Flies are often tied more for the fisherman than the fish. We can't help ourselves, colorfully decorated hooks are appealing. When I look into my flybox the flashy ones draw my attention and I convince myself that they will do the same with trout. Little midges continually fight for my recognition yet they they deliver time and again. None more than the WD-40. It is little more than thread, dubbing, and wood duck feather and it needn’t be anything else. Trout love this fly.
Cold Days and Smallmouth Bass
A parade moves through the small town that sits on a hill overlooking the Potomac River. It is Veterans Day and the celebration rouses the sleepy streets. American flags adorn shop windows and families gather to watch the procession. I wait in my car watching the parade until a police officer motions that it is my turn to cross the intersection.
Just below the town is the boat launch where I meet my friends, Charlie and his wife Lauren. They have already loaded the raft in the water and readying for the float. It is an entirely different scene at the boat ramp; quiet and empty.
The river is remarkably clear considering the rain we had earlier in the week. The day is flawless. The striking blue sky and intense autumn sun penetrate the water, illuminating every rock and ledge on the river bottom and soon fish begin to appear. At first we only see the occasional catfish and sucker darting away from the shadow of the raft. As the flat bottom gives way to rock ledges, smallmouth bass appear. Even with maximum visibility, the fish are brilliantly camouflaged and more often than not spook before they are spotted.
Charlie and I take turns rowing and fishing while Lauren sits quietly reading The Fellowship of the Ring in the front of the raft. When it is my turn on the oars, I selfishly position the raft so that the sun falls squarely on my back, warming my body against the crisp November air.
Charlie and I love to catch fish, but we also love to see others catch fish and thus a natural partnership began. We alternate between fish, insisting that the other take up the rod. When the current allows, we both fish and let the raft drift freely. My first bass comes at such a moment while I am watching Charlie fight his first fish of the day. My dead drifting crayfish pattern neglected deep in the current attracts a bass which graciously hooks itself while my attention is diverted. Through no skill on my part, we have doubles in the raft and the day is off to an abrupt start. With renewed focus, more fish soon follow.
Photo: Charlie Church
Close up
Photo: Charlie Church
Los Padres Trout
There was once water in California. I have seen the evidence. Black and white photos commemorate the steelhead that frequented the rivers in the southern part of the state. Some still do, although they are few. It is the same old song, sad and redundant, humans came and nature left. Long since dried up creek beds offer bleak reminders of the life that once flowed through their veins. Yes, trout were here but they left with the water. Years of drought and diverting rivers for agriculture and growing populations has taken its toll. Fire is now more familiar than rain. Yet there is still hope in the hills. Faded green chaparral hides trickles if life.
Sespe Creek, hidden among the dusty hills of the Los Padres National Forest, offers a glimpse into what trout fishing in southern California might have looked like 100 years ago. The water still flows, but it is dominated by algal lined pools baking under the sun. Surprisingly, the water is much cooler than it appears. In fact it seems it could support trout. In fact it does.
A distinct shadow moves along the sandstone bottom. It is not living, but the one swimming above, responsible for the dark shape is alive. A precious seven inch rainbow trout moves slowly in the deep pool. The water seems stagnant, but its current is revealed in the bits of foam moving across the surface. There is movement, although it is not much, not enough for the trout to sit stationary so it moves, tracing the outline of the pool.
A single fly cast into the middle of the pool breaks the surface tension and slowly descends through the water column. It is a gold bead prince nymph. There is no indicator attached to the line because the water is clear and the sun reflects off the gold bead, shimmering as it sinks. The fish changes course ever so slightly, it does not speed up or slow down until the fly is directly in front. Then it pauses, watching the fly for a few seconds, deciding. The mouth comes open, sucking in water, as the fish ever so slightly lurches forward. It is amazing how carefully the trout approaches this action. A motion it has done thousands of times before. But there is good reason for hesitation and perhaps the trout should have hesitated longer, but it doesn’t and the hook brings the fish to the angler’s hand. A small silver spotted glimmer of hope remains in the hills of southern California.
Occoquan October
The air is crisp and the shadows are long and the wind plucks the red yellow leaves from their branches. For many fishermen, this is striper season.
I met a friend and his canoe for a quiet Sunday afternoon on the Occoquan River. Neither of us had fished the river before, so while we waited for the outgoing tide to bring movement back into the water, we paddled up river towards the dam. Along the way, I threw several exploratory casts but the fish were as stagnant as the current. A mile from our launch point, the river narrowed and the scenery changed. The concrete lined banks and dilapidated industrial relics gave way to brush and boulders. The water grew shallower and protruding rocks prevented us from going any further. The river almost looked wild but for the concrete wall of the dam in the distance.
As the tide began to move, thousands of baitfish too small to see began breaking the surface looking like a soft rain dimpling the water. I tied on my smallest olive Clouser minnow and paddled to where a corrugated pipe pumped water of unknown origin into the river, churning its way down an artificial waterfall. In the frothy mixture of currents, mystery fish began breaking the surface with increasing frequency. I cast in the direction of the disturbances with a couple quick strips the line became taut and my first striped bass of the season was in the canoe. The second and third followed shortly.
Summer Reflections: Mossy Creek
The source of much joy and much frustration flows out of the ground at a steady 55 degrees fahrenheit. On this slow moving spring creek my body convulses with mixed emotions; my hands uncontrollably shaking after releasing an 18” brown trout one day, and my face quivering hot with rage after losing back to back flies on a low hanging branch another day. I try to console myself in those darker moments by attributing lack of success to some unseen external factor easily dismissed as ‘the elements.’ Nature is the easy scapegoat because it does not argue... but I know I could have done better. Still I come back to this creek because I have had a taste of what can happen when the trout are hungry and my fly looks like food. Now I approach the creek like a job interview. I am confident in my abilities, but hide my expectation because I know the odds are not in my favor. I go through the familiar motions, the fly selection and cast, hoping that my training is sufficient. Sometimes it is, and sometimes the trout accept my offer.
There is a secret to this creek that I do not know, but I’ve found peace with not knowing. The creek is far away and our interactions are few. But what I do know is that there are brown trout over 20 inches waiting and learning every day. I only hope I learn quicker.
Snake vs. goose egg. Remember to watch your step.