Catching Fish Makes You Smarter

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Sunday would have been the day to fish. I drove across the bridge that morning and saw rocks visible along the banks and thought, "It's time." The temp broke 50 degrees again, and there was a thin overcast. Perfect.

Something came up.

So I went out this afternoon. Wintry weather was trying to make a comeback, and temps barely made it over 40. It rained last night, and it may have been my imagination but when I looked at the river today there seemed to be less rocks visible along the banks. At least it was still overcast.

I was rusty. Corroded. It started with my attempt to get down the steep bank, now half-frozen mud, not the ideal footing for felt soles. I started edging my way down sideways and instantly slid all the way down, one leg at what you could call "an awkward angle." It hurt at the time but there seem to be no lasting effects.

I rinsed the mud off my hands in the river: cold. I can't tell you the exact temperature but it was somewhere between "stinging" and "numbing." And the river was up a bit--or still up. It wasn't long before it washed the mud off my ass.

I tied on a fly I had tied today--a stonefly nymph variation--and started working the bridge run. The fly was weighted pretty good, but I couldn't keep it down in the strong flow. So I unlooped the leader from the line, fly attached, and looped on a sink tip. When I was ready to loop the leader back on I realized I had dropped it into the river--fly attached. I thought it might be a lucky fly. Guess not.

Now, if I wrote that I had dramatically shortened my leader today you might think it was a creative innovation to meet current conditions. I did shorten it, but only because all I had with me was 8 lb and 6 lb leader material, and it seemed silly to have a long flimsy leader. So I used a couple of feet of each. It cast very well with the sink tip, and, as events would prove, it served its purpose well.

I covered the bridge run without any results, then waded across and turned upstream along the island toward the long glide. I actually debated whether I wanted to make the effort. I was chilled, and my feet were numb. But I remembered how long I've been waiting for a chance to fish.

This is the head of the island...  

And this is the glide, looking back downstream toward the bridge.

I went to work. In mid-channel, right about here... 

I had a take. No matter how hard you work to make it happen, no matter how much you expect it, that take, every single time, is a surprise, and seems completely inexplicable. But there it was.

It was a cold water take: not a hit, but a grab and a tug. I wasn't using the steelhead loop, but I let the fish take it a ways before I rared back on the rod to make sure of the hookset. Then I vastly enjoyed playing it in. It wasn't a big fish, and it didn't jump or take off on screaming runs. It was just a good fish, the first one I'd seen since November, and it was on the end of my line. What more could I ask?

And it was such a pretty little thing. I was happy. And I was warm.

I worked the rest of the glide, hoping for more, but my work there was finished. I made the wade back across with enough light left to avoid the holes and dunkers, and then steered clear of the muddy climb up the bank and clambered up the dry rocks under the bridge instead.

I think catching fish makes you smarter.

Gender Jokes of the Day

Waiting For Rivers

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I'm still waiting for river conditions conducive to wading and fishing. Ironically, the ice broke up on the local river on the day we had that last snow. Then we had another cold snap, and now another thaw, so the flows and level are up, the current studded with ice floes.

I'm jonesin'.

I also checked flows and levels on the Rogue: they're down. I'm hoping for good conditions next week when I'm there.

Meanwhile, Spring signs abound. Even during the cold snap Jeremiah and his friend Ian were outside, and messing around on the ice.

Today a strong wind has been blowing out of the south--Chinookish--and the temperature broke fifty.

The snow is gone from around the woodshed, and the wood supply is slowly dwindling.

The shed yard is crisscrossed with rivulets of snow melt from the few remaining piles of snow from earlier plowings. They're all wadeable, but not really fishable. And while they, and the countless other streams of snow melt, are keeping the river up, I realize that's a good thing.

This too shall pass, in its own good time.

Youth Sports and Family Post: More Isaiah

Isaiah continues to play in the endless AAU season. The team got waxed in a tournament last weekend that I was unable to attend, but they won this game the other night.

I know I'm prejudiced, but Isaiah just keeps getting better. "Coach" (yeah, I'm also an opinionated parent who feels that the coach could actually coach if it ever occurred to him) had him in for virtually the whole game. When Isaiah was in there they maintained a ten-point lead; the one time he sat out for a rest the lead dwindled until he went back in.

