An Old Man and the River (Part 2)

I need to replace my front brake pads soon. One of the wear sensors
chirped at me as I pulled up to the highway from the access road. It
slowly dissipated into the general road noise as, turning south, I
drove the few miles to the nearest small town from the put-in. My aim
was to fish a section just outside of town. It flows through what is
arguably the most bucolic section of the River. To the south grow the
omnipresent tag alders. On the opposite bank a series of 60's era
ranch houses have their back yards terminating in old willows. Their
pendulous branches drag like fingers in the water. The River here
drops in little rapids and riffles broken by shallow pools. When the
River eventually turns away from the backyards it enters a long, deep,
alder lined glide. I'd never fished it during the Sulphur hatch but it
seemed to me as a place to find the bugs. As, apparently, it had
seemed to the occupants of the two trucks parked at the bridge.

I kept driving, trying to remember where I could pick up a side road
that would take me to the next bridge down. Only when the gravel road
ended at a stop sign did I realize that I had been going in the
opposite direction that I had thought I had been. Straight ahead, on
the other side of the crossroads, there was a small bridge that
spanned the trickle that formed the headwaters of a local spring pond.
I drove up to it and parked on the well worn verge.

There were a few rings spreading over the surface of the pond. For
those who have never seen the average northern Wisconsin spring pond
the first sight of one will be underwhelming. Far from being a crystal
jewel set amidst rolling hills, ala the famous Maine brook trout
ponds, the average Wisconsin springer is shallow, meandering and
mucky. There are often algae blooms that look like snot filled tissue
paper hanging suspended in the water. The bottom of this pond was also
typical..."loon****", a seemingly bottomless collection of silt and
decayed organic matter. It is unwadable and even people in belly boats
have been known to lay stuck in the icy muck until pulled from the
trap they'd stumbled into. Canoes work. Little self propelled pontoons
are better. But for the flotation deprived among us they are usually
fished from the shore.

I carefully pulled the bamboo rod out through the rear hatch. I cast
the Pass Lake towards a small ripple and got an immediate hit. The 4"
brookie that soon lay in my fingers was cold and bright. There were
larger fish rising farther out but I couldn't reach them from the
roadside and the surrounding swampy woods promised to be mosquito
hells. If you want to catch a big brook trout in Wisconsin, the spring
ponds are your best bet. But I'd never heard that this particular
pond, with its easy access, had a reputation for big fish. And the
flat, featureless water just didn't fit into my mood. I repacked the
rod and drove in the direction of the River.

By making my short detour to the pond I had in essence retraced my
steps. I arrived at the river a few miles north of town. The stretch
above the bridge there is interesting. At first there are broad, plant
paved glides. But they soon give way to riffles which are followed by
rock and boulder gardens. Some of the boulders are bigger than a pick
up truck. The water between them flows deep and with more force than
through any other section of the River that I've waded. Quite frankly,
it scares me.

I climbed out of the wagon. Re-vested and re-rodded. When I entered
the river I saw a couple of risers upstream. A smattering of mayflies
were flitting about. There were a couple Sulphurs but many more of a
species I thought to be an Isonychia variety, about size 12 and dark
bodied. Thinking that the Isonychia wouldn't be available until they
mated and died i tied on a Sulphur parachute. After several splashy
false rises I finally hooked a brook trout. A few more casts later and
another was landed. That was all I could persuade from the first
riffle. Moving up into the lower end of the boulder field I noticed a
rise in the center of the run and one near the tag alders on the
opposite bank. But I also noticed the slim, dark mayflies were riding
the current and then taking flight. Thinking that most Isonychia
crawled to shore to hatch and don't generally emerge midstream I
finally snagged on and looked it over. It lacked the white legs of the
I. bicolor and instead of a uniformly dark body ts under body was a
highly segmented gray. I snipped off the Sulphur and tied on a
Parachute Dun with a quill body and turkey flat wings. I hooked the
small brook trout in the center first and then saw my fly disappear in
a nice swirl under the alders. The fish put a decent bend in the grass
rod and in short order I had about 12 inches of brown trout cradled in
my palm.

