Tangible ups... and zen.

  A rare experience of a moment at daybreak, when something in nature seems to reveal all consciousness...
                                                           Charles Ives


     In the time it took me to lock up the truck, descend the small hill, cross the bridge and head upstream, the sky had lightened considerably. The stars had been painted over in the pastels of approaching dawn while  mists still rose from the slowly moving water upstream.
    Another perfect morning. Can any morning that finds me poised in or near trout water with rod in hand not be? 
   As the years roll back on behind, when I take the time to stop and think about it, I am increasingly aware of the creeping notion that indeed, just as the saying goes, 'the fishing's always good' to the point that I find the act of fishing beginning to supercede the need for catching. Not that I don't live for 'the take' or the bent rod or the bow wakes, but more and more often I 'catch' myself just kind of enjoying the moment. Like right now, leisurely strolling head up, taking in the brightening sky and the feel of this new day. There are rings appearing here and there, slowly expanding away from their origins, and I still come to point, but it's a divided focus. There will be plenty of time to address those rings, and the fish for the next few hours, but right now I feel more inclined to kind of just space it out and be part of the quietude. And it feels pretty good to do just that.
    I've found that there's a tangible upside to this emerging attitude, too. A relaxed state of mind; one that's more content to take it as it comes, to not press, makes me a better fisherman. More to the point, and this is easy to quantify, is that in being kind of 'just happy to be here', I don't press. I don't force it. I tend to let it flow. And I know when I'm stepping outside of myself in that regard because if I've learned anything about fishing with flies, it's this; the fish know when you're in that zone. They really know. It must be something, some vibration, some kind of empathetical resonance maybe? I don't know what to call it, but its existence has been proven to me time and time again. I can't begin to count the number of occasions over the years whereby I turned to glance upstream, lost my self in a quick study of the antics of a shorebird or some furry resident, and turned back to my fly or indicator to discover the immediate significance of its absence. Not so hard to explain if it occurs only infrequently, baffling when it does with regularity. When it occurs frequently enough to add looking away to my repertoire, then I've got to wonder. And, being a good fisherman, that is, one with an almost innate ability to reason things like that out and come to some sort of what seems to me to be a viable solution, well, the best I can do is to give the fish credit. They must know when I look away. They know when my energy is  temporarily diffused, when my power of concentration has been derailed. That has to be it, doesn't it? The secret for real success then must lie in either my or the fishes' ability to connect with what is undoubtedly one of the more ethereal dimensions of fishing. Sounds pretty zen-ish. Or nuts. Take your pick.
     
     So here we are, a little more than halfway through April. The Spokane had begun its annual rage, approaching 20,000 cfs. But then, after those few days of warming temperatures and what turned out to be blossoming false hope, that recent phenomenon of colder than normal temps set back in and the river subsided. In fact, because of the snow at higher altitude, snowpacks have increased in the past week. Today's low was 26 degrees. Not very conducive to a gradual meltdown and runoff if the script repeats itself. So, today the river runs a bit under 13,000 which means it's about a thousand cfs under what would 'normally' be average run-off for this time of year.


 Upside? Hm... I'm still working on that. Downside(s)? Plenty of 'em. Worst case scenarios whirl in my head. Another year of washed out hatches comes readily to mind; another year of being unable to effectively wade until mid-July... but, I'll take the higher ground here, and say that it's still 'early', that there's still time for Ma Nature to right the ship and get back to whatever normalcy is left in her scheme. I say that through clenched teeth, a little voice in the back of my head asking, "just what, my fine fellow, is this 'normal' that you hope for?"


       

   There's just no way to know what the weather is going to do; if the temperatures will stay low, moderate, or if they'll suddenly spike and set the torrents of melt loose all at once. That's been the scenario for the past three years, and each time it does it reeks absolute havoc with the hatches, notably the early season caddis and BWOs. I could drive myself crazy with this useless supposition so I'll plant a foot and change direction.

 
    Tomorrow being Thursday, I'll be making the weekly drive back out to 'The Ford'. Rocky Ford, home to the often over-sized but incredibly well fed, alternately gullible mostly finicky but nearly always entertaining rainbow trout. I call the big ones 'roundtail' trout, so named because of the damage sustained by living for a portion of their year in cement causeways until they've contributed to the propagation process at the hatchery which lies at the top of this spring creek. It's fishbowl fishing at best; there's nothing quite like sneaking up on a run full of trout that are spending their lives being scrutinized, or better yet traumatized by so many fly fishermen of all ability levels. That's why I go on Thursday, and I get there oh-dark-thirty early so I might enjoy maybe three, sometimes up to four hours of semi-solitude. If it's a warm day and the wind holds off there'll be thirty guys there by noon, most of them stomping up and down both sides of the creek, their presence always preceded by bow wakes streaming toward whatever deeper water the bow wake makers can find. The banks are a loamy mud honeycombed with holes and tunnels, a by-product of any area populated by muskrats, otters, weasels, and snakes, so any and or all vibrations echo underwater, alerting the fish (and the varmints) to the presence of human activity. And when this echo exceeds maximum tolerance levels, the fish simply hunker down and refuse to act like fish. I would too. It's insanity.