So here's to you, Son. You play basketball like I would like to fish.

Go Softly...

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I learned from Singlebarbed tonight of the death this week of Sylvester Nemes, the creator of the soft hackled fly. Singlebarbed credits Nemes with "saving fly fishing from a fate worse than death" by countering the trend at the time toward an orthodoxy of precise and rigid imitation in fly tying.

Amen, Brother.

I am pleased to own two of Nemes' books, gifts from Brother John. Both are signed, and the Spinners volume includes an actual fly on the title page. Tied by Sylvester? I like to think so.

I love soft hackles. They're one of the first flies I tied, and they have profoundly influenced my tying style. They're easy to tie, lovely in their simplicity, and lovely to fish. And they've brought many lovely trout to my net.

Thanks, Syl. Wherever you are, may you go softly...

Birthday Present...and Future

So, this was the poem today--my birthday--on The Writer's Almanac. I don't know how old Ron is--maybe older than I am--but I know what he's talking about.

It's a good place to be.

The Death Deal

by Ron Padgett

Ever since that moment
when it first occurred
to me that I would die
(like everyone on earth!)
I struggled against 
this eventuality, but
never thought of
how I'd die, exactly,
until around thirty
I made a mental list:
hit by car, shot
in head by random ricochet,
crushed beneath boulder,
victim of gas explosion,
head banged hard
in fall from ladder,
vaporized in plane crash,
dwindling away with cancer,
and so on. I tried to think
of which I'd take
if given the choice,
and came up time
and again with He died
in his sleep.
Now that I'm officially old,
though deep inside not
old officially or otherwise,
I'm oddly almost cheered
by the thought 
that I might find out
in the not too distant future.
Now for lunch.

"The Death Deal" by Ron Padgett, from How Long. © Coffee House Press, 2011.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Happy Birthday to me.

Beatles- Birthday - The best video clips are right here

Ursus Horribilis Vicarious

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When you think about it, those of us who fish do most of our fishing vicariously. When we can't be on the water ourselves, we watch, or read about, or listen to stories about other people fishing.

Or other creatures, perhaps. I have an old book, published in 1915, about a giant grizzly living in the Babine and Skeena country of British Columbia. He's Thor, "The Grizzly King." 

I'm reading it to my boys again (this will make the third time in the past few years) and I found a passage tonight in which Thor, and a black bear cub named Muskwa, do a little fishing.

 Here, for your vicarious pleasure, is that passage.


(Thor is feeling the mating urge, and is seeking his mate from the western ranges. Muskwa, an orphaned black bear cub who has insinuated himself into Thor's good graces, tags along.)

"Thor began to follow the creek again. Along this stream there were low flats and many small bayous where grew luxuriantly the tender grass and roots, and especially the long-stemmed lilies on which Thor was fond of feeding. But for a thousand-pound grizzly to fill up on such vegetarian dainties as these consumed many hours, if not one's whole time, and Thor considered that he had no time to lose. Thor was a most ardent lover when he loved at all, which was only a few days out of the year; and during these days he twisted his mode of living around so that while the spirit possessed him he no longer existed for the sole purpose of eating and growing fat. For a short time he put aside his habit of living to eat, and ate to live; and poor Muskwa was almost famished before another dinner was forthcoming.

But at last, early in the afternoon, Thor came to a pool which he could not pass. It was not a dozen feet in width, and it was alive with trout. The fish had not been able to reach the lake above, and they had waited too long after the flood-season to descend into the deeper waters of the Babine and the Skeena. They had taken refuge in this pool, which was now about to become a death-trap.

At one end the water was two feet deep; at the other end only a few inches. After pondering over this fact for a few moments, the grizzly waded openly into the deepest part, and from the bank above Muskwa saw the shimmering trout darting into the shallower water. Thor advanced slowly, and now, when he stood in less than eight inches of water, the panic-stricken fish one after another tried to escape back into the deeper part of the pool.

Again and again Thor's big right paw swept up great showers of water. The first inundation knocked Muskwa off his feet. But with it came a two-pound trout which the cub quickly dragged out of range and began eating. So agitated became the pool because of the mighty strokes of Thor's paw that the trout completely lost their heads, and no sooner did they reach one end than they turned about and darted for the other. They kept this up until Thor had thrown fully a dozen of their number ashore."