Moving upstream I detoured around one of the huge boulders to escape
the main flow. The water above was broken, with the bottom varying
wildly in depth from ankle to knee deep. I looked for riser and made a
few blind casts to likely spots but I got no takers. When I reached
the top of he rock garden I noticed a few egg laden Sulphurs hovering
over the stream. I almost clipped off the Gray Quill and reattached my
Sulphur fly but I waited to see if any more bugs would join the dance
above the riffle. Seeing no more I moved into the fast, curving run
above. The light was fading but I could see the disturbances of
several fish rising on the outside of the fast flowing arc the river
made as it descended from another, smaller rapids above. I cast my
parachute to the lowest and was rewarded by a solid strike and a
satisfying spray of water as the fish pounced on the floating fly.

This fish was bigger than the brown I'd just caught and put up an
interesting fight, first racing downstream and then trying to make for
the cover under the alders branches that hung over the flow. When I
brought him in and landed him I found that it was my biggest brookie
of the year, about 13 inches when stretched against the thread wraps
of the rod, which I later measured. A quick photo and he was back in
the water. I inched ahead and saw a bigger disturbance about 30 feet
ahead of me. On the second cast he struck but missed the fly. I rested
him and tried to cast to a smaller riser in the middle of the current.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0006a.jpg

As I was lengthening my cast my fly snagged in an overhanging branch
behind me. Try as I might I couldn't free the bug and had to break it
off. Another fly, almost identical to the first was tied on but it
elicited no interest from any of the fish rising. It was getting very
dark. Then out of the gkloom two pale tan mayflies, about size12 flew
by me. I quickly clipped off the Gray Quill and , by holding the hook
up against the fading glow of the set sun, finally managed to poke the
5X through the eye of a tan Catskill dry. I cast to the big fish again
and he missed again. A couple casts later, my fly hidden by the rough
water and foam, I heard a bluegill like smack and tightened up on the
fish. It ran downstream to deeper water. The bamboo flexed smoothly, a
reassuring presence against the struggle of the fish. I snubbed the
trout when it tried to find refuge under a big rock amid stream and
then turned him when he too tried to make it into the bankside brush.
Finally I brought him close enough to see that he was a brown of about
16 or 17 inches. As I was reaching into my shirt pocket to get the
digital out he thrashed and threw the hook. No sense of loss. I had
hooked him, figuring out what to use and where to cast. I felt fine.

Another brown took the same fly a few minutes later. He was about 11
inches or so. And then I had to turn and make my escape before it
became completely dark. Navigating completely by feel of foot, my
LED's fuzzy beam unable to help, I slipped and stumbled through the
fast water. I knew that there was a trail immediately below the pick
up sized boulder that bypassed the head-deep water below. But just
before I reached it my toe snagged on a rock and I fell to me knees.
Luckily the water didn't come up past my waist. A little shaken, I
pussy footed my way to the big rock and then found the trail. When I
re-entered the water I could see very little. I cast a couple of times
to the little riffle where I hooked my first trout of the evening and
then moved on, finding myself back near my car. As I was standing,
unwinding with the water caressing the backs of my legs I heard a
rise. A newly installed street light across the road faintly lit the
water. Its light revealed small riseforms, almost surely spinners
being snatched by feeding trout. I cast the same big Catskill not
expecting much, maybe another tiny brookie, but was given instead a
hook up with a brown of around 10 inches. An unexpected gift.

Climbing out I paused to think. Was this evening the miracle I'd been
asking for earlier. I don't know. Certainly nothing happened that was
unusual in the life of the River. Water flowed, fish fed on small
struggling beings, an old man made his brief appearance and then
disappeared. So taken in the sense of being an unanticipated,
unexpected happening, there was no miracle on the river that night.
But a quick look at the dictionary just now gave me this:
"miracle-1137, from O.Fr. miracle, from L. miraculum "object of
wonder". And in that sense, the sense of being an object of wonder, of
being wonder full, the River, in the end, gave me a glimpse of the
miraculous. And for that night at least, that would have to do.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0005a.jpg

hth

g.c.

"George Cleveland" wrote

An unexpected gift.



Considering the source, the report is perhaps a bit more expected than your
10" brown, but it is no less a gift.

Thanks for writing.

Dan

On Tue, 05 Jun 2007 22:22:45 -0500, George Cleveland
wrote:

Loved both pics.

That certainly was a very pretty brookie.

