It's Hard To Fish When...

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...your stupid dog is drowning.
I was ready to hike down to the river. I had gotten work out of the way and had been looking forward to a stretch of time this afternoon for uninterrupted fishing.
Lidia, home sick, was supposed to keep Rocky in the house until I was out of sight. (Koko is sick too, and wasn't going anywhere.) Lidia hates to have the dogs in the house. I had barely gotten a good start when the door opened and Rocky flew out, saw me, and ran right over like he was invited. So, against my better judgment, I let him come.
Things were fine--at first. He had a great time playing with the water and exploring the shoreline. Lord of his domain...
I let him mess around and got ready to fish.
Then, when he seemed to be under control, and to have figured out the obvious boundary issues, I waded out into the current. It would have been great if he had stayed right there and waited loyally for his Master to return.
But no, he wanted to go. He'd wade in, feel the current, and wade out. Then wade back in, wade out.... Then he got in too deep--me trying to fish all this time--and got swept a ways downstream. I was encouraged to see that he turned and paddled toward shore; but I was dismayed to see him, when he came to my line in the water, pick it up in his teeth and drag it to shore with him.
When we got that sorted out I was hoping he'd learned some kind of lesson and would let me fish some more. I actually got a series of casts in and gradually worked my way under the bridge.
Then I heard a big splash and Rocky was in the water. I was amazed to see him start swimming purposefully for the opposite shore. Got to give him points for ambition. He actually made it two-thirds of the way across.
Then, unaware that he was acting out an old joke, he decided he couldn't make it and turned around to swim back.
I was already reeling in my line and wading toward him as fast as I could on the slick rocks when he got into some trouble. The current there is fast, and the river is deeper than he is, and I think he sensed he was in trouble and instinctively--I guess--turned and began swimming into the current.
So there he was, paddling for all he was worth and staying in one spot. So I began calling and encouraging and he turned toward me, quartering on the current, and made it to a shallow area where his feet could touch.
Good dog! But did he stay there until I could get to him? Nah. He tried to get to shore which put him right into the strongest and deepest part of the run.
Here he is going down for the second time. I wouldn't have taken time for a quick shot if it was the third.
I managed to reach him and drag him to shore. He promptly shook himself and took off up the bank to explore some more. Now my concern was that he'd stay away from the river and wander up to the very busy highway that runs across that bridge.
So...I aborted the mission and took him home.

Breaking In

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The boys and I drove over Sherman Pass to Spokane today. Orthodontist appointments. Jeremiah got a new spinning rod and reel combo while we were there, and then got an urgent need to fish today.

Of the boys, Jeremiah has more of the fishing fire. Isaiah held off on a rod and reel, figuring he'd wait and maybe negotiate using that money for something else. But Jeremiah stood there in the store with the rod in his hand and got that compelling need to try it out now.

I understand that. So this evening as we were making our way back up toward the pass we stopped to break in the new combo.

We were also probably breaking in on a closed season, but it seemed important....

This is Sherman Creek, a beautiful little stream that runs down the mountain right along the road. I have often driven past it and thought of stopping to explore it.

It was early for the trout--who knows, maybe there aren't any up that high this time of year--and Jeremiah produced a few amazing bird's nests of the line. I don't know how he does it: one flick of the wrist and eight feet of line is irretrievably tangled.

But he also got some real nice swings with a little Rooster Tail.

Right here he just let the Rooster Tail hang in the current, the spinner blade flashing in the sun. A thing of beauty, and an image that I think will stay in his mind's eye, feeding that fire.

Considering how short the time was, he hit about every possible run within reach. And he managed to keep his shoes relatively dry.

It was a short stop, but it was enough--for now. Jeremiah, too, is now broken in for the coming season. I hope to spend lots of time with him as we both experience the breakdowns and the breakthroughs ahead.

Monday Fishing Report: I Get Some Bites

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I hiked back down the hill to the river again. Beautiful day, 64 degrees when I left home.
I haven't worn my own trail to the river bank yet, but I find that deer trails such as this one get me there eventually.
I worked the bridge run well. I worked it twice, in fact, with different flies.

I also waded in on this side of the bridge, something I used to do. Some might say it's superstition that made me want to duplicate actions that produced fish in the past. I'd say it's just playing the odds. It's probably both.

Whatever. It didn't work.

