Trout Lake Report: Small Victories

It's a pretty afternoon, much warmer than recent days. On the drive up, the creeks are still running high through last year's burn zone.

The north end access is accessible. You kick out.

You have another muddler tied up for the day. On it goes.

The story of the day is the wind. It's pushing hard out of the south.

You find a victim of the wind struggling in the waves. A Cecropia moth, a little washed out but still beautiful. You scoop it up, let it dry a bit, kick in as close to shore as you can get and toss it into the willows. It finds a purchase, hangs on tight and flutters in the wind. Perhaps it will complete it's life cycle.

You're heading for "the inlet." This year it seems the entire west shoreline is an inlet.

Just before you get there a little fish hits the muddler. It jumps all the way into the net.

At the inlet you suddenly see a couple of splashy rises. Maybe this will be a special place again this season.

You plop the muddler down near the action and get another small fish on the strip.

You kick across and head back down toward the access. You work the shoreline carefully but the fish activity is nil.

The wind is backing off, so you begin the circuit again.

Along the north shore another youngster tackles the muddler.

You work the west side carefully while memories of big fish pulled out of this water drift through your mind.

Back at the inlet you get a whack of a hit. It feels like a good fish, but it's a decent fish that has foul hooked itself. Ouch.

Suddenly it's evening and a few fish are rising sporadically here and there. You begin to kick back across open water toward the access hoping to intercept some risers along the way. Just for the heck of it, you tie on a new green humpy.

You see small pods of fish chain rising. They must be taking midges. The humpy is too big. They keep moving away from you.

But you chase them anyway, drop the humpy in the right place at the right time, and a fat little fish takes it hungrily. A small victory, but of such are good fishing days made.

That's it. It's close to dark when you climb out of the float tube.The wind is picking up again.

This lake is famous for its night winds. You take one last look at the lake and hope the great moths will be able to rise on the winds into the darkness and to their destiny, each one a small victory.

"The Lilies" by Wendell Berry

Yellow Trout Lilies (Erythronium americanum)*

Hunting them, a man must sweat, bear

the whine of a mosquito in his ear,

grow thirsty, tired, despair perhaps

of ever finding them, walk a long way.

He must give himself over to chance,

for they live beyond prediction.

He must give himself over to patience,

for they live beyond will. He must be led

along the hill as by a prayer.

If he finds them anywhere, he will find

a few, paired on their stalks,

at ease in the air as souls in bliss.

I found them here at first without hunting,

by grace, as all beauties are first found.

I have hunted and not found them here.

Found, unfound, they breathe their light

into the mind, year after year.

"The Lilies" by Wendell Berry from New Collected Poems. © Counterpoint, 2012.

*The yellow (Erythronium americanum) and white (E. albidum) Trout lilies are synonymous with early spring ephemeral woodland wildflowers. These small (4 - 6" tall) members of the lily family can put on quite a show when a cluster of them is in full flower. These lilies take seven years to mature and when mature have two mottled basal leaves. The flowers have six tepals (three sepals and three petals) and open during the day (to the extent that they are recurved when fully open) and close at night (to protect the pollen on the showy reddish or yellow anthers.) These are deep-rooted plants and roots can go 8" deep and highly organic or sandy-loam soils are required for these species to thrive. Because these plants flower so early (often in March) the leaves disappear often by the first of May.

Trout lilies are often called Fawn lilies (due to the mottled or spotted leaves and the appearance that resembles a fawn's ears) or Dog-tooth violets because the corms supposedly resemble a dog's tooth and the flowers resemble violets. The name Trout lily is given because of the mottled leaves and the blooming of the flowers during trout fishing season. It is sometimes called Adder's tongue because of the tongue-like flower shape of the flowering shoot as it emerges in the spring and resembles the open mouth of a snake. Both species are found across the state of Kentucky and are common. Supposedly the corm is edible and tastes like a cucumber.

By Dr. Thomas Barnes, from Kentucky Native Plant and Wildlife.

The Field Coffee Diary - Ep4 - A Late Hatch

Love this series.

