Off Color

Overnight rain had tried to do it's part to foil Saturday fishing but the real impediment to angling was a handful of chores that had to be completed. By early afternoon I was wadered and standing above a bend pool trying to decide if I should fish here or head to a tributary that might be clearer. According to the rocks, the water was down about two inches and while it wasn't muddy I couldn't see bottom; not opaque enough to chase me away but gloomy enough to lower expectations.

Upstream I found the water clearer and fished a dry-dropper rig. I placed a flashy fly on the bottom hoping it would distinguish itself in the gloom. It was the first time I had fished this stretch since winter and the modest run off had moved a few things around. For years the river has been trying to decide whether to carve a new channel from a former braid and it seems settled now that the old channel will remain. That braid has always looked fishy but I've never found anything there.

The bend that has had it's flow restored is well known to locals as a reliable spot. The years of lowered flow sanded up the far bank and I found it the better location to cast into the head of the pool. The dropper quickly brought the first trout of the day to hand. I fished the deeper recesses of the hole hoping for some fatter cousins but they resisted my charms.

Upstream is another big pool but the fast water in between holds fish and the second came in the soft water not far from the start of the run. It's one of those spots where the stream goes straight when it would seem that it should arc away. There's something about that far bank, perhaps a piece of ledge, that resists the water's efforts. So, you get a deep fast run which is a nice way to mix it up from an angling perspective.

The big pool above, where Jonny took a surprisingly big brown a few years ago had been reordered as a large stump guarding the head finally dislodged. I expect things are going to shift significantly once we get another good rain. I should have fished it down with a wet but for some reason I decided to fish up without changing rigs. Perhaps it was laziness. Or maybe hope.

The small tributary was clear and I wandered upstream when I got to it's mouth. I fished quickly moving from spot to spot making a few casts. I had switched to a dry and hoped that the fish were looking up in the clearer water. By the time I got to the old bridge, perhaps a quarter mile of water, I knew of my delusion and switched to a nymph rig sporting a small pheasant tail beneath a large BH pheasant tail.

Purple. The new black.

There's a spot that I think of as "three fish hole". It's a marvel of hydraulics that holds trout reliably though it looks so nondescript that I only discovered it by accident. On a trip to the stream a few years ago I resolved to fish every bit of the water, fishy or not, to see what I might find. It turns out there were things to discover.

On the first cast I get a brown trout on the smaller PT. A few casts later I get another. The third trout eluded me though it didn't stop me from casting in the water long after I should have expected results. I fished the pockets above with no luck though it was all just prelude to the next fishy spot.

At the bend I cast the nymph rig to the foot of the hole but my eye was on an overhanging branch that provided a sheltered spot near a root ball. There was no way the nymph rig was getting in there without making a hell of a racket so I put on a purple Adams and cast side arm under the brush. I was a bit disappointed by the lack of results. These small stream trout are generally less discerning so anything buggy will usually do. I was worried that my choice of purple had perhaps gone a bit too far from something recognizable as food. But then I flubbed a cast and it landed in the softer near seam. And a brown smacked it.

I suppose I should have discerned that the soft water was the more likely holding spot in the higher flows but that's hindsight talking. Maybe it was just a bit of luck, something that all anglers can use from time to time.

Serendipitous Trout

A disease resistant Elm planted by Trout Unlimited to help shade the bank during future generations

A line of trees planted eight years ago help shade the stream today.

Ent roots.

Cruel

Spring can be cruel. After a long winter of desperation our need to wander in the water can be foiled by her swollen clouds clinging to hillsides dispensing valley filling deluges. We complain about this bounty of water but if she shirks her role we'll be bitching come August. Always the trade offs.

Saturday night rain pounded on the skylight telegraphing the state of rivers come morning. Sure enough, the gage reported Sunday's river at twice normal size and it looked to be getting bigger. The Sunday sky, clear at dawn, by noon was spitting a preamble to the showers we'll see all week....

Read the rest of the story at Hatch Magazine

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I'm going to be writing a story once a week for Hatch Magazine the next month or so. I'll publish links to that story here each week.

Bad math

"Ten, maybe fifteen, pounds of salmonid on three-pounds of floro. That’s bad math."

I wish I was in this math class. Check Mike's report. I bet Marc's knees are still shaking.

And sometimes we fish

While angling never carries the guarantee of catching, winter trout fishing is defined by scarcity. To get out on the river during this season one has to see the alignment of numerous factors coupled with a healthy suspension of disbelief.

Jonny texted me two Fridays ago. The weekend's weather was going to be milder than it had been in a long time which loosely meant I might be able to fish without ice in my beard or guides. Both our calendars were free at noon on Saturday so we made plans for the usual spot.