     That being said, there is an upside, albeit a bit twisted, to fishing 'The Ford' when there seems to be a body at every opening in the cattails which is another reason I get there as early as possible short of spending the night in my rig. I like to stake my claim early on. Occupy a piece of water, usually one I've come to understand as well as is possible, so that when the traffic increases I will 'own' a stretch that I feel is to my advantage. I think anybody who's experienced this sort of fishing would agree that there is an added dimension that comes into play when three or four fly lines are in the air at the same time all plying for the same piece of water.
     Most fly fishermen openly abhor the idea of fishing competition. The idea of hooking trout in an atmosphere that totally belies the inherent nature of the 'sport' would, to most, seem outside the realm of what fishing with flies is all about. And, for the most part, I would heartily subscribe to that philosophy. However, and I've seen it happen over and over again, when there are several fishermen parrying over the same stretch of water, anyone who thinks that it's anything but an all out battle for that first take, and then the most hookups is purely and simply not understanding what's going on. It's all disguised, of course, in a friendly, convivial gloss; relaxed queries and casual responses dealing with vague references about fish already caught, the flies, maybe a benign comment about the weather, but the intensity is palpable. Soon enough the pleasantries fade as the combatants get down to it, eyes and ears alert to anything that may assist in the divining of a clue. Looking for the sign that will provide an edge. Running those just concluded innocent conversations through their heads over and over looking for tidbits of vital information that may have been inadvertently passed.
    Not all who partake in this 'leisurely' battle of wits are equipped with the cunning necessary. Indeed most are ill-prepared for the mental demands of this seemingly impromptu contest. Being the first fisherman to occupy a space others may find attractive gives me an edge. That, and the fact that I'd been playing this game for years before I realized what was actually taking place.
Most fly fishers don't understand that if and when you are in situations where fishable water is at a premium due to an overabundance of fishermen, then all sorts of subterfuge are possible. False information, dubious claims, outright lies, promises of 'lots' of fish just downstream a ways. I've heard it all. And fell for it many times. Friendly attempts at conversation all too often designed to put you at ease. Don't fall for friendly smiles and seemingly innocent banter if it seems too slick; too choreographed. It's all by design. Keep your secrets close. Betray nothing. Master the art of doublespeak. Be courteous and friendly while keeping your distance. Learn the art of ambiguity and apply it  to questions concerning anything you consider an encroachment. And most importantly, take every tidbit of information too easily dispensed with a few grains of salt. It's a lot like life, in that regard.

     So now it's Friday. I'm glad I didn't get this posted because I had the occasion yesterday to (finally) get acquainted with a couple of gentlemen I've been seeing out at 'The Ford' for years. They're a couple of characters. 
     

Rich and Bob are 80. They've been fishing buddies for years, and through the years as I've watched them out of the corner of my eye I've come to the conclusion that they're pretty damned good fishermen. Every Thursday about 7:15 in the morning they roll in and shortly after that they'll make their way up the trail past me and holler a good morning as they head upstream to their favorite sections. They don't stay all day, but they do pretty well for the few hours that they're on the water. It got be about 10, and the fishing was good but the catching slow, so I headed back to my rig for a roast beef sandwich. Turns out that Rich and Bob had the same idea. They were sitting in their Subaru alternately munching and napping, which on a warm late morning would not be hard to do. I introduced myself, finally, after all these years, and found them to be as engaging and colorful as I thought they'd be. Then, as I headed back to the water, I had an idea. I'd get a picture of them. They were thrilled when I asked if either one of them had  an e-mail address because I'd send the pic to them. And there you have it; my two Rocky Ford fishing buddies.

          Slow day catching fish. No big deal. I landed several, finally, after deciding that I'd have to do some hunting and pecking. Get out the boxes and tippet spools. Do some leg work. It's not always off the menu. I knew that when I hooked the fish of the day with my trusty Spokane River soft hackle. The fishing's always good, and it's great just 'to be here', but a sudden jolting hookup ain't too bad either.

      

On the perpetual process of reinvention.

    
   "One of the most difficult accomplishments in fly-tying is to reexamine an established category and do it better and more simply."
       Thomas McGuane, p.68, The Longest Silence

Classic TDR Soft Hackle

"Certainly in the end we cast a fly on the water for the same basic reason that we test a hypothesis or read a story - we want to see how it all comes out."
Ted Leeson, p.146, Inventing Montana

        I know it works. For close to ten years now I've  carried several of them, in three different sizes, although I most often favor a #18. And really, it's changed only subtly since its inception, trial period, and subsequent addition to my go-to box. I've been summarily amazed time and time again at its ability to cover so many bases; nearly always adapting well to a variety of methods and situations. I wish all of my boxes were filled with flies that engender so much confidence. 

       Of course we all strive for that, whether we tie our own or not. That every fly will fill a particular void. That for every fly there is a purpose or situation. A fly that represents another chance to solve, even if only temporarily, a mystery, or to uncannily stay ahead of the curve without missing a beat. 

      It would, because of this somewhat bottomless hope, seem easy to think that we have ridiculously lofty aspirations; I myself would never admit (publicly) to seriously pursuing this. Not to anyone who didn't share the same inner conviction, anyway. Nothing like opening yourself up to awkward silences and sidelong glances. Why is it that in vocalizing the unspeakable you somehow cross this mystical line from respect into lunacy? We all pursue it tirelessly, whether we buy our flies or construct them ourselves. Yet the dream remains an unspeakable one. A laughable fantasy at best. Not, however, to me.  
     I'll add one more facet to this fantasy. I'd like to decrease the number of flies I carry by improving my techniques. Produce more with less. Perfect simple patterns that cover more bases because I understand and know how to utilize them in more situations. In my mind's eye that is the nexus. That is where I wish to go. For a lot of fishermen, it's go-to boxes or a go-to fly or the hottest new pattern or the hell with this spot I'm moving downstream. But after all's been aired out and they're standing there still scratching their heads, well then what's left? It seems to me as I've observed fishermen over the years that if there's one common denominator missing from the equation it's technique. It's the lack of repertoire on the fisherman's part. This is often the case with those of us who pretty much carry a fly shop with us to the river. It subverts our attention from the possibility of a combination of technique and fly working together. Focus is too sharply trained on the fly. It's gotta be the fly, they think, and they rummage tirelessly through all of them over and over looking for the magic that might have revealed itself to them six flies ago had their method of presentation been more adroit.
     
       All of us who fish with flies do it that way for different reasons, although it wouldn't be hard for me to divide most of us into maybe two or three main groups. One of those would be the 'OH' group. 'OH' for obsessive. That's where I'd be. The criteria for admission into this group is simple; have an overriding obsession with any/and or/all aspects of attracting trout/fish to eat your fly, and live for the take. Here are some prerequisites -
    1) Spending way too much of what should have been profitable, constructive (in a normal person's eyes) time at the vise on a regular basis puzzling over how to create a simple fly that works in a variety of situations.
    2) Devoting three or more sections in your box to flies with only the subtlest of variation from your control (favorite) fly.
    3) Keeping the number of variations to a bare minimum so you have a pretty good idea as to what's working and what isn't.
    4) Fishing these flies for as many consecutive days as you can to determine true adaptability to as many situations as possible for as much of each consecutive day as is possible.
    5) Taking all the input you've gathered and starting all over again at the vise.
     If you satisfy these, then you belong with me in the 'OH' group. 
        Everyone else need not apply. They're only going through the motions.