Thanks, george.
--

r.bc: vixen
Minnow goddess, Speaker to squirrels, willow watcher.
Almost entirely harmless. Really.

http://www.visi.com/~cyli

On Jun 5, 11:22 pm, George Cleveland
wrote:
I need to replace my front brake pads soon.

very nicely done, george. written peacefully by a man at peace.

yfitons
wayno

George Cleveland wrote:

hth

g.c.

well gc, like your car's brakes, i'll chirp in my "yup"... thanks.

jeff

George Cleveland wrote:

An unexpected gift.

hth

g.c.

It was and it did.

Thank you very much.

Steve

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...

...that would have to do.

And it does......very nicely.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0005a.jpg

One could wax poetic......even philosophical.....about that photo. Awesome.

Wolfgang

On Jun 5, 11:22 pm, George Cleveland
wrote:
I need to replace my front brake pads soon. One of the wear sensors
chirped at me as I pulled up to the highway from the access road. It
slowly dissipated into the general road noise as, turning south, I
drove the few miles to the nearest small town from the put-in. My aim
was to fish a section just outside of town. It flows through what is
arguably the most bucolic section of the River. To the south grow the
omnipresent tag alders. On the opposite bank a series of 60's era
ranch houses have their back yards terminating in old willows. Their
pendulous branches drag like fingers in the water. The River here
drops in little rapids and riffles broken by shallow pools. When the
River eventually turns away from the backyards it enters a long, deep,
alder lined glide. I'd never fished it during the Sulphur hatch but it
seemed to me as a place to find the bugs. As, apparently, it had
seemed to the occupants of the two trucks parked at the bridge.

I kept driving, trying to remember where I could pick up a side road
that would take me to the next bridge down. Only when the gravel road
ended at a stop sign did I realize that I had been going in the
opposite direction that I had thought I had been. Straight ahead, on
the other side of the crossroads, there was a small bridge that
spanned the trickle that formed the headwaters of a local spring pond.
I drove up to it and parked on the well worn verge.

There were a few rings spreading over the surface of the pond. For
those who have never seen the average northern Wisconsin spring pond
the first sight of one will be underwhelming. Far from being a crystal
jewel set amidst rolling hills, ala the famous Maine brook trout
ponds, the average Wisconsin springer is shallow, meandering and
mucky. There are often algae blooms that look like snot filled tissue
paper hanging suspended in the water. The bottom of this pond was also
typical..."loon****", a seemingly bottomless collection of silt and
decayed organic matter. It is unwadable and even people in belly boats
have been known to lay stuck in the icy muck until pulled from the
trap they'd stumbled into. Canoes work. Little self propelled pontoons
are better. But for the flotation deprived among us they are usually
fished from the shore.

I carefully pulled the bamboo rod out through the rear hatch. I cast
the Pass Lake towards a small ripple and got an immediate hit. The 4"
brookie that soon lay in my fingers was cold and bright. There were
larger fish rising farther out but I couldn't reach them from the
roadside and the surrounding swampy woods promised to be mosquito
hells. If you want to catch a big brook trout in Wisconsin, the spring
ponds are your best bet. But I'd never heard that this particular
pond, with its easy access, had a reputation for big fish. And the
flat, featureless water just didn't fit into my mood. I repacked the
rod and drove in the direction of the River.

By making my short detour to the pond I had in essence retraced my
steps. I arrived at the river a few miles north of town. The stretch
above the bridge there is interesting. At first there are broad, plant
paved glides. But they soon give way to riffles which are followed by
rock and boulder gardens. Some of the boulders are bigger than a pick
up truck. The water between them flows deep and with more force than
through any other section of the River that I've waded. Quite frankly,
it scares me.

I climbed out of the wagon. Re-vested and re-rodded. When I entered
the river I saw a couple of risers upstream. A smattering of mayflies
were flitting about. There were a couple Sulphurs but many more of a
species I thought to be an Isonychia variety, about size 12 and dark
bodied. Thinking that the Isonychia wouldn't be available until they
mated and died i tied on a Sulphur parachute. After several splashy
false rises I finally hooked a brook trout. A few more casts later and
another was landed. That was all I could persuade from the first
riffle. Moving up into the lower end of the boulder field I noticed a
rise in the center of the run and one near the tag alders on the
opposite bank. But I also noticed the slim, dark mayflies were riding
the current and then taking flight. Thinking that most Isonychia
crawled to shore to hatch and don't generally emerge midstream I
finally snagged on and looked it over. It lacked the white legs of the
I. bicolor and instead of a uniformly dark body ts under body was a
highly segmented gray. I snipped off the Sulphur and tied on a
Parachute Dun with a quill body and turkey flat wings. I hooked the
small brook trout in the center first and then saw my fly disappear in
a nice swirl under the alders. The fish put a decent bend in the grass
rod and in short order I had about 12 inches of brown trout cradled in
my palm.

