Trout Lake Report: For Old Times' Sake

There's a little excitement early in the afternoon. An old shop across the river burns down. It's already a hot day--the town time and temperature sign is registering 107--so this is redundant. You once again admire the volunteer fire fighters who battle the blaze in this heat.

You wait until late afternoon to go to the lake. You hope it will be hot there.

With the lackluster showing of the fish on the last trip, you decide to launch at the far north end and see how the drake hatch is doing there. This is where you first saw drakes this year, sending you hurrying to the drake grounds on the far side of the lake. And it has been very good here, too, some years.

You want to check out the inlet first. You kick across throwing a muddler--nothing--and tie on a damselator when you get there. The damsels are a blue cloud over the lake.

Nothing at the inlet. You move down the shoreline casting into the lowering sun. It's hot. But not in the way you were hoping. And the damselator isn't working. It would help if you could find a fish making a meal of those dainty blue morsels.

Time to kick back across to look for drakes.

You peer over to the drake grounds in the distance, where you've been spending all your time recently. You wonder what you might be missing.

You troll across. Nothing. When you get to the other side you work down the shoreline with a drake dry. You don't see a single brown drake. And you see only one fish.

So you kick back over to see what's happening on the inlet side again. You tie on a drake muddler. You find some fish working under this tree.

You catch one, and then proceed to hook and lose three in a row. Things aren't going so well.

Time to kick back to the other side again to see whether any drakes might show at dusk. You troll again. Nothing.

The sun goes behind the ridge and shadows begin to descend over the shoreline.

You work all the way down again with a drake dry and still don't see a single drake.

You get a couple of bumps from little fish, and then finally get a good hit by a rainbow who must still remember the taste of drakes from when they were still hatching here. A take for old times' sake.

You mess around until dark enjoying the cool of the evening. You missed the hatch here this time, but you've been remembering good fish taken from this stretch in years past.

You decide the trip was worth it, just for old times' sake.

Trout Lake Report: Makes Your Day

You get back as soon as you can. The afternoon is warm and calm. You want to see if the drake hatch is still going strong.

You kick down the shoreline again. Two rainbows come to the muddler.

The drakes are beginning to arrive right on time, but the fish are late.

You search up and down the shoreline, but you can't find any fish in the usual spots.

The hatch comes off nicely.

But the fish never show up. You manage to catch the one fish that didn't get the memo.

You start back throwing a muddler. You decide the hatch isn't over, but you can't decide why the fish were acting like it was. You'll just have to come back and see what happens the next time.

Just before the light goes you get a good hit. It's a scrappy brown.

Makes your day.

Stormscapes

Summer Haze

The Glory Map

Another fine riff from Jazz & Fly Fishing.

The Glory Map from Jazz & Fly Fishing on Vimeo.

Eat, Sleep, Fish No. 42

And Read... Get it HERE.

Trout Lake Report: The Healing Has Begun

It rains all night after the beat down by the big fish, and it rains off and on the next day. You come in under the clouds in late afternoon.

The world is glittering and fragrant.

You launch at an abandoned campsite closer to the drakes.

You tied up a fresh drake muddler in an attempt at a fresh start.

Down the shoreline to the drake grounds.

You plumb the shallows with the muddler.

A rainbow comes out.

The clouds make borders around the ridges.

You fish the reed lines with a drake dry. You bear the sad memories.

 The drakes are spotty, but there's a fish in there.

The rain comes back.

You find another small rainbow, but the drakes stay low and slow.

You stick it out and stick one more fish.

The rain stops, and you do, too. Slow evening. You think you'd rather hook a big one and lose it than not hook one at all.

The healing has begun.

"The rented lakes of my childhood" by Marge Piercy

I remember the lakes of my Michigan

childhood. Here they are called ponds.

Lakes belonged to summer, two-week

vacations that my father was granted by

Westinghouse when we rented some cabin.

Never mind the dishes with spiderweb

cracks, the crooked aluminum sauce

pans, the crusted black frying pans.

Never mind the mattresses shaped

like the letter V. Old jangling springs.

Moldy bathrooms. Low ceilings

that leaked. The lakes were mysteries

of sand and filmy weeds and minnows

flickering through my fingers. I rowed

into freedom. Alone on the water

that freckled into small ripples,

that raised its hackles in storms,

that lay glassy at twilight reflecting

the sunset then sucking up the dark,

I was unobserved as the quiet doe

coming with her fawns to drink

on the opposite shore. I let the row-

boat drift as the current pleased, lying

faceup like a photographer’s plate

the rising moon turned to a ghost.