     The other day I was going through some of my fly boxes, busily sorting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. After working away for a while, I sat back and realized how many flies I've been carrying that never made it to the water. For years! Literally hundreds of them! I collected and emptied the whole pile of them into the pint glass I keep for such occasions, nearly filling it. I then sat back, laughed out loud, then and there swearing  an oath to keep my approach to tying and carrying flies as austere as possible. Here it is more than three weeks later now and it makes even better sense. If I streamline my scheme I make better use of time, resource, and intellect. Time spent hashing through flies is not time well spent. 

     

       I have recently, after some years of distance, reconnected with a close friend who years ago became that close friend because his fishing and tying philosophies closely reflected mine. It's fascinating to discover that even through the ten or so years while we were absent from each other's journey, through the years of separate fishing lives and experiences where  our arcs basically totally diverged, we have nonetheless arrived (again) at the same place at the same time. I was sitting patiently in a semi-dark theatre waiting for the annual traveling fish-porn show to start, heard my name called, and there he was. And then a week later at the yearly steelhead porn show there he was again. It didn't take long to plan a fishing foray and a few days later there we were at 0-dark-thirty blasting west on I-90 on a fishing expedition trading lies, theories and hypotheses concerning our favorite subjects, all of which centered around fishing with and the tying of soft hackled flies. Dan's so into it he's even conceptualized and tied a series of them for steelhead, his foremost obsession. I've been fortunate to have seen a few of them and they are impressive. I know he's on to something good. They just simply look fishy. The fact that they tugged at something deep within me should not go unmentioned; I've been inspired enough to set aside time to create some of my own. For good reason, of course, because Dan's got a trailer he hauls down to the Clearwater in the late summer. What an advantage it would be for me, eh?
      We share another obsession. Fishing the Spokane with soft hackled flies. It's been several years since we fished the river together, but his flies also reflect a similar, 'less is better' style. We may differ as to what the more prominent 'triggers' may be, but the idea that a simplistic approach is more desirable has captured our eyes and imaginations. 
     Of course the work, the trial and error, and the conjecture goes on and on. Even though I have an essential ingredient for somewhat consistent success in my possession, there will always be room for another, and another after that. But the road to success is best covered one brick at a time.

            Keep it simple. Always.
  

The fly.

The fly, we reason, is what makes things happen, and so using a different one should make things happen differently.
                   Ted Leeson, Patterns of Behavior, Inventing Montana

Always look at what you have left. Never look at what you have lost. 
                              Robert Schuller


        It's almost noon on a humid, chilly Friday. The weather this morning had been patient with me until about a half hour ago, but that has run its course. Rain falls from the dense grayness of the early November sky, contrasted against the forest green of the trees across the river, while I work methodically, carefully down. The rain's not such a big deal if I'm further down the river. But now, I work against time, having chosen the Cemetery Run. It's enticing to me, with its curious blend of seams and fierce riffle. The problem is, I'm just downstream from the mouth of Latah (Hangman, if you're a native) Creek, which, when the rains come, is notorious for quickly going off-color and shortly after that spewing it's effluvial flush into the river, effectively buttoning fish lips and putting them down, way down, often for days. 
     The lure of this stretch of water lies in the frequent 'pushes'. The fierce flow of the main riffle periodically sends pulses of hydraulic upwellings downstream and across into the softer water on the inside (my side) of the slight bend that entails the hundred and few odd yards of this particular stretch. I find them interesting because I've hooked a lot of fish when first I got lucky and then after putting some thought into it began to time my casts so that my swinging fly would be caught up in the front edge of the advancing push. On several occasions I've had solid strikes when it's near the end of its swing and gets swept up in the vertically rolling current. My thinking, upon observation after experiencing a few violent takes is that a couple of things may be at work here. The first theory is that the vertically oriented twisting of the current alters the path of my fly line or leader, causing a sudden change in the path of my fly, which is almost always a soft hackle or a two fly rig. The second explanantion is easier to understand in that I treat the edges of the 'push' as I would a classic seam, which is really what they are, except that they're temporary. When the push spends itself, the seam simply goes away. After seriously working these anomalies over the past few weeks both here and at different locations on the river, I'll try, when I see a 'push' coming, to put my fly at the front or slightly ahead of it. The trout seem to know that 'push' will carry food and are waiting at the deep edge of the softer water on cue to snap at anything that gets collected and resembles a meal. The takes are usually quite solid, meaning that either there may have been some effort put into chasing down the target rather than having it come by at a more or less constant speed. Or, it's a take that is similar to the 'snatch and grab' technique employed in the seam off of a faster flow. This is all merely conjecture on my part and should not be taken seriously, unless, of course, you've maybe experienced a similar phenomenon. Having said that, a lot of fly fishermen are often hesitant to subscribe to anything other than their own time-tested, although maybe not as consistently successful routines, although they'd be quick to enroll should they step out of their box and discover otherwise.
      I watch the latest surge slowly spend itself in the soft water directly downstream and start my retrieve slowly with one long, slow pull. The belly in my fly line, which now more closely resembles a lazy 's' as the push disintegrates unevenly, instantly begins, at great speed, to straighten, then quickly transfers itself in the form of a solid pull to my rod. "I'll be damned! Wonder which one he ate", I query no one in particular (I admit to talking to myself more and more as I age), tighten on him, raise my rod and am amazed for a second or two at the fact that he ate when at that point I'm amazed that it's a larger rainbow than I thought who quickly realizes he's hooked and with a single effective seizure-like shake breaks me off. I stand silently, hands down for a few moments amazed at what just transpired, then strip back line to see what kind of damage the fish did to my two fly rig. Upon inspection I discover that he'd escaped with my bottom fly; in this case a #18 classic TDR soft hackle.

   Depending on the circumstances, losing a fly to a fish can be no big deal or, if it's the result of something I did poorly or not at all, it is cause for immediate and severe self recrimination. But, even though I may have in all likelihood screwed up, the fish still ate my fly and that's something to feel good about. Of course, if it was the fish of the day and I've nothing to show for it but empty tippet, you can bet I'll be muttering.

      There are events in our lives that are 'light bulb' moments. I've had so many of these in my life as a fisherman/tier that it gets hard to keep track of them all. Then add to that the fact that I fish the Spokane and you've got THE light bulb moment times ten. That one all by itself still ranks right up there in the top half of the top ten. It opened my eyes. But, and more importantly, I feel that because I chose the Spokane, I finally began to fully comprehend what it takes to be a competent and self-sustaining fly tier. Understanding that began very quickly to translate itself into making me a better fisherman. Not only because I got more proficient at the vise; that in turn affected my need to improve my skills with the rod. Even perfect flies won't catch fish if they're not worked properly, or in the correct situations.
    
