Dry or Die

The Mayfly god - (frontsidefly and this is fly) from Rolf Nylinder on Vimeo.

Trout Lake Report: Hot

"Custer," by David Shumate

I passed near the Little Bighorn battlefield twice on my recent trip. I've always found it a fascinating place. I didn't stop this time, but I was near enough to find this teepee overlooking the battlefield. I really liked this poem on The Writer's Almanac today, and it seemed that the two should go together.

He is a hard one to write a poem about. Like Napolean.
Hannibal. Genghis Khan. Already so large in history. To do it
right, I have to sit down with him. At a place of his own
choosing. Probably a steakhouse. We take a table in a corner.
But people still recognize him, come up and slap him on the
back, say how much they enjoyed studying about him in school
and ask for his autograph. After he eats, he leans back and
lights up a cigar and asks me what I want to know. Notebook in
hand, I suggest that we start with the Little Big Horn and work
our way back. But I realize I have offended him. That he
would rather take it the other way around. So he rants on
about the Civil War, the way west, the loyalty of good soldiers
and now and then twists his long yellow hair with his fingers.
But when he gets to the part about Sitting Bull, about Crazy
Horse, he develops a twitch above his right eye, raises his
finger for the waiter, excuses himself and goes to the restroom
while I sit there along the bluffs with the entire Sioux nation,
awaiting his return.

"Custer" by David Shumate, from High Water Mark. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004.

Trout Lake Report: Back In the Saddle Again

I'm back home after a wonderful time in Indiana. Five solid days with my grandsons. It doesn't get any more perfect than that.

When I got home, some friends from Chicago had arrived for a few days before taking the loop through Glacier National Park. One of the things Ken wanted to do was go fishing with me. Not to fish, just to spend some time outdoors. I was more than happy to introduce him to Trout Lake.

We arrived around 9 AM, and the day was already hot and bright. I hadn't seen the lake in almost two weeks, so I was glad to find a heavy hatch of midges going on in the channel, and many fish rising to them. I got Ken into a float tube and we paddled out. Ken had his binoculars; I had my fly rod.

There was a Stimulator on the tippet from the last time I was at the lake, so I started with that. Gradually I worked down in size to a little Henryville Caddis and got my first fish. It was good to be back in the saddle again.

I was satisfied at that point, and ready to leave anytime Ken was, but he was having a great time paddling along the shoreline scoping out birds, and carefully studying the mountainsides with his binoculars. So I fished on.

I went to the Carpet Caddis and found fish happy to take it.

The water is down and the weeds are up, so I was keeping a tight line on them.

I still had to dredge this one out of a weedy tangle.

I kept my eye on Ken, but he continued to paddle contentedly along.

And I continued to get plenty of attention with the Carpet Caddis.

Ken gradually worked his way around toward the take out, so I paddled over. I cast the fly out into mid channel and let it drift as I paddled in. Ken suddenly looked around and said,
"That sounded close."
"Yeah," I answered. "It was right behind you."
"A fish?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Was it going for your fly?"
"Yep, and it got it."
"Really? Where is it?"
"It's gone, and so is the fly."

That was a nice fish. It took with authority, and I gave it the same pressure I had been giving the others. But it was having none of it, and simply--and instantly--overpowered the tippet.

I checked in the box: I'm fresh out of Carpet Caddis. Time to tie up a few more before I saddle up again.

"The Trout," by James Laughlin

A trout let us say

a blue blonde trout

     that slips through

     the bars like water

from boite to boite

from man to man but

     only ones she likes

     and almost never for

money and I love she

says I love exagger-

     ate and her mother

     asked the neighbors

qu’est-ce que j’ai

fait au ciel pour

     avoir une fille qui

     est de l’ordure and

she came back from

the palaces of the

     king’s cousin out in

     Siam where they ate

off gold plates and her

whim was his com-

     mand came back to the

     bars and the boys and

the slow swim through

the dim light yes a

     trout let us call her

     a small blond trout.

Family Post: Indiana State Fair

Having a ball.

