Trout Lake Report: Sometimes a Skunk Is Just a Skunk

I went back to the lake on a warm, smoky September evening. No new fires; just the last gasps of all the fires in our area.

The south end seemed inviting. No copters this time.

The fire here has created a premature Fall landscape.

Wandering through it was one of the denizens of the lake, back and living the life: a skunk.

It could have been an omen; the lake was quiet here, much quieter than the channel had been on my first evening back.

I saw a rise near the rocky shoreline. I dropped a hopper in over a weed mat. I let it sit for a minute before I was rewarded with a subtle take. I hooked the fish. I needed to keep its head up and skate it over the weeds, but I couldn't do it. This fish was too strong, and shot straight into the weeds.

I kicked over, found it still hooked, and tried to winch it out of there hand over hand. The tippet snapped with a ping.

I could have taken that as further confirmation of the skunk being an omen. Instead it gave me encouragement. I was confident there were other hot spots around. All I had to do was find them.

My search was leisurely and restful.

Along the rocks again I cast the fly in tight and let it rest, too. After a minute I began to strip it in--and a fish took it.

A rainbow, strong and in a hurry to leave. It flipped out of the net before I could get a closeup.

Things were heating up some.

There was no general hatch or feeding activity--no sign of ants. But there were individual fish working small weedy territories. I saw this brown's rise from a distance, kicked over, laid the fly in and let it drift, and it came up and took it.

That would be the routine as the light faded.

The sun set without brilliance, the sky turning a darker shade of smoke. The colors of a brown taken at dusk shone all the brighter for it.

At darkness settled in--so early now--I kicked toward the takeout. From ten feet out I glanced back to get my bearings, and the skunk was getting a drink at the precise spot I was planning to beach the tube. I put on the brakes, preferring to avoid a confrontation. The skunk, knowing I was there, finished its drink, gave me a look, and hurried away down the shoreline into the willows. That's the last I saw of it.

Sometimes a skunk is just a skunk.

Trout Lake Flashback: I Never Imagined

Another flashback to another trip from before the fires. This one is from August 3. 

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I got back to the lake the very next day after forgetting my flippers. This time I remembered them.

It was a warm, breezy evening, but it wasn't long before the breeze gave way to calm.

I worked the shorelines for awhile, but found myself gravitating to the north end of the channel. The fish were still there, hanging out along the weed beds.

I made my way down the east shore of the north end along the campground. No campers, but more fish in the weeds.

I never imagined that all you see in this photo would be burned over by the end of the month.

I took the muddler off and tied on a little caddis. I relaxed and enjoyed the stillness of the evening, casting to the risers that came up in flurries, and picking the occasional damsel nymph off my neck.

The light turned pink as it shone through the high smoke. I cast the caddis out and let it sit as I watched the coming of the sunset. One more fish came to it, pink reflecting pink.

I kicked slowly in as another evening on the lake ended in a silent explosion of color.