Lawyer Jokes of the Day

Snow? What Snow?

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Another Sign of Spring: Death From Above

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It's easy to forget that when the snow melts away and the country opens up, things we earnestly hope for at this time of year, life gets riskier--and shorter--for the little critters.

One of the dogs got this one, just one of many threats from above.

Enjoy Spring. And say a prayer for the little critters.

Rainbows

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Speaking To Me...

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If you're a tyer, I think you know what I'm talking about. You look at hundreds of pictures of flies, and then one speaks to you. It says, "Here I am. I am you. We could make beautiful music together."

This Adams wet spoke loud and clear to me. It comes from Don Bastian via the Daily Fly Paper Blog, and the recipe is in his words. Can't wait to try it out.

Adams Wet Fly Recipe:

Hook: Mustad or other, standard wet fly hook

Thread: This specimen is finished with black, but gray is a good  color for fishing flies. Gray thread also makes a nice thread rib, which tightens up the body a bit and produces a segmented appearance.

Tip: Gold tinsel, optional

Tail: Brown and grizzly hen fibers, mixed

Ribbing: None, though optionally, you could use fine gold wire, or rib the body with reverse-wound tying thread from your bobbin

Body: Dark gray muskrat or rabbit fur

Hackle: Brown and grizzly hen, one turn of each

Wing: Grizzly hen hackle tips, paired facing in, back-to-back as shown.

Nature's Little Joke

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After yesterday's Spring-like weather we woke up this morning to snow. Ha, ha. It wasn't a blizzard; no, I'd have to say it was merely Winter-like weather.

Someone told me today that they saw Redwinged Blackbirds yesterday. That's early. I heard from someone else that a school girl had won a bag of jelly beans from a local newspaper for finding the first Buttercup of the season last week.

I had my own sighting this morning of a sure sign of Spring: the first motor home of the season.

"S" Word Joke of the Day

A Deer Will Set Its Hoof Down...

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Today was downright Spring-like. Notice my restraint: Spring-like. But it was pretty close to the real thing. The temperature was pushing 50, the sun was shining, the snow was receding into invisibility.

I saw this track and was struck by the green blades remaining among the winter-killed grass. It made me wonder when Spring actually arrives, whether there is a moment when the balance reaches the tipping point and Spring springs into being. We label the equinox as the "first day of Spring," and we can set that celestial moment to the second. But that seems too scientific, too arbitrary, too convenient an explanation for such a Mystery as Spring.

I don't know when it will happen--nobody does. But I know it will happen, and soon. A deer will set its hoof down in Winter and draw it forth into Spring.

River Watch

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Beautiful day today. Went down to the river.

Still a few ice issues.

But the ice is talking; lots of cracks and groans. The ice knows its grip is weakening.



Jokes of the Day

Pere Marquette Journal: Final Entry

From May 24, 2004:

"I had hoped to get a pattern established in May, taking advantage of the Spring changes in the river and its denizens. But it was on this late day in the month that I managed to escape to the north again.

The night of the drive was unsettled, and lightning was flickering to my West, North, and then East as I worked my way near Ludington. I hit rain between Ludington and Scottville. It was heavy but short-lived, but the road was wet all the way to Baldwin, and there were obvious storm cells all around, the sky awash with lightning.

I had decided to roll on to Baldwin because of a late start, planning to wake up at the Clay Banks access ready to fish. The parking area was deserted, the woods were loud with drips and drops, and the lightning continued to flash as one far-away Barred Owl called out to the restless night.

Morning had me up and ready. Imagine my surprise--though I should have anticipated the possibility--to find the river tumbling brown and muddy over its banks. Blown out. Did that stop me? What choice did I have?

I had tied some matuka style streamers, and I figured this was a white matuka kind of day. I managed to ford the river to get to the trail and some possibly fishable water. The usual approach is to fish the far bank--deep and fishy--while standing in the shallows. On this day it was clear that the far bank was completely out of reach, and the usually shallow near bank now provided intriguing holding areas for trout.

My thinking was proved out when I stripped the streamer past a submerged bush directly downstream from me and saw a flash of golden orange as a fish turned on it in the muddy water. I went right back and got a take--solid, thrilling, and brief. The trout moved into the main current, powerful and throbbing, and it was as though the river itself just stripped it off the streamer.

