Fishing Report: Turning a Corner

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I did make it to Trout Lake. I remembered everything except the new damsel flies. It's a long story, but it involves a phone call just before I was ready to leave that required a drive to town to meet somebody, and then having to switch canoe and all from the truck to the van because the truck is down again. And by then I was feeling pressed for time.

So I can still look forward to the pleasure of testing those flies.

It was raining at the south end when I got there, but I was heading to the north end where the rain had already passed. That end tends to be less crowded on a Friday evening.

It did require a difficult canoe launch, basically down that hill. But it was relatively painless--compared to dragging everything back up the hill at the end of the day.

But I like this north end, and I hadn't been there yet this season. The views are wonderful, and there are shallows and willows on the west side that have given up some nice fish.

I paddled across the lake to the west side and began with the indicator/soft hackle rig. There were some fish up and working there in the shallows (which are now a good ten feet deep), and I had a good feeling about things. Maybe it was the change of location.

It wasn't long before it started to sprinkle.

But this time I was wearing my waders. Fool me once, your fault; fool me twice, my fault; fool me three times, still my fault; fool me four times, what am I, some kind of idiot?; fool me five times--nope, you can't do it, I'm finally wearing my waders.

Yep, I was well prepared for that 30 second shower.

I got a hit on my green indicator, by which I mean a fish tried to eat it. A little later it happened again. That was enough for me. I took off the indicator and tied on the greenest dry fly I had. It's a Carpet Caddis, and isn't small, probably a #12.

I worked it among the cottonwood fluff, which is thick on this end, watched the eagle come back and forth to his perch on a nearby snag, and waited for the unlikely.

And here it is. It came out of nowhere, took the fly hard, fought hard and leaped high. This is the first trout on a dry this season. It also breaks my recent skunk. All of which I am grateful for.

Then I got smart--or greedy--and figured I'd use the Carpet Caddis as the indicator above a little soft hackle.

I worked it, letting it sit, then pulling it slowly in and letting it sit some more. And I got a heart stopping take on the caddis, a big swirl by a good fish, and I came up empty. I don't know how I missed it, or how the fish missed getting hooked by the dropper fly. But there you go.

I didn't get any more interest in that rig, and the fish were less active, so I tried a light deer hair Stimulator, small, and then a small dark one. Then I tried a couple of tiny emergers.

As the sun went behind the mountain the breeze shifted and the cottonwood fluff that had been shoaled along the bank began spreading over the wider lake. There was a sheltered corner at the far northwest side of the lake, so I paddled over there. The breeze picked up and got gusty, so I tied on the pheasant tail soft hackle and hung it under the indicator.

It took awhile, but as the indicator was gusting along it stopped and then dipped, and I came up on a nice fish. I saw it a few feet under the surface and thought at first it was a Brown, but it was only the stained water that made it look that way. I had a hard time keeping it out from under the canoe, and several times thought I'd lose it to the anchor rope. But I finally got it in the net.

It was one of the few nice trout I've caught his season, a good 16 inches at least.

It felt like things had turned a corner, and it feels like there are good things waiting around that corner.

Damsel Flies

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Work is finished for now, the day is warmer and looks like it will be dry, and I plan to hit the lake this afternoon and evening.

So I tied up some damsels last night. All these are on #10 3X long shank hooks.

This is a first attempt at the newly emerged pale olive adult. Could work.

This is the original "Damsel in Distress" pattern. It killed at Cutthroat Lake last year fished dead in the surface film. It didn't work at all at Trout Lake. Maybe this year will be different.

I tried a second round and got a little neater. No tails. The emerged adult has a krystal flash rib. The Damsel in Distress has a blue cord body instead of marabou. Looks too fat to me.

Eh. We'll see.

As always, doesn't matter at all what I think of them....

No Wading

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Inquiring Minds Want To Know

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I raised a couple of questions in my own mind, and maybe in yours, in a couple of recent posts. So, in the interest of scientific accuracy, I conducted some intensive research. Here are the surprising results. Surprising because it turns out I'm not as full of it as I thought I might be.

First, I made a strong insinuation that the otter I saw the other evening busting out of the willows behind a fleeing duck was trying to catch and eat that duck.

Who, me?

