Sometimes, however, these fish are in lies that can wreak havoc with a good drift. But, having said that, I have often found that these fish are worth it. They can be the biggest ones in a given area.

My attempt to salvage a modicum of success was short-lived. As prodigious and well-attended as the hatch was, it was all too brief. Even before the flotilla had wended its way downstream, the trout had decided enough was enough. My fly made several perfect, albeit fruitless passes down through various channels. At one point I counted six rings that appeared in close proximity as my drifting artificial was carried along. Like tiptoeing through a minefield. I applauded its successful journey, and reeled in my line. Today's lesson was a good one. One I'll not soon forget. And in that regard, I gave myself a treat, in that after all was said and done, I'd found a way to come away with a positive.

Be aware of your hat size.

On the need for change.

2010-10-25T09:54:00.001-07:00

The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.

Albert Einstein

There is, happily, no happy ending. It goes on and on. Seldom, if ever, is a point of stasis attained, or even sought. Pleasure is pure but fleeting; weaned from passing moments, promontories. The real, lasting joy is found in the reward of the constant movement; not letting, or allowing, one's proverbial boots to get 'stuck in the mud'. There is but one thing that will never change, and that is the need, the necessity, for change, and the ability to do so. It is my passionate belief that here is found the truest and simplest, but most powerful form of gratification.

When applied to tying flies for trout, this philosophy trumps all others. I suspect that it probably works well in life, too and I promise to try it some time in the future, maybe after I am no longer able to tie flies with which to fish for trout. And that's the trouble with getting too philosophically inclined. I'm liable to overstep my short-sighted bounds, somebody's eventually going to take notice, and call me on it.

Oh well.

I'm not really sure that 'progress' is a good word to attach to the expanse of time I've spent tying. In some ways, I've 'progressed' very little in the past several years, and in others, I feel quite the opposite. But generally, as I take an overall unbiased look at the body of work I've amassed at the vise so far, I come away feeling pretty good about it. And that has a lot to do with not being afraid to experiment a little, now and then. Sure, I could've spent some of those hours perfecting some of the hundreds, nay thousands of various techniques that I may or may not ever employ, but I find that the growing body of tying know-how I've accumulated to this point not only serves me well for my current needs, but is a solid foundation making it much less time-consuming should I, when I decide to add some new wrinkle to my repertoire, or tool box.

I think back to those years I spent at the shop. I know I've mentioned this in earlier posts so bear with me while I boast one more time, but The Blue Dun Fly Shop had, without a doubt, the most quintessential collection of fly-tying materials. We were unsurpassed as far as selection and quality were concerned. Fly-tiers came, e-mailed, and called from all over hell to purchase you-name-it-we've got-it and if we don't we'll get it for you ASAP. All three of us at the shop had a passion for tying, and our individual interests covered everything from saltwater to fresh, be it moving or still, tropical or subarctic. We figured that between us, we had close to seventy-five years worth of fishing/tying experience. We loved playing with it all; the new stuff that would constantly arrive and the old standards, exploring all of the possible applications, combinations and tendencies so we'd be better able to showcase them should a customer have questions. It was a time of exponential growth as far as my tying skills were concerned. I was in heaven. Imagine, being paid to do that! And, I learned how to do things then that have served me quite well ever since.

But, it's what I've learned since then that has allowed me to really grow both as a fly tier and fisherman. It's got nothing to do with tying or fishing. It has everything to do with what I've learned about myself.

I'd like to think that we are all as passionate about those things in our lives that drive us, that we all have things in our lives that drive us. I'd like to think that part of the magic in whatever it is that drives us lies in its never-ending ability to fascinate, to pull us in, closer, and in that spirit our exploration becomes the drug of choice. The journey we take in this direction sharpens the senses, hones our tools, and presents us with new sets of opportunities to add experience, thus more tools to our boxes. And, as some of us have learned, they serve us well for far more than what we originally thought.

