Trout Lake Report: For the First Time

It still seems like a miracle that you can go to the same lake at the same time to do the same things and it's never the same. Each and every day here stands alone, singular in its shadings of beauty, unique in its experience. It's a place where you don't need to try to live in the moment, bending your will to the task, as though will had anything to do with it. You simply go, and be there, and the knowledge slowly awakens that the moment is living in you, opening you up from the inside out.

This August day is surprisingly cool, a north wind bringing chilled Canadian air with it. There is a frost warning out for towns in the highlands. You begin in shirtsleeves, but it feels good to put the jacket on when the sun goes down behind the mountain.

You have a muddler on, and swing around through the channel to work the weed beds along a sheltered shoreline. But today the fish aren't there. They're out in open water, set up to work the riffles fanning out from the channel. So you kick out through the weed beds and join them.

They want the muddler. They take it as it bobs in the riffle. They take it as you strip it in. They take it.

You try another shoreline, but the fish aren't there. You go back out where they are.

You wonder about the north end of the channel, and kick through to check it out.

There are waves here, and you set up with your back to the wind and crisscross the swells with the muddler. There are fish here, too. You catch one and release him without a photo. You catch another and get him to the float tube, but he brings fifty pounds of weeds with him. He twists off the hook while you're readying the camera for a shot of fish and weeds.

You clean the giant ball of weeds off the line and fly and kick with the wind back through the channel. On the way a big flock of swallows arrives. You lean back and look up. You're still looking up when the wind brings you through the channel.

The swallows swoop south, and then swoop back again, and then swoop back south and seem to pass beyond the moon. They take the wind with them.

The evening settles in on itself, and you look up and think for a moment that the swallows have returned. But it's a colony of bats, dozens, maybe hundreds of bats, dancing in the twilight sky. They swoop down and begin to feed on the insects that are hatching now in great numbers. A light breeze springs up, and it feels as though it's generated by their countless wingbeats. The trout are feeding, too, their rises running like quicksilver in the moonlight.

You are enchanted by it all. You almost forget to fish. You think about trying to identify the hatch and changing flies. But you're more than content to leave the muddler out there, and watch the bats and the moon and the silver rises.

It's as though you are seeing them for the first time.

Jeremiah's Bass: Rite of Passage

As I've pointed out before, my son Jeremiah loves to fish. He's in a bass phase now, and is fortunate to have a friend whose Dad has been in a bass phase for years, and has a big bass boat, and boxes and boxes of lures. Jake took the boys out today, and Jeremiah finally had his big day. Two--count 'em--two five pounders. Nice work, J!

Photo by Jake via mobile phone. Thanks, Jake.

You know what they say: Give a kid a fish, and he'll eat for a day; teach a kid to fish, and he'll catch two bass bigger than the biggest bass you ever caught.

Trout Lake Report: Hopper Time

Once again you slip away for the evening. The channel feels like the right place to be. As you're gearing up you notice that the hoppers are of a delectable size now. The # 12 muddlers you have been using are serviceable imitations, and you suspect that fish have been taking them for hoppers. You wonder, as the season moves into true "hopper time," whether the muddler action will heat up.

You tie on a muddler. You kick out to where the channel drops off into the north end. There are small fish splashing around in the weed beds, but you have a different idea. A south wind is pushing rollers through the channel, and in seasons past the bigger fish would patrol the drop off. A big fly hanging in the swells--a muddler, for instance--would elicit business-like takes. Sometimes a big fly stripped fast would trigger wild chases and big hits. So you try it out.

You cover a 180 degree arc with your casts, and you let the fly sit and you strip it in. You keep at it for awhile, and even change the fly, because twice you see the backs and dorsals of good fish rise up out of the waves and disappear again. They don't take your fly--this time--but you have a good feeling about the future.

The wind calms and you don't see anymore rises out there in open water, so you kick over to the western shoreline and begin working your way along with the muddler.

There are some fish working, too, and you get a couple of hits along the way, but one of you misses. Then you come up on a little bay that always held some fish when you came through in June on your way to the brown drake hatch. You see some rises right up against the bank. They look like small fish, but you haven't caught anything yet. So you put the muddler down, start a quick strip, and get an eager take by what turns out to be a decent fish.

