Coming To An Understanding

The next day I'm again on the trail to Clear Creek. I leave all my skepticism behind. At the fork I go right and follow the trail upstream.

I have retied my leader. I have a sturdy 2X tippet on. I begin to fish the flashy woolly bugger. I drop it right up against the bank. Something is instantly on it. It takes off downstream and I work it back carefully.

There we go.

I wade through the minnows and keep hitting the far shoreline with the bugger. Ten feet further on I give the fly one strip and come up on something heavy. Another run downstream, another careful retrieve.

Beautiful.

I was primed for the deep slot on downstream sometime later, but luck has overtaken me early. I fish on expecting anything.

I catch some rock bass. They were absent the day before.

At the riffle I wade out and take a break. Time to savor those two fine fish. Then I walk around to the easier ford and cross to the other side.

I have tied a replacement for the fly that left in the jaw of the smallmouth that broke me off. That one was a 10; this one is a 6. Sturdier. Maybe more tempting.

Below the giant pool I fish the whole bend as it sweeps toward the fast water below. There is a nice deep run along the high bank, but I find no takers this time. But it gets the fly ready for perfect subsurface swings.

I come to the slot, and to the scene of the crime. This time I fish it with full attention, from top to bottom. There is no smallmouth in there today, but I will never fish it again without being on high alert.

There is still some daylight left, so I determine to see some new water.

I fish down past the bluff.

The current has pushed the fallen tree down and back, opening up some water.

Around the tree there's another series of riffles tailing out into another long, slow pool. A deer splashes across the river just beyond the pool and disappears into the trees.

I fish when I'm fishing--full attention--but between casts I'm scanning the new gravel bars for more geodes. I catch some more of the pumpkinseeds. In the dusk their colors really pop.

I find another nice geode.

And I catch one more smallmouth. It makes me eager to keep going, to find out what lies around that next bend.

But now it's time to hike out. As I wade up through these now-familiar riffles and pools I think about those beautiful smallies that I was fortunate enough to catch.

And it seems to me that, after a time of sizing each other up, the stream and I have come to an understanding.

Northern Exposure

Maine's wild brookies...

The Fate of Skeptics

Clear Creek. A new boot scraper at the trailhead.

I go to see what's upstream. I make my way to some old bridge abutments.

The current is slow and deep.

I swing a newly-tied fly. A woolly bugger with lots of flash.

A spicebush swallowtail keeps pace with me as I fish.

The bugger gets some rises and follows. A pumpkinseed nabs it.

Then a flash and a grab. A smallmouth. Still a baby but bigger than the last one.

I fish my way downstream. Good-looking water. Should be big smallmouth in there. But there aren't.

Back at the riffle I wade out and around.

I find a rock firmly captured by sycamore roots.

I cross over to the fishermen's trail.

On the gravel bar I see something white and round. At first I think it's a geode.

No, it's what's left of a young raccoon.

I get ready to fish the riffles and runs ahead.

I switch to another new tie. I've seen small sunfish on their nests. They flash orange as they dart through the current.

I'm fishing through the riffles. I'm looking for geodes. I come to this deep slot. The fly swings behind the submerged rocks. I'm reaching down to pick up a rock. All hell breaks loose.

It's a smallmouth. Has to be. It's big and strong and in a hurry to get downstream. It breaks me off and is gone. Just like that.

Earlier I was fishing with a 2X tippet. That would have handled him, I think. Then I switched to 4X. Why?

Because I was catching small fish. And as much as I wanted to believe that there were big smallmouth in this stream, I was still, somewhere deep down, a skeptic. The fate of skeptics is to be unprepared when the impossible happens.

You gotta believe.

I fish on down to the tailout and pool. More sunfish.

A chub.

I turn back upstream and hike out.

I'm a skeptic no more.

Hatch Magazine Prods Us With a Reminder

Photo from treehugger.com

Hatch Magazine prods us with a reminder that our waters as well as our lands are still under assault.

I'm old enough to remember when lakes and rivers across the nation were seriously polluted, and to have seen the progress made under the Clean Water Act and other efforts spearheaded by the EPA. Now all that progress is in danger of being lost. On purpose. Keep the focus, save our waters, vote them out.

Here's the article: Trump, Pruitt Surprise Exactly No One by Doing What They Said They Would

Fin Chasers, No. 17

Catch it HERE.

This is not a beautiful hiking video

A friend of mine is celebrating his retirement by doing something he's wanted to do since he was young: hiking the PCT. I had no idea how big an undertaking that is until this video. Good luck, John!

Tempted by the Dark Side

Early in June, on a hot day, I explored a new location. This is one of the many access points on Lake Monroe, the giant reservoir in this part of the state. Yellowwood Lake is 133 acres. Monroe is 10,750 acres. From this boat ramp you're still a long way from the main lake, but there is a lot of water to fish right close.

I caught a small bass pretty quick which gave me hope. But I covered a lot of water using a whole variety of flies--and plastic worms trolled slowly through weed beds, something I thought was a sure bet--but caught nothing until a little crappie grabbed my woolly bugger just before I got back to the ramp.

There were fish around, though: carp. They were rolling and breaching everywhere I went. The sound of large scaly bodies crashing into the water punctuated the afternoon.

Now, I was raised to disdain these fish, to consider them "trash fish," to spell their name as "crap." But on this day I began to think it wouldn't be such a bad thing to hook into one of these pigs. 

I'm giving it some thought.