This curiosity, this unceasing pull to understand, is at the core of my growth. It is the engine that drives me. It is the reason I tie flies. It is the reason I have such an undying passion for fishing with flies. And, most importantly, I discover over and over, in its power to continually pull me in different directions, an irresistible, yet delightful force. I welcome it with open arms, believing not for a second that I will ever attain such a place as to know that I am closer than before, and that's okay. I'm okay with that, and the reason I am is that I firmly believe, now more than ever, that the strongest magic truly is revealed in the journey, and not in the attainment.

And so I will go. Change is good. There will always be a space in my box for the classics. But they are someone else's epiphany. I will continue to seek my own. There will be setbacks. How can there not be? After all is said and done, the trout have the final say.

They make all the rules.

On being blessed

2010-10-19T07:44:00.000-07:00

When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength. Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself.

Tecumseh

As I stood there, fumbling with the two ziplock bags I employ to keep my camera dry should I slip and take an unwarranted swim, a nice trout stuck his nose out of the water about ten feet downstream from the furthest rock to the right, in the seam formed by the current deflecting off the shallow shelf these rocks are a part of. It was a very deliberate rise, and I had the distinct feeling this fish would come to the surface again.

I didn't bat an eye, determined to get a picture of the rising fog before the sun burned it away, deciding that down the road, this picture would be the best way to preserve the memory, although I had no idea as what this particular memory would hold as yet. So I lined it up, held the camera still, pushed the button, and by god it worked. One shot. That would have to do. There was some pressing business to take care of.

I stood there for not very long before he rose again, and with a lazy swirl turned back upstream, blending in perfectly with his habitat. My next thought, as it always is when trout are coming to the surface, was to eyeball the water in hopes of seeing, and hopefully identifying whatever it was that had attracted and was holding the trout's attention. And since I was standing right in the middle of the same ribbon of current he was working in, all I had to do was look down.

And, I saw nothing. No bugs of any type that I could see. Not even a midge. But, there he went again. And then again. No hurry. Nothing to get excited about, but my hands started to shake a little. I wondered what it was he was so unhurriedly continuing to eat out of the surface film, and, much more importantly, how much longer I had. The fact that he'd been at his current station feeding in this manner for this long already was not lost on me.

The trout on this river come to the surface and feed occasionally just like any other trout on any other river. And that's about where any similarity between the trout feeding on the surface of this river and those in other rivers ends. Whereas groups of trout in other rivers will congregate in areas where hatches are occurring and whereas those trout will feed on or in the surface for sometimes extended periods, that is seldom the case here. If you see one riseform, call it a hatch. Call it the morning, or afternoon, or evening rise, because that's probably about as good as it going to get. And if you are so blessed as to witness the same fish rise more than twice in the same half hour period, well then you're seeing something special. Better find out what's being eaten in a hurry because time is of the essence. Every subsequent rise could be the last one you'll see here for some time.

So when I saw this trout come to the surface again, I couldn't help but think I am truly blessed.

Okay. I'm blessed. But being so blessed still didn't provide any visual of a single living entity on or in the water's surface that might give me a clue as to what this trout was dining on. It began to get to me. I ran through a quick list of go-tos, ending up where I began, with no idea. So, as is often my standard mode of operation here on this river when faced with a lack of evidence, I pulled out my box, extracting from it my solution.

A soft hackle. Big surprise, right?

Okay. No surprise there. Experience is a good teacher. Having been in this situation before though not necessarily with figuring out what a steadily feeding trout is eating but having been through enough frustrating sequences where I swore I knew only to put the fish down straight away or have him run silent run deep because I put something over him that he found utterly disgusting. I've had success in these situations by simply swinging a very lightly weighted soft hackle over the fish's lie. I'll go bigger or smaller dependent upon what I think the fish is eating. Most of the time it works, which is also very unlike any trout in any other river I've ever fished. Those fish want the real deal, or something that very closely resembles it. I think the reason it works here is that we are, for so much of the year, blessed with caddis. There's very rarely a day that goes by where there aren't caddis flying around. That will be reinforced in my mind later when I return to the bank and brush the now leafless branches of the bushes along the water's edge.

