Fishing Report: The Saga Continues

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Yesterday I went to Trout Lake. The weather report called for a welcome break in the rain and cool temperatures. It was going to be sunny and warm--June, in other words, instead of March. And that's exactly what it was when I left home about Noon.

I had decided to take the canoe so I wouldn't have to wear leaky waders and get wet. Again. It would be a day of basking in the sun, maybe--finally--baking the winter chill out of my bones. Beginning with the frigid trip to the Grande Ronde in early October and running through Fall and Winter fishing in the river, it has been a full eight months of cold-weather fishing. Enough is enough.

I got the canoe launched by 1 PM. That may seem late, but at this time of year that leaves almost nine hours of fishing before dark. By the time of the Summer Solstice full dark won't come until almost 11 PM, and the eastern sky will begin to glow with the first light of dawn around 3 AM. Those of you in the east, think of me as you slumber in your beds; I'll be fishing the last long rise of the long, long day.

It was warm, and there were clouds tumbling over the ridges. Fair weather clouds, I thought.

I had brought everything with me in the canoe. I was wearing my rain jacket--for warmth; it was still cool in the breeze when the sun ducked behind the drifting clouds--and I had brought an inner shell for later in the evening. I had my canvas field bag, full of extra fly boxes and various and sundry other items. I had an insulated lunch bag with cheese and bread. I was not wearing waders. My billfold was in my back pocket.

All this, because it was going to be a warm, dry day.

The fishing was slow, just as it has been. The lake was still high and murky, and littered with cottonwood fluff and willow catkins. There were a few rises here and there, but no discernible patterns of cruising, feeding fish. I went through the drill of presenting various flies at various depths with various techniques and got the same non-varying result. Nothing.

That was OK. Nine hours is a long time. Anything can happen.

When the first drops began to fall I wasn't concerned. There was blue sky to the south, and blue sky to the north. I could weather a brief passing shower.

I put the canvas bag under my seat, and held the jacket shell on my lap. I figured by leaning forward I could keep it and my jeans reasonably dry.

When the first hail began to depth charge around me and rattle around in the canoe I wasn't too concerned. Some hail can be expected in these brief mountain showers.

Then I heard a roar approaching from the north, and the sky opened up. Now I was concerned. It rained and hailed, and hailed and rained. And rained. And hailed.

I sat there and slowly got soaked, from head to toe, except under my rain jacket. Everything I was holding, and everything in the canoe got soaked, too. It was still sunny in the south, and in the north, but a big band of clouds seemed to have gotten snagged on the ridges, and hung right over me, giving me everything they'd got.

It must have poured for half an hour. I could finally see the sun creeping closer, but even as the sun hit the ridge to the west the rain continued to pour.

At last it tapered off, and as it waned around me the roar continued on to the south. Then the wind shifted and blew the tail of the rain back over me for awhile. Then it was over, and the sun flooded the lake.

I spread out to dry. Not the basking I had in mind. Finally I decided to head for shore and do a proper job of wringing out. I don't know how much rain fell; my rain guage isn't graduated. But it was pretty full, and it took some muscle to turn it over and empty it out.

I took everything off that I could and still be decent, and hung it up to dry. I also took my billfold out of my back pocket and spread it out to dry.

Then I stood in the sun, holding my sodden hat, bowed but not beaten, and hoped that my jeans would dry out just a little bit.

I had some lunch--that stayed dry--and drank a cup of coffee. Then I stashed the field bag and the jacket shell in the truck, put my rain jacket back on, put my damp billfold in one of its pockets, loaded up the canoe, sat my damp behind down on the damp canoe seat and headed out again.

I fished hard, but without a single sign of any trout. Once again I had to be content with the intense beauty all around me as the day turned to evening.

I went back in and put the shell on under my rain jacket and prepared for what I still hoped would be an evening rise. You can almost always expect to see fish working through the dusk, even if you can't always catch them.

Things looked promising when I paddled out into the channel: the wind had calmed, the water was still. Too still. Not a single rise.

I sat and fished and watched and waited, looking like March and hoping for June.

There were a few other boats nearby. Everyone was sitting and fishing and watching and waiting. I heard one guy comment on the lack of action. His partner said, "Yeah, but it's dead calm!" Ah, calm, that elusive state, so much hoped for with its promise of rising fish. But how doubly bitter to receive the calm and find it dead.

A little lost duckling was swimming up and down the channel peeping pathetically for its mother and brood mates.

A big old drift boat was working its way along (one of its inhabitants asked me, in a pathetic tone, "Have you ever seen it so dead?") and the duckling, maybe seeing something duck-like in the boat's shape and movement, began following it around. The last I saw of him he was paddling hard to keep up, peeping as if his heart would break.

I hope he finds his Mama. And as I stowed and loaded, shivering yet again in the cool twilight, I found myself hoping that we, too, will find--or never give up trying to find--whatever it is we're looking for out there.

A Game For You

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Here are some pictures taken from canoes. Which one is different?

Answer: Number three. All the others are my canoe and are taken here in WA. Number three is my brother John's canoe, and the picture was taken in Maine last week. My guess is it's the mouth of the Kennebec. He tells me he went out at 4:15 AM, and the photo is Lane's Island.