And though the voices called me

back to the rented space we shared

I was sure I left my real self there-

a tiny black pupil in the immense

eye of a silver pool of silence.

"The rented lakes of my childhood" by Marge Piercy from Made in Detroit. © Knopf, 2015. 

Trout Lake Report: The Horse

You get there late; the sun is already on the ridge top.

You see the drake muddler is somewhat the worse for wear after being chewed on by those nice browns the other night.

You break off the tinsel and tie it on anyway. Your plan is to throw it along the way to the drake grounds. While still in the channel you find a small brown to start things off. That seems like a good omen.

You make the turn out of the channel into the north lake and head down the shoreline.

You see another fisherman in a raft row out of the channel behind you and begin to follow you. So you kick more and fish less and get to the drake zone before he does. You switch to a drake dry and begin to patrol the reed lines. Just a few drakes are coming off.

There are fish in there, though, mostly little guys already flipping out over the big mayflies.

You get a hard hit and a heavy pull and hope it's a brown, but it's a nice rainbow.

You've popped the cap on some Heavy Horse, and you're hoping to find one.

It starts to sprinkle, and then the heavens open and a steady rain settles in. You fish, and the drakes come in a rush, and more little rainbows flip at the fly, and you catch some.

Then, in the fading light of dusk, you drop the fly next to the reeds and get a no-nonsense take. You come up on a good fish. You horse it in, a fine brown. It looks like the bigger fish have come into the shallows for the feast.

You work and wait as it gets darker. Have you already caught the horse, or is it still out there?

You're watching the fly bobbing on the rain-pocked surface, a tiny white blur against the darkness. In a blink it disappears. Then you see a single ripple reflect the sky's last light. A sipping take. You raise the rod and hook into something heavy.

You know right away: this is the horse. You start to kick away from the shoreline, and carefully strip in line. The fish comes with you. For a ways. Then it has other ideas.

The fish doesn't panic. There is no screaming run. Instead there is a slow turning, and a ponderous, inexorable movement away from you. Tug...tug...tug.... You hold the line until the rod horseshoes, but the fish doesn't notice. It simply keeps on going. You give it as much pressure as you can, over and over, right to the breaking point, and then have to let line out.

You're still kicking out into open water and the fish is still moving like a force of nature, angling back to the shore. The line in your lap is long gone and it's now taking line off the reel. You keep trying but you can't stop it.

Tug...tug...tug...

You're kicking out frantically in a race for more space. You want to catch this fish. Twice before in the years you've fished this lake you've hooked into behemoths like this one, and both times you lost them. Not this time! you wail. Please, not this time!

At the same time you're grinning like a fool. You're having the time of your life. You can't believe what this fish is doing to you, and in spite of yourself you admire him for it.

And then, as though in a dream, you perceive that the point of resistance against which you have been battling for a flash of time and for all eternity is now stationary. Stationary. Not moving. Is it tired? Is it ready to be turned? You heave at it. The point of resistance doesn't budge.

It's almost dark. The rain is running down your neck. You slowly begin to follow the line, keeping the tension on and reeling it in as you go. You reel forever, and the line takes you unfailingly toward the willows at the edge of the reeds. You can't believe it. You vehemently deny any possibility that this fish could have made it that far.

But, five feet out from the willows, you look down into the murky water to where the leader ends in a twisted patch of submerged willow branches. You want to yell. But you're mostly numb with disbelief.

You kick the branches with a flipper, and the fly pops out. You have to smile. It's faint, but it's a smile nonetheless. You don't know how he did it, but at least he gave the fly back.

It seems to be raining harder. You begin to shiver. You kick for home through the night with visions of a great dark fish moving inexorably through your head.

SCALE Fly & Spin Fishing Magazine, No.17

There's a big world of fishing out there. See some of it HERE.

Chi Wulff on Playing God in Yellowstone

Mark McGlothlin has written an excellent post over on Chi Wulff about a thorny fisheries management issue facing Yellowstone National Park. In "Playing God in Yellowstone: Soda Butte Brookies and Hybridized Cutties" he explores the controversy over whether to rotenone 38 miles of Soda Butte Creek to eliminate non-native Brook Trout.

Lessons to be learned apply to any fishery anywhere. Give it a read HERE.