When you have a fishing buddy you seem to naturally gravitate to familiar water. Every pairing finds its own place. Ross and I fish the Farmington on a wide pool below pocket water that holds some good memories. Kit and I gravitate to the Housy. Sam and I wade wet in a fast run that holds willing smallmouth in July. Jonny and I meet on this one small stream several times a year. It's a place where the hope for a large trout in skinny water is not a hope cast carelessly.

Not the forecast

Jonny was on the water before I arrived and it was difficult not to race to the stream. There's a certain anxiousness when one is late to the water. It could be dismissed as anxiety about good water being fished in one's absence but the reality is more complex. It's a fear of missing the action or some special thing occurring and one being wrapped up in a mundane exercise or dwelling over a leader that needs rebuilding. I suppose it's also the relative scarcity of time on the water. Nothing must be wasted.

As I suited up a hesitant snow that had been falling for an hour got more serious. There was nothing forecast for the afternoon so this was a surprise of New England weather. Jonny was fishing a run that is alive with trout during a spring spinner fall but whose water was too thin and cold to hold in the winter. That said, it was water that one couldn't pass without a cast or two.

A gift from Dave

We fished further down looking for trout holding in deeper cut banks or by spring seeps. We saw no sign of life aside from two anglers coming upstream who spoke of wrestling a large brown and a rainbow to the net. It's certainly possible on this river and they had just come up from one of the places where those fish would be this time of year.

Jonny and I made a pass at a log jam near a bend and though it looked fishy as hell nothing came up to see our offering. The snow hadn't let up and we were both soggy and cold and decided that a bit of a walk would warm us up. We had passed by a deep hole on the way in. It's sure winter holding water but the barometer and thermometer seemed to be subduing the mojo. Worth a shot, regardless.

I took the tail with a deep slot under some brush and Jonny took the head with an eddy on both sides. The near eddy was deepest and it only took a few slow swings of a Wooley Bugger to get some interest. First a rainbow made a swirl. Then a brown. And then a fish on and off in an instant. And then Jonny lost his fly, leader and a couple of feet of fly line to a snag. Clearly a set-back, maybe even a sign. By the time we got back to the car the snow was waning and before waders were shed the sun was peeking from behind scudding gray clouds.

All in

When you haven't landed a fish in some time you are haunted by even the possibility of fish. Especially if you've seen them and been jilted. On Sunday I returned to that water with the intent of fishing the log jam and the eddy pool. I figured going big was best so Wooley Buggers and large Stones got a turn on the leader.

I worked the log jam from up on the riffle making hazardous casts into woody debris. Rachel Finn, an Adirondack fishing guide, once had me making casts into tricky spots by casting my fly against the feature and letting it slide down into the water. It was a technique that worked well, but without Rachel's drill sergeant urgency I don't seem to be able to make casts into piles of fly snatching branches. Sunday was no exception.

I cast to the slower water and swam the fly to the current seam nearest the tangle. I worked the water several times with all the colors of the rainbow. Purple was the only one to get a response -- a fat brown fully cleared the water chasing, and missing, the slowly stripped bugger. After that it seemed the game was up. I swear the damn things talk to each other down there.

I hiked back upstream to the eddy pool enjoying a cigar and the relative warmth of the day. After retrieving two flies I had put in the bushes the previous day, I waded in at the head and swung every bugger in the fly box through the deep, slow water. Nothing doing. As my toes went numb I tied on a large, yellow stonefly nymph and gave it a go under a bobber.

I gave it more casts that was probably reasonable and then gave it a few more. Hope dies hard. It got to the point that I wasn't really fishing the fly anymore so much as soaking it. I let it simmer in the frigid water waiting for a sign and the sign came with a solid twitch of the indicator. The flash of a brilliantly colored rainbow got my pulse going and a brief, sluggish battle had him to hand.

I'm sure the rainbow was not alone in the depths but it seemed like the right time to be moving on. Something had happened that seemed wholly unjustified given the season and to try for more would be gluttony. I'm back inside staring at a thermometer. It only makes brief forays into double digits each day before retreating south. Though anchor ice crowds the river bottom I'm hopeful a brief thaw is not far off. There's a log jam that surely holds trout and I believe that I'm due if only I can get a few more casts past its grasping limbs.

Soak the fly. It pays off.

Scar and The Nose

I fished for stocked trout one night last week. I did pretty well as one with a modicum of skill is wont to do when uninformed, hungry trout mill about in a small steam. It was a stretch of water downtown where the state dumps a couple hundred trout before opening day. There are two good pools where the Opening Day crowd can retrieve those trout and they do so with a vengeance.

I stopped by the deli in town a week or so ago for a sandwich. It was one of those days when working from home became too claustrophobic and I had to get out. I ate my sandwich on a bank overlooking the stocked pool.

