Thursday Fishing Report: Fishing Break

I'm making progress on the truck, but I still drove the van to the lake this evening. That meant waiting again until Kim got home from her pre-school Preschool training in preparation for next week's start of classes. So I left around 6:00 and got on the water around 6:30.
I'm not complaining when I say that it feels more like a "fishing break" than a "fishing trip." It's a great break, much better than going upstairs and making a sandwich. But I must admit I'm looking forward to having a truck in good repair and getting some more trips in before the snow flies. (Why am I talking like that?)
One of the problems with a "break" is that a late arrival emphasizes the undeniable fact that the evenings are getting alarmingly shorter, something I would prefer to remain in denial about as long as possible. A month ago a 6:30 start would have given me four solid hours of fishing time. Now it's two and a half if you count the long paddle back in the deep blue twilight.
But, as I say, it's a great break.
I went in at the channel for a change.
The channel is mostly weed-choked, with some very interesting patches of open water amongst all that greenery. The first year I was here, late in the season when it had cooled off, the channel fairly boiled with big trout nymphing the few remaining weed stalks. I remember simply throwing a tiny black nymph five feet out in front of me into the swirls--I was bank-fishing then--and no sooner would it disappear under the water than my tippet would begin to move sideways. I hooked a few of those, but I don't remember landing any of them. Tonight, though, there was nothing working.
I paddled against the hot wind through the weedmats out to open water and trolled for awhile, with no hits. Then the wind dropped and things calmed way down and the fish began to work. Still no hits.
I found--maybe "finally noticed" is more truthful--what I take to be a beaver lodge stacked up on the shore. I like this picture because it includes the rise of a little fish who skipped across the water like a skipping stone.
I have been amused by the beavers recently; maybe they're jumpier at this time of year, or maybe I'm encountering inexperienced half-grown kits, but I'm getting tail-slapped a lot. Tonight one slapped five times before he or she felt at a safe distance from me. That's a lot, but it's not the record; on Tuesday one slapped six times. That's a lot of slapping, and a lot of commotion on a calm lake.
Does it make their tail sting?
Once again I succumbed to the sight of rises all around me and tied on some 5X and a caddis dry. I was some distance from my put-in and figured I could troll all the way back even in the dark, but that I'd better fish a dry while it was still light enough. I had seen caddis at the south end, and I was in water that has been prime caddis water in the past. But I didn't see a single caddis tonight.
What I did see was a definite refusal: a quick swirl toward the fly, and then suddenly away from it.
Hmmm. Sometimes perfectly calm water is a detriment in dry-fly fishing; the trout have a clear view of fly--and leader. And maybe angler.
I tied on a Griffith's Gnat. Nothing.
Oh well. It gave me time to immerse myself in another perfect evening, to listen to the Loons' calls wafting over the water from the north end of the lake, and to ponder again why bats will hit a fly line sitting on the water. Soon it was dusk, so I tied on a leech and began the paddle back. More nothing.
It was almost dark (but still early!) when I beached the float tube, loaded up, tuned in NPR, and made the start for home.
One of the positive things about a "break" is that it feels OK somehow not to catch anything. It wasn't a real trip, after all.
But it was a great break!

Fun With Sepia

My daughter, Laura, an accomplished photographer, loves sepia. When she was here recently she inspired me to expand my palette a bit.
So I went out to the shed and took a few shots.

Nice effect, I must admit. It seems to translate well to some lake shots, too, especially with inclement weather and heavy clouds.

It also makes me look like someone who plied the waters in these mountains a century ago, a prospect I enjoy thinking about. And perhaps something fitting for someone getting as curmudgeonly as I.

It's a hundred degrees outside on this August afternoon, but when I look at this picture I get a little chill; winter's coming! Nothing could say it better than sepia.

