Eagerly Searching

October went out with a cold snap. November rolled in with a welcome warm up. I took it as a sign that it was time to get back to Clear Creek.

The woods have opened up. Seems like you can see forever.

I thought maybe all the hedge apples were down along the treeline, but I heard a few heavy thumps as I fished.

After a few days of rain the creek was running high. I wasn't sure whether low water or high water was best for fishing. Since it was high, though, I decided high water was the ideal condition. I was certainly game to find out.

I made two passes along the upstream stretch. The first time I let that chubby ride high on the swollen current. The second time I went down with a flashy bugger. That brought a pretty little smallmouth to hand.

I went back downstream and crossed ahead of the rapids. It took some care to avoid a tumble--I couldn't see the bottom there--but I only did one "fisherman's dance" on one of my worst slips, and I was able to regain balance before I went down.

I struck off along the fisherman's path. I was making good time without the heavy undergrowth of summer when something caught my eye. I barely avoiding stepping on it: an improbable November bloom. That was a lovely surprise after several nights of frost. I looked around for more, but this was, I'm sure, the last wild bloom of the season for me.

The deep run along the far bank called to me.

I waded over and explored the long curve of bank, casting into the murk and stripping the fly back out again. The ridge loomed over me, its bare bones visible through the sparse leaves.

At the long riffle and run the current was flowing fast and heavy. The usual lies were hidden; the whole stream seemed to be one big lie. I began the enjoyable task of trying to cover every inch of the broad flow with the darting fly.

I didn't find any fish. I decided to take another pass, so waded against the flow back to the beginning.

Nothing that time, either--except the pleasure of watching the fly dance in the roiling current. I waded against the current again with a mind to go back to that upstream stretch before dark.

I crossed again--it took awhile--and came to the "stairway" up to the path. I won't say how many times this season I've missed a step or had my boots slip out from under me here. This time I climbed it without incident.

Up by the old abutments again I drifted a little muddler along the far bank, and stripped it back as enticingly as I could. The fish, however, were finished or gone, which meant that I was finished, and should be gone, as well.

I was close to the road, so I climbed up out of the river bottom, cut across an opening in the woods, and made my way up the steep bank to the road.

Now I'm eager to get back after the water has gone down, to eagerly search for some late season smallmouth. I'm sure low water conditions will be just the thing to have the smallmouth up and eagerly searching for my fly.