As confident as I am in my soft hackle, I know I'll have one, maybe two swings through. More than likely just one, so it has to be spot on. The nice thing about this situation is that I have a really good idea of his location, thanks to the regularity of the rings. The only thing problem I might have is with the direction of the flow as it passes the edge of the shallow shelf. A quick downstream mend at the right time should negate any deviance in the path of the swing as it arcs over his position. Sounds easy. I smile. Sounds easy.

The cast has to be made almost perpendicular to the flow. From where I stand, the current comes from my right shoulder to sweep across in front of me to the left as it passes until contacting the shelf some thirty below, where some of the energy is captured in an eddy directly below the shelf. The rest is reflected off the shelf bending the main current back in to the main flow. It is right at this point where the seam between the two areas, the eddy, and the current, is most viable, and lucky for you I can't draw a diagram, so nod your head like you understand perfectly.

It's a short roll cast. I throw a little line out behind the cast and wait for the line to start to bend. I throw a quick downstream mend when I see the line closest to me start to bulge upstream and then the faster water toward the middle of the river arcs my fly line. There is nothing to do for the next second or so but wait, and watch, and shortly there is a flash, and a swirl. I lift my rod. There is a jolt, and with it weight.

Yes. I am blessed. Blessed to have this river. Blessed by its inhabitants. Blessed by the time here I have spent. Blessed with the simplistic sense of what I need from this life. I am so truly blessed.

And God bless my soft hackle.

2010-10-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

The great charm of fly-fishing is that we are always learning; no matter how long we have been at it, we are constantly making some fresh discovery, picking up some new wrinkle. If we become conceited through great success, some day the trout will take us down a peg. ~Theodore Gordon-1907~

What a morning. The sound of the fast chute above me is muffled by the dense fog silently sliding upstream. The water is steel-gray, opaque, appearing impenetrable. My hands are thrust into the warmer pocket squeezing the heat packets I'd stuffed there before setting out, and I'm glad I did. The humidity, working in tandem with a slight westerly breeze in the pre-dawn produces a chill that goes straight to my bones.

I look upstream. The thick, drifting mists completely conceal the rocky point some fifty feet away. Photo opportunity, so I release my grip on the heat packs and dig for the camera. Here's to hoping it works. Apparently, I have a union camera, and have not yet come to understand when it will take pictures or perform not at all. The green light flickers on. Good deal.

I take my pictures, first upstream, then down, giving you the reader/viewer an idea as to the fishing environment here this morning. I'll need to snap a couple of shots after the sun's up, too. It's light, filtering through the now slowly dissipating mists, will heighten the etherealness I like to see in photos of mornings like this.

I work the upper, faster slot of this run with a bead head softhackle as well as I can, trading off the rod from hand to hand so I can at all times keep one of them gripped around those heat packs. Roll cast, mend this way and that, watch the violent swing across and through the standing waves until I must use both hands to strip line quickly or risk getting hung up on the rocks just beneath the surface in the back eddy below me. I've taken some good fish in those, but I've also lost a lot of soft hackles.

About twenty yards or so downstream the incline flattens, and the flow begins to slow slightly. The standing waves formed by the huge boulders beneath are gone, leaving only the aforementioned cauldron of hydraulics, intersecting, weaving, overlapping, you name it. A good roll cast here will land my soft hackle on the far side of all this mayhem and pull my line quickly downstream. I try to throw a little more line out after it as it travels, so after three or four swings I have covered everything from where I am to forty, sometimes fifty feet downstream. I'll usually make two, sometimes three swings through at each distance knowing that I'm never going to get a similar swing on successive casts. I know it sounds crazy, fishing this fast, unruly water in this fashion, but over the years I've discovered time and time again that there are some dandy places amidst all this hydraulic activity for some very large trout to hold, and they wouldn't be there if they had to work at it very hard. Trout are opportunists, both in feeding and lying in wait. They will work only as hard as is sheer necessity to find food or shelter, and will, when possible, seek a spot that satisfies both requirements. That is why I am here, swinging weighted soft hackles through this seemingly uninhabitable slot.

