Trout Lake Report: Three Strikes, You're Out

I felt like I did when I was a kid and had just loaded my BB gun. I had tied up a couple more Carpet Caddis--and a couple of extra goodies--and with the one already on my tippet I was good to go.

Right away I found a fish working the weeds and laid the fly right where I'd last seen it launch itself clear out of the water. It was still there.

I wound down the shoreline casting tight to the willows and hooked another, but it came loose at the net. I caught a smaller fish, and had some bumps by even smaller ones.

Then I dropped the fly in where I had seen a rise. I stripped it a couple of times expecting a typical splashy take. Instead, I saw a big yellow nose come straight up and go straight down, and the fly was gone. I tightened up, there was a yellow explosion, and the fish was gone. I stripped the line in and discovered that this time the fly was really gone.

Strike one.

I tied on another, this one tied on a #10 straight shank hook. I started picking up fish with it. Many of you may know the pleasure that comes when you know you have a fly on that the fish want. Here are some of the better fish.

Things went swimmingly until I hooked a fish deep in the hardest part of its jaw. I worked to extricate the hook without hurting the fish too much, watched the fish swim away, then looked at the fly. The shank and the point were bent beyond usefulness. I retired it.

Strike two.

I tied on the third and last Carpet Caddis and caught more fish.

It was another beautiful evening. The wind calmed and the fish rose hungrily all over the still lake. They came readily to my fly, and I took some time off to try to get a good photo of the multiple rises. I never did capture one of the many moments when five or six rises would bloom at the same time.

So I went back to catching fish like these.

At dusk, with about forty-five minutes left before dark, I hooked a nice fish and played it into the net. It was hooked inside its mouth, and as I tried to reach the fly the fish twisted and cut the tippet. I wanted that fly, so I got a good grip on the fish, but just as my thumb and finger were about to close on the fly the fish squirmed out of my hand and slipped into the water.

Strike three. I was out.

I could have tried one of those little flies I had tied up. I'm pretty sure the fish would have liked them. But it seemed like a good time to paddle in. There will be other days and other fish--and other freshly-tied Carpet Caddis to entice them with.

Dry or Die

The Mayfly god - (frontsidefly and this is fly) from Rolf Nylinder on Vimeo.

Trout Lake Report: Hot

"Custer," by David Shumate

I passed near the Little Bighorn battlefield twice on my recent trip. I've always found it a fascinating place. I didn't stop this time, but I was near enough to find this teepee overlooking the battlefield. I really liked this poem on The Writer's Almanac today, and it seemed that the two should go together.

He is a hard one to write a poem about. Like Napolean.
Hannibal. Genghis Khan. Already so large in history. To do it
right, I have to sit down with him. At a place of his own
choosing. Probably a steakhouse. We take a table in a corner.
But people still recognize him, come up and slap him on the
back, say how much they enjoyed studying about him in school
and ask for his autograph. After he eats, he leans back and
lights up a cigar and asks me what I want to know. Notebook in
hand, I suggest that we start with the Little Big Horn and work
our way back. But I realize I have offended him. That he
would rather take it the other way around. So he rants on
about the Civil War, the way west, the loyalty of good soldiers
and now and then twists his long yellow hair with his fingers.
But when he gets to the part about Sitting Bull, about Crazy
Horse, he develops a twitch above his right eye, raises his
finger for the waiter, excuses himself and goes to the restroom
while I sit there along the bluffs with the entire Sioux nation,
awaiting his return.

"Custer" by David Shumate, from High Water Mark. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004.

Trout Lake Report: Back In the Saddle Again

I'm back home after a wonderful time in Indiana. Five solid days with my grandsons. It doesn't get any more perfect than that.

When I got home, some friends from Chicago had arrived for a few days before taking the loop through Glacier National Park. One of the things Ken wanted to do was go fishing with me. Not to fish, just to spend some time outdoors. I was more than happy to introduce him to Trout Lake.

We arrived around 9 AM, and the day was already hot and bright. I hadn't seen the lake in almost two weeks, so I was glad to find a heavy hatch of midges going on in the channel, and many fish rising to them. I got Ken into a float tube and we paddled out. Ken had his binoculars; I had my fly rod.

There was a Stimulator on the tippet from the last time I was at the lake, so I started with that. Gradually I worked down in size to a little Henryville Caddis and got my first fish. It was good to be back in the saddle again.

I was satisfied at that point, and ready to leave anytime Ken was, but he was having a great time paddling along the shoreline scoping out birds, and carefully studying the mountainsides with his binoculars. So I fished on.

I went to the Carpet Caddis and found fish happy to take it.

The water is down and the weeds are up, so I was keeping a tight line on them.

I still had to dredge this one out of a weedy tangle.

I kept my eye on Ken, but he continued to paddle contentedly along.

And I continued to get plenty of attention with the Carpet Caddis.

Ken gradually worked his way around toward the take out, so I paddled over. I cast the fly out into mid channel and let it drift as I paddled in. Ken suddenly looked around and said,
"That sounded close."
"Yeah," I answered. "It was right behind you."
"A fish?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Was it going for your fly?"
"Yep, and it got it."
"Really? Where is it?"
"It's gone, and so is the fly."

That was a nice fish. It took with authority, and I gave it the same pressure I had been giving the others. But it was having none of it, and simply--and instantly--overpowered the tippet.

I checked in the box: I'm fresh out of Carpet Caddis. Time to tie up a few more before I saddle up again.

"The Trout," by James Laughlin

A trout let us say

a blue blonde trout

     that slips through

     the bars like water

from boite to boite

from man to man but

     only ones she likes

     and almost never for

money and I love she

says I love exagger-

     ate and her mother

     asked the neighbors

qu’est-ce que j’ai

fait au ciel pour

     avoir une fille qui

     est de l’ordure and

she came back from

the palaces of the

     king’s cousin out in

     Siam where they ate

off gold plates and her

whim was his com-

     mand came back to the

     bars and the boys and

the slow swim through

the dim light yes a

     trout let us call her

     a small blond trout.

Family Post: Indiana State Fair

Having a ball.

Status Report: Gone East

Here are over two thousand miles worth of bugs on the front of the Ranger, representing hatches from the great rivers of the West: Clark's Fork, Madison, Yellowstone, Missouri, and many more.

And here I am in the midst of my Indiana family, having fun.

Will check in as able.