Freshly stocked fish have about as much sense as school children dropped unprepared in the middle of the African subcontinent. They do pretty much everything that a trout interested in long term survival should not do. There's far too much racing about, holding over a bottom that perfectly silhouettes^[1] a trout shaped form, or trying to hold in a spot that requires far too much energy to stay in place.^[2]

A couple of days later I returned for lunch and additional trout ogling. I noticed that the trout seemed to be congregated/racing in much the same place. I also noted that the number of fish had not diminished. none had yet landed on the dinner table. Anglers are drawn to the pool above this one and it seems the trout are drawn here.

There were a couple of trout the caught my eye. There was a crop of wild trout, notable for their diminutive size, that held tight to the bank in the shadows and did not try to eat flowers. In the heavier current at the tail of the pool a larger Brown with a scabbed hatchery-tank nose held in water that seemed to require more effort than he likely received in food. I don't think The Nose is long for this world.

Further up the pool was a Brown with a scar below his dorsal fin. Scar sat in front of a large boulder and flicked his tail just enough to stay in its soft cushion. Scar seemed to have a good feel for what was edible and what was not. If I didn't know better, and I didn't, I would think he was a wild fish. Scar got chased out of his prime lie every ten minutes or so by a larger fish but that fish didnt know that he had just boggarted a great thing and moved on. Scar sidled back a minute or so later.

Tonight I went out again to the pool I watched at lunch. Scar and The Nose where right where I had left them. I caught The Nose pretty quickly on an Adams Sparkle Dun. Upstream I marked the rock that Scar had been holding against. I made a couple of casts but Scar was having none of it. I caught a dozen other fish, but not Scar. That's one wily trout, wild or not.

Scar has a pretty sweet lie

Scar. Chilin'

Scar gettin' the brush off. He'll be back soon.

The Nose

The Nose showing off his moves.

Bait

Notes
1 - I spelled silhouettes without using spell check. Impressive.
2 - So as not to embarrass anyone I will not mention by name how many times I saw one particular trout sample forsythia flowers.

Physical Therapy

About a month ago I finally went fishing.

No, that's not right. It was last Saturday.

I've had this sharp pain in my shoulder for the past week. I awoke with it one morning and it's been there ever since. I attribute it to sleeping wrong. It could also be due to the fact that my shoulders seem to be curled up around my ears. Stress does twist the body.

On Saturday I stood in cold, moving water for a few hours. It was surprising how quickly the pain in my shoulder disappeared. I didn't notice its departure, but when I got out to warm my toes and stretch, I found that I could put my arm above my shoulder without the deep, stabbing pain. Perhaps it's coincidence but I'm crediting the healing power of fly angling.

The fishing was about what you'd expect in the dead of winter when there's no hatch and the water temp is just bit north of freezing. Only one bump and that one came to the net. It was a nice sized Brown though it was getting thin. I almost felt guilty tricking it with a pink egg. Almost.

I hadn't fished this spot in a long time. It's a popular pool that gets a lot of attention during dry fly season but is empty when there are no bugs in the air. When I do fish this stretch I usually fish it from the east bank but a tip put me on the west bank at the head of the pool. I'm not sure if one fish proves the tip was valid or perhaps fates smiled upon me. Either way, I got one and was satisfied.

Later I watched my youngest test for Junior Black Belt in Kung Fu. It's the first time I've had the opportunity to see him test in a small group. Usually it's a cattle call for the lower belts but Black Belt they take seriously and so he was up there with two other kids.

He did fine in the test and was awarded the belt. Like most parents, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. Every error or forgotten move, I felt the angst four-fold. I think it may have actually been more stressful to watch the test than take it. By the end my shoulders were back up in "work" position.

It's Tuesday evening and the twitches are returning. The weekend is down the road a bit as are the angling possibilities. More snow is on the way. I'll have to find some other form of therapy to get me through to my next session.

Free

There's something very satisfying about catching & releasing wild trout.

Inexplicably fishy spots

There's this one spot on a small stream by the house that reliably yields trout. In my younger days (okay, last year), I passed by this water as a place between good fishing spots.

With keener more experienced eyes I realized that it's actually quite fishy looking. There's a large boulder near the tail of the pool that has deep water around it. Definitely fishy.

But I never catch fish near that boulder. The fish all come from an area in the middle of the pool that looks shallow. Regardless, I've always enjoyed the bounty of the spot and moved on.

The current comes in equally around the snowy boulder
and exits just to the right of the black boulder at the tail.

I caught one fish from the pool on Sunday and before making another cast decided that I'd creep up on the thing and try to discern its secrets.

As I approached, I saw two trout dart from the middle of the pool to a hiding spot near the head. So much for stealth. I then waded in and discovered that the middle of the pool appears shallow due to a large slab of a rock canted on an angle to the current. Behind it's lip there must be just enough shelter for trout to sit at precisely the spot where two currents intersect. Low energy. Good eating.

