TR- Bonus Day

The forecast the last few days has been for rain and more rain. But,
for whatever reason, Merrill has only been getting passing showers.
Four days ago I assumed this weekend would be blown out, the River
high and dirty. But as of yesterday morning it was only clipping along
at 118CFS, well within normal June levels. So I've snuck in a bonus
day on the water.

Getting off work at 6am, I slept through the hottest part of the day
when temps breached the 80 degree mark. When I finally rolled out of
bed at 3:30 it had clouded up some and the temperature was 75.
Checking the radar showed a long line of showers and storms moving
ENE, but their line of progression seemed to just south of Merrill.
Figuring that I could get at least a couple hours in I wadered up at
home and drove to one of the nearest spots on the River with a good
spring flow.

As I was peering over the bridge railing and guy in an Aztec drove up.
He got out already wearing waders, a pair of neoprenes. His hair was
sweat plastered on his forehead and he had a desperate air about him.

"Hows fishing?", I asked. Not good it seems. He'd hit every bridge
from far up river and hadn't caught a thing. Plus the mosquitoes had
been awful. He flipped open the hatch on his car and pulled out a
spinning rod and waddled down the ditch to the water on the upstream
side of the bridge. He started flipping his worm into the hole there.
I left him to his work.

I, in turn, entered the River down from the bridge. I'd brought my
fast Diamondback 4 weight in an attempt to deal with the winds that
were gusting and swirling through the bankside alders. Outwash,
perhaps, from the storms that were rumbling down near Wausau, 15 miles
to the south. There were dark clouds overhead but brighter sky could
be seen just to my west.

Tying on a Pass Lake I fished my way down to the first set of riffles.
I had several strikes in quick succession but all came up short. After
missing a slightly larger fish near the bank I brought in the fly to
check out its hook.

I'd been having some trouble with getting solid hook ups lately and
had developed a theory that the light wire Tiemco and Daiichi hooks I
was using were too flexible. I remembered when Tom Wendelberg had told
me years ago that he only used regular wire, forged hooks (Mustad
94940s) because of the problem he had with hookups using hooks with
smaller gauged wire. But the Pass Lake, on examination, turned out to
have been tied on the 94940's modern incarnation, a Signature RS50.
Its bronze bend was forged flat and its point snagged into the keratin
off my fingernail with virtually no pressure at all. Thinking that
maybe size was the problem I switched to a smaller PL and immediately
hooked and landed a small brookie. The hook that dangled form its jaw
had been made in Japan and was firmly anchored to the fishes upper
lip.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0217a.jpg
Feeling pressured by the iffy weather, I fished downstream at a faster
pace than usual. There were a few runs I wanted to try before any
storms blew in. The bugs were an eclectic mix of midges, a couple
caddis species, some small gray mayflies and, once and a while, a
sulphur dun struggling up from the surface. There wasn't a lot of
rising fish but the Pass Lake continued to get hits as I sloshed
downstream.

A long shallow flat was followed by sharp turn in the river. The far
bank usually held fish and I saw the rings of a nice trout just off
shore of an overhanging clump of grass. The fish swatted at the Pass
Lake on one of its first few drifts but failed to take the hook
(although a smaller fish took it as it drifted below me a hung
downstream from me in the current). Switching to a Red Quill Parachute
that had worked so well the previous weekend also brought a half
hearted rise but no hookup. A switch to a Sulfur Comparadun brought
up a stronger strike, the hook actually pricking the fish's mouth, but
failed to secure him. And that was that, fish put down.

I kept the Comparadun on and worked downstream. I caught another small
fish a few yards above the next rapids but also missed a number to
short strikes. Thinking that the fish might be feeding on the tan
caddis that were milling around I tried skittering an Elk Hair in the
fast water below, but other than a feeble swirl from a tiny trout,
nothing seemed interested in the heavily hackled impostor.

What to try next, what to try next?, ran through my head. Maybe they
were taking the smaller dark caddis that shared the airspace above the
stream with the bigger tan ones. With that in mind I tied on a dark
dun bivisible. The first pass brought a solid strike and a nice brook
trout to hand. But an even bigger fish that was occasionally rising
under the limbs of an over hanging hemlock tree, ignored it. As did a
fish several yards below him. Still no magic bullet. And from the
sounds of it a new storm was approaching from the west and I was far
downstream from the car.