And that is why, as my gold-tungsten bead head soft hackle, tied on a Dai Riki number zero-sixty swings across the front side of a submerged boulder some forty feet down and across from my position causing an upwelling in the flow, I am instantaneously treated to the visual of a flash and swirl as I feel the rod jolt in my cold, red hands. And, as is sometimes the case, especially here in this fast water, the trout that surged upward from his lie to attack my fly has surged downstream rather than up. And keeps going, and going. I've set a pretty stiff drag on the reel. Fishing this way through here has taught me to use as strong a tippet as possible. Given the fact that the flow here is what it is, I can get away with stronger, which means thicker, tippet, and as the big, strong buck continues his run, I can take that five pound tippet for granted.

I write a lot about how strong I believe these fish are, and that claim is again substantiated by this fish. After running downstream, he goes airborne, and after a spectacular mid-air cartwheel, turns and charges back in the direction he'd fled. I can't keep up with him, can't keep him on the reel, so I strip like a madman trying to regain some tension in the line, fearing that he'll throw the hook. And at the instant I finally feel the fish, he turns again and races back in his original direction. And so it goes for awhile. His alternating runs down or upstream shorten, his bursts, more and more short-lived, until finally I have him at my feet. It is at this point where I see how tenuously hooked he was. As I cradle his belly, the soft hackle simply drops out of the skin on his upper jaw. A couple of quick thrashes lets me know he's recovered enough to set free. And before he swims off, hugging the rocks and looking for home, he stays between my feet, suspended, for me. Such an awesome, beautiful animal. Then, he is gone.

A bit further downstream, the incline flattens again, further slowing the flow. The bottom here is a carpet of similarly-sized rocks, and it shows on the somewhat placid-looking surface. Just off the bank below me lies a formation of igneous rocks It is off this tiny jutting that I see a violent rise.

I misstep often as I try to keep an eye out for whatever it may have been that caused this fish to rise in such a fashion. Trying to watch the water for bugs and the rocks I am walking over and around, while sighting in on what I can use visually to mark the position of that rise makes for a somewhat risky traverse over the moss-covered terrain. I have to smile as I make my way. I must look hilarious to anyone who might see me. I'd laugh if I was watching. I'm not running, but I'm sure as hell stumbling and bumbling. And mumbling. Another splashy rise. Still there. What the hell is he/she eating? I stumble and bumble closer.

It is at about the time I arrive at where I figure my best angle will be when an idea as what to throw at this fish comes to the surface. The next rise is a swirl, but it moves a lot of water. There is a deflection of the current off of the rocks I mentioned earlier which forms a perfect little seam off of which this fish suspends, waiting for whatever in the hell it is he's eating. I have one of those Spruce Moths left in my box. After a quick examination of the circumstances; add to that the fact that I just plain wanted to see what the Moth would look like as it drifted past those rocks, and seeing another ferocious rise, I set the plan in motion. Damn hands. I'm starting to lose the power of digital dexterity. The cold is winning. I can't feel any pressure when I pinch my thumb and index finger together. Not good. But I've been in this situation many times before and have developed a kind of alternate method whereby I utilize only the types of movements necessary with whatever fingers that will, can still cooperate. I wait again, Spruce Moth at the ready, for another rise.

A couple of minutes flow past. Nothing. Then a couple more. I began to wonder if this event was just a hallucination, some sort of delayed flashback from all those rock-and-roll years I thought I'd survived. Did the mushrooms cause this? And, it seemed a short-lived revisit at that. I let go of my Moth, false cast, get the distance, maybe twenty feet, dialed in, and fire away. The Spruce Moth settles, riding high, right into the top of that deflection. There is this sudden sensation of suspension, timelessness. The Moth is drifting, almost in slow motion, right into what I know is the strike zone. The sun is breaking through the fog and I want to get some photos. My winter pal, the blue heron, flies overhead. Thank the gods, I can feel my fingers again... then all hell breaks loose.

I'm going to struggle a bit to find the right words here to effectively describe what takes place in the next few seconds, but I'll give it my best shot.

