Trout Lake Report: A Big Job for a Big Fly

You open August at the north end again. You rig up with an indicator right away. The day feels nymphy.

But you fish across to the inlet without getting a single bump.

Here in the cold channel, though, a deep nymph brings a decent fish.

While you're releasing it, you see a splashy rise right in the neck of the inlet. It moves a lot of water.

This looks like a big job for a big fly. You tie on the quasi-hopper, grease it good, and cast it down the throat of the inlet. It splashes down, bobs up, and a fish hammers it. You horse it out into open water. It resists with all its strength. You hope it's a Brown, but you're happy with 18 inches of jacked up Rainbow. It's in beautiful condition for mid-summer.

You range on down the shoreline to another favorite spot. You've caught some giant Browns in here in the past, and recent trips have roused a small Rainbow or two.

You cast the hopper right up against the willows and driftwood, give it a twitch, and another Rainbow hammers it. It's not as big as the last one, but it's bigger than what you've found here recently.

You're ready for more, but all you can find now are wannabe's. They're everywhere.

You kick out into the weeds to fish pocket water. A preoccupied beaver swims within five feet of you before he sees the tube. You don't know he's there until he explodes right behind you. Now you're awake.

You fish dries and nymphs around the weeds, with no success.

You kick back to the take out trailing a muddler behind you.

One more Rainbow comes to your fly. It's as though you hooked a piece of the evening sky.

At dark the lake is still. You wait to see if fish will rise.

But the fish are still, too.

Trout Lake Report: Right

You gear up with a fresh quasi-hopper for another turn around the north end.

The weather seems more stable this evening.

Things are pretty straightforward; you lay the hopper out along the shoreline and see if a fish will eat it. Eventually one does.

There are small fish playing around the inlet and in the reeds. You get their attention, but you don't get them--at least this time around.

You cross the border of sunlight and shadow into open water.

A good Rainbow plucks the hopper off the surface as it wakes by.

You head back to the inlet.

It's a fingerling fiesta there.

The sun sinks and the shadows rise.

A teen trout muscles the kids aside and claims the hopper for his own.

You drift the hopper behind you as you kick back to the take out. You're thinking you might work a little caddis or something over the weed beds there, if conditions are right.

But once you get there, the conditions aren't quite right, if by that you mean no fish are rising. And you haven't changed flies all evening. Doesn't seem right to change now and start over. Besides, the evening as it stands now feels just right. Seems like it's time to go home. Right?

Right.

Trout Lake Report: Things That Go Bump In the Night

The very next day you find yourself at the path leading down to the north end access.

You plan to pick up where you left off the night before. When you check the caddis you had been fishing you find it somewhat sprung. You remember that hard, sharp pull in the dark. It makes you think of things that go bump in the night.

You bend the caddis back into shape and fish it around. Fish are rising. They seem to be working something. You get a nice hit and hook up out in open water, but after that they want nothing to do with the caddis.

Then you see what the fish are probably taking: there has been a fall of cinnamon ants. They aren't thick like you've seen them on the Henry's Fork, but you get excited anyway.

You have a couple of cinnamon ants and you tie one on. You fish it all over, chasing rises and drifting it behind you, but you can't get any action. This fly worked on the Henry's Fork, but apparently the trout here require something special made just for them.  

You're close to the inlet, so you kick over, switch to the quasi-hopper, and pick up a few little guys. You cover the whole inlet area carefully, though, muttering under your breath, "Tiger, tiger, burning bright...."

There are clouds building up in the south. Will this be deja vu all over again? You put your rain jacket on.

You get another grab by a little guy, but are happy to see it's a Brown. It's been awhile. Now go get your big brother.

You've been listening for thunder, but haven't heard any, and watching for rain, but haven't seen any. So you aren't quite ready when a wall of wind hits you from behind. You just manage to catch your hat before it's whipped into oblivion.

This isn't really a wind; it's a roaring gale.

Later you'll read in the paper about a "localized windstorm" that brought down several trees in a nearby town, including one that did a number on a house.

Photo: Al Camp

Now you kick into the inlet for whatever shelter it can provide, and, funny thing, you're thinking about trees coming down. You hope you're far enough away from the tree behind you that it won't land on top of you if it topples.

You bob away in your rolling retreat, hanging on to some willow stems for an anchor. You wait for the rain and thunder, but they never come.

Far overhead an eagle is soaring joyously on the rushing updrafts, riding the storm.

The wind slowly abates but never really quits. The lake remains restless.

You fish the hopper here and there, and drift it behind you as you kick back to the take out, but maybe the fish are still in shock, or nauseous from the tossing waves. You hang around for awhile to see if you might get a chance to throw a little caddis out onto a calm lake in the dark. But the fishing is over.

The things that go bump in the night will have to wait.