Perhaps those trout aren't as dumb as they seem. Though they do reliably suck on a #18 Copper John.

The angle of the ledge is a lot shallower than
illustrated. Just enough for a trout to duck under.

Inexplicable Brown Trout

Longer Days

The light fades too early through the late fall. With a paucity of daylight I dole it out with great attention. I find myself plotting more.

When the solstice arrived Friday I secretly celebrated. The lengthening days, if only by drops, mean the Hendricksons are looking up from the cobble wondering when the combination of light, temperature and whatever else it is they're waiting for will be right. It's not close but it's coming.

Sunday I had to distract my brain and with holiday preparations as complete as they're going to be Ann suggested I go for a walk by a stream and taunt some trout.

It's the season of small flies and slack water. The zebra midge is the fly I tie on most this time of year though I probably should use it more during other seasons. A small Copper John gave weight to my rig.

A small stream by the house is one of my favorites. It's familiar in ways I never expected to know water. I've seen it thin and thick and everywhere in between. I've seen it transform from a stream of  Brookies to one with mostly Browns. I know some of it's secrets.

This stream winds north edging farmer's fields, burrowing under the highway, flowing beyond the bridges at Sandy Hook deep into melancholy.

Our church was empty last night. I know that sounds like a figure of speech but it's not. Christmas Eve at St. John's is a special time. It's a small church and is New England story book perfect. It's usually packed on Christmas Eve. Not last night.

Twenty people struggled to fill a space that'll hold eighty. I suppose that maybe there was too little joy in Sandy Hook to support caroling and the promise of a coming savior. More than anything the ninety minutes echoed the struggle towards normality -- a journey that I thought we had begun but which still seems to be out there somewhere.

Sunday's fishing was restorative. I dove into it with a focus that forced me to shunt aside all the stray thoughts that have occupied me lately and just be in the moment. I fished the likely spots with special attention to soft areas just off the main current. It yielded the desired results, mostly on the midge though a few took the Copper John. Where there was one, there was reliably a few more. Perfect winter fishing.

First

The first fish of the afternoon came in a new secret spot. It's a popular hole that got filled by a fallen tree during a spring storm. The channel is much nearer the bank now but the fishy water is still on it's far side. But through some chance act of geology and hydrology the larger fish hold in the thin near seam; a fact discovered by accident on a errant cast this past spring. Three on, one to the net. Winter's first trout.

I wandered a thin tributary for a few hours picking up trout in the likely spots and making hopeful casts to unlikely water. The trout cooperated in ways I had no right to expect. Perhaps some cosmic balance is possible. At least in the world of trout.

During this season I enjoy hearing David Sedaris' Santaland Diary reading on NPR. It ends as follows:

Tonight, I saw a woman slap and shake her crying child. She yelled: Rachel, get on that man's lap and smile or I'll give you something to cry about. Then she sat Rachel on Santa's lap and I took the picture, which supposedly means on paper, that everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be - that everything is snowy and wonderful.

It's not about the child or Santa or Christmas or anything, but the parents' idea of a world they cannot make work for them.

David has a way of painting amusing, dark pictures about the human condition but this struck me pretty hard when I heard it yesterday evening. In town we're going through the motions of Christmas service and present opening and caroling and family dinners. But life is still too raw to make if feel like anything but wallpaper covering something ugly; wrenching sorrow and an awful, harsh reality.

Sam just stopped by. He's very excited about his Christmas gifts and at thirteen I know he no longer harbors a belief in the magic of Christmas. But I sense that maybe there's still some of that wonder that can only be found in the young.

That's part of the journey we're all on. To find the wonder that we've lost. To restore the wonder that our children have had stolen. To break the cycle of gloom and once again to be able to look at each day as something more than to simply be survived. 

Longer days will help. Life is always more wonderful when the sun is shining. Especially when it's shining on a ribbon of water harboring trout.

After the storm

The storm has passed. It's early still; seems earlier with the power out though the purr of generators, ours included, echo up the valley.

The winds were strong all afternoon yesterday. By late day they were up and constant and the occasional gust made vertical things seek horizontal and took your breath away. And we hadn't seen the strongest winds.

With darkness the peak of the storm arrived. Why does this always happen at night? I can't recall a storm where we went to bed thinking "Phew, that's over". It's always "I wonder what'll be left in the morning?".

Sunday afternoon, between the search for D batteries and an oil change on the generator, I managed to spend an hour or so on a local stream. The leaf hatch was going strong and no bugs were seen. I fished up a long slow pool with nary a nibble. When I got to the head of the pool I looked back and saw two fish slapping at something. Damn.

Wets on and I worked back downstream swinging in the current. The first took a swipe and tugged hard and took both flies with him. Damn again; felt like a heavy fish. The second turned off perhaps seeing the commotion and wanting none of it.

