Riding Out the Flood

I get to Clear Creek when the cold retreats for a few days. The warmer temps bring rain and I come in just after the rain quits.

I start upstream. The river is beautiful here, obviously scoured out by the recent spate.

This is what it looked like last year. Someone must have gone in and taken the wood out.

Now there are fishable runs on both banks.

I fished both sides, but I must have gotten there before the fish after the flood. This sand bank is still under construction. I waded it, but there are still soft spots.

I waded out and headed downstream past the bridge to the long slow bend I like to fish.

I rested a minute up on the berm of the old railroad tracks where the bridge abutments stand.

Looking down I could plainly see that the flood was indeed a flood, laying down an alluvial plain of sand far up into the woods.

When I climbed down to the water I saw that the long bend was still flooded. I waded in but the soft and yielding sand all along the bank forced me to retreat.

Farther downstream I was able to lay out some casts and get some swings in, but nothing came to the fly.

I climbed the bank into the dunes and hiked back to the truck through the woods. The high water mark was a good hundred yards from the stream.

So no fish at Clear Creek again. I did find one living thing in the river: a turtle that must have ridden out the flood.

For the past few days since I was there it has been in the teens during the day and single digits at night. I hope the turtle was able to ride out the cold, too.

All Mine

I went back to Clear Creek on the Monday after that crowded Sunday. It was deserted, all mine. I fished the other side of the bridge and then climbed over the abutment to the long bend and worked that over again. But no fish. It's raining again now, and the creeks are high, but I'll get back when I can.

It's Good to be Retired

My intentions are always good but life seems to derail even the best of them. Such is the case with my intention to hit Clear Creek on a regular basis over the winter. I made that decision in all innocence, but then came the holidays, unforeseen family responsibilities, the Polar Vortex, and sporadic high water. There might have been an instinctive urge to hole up in a warm den until spring mixed in there, too.

But I finally made it to the creek. It was just four days after the sub-zero temps of the Polar Vortex, and we looked outside and couldn't believe what we saw: the sky was blue and sunny and the temperature was climbing toward a high in the 60's. So I packed up and struck out for the creek.

I didn't know what I would find. I expected high water but instead encountered low water. I expected shelf ice but instead found a thin and rapidly melting edge of ice. It was almost like spring. I even heard some high-flying Sandhills passing over.

I fished the deepest hole I know, covering the long curving bend as well as I could. With the low water I could wade out far enough to get a good backcast and bounce the fly off the rocks on the other side. There have been days here when that tactic brought the biggest smallies I've caught here so far.

I had tied up a few streamers in anticipation of this day and this white Marabou Muddler was the fly I was counting on.

No dice. It got down well and swam so pretty, but it yielded no results.

I went back upstream, tied on a little sparkly Woolly Bugger, and started another pass. I tucked a cast into the shade to the left of the abutment and felt a little bump. I slowed down the swing and went on high alert. All the way through the swing I felt more little bumps as the fish followed the fly. But no takes. I proceeded to comb that stretch with that fly as skillfully as I was able. Then I switched to other flies and gave them a try. But those little bumps would be the closest I would come to a fish that day.

I fished on downstream. 

Then a man and a woman came around the bend ahead of me. They looked like students from the university. The man was fine, but the woman, even though she saw me fishing and coming her way, started throwing stones into the water. Highly predictable but still thoughtless behavior. But by then I felt I had given it the old college try, so I waded out and headed for the truck and let them enjoy the stream their way.

By the way, did I mention it was a Sunday? I wasn't the only one who had come out into the sun like groundhogs that day. It was crowded when I got there, and when I got back to the parking area I counted 14 vehicles. That's an all-time record. I was lucky to have as much time to fish alone as I did.

I decided to be grateful for that and to come back soon on a day when most people would be at work or school. It's good to be retired.

Flashback: September 20, 2018

A look back at a trip in 2018 that was never posted. A new round of late wildflowers surrounded the trail to Clear Creek, buckeyes had dropped, a single smallie was haunting the water around the old railroad abutment, and the recent high water left its mark downstream. The smallie was nice, but a pocketful of buckeyes to take home is always satisfying.

Sandhills

The temperature was at a comfortable 39 degrees when I parked at Clear Creek. As soon as I stepped out of the truck I heard the unmistakable cries of Sandhill cranes. A late Fall treat.

The creek was down to normal levels and the water was almost crystal clear.

I tied on the fly that brought me a little smallie last week and went to work.

The Sandhills filled the skies, keeping me looking up when I should have been looking down. I lost the fly in a tree after a backcast that came close to snagging a crane.

I lost another fly when I cast right up against the far bank--which I was trying to do--and then let the fly sink into the rocks and get hopelessly hung up. But I was enjoying the company of the Sandhills.

I made three passes again but didn't get a bump. I headed back to the truck.

I wasn't the coldest I've ever been, but it felt good to crank up the heater as I pulled out and aimed for home.

I turned around a bend and there was a beautiful sunset. It was short lived, but as it faded the tiny crescent moon became visible as it set into the trees.

This was a trip in which the sky outdid the river.