Into The Jungle (TR)

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi...itclosedin.jpg

My son Sam's graduation and party are this weekend. So I got an
extended kitchen pass for the day to go fishing before we enter
entertaining mode.

I didn't know where I was going to go until the wheels of the Subaru
were actually pointed towards the headwaters of the River. I had given
due consideration to my other river, the "Mayfly", thinking that the
last couple warm days might have the March Browns popping. But there
was a stretch of the River that I had never fished and it was there I
decided to go. The River's headwaters are in a series of springs and
spring fed flats that run for 10 miles east of the state highway. The
water can be slow there and the fish limited to certain well defined
holes. But there was a stretch downstream that flows south alongside
the state highway, still small water. And I'd never wet my line in
it.

I parked the Subaru near an abandoned bridge. The River riffled its
way under it and into a wall of tag alders. I wadered up and pulled
the little Daiwa 4 wt. out of its case. A new tippet was added and
then a brace of flies were attached, a bead head Red Ass soft hackle
on point and a #12 March Brown wet on the tag. On my first cast I got
a bump. And then a few casts later another bump. But it wasn't until
20 minutes later that I finally hooked up on a small brookie. It took
the March Brown and then tried to escape back into the alders but the
little rod easily pulled him out of the tangle and into hand. I cut
off the Red Ass and put on a Pass Lake. A few 100 yards and a couple
of fish later I came to a narrow point covered with mature balsam
firs. The River split, flowing on both sides. The major portion of the
flow veered left. That was the way I went, pulling aside the
overhanging alder stems, looking for a place with room enough to wet
my flies.

When I was younger most of my trout fishing was on streams of this
type. Once and awhile enough room would open up enough to do a real
cast but mostly it was a matter feeding a wet fly through narrow
openings between or under the tag alders stems. And many times any
presentation was impossible and it became an exercise in forcing my
way through the brush. Tag alders are the most forgiving of plants.
You can bend the stem of a 20' tall specimen to the ground (wonderful
for regaining tangled flies) or push your way, relatively easily,
through what at first glance appears to be an in penetrable tangle.
The twigs and branches do require that a certain discipline be
maintained regarding fly, leader and line. But once you get the hang
of it, its not an unpleasant way to fish.

So I worked my way downstream, coming to the occasional opening and
casting, rollcasting and dapping wherever I could. I changed flies
very often, looking for the magic fly. But while every fly I tried
took a fish or two none drove them wild. A small PT soft hackle seem
to work best, taking several smallish brookies and a little brown, but
I knew I was passing fish that weren't tempted by that or any other
fly. Finally the tag alder tunnel started to give way. Around a bend
and I was presented with a casting lane that stretched for 50 feet
ahead and beyond that the alders seemed to disappear completely. I
picked up another little brookie and then I waded down into the head
of a long flat. To my right the branch of the River that had split
from the main stem by the balsams rejoined the flow. A cast at the
confluence and a nice brook trout of about 10" grabbed the swinging PT
and fought its way to my wader leg and was released. The next cast
brought in a slightly smaller fish. The cast after that, its twin was
landed. Eventually though the fish that were left spooked, the hits
stopped coming and I waded on.

The River flowed around a bend and I spooked a deer that was standing
in the shallows when I came around it. After that the bank to the left
gained a little elevation. There were pines, including a beautiful
large one, and balsams growing along the shore and up the hill beyond.
At the base of the hill spring seeps flowed into the River about
every 20 or so'. The water felt colder on my waders. It also gained
depth. I waded past an old canoe that someone had stashed on the bank
and entered a completely different world. The rock and gravel bottom
disappeared, to be replaced by a bottom of sand and even muck in a few
places. The flow became smooth and flat. The alders returned but they
kept far enough apart to allow casting. Finally I came to a place
where the water was a few inches from the top of my waist highs. The
bottom had the strange, springy feel that comes from springwater
flowing up under foot. I didn't know if I'd be able to go on, didn't
know what was ahead. But the water almost screamed fish, maybe big
fish. I tied on an old Herter streamer pattern, a Golden Sprat. It was
nothing more than a dozen squirrel tail hairs and a gold tinsel body.
Very, very sparse. I cast and the fly hadn't sunk an inch before there
was a boil and I was fast to a foot long brookie. I snubbed a couple
of runs and soon had it in my hand. The Sprat, which I had probably
tied 20+ years ago, was lodged firmly in its jaws. I worked the fly
free, released the olive and gold fish back into the water and cast
again. This time the fly moved about 10' and was hit by a smaller
fish. I carefully worked my way down further, feeling for the firmer
bottom through the soles of my boots. Eventually I reached shallower
water. But while casting to a hole my backcast snagged in the top of
an alder behind me. I gave a sharp tug hoping to free the streamer but
instead the tippet sprang back at me minus the golden fly. A quick
exam of the tippet showed the curlicued end that bespoke of a badly
tied knot. It was the only Sprat I had.