       The absolute thrill of hooking fish on flies I've conceptualized, created, and perfected are without exception  the most satisfying moments of my life. Nothing, save for the birth of my sons will even come close. And, as mentioned in previous posts, it adds a healthy dose of adrenalin to every take.

        There are a lot of ways to learn to tie flies, some good,  some not so good, and then there was my way. Almost from the outset I was, for all intents and purposes, on my own. I had zero credible input. Other than my fishing, my father, my mind's eye and the elementary primer included in the kit were all I had as standards of measure.  But, I knew the one big thing going in; it was not going to happen overnight. It was a foregone conclusion that time was the bank. To be a fly tier was to understand that perseverance over time was a sound investment.
     
       My dad wasn't a tier, but he'd seen a lot of flies. His was the gospel of Dan Bailey in the form of first a fly catalogue that would arrive every December, and then, periodically through the next few months, boxes of flies ordered through the mail. I will always remember his 'ruck sack', the army-olive ruck sack that served as his repository. It was stuffed with so many boxes of Dan Bailey flies that I had to wonder why he had so many! Hundreds of them! Most all of them were dries save for a couple of small boxes of woolly worms way down at the bottom, which told me that they were not in use very often. That bag went with him everywhere every time he went fishing! Dad embodied the characteristics of those fly fishers who are bought and sold by eye candy. In his mind, a beautiful fly equated to success on the water, and the more he had, why the better the chances were. I really don't know how many he ever really used. His boxes were tediously sorted, kept updated and absolutely chock full, terribly revealing about the man that owned them. I'd spend hours going through each box, closely examining each fly, asking questions like, where do you use this one?, or, when do you use this one, etc? And I don't ever remember him tiring of my constant, somewhat repetitious inquiries. Talking fishing and flies, even if it was with a son who had yet to really understand the depth and magnitude of his involvement, was always worth the time. 

      I look back on those first years of tying knowing that it probably would have been beneficial to have actually had some real, one-on-one instruction though in reality it would be years before I received any viable input, not having the confidence in even my embryonic abilities to feel comfortable asking for guidance. It was fun, a bit satisfying and at the same time frustrating, knowing what I wanted to see but not having the ability level to bring it to fruition. But, looking back now, I guess I don't have any regrets. It's a work in progress, but I've become adept at visualizing what I want to create and along the way have invented and perfected many of my own methods while developing into a pretty decent tier without any real mentoring, and that ends up feeling very satisfying. 
     
      The years progressed as I became more and more interested in the Spokane River. My flies and methods for fishing them were continually evolving. I was, for a lot of years not aware of that many people who fished the Spokane as much or as often as I did. Actually, it never even occurred to me to find out. I was tying flies and fishing, completely, blissfully immersed in my own little world at the vise and on the water. Of course, some days were better than others, that will always be a reality. But, somewhere along the line it began  to dawn on me, probably after a few successive days of utter frustration, that maybe the bad days were, in the long run, probably more important than I'd ever thought. So instead of basically going through the motions for a few hours or until the frustration got too unmanageable whereupon I'd throw in the towel, I decided to stay engaged, and I began see that bad days, especially a string of them, while being a great leveling device, were also plateaus from which I could more impartially examine and evaluate my schemes, whether it might mean fly, fishing method, time of day, and so on.  Fly fishermen are sometimes quick to let the ego get over-inflated with a little success and just as quick to doubt their whole program during the slack times. I was/am no different in that regard. The thing that separated me from most others was the fact that I had only myself to fall back on when I'd ring up zeroes, and no one to boast to when I kicked ass. Fishing alone makes it easier to get shut out and not have it be such a big deal, although it can be just as frustrating when it's been a fish-filled day. I wasn't very far into my years of fishing when I discovered this. Who's going to believe you? Luckily I didn't have anyone to tell, either way, so it was easier to develop a 'convenient amnesia' through the shut outs, a quiet pride through the successes and continue on, always aware of the constant probability in balance between the good days and the bad. 
      

        My testing ground for my flies, being the same water that I've fished for all these years now, continues to thrill, frustrate, and confuse me. But, like a faithful companion, it scolds as often as it cradles me, admonishing me in subtle ways to always keep my head clear. It is my staunchest supporter or severest critic, most always willing to forgive as long as I respect what it preaches; keep sight of what is essential and jettison that which is merely superfluous. When I forget, disavow or allow too much of my ego to show, the river sternly takes me to task. 

      In an early post I described the first flies I tied.  Pheasant tail nymphs and wooly buggers were the most commonplace, gradually giving way to attempts at dry flies. At this point I was beginning to frequent sporting goods stores and then actual specialty shops where I could examine the flies that were for sale. I began to buy a few flies, mostly very simple patterns, so I could take them home and attempt to tie them. This practice proved to be worthwhile. With one of these copies, a yellow-bodied #16 soft hackle I tasted my first success on the Spokane. It was a watershed experience. I was seriously, totally hooked for life at the instant of that take. Standing knee deep in a swirling back eddy wearing my father's leaky neoprene waders under a pair of plain hiking boots, I knew then that this was just the beginning of a lifelong adventure.

        I tie flies for and fish the Spokane River. Now almost exclusively. All of my energies relating to the tying bench reflect this obsession with the fish there. Not to say that the flies I create wouldn't work elsewhere. The simple truth of it is that they do. I've had tremendous success with my classic soft hackle as well as with various dries, especially those relating to the caddis family, at venues like the Henry's Fork, the Beaverhead and the Missouri, in B.C. on the Elk and also up on the higher reaches of the North Fork of the Couer d'Alene and the St. Joe, to mention just a few. I have the utmost confidence in being able to 'match the hatch', no matter what mayfly or terrestrial may be predominant at the time. And I'm not afraid to get down and dirty with streamer patterns like my newest wool-headed sculpin. 
         But the fly that keeps me enchanted year after year after year is the soft hackle. That fly, and the methods by which it can be fished have, year in and year out, provided me with more hours of joy and satisfaction than all the others put together. Of course, in saying that I could mention the opposite side of that coin which brings into focus all the hours of frustrating consternation when they let me down. But that wouldn't be correct, because they rarely do. It is I that lets me down. I'll attempt to explain.