Today will be spent cleaning up what little mess we have. My parents are down on the shore so I'll have to get down there to see how they've fared and to test my minimal mechanical skills to see if I can get their generator to turn.

Thankfully the major rain fall was well to the south and we've been spared the flooding that came with last year's storms. Most of the local streams are still orderly and will soon be fishable.

And we're dreaming of steel for the weekend although Sandy still has a part to play in that story as she boomerangs out of sight.

Good riddance.

In the calm before the storm trout were pursued.

Dumb, Stocked Trout

More glorious afternoons could not be dreamt.

There was a time a few years back that I was in the back woods of Pennsylvania fishing a remote stretch of a popular water. As I drove down the one lane dirt track one morning I saw a rather large truck coming towards me. Naturally, I yielded.
 
What followed the truck was quite the spectacle. Easily two dozen cars on a track that probably saw that many cars in a day. Apparently, the State of Pennsylvania announces the when and where of the stocking event and meat anglers follow taking as fast as the putting occurs. When we returned a few hours later, passing by the stream that was stocked, no anglers lingered. I don't think any trout lingered either.
 
Last Tuesday the Housatonic was stocked.
 
Now I'm not a truck chaser but when 9,000 fish get dropped into ten miles of water it attracts my attention. To be sporting I gave them a couple of days to get really, really hungry acclimated to their environment and decided to hit the stream on Sunday afternoon.
 
English texted me while I was at church and with a brief après worship consultation we agreed to meet up at our usual spot mid-afternoon.
 
The water levels were perfect and the weather spot on for fall fishing in New England. Jonny swung the wet as those from his country are wont to do and managed six to the hand before I had my first. After that we were into fish with regularity, most on the surface, though the occasional trout would chase the sunken fly.

Jonny making it look easy

Jonny managed the gem of the day -- a holdover with buttery flanks and a tail like an oar blade -- though he also managed a fall fish which those in the former colonies generally deride as not worthy of the angle.
 
All my fish were eager and cookie cutter from the hatchery. Late in the day, as Jonny decamped, I did hook a fish on a sunken fly. The befouled bit of deer hair refused to float and I caught a hint of a suggestion of a flash near where it aught to have been and with a lackadaisical stroke managed to hook and loose a fine fish.
 
But then there were more eager fish to salve the mental wound.
 
I suppose a better title for this article would have been "Desperate, Stocked Trout". Regardless, it was good fun for a few hours on a splendid fall afternoon with a good buddy.
 

Pink seems to be the elastomer color of the year. Very stylish.

 

Casting Grass

In Lyons, Colorado there is a branch of Disney. I had heard of this place many years ago in one of Gierach's books and I had a mental vision of what it was like. I was wrong. It was better.

Lyons is a small burg that has had better days though it seems to be coming around again. It's one of those places that is on the way to somewhere else though it may yet become a destination on its own.

The downtown has undergone a transformation and nestled in the heart of downtown is Southcreek Limited, Mike Clark's bamboo rod making venture.

Prior to visiting the shop I had not cast a bamboo rod but as I discussed rods with Mike and Kathy I began to feel like maybe I should. And Mike recommended a few rods including a Pickard 8024 which cast well once I learned to slow down my casting stroke. I left the shop with a new friend and a line and reel to match.

Last night I brought the rod out on my home waters for the first time. The Upper Farmington is running in the mid-60s up near the dam and is probably one of the only rivers fishable at this point of the summer.

The trout were in the fast water and the 5 wt bamboo rod was perfect for casting dry-dropper rigs. The only hatch going on was a #8000 mayfly so I was surprised when the fish consistently wanted the #12 Ausable Bomber and not the tiny pheasant tail nymph.

The first fish to the net was a ten inch Brookie and was followed by a number of Browns all in the bantam weight class.

As darkness began to settle into the valley I moved downstream to a long pool where larger fish are known to cruise. I spoke with a gentleman fishing the head of the pool for a bit. He was switching between #22 and #24 emergers and having modest success. That's far smaller than I care to fish so I tied on a #18 wet fly and went to work swinging a fly in the slow current.

By now it was too dark to see anything though the rises were steady all over the place. I missed two tugs on the line before I finally connected with a nice fat Brown in the 12-13" range. Having had success in total dark I was tempted to stay for a bit and see what else would come but then I recalled just how early the alarm clock goes off and turned my headlamp on and made for the car.

I'm not swearing off of graphite rods but I expect the Pickard to have a solid place in the rotation. It casts well - light enough to not make it feel like work with plenty of feedback to make the casting stroke function - and it didn't put up a fuss when I added two nymphs and a small split shot to my dropper rig.

And I really like the bend when you put something lively on the hook end.

