Trout Lake Report: A Big Job for a Big Fly

You open August at the north end again. You rig up with an indicator right away. The day feels nymphy.

But you fish across to the inlet without getting a single bump.

Here in the cold channel, though, a deep nymph brings a decent fish.

While you're releasing it, you see a splashy rise right in the neck of the inlet. It moves a lot of water.

This looks like a big job for a big fly. You tie on the quasi-hopper, grease it good, and cast it down the throat of the inlet. It splashes down, bobs up, and a fish hammers it. You horse it out into open water. It resists with all its strength. You hope it's a Brown, but you're happy with 18 inches of jacked up Rainbow. It's in beautiful condition for mid-summer.

You range on down the shoreline to another favorite spot. You've caught some giant Browns in here in the past, and recent trips have roused a small Rainbow or two.

You cast the hopper right up against the willows and driftwood, give it a twitch, and another Rainbow hammers it. It's not as big as the last one, but it's bigger than what you've found here recently.

You're ready for more, but all you can find now are wannabe's. They're everywhere.

You kick out into the weeds to fish pocket water. A preoccupied beaver swims within five feet of you before he sees the tube. You don't know he's there until he explodes right behind you. Now you're awake.

You fish dries and nymphs around the weeds, with no success.

You kick back to the take out trailing a muddler behind you.

One more Rainbow comes to your fly. It's as though you hooked a piece of the evening sky.

At dark the lake is still. You wait to see if fish will rise.

But the fish are still, too.

Trout Lake Report: Categories of Grace

August is unfolding much too quickly, and the summer continues busy. But the lake is there for you. It provides, if not an escape, then a respite from the demands of the day. So you fly in like a duck, wings whistling in sharp descent, and the moment you hit the water you fold those wings and settle down, and by the time the ripples have dissipated you're a part of the evening's calm.

The lake is still a damsel carnival, the surface awhirl with blue.

This time you throw a muddler for awhile, then go for your damsel imitation and it's not on the fly patch. That was your last one. You've been meaning to tie up a few more.

You tie on a #12 green-bodied, black-winged stimulator, just in case. You lay it out there over a few rises. Nothing. So you decide to head back and see if the damsel fly came off in or near the truck. You start the kick back drifting the fly behind you. A fish sucks it in and breaks it off, just like that. That's encouraging.

You search in and around the truck. No fly. It's gone. You go back out and tie on another #12 stimulator, this one black-winged and black-bodied. That couldn't work, could it? You curl around a point and find some fish working along the shoreline weed beds. You wait for a rise, drop it in close, and let it sit.

It works, falling in that category of grace called "close enough." The first fish is the best fish of the trip.

Other fish come to it.

The fish quit coming up after awhile. You tie on a muddler and work it here and there in the cool calm. You hear crackling and rustling in the willows and think it's one of the many beavers constantly working. But it's a doe and her fawn. You feel honored by their lack of fear.

Then you do see a beaver, signalling dusk.

You get the muddler in the right place once before dark.

The lake has graced you once more. And it will be there for you again.