So I headed upstream to the glide. You can see how low the river is right now. I've caught trout in the past right over those rocks now high and dry.

I also worked the glide real well, and got some Whitefish bumps, and some Smallmouth bumps. The whiteys nibble; the smallies attack. I got the notice of the smallies with a stonefly nymph that I was fishing on a sink tip, as deep as I could get it.

That was encouraging, actually. It kept me on my toes. Which were cold. It is still March, and when the sun goes behind the ridge it gets chilly.

So what about the bites I got? Well, I heard an insect droning around my ear. I figured it was another of the BWO's flying around.

Then it bit me.

Couldn't be, but it was.

I got a few more bites before the day was over. Doesn't seem right to get mosquito bites in March while shivering in a river.

Saturday Fishing Report: Whitefish Afternoon

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I hiked down to the river again. It was a gorgeous afternoon, but a bit cooler than recent days. I ranged farther upstream and spent a lot of time in water up to my waist trying to get a little closer to the far bank on several runs and that big glide. By the time I got home at about dark I was chilled to the core and spent the evening sitting next to the fire instead of posting this report.
Whitefish were much in evidence, and I hooked one a little bigger than the other night. I kept looking for Steelhead, and then I worked my way all the way back downstream as daylight waned hoping to pick up a Trout or a Smallmouth that might have been out working the midges or the Blue Winged Olives. But it was a Whitefish afternoon.

Still, I got some nice shots along the way. The temp is in the high fifties today and tomorrow calls for possibly breaking 60 degrees again. I hope to be out again then.

The Devolution of a Fly

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We have HDTV now, something I recognize as the wave of the future but probably could have survived without. But, it's simply amazing. I think of my Dad and my Father-in-Law, for whom getting the perfect picture on the TV was a constant quest. They worked the various knobs and controls like NASA engineers until clarity and color were just right, then jealously guarded the set to prevent anyone else from messing it up.
Come to think of it, I did that, too.
Now, you turn it on and the picture is perfect.
Yes, I like the sports and movies in HD, but what really got me to sit up and take notice was a flyfishing show. It was set on the Nipigon River where they were casting for lunker Brookies, and it was, well, like you were there. Every ripple, every drop of water, every sunlit leaf, every shimmering fish in perfect detail. It was beautiful. So I've started watching those shows again.
I recently saw one set on the Columbia River in B.C. They were fishing for--and catching--big Rainbows and they showed us the fly they were using, something they called the "Carpet Caddis" because its principal material was antron yarn. Like they make carpets out of. So I got inspired.

Their fly is a #14 and is intended, so it seems, to float. It's tied sparse. But I was thinking of flies I could swing, too, or troll behind the canoe when a local lake opens on April 1. A fly that would catch smaller fish but could also handle larger fish. A fly for rivers, but also for the infinite variety of conditions that I will encounter at my favorite lake this upcoming season.
All that may be a recipe for disaster. You can be the judge.
I tied these on a #12 streamer hook. I started this first one with a beadhead and when I came to the hackle it didn't look right. So I made a thorax of black krystal flash instead. I think that might work.
This second one I was intending hackle all the way, but then decided to try a soft hackle style. The first feather I came to in my drawer was a pheasant feather, beautifully shaded but way too long. I didn't let that stop me.
Finally, I tied it up according to the recipe, more or less, though the brown hackle is still a little too long. But, again, I think this one will be used primarily subsurface.
I'm not saying these are great flies, or that they're tied particularly well. But they're representative of the stream-of-conciousness approach that I find interesting and enjoyable in fly tying.
As always, I'm eager to give them a try in the water. There's only one judge whose opinion really matters: the fish.

Friday Fishing Report: Back In the Zone

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I walked down the hill to the river again. Today I had more time, and worked the bridge run with great care and thoroughness.

I didn't find Steelhead, but I found this beautiful, strong little trout. Good to have a fish on the line.

The trout usually hang right along the bank and hit the fly just as it begins to pick up speed on the swing. This one hit my stonefly nymph, missed, followed, and hit it again.

I moved upstream to the glide and worked it just as thoroughly. No Steelhead, but this sundog appeared as the sun dipped behind the ridge.

With some extra time I wandered farther upstream to a place I have used as an access point in years past. It's wide and shallow here for the most part, but there's a deeper run close to the bank to the left of this picture.