Fishing with Seth

On Saturday morning I rolled out of bed at seven to get down to a local river by seven-thirty. LL Bean had opened a store in Danbury and their staff had posted a meet-up on a local angling website. The river happened to be fifteen minutes from the house so I drove over to meet the guy running the show.

I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes late and met Seth as he was stringing up a rod. Seth works at the store and was the leader of this merry band. It turns out is was a band of two which was just fine by me. This river is small and two is the maximum capacity of any given stretch.

Seth is a recent high school graduate. He's heading so Susquehanna University in a week to study business. I expect he'll also be learning how to tap a keg, make trashcan punch and not look like an idiot to the fairer, smarter sex. I mastered those first two lessons pretty quickly. I'm still working on the idiot thing.

Seth complied with the corporate protocols required of such an outing and I endured both a waiver and a safety lecture. Curiously, the safety lecture included something about not drinking alcohol. I wasn't sure that this included scotch but just in case I left the flask in the car and brought along an extra cigar.

Seth working a deep, fast run.

The river had come up a bit due to a couple of showers over the past few days and the water temperatures were lower. Though there was an uncertain rain as we walked down to a pool the skies were lightening and I expected before long we'd have comfortably cloudy skies.

Fishing with someone new is always a bit of an adventure. Sorta like dating I suppose though my last first date was twenty-five years ago so I'm a bit foggy on how that works. Most folks are harmless. Some you actually like. Others fancy duct tape and hockey masks (we all have our horror stories).

Mr. Brown

You never know which type it's going to be until you get there so it's always a good idea to make that initial trip short and in a public place. Finding out your same-sex fishing partner wants to be big spoon on day one of a four day back country trip can be quite an eye opener (Unless you're into that sorta thing (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)).

Seth was likable and easy going. A good guy to fish with. He was also new to the sport and while he had the basics down he took advice about tippet size, leader length and fly selection fairly readily. If he keeps sponging up knowledge, though hopefully from someone more knowledgeable than me, I think he's quickly going to be an excellent angler.

And he's going to just the right place to get such an education. It turns out Susquehanna is just an hour east of some of the finest streams in Pennsylvania which in turn are some of the finest trout streams in the East. Penn's Creek, Fishing Creek, Slate Run, the Little J, and Letort Spring Creek all provide undergraduate, graduate and post-doctoral educations in tempting trout to the fly.

The fishing was what one would expect of late summer trout fishing; slow. I managed two nice browns to the net early in some fast water and though we worked a good piece of water hard for two more hours Seth couldn't shake the striped beast.

My goal for the day was to reach out the the LL Bean folks to make a connection to help with some of our Trout Unlimited projects. I hope we'll find ways to partner on youth education and Coldwater Conservation work. Seth gave me a name of a guy at the shop. What I hadn't expected was to meet someone who I'd fish with again. I hope he shoots me an email. I'm available for a road trip to Penn's Creek.

Mr. Brook from Friday evening's jaunt back to the Brook Trout stream.

Summer Night

Night is coming sooner now. I know that the summer solstice is the beginning of the end but through late June and July as the weather warms you don't notice the minutes being shaved daily. There's still hope for better weather and vacations and time with family. And there are hatches to be fished.

Now the warmth no longer nurtures hope. It's just hot and you want it to go away. The quickening evening provides some solace from the days travails and relief from the scorch but it leaves precious little time for casting bushy attractors beneath leaf burdened trees.

Last evening the meetings ended late and the only stream I thought fishable was a twenty minute drive. And then there was a misplaced cellphone that needed finding and an aborted search for a camera and then stringing up a rod streamside. All tasks that conspired to deliver me at deep twilight to the banks of a reliable Brook Trout stream.

And it was as reliable as I remembered. Hoppers attracted attention but Stimulators hooked fish. They were where you expected them to be in sixty-four degree water; fast water and quick seams.

The brute of the night was twelve inches. Thick. White edged fins caught the low light. Dark in the body. Found at the confluence of two seams that merge below an L shaped plunge.

The Brookies in this stream are dark. The green swirls on their backs yield to deep, dark flanks where the halo'd spots are well hidden. I felt cheated when I first caught these fish. The blue and red markings are difficult to discern and that's one of the features I like most about the Brookie. But they're unique and knowing that you know of it kind of makes up for the disappointment.

Deep under towering pines I realized that I was now fishing to sounds of a rise. I hadn't seen my fly in fifteen minutes. I was holding on desperately for another tug on the line though truth be told the fishing was already satisfying and unhooking fish in the dark is an anxiety building task I'd rather not perform.

The August night's voices were already loud. I hadn't noticed them start and wondered if they just picked up at full volume or rose gradually so I didn't notice them at first. Warbling tree frogs and their amphibian cousins were distinctive but the buzzing and chirping bugs all mixed together into the white noise that makes sleeping with an open window soothing at this time of year.