Tuesday Fishing Report: Something Missing

The old truck stayed home this evening. It's sick.
That double trip on Friday did it in. I've been concerned about the engine, which has been overheating without warning, and badly worn tires and no spare (I'm already driving on it), either of which could have stranded me in the dark in the middle of nowhere with the bears and cougars and Bigfoot.
Friday night on the way home the engine started to labor and I realized it was way overheated. I was almost home, so pushed on. I had just turned onto my road when the engine quit. But I was able to coast almost a quarter of a mile right up to my back door. Saturday morning I went out and the left rear tire was flat.
Depending on your belief system, either angels sent by a God of Grace saw this poor idiot safely home, or I'm just one lucky son of a gun.
So I borrowed another spare and in the morning I'll drive up to a friend who has tires for me. And a mechanic I know will look at the engine whenever I drive it over to his house. But I didn't think I'd oughta drive it tonight.
So tonight it was the minivan.
There was something missing. The ride was way too quiet, so quiet I could hear the radio, which I don't have in the truck but which I couldn't hear even if I did. I didn't have anything to worry about: the engine is in good repair and the tires are new. I didn't have a door I had to prop open with my knee while I sat on a too high seat to put my waders on. And my flashlight was useless with all those dome and convenience lights.
I'd best be careful lest I get soft and citified.
It was a hot, beautiful, still, smoky evening. I had about three hours to fish so thought I'd troll again, but there were so many fish--some big ones, too--working on top that I succumbed and cast various dries to rises. That's my idea of fun.
Just as it was getting hard to see the fly I hooked a decent fish on a little caddis. I stripped him in to the float tube planning to release him in the water, but as he was thrashing there I decided to try for a picture and reached to untangle the net from the line, and that was long enough for him to thrash off the hook.
So then I trolled, as the world turned from orange to pink to rose to purple to midnight blue.
There were no fish in the net tonight. But I was content, ready to head for home. That's when it's good. That's when, when all is said and done, there's nothing missing at all.

To the Lake, Please, Lidia

Could happen--as soon as she gets this driving thing figured out.
She did very well this first time.

Friday Fishing Report: Cool

Rain was falling when I woke up, and it kept up all morning. At Noon it was 64 degrees.

Cool.

It was a good morning for sitting down at the old HMH and tying some flies for trolling.

I broke out the longies in preparation for a trip to the lake. I debated taking the canoe so I wouldn't have to put my legs in the lake, waders or not; but I decided not to panic and loaded the float tube in the truck.

The tube was worrisomely flaccid on the side that had the leak. I pumped it up and headed out.
On the way I decided it would be wise to go ahead and patch the patch, so as soon as I arrived I unzipped that side. Sometimes being wise isn't so smart. The inflatable module instantly burst halfway out of the lining. I realized I'd have to deflate it to get at the patch. I should have deflated it before unzipping it.

Good thing I wasn't that wise. Good thing I realized before it was too late that I had left the pump at home. I decided all I could do was zip it back up and take my chances. But of course there was no way I could squeeze that thing back in enough to zip it up all the way. I managed to zip about a foot, but the module ballooned out of the liner like a tumor.

I launched anyway--it floated, if a little bit off kilter--and began to troll with one of my new flies. The sun had poked its head out of the clouds, the temperature had risen 20 degrees in five minutes, and the fish were working.

I had a hit almost immediately.

Two guys had pulled in as I was netting the fish. One came down to the water's edge as I was releasing it and asked if I was catching anything. I said, "Yeah." He asked, "Any big ones?" I was glad to be able to say at that moment, "That one was eighteen." His friend came down and he said to him, "That guy just caught an eighteen incher!"

They headed on down the road. Maybe they were looking for a place with nineteen inchers. I fished on.
The sun ducked back behind the clouds again, the temperature dropped 20 degrees in five minutes, and the fish went down. I wasn't getting any looks.
It seems rare that I catch more than one fish on the same fly when I'm trolling. My scientific explanation is that the fly gets bad juju from the negative vibes of the distressed fish and it takes awhile for it to wear off.
So I switched flies. Still no luck.

These crows streamed overhead--there were many more behind these--and soon I heard their manic screams as they mobbed something on the mountainside.

Meanwhile the float tube seemed to be more off kilter, and I was feeling more and more unsatisfied with the state of things. So I made a big circle and trolled back toward the put in. This willow branch was there, one the beaver let get away.

I loaded everything in the truck and headed home for some quick repairs. It was still raining in the valley, but I deflated the module, double patched the old patch, pumped it up tight as a ripe melon and hit the road.

This time I brought the pump with me.
I made good time; I was still wearing my waders and wading boots, and that extra half inch of felt really put the pedal to the metal.
I saw several deer, including this buck and doe. They were with two other bucks and a doe. The bucks are still in velvet, but it's thinner and dryer; the antlers are beginning to look harder and sharper. I got back to the lake and launched quickly and went back to work trolling.