That was to be the story of the day. I had several swirls, and two other solid hookups, but the powerful current simply made it impossible to play the fish.

I hiked far downriver during the course of the day, and all my usual access points and fishable runs were virtually unwadeable. One result of that was that, at a spot I would have usually been in the water, I was on the bank and found a log, obviously tossed onto the bank during an earlier spate, with a great tangle of fishing line wrapped around it. Upon closer examination I discovered--and clipped out and retrieved--thirty-seven good flies, all apparently victims of this Spring's Steelhead run. Most were stonefly nymphs and sparrow nymphs, with a few eggs, a few green caddis, and even one big old Clouser minnow. Later I found one more fly, bringing the total found to a record thirty-eight.

On downstream, hoping to cross to gain access to the run where I had caught the Steelhead, I cut a long branch from an ironwood tree and carved it into a very sturdy wading staff. I even drilled a hole with the knife point and strung a tether of nylon rope that I had in my pocket. I did manage to cross, but I had to hang onto the staff for dear life. The current was very strong and, though this crossing is usually knee-deep, on this day it was over my waist in spots. But I felt that I had accomplished something, and had not let the vagaries of the weather stymie my plans.

Later, back upstream, I used my staff to get even deeper into the current and was rewarded with one of my solid hookups of the day. This one jumped before being swept off by the current.

The wading staff now stands in the corner next to my desk in the little apartment in the city, another totem which, simply in the holding of it, calls out memories and sensations of this day of fishing, and of many other days in which the forces of nature, large and small, tested me, and found me not unwilling to stand up to the test."

Things That Are Just Nice To Know

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This is what dawn looked like on the Tetons this morning.

The Anticipation of Birth

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I think of February as the first month of Spring. Granted, it's Spring in an embryonic state, but just as we celebrate the wonders of pregnancy in anticipation of the birth of a baby, so we have much to celebrate now. The earth basks in the warming sun and is just beginning to swell with the promise of birth.

That means it's almost time for a trip to Oregon. I'll go back in a few weeks to this camp set in an oasis of old growth forest. It's a men's retreat, which means we just hang out and do whatever we want to do. I suppose a women's retreat would have to have some purpose.

I may make a sheath for an old knife I found in the shed--one of the guys is a leather worker and a knife collector, and he always brings his tools and some leather--and I'll have a sweat in a genuine sweat lodge ceremony provided for us by some local Native Americans.
And I'll fish. Last year I spent some time on the Coquille, a trib of which runs through the camp. It's a beautiful river, and is supposed to have a good run of Steelhead, but I never hooked up. Loved it, though.

This year I have my sights set on the Upper Rogue. It's less than three hours away from the camp, close enough to warrant an early start and a day on its fabled waters. I've already done some research, and I'm advised, on good authority, that the upper river usually runs clear even when the lower river is blown out.

The Umpqua, also right in the neighborhood, is another possibility.
So a plan is developing in my mind. It's still embryonic but it's already showing signs of promise, and I'm enjoying the anticipation. I expect the birth just when the wildflowers are blooming again in Oregon.

More Goodness From Jim Harrison

ANGRY WOMEN

by Jim Harrison

Women in peignoirs are floating around

the landscape well out of eyesight

let alone reach. They are as palpable

as the ghost of my dog Rose whom I see

on long walks, especially when exhausted

and my half-blind eyes are blurred by cold wind

or sleet or snow. The women we've mistreated

never forgive us nor should they, thus their ghostly

energies thrive at dawn and twilight in this vast

country where any of the mind's movies can be played

against this rumpled wide-screened landscape.

Our souls are travelers. You can tell when your own

is gone, and then these bleak, improbable

visits from others, their dry tears because you were

never what you weren't, so that the world

becomes only what it is, the unforgiving flow

of an unfathomable river. Still they wanted you otherwise,

closer to their dreamchild, just as you imagined

fair maidens tight to you as decals to guide

you toward certainties. The new pup, uncrippled by ideals,

leaps against the fence, leaps at the mountains beyond.

"Angry Women" by Jim Harrison, from Saving Daylight. © Copper Canyon Press, 2006.