Sebastian's Baptism Into Fishing

I had been planning this for awhile, and the opportunity finally came. I took Sebastian out on his very first fishing trip.

He was so excited he took a power nap on the drive so he would be in peak condition for the fishing.

It was a pretty afternoon, in the 70's. The leaves and blossoms are popping out all over.

Sebastian wouldn't wake up when we got to the lake (it had been a busy weekend and he was due for a good nap.) So I took the opportunity to rig up his new rod. This is actually his second rod. He had a light-up Spiderman rod before, but he was a little rough on it before we ever got to try it out, and broke the tip off.

This new rod is a pretty little thing, and it has no connection whatsoever with any superhero or kid's movie. There were plenty of those at the store, so I held up a Marvel Heroes rod and this plain one, and he chose the plain one. Nice one, Sebastian.

I checked on Sebastian again, and he still wasn't ready to wake up. So I broke out the crawlers and gave the little rod a try. I wanted to see what we were up against here.

We were at Bass Lake, and in the summer it's choked with bluegills and perch. You can't beat them off with a stick when you show them a bit of crawler on a hook. I was hoping that might be Sebastian's first experience of fishing, but we were still a bit early. There were no fish to be seen, and I didn't find any by prospecting around as far as I could cast.

I checked Sebastian and this time he woke up. It took him awhile to remember where we were, but then he was eager to hop down and check things out. I showed him how to reel, and went over again the particulars of the hook, the bait, and the bobber. Especially the bobber: keep your eyes on that bobber. Then I cast it out and let him reel it in. He handled it well.

There was a good sign at that point: as soon as he had reeled it in he tried to cast it out again all by himself. He took a vicious swing with the rod. Almost caught me with it. So I helped him cast, and he reeled in, and he was digging it.

We moved over to another spot on the shoreline, and I was encouraged again to see him running, eager to get there. I set him up on a little outcropping, and we went at it again. He kept a sharp eye on the bobber.

And then he fell in. That outcropping was the only level spot on the steeply sloping bank, so I thought he'd be safest there. But he took a step just a little too far to the right, his foot slid into the water, he lost his balance, spun around and sat down in the lake. He didn't like that.

I had been thinking about how to deal with his disappointment at not catching anything, or, worse, with his getting bored after awhile. But that wasn't necessary. It was clearly time to quit.

I told him on the way home that Grandpa had fallen in lots of times (not lying), and that all fishermen fall in sometimes. I also talked about the next time we go fishing--focusing on the fish we'd catch on that trip (also not lying--I'll make it happen). By the time we got home he could tell his Mom and Grandma that he fell in and smile about it.

I'd call that a real baptism into fishing. We'll see if he's like me, but if he is, he's thinking, "Dang! Just when I was getting the hang of it, I fall in! Can't wait to get out there and give it another try."

Fly Tying: A Delivery of Pheasant Tails

I recently ran out of my supply of pheasant tails. I loved those tails. They came from a pheasant I shot years ago, so each time I used them I revisited that crisp Fall day, the explosion of birds out of cover, and the sight of drifting feathers backlit by the sun as the rooster plummeted out of the sky.

When I went into the local fly shop to get some more they were all out of natural pheasant tail. I bought some dark brown as a stopgap, planning to check back sometime to see if a shipment of natural had come in.

Not necessary. A supply was delivered practically to my door. I found a fresh roadkill rooster yesterday and threw it in the pickup and brought it home.

I harvested some nice tails and a bag of rump feathers as well. Not as romantic as a wing shot, but convenient. And the price was right.

The Field Coffee Diary - The Mountain Trout

Wonderful. The only thing missing is a cup of coffee out of that bottomless coffee pot of theirs.

The Field Coffee Diary - Ep1 - The Mountain Trout from Rolf Nylinder on Vimeo.
Filmed, directed and edited by Rolf Nylinder. http://rolfnylinder.com
It's a fly fishing series is set in northern Sweden ( Norrbotten and Västerbotten )
The first episode follows my friends Erik, Mattias, Acapulco and the half-god, Patrik Daugaard on a fishing trip to a valley carved by the legendary mountain creek known as Fiskonbäcken.
Music:
Johan Airijoki - Vissa saker måste brännas
The Happy Hunter - Seven tall sixteen fall

North 40 Fly Shop Magazine, April 2016

Find it HERE.

