Lake Report: Together Again

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It was high time I got back to the lake on my own. Earth Day seemed like the right time, and the weather was cooperative. Sun was bright, wind was down, and temps were pushing 60 when I arrived.

The first thing I noticed was that the Red-Necked Grebe and his mate were together again. I was glad to see her. So was he.

The second thing I noticed was that the fish were hungry. It was good to get together again with them. This one took a trolled brown micro-leech.

I used a variety of flies and techniques, all with entertaining results. An emu soft hackle with a pheasant tail body under an indicator enticed this one.

I even tied on a little muddler and greased it up, and this nice fish took and hooked himself while I was messing with the camera.

A wind kicked up out of the east and blew until dusk. Trolling was the ticket. This heavy 17 incher took that green beadhead emu bugger, the first of several to fall for that fly.
This is the biggest fish of the season so far. To celebrate, I invited it to dinner at my house. It's in my refrigerator right now, but we'll be together again soon.

I caught several more fish on the beadhead and then on a purple bugger.

The wind kept blowing, and developed a cool edge that started to cut through my jacket, so I paddled in to retrieve my fleece shell.

I was back out trolling when I caught this little fugitive. Surprise. Well, first bass of the season.

As dusk settled over the water the wind died down and fish began to rise sporadically. I tied on a cdc caddis fly--I had seen caddis fluttering in amongst the clouds of midges--and went to work on top. That was fun. I enticed a few strikes and misses, and then got a good hookup. I was still congratulating myself when I realized the fish had managed to get down to the weeds and twist off.
So that bass turned out to be the last fish of a very good day, a day that made me feel, well, together again.

Happy Birthday, John

And thanks.

The following text is from The Writer's Almanac.

Today is the birthday of naturalist, author, and Sierra Club co-founder John Muir (books by this author), born in Dunbar, Scotland, in 1838. As a boy, he occupied himself mainly with fighting and hunting for birds' nests. His father believed that Bible study was the only worthwhile occupation, and young John could recite "by heart and by sore flesh" most of the Bible by the time he was 11.

In 1849, the family immigrated to the States, and bought a farm near Portage, Wisconsin. His father worked him hard on the farm, and wouldn't let him waste valuable daylight on books, although he did agree to let him do so in the predawn hours; John invented an "early rising machine" that dumped him out of bed at one o'clock a.m. so that he could read. He went to college at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, where he took an eclectic assortment of geology, botany, and chemistry classes. He never followed a traditional program of study, and never graduated. He moved to Indiana in 1866 and took a job as a sawyer in a wagon wheel factory; the next year, he was nearly blinded when a tool slipped and hit him in the eye. He was forced to remain in a darkened room for six weeks while the eye healed, and he emerged with a new sense of purpose. He wrote later, "This affliction has driven me to the sweet fields." He set off on foot on a thousand-mile walk from Indiana to Florida, collecting botanical samples along the way. Though he had planned to continue by boat to South America, he contracted malaria, and went to California instead.

He visited Yosemite for the first time in 1868, and he was overwhelmed with a kind of religious ecstasy, writing, "We are now in the mountains, and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell." He lived in Yosemite for four years — about half of that time in a cabin he built himself on Yosemite Creek. He would go on excursions alone into the wilderness, carrying simple provisions and a volume of Emerson, which he would read next to his campfire in the evenings.

In 1880, he married Louise Strentzel, and they had two daughters, Helen and Wanda. Though he was a loyal husband and a loving father, domesticated life grated on his wild heart; Louise understood this, and would periodically send him back up to the Sierra Nevada. Sometimes he took his daughters with him. His writing led to the creation of Yosemite, Sequoia, Mount Rainier, Petrified Forest, and Grand Canyon National Parks. He co-founded the Sierra Club in 1892, "to make the mountains glad."

Though most of his traditional religious views eventually fell away, he was nevertheless spiritual, and saw the "Book of Nature" as the most primary connection to the mind of God, surpassing any creed or culture. He wrote to his friend Catherine Merrill: "We all flow from one fountain — Soul. All are expressions of one love. God does not appear, and flow out, only from narrow chinks and round bored wells here and there ... but He flows in grand undivided currents, shoreless and boundless."

Fly Fishing In the Fifties

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I was just too young in the Fifties to appreciate the fly fishing scene. Looking back, I can certainly appreciate the beauty of the sport in those days.

I should ask some of the old guys around here if they were ever there.

I Was There

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By the time you get a few years under your belt some of the places and events that were a part of your life arrive at that mysterious point where they become history. In some cases they become downright iconic. It can be impressive to be able to say, "I was there."

When I was a kid in the Fifties I knew an old lady who had come to Idaho in a covered wagon over the Oregon Trail. It impressed the hell out of me that she could say, "I was there."

Some in my generation may recognize this iconic bridge. It's the famous Fishing Bridge in Yellowstone National Park, circa 1956. The first bridge was built in 1902; this bridge, still in use, was built in 1937. As you can see, it was a popular fishing spot, because it was right in the middle of a major spawning area for cutthroat trout. When it was discovered that the trout population had declined, the bridge was closed to fishing. But that didn't happen until 1973.