Thanks to the Washington DNR we can set the record straight:

"What they eat: River Otters are carnivorous (they eat meat). They eat a variety of animals, including fish, crustaceans, amphibians, snakes, water insects, snails, worms, small mammals, birds, eggs, frogs, turtles, and any aquatic invertebrates." (Emphasis mine.)
It doesn't say what kind of birds, but I would imagine that a Baltimore Oriole or an Eagle would be much less likely to end up on the menu than a duck. Sitting on the water. With the green void yawning beneath it.

Makes me wonder if that little lost duckling will ever find its Mama, or its brothers and sisters. Or if he already has--in Duck Heaven.
Second, I made the outrageous observation that I had seen some female damselflies swarming, but that I hadn't seen any males. I said that because the damsels I had seen were pale olive in color, while the damsels I typically see are the Common Bluet. Which are blue.
I did cover myself by suggesting that they might be different stages of the insect.
Thanks to the Encyclopedia Brittanica we find that my second stab at it was correct. As you can see by these illustrations, when the adult emerges from the nymphal shuck it is pale olive in color. Then, through some mysterious process that is not specified--another molt?--they take on their blue color.

This is a picture I took last year of a newly emerged adult. I bet the nymph swam up and attached to the float tube, and the adult emerged and crawled up next to me.

Well, I feel better.

Fishing Report: The Saga Continues

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Yesterday I went to Trout Lake. The weather report called for a welcome break in the rain and cool temperatures. It was going to be sunny and warm--June, in other words, instead of March. And that's exactly what it was when I left home about Noon.

I had decided to take the canoe so I wouldn't have to wear leaky waders and get wet. Again. It would be a day of basking in the sun, maybe--finally--baking the winter chill out of my bones. Beginning with the frigid trip to the Grande Ronde in early October and running through Fall and Winter fishing in the river, it has been a full eight months of cold-weather fishing. Enough is enough.

I got the canoe launched by 1 PM. That may seem late, but at this time of year that leaves almost nine hours of fishing before dark. By the time of the Summer Solstice full dark won't come until almost 11 PM, and the eastern sky will begin to glow with the first light of dawn around 3 AM. Those of you in the east, think of me as you slumber in your beds; I'll be fishing the last long rise of the long, long day.

It was warm, and there were clouds tumbling over the ridges. Fair weather clouds, I thought.

I had brought everything with me in the canoe. I was wearing my rain jacket--for warmth; it was still cool in the breeze when the sun ducked behind the drifting clouds--and I had brought an inner shell for later in the evening. I had my canvas field bag, full of extra fly boxes and various and sundry other items. I had an insulated lunch bag with cheese and bread. I was not wearing waders. My billfold was in my back pocket.

All this, because it was going to be a warm, dry day.

The fishing was slow, just as it has been. The lake was still high and murky, and littered with cottonwood fluff and willow catkins. There were a few rises here and there, but no discernible patterns of cruising, feeding fish. I went through the drill of presenting various flies at various depths with various techniques and got the same non-varying result. Nothing.

That was OK. Nine hours is a long time. Anything can happen.

When the first drops began to fall I wasn't concerned. There was blue sky to the south, and blue sky to the north. I could weather a brief passing shower.

I put the canvas bag under my seat, and held the jacket shell on my lap. I figured by leaning forward I could keep it and my jeans reasonably dry.

When the first hail began to depth charge around me and rattle around in the canoe I wasn't too concerned. Some hail can be expected in these brief mountain showers.

Then I heard a roar approaching from the north, and the sky opened up. Now I was concerned. It rained and hailed, and hailed and rained. And rained. And hailed.

I sat there and slowly got soaked, from head to toe, except under my rain jacket. Everything I was holding, and everything in the canoe got soaked, too. It was still sunny in the south, and in the north, but a big band of clouds seemed to have gotten snagged on the ridges, and hung right over me, giving me everything they'd got.

It must have poured for half an hour. I could finally see the sun creeping closer, but even as the sun hit the ridge to the west the rain continued to pour.

At last it tapered off, and as it waned around me the roar continued on to the south. Then the wind shifted and blew the tail of the rain back over me for awhile. Then it was over, and the sun flooded the lake.

I spread out to dry. Not the basking I had in mind. Finally I decided to head for shore and do a proper job of wringing out. I don't know how much rain fell; my rain guage isn't graduated. But it was pretty full, and it took some muscle to turn it over and empty it out.

