Friday, August 1, 2014

Trout Lake Report: Riding Out July

July 29

It's over a hundred degrees at home, and close to that at the lake. You choose a different access point, a campsite that has been deserted for awhile. You step out of the truck and find in the tall weeds the remains of some predator's meal. You guess it was a grouse. You collect some feathers for the tying desk, and one for your hat. You always feel like a new man with a new feather in your hat.


You've been anticipating another shot at the trout targeting damsels in the hot afternoon sun. You kick out and hear the splashy rises scattered over the weed beds. You tie on a Damselator.


You go to work. You're hoping to find a fish rising consistently to the little blue morsels. Most, though, are rising in random locations at wide intervals. So you do your best to get the fly close to the last rise. And you wait between casts.


You get a beautiful heads-up take, have him for a moment, then lose him. You're encouraged: he liked the fly. You move on, casting and waiting, and soon get another hungry take. This time you get him to the net.


Then you find your steady riser. There's a delicate rise ring in an opening in the weed bed.
Then another nearby. By now you have the Damselator floating in the zone, and he sucks it down.


That was nice. Now you feel ready for the second phase of the trip. You want to go down the Drake bank and see whether the fish are active and muddler-inclined.


It's a long, relaxing kick down the shoreline. You aren't finding any fish, but you know it could be the very next cast. Right down at this end, at this time of year, is where you saw the biggest Brown trout you've ever seen lazily finning through the weeds.


All along the way you watch the sky put on its summertime show.


You head back. Still no fish on the muddler. But you hang out a little longer, and then a little more, just to see how much color the sky will finally show. You aren't disappointed--in the color, and the day.



July 30

You go back to the same place. The day is smokier.


 The Carlton Complex fire is still burning, and shifting winds have dispersed the smoke plume far and wide.


You've arrived an hour later than the day before. You begin with the Damselator again, but the later hour--or some other mysterious variable--has made a difference.


There are fish taking damselflies, but, ironically, the only thing you can bring to hand is a damselfly.


The sky puts on another show with the smoke.


You kick through the channel and around into the south end, trying a muddler again, with no results. So you tie on a bead head Woolly Bugger and troll. You get all the way back through the channel and into the north lake before you get a take. And you won't get anymore.


You wait for a brilliant sunset, but the sky remains the color of smoke until darkness moves in. And you're content.



July 31

The last day of July already. The older you get, the more time speeds up. You have a different plan for this day. You launch in the north end and kick through the weeds over to the inlet.


You have a Damselator on, and you begin to look in the old familiar places. But the water level has already begun to drop, and the little bay is now only a foot or so deep. So you fish around the opening.


You get some splashy hits from little fish, but no hookups. You move out and try different areas a shoreline and open water. Then you look back and see a more authoritative rise right at the opening of the inlet. And then another. You kick back as quickly as you can and lay the Damselator where the last rise was. Bang. A good way to finish out what has been a good month for Browns.


Thank you, Damselator.


As the day wears on you switch to a muddler and explore up and down the inlet side of the lake, but things are slow. You're still looking for a steady riser, but you don't find one.


You go back to the inlet mouth and play with the little guys, hoping for another Brown surprise, which doesn't come. But you're happy to catch another fish.


You even cast way inside the little bay, and get a hit, but when you go back for another try you hang up your fly in the willows. You decide to break it off, and do, but then you realize you broke off the entire leader. So you drag yourself all the way in and retrieve it.


The wind has shifted again, and is blowing harder, and the smoke thickens.


You fish your way across to the truck under a blanket of smoke and pack up for the last time in July.


The fishing season is exactly half over.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Trout Lake Report: Another Day of Summer Fades Away

"For the Children" by Gary Snyder


The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

"For the Children" by Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island.
© New Directions, 1974.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Trout Lake Report: Solitude

You love being able to slip away after a hot day to the cool of the lake. You love discovering that you have the entire evening to yourself.

You launch at the far south end. You haven't been there for awhile. You start working the shoreline with a newly-tied muddler.


There must be fish who see it and don't want it. But you're looking for this fish. He's on the edge of a weed bed, and he comes clear out of the water in his eagerness to grab the fly skittering by.


Maybe they're beginning to see a few hoppers.

You work on around wondering if there are any other fish who want the muddler.


There's one more. He's right up in the willows along a drop off, and he pounces on the fly as soon as it hits the water.


You keep going, enjoying the magical transformation of the day into night.


The Goose Family gives you a fly by. You're amused by the youngsters whose squeaky, high-pitched honks remind you of teenage boys going through puberty.


The wind dies, the lake calms, and pods of fish begin to rise out in open water. You tie on a lighter tippet, affix a #20 Griffith's Gnat, and go chasing chain risers.

Too soon the breeze kicks up again and you can't see the fly anymore.


So you tie on a bead head Woolly Bugger and begin a leisurely troll. You get bumps and pulls, and then a hookup. It's a little silver fish that shines like the moon.


Before you know it, it's dark.