Trout Lake Report: Ticking Away

The time is ticking away. Season's end is near. You take some seasonal flies and head up to the lake for the final campaign of the year. You will try to get there on three of the remaining four days.

The day is bright and not too cold, but a north wind is blowing hard.

You buck it for awhile, then get an idea. You turn and ride the wind.

You're working the shoreline on the way, and a little brown blows in like a leaf.

And then a little rainbow.

You're heading for the channel at the far south end of the lake. You drift down its length...

And there you find what you were hoping to find: a long sheltered shoreline in the south pond.

So you kick around and fish like it's still summer. You can almost forget the insistent warning of the north wind still roaring in the tree tops.

You probe the shoreline and find fish. You get several hits that you miss, and you hook two fish that come off.

Then another brown hits and sticks.

Soon the sun dips behind the mountain, and the temperature begins a downward slide. Twenties are predicted overnight.

By then you're back at the channel, so you kick out into the wind again and head up the shoreline toward the truck. You lean back into the wind, and the wind pushes back hard. Waves splash over the float tube and down your neck.

You fish all the way back, but nothing more comes. You head for shore.

By the time you're loaded and ready to go the wind has begun to sit down a little. You hope it won't be back tomorrow.

Because you will be back.

Long Shot from The Fly Collective

Nicely done short film of some of our favorite people, if not some of our favorite fish. Erin Block and Jay Zimmerman chase Front Range carp.

Dude, Check This Out: Lou Reed

Another icon passes on. Since 1964, when he and John Cale co-founded The Velvet Underground, Lou Reed has been a major influence on art and culture and countless bands and musicians. Brian Eno famously said that while the first Velvet Underground album may have sold only 30,000 copies, "everyone who bought one of those 30,000 copies started a band." 

For a good overview of Lou Reed's life and influence, click HERE.

And check out his music again. It has stood the test of time, just as he did. So here's to another survivor. Rest in peace, Lou Reed.

MFFM, Fall 2013

Montana Fly Fishing Magazine

Taking Leave

One morning last week I pulled over as I was passing Bass Lake and stood for awhile remembering. I don't fish this lake much anymore, but I've spent many happy hours here in years past with Jeremiah and his friends. It was their favorite swimming and fishing hole, and the memories are good. I count myself lucky to be able to drive past it several times a week, seeing the beauties of every season of the changing year reflected in its surface.

There's another lake I won't see again until Spring, so early this week I drove through the glowing orchards up to Cutthroat Lake. My purpose was to take my leave for another season. I don't fish this lake as often as I should, but when I do go there it's a special treat, especially when its possibilities become reality and I behold one of its glorious Cutthroats in my net.

When I arrived it was just me and the other turkeys.

I was hoping for some late season dry fly action, but that was not to be. So I trolled in between prospecting with a muddler. I saw a fish as it swam under the float tube, and I saw a few rises. I even got a nibble once--just a couple of pecks.

My guess is that fish was saying goodbye to me as I was saying goodbye to the lake--with a "better luck next time" thrown in for good measure. I appreciate it, and I'll be back to take up the challenge again next Spring.

"Baseball" by John Updike

It looks easy from a distance,
easy and lazy, even,
until you stand up to the plate
and see the fastball sailing inside,
an inch from the chin,
or circle in the outfield
straining to get a bead
on a small black dot
a city block or more high,
a dark star that could fall
on your head like a leaden meteor.

The grass, the dirt, the deadly hops
between your feet and overeager glove:
football can be learned,
and basketball finessed, but
there is no hiding from baseball
the fact that some are chosen
and some are not--those whose mitts
feel too left-handed,
who are scared at third base
of the pulled line drive,
and at first base are scared
of the shortstop's wild throw
that stretches you out like a gutted deer.

There is nowhere to hide when the ball's
spotlight swivels your way,
and the chatter around you falls still,
and the mothers on the sidelines,
your own among them, hold their breaths,
and you whiff on a terrible pitch
or in the infield achieve
something with the ball so
ridiculous you blush for years.
It's easy to do. Baseball was
invented in America, where beneath
the good cheer and sly jazz the chance
of failure is everybody's right,
beginning with baseball.

"Baseball" by John Updike, from Endpoint. © Knopf, 2009.

Brookie Lake/Trout Lake Report: Getting Ready

The float tube has been waiting in the truck for the first chance to get on the water again.

You've tied up another muddler variant especially for this day.

Deer season is a few days old and the roads and campgrounds are busy. But you have Brookie Lake all to yourself.

The water is a weedy soup, but you see rises boiling up here and there.

You miss a couple of fish on a brisk strip. Then you find the right rhythm, the one in sync with the beat of these bright lives.

You leisurely explore the boundaries of the lake, and you find the pulse of life everywhere.

Each fish is a shining microcosmic reflection of the Autumn world.

You kick down the channel to the spillway. The water rushes away like Summer days.

You say goodbye to Brookie Lake; you will not return until the return of Spring.

You migrate south to Trout Lake. Everything is nearing completion.

You passed slow-moving hunters on the road, and dodged roaring logging trucks. But what hits you at the lakeside is the deepening stillness.

This world is shedding all the non-essentials, and a calm is settling down like the coming snows of Winter.

The trout are essential parts of it all. They are enlivened by their cooling world, and they seek sustenance for the long dark ahead.

They are quick and efficient in their taking of the fly, but betray not a trace of desperation.

They endure the net, then flick back into their element to resume their unwavering dedication to survival instinct.

You are not here by instinct. You come by choice.

And, like the trout, you are also seeking sustenance. And once again you find it in abundance.

You kick in slowly through the evening chill, and you feel defined by the growing cold, more aware of the sharp edges of your aliveness. Bats still flit through the waning light. Soon they will be gone for another season.

So will you. But not yet. You will come back again for a few more times. And when the long dark does come, you will be ready.