Well, it's not Nam or Woodstock, but the Fishing Bridge has become an icon of western trout fishing, and I'm proud to say, "I was there." It was in the Fifties, and it might even have been in 1956, when this photo was taken. I was seven that year. I remember the crowds, I remember looking down into the clear water, but I have to say I don't remember catching any of those cutthroats. I may have been too busy nervously looking over my shoulder for roving wild bears, another feature of the park in those days.

So I was there, but the truth is that when I was seven in Yellowstone I didn't go to sleep thinking about cutthroat trout swirling in pellucid depths. I lay wide awake hoping I wouldn't end up there:

Hey, Look! It's That Guy From the Commercial!

You know, the guy in that commercial on the WFN who can't use scissors or clippers without hurting himself so has to tape this stupid zip cut thing to his rod so he won't cut an artery and bleed out on the bank while trying to tie on a lure.

I kinda thought he might have a rig like this.

Better Days Ahead

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We went, this time with Jeremiah's friend Adrian.

It was pretty chilly and windy, but Adrian managed to catch a very pretty trout.

Jeremiah had been a little cranky before that, because he said he couldn't keep the Power Bait from flying off the hook when he cast. But then, having his friend catch a fish when he couldn't put him in a funk. So he stopped trying.

By then we were all cold, so we went home.

Better days ahead.

They Make Me Wonder...

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I worked up a couple of midgey flies this afternoon thinking about those trout rising at the close of the day. The small one is #16, the bigger is #14. The main innovation for me is the use of emu for the wings.

I like these, which simply means they succeed in making me wonder. And what I wonder is, will this work...?

I was going to take the float tube out today, but decided to wait for Jeremiah to get home from school and invite him to go. I can go out tomorrow on my own.

When I had that idea things were looking good on the weather front. Then a weather front seemed to move through: wind, chilly temperatures. I'm not going to complain after the truly severe and deadly weather in the south earlier today and over the weekend. In fact, we will go thankful for such relatively mild weather, and grateful that we can go at all.

And the Daddy Remembered...

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Long ago, when the boys were still in the magic time, their Daddy took them away from the Big City to the far off land of Michigan. They watched the sparks of the campfire sweep up into the sky, and listened to their bedtime story in a big tent. In the morning they went to the river of dreams--where the Daddy had spent wonderful hours fishing and dreaming in the sun dappled shade of the woods--and caught a little trout.

Years went by, and the boys got big, and the Daddy forgot all about that time at the river of dreams. Then, one night, the boys, little again, looked up at him out of a drawer he was looking through, and showed him the little trout.

And the Daddy remembered, and was glad.

Jokes of the Day: Yo Mama Is So Fat...

Poetry Reading: "God Says Yes To Me," by Kaylin Haught

God Says Yes To Me

by Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic

and she said yes

I asked her if it was okay to be short

and she said it sure is

I asked her if I could wear nail polish

or not wear nail polish

and she said honey

she calls me that sometimes

she said you can do just exactly

what you want to

Thanks God I said

And is it even okay if I don't paragraph 

my letters

Sweetcakes God said

who knows where she picked that up

what I'm telling you is

Yes Yes Yes

"God Says Yes To Me" by Kaylin Haught, from The Palm of Your Hand. © Tilbury House Publishers, 1995.

April Is the Cruelest Month

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So writes the poet T. S. Eliot. I know he wasn't a trout fisherman, but he clearly understands what April is like for those of us who are.

Jeremiah and I had been looking forward all week to a trip to the lake this evening. It didn't turn out quite like we hoped. Last Friday was so warm and calm. But today the wind came up really strong and the temperature went way down. By the time we finally gave up we were shivering.

On the way home he said--over the roar of the heater set at full blast--"Let's go back in May." That's OK with me, assuming it will be warm in May.

But, then again, we don't mean it. It would be unthinkable to miss April; when it's not cruel it can be so nice.

"I Want To Put a Tag of Shame On the Greedy Bastards Who Are Responsible for This." --John Steinbeck

From the "some things never change" file. Text is from The Writer's Almanac.

It was on this day in 1939 that John Steinbeck's (books by this author) novel The Grapes of Wrath was published. His wife, Carol, came up with the title, from "The Battle Hymn of the Republic": "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;/He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored."