Status Report: Gone East

Here are over two thousand miles worth of bugs on the front of the Ranger, representing hatches from the great rivers of the West: Clark's Fork, Madison, Yellowstone, Missouri, and many more.

And here I am in the midst of my Indiana family, having fun.

Will check in as able.

"Cold Water," by Donald Hall

I step around a gate of bushes
in the mess

and trickle of a dammed stream

and my shoe fills with cold water. I

enter the shade

of a thicket, a black pool,

a small circle of stunned drowsing air,

vaulted with birch which meets overhead

as if smoke

rose up and turned into leaves.

I stand on the roots of a maple

and imagine

dropping a line. My wrist jumps

with the pain of a live mouth hooked deep,

and I stare, and watch where the lithe stripe

tears water.

Then it heaves on my hand; cold,

squaretailed, flecked, revenant flesh

of a Brook Trout.

The pine forests I walked through

darken and cool a dead farmer’s brook.

I look up and see the Iroquois

coming back

standing among the birches

on the other side of the black pool.

The five elders

have come for me, I am young,

my naked body whitens with cold

in the snow, blisters in the bare sun,

the ice cuts

me, the thorns of blackberries:

I am ready for the mystery.

I follow them

over the speechless needles

of pines which are dead or born again.

Trout Lake Report: More Than Generous

In these days approaching high Summer, the lake is vibrant with life, and more than generous with its trout. For the second trip in a row the fishing has surpassed reasonable expectations. I won't tell you the number of fish I caught on this trip, but I will say, as I do sometimes about the length of a good trout, that it was "pushing twenty." I won't post photos of all of them, just the best ones, in hopes that the sight of such beautiful fish will give you some small measure of the pleasure they gave me.

Conditions have been perfect for fishing the north end, with a variable light breeze out of the northwest leaving the best water sheltered. The water is still cold, with plenty of runoff still pouring into the lake at this end. The fish are up along the shoreline, or holding in weed beds, and their predatory instincts have been honed to sharpness over the first part of the season. They are strong and healthy, they'll take line off the reel or out of your hand, and they require a deft touch to get them into the net.

Everything we look for.

I started down the shoreline throwing the Carpet Caddis, a fly from Don Freschi. His is caddis-sized--I tied mine on a #12 long shank hook and fish it like a Stimulator.

I'm tempted to rename it the Brown Caddis since it has proved irresistible to big Browns. I would, if it hadn't also proved irresistible to big Rainbows. This Brown took it on the twitch with a calm but businesslike take.

This one took it on the float before I could begin twitching or stripping.

I made my way around to the far shore where good fish were working the weed beds, and began to work them myself. This is my favorite kind of fishing: seeing a big rise, casting to it with a big dry fly knowing that the fish is there and on the feed, working the fly--twitching, stripping, fast and slow, stop and go--waiting for the take you're sure will come, and then seeing that big head come up. The fish go nuts when they find themselves hooked, and in this shallower water, with the weeds right there, you hang on and try to keep their heads up.

This time there was yet another big Brown waiting for me. Nice fish.

I saw the Eagle on one of her favorite perches, but I couldn't figure out why she was making so much noise. When I looked more closely I realized her brood was with her, old enough to fly but still young enough to cry to Mama for something to eat.

I continued to drift down the shoreline, and I continued to catch fish. This one reminded me that I'm not the only predator the trout need to worry about.

And so the day went. After awhile I tied on a Hopper, and caught fish with that. Later I tied on a dark Stimulator and caught fish with that. Toward evening the rises slowed down, but the fish would still come up to a steady strip.

It was wonderful. That's not to say I did everything right. I missed many takes, and I let the fish that should have been in this photo get into the weeds. I horsed him out again, but just before I could get him up, he ran right off the hook. It felt like it would have been one of the better fish of the day.

At dusk the action slowed down, and then the wind came up strong. I thought I might just go home a little earlier than usual. I started paddling back across the lake letting the Stimulator drift behind. Thirty feet from the take out, in the pitching waves, I had a take and another fish. As I released that fish the wind backed off a little, and I heard other fish rising all around me. So I cast out, barely able to see my fly, caught three more, and got home at the usual time.

See what I mean? More than generous.