"The Kinglet" by Floyd Dalton Raze (1911)

Franco Testa

The golden-crowned kinglet that all summer long

Has brightened the wood with his presence and song,

Oh, where has he gone that I see him no more

On the bough of the pine where I saw him of yore?

His wee, tiny nest hangs aloft in the tree,

All empty and cheerless and lone as can be,

Where erst in the cool summer breezes it swung

A hammock and home for his clamorous young.

Now loud through the fir boughs the autumn winds blow

Where soon will be gathered the cold winter snow,

Aloft in the birch is the call of the jay

But never a kinglet to greet me to-day.

He has left the old home with a solemn "good bye"

For a spot that he loves 'neath the far southern sky,

Yet I know as he murmurs his "tsee, tee, tee, tee,"

He'll sometime be thinking of summer and me.

"The Kinglet" by Floyd Dalton Raze, from The Home of the Wild Rose and Other Poems, 1911.

Rocky Ford Creek Report: Continuing Education

February is on the way out. I want a few more of those Rocky Ford Rainbows before it's gone so I make my usual Tuesday trip.

I've come to enjoy the drive, especially since hazardous weather has not been an issue since the first week of January. I make a quick stop at Dry Falls to take a look back into the Pleistocene.

Then it's on to Rocky Ford and the present.

It will be a scud day. A half dozen small trout want a taste of scud, and only scud--though I try to tempt them with other flies.

I keep looking for a better fish. In the evening light, one finally comes--also to a scud.

I close out the light with dries. No go. If only I had a scud dry...

On the walk back to the pickup I hear Killdeers. One more bird to add to the Spring bird list.

Rocky Ford has been my winter option in years past. This year, with an unusually mild winter, it has been my spring option. I discovered as early as the end of January that my tried and true cold weather strategies no longer applied here. I have had to dust off techniques and flies I haven't used in awhile (indicators and nymphs, for example) in order to keep up with the trout as they adapt their feeding patterns to warmer weather and the earlier development of hatches.

You're never too old to learn. And I still have some things to learn. I've seen one old timer here at Rocky Ford--it seems like the same guy even though I've seen it happen several times--very quietly and calmly come out on the bank across from me, make one or two casts, and hook, land, and release a beautiful fish. Then quietly move on. No fuss, no muss.

I would like to learn the ways of this fishery well enough to be that proficient some day.

I hope to make one more February trip. Then I'm really looking forward to continuing my education in March.

Rocky Ford Creek Report: Catch of the Day

It's another beautiful afternoon at Rocky Ford Creek. The sun is in and out of scudding clouds. It's almost hot when it's out, and refreshingly cool when it's hidden.

I'm hoping to get some photos of the conjunction of Venus, Mars, and the new moon after sunset. My DSLR camera and tripod are in the truck. But as the afternoon rolls on the clouds roll in.

Meanwhile I just fish. I spend lots of time with an indicator on, and I pick up four or five youngsters on scuds and various nymphs. (I get no takes on a bloodworm.)

Robins have now joined the list of Spring birds, and more Great Blue Herons have come. A male Marsh Hawk--ghostly white--patrols the opposite bank. He hits the brakes and drops like a stone. I hear a commotion in the cattails, and he rises with a dark shape in his talons and heads for a perch in the rocks. Mallards are here, and a variety of Grebes, all paired up and engaged in courtship. I wonder when the Pelicans will arrive.

I catch a better fish on a nondescript nymph as I'm stripping it in for a change of flies. It's a very pretty fish.

Each time I've been here in the past few weeks I hear sounds below my feet. The banks are riddled with Muskrat tunnels, and I often see them paddling in and out. Now I'm also hearing them gnawing away at their domain, creating even more passageways.

It seems like I just got here, but the light is going. I try a scud again--I've gotten the most attention with that fly--and sure enough, I hook a good fish. I work it in carefully and have the net in my hand when it breaks off. So it goes.

I clip off the indicator and tie on a stimulator and throw it around until it's time to go. I watch Great Blues circle overhead against the darkening clouds and figure someone else will have to take photos of the celestial show. I'm sorry to have to miss it.

The truck is packed. I start the engine, and pour some coffee. I'm about to shift into gear when a glint of moonlight flickers out of the shifting clouds. I study the sky critically. It looks like the clouds may break up enough for a good view.

I shut the engine off, grab my DSLR and climb out. Yes, it's going to happen. I set up the tripod as quickly as I can and get ready. And I get my shot.

It's the catch of the day.

River Report: Prototype One

I finally broke away and got to the river for a few hours. It feels like I made it through a narrow window. It was in the 40's today, but another cold snap is expected over the weekend.

There was snow on the ground, but the melt was on, and I was never uncomfortably cold. Just uncomfortable about climbing down those snowy rocks with felt wading boots on.

But I made it. And there I was. Fishing in the river. It has been a long time.

I swung the new articulated fly, what I shall call Prototype One. It swam well, and I gave it a good workout.