I've never, in all the years I've fished with dry flies, wherever I've fished them, experienced a take like that except for those bygone days when I used to travel to the Bogachiel River up on the Olympic Peninsula to skate packed deer and elk hair patterns for Steelhead. If any of you have experience with that sort of madness, then you know of what I speak.

But this is the Spokane River. This is the short, basically unknown, taken-for-granted blue squiggle on the map that runs right through our fair city from a lake in Idaho to the Columbia River and eventually to the ocean. It's where I fish. And through all my years of fishing, of falling in love with its trout, I have never had a trout take a dry so aggressively as this one. Anywhere.

I am watching my Moth. It is halfway through the deflection. Very shortly I will have to pick it up and reset. I start to reach forward on my fly line to haul it a bit as I pick up. There is a sudden loud turbulence from the river side in the proximity of my Moth and then a loud, huge splash. Water droplets are thrown skyward into the dim sunlight. A huge tail is ever so briefly frozen amid the shards, then gone. So is my Moth, but I know this without seeing because of the jolt I felt. In shock, I lift my rod, and then am further stunned as the trout cartwheels into the air, the Spruce Moth impaled through his lower jaw. Again and again he goes ballistic, each re-emergence some twenty feet further from me, until there are only a few wraps of fly line left on my reel. Another reel-screaming run. My Water- works sings 'I'm into your backing now', and still he runs away, downstream.

The Lampson Waterworks reel I am using has room for approximately one hundred and twenty-five yards of twenty-pound backing. I wound it with much less than this, never once thinking I'd use even half of the hundred or so yards I settled on. It left more room for fly line. And it's easier to respool on the large arbor of my Lampson without having to eyeball too carefully. But you don't want to be so careless as have all your line in one stack on either side of your spool.If you are and it falls over on itself, well then you've got a serious problem should you ever hook into a fish with an attitude. I once lost a fly line to a rough-and-ready brown trout on the Missouri for that reason. But this fish? Oh man, he beats that one all to hell.

I have, on my fly rod, marked one-inch increments starting at sixteen and extending out to thirty inches. I started doing this when I still had my first Sage, which is now in the hands of my son. And although I've also done this to my present Sage, my favorite, I seldom use it, for several reasons, not the least of which is an overriding fear of jinxing myself. But once in a while there arises an occasion when all that superstition must be set aside. This is one of those times.

It is not often that I live in fear for such an extended amount of time. This fish is testing the limits of all my gear and knots, not to mention the five-pound tippet and the hook on which my Spruce Moth is constructed. I don't know how long I have been battling this fish, and indeed its more like I'm often just holding on, waiting for him to tire of his runs and muscularly spastic twists and turns. But gradually, foot by hard-earned foot, I begin to gain the upper hand, and in an ever-decreasing arc of back and forths upriver and then down, I finally catch sight of him. I am stunned again. For the first time in many years, I wish I'd brought my net. It's amazing how the sight of such a fish will suddenly make everything from that point on seem so much more difficult. How all of a sudden I'm all thumbs. And, I know I can't hurry this project along. I worry that if ever there is a time a fish will be lost, it is in these final moments of the struggle. The size and strength of this fish dictate a patient, steady demeanor, but I shake like a leaf anyway.

He is perfect. A wild, purebred Spokane River Rainbow. A broad-shouldered buck with white-tipped fins and huge, square tail. I will never forget its sudden appearance as he attacked my fly. I lay my rod down in the water next to him. He lies still, as if in anticipation, as I slide the rod forward, matching his nose with the end of the rod, and when I count the number of marks until I reach the end of his tail, I then realize how badly I'm shaking. He's twenty-six inches in length. This is the biggest, fattest, strongest trout I've ever landed here. By far. I know this to be true because there have only ever been two prior occasions on this river whereupon I've wanted to measure the fish. I tuck my rod underneath my arm and tail the buck, pointing him upstream into the flow. He holds there, in my hand for awhile, recovering, before I feel him move. Time is suspended again. We wait, together, for his departure. Then, I gently propel him forward as he now tries to free himself, releasing him from my grasp, but never from my heart.