I have a terror of lightning. When I'm outdoors during a storm I find
myself imagining what it might feel like to be struck down by the
blindingly brilliant fire of three million volts rushing from ground
to cloud. Through me.

So with the sounds of the approaching storm nagging at me I turned a
started back upstream. Of course, even with Gotterdamerung approaching
I had to cast to the occasional rising fish. I'd regressed back to
the Comparadun, in recognition of the increasing numbers of Sulfurs in
the air. But the lightning seemed to have made the normally genial
hearted brookies of the River flighty and nervous. Even in fast water
a blown cast or awkward drift put them down.

The clouds were scudding overhead when I approached my one escape
route, which lead through a pine plantation to a connecting road and a
mile-long hike back to the car. I was about to cross the river to the
take out when a fresh blast of thunder swept over me. But this one
came from the north and east of me, past my present position. A few
more rumbles of thunder confirmed that I'd been narrowly missed by the
storm and the lighter, albeit still cloudy sky to my west confirmed my
reprieve.

Wading rapidly upstream, I switched over to a #16 Red Quill. In a
deeper run I saw the rings of a fish. One... two drifts. A third
brought a satisfying splash and the brook trout ran upstream, my fly
firmly attached to its jaw. Landing him quickly I snapped a quick
picture and let him go. Several more casts through the same run
brought some rises but no more fish to hand.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2...MG_0219a-1.jpg

It was getting dark enough that the flicker from the retreating storm
could be easily seen. I waded rapidly towards the car, stopping to
cast to some likely looking lies. Other than a few feeble rises
nothing came to my hands until a small fish took the Red Quill in the
dimpled light of a quiet run. Letting him slip back into the water I
straightened up and heard a rumble, but this time to my west.
Splashing more than I usually like, I hurried until I came within
shouting distance of the car and bridge. Only then did I try drifting
the fly under the alders that lay opposite me in the dimming light.
But no fish came up for it and the Sulfurs seemed to have canceled
their spinner fall, perhaps due to inclement weather.Not that it would
have been easy to hear the quiet plosh of dimpling fish over the
increasingly loud whine of the mosquitoes keying up for their evening
banquet. Struggling up the ditch to the roadway I hastily unstrung my
rod.

In the near dark I could hear not only the thunder of the approaching
storm but a drumming that I at first took as a grouse trying to put on
a show for the ladies. But then the drumming developed a syncopation
unheard of in the grouse family and I found myself listening to the
faint beating of human hands on drumheads. Not the stereotypic step
shuffle shuffle of the Indian drumming in the movies, but also nothing
that struck me as an attribute of modern times. I had no idea who the
drummers were. Neo-hippies? Angry First Nationalists? But a few drops
of rain and the drumbeats being overwhelmed by another roll of thunder
made me seek shelter in the Subaru's cab. I drove off into the
darkness and rain.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0222a.jpg


GeoC.

George Cleveland wrote:
The forecast the last few days has been for rain and more rain. But,
for whatever reason, Merrill has only been getting passing showers.
Four days ago I assumed this weekend would be blown out, the River
high and dirty. But as of yesterday morning it was only clipping along
at 118CFS, well within normal June levels. So I've snuck in a bonus
day on the water.

In the near dark I could hear not only the thunder of the approaching
storm but a drumming that I at first took as a grouse trying to put on
a show for the ladies. But then the drumming developed a syncopation
unheard of in the grouse family and I found myself listening to the
faint beating of human hands on drumheads. Not the stereotypic step
shuffle shuffle of the Indian drumming in the movies, but also nothing
that struck me as an attribute of modern times. I had no idea who the
drummers were. Neo-hippies? Angry First Nationalists? But a few drops
of rain and the drumbeats being overwhelmed by another roll of thunder
made me seek shelter in the Subaru's cab. I drove off into the
darkness and rain.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v2.../IMG_0222a.jpg


GeoC.

Bonus for me, too. Thanks for writing it.