|Under the Bridge Trout|
The hot muggy air got me interested in some summer fishing. After a late afternoon nap, required due to a combination of August-like doldrums and a day spent working outside, I threw on some shorts and Tevas and went to wet wade a small stream near the house.
The stream was a bit warmer than I expected even though I had optimistically worn sandals. Even though this water is heavily shaded it can't escape the warming effect of eighty plus degree air temperatures. Hopefully the weather will return to something more seasonable soon.
I walked by lots of good water figuring I'd start at a small pool I've fished often and work back to the car.
The catching was regular in that way you like it to be. I started with a large Parachute Adams with a Caddis dropper. The Adams was something like an #8 or a #10; much larger than anything I normally tie or cast. I think it's the fly I used up in Alaska last September to catch Grayling. This one should be on the shelf in the fly box of "special" flies but right now it has a purpose.
The first trout, a thick Brown that had signs of this year's stocking, came to the Adams on a far seam. He swirled once and missed and came right back and nailed it. Compared to the wild fish in the stream he had weight and spunk; likely a migrant from downstream.
|There must be trout in there. That yellow rope is now in my trash can.|
There's a thin riffle and then a slow pool with a shallow bend. Mountain Laurel and various shrubs overhang the far bank and that's where the fish rise. I spooked the first one I cast to but the second took the caddis dropper readily. There was one fish rising in a particularly tough spot but I had no cast that could entice him.
|Fooled by the Caddis|
But I'd heard it's fishy, so I gave it a shot.
|A place where trout live.|
It was a satisfying hour or two. Enough trout on the top to make the stalk exciting. I was wet. I was muddy from crawling along the banks. I had a bag full of streamside trash I had collected. And the net was slimy with trout.
I had to walk by a few holes that I frequent on the way back to the car. Sure they tempted me, but for now I was good.
At home I put the Adams, tattered and unraveling, in the box on the shelf with the other memories. The special memories of Grayling on the tundra had been further sweetened by Brown Trout in a suburban stream.
|Funky, Big Fungus|
This was my Memorial Day weekend fishing. By Monday night I had been laid low by illness. Fortunately I was well enough by Saturday to drive up to the Housatonic. Look for that report in the next day or two.