Trout Lake Report: Things That Go Bump In the Night

The very next day you find yourself at the path leading down to the north end access.

You plan to pick up where you left off the night before. When you check the caddis you had been fishing you find it somewhat sprung. You remember that hard, sharp pull in the dark. It makes you think of things that go bump in the night.

You bend the caddis back into shape and fish it around. Fish are rising. They seem to be working something. You get a nice hit and hook up out in open water, but after that they want nothing to do with the caddis.

Then you see what the fish are probably taking: there has been a fall of cinnamon ants. They aren't thick like you've seen them on the Henry's Fork, but you get excited anyway.

You have a couple of cinnamon ants and you tie one on. You fish it all over, chasing rises and drifting it behind you, but you can't get any action. This fly worked on the Henry's Fork, but apparently the trout here require something special made just for them.  

You're close to the inlet, so you kick over, switch to the quasi-hopper, and pick up a few little guys. You cover the whole inlet area carefully, though, muttering under your breath, "Tiger, tiger, burning bright...."

There are clouds building up in the south. Will this be deja vu all over again? You put your rain jacket on.

You get another grab by a little guy, but are happy to see it's a Brown. It's been awhile. Now go get your big brother.

You've been listening for thunder, but haven't heard any, and watching for rain, but haven't seen any. So you aren't quite ready when a wall of wind hits you from behind. You just manage to catch your hat before it's whipped into oblivion.

This isn't really a wind; it's a roaring gale.

Later you'll read in the paper about a "localized windstorm" that brought down several trees in a nearby town, including one that did a number on a house.

Photo: Al Camp

Now you kick into the inlet for whatever shelter it can provide, and, funny thing, you're thinking about trees coming down. You hope you're far enough away from the tree behind you that it won't land on top of you if it topples.

You bob away in your rolling retreat, hanging on to some willow stems for an anchor. You wait for the rain and thunder, but they never come.

Far overhead an eagle is soaring joyously on the rushing updrafts, riding the storm.

The wind slowly abates but never really quits. The lake remains restless.

You fish the hopper here and there, and drift it behind you as you kick back to the take out, but maybe the fish are still in shock, or nauseous from the tossing waves. You hang around for awhile to see if you might get a chance to throw a little caddis out onto a calm lake in the dark. But the fishing is over.

The things that go bump in the night will have to wait.

Time To Get Back Home To the Home Waters

I'm home after our family road trip. That trip wasn't a fishing trip, and I haven't been fishing yet since I got home, and all the time I was gone I was thinking of my home waters and that last trip to the lake before we hit the road.

It was back when the heat wave was building, and the evening was a hot one...

I was fishing the damselator. It took awhile, but I found a fine rainbow that liked it. We had a lovely moment.

At dusk I switched to a muddler and fished the shoreline under an eagle staying cool in the heat.

I caught a fish.

And a fish caught itself. It took the unattended muddler as I was taking shots of the eagle. There was no movement of the line after the take, so I figured the fish was off. But when I picked up the rod again it was still on.

Alas, the fly was deep in its gorge. It was too deep to extricate, so I clipped the line and did my best to revive the fish. But unsuccessfully. So I retrieved the fly and took the fish home with me for supper.

When I couldn't see the eagle anymore I drifted the muddler back to the truck. I caught one more fish. It revived quickly and swam off into the night.

So I'm back home. Time now to get back home to the home waters.

Early Lake Report: See You Again, Swallows

You need to fish, so you go close by again.

You get to Early Lake and an osprey call welcomes you. He's over on the snag with a crow. There are more crows cawing in the trees.

They don't like ospreys.

You kick over to see how close you can get. The crows bail early. The osprey waits until you're almost under him.

You like ospreys.

The afternoon is warm and breezy. You go under with a bead head and a little woolly bugger and catch fish. They're small and the worse for wear, but they're trout, and they fight you. 

An eagle sails in at 11 o'clock high.

You fish, then pull in on the far side for a break. You see spring is winning.

As you launch, the red-necked grebes come by. Two weeks ago there was one, lost and forlorn. You're happy to see that the mate has arrived.

You're also happy to see a pair of loons. They stay close to each other and far away from you. You fish while they fish, and catch some more.

The eagle keeps an eye on the osprey from above.

You tie on a new muddler. It looks like it could be a topwater evening. You think of naming the fly "Bad Haircut."

The breeze swirls and switches. You get bump after bump on the muddler, and finally a bluegill gets his mouth around it.

You can't keep the bluegills off it, and you can't find a trout with it. The breeze stiffens into a wind and settles in the north.

The temperature drops. You have a jacket on, but you're getting cold. You see the eagle has been joined by another, and both eagles are pursuing the osprey.

The eagles suddenly break away, and one eagle now swoops at the other. You're too far away to see, but you guess they've stolen the osprey's supper.

The osprey is undaunted.

Clouds of swallows have come in with the wind. You watch and marvel. You fish, and fish some more, but the wind isn't letting up, you aren't raising any trout, it isn't going to get any warmer, and you're bone-tired of being cold.

So you kick in. See you again, swallows.