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.

Making Sense

Clear Creek has been running through my mind, so I decided to go back and see how she was doing. I tied up a new fly for the occasion. The day was one of those last golden days of summer, and the stream glowed with promise.

I started fishing up by the bridge to avoid two other fishermen hard at work down at the big pool. They came upstream as I was finishing up, so I headed downstream to the rapids.

And there, once again, a fly I had tied that day ended up in the jaw of a fish. That small miracle reinforces my fragile belief that some things in this world still make sense.

Here's the Plan: Catch More, Lose Less

I tie up a fresh fly for Clear Creek. This design seems to strike the fancy of the resident smallmouths.

I go upstream and test the slow current there--no fish today--but I'm eager to go downstream and explore some new water. I pass up the long bend and head for the fast water.

I pause on a sycamore log to get my water bottle out of the vest. As I lean my rod on the log I notice a geode sitting there. It's a beauty, left, I presume, by someone who already has a house full of them. I'll take it home if it's still here when I come back. I still have room.

I break in the fly on a rock bass at the top of the rapids.

On down a little ways, in a new spot, I hook into a smallie. It leaps madly into the sky and throws the hook. I mark the spot--the soft water behind the rock--and move on.

I'm learning that you can tell it's a smallie by the high voltage that surges up the rod and shocks you into stunned silence.

Amazingly, just a few feet on downstream I hook a second smallie. The story is the same. It switches into spin cycle and throws the fly back in my face. It was right there in that seam behind the big rock.

I ready myself and go on downstream, letting the fly swing deep. It happens again, in the slot behind that riffle. I just stand there and gurgle along with the riffle.

Unbelievably, there's a fourth fish deep under this slick. It grabs the fly and starts to gyrate. It jumps, but it stays on the hook. I work it in carefully. I get it close. As I move it toward my hand it rolls and flips and is gone. It takes the fly with it. The knot has finally failed under the sustained assault.

That was a remarkable sequence of events. I now know of four new lies in that long weave of fast water. For that matter, I've learned that any little pocket of soft water in these rapids could hold a fish.

This creek continues to surprise me.

I tie on another fly, one of the orange muddlers, and fish on. Down in the long pool, right under a tumble of rocks, I get another hookup. This one sticks. The fish takes me downstream--I'm being cautious--but I finally get him in hand.

This is a fine little fish, but how does it stack up with the ones I missed? Hard to say. I watched some of those others gyrating in the air as they threw the hook, and, yes, they looked bigger than this one. A couple of them torqued the rod harder than this one did. I'll just have to catch them to know for sure.

That will be my pleasure.

I keep going downstream where unexplored territory beckons.

I go farther than I have before and discover a lovely island. The right channel, as the stream divides around it, is very slow.

The left channel, though, is a thing of beauty, a textbook riffle and run. I begin to swing the fly through it.

And just where it hits maximum depth another fish grabs the fly, feels the resistance, leaps high into the air, and throws the hook. Yes, it looked like a bigger fish than the one I caught before.

I go back in, of course, and get more bumps and two hookups. My theory is that the big fish have moved out leaving the little guys to take their chances. It's nice to know that this classic riffle and run is full of smallmouth.

At the foot of the island there's another riffle that swirls down into a deep pool. I fish it carefully but don't find any fish. At least not this day.

I look on downstream. Lots of intriguing possibilities there, but it's time to begin the hike back upstream.

I fish that beautiful little run on my way back and catch another little smallmouth.

I wade upstream, pushing through the current that seems to want me to stay a little longer. But I'm hot and tired, my water's gone, and I'm looking forward to the water bottle waiting in the truck.

All the way back I think over the day, and make my plans for the next time I can come.

Here's the plan: catch more; lose less.