Trout Lake Report: October Beauty

Just three weeks from today the season closes. Where did the time go? Meanwhile, October beauty blossoms all around...

Happy Birthday, John

Yes, John and the boys were important to me.

I was fifteen when they invaded America and my teen angst.

I was nineteen, in college, and stoned a lot when the White Album came out.

I too was a dreamer, and I too wanted the world to give peace a chance. And I've discovered, as John did, that the most important things we do are considered a waste of time by somebody.

Happy birthday, John. I still enjoy wasting time with you.

Trout Lake Report: Much Obliged

I was in the mood for some catching, so I found my way to the lake this evening. It was cool and breezy, but the fish obliged me.

Several were willing to hit a natural muddler on top, and later many more came to the black muddler with a gold tinsel body and marabou tail as I towed it behind me.

Still looking for the big boys, but many of the ones I caught were of decent size and fought hard. Much obliged, fish.

River Report: That's Why There's a Next Time

I went down to the local river this evening to see what's what. There's another tree down, a delayed effect of the high water.

The big tree that was lodged against the bridge pylon at the Bridge Run has shifted downstream a ways. I also noticed that the bank on the other side of the tree has disappeared. That's a good five foot shelf of bank all along there that has been washed away. That changes my former fishing routine. I used to be able to fish down to where the tree is now and wade out of the backwater onto that bank. The backwater was up to my chest then, even in low water. I don't know what it is now; the current around that tree has created a deep channel that I decided not to test. So this time I had to wade back.

I did fish that channel, getting as close to the tree as I could on the swing. Nothing this time.

The river is full of salmon. Every gravel bar and riffle looks like this. I prospected behind the salmon hoping for a Steelhead or two hoping for some fresh salmon eggs. Again, nothing this time.

There were lots of Caddis, and a good number of tiny BWO's (22's, maybe 24's). This one was facing the wrong way, but here's a good view of why quill-bodied flies are excellent imitations.

I waded across--taking a knee and shipping some river down my waders just a step before I reached shallow water on the other side. How do these things happen?

I fished the Glide, also full of salmon at the downstream end. Nothing this time.

So nothing this time--except a gorgeous river full of life on a gorgeous day. As for the lack of fish caught this time--well, that's why there's a next time.

Steelhead Treats

I thought the Steelhead might like to see something different this year, so I sat down at the vise for awhile.

I never know quite what I'm going to do when I sit down, although around here I've had the most success on more naturalistic flies, especially stonefly nymph-based patterns. So I knew I'd do something like that. Black also seems to work well, so I had this one more or less in mind.

Then I found some funky orange yarn way back in a drawer. Think October Caddis.

Can't wait to throw them out there.

Youth Sports Post: They Can Hold Their Heads High

Jeremiah had his game with one of our top rivals. He was right; we lost. The other team scored fifty points. But our team never gave up and scored two touchdowns. Jeremiah made some good runs and picked up a critical first down on one of their scoring drives. His best friend Adrian, on the left, scored both touchdowns on long pass receptions.

They can hold their heads high.

Home Again

Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You can't go home again." Well, today I took the turtle home.

Jeremiah found him, just a hatchling, on one of our fishing trips last June, and we brought him home in half a pop bottle. We tentatively named him "Fi'ty Cent" because he was about the size of a fifty-cent piece, but we usually just called him "The Turtle." As in, "Have you fed The Turtle today?"

He's had a few adventures, as on the day he was set out on the deck in his pan to sun and he got out, took a dive off the deck--a good ten feet--and wandered around until I found him hours later under a bush, hot and dusty.

Now he's as big as a silver dollar, and old enough to take care of himself. So today I took him back to the lake of his birth and set him free right where we had found him. My hope is that instinct will tell him what to do, and that soon he will burrow into the mud and hibernate the winter away, emerging next Spring to the beginning of a long, happy life. I'm sure we'll look for him then, and that from now on, whenever we see a turtle at that lake we'll ask, "Do you think that's our turtle?"

He looked around for awhile, then toddled into the water, took one look back at me and went on his way.

Robert Frost wrote, "Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in." I think the lake will do that. Welcome home, Turtle.

Youth Sports Post: Isaiah Practices; Jeremiah Ready

Isaiah's knee has rapidly improved. He went to the Doctor right after school on Wednesday and was cleared to practice. He could hardly wait to get on the field. He still had to take it easy, and was disappointed that he couldn't run game drills, but the Doctor still wants to do an MRI before she gives him a clean bill of health. But he certainly savored the chance to pad up again.

Meanwhile, Jeremiah is ready for his Eighth Grade game on Thursday. His team fought to a hard won tie last week. This week they play one of their top rivals, and Jeremiah is pretty sure they're going to lose. I keep telling him if they play like they did last week they have a good chance. Here is one of Jeremiah's hits from that game. He comes streaking in from the left to finish off the opposing quarterback for a loss.

Just do it like that, J... 

Gierach Alert

Some nice pics of John Gierach on The Caddis Fly.

"I Will Fight No More Forever."