I tried a Spruce Fly streamer and then a small Woolly Bugger to no
avail. By then it was after noon and the blue morning sky had given
way to a high thin overcast. Deciding that the time was getting late I
turned and headed upstream. On a whim I had tied on a #12 Adams. And
almost immediately hooked a tiny brook trout. Another cast brought a
splashy rise and then I noticed a good sized mayfly struggling
downstream towards me. As it floated past I reached out and took the
fly from the water. It showed the mottled wings and stout body of a
Calibaetis dun. My serendipitous Adams was as good a match as any for
that particular bug and I kept my eyes peeled looking for more duns.
It proved to be the only one I saw all day.

But the Adams continued to take fish. Just before I got back to the
beached canoe I took an odd looking trout from under an alder bough.
Below its olive vermiculated back its flanks were metallic gold. And
instead of an spattering of blue haloed red spots like all the
previous brookies it had a straight line of fluorescent pink spots,
evenly spaced, down its flank. A striking fish. Just above the canoe,
near one of the spring seeps, I cast to a tag alder branch where I had
noticed a small riseform as I waded towards it. My Adams was hit on
the first cast. And again on the second. Neither fish was large but
when I cast again the fish that came up was considerably bigger, about
10 inches. The Adams was looking pretty sad. So I replaced it with a
Grey Quill that had a dun snowshoe hair downwing and a mixed
grizzly/brown Adams type hackle. The first cast with it hooked the
biggest fish of the day... from alongside the same alder branch. 13
inches of brook trout splashed its way across the River and into the
alders on the other side. But a little sideways pressure brought it
back into the open and a few moments later it was cradled in my hand.
It was almost in spawning colors, red belly and vibrant white edged
scarlet fins. A perfect fish. I sent it swimming and another cast to
the same alder brought another fish. Altogether eight fish came from
under that little inconspicuous clump of tag alders. I fished my way
past it, studying it closely and for the life of me I couldn't see
anything about it that set it off from the thousands of other alder
clumps I had already passed. But obviously there was something.

I soon re approached the confluence again. I cast the Grey Quill into
the chop and a fish took it. It fought hard, splashing and rolling all
the way to my feet. I reached down and lifted the 8 or 9 inch fish up
and saw with alarm the blood that stained my fingertips. The fish had
swallowed the Quill back into its gills and was already bleeding
heavily. I hurriedly reached for my clippers and snipped the tippet,
leaving the deeply lodged fly in the back of the trouts throat. I bent
over and held the fish facing upstream. It gave a convulsive wiggle
and shot from my hand but it left a small dark cloud of blood hanging
in the water where it had been. I tied on another Grey Quill and cast
over the riffle just above the confluence. A small brookie took it. As
I was releasing it I heard a splash along the bank to my left.
Thinking it was a bigger fish I was dismayed to see instead the slowly
waving form of the injured trout riding belly up, feebly trying to
right itself. I walked over to it and reached down into the tannin
stained water. At my touch the fish shot away only to turn belly up
again 5' away. Another touch and he feebly swam away and then turned
his stomach to the clouds again. Taking my net, I scooped him up. He
hardly resisted. A little blood still leaked from his gills. I was
left with a decision.

The River is heavily fished. I haven't killed and kept a trout there
for years, probably over a decade. But this fish was obviously dying.
It was a legal fish, over three reel widths (2 and 3/4 inch diameter
spool) long and the legal length being 8". Certainly his body would go
to feed all sorts of creatures if I let him drift downstream. But
instead I locked my thumb on the roof of his mouth and snapped his
neck (First checking to see if the fly was still there. It wasn't.)
Then, not having a creel (never having had one actually) I placed him
in my net bag and snapped it back onto the magnet on the back of my
vest. For today at least I was a meat fisherman.

I had come down the right hand channel. I decided to go up the left
one. It was smaller but seemed to have an adequate flow. Indeed, I
soon hooked and released several small trout in the first 100 yards of
the stem. But when I rounded the bend I found that it disappeared into
an almost solid wall of tag alders. But not wanting to turn back and
running low on time I parted the layer of alder stems and waded in.

It was tough going. Someone had been through the year before. There
were broken stubs hanging across the stream. I reeled all my line in
(fishing was out of the question) and pointing my rod ahead through
the gaps I fought my way forward. Finally I came to an impenetrable
wall of boughs and scrambled out of the ankle deep stream into the
surrounding brush. It was only barely easier. The ground was humped
and uneven. The understory (hell... it was all understory) a mix of
tag alders, river birch and chokecherries. I followed the stream until
I came to a spot where It branched again! I chose the bigger branch
and followed that, sometimes going back into the water, sometimes back
into the bankside undergrowth. It was claustrophobic. The air was
still and close, the strongish south wind being heard in the tree tops
but not felt. A couple times I was forced to my knees to crawl under
low limbs, my hands down among the nettles and cutgrass. Finally,
after crossing another tiny branching of the River, I came upon an
open area under the high bare branches of a grove of green ash. ( Ash
are very suspicious trees. Long after other trees have leafed out the
Ash holds back, remembering in its DNA the late frosts that haunt the
low areas that it grows in. By the end of June it will be in full
leaf, but now, on June 1st, it hedges its bets. Waits for a while
longer.) I followed a deer trail that wound through the grove and
then saw that I was finally coming to the balsam point where the River
had originally split. And now I could hear the stronger splashing and
gurgling of the bigger branch and then I was walking in the open
spaces under the tall firs. It was cooler there. The air had movement.
There were even a few lingering trilliums under the fir trees shade.
It was an easy stroll to the water, combing spiderwebs from my hat and
ears lobes as I went.