I had the rod tucked under my arm trying to take a picture when this fish hit.

The sun came back out to the north, but the temperature was dropping, and a few raindrops pattered down now and then from the clouds that still choked the southern sky.

Some fish were beginning to work again as evening fell, but they looked like mostly small fry. This one seemed to confirm that.

Sadly, this guy swallowed the fly. I tried hard to extricate it with a minimum of damage, but I'm afraid he wasn't going to make it. I would prefer to fit into the rhythms of nature rather than become its instrument of selection.
Pondering this eagle, however, made me think that maybe that is fitting into its rhythms.

Evening transposed to dusk, and about the time the bats came out the wind picked up, then promptly died. The water looked like obsidian, and the trout began flaking it away with rises.

I caught four more fish in the near-dark, and could have caught more. One was very small, but I'm certain he'll survive; he was hooked in the lip. I kept him in the water to release him, and when I popped him off the hook he promptly jumped into my lap. The other three were of a respectable size.

It was a very unusual August day, and a very unusual fishing trip. But all in all, it's one of the best days I've had here.

Cool.

Tuesday Fishing Report: Give a Little, Get a Lot

I went back to the lake and had a very good afternoon. Nice, after some less than stellar times there recently.
But it came with a cost: I netted three nice trout but lost four, and three of them took a fly with them.
August is wonderful on the lake, and the day was gorgeous.
I put in at the south end again--I tend to fall into these kinds of grooves--and trolled a little beadhead leech to the other side. There I tied on the last of my newly tied hopper patterns and began working the edges of the weedbanks. (They used to be "weedbeds," but the lower water has created floating mats of weeds.)
I had 5X on; I was feeling confident, I guess. I got a good take and the tippet parted like someone had cut it with scissors. No explanation. Maybe I nicked the knot when I clipped the tag. Don't know.
But there went my nice little hopper pattern. I have many more Stimulators, though, so I tied one on--on 4X. And I was very careful with my nippers.
I didn't get any more action where I was, so moved back up the shoreline drifting the Stimulator behind me. I had just stopped to take a picture when this trout came up and hit the fly. He wasn't huge, but decent.
Thank you, trout. You broke my drought. (Hey, that's a poem.) That deserves two pictures.

I worked that fly for a long time all up and down the banks, even casting to a few risers, but couldn't get another take. I'm mystified why one trout will take a fly and others will refuse the same fly.

But I enjoyed watching the clouds building and shifting and streaming across the sky.

And the crows are flocking, or gathering into "mobs" of crows. The term must come from their practice of mobbing the birds that prey on them. They surround and hound and harass unmercifully any hawks or owls they find, all at highest volume.

An eagle flew right over me, and the crows set up a clamor, but the eagle was moving fast, and the crows didn't follow. I missed two shots of the eagle overhead and only got this distant shot.

Eventually I gave in and decided to troll. The wind had been gusty all afternoon, so I was waiting for the calm. But when the calm finally came the trout didn't come up. So I decided to go down after them.

I tied on a soft hackle, and, since it was kind of small, I tied it on 5X. I like to live dangerously. I got a nice take and everything held. I worked him right up to the float tube, but he came off as I reached for the net.

I anxiously checked for the fly: still there! My confidence in my skill with 5X rose dangerously.

So that's why, when I decided to try that beadhead leech again, a sweet little fly that killed the Smallmouths on the river, I tied it on a 5X tippet. When will I ever learn?

Some of these trout really slam a trolled fly. Remind me of that next time, would you? I got one of those.

So, wham--gone.

I dredged through my streamer box for another beadhead pattern and found an orange and black wooly bugger that I must have tied ten years ago. It was big, but all the better to fit a 4X tippet with, my dear. And if they want war, let it begin here.

What a great take, deep and strong. And then something I don't get very often, a genuine line-stripping, reel-screaming run. And then another. I thought sure I had a twenty on.

He wasn't that, but he was a fat, strong eighteen.

So I trolled that bugger as the sun set.

I caught another, not as big, but just as beautiful and strong.

Then I caught another. That is, I hooked him, but I was in shallower water and he managed to get into the weeds and come off. I was certain I would still have the fly when I pulled the line in. But it was gone.

I had one more payment left, apparently. But I still think I came out ahead.