Yes

It was a summertime family adventure at Yellowwood. We piled into a rented rowboat. Lidia and Sebastian soaked worms, to no avail. Jeremiah threw his plastic baits for the first time in years. He lost some fish in the weeds, and then finally wrangled one to the boat. He's been asking me if we can do that again. The answer is yes.

A Good Day to Explore

I get to Clear Creek and find two fishermen ahead of me downstream. That's where I was going. It seems clear that my only option is to head upstream. This is a good day to explore some new water.

I pass the old bridge abutments. I have to cling to the bank like the water snake I disturb, half in and half out of the water, to get around a deep pool.

I make it to the bridge over the county road and have easier going from there. The bridge itself feels like a portal to another world.

Past the bridge I clamber up the bank and find a trail going my way. The stream is partially dammed here by big blow downs. Is this the handiwork of one buster of a storm, or is this flotsam collected over time? I go on. I'll fish the pools here on the way back.

I come up on a big riffle and see that there's a nice long run along the far bank. I eagerly head up to find its beginning.

I come to a long slick and watch as two does and their fawns wade and drink, seeking relief from the heat of the day.

The does probably knew I was there before I spotted them. They guide their fawns out of the river and into the safety of the woods.

I'm ready to start fishing. I work the run carefully. It's a beautiful piece of hydrology, and I'm sure there are smallmouth peering back at me from its depths.

The first fish, though, is a rock bass.

But a few feet further on a bright shape flashes out from behind a rock and attacks the fly. Small but mighty.

I take a break and sit on a rock near the stream. Looking down I see evidence that someone else was here before me. I think maybe I've found myself another rig, but no. It's old and beyond salvaging. I have to wonder, though, what the story is behind its loss.

There's a place where the run flattens into a wide riffle, then narrows and dumps into a deep hole at the head of a pool.

I let the fly tumble into the deep water along the log jam. I get bumps right up at the head where the current is fastest. I manage to hook one.

I work the pool over as best I can. I let the fly tumble and sink as deep as I can make it go and strip it back smartly. I can't get anything to take. I climb the bank back to the trail.

I work my way downstream then wade in again. Several little slots and a deep run next to another logjam look really good, and should have fish in them, but I get nothing.

I pass under the bridge and fish the run that I clambered past earlier by clinging to the bank. I get as far as I can toward the abutments before the water gets too deep. I think I may wade out and find the trail and move on downstream. But I hear voices and laughter and screams from around the bend. Then a couple come wandering down on the gravel bar by the old bridge abutments. They see me fishing my way toward them, but they casually begin throwing rocks in the water. The bigger the better.

Guess I'll call it a day. I head back to the bridge and find a trail going up to the county road.

It has been a good day. I've caught a few fish, but mostly I've opened up some new water that will be calling me back again soon.

A Kind of Rhythm Settling In

You're still grabbing time when you can get it to get to the lake for a few hours, but a kind of fishing trip rhythm is settling in, and it feels like you'll arrive at a balance soon between fishing and everything else in life.

And this place is quickly becoming "the lake"--the place you want to be, your home away from home. The frogs are singing your song.

While you work the shoreline on the north end--still new territory but getting pleasantly familiar--you hear a Barred owl off in the timber, and an Osprey flies over. This is your kind of place.

You find a nice little bass. You're still waiting for bigger bass to come up higher.

And you disturb another denizen of the shorelines and backwaters: a midland water snake. You get close enough to make him hiss at you. You back off; they aren't venomous, but they're aggressive--you got bit by one years ago trying to grab it by the tail.

A bluegill comes out of nowhere. You're finding single fish, but haven't found a school yet.

You work south then pour yourself a cup of coffee and strike out across the lake for the other side. You troll a heavy streamer behind you.So far there are no fish high enough in the water column to make trolling effective.

On the other side you head back north and enjoy the remaining sunlight as it washes the eastern shore.

You get into some black crappie. Pretty fish. They seem to be schooled up, and you get more bumps than hookups. But these fish give the fly a vigorous hit. You see one flash silver as it comes up and whacks the fly down in the green depths.

Soon the sun is overtaken by clouds rolling in for the night.

One more bluegill comes in the twilight.

As darkness deepens, you kick back toward the take out. There are some people setting up camp near the boat ramp. As I pass them a fire suddenly explodes out of the dark. It smells like they used gasoline to start it. Once the refinery smell dissipates, though, and the scent of wood smoke fills the air, it's a pleasant ending to the day. You wonder what they're going to have for supper, then hurry home to get yours.