I was fishing deep. I often felt the fly bumping over the bottom cobble, and it got hung up more than once. So I was surprised when, after three quick bumps, one of those rocks took off with my fly.

I knew right away it wasn't a steelhead. I wasn't feeling those heavy tugs and pulls that you get with a good steelhead. Best this fish could do was jerk on the fly. I let it go for a few jerks before setting the hook, but I missed it.

Might have been a trout, but my guess is that it was a little smallmouth.

I turned and set my sights on The Glide, and started the wade upstream.

All along the way there were signs of spring to enjoy. This new feather for my hat came floating down right into my hand.

 There is stark and beautiful evidence everywhere that winter is slowly but surely letting go.

Keeping me company in the bankside bushes and trees were flocks of energetic Cedar Waxwings, and mixed in with them were Robins, the first I've seen and heard this spring. There was a joyous swirl of singing birds overhead the whole way.

I waded up to the head of The Glide and worked it back downstream. The best way to fish it is from the gravel bar on the other side, but the river is just deep enough and fast enough that I didn't risk a crossing. I covered as much water as I could, but nothing came to the fly.

So I waded back down to the bridge. I got in a hurry on the way back, maybe didn't give the river its due, started feeling a little cocky about how well I was wading. So the river, as rivers will do, put me on my knees for it. I repented, and got up, and went more carefully on my way.

I didn't get soaked, but I did get wet, and my left shin got whacked pretty good. I immediately soaked it in ice water, and that helped.

Back at the bridge I fished some more. Maybe I was getting tired, but I let my line get just a little too close to the bridge pylon, and on the retrieve I snagged something that wouldn't move. There are often twisted tangles of sticks and logs wrapped around those pylons, and I had already dredged up a couple of branches when I had fished there earlier. This time I think I had snagged the whole jam.

So I had to break off Prototype One.

I fished another fly for a little while longer, but it finally felt like I had accomplished enough for the day. I hadn't hooked or landed anything. But a fish--and it only takes one--had given my Prototype One its unequivocal stamp of approval.

I climbed back up to the truck feeling validated. And eager to get back to the river again.

Just wait until they see Prototype Two.

A Bird Ballet

A bird ballet | Music Video from Neels CASTILLON on Vimeo.

Be Glad You Are Not a Small, Furry Rodent

I have a friend who sends me all kinds of those emails that make the rounds. One out of a hundred is worth its bandwidth. This is one of those. This is a super slow motion video of an Eagle Owl. Be glad you are not a small, furry rodent.

Watch it HERE.

SPRING, in Three Acts

ACT ONE

I get up an hour earlier than usual: the Time Change. I go outside; it's on the warm side of cool, has been for twenty-four hours. I walk toward the truck and am stopped in my tracks by a visitation: winged forms dance above the pasture in the morning light. I hear their song: "Fear not, we bring you tidings of great joy...!" Swallows. Violet Green Swallows. They have brought the first green into the valley. They rise higher and higher and pass overhead. My gaze rises with them.

I drive, and think of the host so far: Redwingeds, Robins, and, more recently, Killdeer, filling the days and nights with their restless flight and cries; Meadowlarks burbling like brooks; a Phoebe shyly flitting into the shed to see if there is a vacancy among the nest-friendly lighting fixtures.

My route takes me past Bass Lake, and I stop. The ice has retreated to each of the far ends. Many waterbirds dot the open water in the middle. I try to sneak up on them, but they rush off with a great ruckus.

I zoom in on the Trumpeters along the far shoreline; later, in editing, I spy the Canada Geese high in the cheap seats behind them.

The road home takes me along the river. There are no Eagles on the great ramshackle nest high atop a pine tree. But on down the road I see one on a favorite perch. As I move quietly toward it another Eagle lumbers around the bend hauling a big fish. It holds the fish in one foot, and the fish swings back and forth, its sides catching the light.

That Eagle keeps going. I get some shots of the first Eagle until it lifts off to get its share of lunch.

I head on home to do the same.

ACT TWO

In early afternoon the first thunderstorm of the year rolls through. We sit and watch the rain and sleet pepper the deck, and listen to the grumble of thunder.

After one long, low peal of thunder my son asks, "Does this mean winter is over?" I remember a poem by Mark Van Doren.

Spring Thunder

Listen. The wind is still,

And far away in the night--

See! The uplands fill

With a running light.

Open the doors. It is warm;

And where the sky was clear--

Look! The head of a storm

That marches here!

Come under the trembling hedge--

Fast, although you fumble.

There! Did you hear the edge

of winter crumble?

ACT THREE

I have been anticipating some time on the river Monday to celebrate the longer days. I check the weather report.

Monday: Snow. High near 32. South wind between 10 and 18 mph, with gusts as high as 21 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 4 to 8 inches possible.

Monday Night: Snow. Low around 27. South wind between 10 and 13 mph becoming calm. Winds could gust as high as 20 mph. Chance of precipitation is 90%. New snow accumulation of 2 to 4 inches possible.

I still see the green flash of the Swallows. I still hear their joyous song.