Trout Lake Report: Contentment

A summer milestone has been reached: the milkweed and the Monarch have found each other.

You come to the channel access. The water level is ebbing. It leaves behind dragonfly wings glittering in the mud.

You tie on a new purple muddler.

The atypical July weather continues. It's cool and breezy.

You prowl the shoreline of the upper south lake.

You cross over trolling a Black-nosed Dace.

You come upon the Kingbird nest and find it sadly empty. You saw eggs here on June 25, and even if the eggs hatched within a day or two of then, it's still too early for the nestlings to have left the nest. Some disaster befell this bird family.

The mother bird is still guarding the nest, and you see her fly to the nest and settle into it as if her brood were still there. You wonder if she will lay more eggs, but the Cornell Lab of Ornithology tells you that she will have only one brood--the one now lost to her.

You move on around the shoreline, working the purple muddler.

The breeze settles down and the lake begins to calm.

At dusk you stop and clip off the muddler. This is not a purple day. Time for a new strategy. You add a 5X tippet and tie on a little Lady McConnell. There has been precious little fish activity, but now you're seeing the occasional rise.

There's a rise ten feet to your right. Another one in the same area. And then another. It's the only working fish you've seen all day. You drop the Lady into the zone and wait. The fish takes it, calmly and efficiently. You're pleased to find a Brown on the end of your line. The Brown has the opposite reaction, but you manage to get it into the net.

You put the Lady out there again, but the rises dwindle away. You were lucky to find that Brown. You kick back to the channel drifting the purple muddler behind you. You feel the tick of bats on fly or line, you can't tell which, and then you're at the take out.

You load up and give thanks, for your time at the lake, for the gift of a fish, and for the realization that once again you know the meaning of contentment.

Trout Lake Report: Moving On

You're moving on from Drakes, just like the fish. You still launch at the channel, but this time you will work both sides of the channel and then head into the south end for a big loop of goodness.

The sun is bright and warm, but you have your jacket. There's a restless wind blowing, and you know how the summer has gone so far.

You fish a Damselator all up and down the channel. The usual suspects are not in the usual places.

You switch to a big muddler and bob with the wind into the south end. You haven't been here for a month.

You get one hit but can't get the hook into it.

You cross over, waking the muddler behind you. Nobody notices.

Clouds have drifted in to cover the sun. Thunder rolls in the distance. The wind cools down. You put on your jacket.

You see a nest in a leafless willow standing in the water. You go to investigate. It's inhabited. Looks like a Kingbird. I bet it's warm in there.

You don't intend to drive her from the nest, but as you're taking photos--with the zoom--the wind pushes you too close and she exits in alarm.

She doesn't go far, though, and she makes her displeasure known. Her mate comes over and joins in the shrill scolding.

You drift on in and reach up for a portrait of the youngsters. Looking good.

You kick away, and she immediately settles back into the nest.

On down the shoreline, the moment arrives. You finally get the fly over a fish ready to eat it. The fish dives into the weeds--the water is down and the weeds are up--but you winch it out and get it in the net. Appreciate it, fish. You're beautiful.

A little way farther along lightning strikes again. Another beautiful Brown. As with the first one, the fly is halfway down it's throat. These guys aren't messing around.

You work on around to the channel. The wind peppers you with rain drops now and then.

At the channel entrance you kick back across to John's Cove. You want to show that muddler to whoever may have recently moved into that address.

Somebody's home--you get some bumps--but it's apparently not a Brown.

You play until almost dark and kick in through the chilly wind. Maybe summer will come for real tomorrow.

It's late. The folks at the nearest campsite, snug in their huge RV, are probably just tuning into the Late Show.