Trout Lake Report: Let the Season Begin

You tied up a couple of muddler variations in olive. Sizes 10 and 14. You remember them just before you fire up the truck, so you put them where you hope you won't be able to forget and leave them in the truck.

North end again. You remember the muddlers.

The afternoon is almost ideal. You tie on the #10.

You start working the shoreline. Just a little way along you're stripping the fly when you get a hit. It's quick and efficient. A surgical strike.

The fish crash dives and commences a heroic battle. It runs and rolls. It lunges and thrashes. You feel lucky to finally get it in the net. The season's first brown. Typical for its kind, it's big for its size.

You continue to work the shoreline with that state of mind that comes with success: contented calm combined with eager anticipation.

You work the inlet even more carefully this time. You know for sure they're around now.

The breeze drops and the water smoothes. You work on down the shoreline and see a good rise inside the submerged willows. Then another. That's suspiciously brown behavior. You cast to them but get no response.

Rainbows are rising sporadically out in open water. You take a break from the muddler and tie a pheasant tail parachute on a 5X tippet. You get a few hits but no hookups. It's fun, though, to cast out a long line and let it fall where it may.

You've worked on around the bend from the inlet. You decide to go back and try the pheasant tail parachute in those submerged willows. You kick along slowly and let the fly drift behind.

Ambush. This time the hit is like an open-field tackle. The fish feels the hook bite and begins to thrash on top. You see right away it's another brown. It doesn't run, it just thrashes and rolls. When you get it close you see the leader stretching out from its belly and you think you've foul hooked it. Then you realize it has rolled a foot and a half of line around itself. You gingerly unfurl it--this is a 5X tippet; you caught the first Brown on 4X. Luckily, this Brown, though bigger, doesn't resort to lunging runs. You get it in the net.

That's what you've been looking for. This cement's the PTP's reputation as an effective fly.

Pheasant Tail Parachute (Pheasant Tail Dry)

Hook: dry fly hook

Thread: Black

Tail and Body: Pheasant tail fibers

Rib: Gold wire

Thorax: Grey Ice Dub

Wing Post: White Antron yarn

Hackle: Brown

You work it some more, but the opposite shoreline is calling. You kick across at dusk and tie the #10 muddler back on.

You start to work the shoreline down toward the take out. In short order you get a hit, but it's short. You keep going. Just before you get to the take out you drop the fly near some blowdowns. On the first strip a very good fish explodes on it. Like a depth charge. It heads straight for the blowdowns and you can't stop it. You feel it surging on the end of the line and then you just feel irresistible resistance. You kick over and confirm the inevitable: the line is twisted around submerged branches and the fish is gone. You have to break the fly off.

Brown or rainbow? You'll never know. But you know for sure now that it could have been another big brown.

You tie on another muddler and keep going until almost dark. As you kick in, you drag the fly behind you and a rainbow sideswipes it. It's not big, but it's a spectacular jumper. You reel it in like a kite.

You pack up and head for home in the dark. You feel good. You've finally broken through the Brown Barrier. Let the season begin.

Trout Lake Report: Like Christmas Morning

You wade through another busy stretch, then find a chance to get back to the lake. The day is warmer and dryer than on the inaugural trip.

You go back to the north end again. Just as on the first trip, there is a strong wind pushing up waves, but this time it's blowing out of the south.

You kick over to the other side, put the wind to your back, and prospect the shoreline with a big greased muddler on top.

Once again you stop at the inlet and break down the water with extra attention, but the fly is the only thing swimming.

You continue to work the shoreline, ignoring the big waves that splash down your neck. The fish are nowhere to be found. You find yourself slipping into that irrational opening weekend anxiety: what if this time the big crowds literally cleaned the lake out?

In spite of that, you're having a glorious time. The only thing missing are the fish, but your better self tells you they're in there, try harder. So you try some indicator fishing. Still no results other than pleasure at the new non-slip indicators you picked up the other day. The little victories keep you going.

You're beginning to philosophize about the meaning of getting skunked on only your second trip of the season, and to moralize about the positive effects of delayed gratification when the wind abruptly sits down and a few fish finally show themselves.

You tie on a new pheasant tail parachute and get your trout. The day feels complete.

But of course you keep fishing. And now comes that deep contentment at simply being there with a dry fly resting on its hackles on the calm surface and your hands already smelling of fish.

The fly gets some action, but you don't hook up on every hit, and that's just fine.

The evening is winding down.

You kick across to the other side.

You tie the muddler back on and begin to fish the shoreline back toward the take out. You're remembering the many good fish you've taken along here in years past, including some stellar browns. You're hoping you might find your first brown of this new season. You get a big hit, a hookup, and a good fight. It's not a brown, it's a Pacquiao of a rainbow.

The first brown--along with a thousand other thrills and pleasures--are still to come. This time of year is like when you're a kid, you've just woke up, and you remember it's Christmas morning.

Trout Lake Report: Opening Day

Spring showers greet you on this opening day at the lake.

The campgrounds are full, and various watercraft dot the water. You launch at the north end, the least congested area.

You kick across to the inlet side, and before you get there the rain stops and the sky lightens.

A north wind keeps up, so you explore a sheltered bay in its lee. Many callibaetis are sheltering there, bobbing on the water. While you watch, a fish comes up and takes one with a loud clop.

You tie on a pheasant tail parachute and give the fish a look at it. After awhile you begin to kick slowly around the bend in the shoreline, drifting the fly behind.

The first fish of the season at Trout Lake ambushes the fly before it can get away. It's a pretty fish, and looks like a veteran. It's been a long time coming.

You continue to drift the fly behind you as you scull slowly toward the inlet. More fish come to it with dramatic takes.

The wind has backed off, and you stay with the pheasant tail parachute, happy to be fishing a dry.

You prospect around the inlet, hoping for a spring brown, but find none. The water is already high and remains cold, so the conditions that will attract fish to the inlet as the weather warms are still moot. You explore under the willows along the bank around the inlet, another brown hangout. You think you've got one when a fish takes with a flash of yellow, but it's another colorful rainbow with yellow highlights.

You need a break. The problem with spring is that there are precious few spots shallow enough to--let's be honest--stand and pee. The other problem is that the many boats, holding both genders, make privacy an issue. You try going up the inlet to where it shallows out, but there are downed willows blocking it halfway along. So you kick across to the truck, beach the tube, and take a break in the sagebrush under the big Ponderosa.

By now another squall is approaching. You launch and kick back across to the other side again, trolling a black woolly bugger.

You get some bumps, and then a solid hookup.

The squall soon passes and the lake calms again. There are some fish coming up here and there. You watch from a distance as a large fluttery insect tries to rise from the surface. Just when you think it's going to make it, it disappears in a splashy rise.

You tie on a little muddler you tied especially for opening day. You make it flutter on the water, and fish hit it hard.

One of the Trout Lake eagles flies over and lands nearby. It's been fishing, too.

Finished with its meal, it takes a post by the inlet.

You continue to fish toward the inlet with the muddler. You miss a couple and take a couple. You're enchanted by their beauty.

You got too close, and the eagle has moved off. You're beginning to think it's time for you to move off, too. The fish have quieted down. And after six hours in the water you're getting a bit chilled. The low at home is to be 34 degrees; at the lake it will likely be lower yet, and the slide downward has begun.

So you begin the kick back to the take out for the second time. You're looking forward to the heater in the truck. And you're looking forward to the next time you can get here. It has been a very good opening day. It has opened the season at Trout Lake, and, after a long six months away, it has opened up your world.