Small Stream TR

Hello,

I have been lurking for a while and really enjoy the Trip reports I
read. It really helps get me through the day sitting in the cubicle.
So in that vein, I have decided to add to the pot of trip reports. I
live in Northern Utah with plenty of streams and rivers around to fish.
Today's report comes from a little river (a creek really) that I
fished just two weeks ago. The browns are starting to stage and I am
after the 26 incher I lost last year.

Lost Creek

Expectation ran high in the car. My cousin had a new fly rod that
needed bending, and I needed a break from finishing the basement. A
few calls, some pleading with the wife, and I grab my gear and go. Our
goal was to hit the Weber and tangle with the browns and whitefish.
Any bend in the rod is better than a bend in my back. Up the canyon
the low water level on the Web was exciting. Runs that were long
hidden with spring and summer irrigation were exposed, the river begged
us to fish it.

Excitement increased as we continued up the canyon to the pylons. This
hole held incredible amounts of fish (both whitefish and browns) and
sat right under the railroad bridge. It was big enough for two people
to hit without fencing or tangling lines. Our hearts sank like a
stone when we exited the car and saw a high muddy current. The hole
was blown and to dangerous to get to. I love to fish, but I love my
family more and decide not to chance it. Two options, one, run back
down the canyon and waste precious time, or two, hit Lost creek.

Lost creek is a gem. Clear as gin and tough to fish. The only public
part runs along the road by a cement plant and it gets hit hard. The
fish are spooky and the banks are choked with brush. This is a very
technical stream and my cousin casts like he is beating the fish into
submission instead of offering them treats. But, I am on the river and
not in the basement so I rig up with a size 18 beadhead pheasant tail
and head up stream, while I send him down.

Twilight is a great time to be on the river. The sun was down and the
small browns splashed the water trying to get the caddis as they left.
I was temped to retie an x-caddis, but with the waning light thought
better of it and started slinging. I love the first cast. The
anticipation of the getting the first fish is so exicting, I shake.
After about 10 casts in a small run with no takers, I look up stream to
see rises everywhere. I sneak up and cast again. Within 4 feet, the
strike indicator moves and I set the hook. My small 4 wt bends and I
smile. The brown puts on a great display, jumping and running,
flashing his bright orange belly at me. I take my time and finally get
him to hand. The water rolls off the 10 inch ruby spotted brown like
diamonds. I admire him for a few seconds, and release him. I see him
dart back to his lie and start feeding again.

Another 10 feet up the river and another brown. This one was pale and
looked like a washed out rainbow, not a pretty as his brother, but
still better than nothing. I hear splashing behind me as my cousin
comes up river. He has spent 30 minutes beating the river to a froth
without anything to show. He comes up and asks how the fishing is. I
lie. I don't know why I do it. Is it to spare his feelings? Am I
selfish? I don't know. I do know that I wanted to be alone for a
while longer without having to share the fish. Then I am ashamed that
I feel this way. These sudden impulses of selfishness drag me down. I
should be enjoying the company not worrying about the fish.

I tell him to cast through my honey hole as I watch. I try to offer
some hints, but I can see the fish scatter every time the line lands
like a log on the water. After five or six casts, he declares the hole
empty and is ready to move on. I can still see the 16 inch brown in
the hole and I am tempted to cast, but a penance for my selfishness I
move on and vow to come back and get him again.

We continue to move up. I cast at each hole while my cousin offers his
flies to the trees. It is humerous to watch him fight the trees
instead of fighing fish. As with all fisherman, his next cast is a
thing of beauty and lands softly on the water. His strike indicator,
the size of a small chicken, twitches. Two seconds later he sets the
hook suprised that he missed. Again, I said nothing hoping he will get
it. I ask for the next hole, the dark is encroaching fast and I want
to try one more before we go.

I wade up river and wait for my cousin to get on the side so I can
cast, and I lay out 30 feet into the river. I strip the line, tense,
coiled to spring at the smallest take. Each cast my small indicator
gets harder to see. I know there is a fish in the riffle up a head and
I want him. On what seem like the 1000th cast, my indicator pauses and
I set the hook. My line heads up stream slicing through the water.
The fight is on.

I walk up stream for a little putting pressure on the fish trying to
coax him back. After a few more minutes he turns and heads down
stream. I follow with a stupid grin on my face. This fish means
business. With the darkness now firmly set, it is hard to see the
river bottom. Rocks jump under my feet trying to trip me. The river
switches current trying to throw me off enough to get its fish back. I
keep fighing the fish and the river until the river has had enough and
offers me the fish. I bring it to net, and my cousin who has been
hooping and hollaring the whole time is eager to help and tries to net
the fish. With a sickening snap, my leader breaks and the fish is
gone.

Was it a catch? Tecnically, but this was brute for this river and I
wanted to hold it. With a cheesy grin my cousin looks up and
apologises. This is not the first fish I have lost this way. The fire
that begins to rage is quickly diminished as he relives the exictment
of the battle. So I realize that it was fun and I realize that the
best way to ruin a nice outing is to feel the way I did tonight.

This fly fishing trip is not about me, it was about the time we had,
the time to view nature, drink in the beauty of a small ruby encrusted
10 inch brown. To sit back and admire someone trying the damnest to
catch a fish and try to learn how to fish. About the unbridaled
enthusiasm of the battle, and the simple joy of holding one of nature's
most beautiful creation.

Shame on me for overlooking what fishing is about. I learned a lesson
that day, and I hope that I can learn from it.

John