Moving upstream I detoured around one of the huge boulders to escape
the main flow. The water above was broken, with the bottom varying
wildly in depth from ankle to knee deep. I looked for riser and made a
few blind casts to likely spots but I got no takers. When I reached
the top of he rock garden I noticed a few egg laden Sulphurs hovering
over the stream. I almost clipped off the Gray Quill and reattached my
Sulphur fly but I waited to see if any more bugs would join the dance
above the riffle. Seeing no more I moved into the fast, curving run
above. The light was fading but I could see the disturbances of
several fish rising on the outside of the fast flowing arc the river
made as it descended from another, smaller rapids above. I cast my
parachute to the lowest and was rewarded by a solid strike and a
satisfying spray of water as the fish pounced on the floating fly.

This fish was bigger than the brown I'd just caught and put up an
interesting fight, first racing downstream and then trying to make for
the cover under the alders branches that hung over the flow. When I
brought him in and landed him I found that it was my biggest brookie
of the year, about 13 inches when stretched against the thread wraps
of the rod, which I later measured. A quick photo and he was back in
the water. I inched ahead and saw a bigger disturbance about 30 feet
ahead of me. On the second cast he struck but missed the fly. I rested
him and tried to cast to a smaller riser in the middle of the current.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0006a.jpg

As I was lengthening my cast my fly snagged in an overhanging branch
behind me. Try as I might I couldn't free the bug and had to break it
off. Another fly, almost identical to the first was tied on but it
elicited no interest from any of the fish rising. It was getting very
dark. Then out of the gkloom two pale tan mayflies, about size12 flew
by me. I quickly clipped off the Gray Quill and , by holding the hook
up against the fading glow of the set sun, finally managed to poke the
5X through the eye of a tan Catskill dry. I cast to the big fish again
and he missed again. A couple casts later, my fly hidden by the rough
water and foam, I heard a bluegill like smack and tightened up on the
fish. It ran downstream to deeper water. The bamboo flexed smoothly, a
reassuring presence against the struggle of the fish. I snubbed the
trout when it tried to find refuge under a big rock amid stream and
then turned him when he too tried to make it into the bankside brush.
Finally I brought him close enough to see that he was a brown of about
16 or 17 inches. As I was reaching into my shirt pocket to get the
digital out he thrashed and threw the hook. No sense of loss. I had
hooked him, figuring out what to use and where to cast. I felt fine.

Another brown took the same fly a few minutes later. He was about 11
inches or so. And then I had to turn and make my escape before it
became completely dark. Navigating completely by feel of foot, my
LED's fuzzy beam unable to help, I slipped and stumbled through the
fast water. I knew that there was a trail immediately below the pick
up sized boulder that bypassed the head-deep water below. But just
before I reached it my toe snagged on a rock and I fell to me knees.
Luckily the water didn't come up past my waist. A little shaken, I
pussy footed my way to the big rock and then found the trail. When I
re-entered the water I could see very little. I cast a couple of times
to the little riffle where I hooked my first trout of the evening and
then moved on, finding myself back near my car. As I was standing,
unwinding with the water caressing the backs of my legs I heard a
rise. A newly installed street light across the road faintly lit the
water. Its light revealed small riseforms, almost surely spinners
being snatched by feeding trout. I cast the same big Catskill not
expecting much, maybe another tiny brookie, but was given instead a
hook up with a brown of around 10 inches. An unexpected gift.

Climbing out I paused to think. Was this evening the miracle I'd been
asking for earlier. I don't know. Certainly nothing happened that was
unusual in the life of the River. Water flowed, fish fed on small
struggling beings, an old man made his brief appearance and then
disappeared. So taken in the sense of being an unanticipated,
unexpected happening, there was no miracle on the river that night.
But a quick look at the dictionary just now gave me this:
"miracle-1137, from O.Fr. miracle, from L. miraculum "object of
wonder". And in that sense, the sense of being an object of wonder, of
being wonder full, the River, in the end, gave me a glimpse of the
miraculous. And for that night at least, that would have to do.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0005a.jpg

hth

g.c.

Good read, George. Very nice work.

George Adams