You release him and manage to get your line tangled on the next cast. When you've finally untangled it you glance up and see another rise near where you caught the first fish. You put the fly on it, and before you can even begin the strip a fish hits it hard. He fights as hard as he hit.

There are no more fish there, so you start back toward the truck, fishing as you go. You start the usual stripping routine, but then you realize the wind has created a current along the shoreline. You can lay the fly down and let it drift on the calm surface for five feet or more along the bank.

And you get hits. You don't hook up, but it's clear that some fish are liking the look of that big fly dropping out of the shoreside vegetation and drifting helplessly over their window. It bodes well for the hopper time ahead.

Trout Lake Report: The Proper Ending

You know this hot weather won't last, so you slip away as often as you can. This time you go back to the south end.

You get a fish to chase and take a muddler right away.

You find another fish working over the damsels, so you tie on your damsel and give him a look at it. He takes it.

Then the breeze dies and things slow down. You slow down, too. You keep a fly floating out there, but you're content to wait and see what will happen.

You hear a familiar but unexpected sound and look up...

And a flock of swallows are swooping and darting overhead. You figure it's a migrating group from up north just passing through. You get a quick shot before they disappear southward. You don't see them again. But you're glad to have seen them one more time.

You bask in the warm air and listen to the sounds of the evening.

Big green and blue darner dragonflies buzz around you. They deftly take insects, including damselflies, out of the air. They veer down and dip into the water, leaving trails of little rings. Sometimes they clack against your rod. Sometimes they fly up and look you in the eye. Sometimes they land on you or the float tube. You're glad for their company.

You've tied the muddler back on by now, and decide to kick over and work the shoreline on the way back to the truck. As so often happens, just when you're least expecting it a fish comes out of nowhere and grabs it. And, as is so often the case, it's a hot fish, and gives you a hard fight.

This is where you came in. It seems like the proper ending to the evening.

Trout Lake Report: Honor

The next time you get to the lake you are drawn to the north end again, and the inlet. The day is hot, and as calm as the former day was windy.

The area around the inlet is shallow, more shallow than you expected it to be.

Where the big brown was holding you kick the bottom with your flippers. This time there are no fish holding. The wind was your friend the last time you were here.

You have the muddler on, and you range up and down the reed line throwing it here and there. You let it sit, and you strip it in. There are no fish working, and you raise none. Then you see a rainbow swimming lazily toward you. He and his shadow are distinct against the sunlit bottom. You get ready to cast, but he sees you and turns and heads back where he came from.

You decide that if you're going to let your fly sit you might as well have the damsel on. You make the switch and cast the damsel back where the rainbow disappeared.

You can think of few things more peaceful than sitting in the sun on a calm lake waiting to see if a fish will find your fly.

In the midst of your meditations you catch a movement out of the corner of your eye. It's a rainbow finning slowly along. He turns this way and that, and then begins moving leisurely in the direction of your fly. You can't tell if he sees it, and you lose him in the glare of the sun on the water.

You wait. You almost jump when he takes the fly with a big splash.

You hold him in the water and wait for him to revive. But he doesn't. You bring him up and realize that the bend in his back won't unbend. You can't remember this happening before, but you figure in his thrashing in the net he broke his back. You try again, but he isn't moving.

You seldom keep a fish for the table, but you are happy to when you need to. So you kick up the little inlet channel to where you can stand--it's just around the corner now with the low water, get your pocket knife out of your pocket and take care of business.

You kick back out, the pan-ready fish stowed in the net behind your seat, and fish some more.

At dusk some fish begin to come up, and you tie the muddler back on.

Once again, even with the calm conditions, you get a fish to take the muddler stripped fast over the surface. To net this fish you have to take the cleaned fish out of the net and put it in the stripping apron. You tell this fish you're going to let him go, but you don't think he believes you as he rests on the remains of one of his fellows.

You do let him go, and keep stripping the muddler, and the inlet area gives up another beautiful brown.

You catch a couple more smaller fish, and then kick for home.

You honor the fish you killed by frying him up just right. And he honors you by being delicious.