I was standing on the beaver dam casting a bead-head soft
hackle into the pond while dragonflies – large black and white allied fighters
– occasionally brushed my ear and neck with their wingtips as they buzzed close
snapping the mosquitoes swarming my head. High above they hovered like a
waiting squadron until prey was sighted and singly each would bank and dive
and do their best to eliminate the bloodthirsty mosquito enemy. I was glad they
were there, but alas, badly outnumbered – I had to resort to a second line of
defense that included long sleeves and bug dope. Now and then a trout would
come up and slurp something off the surface out in the middle but it was hard
to reach. I was casting well, double hauling for all I was worth and hearing
line zing through the guides for what seemed like a mile, but the pond is just
too large. Of course, the lowland spruce trees behind me forced a conscious
effort to toss a high back cast and it’s hard to achieve your best, be it
casting, shooting, or… just about anything when you have to think about it,
right? If the fish started rising with any regularity, as I expected, I was
ready with dry flies. Just before dark and still only the infrequent surface
bite, I tied on a small blue wing olive left over from our Montana trip and
hoped for some action. I moved around the edge to where I could see flooded
timber under the surface and shot several casts out there. When a beaver swam
out hungry for supper I turned to watch and that’s when the strike came. I
missed it. The only strike of the evening. A couple of evenings before I’d
landed a pretty 10 inch brook trout on the same fly minutes after I got there
before a nasty summer storm chased me off the pond.
I know a man who survived a lightning strike. The jolt hit a
tall pine tree he was hiking past and travelled down and through shallow roots
to hit him, his partner, and their guide as they were returning to the truck after
a day fishing a western river. All three lived, there was a story about it in
one of the big outdoor magazines, but the guide never walked again and though
Gary still fishes, he continues to suffer some permanent nerve damage. With that on my mind I wasn’t ready to stand
out in the open under a storm and wave a long graphite rod around… well, maybe
if there’d been a lot of fish rising.
It’s been summer hot for the last few days and yesterday my
truck thermometer read 91 degrees when I drove into town, but like they say,
“it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” Well Ok, we had the humidity, too. But
we’re having no wildfires or floods or deadly storms. Yet. So I’m not
complaining. This morning I woke to cloudy skies with the promise of rain. It
was a little cooler and breezy also, but not enough to discourage many
mosquitoes from seeking me out while I played with the dogs before breakfast.
After eating I sipped coffee and watched our resident Ruby-throated hummingbird
try to worry two goldfinches and an Evening Grosbeak from the platform feeder
that is mounted a foot from the hummingbird feeder. Then it was time to do
something.
This was the year for berry picking if ever there was one. I
even heard something on the radio about this being a banner year. I’m mostly a
grazing type of picker, I suppose. I do my blueberry picking when out doing
something else, say, running the dogs or riding my mountain bike. With the
berries as thick as this year I’d have a handful in seconds and down them for a
delicious treat without ceremony. I’m happy for those who pick with a pail and
a purpose like P.J., who kept us supplied with dozens of muffins. And then came
the raspberries. I can still walk the edge of my yard and gulp raspberries by
the fistful. The green plants filled with red fruit give a Christmas sort of
look to the yard, though when X-mas surely does arrive those same plants will
be buried under feet of snow. For now it’s enjoy it while you can and I’m
filling up on wild berries like a sea-bound sailor trying to avoid the scurvy.
There is a small trout stream not far from here that has a
population of native brook trout. I haven’t kept up with the management (if
there is any) but I have seen contracted beaver trappers working it in the
spring. There were brown trout planted at one time, but I haven’t caught one
there in many years. It’s a brushy little river that’s tough to fly fish in,
but not impossible. You wade into the middle and work to a run or pool, roll
casting ahead. The concentration is hard to sustain and I’ve lost many a fly
and leader to the overhanging foliage. The fish are small, too, and many is the
time I’ve been frustrated to the point of wondering why I fish it at all. But a
rainy day like today seemed the time to try. With only my face and hands
exposed and doused with bug dope, I tossed my line ahead in short little casts
as light rain dimpled the water. There was no breeze down in the brushy river
bottom and the cool water felt good through my waders. I have a favorite dry
fly I like to use and the brookies are seldom selective. If they’ll take a bug
off the surface it doesn’t seem to matter what it is and because there is
almost as much submerged brush in this stream as overhead, a dry isn’t quite as
easy to lose. When it started raining hard enough that I couldn’t see the fly,
I switched to a nymph and indicator and caught two trout right away. That was
it for today. I’m not saying how many times I was snagged above and below
water, but I sure miss the more classic trout streams I grew up around.
Every year late in the winter or early spring, about the time
when we’re all tired of the snow and bored because there just isn’t much doing
in March and we start receiving all those cool fishing rags and catalogs in the
mail I typically announce “This is the year of the fish!” When all I have on my
mind and when a new angling year’s inspiration comes over me, I can’t think of
a thing that will keep me from fishing. Oh sure, I know I have to work some,
but I envision leaving work and being on the water minutes later and I can’t
think of a reason I won’t camp every weekend with boat or canoe or on the banks
of a trout stream.
Well, it turns out I can’t go fishing every day, or go
camping every weekend either. Sometimes it’s the weather to blame, sometimes
it’s one of the other countless tasks or chores we always forget about when we
all we can seem to think about is fishing. Still, that doesn’t mean it can’t be
the year of the fish. So far I can’t complain as I’m ahead of most years as far
as the trout fishing is concerned. I’ve likely caught more bass, too, and
though I haven’t caught as many walleyes, I’ve taken enough for some mighty
tasty meals. I’ve even been on a couple of popular lakes with my boat and
trolling motor, catching numbers of bass with my fly rod while pontoon
boatloads of yakking people and kids on jet-skis cruised behind me, and I
really have to be enjoying myself to put up with that! My boat is out of
commission right now. Last week I was trying for walleyes in yet another rain
storm, and was returning to the dock when I hit the only rock in the lake I
could have hit and broke the lower unit of my motor. Bad luck for sure on a
familiar piece of water, but I should have it up and running in a few days.
