Trout Lake Report: The Party's Over

You're on the lake at the exact moment of the solstice. Hello, Summer.

You launched at the far north end. The plan is to work your way over to the west bank to see if there are any more Drakes.

You have the Drake box in the vest, but you begin with a Damselator.

The damsels are swarming.

The fish are there. You get some bumps and a hookup, but it comes undone. You work your way around the first corner.

In the long stretch of submerged reeds you find a fish taking damsels with relish. You see three rises in quick succession. On one of them the fish comes clear out of the water. You think it has a yellowish look to it.

You drop the fly in the center of those rises and wait. There it is. You set the hook firmly, and it stays on. A Brown for sure.

The next stop is the inlet.

There are fish here, too. You get two Rainbows to grab the Damselator.

You keep on going. You look ahead; the west side is deserted.

You follow the shoreline and continue to fish the Damselator, but nothing comes to it.

Nearer to your goal you tie on a Drake dry.

You get to your destination. You fish up and down the stretch where you quickly caught two nice fish on the last trip. Now it becomes quickly apparent that the hatch is over. You see a few Drakes. Birds are avidly taking them, but the fish seem to have moved on. You wait to see if you're early (you know you're not), but nothing changes. It was fun while it lasted.

While you're waiting you see a flash of vibrant blue against the high bank. What kind of bird is that? You will determine later that it's a Lazuli Bunting. That's a first for you--a life bird, as birders say. That is some consolation for the end of the hatch and the lack of fish.

You head back. You want to fish the inlet again, and then cross over and fish the shoreline down to the takeout. You tie on a big muddler.

On the way the wind comes up.

The eagles don't mind.

You, however, would prefer a calmer evening. You fish around the inlet and in among the submerged reeds, with no luck.

A Great Blue heron comes sailing in on the wind and keeps a wary eye on you until you move on.

The sun is almost behind the mountain. Time to cross over to the other side.

You trail the big muddler behind you and right away get a hit and a hookup.

You cast it out again.

A third of the way across you get another hit. This time it's a big old Rainbow, the biggest you've caught this season. It's plenty long, but its girth and weight are what impress.

You make it to the other side and begin to work the muddler along the shoreline.

It's slow on this side. You manage one fish, a Rainbow that seems especially small after that last hefty specimen.

It's still blowing, and it's cold. Not what you had hoped for on the first day of Summer. You had planned to use up every bit of daylight, staying out until the full moon rose. But the clouds are here to stay. You'll have to miss the Strawberry Moon.

Looks like the party's over for now.

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.

Lake Report: What I Was Thinking Of

I was thinking of sun on the water, a greening world, and life springing out of living rock.

And I was thinking of Iris.

I was thinking of flashing trout, strong and tested.

And I was thinking of Iris.

I was thinking of early Warblers, arcing Swallows, and a wind-sleek Heron.

And I was thinking of Iris.

I was thinking of deepest blue and marabou and grizzly clouds.

And I was thinking of Iris.

I was thinking of how my life has been graced time and time again with love and beauty unearned and undeserved.

And I was thinking of Iris.