Early Lake Report: Fools for Fishing

April Fools' Day, and it's Opening Day on one of the local lakes, one you call Early Lake. A whole bunch of fools, you included, decide that, out of everywhere they could be, and everything they could be doing, they want to be there fishing. They're fools for fishing.

Spring is busy opening things up at the lake. New leaves are filling in the landscape.

The inlet stream is rushing into the lake, filling it with snowmelt.

The tube is ready and waiting. So are the stockers, you're told. Time to launch for the first time since Halloween.

The lake has a charm of its own here at the west end. It feels good to be roving over the waves again searching out fish.

You troll a bead head prince nymph, stretching out your long-unused kicking muscles. The sun is warm, and the water is pretty.

You cover a lot of lake, kicking against the stiff wind. You try nymphs, woolly buggers and leeches. You get one bump.

You really would feel like a fool if you got skunked.

Then evening comes, the wind sits down, and you see a flash on the far side. A fish jumped.

You kick over and find a smorgasbord of midges spread on the water and hundreds of hungry stockers making the most of it. Where have they been?

Soon pods of fish are cruising and rising everywhere. There must be thousands. You catch plenty on little dries, but they aren't pushovers, and they don't want to have anything to do with the net.

When you decide to head for home they're still busily feeding.

You probably haven't made your last trip to Rocky Ford, and there's a cutthroat lake down there that's calling your name. Once Trout Lake opens up at the end of the month you'll go there. But it's nice to know that you can get back to this lake in just 20 minutes any time you get the urge to catch a few trout on a dry fly.

That's a good thing for someone who's a fool for fishing.

Rocky Ford Creek Report: The Fish of a Thousand Casts

Wind. Relentless wind. The sky is scrubbed clean by it.

You get to Rocky Ford and park in the lot. The truck shudders in the wind. For the first time ever, you're the only one there.

You wonder as you hike down to the water whether the wind had something to do with cracking this boulder in half.

You take a lesson about coping with the wind from a little blacksnake encountered on the path: stay low.

The wind is blowing downstream. This is the best case scenario. It allows for a right-handed cast--and you're right-handed.  

The pelicans, like the blacksnake, are hunkered down.

You begin casting. You have to work hard to compensate for the wind, and you have to stay alert to duck the flies swirling around your head.

The conditions are less than ideal, but you're confident you can move some fish. You're eager to go back to the honey hole with a brand new blood midge. After ten drifts--or is it twenty?--with absolutely no sign of life, your confidence flags.

You try more nymphs and emergers. You try the standby scud. You go up top with everything from a tiny may to a big muddler. You try fly after fly. Nothing is working.

You cast all afternoon with nothing to show for it. Then, all at once, there's a subtle change. The gusts have backed off just a little. Not the wind. The gusts. The wind is still sweeping across the water, but out of nowhere you see three or four fish rising out in mid-channel.

You just happen to have the Lady on. You've fished her before on this day, several times, unsuccessfully. Now, though, you punch it out to where you saw a rise and get an immediate hit. You miss. You put it back out there and get another hit and a short lived hookup. You try again and this time bring in a fish. As you net it, more fish pop up, so you don't even take the time to pose the fish. You release it as quickly as you can and get the Lady out there again. 

But on one of your casts you snag the Lady out in that cattail island. You have to break it off. Do you blame the wind? Sure.

You have one more. You get it out of the fly box OK, but then you drop it as you're trying to thread the tippet through the eye--and the wind whisks it into the water. It floats away.

Now what? A search yields a somewhat-the-worse-for-wear yellow humpy. That will have to do. You tie it on and comb the riffles.

There we go.

And again.

But that's all she wrote for that humpy. You can't get it to float anymore.

You tie on a nice bushy Adams variant and lay it out.

It bobs on the waves and another fish comes to it.

It's getting dusky. You keep casting and one more fish takes the fly. You play it for several minutes--and it comes undone. It felt like it might have been the fish of the day.

Your casting shoulder is tired, your face is windburned, and your eyes feel gritty. On top of that, the wind is beginning to gust again. You call it a day.

You stuck it out for five hours of steady casting, and were finally able to catch some fish in the last hour of the day.

Just goes to show that sometimes trout are the fish of a thousand casts.