College Day

Clear Creek is low again. I go upstream and find a buckeye tree. I fill my pockets but their magic brings only one small fish. Better than none. Two young women--college students--are at the rapids. I pass them and strike out on the fisherman's trail.

Down at the riffle and run I tie on yet another new fly. As I prepare to cast I see those young women again. They're downstream having a snack on the big rock overlooking the best hole in the run. So it goes.

When I approach they're polite and friendly. They even express the hope that they haven't negatively impacted my fishing experience. I assure them they haven't.

I cast right under their feet but I don't catch anything. You would think polite young women would bring as much luck as a handful of buckeyes. Maybe they would if they weren't practically sitting right in the best hole.

Two groups of young men--are there no classes today?--have passed by. One group heads up the trail toward the top of the bluff. The other stops to wade in the long pool. Soon they are skipping rocks. Then, as I continue to fish down toward them, they begin to launch big rocks into the pool.

I conclude that the impulse to throw rocks into water that begins at age four is still present in the 18 to 21 year old. As I get closer, they are totally oblivious to my presence and the fact that I'm fishing. Then one of them looks up and finally sees me--or pays attention to me. He calls out, "Catching anything?"

I'm tempted. Yes, I'm sorely tempted to launch into the same lecture I've given Sebastian about the relationship of rock throwing and fishing. I wonder if they would know the meaning of the term "antithetical." But I simply answer, "Yep." He says, "Awesome!" Apparently genuinely happy for me.

Now that I'm there and the pool is trashed, they take their leave. They're talking about women as they wander off into the trees. As I listen I'm embarrassed to have once been their age, so full of bullshit.

I'm alone now. I head on down to the island run and back, enjoying the solitude.

I don't meet another soul the rest of the time I'm there.

Soaking It All In

Yellowwood calm in a last summer heat wave. The fishing is slow, but I need to be there. I soak it all in.

This Is Fly No. 64

Get it HERE.

Whispering Iceland / 4K

Iceland. Whispering.

Bleikja

Iceland. Arctic char.

Could Be the Buckeye

Clear Creek. I go upstream.

The water is up by several feet.

I tie on something bright and flashy and plumb the depths. Nothing.

I cross at the rapids. Takes a little more care today.

The fisherman's trail is thinning out. The nature preserve sign, usually hidden, stands out.

At the riffles I tie on a new smallmouth muddler and go to work.

I find a buckeye nestled in the river rocks. I only see the one. It came from upstream somewhere. I pick it up and put it in my pocket. They're said to bring luck.

Downstream a bit the fly curls around a rock and a smallmouth strikes. Could be the buckeye.

As I bring the fish in two guys come up behind me and pass me by. I fish slow to give them a chance to get ahead, but they're slow, too. They will dog my footsteps the rest of the evening.

They take a break along the bank so I wade ahead of them. Want to work around the island before they get to it.

Things look good. The high water gives me high hopes for this run.

While I'm fishing it a little dog comes along. He, too, has been dogging my footsteps. I assume he belongs to the two guys behind me. I like him. He's small in size but big of heart.

The run doesn't give up any fish. I start the slog back as the two others come up to the island.

I fish the rapids at the top again. Nothing. I need some more buckeyes.

Back at the truck two other dogs are waiting beside the other vehicle. They're happy to see me, until the other guys come out of the woods, right on my heels.