He also caught some stripah.

Very nice. Thanks for the pics, John.

Fishing Report: Do Fish Feel Pain? Ask Ol' One Eye

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Back to Trout Lake with the float tube.

It was yet another rainy day.

But what a beautiful day.

It rained hard for awhile, but I managed to stay pretty dry up top.

Down below was another story. I had tried my old waders at Cutthroat Lake and got pretty well soaked. Turns out they were more blown out than my new blown out waders. Had to change all my clothes when I got home. So this time I wore my new blown out waders. Turns out they're equally as blown out as my old waders. So I was wet and cold again.

Are you following all this?

Well, I'll figure something out later. I took a break after the rain, regrouped, and started fishing again. I'm fixated on nymphs/soft hackles and indicators for some reason. That reason could be that the few fish I've been able to drag kicking and screaming out of the lake all came on that rig.
Speaking of kicking and screaming, I hooked and netted this little Rainbow.

This fish came busting out of the water in a three foot jump. I didn't even see the indicator dip, had no idea he was hooked until that jump. And he kept on jumping, over and over.

Like he was frantic.
I couldn't figure it out until I got him in the net and got a good look at him. I don't know how he managed it, but he got himself hooked in a very unfortunate place.

Avert your eyes if that famous image of the razor blade in the eyeball gives you the willies. So there he was jumping--and jumping--with that hook tearing at his little eyeball. If you're like me perhaps you can add a soundtrack: AAAHHHHblubblubAAAHHHHblubblubAAAAHHHHblubblubAAAAHHHHH!!!!
I got the hook out without actually removing the eyeball, and he swam away. Do I think fish feel pain? Yep. Do I feel bad about it? Yep. Am I going to give up fishing because of it? Nope.
Then here comes this otter. He came porpoising out of the willows just inches behind a terrified duck quacking frantically and trying to get airborne. Which it did. Then the otter swam past me, blowing great whistling breaths out of its nose, then dove and headed off to find something else to kill and eat.

All I want to do is catch a fish and let it go again.

After that it got calm and beautiful and peaceful and cold and fishless.

But if I have to get cold and not catch fish I'm glad that I can get cold and not catch fish in such a beautiful setting.

One thing's for sure.

It beats a poke in the eye.

Fishing Report: Move On Down the Road

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I'm way behind in my blogging. Lots of baseball games. A local Founder's Day celebration with a parade and a rodeo. I think I must have taken a thousand pictures in the last week. I hope to get some of them posted soon.

But first, some fishing.

I stopped by Cutthroat Lake last week at midday after a morning's work. Nothing doing there. I saw the fish, I threw some flies at them, but they were oblivious. Or I was.
So, I moved on down the road. This is a nice lake, but busy, and lined with homes and resorts. Here at the north end it's a little more natural and scenic, and there are some nice flats that one day I'll have to explore in a float tube. On this day there were some little Rainbows rising enthusastically there, so I tried my hand at some long casts.
I picked one up before the wind came up and made casting tricky.
There was something in its mouth that I thought was weed from the shoreline, but when I started to remove it for the picture I saw what it was.
A damsel. My guess is he was full of them. That's a good sign, I suppose. I had seen the pale green females swarming at Cutthroat Lake, but I hadn't seen any blue males. Or are they two separate phases of the life cycle? I don't know.
But, as I left this lake I was thinking about tying up a few of my Damsel in Distress pattern for my next roll of the dice at Cutthroat Lake.

Memorial Day

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It was wet again on Memorial Day. Roaming showers. Spectacular sky.
We didn't do anything special. Isaiah and Jeremiah had one or another friend over all weekend. Isaiah has a new XBox game that has kept them enthralled. The dogs have been systematically finding weaknesses in their prison--I mean "enclosure"--outside, so we spent part of the day chasing them down and repairing.
In the evening I took a drive. Lidia had wanted to go, but by herself. Since I had to take one of the friends home, and Jeremiah wanted to go along, she opted out.
So it was me and Jeremiah. We dropped the friend off, stopped at a Mexican store for Mexican pop--can't beat guava--and drove up to the flats.

There's this magic road I know--Horse Springs Coulee Road--that lifts you out of the present into the Old West.

Sagebrush flats and great open spaces, a scope of distance that pulls you out of yourself and restores perspective.
Reminders of those who were here before you, and of the continuous flow of life.
Reminders of that which passes away and that which lasts.
We came back down into the valley and headed for home as the sun peeked out from beneath the clouds for a brief moment. Back in our pasture the mares and their foals, and the two Holstein steers, were living their lives.

Life for the steers will be relatively short; longer, I hope, for the horses. But that's human talk. What is life but now?

The mountain was still there, shining in the sun, and one of the pair of swallows building a nest in our shed flashed past. Does a mountain ever want to fly? Does a swallow ever want to last forever?

Silly questions, I suppose. But one thing I know: swallows will come and swallows will go, but the mountain will still be there, heedless of passing swallows, passing showers, and the passing of time.

Seems to me that's a good thing to remember.