Parker's Top 50 Favorite Things About Northwest Rivers

"I Have Decided' by Mary Oliver

I have decided to find myself a home

in the mountains, somewhere high up

where one learns to live peacefully in

the cold and the silence. It's said that

in such a place certain revelations may

be discovered. That what the spirit

reaches for may be eventually felt, if not

exactly understood. Slowly, no doubt. I'm

not talking about a vacation.

Of course at the same time I mean to

stay exactly where I am.

Are you following me?

"I Have Decided" by Mary Oliver, from A Thousand Mornings, 2012. 

Rocky Ford Creek Report: What I Was Missing

Maintaining the semi-nomadic tradition, I hit the road again for Rocky Ford Creek.

It's another bright and mild February day. I carry my jacket to the river bank but will fish in shirtsleeves again. I'm in a rare mood: I feel like fishing nymphs under an indicator.

Fish are much in evidence, some right at my feet. I give in to temptation once and dangle a nymph in front of them. I know what will happen because it's happened before. It happens. They ignore the fly, the shadows, the line, me. I'm invisible.

I cast to mid-channel and take pleasure in long, slow drifts. I change nymphs now and then. I even try a #20 Trico spinner, and a #20 emerger. I get a nice pull on a pheasant tail nymph, but then lose the fly in the cattails. I have smaller PT's but the fish don't seem to want them.Out of nowhere I think of bloodworms. I have a simple long-shanked nymph of red floss. I send it out. It gets a bump or two. I let it drift.

Suddenly the indicator bloops out of sight. I come up on a good fish--no, an exceptional fish, strong and heavy. It simply refuses to give in to the pressure of the rod. It churns the creek into a muddy froth. It takes several minutes to get into the net, and keep it there. It's another two-handed fish; two hands barely span its girth. I quickly take a few photos and release it. It takes a few minutes to revive and swim away.

That's what I was missing. I feel complete again. I continue to fish as the lowering sun bronzes the landscape. I wouldn't mind another big fish, but do I really need one? No. I am fully satisfied.

The sun dips behind the ridge and the breeze quickly grows chilly. I put on my jacket and take off the indicator. I tie on a stimulator.

As dusk settles in I cast and strip. The exercise feels good. I get some good follows and close calls. Then I hook a little guy.

That's a nice period on the story of the day, a story of a big, beautiful trout that will swim in my memory for a long time to come.

Pre-Spring

This Is Fly 50

A milestone for one of the best. Find it HERE.

"Valentine" by Carol Ann Duffy

Painting by Youquing Wang

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.

"Valentine" by Carol Ann Duffy, from Mean Time. © Anvil Press, 2004. 

Rocky Ford Creek Report: Lucky

What better day to try my luck again than Friday the Thirteenth.

Along the path through the cattails, another sign of Spring: a turtle has risen from the hibernal mud.

It's a breezy, sunny afternoon. I will soon remove my jacket and fish in shirtsleeves for the rest of the day.

I turn around and find another turtle basking in the sun. I know how it feels.

Fishing is slow. I spend most of the time with small flies: griffith's gnats, nymphs. Then there's a mayfly hatch, not heavy but steady. They look like Tricos.

I tie on a Trico dun and get some attention. Spunky fish, but small.

The Tricos go away. I try a few different flies, all dries, but nothing comes up for them. Later, as feeding activity increases, I go to a big muddler.

I find a good fish. It whacks the muddler as soon as it hits the water. I have it for a minute or two. Then it comes off. It leaves only ripples.

After awhile I find another good fish. It grabs the muddler on a fast strip. I work it carefully; I won't lose this one. Then it comes off, too. More ripples.

I try a griffith's gnat again. It seems like the logical solution. I make my argument with cast after cast, drift after drift. But the fish aren't buying it.

So I go to a small stimulator. I'm stripping it in slowly when a head comes up and engulfs it. For a moment I think this it: finally a big fish. But it's another small fish.

I cast and strip the stimulator for a while longer. I'm amazed to hear a solitary frog on the far bank. It croaks hoarsely for a short time, then goes silent.

Time to go. The day didn't go exactly as I hoped, but the more I think it over the luckier I feel. 

Fly Tying: Thanks Again, George

George Griffith, one of the founders of Trout Unlimited, and the originator of the Griffith's Gnat.

Time to once again bow to the hatch and unleash his brainchild on those slow-moving pods of sipping Rocky Ford Creek Rainbows. It has done the trick before....

"A Year in Idaho" from Wander Media

Superb.

"Half Moon in a High Wind" by Carl Sandburg

"The Moon -- Together" by Crystal Liu

Money is nothing now, even if I had it,

O mooney moon, yellow half moon,

Up over the green pines and gray elms,

Up in the new blue.

Streel, streel,

White lacey mist sheets of cloud,

Streel in the blowing of the wind,

Streel over the blue-and-moon sky,

Yellow gold half moon. It is light

On the snow; it is dark on the snow,

Streel, O lacey thin sheets, up in the new blue.

Come down, stay there, move on.

I want you, I don't, keep all.

There is no song to your singing.

I am hit deep, you drive far,

O mooney yellow half moon,

Steady, steady; or will you tip over?

Or will the wind and the streeling

thin sheets only pass and move on

And leave you alone and lovely?

I want you, I don't, come down,

Stay there, move on.

Money is nothing now, even if I had it.

Rocky Ford Creek Report: Food for Thought

It was sunny and mild. I wore only two layers and was comfortable. I gravitated back to my favorite spot and settled in.

I cast one of the nymphs I tied the night before and began a slow retrieve. Almost immediately I had a hard grab just ten feet from the bank. I set, the fly came undone, and the momentum of the fish brought its head and shoulders out of the water. It sank out of sight. That was a good beginning.

I went back in. A few casts later there was another hard grab, and this time a hookup. I would show you a picture of it except that it was a smaller fish and I attempted to land it without the net. I had it in my hand for a couple of seconds, and then it flipped out of my grip, off the hook, and into the water.

It left me the fly and a scud it had recently consumed. Looking at them side by side, and remembering that hard take, I thought I had discovered the secret formula and the combination to the safe all in one. I went back to work with great expectations.

That, however, was that. I fished the nymphs rigorously for awhile with no further action. So I began to try the other flies I had tied the night before--unsuccessfully. As is so often the case, the slower the fishing the more absorbing it is. Before I knew it the afternoon light was slipping away.

I now put my hope on the evening feed. In past trips, once the sun is off the water and the light is waning, feeding activity has increased, and I have found fish willing to throw caution to the wind and slash at big stimulators or muddlers.

The feeding activity did increase. Fish were moving and waking and rising, and I got bumps and follows on a couple of different stimulators. But that one jacked up fish that slams the big fly never showed up.

So I went small. There had been a good hatch of midges all afternoon, and come evening I saw for the first time this year small pods of fish moving and rising together. But they were calm and methodical; no sign of a frenzy. And they ignored my flies. Even when I went even smaller on a lighter tippet.

Dusk settled over the water. I finally tied on that green-bodied nymph again, thinking that maybe I could end the day the way it began. I thought it was a good concept, but the fish didn't go for it.

So I started for the truck with Venus setting in the west and Jupiter rising in the east. I was remembering the one fish I caught, and feeling grateful.

But as I packed up I was also wondering why I caught it. Why then? Why that one and no others?

All the way home I was processing those questions, and more. It's what a slow day gives you: food for thought.

It will always be like that: when the fish won't eat we end up with plenty to chew on.