Trout Lake Report: Wind and Waves

Back to the drop off for the evening.

The wind is blowing from the south. You hope it will back off. It steadily increases to a roar.

Your new muddler fits the bill. Lots of marabou.

You rip it through the waves.

Then the wind does back off.

An otter checks you out.

You work the muddler around the weed beds.

Your efforts are rewarded.

Then the wind picks up again, and begins to shift. The waves don't know which direction to roll.

Then it settles into the north and steadily increases to a roar.

The muddler gets another workout through the waves.

The otter comes back with the rest of the family.

Your world becomes roaring wind, rolling waves and waning light.

One more fish comes out of the mix.

You wait for the color to drain out of the notch, then kick in and head for home.

Trout Lake Report: Conspiracy Theory

A quick trip on another cool, windy day. You're back at the channel to see once again whether you can conjure up some trout from these recently barren waters.

You make a half loop around the south lake throwing a muddler at the shoreline willows. Birds get up and move; fish don't.

In the evening you decide to kick back to the channel drop off. You drag the muddler behind you.

A fish grabs it. He apparently didn't get the memo. About nobody eat any of Jim's flies until further notice.

Back at the drop off, the wind settles down a little and pods of fish begin to cruise up and down. You're offering an elk hair caddis, and finally, just before you decide to head in, another fish disobeys the order and pays the consequences. He looks chagrined and accusing at the same time.

You go ahead and kick in. It's a beautiful night, and on the way you relax a bit. You wonder whether you're getting just a little tense about this slow patch. Trout couldn't really band together and conspire to create a no-fly zone just around you.

Could they?

Trout Lake Report: What a Relief

It has been a couple of days since you went to the lake and came up empty. You are grateful to be able to say that hasn't happened in a long time. Still, it rankles.

You wind your way up through the hayfields and pastures to the lake. Time to get back on track.

Hummingbirds are working the elderberry blooms at the south end access. This is where it happened; this is where you will turn things around.

It's breezy and warm. You start across the lake dragging a muddler behind you and get an early bump. That makes you confident.

But you spend the next few hours without seeing a single piece of evidence that trout actually live in this lake.

It's just one of those mysteries. You try every tried and true fly and method you know--and nothing works.

In the midst of your efforts, the wind comes up.

You keep working.

You take a break on a little shelf of reeds.

You sit there for awhile, mending your leader, going through fly boxes, and thinking over the problem. It occurs to you that you're having a fine old time. There is something invigorating about the challenge, and the trout's indifference to your presence and resistance to your efforts raises them even higher in your esteem.

You kick out again even more committed to fooling these wily competitors.

The wind has backed off, and soon it's calm.

You begin to see and hear the occasional leaping trout. They're leaping, but they aren't rising.

One comes out of the water right next to you, as though to make sure you see it.

It spurs you on. You begin to see occasional rises, but even when you can get a fly over them, they don't come up again. You try nymphs, you try little dries, you try big dries. You let the fly sit and you move the fly. You try everything you can think of all over again. Nothing works.

It's dusk. A breeze has come up. Time for the last resort. You search your fly boxes for one of your go-to flies in the past, a proven fish finder when you were down to your last hand, a little black bead head micro-leech. You tie it on and begin to troll.

You're tracing a big circle around the lake. You make it halfway around through the gathering gloom. You got nothing. Not a single bump. You go for broke and dig out a big bead head Woolly Bugger. It should work--even though it hasn't worked yet this season. You knot it onto a 4X tippet and set out again.

You've already given up, and you're philosophical about it. You can handle it. Two skunks in a row isn't the end of the world. You're thinking about what you'll write on the blog about it when the rod lurches in your hand and a fish takes off with the Woolly Bugger. It takes line off the reel, but you stop it, and begin to bring it in. You're extremely careful with it, and finally get it safely into the net.

What a relief.

Trout Lake Report: Hatching In the Wind

The day is breezy, partly sunny, and warm. Until you get to the lake. The breeze becomes an insistent wind pushing clouds in from the south. They slide across the sky and lock on the northern horizon.

It's not cold, but a jacket feels good. You begin to ride the wind down the shoreline.

You're fishing a Damselator, doing your best to get it as close to the bank as possible through a stiff crosswind. You're aiming for little pockets of calmer water in the lee of willows and driftwood and irregularities in the shoreline. You get the fly into one, give it a twitch, and rouse a nice Brown.

You switch to the Brown Drake Muddler. Things are slow.

Then an elegant Rainbow comes up through the tossing waves.

You go all the way to the bend in the shoreline. Drake central. You kick into a sheltered nook for a break. It's nice to be out of the wind and the bucking tube for a few moments.

You put on a new tie inspired by an old tie in the Drake Box. The fluorescent pink is perfect for today's optic parameters.

You bob around looking for a hatch.

By the fallen tree you finally see signs of one. A few Drakes are hatching in spite of the inclement conditions, and a few fish are plucking them off the waves. 

You fish, playing your chosen part in the pageant. The wind takes your cast into the leaves of the fallen tree. It takes a few minutes to extricate the fly. You keep at it. The fish are taking naturals, but they seem to be leaving your fly alone. You switch to another fly. After many casts your efforts pay off.

You wonder if Reedy Bay has better odds. You kick back up the bank against the wind. There are a few Drakes whipping by in the wind, and a few being carried along by the waves. You snag another small fry. Night is blowing in under the clouds. It will soon be too dark to see the fly.

Then you make out a rise five feet off the reeds. Then another. A fish is methodically working the hatch. You target that fish.

Now, looking back, you think it took a long time. Then, however, time stood still.

The world is all up and down as the waves roll and the tube rises and falls. The wind is pushing against your back and you kick against it to have room to cast. The rises are still coming but they're harder and harder to see in the thickening dark.

You enter wholly into the game. You are connected to this unseen fish, making casts in response to rises, like moves on a chessboard.

Checkmate.

It's not a big fish, but it's as gratifying a catch as any you can remember.

Time to go home. You tie on a brown Woolly Bugger and settle in for the long kick through the dark against the persistent wind.

You don't get a single bump on the Bugger. You thought it might be similar enough to a Drake nymph or emerger to get some action. Come to think of it, you haven't had a single bump on any of the extended trolls you've made in recent days. You wonder why.

But that's a problem for another day.