As I waded out toward the run I saw a pod of fish taking midges off the surface in mid-river. I angled over and swung my stonefly nymph through them, but they weren't interested in that. So I succumbed to temptation and tied on a little dry.

It was a #16 Bivisible that I had tied up on a whim some time ago and put in a little flybox along with some Steelhead flies I had tied at the same time. I had also fished it to some mysterious rises on my last day on the river in Oregon--unsuccessfully--so it was on my flypatch complete with a tippet.

I got a take on my second float but lost the fish. On my fourth float--a long float with me feeding line, feeding line--this whitefish came up and took the fly. I was hoping it might be a pod of trout but I figured whitefish was the better bet.

These aren't my favorite fish, but I have to say this is as pretty a fish picture as I have ever taken.

With evening beginning to settle in I tied on my lucky Girdle Bug and worked the run for Steelhead. It was getting chilly, and I had been in the water almost four hours straight, so I was shivering when I came to the place I hoped to wade out. It's where the run begins to tail out. In past summers it was waist-deep, but today it was somewhat lower. I made it out without incident, but I noticed again how big and jumbled the cobbles are there. That makes the wading dicey anytime, but it's especially challenging when you're cold.

So, no Steelhead today, but I caught fish. That's good.

Another good thing is that I was able to get into the zone today. The zone is when you find yourself fully focussed on the fishing: the rhythm of reading the water, wading, and casting; reading--wading--casting.... You know you're in the zone when, even though you're cold and tired and it's getting dark, you agonize over which cast will be the last one--because you know there could be a Steelhead waiting right there behind that little boil and swirl that your very next cast will reach....
But once you quit, it feels good. I climbed the bank through the trees and headed for home across the fields.

Tuesday Fishing Report: Breaking Trail

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We've broken the 60 degree barrier the past couple of days, and my flu/cold is mostly gone. I should have been on the water yesterday, but finally made it this afternoon.

I decided to walk it today. The river is close enough that lastnight I could faintly hear the run under the bridge.

It's the first time I've made the walk, if you don't count the time the truck wouldn't start and I had to hoof it home. That was along the highway in the dark, and this was across the fields, a more direct route. As hikes go it's a hop, skip and a jump, nothing at all like the hike to Bonefish Flats from Last Chance on the Henry's Fork, for example.

When I got there I found that the water was even lower. That may be why I could hear it lastnight, as the riffles get more riffley. It's a sign of things to come, I'm afraid. I just heard that the snowpack across the state was 20 per cent below normal this winter, which means a dry summer, more drawdowns, and low lakes and rivers as the water is managed for irrigation.

Yes, I hate these gimmick shots, too--except when I take them.

This was the flavor of the day today, some kind of egg-eating leech. I tied it up on a nice 3X hook that used to be a rabbit strip streamer until the dogs got hold of it and killed it. I was hoping a Steelhead or two might want to chew on it this time.

I spent time at my usual haunts, starting with the run under the bridge.

A man came by on a walk with his dog. He lives somewhere around there, and I've seen him before and talked to him. Usually he's all bundled up this time of the year. Today he was in a T shirt.

I moved down to the long glide. On the way I got a call on my cell phone. I usually don't have my cell phone when I'm on the water. It's an attempt to get away from it all, and there's no service at the lake anyway, which may be a new measure of the desirability of a fishery. But today I had it, since I was practically at home, and I suppose it was a good thing. Isaiah needed a ride to basketball practice and Kim would be working late. It would be nice to learn these things before I'm on the water, but there you go. It still gave me about an hour to work the glide.

The midges were hatching by the billions all day, and this stretch was covered with them. A few fish were taking them off the top and I was tempted to tie on a tiny dry and have some fun, but I stayed on task and swung deep for Steelhead.

I came to the end of the glide without a bump, and there was nowhere left to go but home.

So I made my way downstream, waded out...

And hiked up the hill back to the old homestead.

I'll leave the truck at home again soon. I'd like to get the boys to go with me sometime. Statistics tell us that fewer young people are spending time outdoors today than in any previous generation. I'd like to turn the boys on to hiking down to the river with some friends on a hot summer afternoon with some spinning rods and a few Roostertails--or worms. I bet once they get a taste of that they'll spend much more time outdoors.

There are deer trails crisscrossing that field now. Maybe this summer there will be a trail from our house right down to the river.