The Grapes of Wrath tells the story of the Joads, a family of "Okie" sharecroppers who leave their home in Oklahoma for the promise of a better life in California. Steinbeck was inspired to write the book after he was sent on assignment by Fortunemagazine to visit the tenement camps in California, an assignment he soon gave up, saying, "I don't like the audience." He agreed to go around with a photographer for Life because he liked the idea of photographs. On March 7th, 1938, he wrote to his agent, Elizabeth Otis: "I'm sorry but I simply can't make money on these people. That applies to your query about an article for a national magazine. The suffering is too great for me to cash in on it. I hope this doesn't sound either quixotic or martyrish to you. A short trip into the fields where the water is a foot deep in the tents and the children are up on the beds and there is no food and no fire, and the county has taken off all of the nurses because 'the problem is so great that we can't do anything about it.' So they do nothing. And we found a boy in jail for a felony because he stole two old radiators because his mother was starving to death and in stealing them he broke a little padlock on a shed. We'll either spring him or the district attorney will do the rest of his life explaining. But you see what I mean. It is the most heartbreaking thing in the world. If Life does use the stuff there will be lots of pictures and swell ones. It will give you an idea of the kind of people they are and the kind of faces. I break myself every time I go out because the argument that one person's effort can't really do anything doesn't seem to apply when you come on a bunch of starving children and you have a little money. I can't rationalize it for myself anyway. So don't get me a job for a slick. I want to put a tag of shame on the greedy bastards who are responsible for this."

For a while, he thought his best chance of delivering that tag of shame was through newspapers. But they were only so effective, and Life didn't publish the piece. So Steinbeck started to work on a novel. He gave himself a deadline of 100 days, and he stuck to it. He kept a journal as he worked, and in his 97th entry he imagined that his main character, Tom Joad, was there with him — he wrote: "'Tom! Tom! Tom!' I know. It wasn't him. Yes, I think I can go on now. In fact, I feel stronger. Much stronger. Funny where the energy comes from. Now to work, only now it isn't work any more." But by the 100th entry, he wrote: "I am so dizzy I can hardly see the page." And then, later in the day: "Finished this day — and I hope to God it's good." That was October 26th, 1938.

Steinbeck reworked The Grapes of Wrath over and over, and it was published on this day in 1939. Plenty of people objected to its political agenda, especially the Associated Farmers of California, who called it "a pack of lies," and not all critics appreciated it either — one called it a "mess of silly propagands [...] and scatagorical talk," another complained that "social awareness outruns artistic skill." In The New Yorker, Clifton Fadiman insisted that the ending was terrible, but then he declared that it might be the Great American Novel. It won the Pulitzer Prize and it was a huge best seller. By the end of April, it was selling 2,500 copies a day, and it was the highest-selling book of 1939, with about half a million copies sold by the end of the year.

Steinbeck didn't expect the book to be popular — he told Otis, "It is a mean, nasty book and if I could make it nastier I would." In the ending, after the Joad family has fallen apart and the pregnant daughter Rose of Sharon delivers a stillborn baby, she breastfeeds a starving man. When his editor suggested he changed the ending, Steinbeck was furious. He said: "I am sorry but I cannot change that ending. It is casual — there is no fruity climax, it is not more important than any other part of the book — if there is a symbol, it is a survival symbol not a love symbol, it must be an accident, it must be a stranger, and it must be quick. To build this stranger into the structure of the book would be to warp the whole meaning of the book. The fact that the Joads don't know him, don't care about him, have no ties to him — that is the emphasis. The giving of the breast has no more sentiment than the giving of a piece of bread. [...] You know that I have never been touchy about changes, but I have too many thousands of hours on this book, every incident has been too carefully chosen and its weight judged and fitted. The balance is there. One other thing — I am not writing a satisfying story. I've done my damndest to rip a reader's nerves to rags, I don't want him satisfied."

Lake Report: Extended Play

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I went out again on Tuesday. I figured I'd earned some extended play. Tuesday morning I tied up a few trolling flies to try out. Tuesday afternoon I took my time and got to the lake a little later than the day before. I figured on a straight four hours, no break this time. Just long enough to fish the entire water column before dark--and before my feet were numb.

It was windy again, this time blowing from the northeast instead of the southwest, so it had the whole long length of the lake to sweep across with nothing to obstruct it before hitting my end. Made it a whole new game.

I started trolling with this new little emugger.

It worked.

So I tied on this beaded emugger.

It worked too. I was feeling on my game.

So I went to a more traditional bugger. I guess.

Tilt. No takers. OK. I switched to a black beadhead micro leech. Nothing on that either.

OK. I went back to my first orange-nosed emugger. Worked again.

I tied on a nymph under an indicator and rested my legs awhile. And yes, Laura, "indicator" is our fancy pants code for "bobber."

I enjoyed the break, but didn't catch anything on a long series of different nymphs and depths. Meanwhile I watched this red necked grebe and worried about him. I think this is the male. Last Spring he had a mate, and they were constantly together and squonking loudly to each other when apart. So far this year he has been alone. Hope there's no tragic tale here. Maybe she was just delayed down south.

By then the wind was backing off a little bit--in fits--and midges were swarming off the water.

And the trout began to rise. I started with a little fly, but then couldn't resist and tied on the dark stimulator. It's a #12, I think. I had a ball with it, and it was like that silver ball in a pinball game: One fish would hit it and miss, and knock it over to where another fish would hit it and miss, then the same fish would hit it and hit it again.

I played until the wind started picking up again, this time with a bitter northern edge to it, and then started paddling into shore. I drifted the stimulator behind me and gave it a twitch now and then. Just as my flippers touched bottom this guy slammed the fly at the right angle and hooked himself.

Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding! Extended play...