Yellowwood, pink and red blooms, green beetle, and purple worm edition.
Monday, August 14, 2017
Sunday, August 13, 2017
"The End of the Day, Adirondacks" Winslow Homer, 1890
The trees bend down along the stream,
Where anchored swings my tiny boat.
The day is one to drowse and dream
And list the thrush’s throttling note.
When music from his bosom bleeds
Among the river’s rustling reeds.
No ripple stirs the placid pool,
When my adventurous line is cast,
A truce to sport, while clear and cool,
The mirrored clouds slide softly past.
The sky gives back a blue divine,
And all the world’s wide wealth is mine.
A pickerel leaps, a bow of light,
The minnows shine from side to side.
The first faint breeze comes up the tide—
I pause with half uplifted oar,
While night drifts down to claim the shore.
Friday, August 11, 2017
I'm back at Clear Creek. I've tied up a black version of the muddler.
I get nothing as I work my way downstream. Is the fly too dark? It seems that the creek flow is down a tick. Maybe that's it.
At the island I find confirmation that the flow is down. The right channel isn't getting any water. Good to know as I learn the ways of this creek.
Not even the riffle and run gives up a fish this day.
I go around the bend, farther than I have yet. It's good to get wet in some new water.
I turn around and head back.
I find two geodes that are too big to lug home. Someone else will want them.
I take one more pass through the place where I started. This time, though, I have the natural deer hair fly on the tippet. It brings me a fish.
Is it because the fly is lighter in color? Or is it because it's dusk now? Are there other factors at work that I'm not aware of?
Who knows? I won't lose any sleep over it.
Because sometimes it's just being in the right place at the right time.
Sunday, August 6, 2017
I must go down to the seas again, to the
lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and
the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey
I must go down to the seas again, for the call
of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be
And all I ask is a windy day with the white
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and
the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the
vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where
the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the
long trick’s over.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Monday, July 31, 2017
I get to Clear Creek and find two fishermen ahead of me downstream. That's where I was going. It seems clear that my only option is to head upstream. This is a good day to explore some new water.
I pass the old bridge abutments. I have to cling to the bank like the water snake I disturb, half in and half out of the water, to get around a deep pool.
I make it to the bridge over the county road and have easier going from there. The bridge itself feels like a portal to another world.
Past the bridge I clamber up the bank and find a trail going my way. The stream is partially dammed here by big blow downs. Is this the handiwork of one buster of a storm, or is this flotsam collected over time? I go on. I'll fish the pools here on the way back.
I come up on a big riffle and see that there's a nice long run along the far bank. I eagerly head up to find its beginning.
I come to a long slick and watch as two does and their fawns wade and drink, seeking relief from the heat of the day.
The does probably knew I was there before I spotted them. They guide their fawns out of the river and into the safety of the woods.
I'm ready to start fishing. I work the run carefully. It's a beautiful piece of hydrology, and I'm sure there are smallmouth peering back at me from its depths.
The first fish, though, is a rock bass.
But a few feet further on a bright shape flashes out from behind a rock and attacks the fly. Small but mighty.
I take a break and sit on a rock near the stream. Looking down I see evidence that someone else was here before me. I think maybe I've found myself another rig, but no. It's old and beyond salvaging. I have to wonder, though, what the story is behind its loss.
There's a place where the run flattens into a wide riffle, then narrows and dumps into a deep hole at the head of a pool.
I let the fly tumble into the deep water along the log jam. I get bumps right up at the head where the current is fastest. I manage to hook one.
I work the pool over as best I can. I let the fly tumble and sink as deep as I can make it go and strip it back smartly. I can't get anything to take. I climb the bank back to the trail.
I work my way downstream then wade in again. Several little slots and a deep run next to another logjam look really good, and should have fish in them, but I get nothing.
I pass under the bridge and fish the run that I clambered past earlier by clinging to the bank. I get as far as I can toward the abutments before the water gets too deep. I think I may wade out and find the trail and move on downstream. But I hear voices and laughter and screams from around the bend. Then a couple come wandering down on the gravel bar by the old bridge abutments. They see me fishing my way toward them, but they casually begin throwing rocks in the water. The bigger the better.
Guess I'll call it a day. I head back to the bridge and find a trail going up to the county road.
It has been a good day. I've caught a few fish, but mostly I've opened up some new water that will be calling me back again soon.