When I got to the bank I carefully climbed back down into the River.
Looking at my watch I saw that I had less than half an hour to get
back to my car. Wading upstream though I saw a small rise. Quickly
disengaging the Grey Quill from the hook keeper I sent a short cast
upstream and hooked a 6" brown. I fished my way quickly upstream then,
taking more trout, all brookies, mostly from where the faster water
slid beneath the bankside tag alders. Eventually I came to the high
bank that led up to the road to my car. A long straight stretch of
fast water flowed along side it. The watch said that I should be back
at the Subaru by now and packing up but instead I cast and hooked a
brook trout. "One more" I said to myself. And I cast, hooked, landed
and released one more.

I dipped the net and its dead trout in the River one last time then
scrambled up the bank. I hurried along the road, unlocked the car,
cased my rod and then backed up to the highway, still wearing my wet
waders. I made it back to Merrill just in time, only to find Mason had
been picked up by his older brother half an hour earlier. I drove
home, parked on the street and took my dead fish inside to show the
boys.

Its now after 11 pm. The youngest is asleep. The oldest is in his room
playing Playstation. When I began to write this my fingers still
glistened from the butter and fish oils from the fried brookie. A
glass of Molson sat beside the keyboard, sweating in the June
evening's humidity.The glass is empty now, the taste of brook trout
only a faint specter on the back of my tongue. Tomorrow is supposed to
be warmer, the tag alder jungle will be even more cloistered, the air
stuffier and more still. The mayflies and caddis will be hatching and
the trout (minus one) will be feeding. I'll be working on the house,
getting ready for my son's graduation and the impending invasion of
family over the weekend. Tomorrow is predicted to be dry but rain is
coming, they say, this weekend.


http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi...ishbrookie.jpg

hth

g.c.

On Thu, 02 Jun 2005 00:39:13 -0500, George Cleveland
wrote:

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi...itclosedin.jpg

My son Sam's graduation and party are this weekend. So I got an
extended kitchen pass for the day to go fishing before we enter
entertaining mode.
(snipped)

Sam's that old already? Wow.

Nice TR, george.

Cyli
r.bc: vixen. Minnow goddess. Speaker to squirrels.
Often taunted by trout. Almost entirely harmless.

http://www.visi.com/~cyli
email: lid (strip the .invalid to email)

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi...beforeitclosed
in.jpg

My son Sam's graduation and party are this weekend. So I got an
extended kitchen pass for the day to go fishing before we enter
entertaining mode.

(TR snipped)
g.c.

Hi George,
Thanks for the entertaining venture. Made my morning.
BestWishes,
DaveMohnsen
(now looking up a Golden Sprat thingee)

George Cleveland wrote:
snipped great TR
On a whim I had tied on a #12 Adams. And
almost immediately hooked a tiny brook trout. Another cast brought a
splashy rise and then I noticed a good sized mayfly struggling
downstream towards me. As it floated past I reached out and took the
fly from the water. It showed the mottled wings and stout body of a
Calibaetis dun. My serendipitous Adams was as good a match as any for
that particular bug and I kept my eyes peeled looking for more duns.
It proved to be the only one I saw all day.... But the Adams continued
to
take fish.

Of all the dry flies in my box, I know I've taken more fish on an Adams
than any other. It's a great "go to" fly when I'm not getting takes on
other flies. Recently, I've taken to using the parachute more than the
original tie, but either works wonders.

Very nice TR once again, George. I really enjoy the detail in your
reports - makes me feel like I'm walking along beside you.
--
TL,
Tim
------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...

...there was a stretch of the River that I had never fished...

Nice report. Astonishing revelation. I'd have thought you every rock in
the River by its first name.

Wolfgang

On Thu, 2 Jun 2005 08:21:08 -0500, "Wolfgang"
wrote:


"George Cleveland" wrote in message
.. .

...there was a stretch of the River that I had never fished...

Nice report. Astonishing revelation. I'd have thought you every rock in
the River by its first name.

Wolfgang



A person gets into a rut I suppose. Also I had looked back into the
tangle before and decided against it.


Geo.

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...
http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi...itclosedin.jpg

//great TR snipped//
Tomorrow is supposed to
be warmer, the tag alder jungle will be even more cloistered, the air
stuffier and more still. The mayflies and caddis will be hatching and
the trout (minus one) will be feeding. I'll be working on the house,
getting ready for my son's graduation and the impending invasion of
family over the weekend. Tomorrow is predicted to be dry but rain is
coming, they say, this weekend.


http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi...ishbrookie.jpg


That was delightful. I've gotta figure out a way to fish with you one of
these days.

Bob
Another guy living in the midwest, spending way the hell too much time
delighting stockholders . . .