      In the past oh, let's say ten years, I've developed a variety, a significant number, of soft hackles just for the Spokane. I say 'just', because it's in reality been quite awhile since I've fished anywhere else, other than my winter fishing on a slow-moving spring creek west of town which bears little or no resemblance to the Spokane for which I've also developed several productive patterns which include, of all things, a soft hackle. But save for a blue-winged olive pattern that I'll use elsewhere, those flies are pretty location specific, the nature of spring creeks being what it is.

      I've got three distinctly different types of soft hackle in my box, and six if you count the swimming caddis patterns. The three 'real' softee patterns are all similarly colored and constructed, the difference being in the amount of weight I'll use. Most of the time I'll use a few wraps of lead (substitute) on the shank, and to be more specific, I'll use more or fewer wraps depending on the water speed and how deep I want the fly to be when it starts its arcing swing back across. I've come to understand the importance of working different depths. 
     This year I got pretty taken with the challenges presented in swinging flies through faster water. Takes in the fiercest flows are nothing short of electrifying, and I found that by using a tungsten bead along with a few wraps of lead I increase the odds that my soft hackle is going to arouse some interest as it swings through. It's always amazing to me when I hook up in fiercely flowing chutes. I wonder how a fish could not only be in there but also have the wherewithal to attack possible prey. But, in saying that I admit to looking at those fast chutes through very human eyes. I can't possibly see the bottom with its holding lies and compressions that undoubtedly provide good cover while being an excellent platform from which to obtain food. But what I have begun to understand are the surface characteristics I should look for which will give me the best chance for success. There are fish, more often than not of decent size, in those places so it's a matter of understanding where, and how best to get the fly through it. The beauty of fishing this way lies in the fact that the fish will usually attack without reservation. They know they've only got one shot before it's past them, thus the solid, often crushing takes. And, more often than not you'll see the take. Even with a tungsten bead and wraps of lead, that fly is coming across, depending on the speed of the flow, at or very near the surface. It's quite a visual to experience. Adrenalin management is paramount, otherwise you'll be tying on another fly. 

      The two flies pictured above are my current favorites for my two fly setup. The top fly is the caddis. It's a derivation of a standard Troth-style dry, and came to be because of the success of tugging on the line and pulling the dry one under at the end of a drift. All I did was omit the hackle on the body, add a copper rib, and  either some partridge or dyed brown hen neck, sparingly, after I tied in the wing. I've got similarly flies with several different colored wings depending on what I see actually on the water at the time, but the olive-winged version seems to be the most consistent. 
      The soft hackle (trailer) is small, lightly weighted, and is often eaten when fished by itself right before BWOs are seen on the surface. It's basically just another caddis imitation, but I also think it imitates an emerging olive nymph being swept in the current. It's hard to be sure, especially because I see such a good number of caddis on the water pretty constantly during the cooler mornings and also in the late afternoon to past sunset.

       As always, even though these particular flies have found a home in my box, they're still a work in progress. Everything I fish the Spokane with is in a constant state of change. It would be terrible to wake up one morning and not wonder what I might do differently, or better. For me, that's the name of the game. 
  

Strange Days (Sunset)

                                                                                                        

To expect too much is to have a sentimental view of life and this is a softness that ends in bitterness. 

Flannary  O'Connor

                    

Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.
                Thomas Hardy


          I squint, following the path of my bellying fly line as it is pulled through the reflecting golden shimmer of an early October sunset on the lazy flow of my early fall river, but I don't really see it; amazing how pursuit of the object of my obsession can blind me to the passage of time. Early October. Already. I let that replay over and over, letting my fly to waft back and forth in the soft current.
      Time. Passed, as I stand nearly on the other side of it here in my river, incrementally in seconds, minutes, hours, and finally, days. Some remarkable days. Here on the end line I would've thought that it'd be hard not to notice them moving past so steadily. Hard not to mark certain days as eventful, others as, well, days that offered little more than a late night at the vise trying to solve another riddle. And then quite suddenly I'm standing here watching a fiery sunset at an hour of a fall afternoon where I quite recently took comfort in the fact that I still had several more hours left with which to capture that which I think I'm really pursuing. Standing in my river, reminded yet again that nothing is certain beyond the fact that I'm still head down busy caching more memories. I can see both ends of this playing out clearly now, and I'm drawn toward a summary thought; how many can I store before they overflow and begin to spill out into the cosmos to be lost forever. And then I wonder if I can somehow, when it's time, gather them up and take them all with me. And then I smile, because I know full well that I can't, and, that in the scheme of things it really doesn't matter. None of it. None of it matters except now, spending this time, this precious, incrementally designated way of marking passage doing what has provided me with the truest sense of satisfaction I have ever known. And if I do that? Well, if I do that, then it's just not that important how fast these increments pass, how many I have left, how much I forget or how many I lose because I will have spent these precious incremental jewels exactly as they were meant to be spent. There will be no need to remember at all, because it will have been my life. And as I begin my retrieve, I find that thought so strangely comforting that it brings tears to my eyes.
        I strip a few few more feet of line, lift the rod and roll out another cast. My latest hybrid concept ends its ride on the far side of the fast riffle, turning over at full extension, disappearing and immediately pulling at the end of its tether as it begins its arc back across the brisk chute some seventy feet out. I manage the hydraulics, mending up or downstream when necessary, and easily lose myself in the mindlessness of the process. Halfway through the completion of its arc my eye catches the silvery flash a short distance below where I'm guessing my fly line ends and simultaneously there's a sharp pull on my rod. I leave the rod tip down and pull with my line hand to tighten on him. No time to raise the rod. I've learned to strike back with the line rather than risk a more tenuous hookup by taking the time to lift my rod. There is a brief thrashing on the surface followed by a quick run and then the sight of a leaping rainbow executing a series of perfect nose-first exits and re-entries as he now tries to free himself from whatever won't let him go about his business. I don't know why, after all these years that I am still so excited by the take, but I always am. Delighted. Exonerated, almost, but that feeling lasts only long enough to know that I won't stay delighted or exonerated if I don't react correctly and this fish frees himself. I'd rather he escapes from my hand. Still, after all these years there is that certain indescribable something in each and every take that never grows old, never ceases to be the strongest magnet, never fails to keep me on the water longer. No two takes are ever the same, and yet each and every one produces a similar elevated state comparable to nothing else I have experienced in my life.

