Things To Do When the Fish Aren't Biting

I took Sebastian with me to the dam at Yellowwood. I thought it might be interesting to hang a nightcrawler out where I caught those big bluegill the other night.

There's no better way to spend a gorgeous October afternoon.

We put two bobbers out over big juicy worms and waited to haul in the fish. And waited. And waited.

There was time to explore the shoreline. We found a woolly worm, or woolly bear caterpillar, if you prefer. They have a place in folklore as predictors of winter weather. According to the formula, the more black hair, the more severe the coming winter. Looks like a mild winter for this area.

We also found a frog. We thought about catching it but it was gone before we could take a step toward it.

And we broke out the snacks, sat on the dam, and shared the big yucks. One of the great things about three-year-olds is that they laugh at almost anything.

We checked the worms--no teeth marks. We recast, waited some more, then went for a walk. Sebastian found a trail and couldn't resist it. Into the woods we went.

The woods were full of sounds: the whisper of falling leaves, the rattle and plop of falling acorns, the chirp of chipmunks, the rustle of squirrels, and the cries of blue jays and woodpeckers.

Sebastian loved it. He would have hiked all the way around the lake. I got him to turn around by promising that we would hike across the dam to see what was over there.

We went back and checked our bobbers--nothing--and then struck out across the dam.

The old spillway was interesting, and it was an enjoyable challenge to pick our way over the stones by the creek.

We went back across the dam and checked our bobbers again. Still nothing. I rebaited the hooks, cast them way out, and we went back to the woods. Sebastian took his supplies with him this time.

The first time we had gone into the woods I taught Sebastian about being quiet, and stopping and listening in hopes of seeing birds and animals. This time he was leading the way, as usual, and I started saying something to him. He turned and shushed me. "Quiet, Grandpa! We need to be quiet."

Attaboy.

We went off trail down to the lakeshore to see if we could see our bobbers from there--I still had this notion that it was a fishing trip. Sebastian was fearless and broke trail for me.

We couldn't see the bobbers but we saw other things. It was fun to watch acorns plooping into the lake, and Sebastian was good at finding different kinds of fungi.

I cut a sapling and carved him a walking stick while we sat on a log and talked quietly about what we saw and heard. Sebastian has always loved to have a stick in his hand, and he put this one to good use.

Once again, he would have gladly hiked around the lake, but we eventually turned around and walked back out into the slanting sun of early evening. We checked our bobbers again. Still motionless. We checked our worms. They hadn't been touched.

We decided that even if the fish weren't hungry, we were, and packed up and headed home for supper.

Sugar Creek: Looking for Pools

I made my first trip to Sugar Creek, a well-regarded smallmouth river. I had studied Google Earth and figured out a route to the water between the two state parks that encompass it. My target was an old covered bridge.

I found the bridge. According to the map, it was not on state park land, but, if not, it was still too close. Being a Sunday on a three-day weekend the campgrounds--in park and out--were packed, and there was a steady stream of canoes on the river. I drove to another crossing and covered bridge and the situation was the same. Furthermore, the "access" sites at the bridges catered to the canoe concession and allowed only 30 minute parking unless you had a permit from the park. I didn't want to mess with a permit.

So I drove through the Indiana countryside searching for access. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than driving country roads on a warm, golden Autumn day.

I passed an entrance to Shades State Park and kept going. The road narrowed and entered deep woods, then curved sharply downward to the river. There was yet another covered bridge there, though the road no longer crossed it. I pulled off, followed a lane, and found a parking area that allowed non-permit parking. It was a bit of a hike down to the bridge and the river, but I headed down to see what I had found.

The bridge, built in 1878, was beautiful.

So was the view of the river it afforded. The best thing: not a canoe in sight. I wouldn't see any all day.

I walked back to the car, geared up, and walked down to the river. There was a private campground along the river but it was virtually empty, and the store/office was closed. So I cut across a campsite to get to the water. (Later in the evening a few campers would show up, and I found out who owns the campground and got a phone number. I would like to pitch a tent in this site and stay awhile.)

The river here is gorgeous.

I started fishing under the bridge and worked my way slowly downstream.

The lack of canoe traffic was good news and bad news. The bad news was that there were no bends and deep pools along this stretch of river, and the cooler weather we've been having might have put the fish deep.

But there were still some lovely runs and a lot of pocket water that could have--should have--held some fish.

I found a few, but they were babies.