A headlamp helped me find the path south and I joined the beasts that scampered beneath the leaf litter moving to home. Moving to safety. Moving in the darkness and leaving the burden of the light behind.

Still Water, Colorado Style

There's not much lake fishing for trout in Connecticut. In fact, aside from a few stocked ponds on opening day of the trout season I don't think there are any lakes that allow for trout fly fishing straight through the season. Generally lakes around here get too warm in the summer. Any trout go deep and the quarry are warm water species; bass and such.

Arriving in Estes Park, Colorado and locating a trout lake I found myself in an alien landscape. Standing knee deep in cool water I saw trout cruising and rising all about me; the antithesis of a trout stream. I had been cautioned not to chase trout but instead to watch the patterns of their wanderings and cast to where I hoped a trout would come by. So I did just that.

And it worked.

The particular lake that I was fishing was full of Greenback Cutthroats. I'm a big native species angler so I was excited to come and fish for this threatened species.

The existence of the Greenback is somewhat of a miracle. It's the most eastern variety of cutthroats and exists solely in the South Platte and Arkansas River basins. Between water diversions, mining pollutants, and other human activity it resides in less than 1% of its historic range. In fact, before the 1930s it was thought to be extinct. Fortunately, a remnant population was found in the Big Thompson River and subsequent efforts have repopulated it to other areas including the lake I fished.

At the finish.

This particular lake is chock full of bugs. Weed beds covered about 20% of its surface and seemed to be bug factories. I saw caddis, small mayflies, scuds, and damsel flies. One angler I spoke to said that the fish were longer and fatter this year due to the low snowpack and the longer feeding season. That all sounded good to me.

Cruising the edge of the weed beds

The catching was not epic, but it was good. It took me a while to figure out the technique, figure out where the fish were cruising and then what they were eating. I had a variety of local patterns on me but to my surprise the most effective pattern was an Adams Rabbits Foot Emerger; a pattern I use often on my home waters.

The Greenback

Not only was the fishing good but the location was spectacular. Located in a basin between several large peaks one couldn't ask for a more inspiring locale. Every evening a sunset wedged itself between two spires providing a golden light by which to fish.

Rises in the Sunset

I didn't get to fish any rivers while I was in Colorado which if you asked me before the trip would have been a huge disappointment. But discovering the joys for fishing for trout in still waters was more than compensation for standing in a stream casting to all the usual places.

Best fishing; end of day.

First cast, fish on.

I heart dams

Moon rise over fog.

August has come early to the Northeast as it has to most of the country. With air temps nearing the century mark even the coldest small streams are running warmer than normal and it's time to give those trout a rest.

Fortunately, here in Connecticut we have a fantastic tailwater fishery on the upper Farmington River. It runs cold through much of the summer and is stocked with so many trout that one simply has to dip a thumb in the water and they'll latch on; a quick flip puts them in your creel.

I know I've ranted in the past about the evils of dams but when I did so, I was talking about your dams, not my dams. My dams are necessary and need to stay just where they are.

Sunday evening I got to the water late; 5:30ish though it might have been later. I had forgotten how much the cold water cools the valley. Air temps were in the mid-80s at home but were in the mid-70s here. A low blanket of fog shrouded the river. Other anglers upstream and down appeared and disappeared as the fog follow its whim.

As expected the trout were rising. There was a smattering of bugs in the air. Most were pale Sulphur-like mayflies with a handful of grey ones tossed in and the requisite careening caddis now and then.

A half dozen anglers were in view upstream and down and I didn't see any bent rods. Plenty of rises. Lots of casting. Little catching.

The next angler downstream from me

The trouble with these sporadic hatches is dialing them in and I didn't start getting hits until I added a small BH prince as a dropper on a pale yellow Sparkle Dun.

I hooked a bunch and landed two before things quieted down for a bit.

As the evening progressed more anglers appeared and wandered up and down looking for a spot to slide in. I was pleased that good manners ruled and no one appeared to crowd in where they weren't wanted.

The Sulphur hatches can be very good angling but they're brief. They start just at dark and last till the light is gone. You really only need to be on the water for an hour or so but you arrive early to secure a piece of the river.

With the lull in activity I switched to an ant pattern and managed a few strikes and two Browns to the net. None of the fish were large but the water temperatures were perfect for trout and they fought in a manner that belied their twelve inch length.

When the sun was well down and the sky was that deep pre-black blue and the valley was only lit by the moon, the tempo of splashy rises increased. I hastily changed from my nearly invisible black ant to a large Sparkle Dun and went to work.

Green Tatoo

The fishing was easy. Find a rise. Cast well. Hook a fish.

Again, I was not able to land as many as I hooked. It may have been my technique though I also suspect that by this time in the season the fish are very quick to discern a fake from the real thing and release as quickly as they strike.