       On the river there are, within the undrawn parameters of the geography of my favorite, most frequented fishing locales, several Osprey nests. The nests, constructed high in the oldest, tallest pines or on telephone poles overlooking the river's valley are silent now, empty, having been home base for another generation of youngsters who now navigate the skies and dive for prey as proficiently as their elders. All except for one. A lone Osprey perches on the branch next to her nest. It could be mom, lingering a bit to see if one of her brood might return, or maybe it's a youngster, hesitant to strike out into the world, hanging close to home just a little longer. Then it leaps into flight and I see it is indeed a young male. I know I've been spotted when I hear the call of danger his parents taught him when he and his sister were just learning to fly. He wheels and flies downstream. I will miss them. They were, and remain, my most constant, even though terribly more efficient, fishing companions. Ospreys are masters of the art of perseverance, stealth, and patience. In my eyes they have no equal. 

       It's been a strange year on my river. Starting with the higher than normal flows that lingered well into July. Then it was the heat coupled with cloudless skies that seemed to run on uninterrupted for weeks at a time. The eventual combination of low flows and high air temperatures then produced, among other things, a record vinyl hatch that annoyingly persisted until just a few weeks ago. 
      But something else was taking place on the river this year, and in numbers that I have never seen before. I think it definitely had an effect on the fishing. Fishermen. Many fishermen. In boats and wading. I saw drift boats from every fly shop in town. Constantly. It was not uncommon for me to wave at the guides of several boats each time I was down fishing, and for all the years I have fished here, that has never been an issue. Save for a few, I know all of the these gentlemen well. 
      Early in July, when the Fly Fishing Federation's conclave was taking place here in Spokane, I was complimented by a shop owner for my contribution to an article written by Rich Landers, our local outdoor writer for our local daily The Spokesman-Review to coincide with that event. In it, several local shop owners (and I) were queried on different subjects having to do with the many fly fishing opportunities available in the area. I was honored to be included in this somewhat luminary group of local experts, it being common knowledge among them, I guess, that because of my years of experience on the Spokane I would be a good fit in this group. 
     To cut to the chase, at one point in the article I stated that what with the lingering higher flows (and remember this interview was conducted back in late June), a fly caster working from a boat would be at a definite advantage over a wader until the flows came down. Many productive areas would simply be out of the average wader/caster's range until then. As this particular shop owner pointed out to me, the article was widely read, including by many of the attendees to the conclave, and, when they had the time to fish, well, since the river runs right through town making it the closest venue around and 'the expert' had it that the best way was from a boat, well, that's exactly what they did, with, I'm sure, some extra sugar-coating from the various shops. I think next time, if there is one, I'll keep that particular observation to myself. There just aren't enough trout in this river to go around.
       It's also pretty widely known among the few of us who wade the Spokane that it's a solid number one on the 'top one hundred' list of toughest rivers to wade. And that's not even talking about general access to the water, which in itself can be an adventure. I will save that topic and elaborate more on it in a future post. But despite the obvious challenges presented to anyone who decides to wade here, I was more than surprised, when the flow eventually dropped enough to level the playing field, to see more wading fishermen this year than I've ever seen before. It was not an uncommon occurrence to arrive at one of my favorite runs only to discover a fisherman already working his way down through. And, on more than a few occasions, even when I thought I had a run all to myself, after making just a few casts I had the unmistakably distinct feeling that this run had been fished just prior to my arrival.  I ended up doing a lot of extra hiking this year, giving myself a 'pep' talk as I did. I know it's everybody's river. I know that there are others who have discovered that this river is a favorable alternative for a day instead of jumping in the car and driving for a few hours to another venue. The present state of the local economy dictates that. But the truth is that from my years of solitary fishing I must confess to having become rather territorial. I also know, from my guiding experiences when I worked at the shop years ago, that even though there are more rods on the river, more specifically on 'my' water, that doesn't necessarily always equate to more fish being hooked. What does happen, though, is that the fish in any given area that is  fished will simply 'go away', often for several days, and I think that's partly a condition of too few fish per rod, or per mile, or however you wish to delineate it. As much as I tout the attributes of the fish on this river, there are simply not enough of them to support an increase in fishermen. Fishing from a drift boat puts the fisherman in a position of one or maybe two shots at a fish before he's downstream and on to the next target whether that target may be a locale, a rise, or simply a nymph under an indicator drifted through one of the many deeper slots. But the wader has time on his side and is only moving after satisfying him/her self that every possible method has been tried. He/she may cover a section of water with a variety of flies utilizing a lot of different techniques before stepping down to repeat the process all over again. For the fisherman who knows what he's doing, that can provide success where the drifter merely shook his head as he moved downstream in search of the next opportunity.
     This year, because of that increased fishing traffic, I've fished a lot of water that in years passed I would normally have walked right by. The decision to do that proved, in many instances rewarding. Evidently some of the trout have also taken up at least temporary residence in these areas seeking sanctuary from the increased activity in their usual lies. I was treated to some interesting hours of fishing and a few surprises during my time spent searching through and fishing these sections. It also aided in increasing the number of go-to flies in my box.
    But two-legged fishermen are not the only reason that I have seen fewer fish. There are other, more 'serious' fish hunters to be aware of. In the feathered realm, I speak of the growing populations of Osprey, Great Blue herons, and in the early fall as they make their way to the Kokanee harvest on Coeur d'Alene lake, Bald eagles. On the furrier side, there are minks and a surprising number of otters. I was a bit taken back one early morning in August when it occurred to me that one of my favorite runs, a deep, fast trough with a classic tailout, had been adopted by a family of otters. Their den was at the top end of the fast slot. In previous years, I'd enjoyed the challenge of wading down this section as I swung heavy soft hackles through the various pockets of hydraulics, and it was a real surprise that particular morning to all of a sudden come face to face with a large otter with a face full of rainbow trout. I'm sure he was laughing at me. None of these fishers, furred or feathered, prescribe to the catch and release policy as far as I know.
     Neither do the poachers and those intransigents who choose to fish without licenses. They fill buckets and stringers without conscience. Our beleaguered Fish and Game department, already strapped for resources (by selfish, thoughtless budget-cutting) with which to combat this plague does what it can, but they are woefully understaffed and the law-breakers know it. Every fly fisherman I know who has spent time on the Spokane has at one time or another witnessed this illegal activity. Many of us (including me) risk soaking our cell phones in order that we might report such activity if/when we see it, but it continues, pretty much unabated, and the propagation and proliferation of the native population of Redband Trout is now very definitely at risk. I get so frustrated! So angry!
     And being on the subject of illegal fishing and keeping of fish is a perfect segue into another point of frustration. Our city 'fathers' have recently embarked on a campaign, or better yet, 'purge' if you will. They have decided that there is too much cheap alcohol for sale in certain parts of the city that have been determined to be 'high crime' areas. It is a concerted effort to drive the 'unhealthy' element out of what has been determined to be these 'high crime' parts of town. Their thinking is that by limiting sales of cheap, high alcohol content beverages, they will effectively reduce crime in these areas. Well, they were partially successful. They did decrease crime in a few isolated neighborhoods, but that's because the perpetrators simply picked up and went elsewhere. The crime rate in other areas then went way up. That's what happens when you move a resource. It causes the consumer, who, by the way has little to carry, to simply pick up and move. And that's exactly what they did. Great strategy. Many of them moved closer to the river, which already has a good reputation among this element for being a viable refuge from the law. Out of sight, then out of mind. That's a great way to solve a problem, city 'fathers'. Send them to the river. Nobody will see 'em down there. 
      