I took everything off that I could and still be decent, and hung it up to dry. I also took my billfold out of my back pocket and spread it out to dry.

Then I stood in the sun, holding my sodden hat, bowed but not beaten, and hoped that my jeans would dry out just a little bit.

I had some lunch--that stayed dry--and drank a cup of coffee. Then I stashed the field bag and the jacket shell in the truck, put my rain jacket back on, put my damp billfold in one of its pockets, loaded up the canoe, sat my damp behind down on the damp canoe seat and headed out again.

I fished hard, but without a single sign of any trout. Once again I had to be content with the intense beauty all around me as the day turned to evening.

I went back in and put the shell on under my rain jacket and prepared for what I still hoped would be an evening rise. You can almost always expect to see fish working through the dusk, even if you can't always catch them.

Things looked promising when I paddled out into the channel: the wind had calmed, the water was still. Too still. Not a single rise.

I sat and fished and watched and waited, looking like March and hoping for June.

There were a few other boats nearby. Everyone was sitting and fishing and watching and waiting. I heard one guy comment on the lack of action. His partner said, "Yeah, but it's dead calm!" Ah, calm, that elusive state, so much hoped for with its promise of rising fish. But how doubly bitter to receive the calm and find it dead.

A little lost duckling was swimming up and down the channel peeping pathetically for its mother and brood mates.

A big old drift boat was working its way along (one of its inhabitants asked me, in a pathetic tone, "Have you ever seen it so dead?") and the duckling, maybe seeing something duck-like in the boat's shape and movement, began following it around. The last I saw of him he was paddling hard to keep up, peeping as if his heart would break.

I hope he finds his Mama. And as I stowed and loaded, shivering yet again in the cool twilight, I found myself hoping that we, too, will find--or never give up trying to find--whatever it is we're looking for out there.

A Game For You

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Here are some pictures taken from canoes. Which one is different?

Answer: Number three. All the others are my canoe and are taken here in WA. Number three is my brother John's canoe, and the picture was taken in Maine last week. My guess is it's the mouth of the Kennebec. He tells me he went out at 4:15 AM, and the photo is Lane's Island.

He also caught some stripah.

Very nice. Thanks for the pics, John.

Fishing Report: Do Fish Feel Pain? Ask Ol' One Eye

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Back to Trout Lake with the float tube.

It was yet another rainy day.

But what a beautiful day.

It rained hard for awhile, but I managed to stay pretty dry up top.

Down below was another story. I had tried my old waders at Cutthroat Lake and got pretty well soaked. Turns out they were more blown out than my new blown out waders. Had to change all my clothes when I got home. So this time I wore my new blown out waders. Turns out they're equally as blown out as my old waders. So I was wet and cold again.

Are you following all this?

Well, I'll figure something out later. I took a break after the rain, regrouped, and started fishing again. I'm fixated on nymphs/soft hackles and indicators for some reason. That reason could be that the few fish I've been able to drag kicking and screaming out of the lake all came on that rig.
Speaking of kicking and screaming, I hooked and netted this little Rainbow.

This fish came busting out of the water in a three foot jump. I didn't even see the indicator dip, had no idea he was hooked until that jump. And he kept on jumping, over and over.

Like he was frantic.
I couldn't figure it out until I got him in the net and got a good look at him. I don't know how he managed it, but he got himself hooked in a very unfortunate place.

Avert your eyes if that famous image of the razor blade in the eyeball gives you the willies. So there he was jumping--and jumping--with that hook tearing at his little eyeball. If you're like me perhaps you can add a soundtrack: AAAHHHHblubblubAAAHHHHblubblubAAAAHHHHblubblubAAAAHHHHH!!!!
I got the hook out without actually removing the eyeball, and he swam away. Do I think fish feel pain? Yep. Do I feel bad about it? Yep. Am I going to give up fishing because of it? Nope.
Then here comes this otter. He came porpoising out of the willows just inches behind a terrified duck quacking frantically and trying to get airborne. Which it did. Then the otter swam past me, blowing great whistling breaths out of its nose, then dove and headed off to find something else to kill and eat.

All I want to do is catch a fish and let it go again.

After that it got calm and beautiful and peaceful and cold and fishless.

But if I have to get cold and not catch fish I'm glad that I can get cold and not catch fish in such a beautiful setting.

One thing's for sure.

It beats a poke in the eye.