I had a fine afternoon, though, fishing my way slowly downstream working the runs and looking for deep pools.

I didn't find any deep pools in the river, but I gradually discovered deep pools of shade to explore with the streamer.

There was still a lot of river downstream to explore, but it was time to head back.

I worked my way slowly back upstream.

I finished by covering the water under the bridge again.

A woman in the bridge called down to say she had just seen fish holding where I was fishing, but I saw no sign of them. Maybe I need to be more stealthy.

I'll try that next time, and then I'll hike upstream from the bridge to see whether I can find some deep pools up there.

Simple

Simple from eluoscire on Vimeo.
Il y a ceux qui pensent que la naïveté est un défaut et il y a les autres.
Some think naivete is a fault and others don't care.
Film | Edit Eluoscire
Music Wax Tailor "Que sera"

"October 10" by Wendell Berry

"An October Gold" by Robert Strong Woodward, 1929

Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,

of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers

are beeweed and aster, spray

of their white and lavender

over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds

Loud — landmark — now

that the life of summer falls

silent, and the nights grow.

"October 10" by Wendell Berry from New Collected Poems. © Counterpoint, 2012.

"Equinox" by Barbara Crooker

"Shadows Way" Etching, Phil Greenwood

Another October. The maples have done their slick trick
of turning yellow almost overnight; summer’s hazy skies
are cobalt blue. My friend has come in from the West,
where it’s been a year of no mercy: chemotherapy, bone
marrow transplant, more chemotherapy, and her hair
came out in fistfuls, twice. Bald as a pumpkin.
And then, the surgeon’s knife.
But she’s come through it all, annealed by fire,
calm settled in her bones like the morning mist in valleys
and low places, and her hair’s returned, glossy
as a horse chestnut kept in a shirt pocket.
Today a red fox ran down through the corn stubble;
he vanished like smoke. I want to praise things
that cannot last. The scarlet and orange leaves
are already gone, blown down by a cold rain,
crushed and trampled. They rise again in leaf meal
and wood smoke. The Great Blue Heron’s returned to the pond,
settles in the reeds like a steady flame.
Geese cut a wedge out of the sky, drag the gray days
behind them like a skein of old wool.
I want to praise everything brief and finite.
Overhead, the Pleiades fall into place; Orion rises.
Great Horned Owls muffle the night with their calls;
night falls swiftly, tucking us in her black velvet robe,
the stitches showing through, all those little lights,
our little lives, rising and falling.

"Equinox" by Barbara Crooker from Selected Poems. © Future Cycle Press, 2015. 

A Milestone: Ready to Buy Foam Spiders

I'm putting together a plan to get away for a whole day to fish a smallmouth river. It looks like it won't happen until the weekend, though. So I grabbed a couple of hours and went back to Yellowwood Lake for the evening.

I went to the south end and climbed the dam.

The water looked good, and there was plenty of room to cast. I fished dry and I fished wet. I fished small and I fished big.

In two hours I got two swirls at the fly, but I couldn't tell whether they were small fry or decent fish. I might have given up, but the whole time there were sporadic rises of good fish all around. It looked like some bigger bluegill, and one or two splashy rises that were too big for bluegill.

I hoped that with the coming of dusk I might get a chance at some of those risers, and that's what happened. As the light waned the rises increased and moved closer to the bank. I was fishing a greased muddler and got a hit and miss. It was clearly a bluegill; I could hear the distinctive pop. I tied on a smaller dry.

On a slow, steady strip I finally hooked up. It was a very nice bluegill, the kind that makes you think about bringing a stringer next time.

I caught it on a mayfly pattern. I pondered the significance of that for awhile. I decided it felt like a moment of connection between my Washington past and my Indiana future. It was further evidence that a transition is taking place. I think I'm ready to put the trout flies away (until I can head to Michigan) and go out and buy some foam spiders again. (Do they still sell them in a three-pack, black, white and green? I hope so.)

There was another milestone: my first bass on a fly this time around in Indiana. This little guy also sucked in the mayfly.

I was happy to have a bass, any bass, but I tied on a big muddler again on the off chance that I could find a large largemouth. Wouldn't you know it, this time it brought an even bigger bluegill.

I called it a night, well satisfied with what I had seen. Maybe next time I'll wait and get there at dusk. But, then again....

You know how it is: I think I'll get there at the same time and keep trying to figure out how to get those big gills to hit a fly in full daylight.