             I now step down off of my soap box.

      As of the first week in September, right on schedule, the drawdown of Couer d'Alene Lake began. The river's rising now, and that will continue, little by little, until the Lake has reached it's winter level near the end of November which is at the same time good and getting bad. At this point it's still not enough to cause any major headaches as far as the wading is concerned; I'm hoping that I've got a few more weeks before I have to dust off the long (switch) rod again. On the plus side, with the shorter days and lower temperatures comes cooler water. Many of the fish have re-established shallower lies to take advantage of the early fall appearance of pseudos and blue-winged olives, not to mention the sporadic caddis, October caddis and the ever-present chironomids. For the past two days I have been on the water at the right time, and, for about an hour and a half right during the warmest part of the day have enjoyed casting my #18 BWO upwing parachute to favorably impressed rising fish. From experience I know that this 'window' will begin to close soon, so it is paramount to exploit as much fishable water as I can over the next few days. However, I have, along the way, rediscovered the value of my #16 classic TDR soft hackle. In the hour or so prior to the appearance of the BWOs, and thus the rising fish, I have had consistent success swinging my little soft hackle through the slow water sections where the olives will soon appear. It's all in the timing. Chalk up another one for serendipity.
     And so it flows past. The river. Time. Summer into autumn. Warm into cool. My fly line bellies from the continual push, the ever present surge of things to get where they are going. 
     Me? I don't know if I'll ever get there. And yet, maybe I've already arrived. It doesn't matter. 
     

Dog days

         Standing midstream in a middle-aged season, waist deep and spectacularly clueless, you shuffle randomly through your alternatives over and over, like a disillusioned spiritual seeker trying to pick a new religion from the yellow pages.
            Ted Leeson, Inventing Montana

       
     One more cast. Then, very deliberately, I'll settle in to another thorough search through my boxes, looking again for a fly that's until now somehow been overlooked, or, one I finally convince myself to try even though it's been in there, patiently taking up space, forever. Just the fact that I'm mentally scheduling another box-check long before I cast is a pretty good indicator that all is not well.

      This has been a tough post to put together, or, to be more to the point, not the one that I planned to write. I had such lofty hopes for the summer's fishing on my river;  the higher than 'normal' run-off lasting so much longer than 'normal', testing my ability to stay cool during those days and days of watching the maddeningly slight incline on the graph begin to approach what I was waiting for.  But, as the days of this exceedingly strange summer have unfolded, each one ending in an eerily similar fashion; I silently beg each sunset to please slow down before admitting again that even if I do stay on into the darkness it probably isn't going to happen, and then finally allowing the reality of it all to convince me to trudge back.  So, with this as a sobering backdrop, I decided that what the heck, honesty, in all it's sometimes grim trappings, may well be the best policy. I'll write it as it is. As it is so far, anyway. 

    To be quite frank, I went so far as to postpone any writing for several more than a few days, supported by the promise of each new day that this malaise, this rather unnerving period that has so bewilderingly gripped me, would gently lift and pass. That I'd somehow get back on track, that I'd once again be on top of my game, laughing off my troubles to once again crow at great length about the virtues of my flies and fishing and the wonderfully engaging trout in this river I call my home water. Still, however, the days pass, into the necessary number of weeks in order to call it a month, plus now a few more days...

      And, as yet, much continues not to happen. My schedule is unchanged, sometimes fishing twice a day, and it's getting on into the fifth week, this doldrum; this conundrum. 
     
     The flows have only recently dropped enough to allow me to wade my familiar haunts with as much confidence as is warranted for a man with 62 year-old legs and increasingly suspect equilibrium. My casts remain strong and true. My flies are time-tested here and have been, at least up to this stage, consistently trustworthy. Certainly that would be any fisherman's recipe for success. It always worked well in the past, and going into this year I had no reason to think differently. Why would I?

       But something is stuck. I'm getting no traction. I'm not sure why that is. I'm not sure if it's me or the river, the fish or my flies. The weather could be partly to blame. Maybe it's degrees of all of the above. The worst part of this mystery is that I'm running dangerously low on reasonable conclusions. Any reasonable conclusions, reasonable or not. This extended drought, this mid-season blank has got me questioning everything I've ever done here to catch fish. My confidence has been ambushed, snared, hanging upside down wild-eyed with fear and almost out of reach. Almost.

     In the majors it's called a slump. Time to head back down to Triple A for a confidence boost against the pitching. On the basketball court I'd be what's known as 'cold', shooting nothing but bricks, which means some extended bench time or being the tag end of a multi-player trade that eventually lands me in Yemen playing for a sheik with ulterior motives. But, even then at least there would be options. The only options I seem to have left now amount to barely reasonable explanations, and that's a pretty empty bag to be holding. I'd prefer answers over explanations, or better yet a tight line, but so far neither of those have been forthcoming. The joy of looking down on my favorite runs at the beginning of each fishing day has been coated with a thickening patina of anxiety.  