The Field Coffee Diary - Ep4 - A Late Hatch from Rolf Nylinder on Vimeo.
http://rolfnylinder.com

Pacific Northwest Timelapse // GENESIS

What a great place to live.

Pacific Northwest Timelapse // GENESIS from Andrew Cox on Vimeo.

Living in the PNW definitely has its perks. I don't think I'll ever get tired of this beautiful area. From the age of 17, I have been traveling across the Pacific Northwest taking timelapse. This is a compilation of the 10,000+ photos shot over the last 2 years throughout countless backpacking and camping trips. 

This world was so beautifully created, and it reflects our God in every aspect.

I hope that by watching this video you are inspired to think about these questions: What is beauty? What separates us from other creatures to marvel at sunsets, sunrises, mountains and waterfalls? Was this really created for us to enjoy?

Song by Bethel Music "It is Well" album: Without Words

Trout Lake Report: See You Again Real Soon

Turn the page on the calendar. April is complete. You finally make it to Trout Lake for your own personal opening day.

It's wet. The weather has turned back to Aprilness with cool temperatures and spring showers. The river is up and into the pasture behind your house. The nightly chorus of thousands of frogs is magnificent.

At the lake, evidence of lastnight's rain glitters everywhere.

You want to kick off the season on the north end, but there are campers at the access. So you go to another favorite access: the channel.

You tied up a pretty little muddler just for opening day, and you tie it on with anticipation.

You start down the channel toward the north end, flipping the muddler into the shoreline and swimming it back out. Seems like it was what you were made to do.

At the end of the channel you put your rod down to take this photo, and a fish hits the stationary muddler. You watch the line but it isn't moving. The fish missed.

That puts you in the right frame of mind. Looks like the muddler ploy just might work--again. Even so, at the channel outlet into the north end you try some nymphs and scuds. Just to see. Nothing comes, and you realize you're impatient to get back to the muddler.

You work on up the shoreline with the muddler flashing in its own wake. A pretty sight. The wind picks up out of the north and it gets chilly. You pull over and grudgingly put your jacket on.

You reverse and kick back with the wind into the channel. You get a hookup along the way, but it comes undone. Then, up along the driftwood in John's Cove, you get another hit and hookup.

You get this one in the net: the first fish of the season at Trout Lake. You like the fact it's a brown. A good omen.

You hold it in your hand to get a headshot, but it's still fresh, and is out and gone before you can get the camera focused.

You're happy that once again it has been shown that a muddler on the shoreline, at any time of year, will catch fish. You start on down the endless shoreline to see what else you might find.

You start the kick across the south end to the other side. You troll a beadhead leech for a change of pace. Nothing.

You're letting the muddler dry out, so you tie on a handsome stimulator with a pheasant tail body and brown and grizzly hackle. A nice brown hits it about ten feet off the bank. Note to self: don't pick up the fly too soon.

There's a commotion behind you, and you're delighted to hear the unmistakable snuffling of otters. There are three of them, and, as usual, they're intensely curious, and come up to see what you are and what you're doing. They move fast, and, as usual, you fail to get any good photos.

They're fishing, just like you. But probably doing better than you. One is chowing down on a rainbow. You don't usually think of trout as crunchy, but they definitely crunch when being eaten by an otter.

For awhile they're going in your direction, and pop up out of the driftwood unexpectedly to check you out. At one point all three are popping up and down from different locations like the otter version of whack-a-mole.

The otters move on and you continue down the shoreline.

You catch a little rainbow that escaped the otters--for now.

You catch a piece of driftwood on an overshot cast. Mostly, though, you're happy with your accuracy. It's good for opening day.

You kick on around the bend toward the channel. The wind has moderated, and for a few minutes a few fish are up and taking midges off the top. You think you might try a little dry, but then, as quick as it began, the flurry of activity ends. You keep on with the stimulator.

Another brown comes to it, again about ten feet out. It explodes under the fly and makes you jump. 

Thanks, little brown. Go grow up some more, and maybe I'll see you again.

You make the turn into the channel. You realize you're cold. So you decide to call it a day. May will be warmer than April, and the forecast calls for temps in the eighties again next week.

So long, lake. Good to be back. See you again real soon.