From The Writer's Almanac:

On this date in 1877, Chief Joseph surrendered to the United States Cavalry. He was the leader of a band of Nez Perce Indians in the Wallowa Valley in northeastern Oregon, and they had been ordered by the United States government to move to a small reservation in Idaho. Joseph resisted, and for a time it seemed he'd been successful, since the government issued a federal order to remove white settlers from the Nez Perce lands, in support of their original treaty. Four years later, the government reversed its decision and backed up the reversal with the threat of a cavalry attack. Joseph wasn't a war chief, and he believed there was no point in resisting in any case; he reluctantly set out with about 700 followers — fewer than 200 of them warriors — for the Idaho reservation. A band of young men retaliated against the orders by attacking a white settlement, killing several people, and Joseph and his band were forced to flee from the pursuing Army. Though the warriors were outnumbered 10 to one by U.S. soldiers, they defended themselves during several battles for three months and over a thousand miles, through Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Montana. Joseph tried to lead them to Canada, but they were finally trapped in the Bears Paw Mountains of Montana, only 40 miles from the border. They fought the Army for five days, but eventually Joseph surrendered.

He was known to be an eloquent speaker, and an Army lieutenant on the scene reportedly transcribed his surrender address. In it, Joseph said: "I am tired of fighting. [...] It is cold, and we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no blankets, no food. No one knows where they are — perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my chiefs! I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever." 

"Our Lives Pass Away," by David Budbill

Summer sunlight

glitters on the water.

Sweet colors of fall
drift down and land
on my new woodpile.

Winter is full of snow
and cold, but inside
the woodstove glows.

Then spring again
Our lives pass away.

"Our Lives Pass Away" by David Budbill, from Happy Life. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

April Says No

Please take a look at April Vokey's blog, flygal. You can't say "no" more eloquently than she does in her recent posts.

And join her in opposing yet another threat to the things we hold dear, and to the planet that nurtures us.

Joe Riis Photo

An Embarrassment of Riches

The upper Columbia and tribs, including my local river and the Methow, opened for Steelhead last Wednesday. On the tribs it's "selective gear" only, which means no bait. There is a mandatory retention rule in effect for hatchery fish, with a limit of two per day.

2010

Time to hit the river. This is the time of year when I have to deal with a very nice conundrum to have: how to budget my fishing time so as to get some time on the river but also not neglect the lake, closing at the end of this month. This year I also have a yen to get back to Chopaka before it's closed. Funny how that lake stays in the back of your mind; maybe it's the sense of isolation up there; maybe it's the image of those fish rising in the early evening calm.

 2010

I'll probably get on the river a couple of times, but spend most of my fishing time at the lake(s). The river--and the Methow; I want to get to the Methow--will still be open in November and beyond, while the lakes won't. Still, it's great to be in the river on these warmish October days and evenings when the leaves are gold and the fish are fresh.

Ahhh, 2010

Don't feel sorry for me; I'll work it out.

October flymage

The new issue of flymage is out. Well worth a look.

Trout Lake Report: Uh Oh

Like life itself, fishing is just one thing after another. How well one can adjust to the unexpected makes all the difference. The nice thing about fishing is that it isn't life and death, so the only thing at stake is your own sense of accomplishment or pleasure.

I went to the lake this afternoon instead of vegging out in front of the array of baseball and football games available today. It was a good choice. October has already begun to paint the sky and the landscape in darkly beautiful autumnal tones. The world was hushed and peaceful.

Until I came through the channel and started down the shoreline across from the campground. Some nice folks were having a party--a loud party. Trucks were coming and going, people were laughing and shouting, and under it all a generator was roaring away. Uh oh.

I just kept going and put a little distance between me and them. Along the way I was catching some fish lured up to the surface by the wake of the Bomber. Most were of the smallish variety, but this one was a fine specimen of an Autumn Rainbow.

Halfway down the shoreline (I could still hear that generator) I caught another fish. When I flexed the bamboo rod to pull the fly line out of the tip top guide I heard a crack. Uh oh. The tip had snapped off just at the ferrule. Now I have a bamboo rod with one tip. But you know, I'm glad it was a Montague and not a Paine or some other astronomically expensive cane rod.

I paddled back to the truck and decided not to risk the remaining bamboo tip just yet. So I went with my other antique rod, a thirty-year-old Cabelas. It seemed positively, well, modern compared to the bamboo. It was so light I thought it might just fly away in the breeze.

This time I went the opposite direction through the channel and out into the south end of the lake. Soon the sound of the generator was just a memory. The breeze was dying and feathery white midges were wafting off the surface, and the trout were on them. I caught one more small fish on the Bomber, then tied on a House of Harrop emerger, a souvenir of my Henry's Fork trips. It worked just fine. Rene would have been proud.

I caught a nice handful of fish, mostly small, and then, as dusk settled down, a fish broke me off. Uh oh. I liked that souvenir. But I have more, and it makes no sense to never use them. Fishing, like life, is risk. And this risk had paid off with some lively fishing.

The rises had thinned out somewhat, but there were still some hungry fish grabbing things off the surface. I  was some distance from the truck, so I thought I'd take my chances with something big again and tow it behind me as I made my way back. I went with a big brown version of the Bomber that I just tied up last week.

Halfway back something grabbed it. I may have been lax, letting my attention wander, expecting that any hit would be another small fish. I raised the rod and whatever it was went instantly bye bye, taking the fly and the tippet with it. Uh oh. It took a long time to stack all that deer hair. Then again, I've learned something from this experience.

I thought I deserved another chance, so I tied on the black deer hair Muddler that served me so well at Chopaka, turned around and began a big loop of the upper south end. By the time it was dark, and the crescent moon was glowing through the cloud cover, and the frogs were singing their October song, I had caught four more fish, two of them of respectable size.

That was enough; I reeled in and paddled back to the truck with a great sense of accomplishment and pleasure.