     I just finished reading what I can say with conviction is probably one of the best, most insightful, thoughtful, perceptive books ever written on the subject of fishing with flies, Inventing Montana, by Ted Leeson. And one of the chapters in his book deals precisely with that which I am experiencing right now, which, as I read, was at the same time humorous and scary. (I remember thinking, oh, now that will never happen to me). It deals with what Thomas McGuane, in his book The Longest Silence calls just that; 'The Longest Silence'.  Simply put, it is that particularly inordinately long period of time spent fishing without, for one reason or another, hooking or landing a fish. I highly recommend both of these books, but I think that Mr. Leeson's book, especially the chapter entitled "Sirius Matters", deals with the matter of 'dry spells' in a fashion that will call each of us out and force us to really think. I say that because I am forced to concede that I never thought that 'it could happen to me'. It was always for some one else to suffer through. I never thought I would be singled out for such a time. Indeed, I never gave it even a moment's thought. 

      Until now. It seems to be my turn.

      Confession. I'm compelled to admit to losing a little sleep over it. This continuing saga of several days of unbridled, uninterrupted failure tend to grind on me a little bit, and I seem to have rather easily fallen into a pattern of crawling out of bed after hours of staring into the darkness to sit at my vise late into the wee hours of the morning working with permutations and variations (feeding the silliness) that roll ceaselessly through my agonized brain, trying to convince myself that one of these new ones will be the key that unlocks that door. One of these flies will be the deal breaker. Then I climb back into bed, hopefully satisfied that I have found the answer. Until the next night.

But, so far I haven't found it, and I swear every night as I turn off the light the hell with it, tonight I'll just stay in bed and let it ride...
    
... and an hour later I slide out of bed and into the chair and switch on my tying light, again.


      Mindset is everything, especially now. I am amazed, or possibly embarrassed, at how much self-value I've hung on the ability to hook fish. I've never been a fan of being 'just happy to be here' as regards the ability to simply enjoy the fact that I'm standing in a river doing what I was put here to do, because I've somehow convinced myself that I was put there, in that damned river, to catch fish. Some would offer that that's what I get for hanging my hat on such a fickle enterprise. The thought that I might go hitless for a period of time never entered into my consciousness, and were someone to advance that particular futurism my way, well I'd be hard put to even consider it. There will always be those days where a strike or a fish is harder to come by, but usually, with patience and perseverance, at the end of each day I could look forward to the hike back to the car feeling somewhat satisfied with my effort, and therefore the results. 
     The conscious thought now is almost diametrically different, and that's territory where I've long forgotten how be comfortable. And that 'discomfort', if you will, is beginning to manifest itself in my ability to reason with even a modicum of competence. 

     'They' say patience is golden; patience is a virtue.  'They' are, for the most part, quite right, but, that it's also, I've discovered, much easier to be patient when success, no matter how subjectively infrequent, is still usually somewhat close at hand. In the time line of our daily fishing history, despite the occasional panic attacks we are usually never too far from a hookup and not too far removed from the last. The matter of the distance between them is simply not a factor that attracts concern. Patience keeps us dialed in, on target, as we move from dot to dot on our timeline, because the next dot hasn't ever been that far off. It's a bit humbling when you are finally faced with the reality that the next dot, though you know there is one, could very well be a million miles over the horizon of your spinning ball and no matter how fast you spin it, that dot is not coming into view. So you do everything faster, making that ball really spin, hoping against hope for that grace-saving bump on the line. But, all that is revealed, aside from the same quiet emptiness is the rippling effect, the chagrin of muffed opportunities when they do arise, because by now you're so completely off your game that you've totally lost touch with what made you love this place, these fish, and your methods for attracting them. Church starts to sound like it might be for you. Or therapy. Or alcohol...
     
       I'm prone to wondering if maybe it's some sort of payback for all the success enjoyed over the years I've spent here; some karmic dispensation or reconfiguration for reasons I am not as yet able to discern. I tend to think along these lines when I have no other explanation for the current dearth of landed, or even hooked fish. Not suddenly, I have become aware that it's insinuated itself slowly, inexorably into the broader avenues of my overall consciousness, like the chill from a pin-hole sized leak in my waders that I discover on the coldest day of the year in the coldest water I've ever waded and I'm miles from the warmth of my car heater.

      I've even attempted to equate my current maledictive state as a calling out of sorts. A challenge. And indeed it seems that it is just that. The problem I have with the idea of a challenge is, as I see it, that any possible solution that I may successfully engineer could seemingly fall in the direction of a change in method. I've been swinging flies, specifically, of course, soft hackled flies, for almost as long as I've fished this river. Outside of a handful of fish brought to the net with nymphs, dries, or monstrous streamers, soft hackles have long been my meat and potatoes. The name of the game here for me has always been the caddis in all of its different stages of development, and soft hackles perform a majority of those tasks more than admirably. Add to that the seductively mostly mindless method of swinging flies and, well, you've just pegged the main reason I love to fish that way here. I've long thought that of all the ways we've fished with flies for trout over the years, this way is the most suitable, enjoyable, and yes sometimes it is mindless, but it  works, on several levels, including being the picture I keep in my mind's eye of me fishing my home water. It just works.

       A scene from a couple of years ago comes back to me. My son and I were fishing a favorite run of mine. I had elected to jump ahead several hundred yards so that I could swing my soft hackles through while he worked down more slowly, alternating nymphs with dries. I remember hooking one nice fish early on, and then drawing blanks the rest of the way. I sat down at the bottom of that run on a nice flat rock in the sun to watch Aaron fish his way down. An old man watching his son. I remember this now because I was struck by how patiently, unhurriedly he worked his way down, waist deep, wading quietly and carefully as he worked a simple Troth-styled imitation I'd given him earlier. There were no fish rising, and yet, as he stood above the last rocky spill of that run, his fly floating drag-free through a series of convoluted hydraulics, a very nice rainbow rose and his caddis disappeared. It was a wonderful fifteen minute display of all the good things we try to embody in our own fishing. He calmly raised his rod, the line went taut, and I almost cried. Perfect.
    I remember that morning vividly now, and I am reminded of lessons I have learned, but have allowed to grow dim. And, as that memory replays itself over and over, I am made aware of the One Big Lesson, again.

      There will be fish. There is an end, just as there are beginnings. Guess I'll go see if I can tie something up...