At least that's what I told myself.

Like most days on the water the therapeutic qualities were great. Each splashy take and tug was an unguent to the past week's frustrations. It was one of those weeks when several things played out exactly opposite of how I expected them to. It's been a long time since life threw me so many fast balls and I've swung at dead air; frustrating beyond belief.

But once the emotion was gone I realized that in context this past week's disappointments were trivial. And when a Brown Trout comes to hand you can't recall what it was that brought you here in the first place. You're simply here with moving water, casting to rings, hoping that in this moment or the next something will happen to make you smile or curse and begin again, casting and hoping for the next eventful moment.

Trout Water

Ripley, meet Brown.

"People who claim to own "fishing dogs" are all blinded by love. There's no such thing as a good fishing dog."

- John Gierach

Ripley, meet Brown

Today, I took Ripley fishing for the first time. She'd been in the house for a few days and was a bit stir crazy so she got a walk and I got to fish. Sort of.

I couldn't fish the spot that I wanted to fish. That spot requires a walk across a field liberally strewn with poison ivy. I'm allergic as hell and didn't want my dog covered in the stuff.

So, we hiked a bit and fished a small pool that's been good in the past. 

Ants now look like food to trout because I brought one to hand on a black ant on the second cast. Of course, the next thirty casts yielded nothing. So maybe it was just a fluke. But it should be ant and hopper time very soon.

Ripley was totally disinterested in the splashy fight and even when I brought the fish to hand she still wasn't interested all that much. I had to call her over for a look.

As far as a fishing dog, she wasn't too bad. She did get in the water briefly, but not where I was fishing. Mostly she just hung around staring at me like I was an idiot waving a stick around in the air instead of throwing it so she could retrieve it.

Pot, meet Kettle.

I have a special inventory of bile reserved for private land owners who reserve public waterways for their own use. It's especially vile when they chase off, sue, and otherwise harass those who have a legal right to be on the water. As a wild trout angler, I also find the stocking and feeding of large trout puzzling and sort of not the point.

So when I received an invitation recently to fish such waters, I immediately accepted.

I didn't even take the time to rationalize this decision, it's pure hypocrisy. But the fish are rumored to be big and dumb so that's gotta account for something, doesn't it?

This club is ancient by U.S. standards having been founded in the late 19th century. It's name would not be recognizable to the lay person and nary a peep about it can be found in Google. There's no website. There are no fishing reports ("The fishing today was the same as yesterday, excellent!). The roster of members (I expect wealthy types) cannot be found anywhere. All very discreet in a gentrified sort of way. And the fishing....

I fished the Connetquot Hatchery River a few years ago before it got shut down for whirling disease. The river ran past the hatchery, on the grounds of a former Long Island fish and game club, and they stocked the hell out of it. I hear they're stocking it again though not nearly at the levels of before. Schools of large fish prowled the pools and you stopped counting after you caught fifty fish, which was usually before lunch.It was a Disney experience for trout anglers. This club is sort of like that too.

The club is on a small river. It's about ten feet wide at most points and is classic riffle-run-pool structure though I assume some of the natural structure has been "augmented" or at least maintained. The property is well posted and while you can't float this tiny river I'm reasonably certain that wading it from upstream or downstream would technically be legal. However, their gamekeeper would sick the law upon you and you'd need a good lawyer and a pile of cash to win your day in court.

The club has dozens of beats of Browns, Rainbows and Tigers fed every other day with a hearty diet of pellets. There were six other anglers on a mile of water; a busy day according to the game keeper.

The fishing was very good though my host apologized for it being so poor. In the space of three hours of fishing I hooked at least two dozen fish landing half. The small ones taped out at fourteen inches and the large end being eighteen plus with two hogs broken off. Great fun on a four weight rod.

What's ironic about this stream being managed as Disney is it's also rumored to be a good wild trout stream. Plenty of cold water. Plenty of bugs. But for some, that's not enough which I guess is the point.

I am conflicted by fishing this river.On the one hand this club's limited membership appears to be better stewards of the river than most landowners, especially homeowners. There are great riparian buffers. Access to the river is limited to certain locations to maintain stream banks. The area remains well forested providing good cover from the sun's warming rays. Heck, the quality of the river downstream is likely enhanced by this organization's stewardship.

But is it right?

Should I care?

I'd have to go look up the land records to confirm my suspicions that the club holds no title to the river despite their postings. But let's say for a moment they don't and some court case prevailed upon them to open their waters to anyone who wades in. So now the entire business model of the club collapses and they sell of to a developer so a crop of new homes can appear along the banks with bright green grass mowed straight down to the river bank.

Would we really have won anything?

Tricky stuff, but I'm moving on. It was nice to visit Disney, but I'm returning to my home waters. There's still this trout that lives three trees up from the dead one and I haven't caught him yet.