An Old Man and the River (Part 1) (Long. Very, very long)

On Jun 3, 5:38 am, George Cleveland
wrote:
I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot. My intention was to
fish a stretch of water that I'd never cast to in the 20 years I've
lived here. Even though the temp was pushing 80 I was hoping that the
springs that fed this part of the river, upstream from the put-in,
would make the water trout friendly.

Waders, boots, vest, rod. The preparatory ritual which I had
unfamiliarly stumbled though just a few weeks ago was now an easy
routine. In less than 5 minutes I was splashing through the mud
puddles to the River.

The River near the put-in is broad and shallow. Its fringed by alders,
the current is so slack that water lilies grow along its edges in
spots. Easing into the water I headed off downstream. I had tied on a
small Pass Lake but didn't even bother casting. To my left lay a
hillside, darkly covered with old cedars. The deeply shadowed ground
beneath free of any undergrowth. To my right was a lowland forest of
ash and balsam with a pasture stretching beyond that.

I moved fast, only occasionally casting to spots where spring seeps
could be seen bleeding into the River. There were no rises and the
only bug I saw on the shin deep water was a Callibaetis dun that
floated past me and continued on, undisturbed for another 10 yards.
Then it fluttered its wings and flew off into the alders.

I came to a small riffle. This had been the limit of my experience on
this stretch. I had taken numerous small brookies from this patch of
rock, gravel and current a few years ago. Today my fly drifted
unmolested through the choppy water. Finally there was a small splash
and a tiny brook trout flopped its way to my hand. He was cool in my
grasp but not cold. I wondered if I should be fishing at all. My
thermometer had smashed itself against a rock on a previous trip and I
hadn't replaced it. The influence of the upstream springs was muted
here. And the broad flats were warming under the wan sunlight that
filtered through the high clouds. But for all I knew the unexplored
river below was laced with springs and bouldery runs. And the fish
would be lying there, waiting to feed on the early June plenty of
mayflies and caddis. So dragged on by hope I wallowed off downstream.

But around the next bend the river continued on the same, 20 to 30
yards wide, slowly currented. And though I was casting with more
frequency nothing came to my fly. Another bend and another flat
stretch revealed itself. What would this stream be like with the aid
of the DNR's backhoe and boulders? It certainly needed some care, some
amelioration. Now it was little more than a heat sink in a generally
bountiful river. But that would require money and a willing landowner.
Those were not always easy to find.

I came around another bend and before me was a cattle guard, a small
enclosure that allowed the pastured cows a place to drink without
wandering off up the river, fancy free. Just above it an alder branch
jutted out in a miniature wing dam and the rings of a rise were fading
away when I looked at it. A cast brought a small brook trout to hand.
As did the next. There were a few more splashes at my drifting fly and
then a big chub was flopping at the end of my leader. It was dressed
in an orange coat of chubbish mating splendor and wearing the knobby
protuberances on its brow that appropriately spoke of its horniness. A
pretty fish, if pretty can be applied by a troutman to a fish that had
disturbed his work with his prey. But I sent it, almost heedlessly
back into the water and then proceeded to catch its lesser bretheren
from the same spot.

Below the cattle guard there was a riffle but, except for a few more
chubs and shiners, no more fish took my fly. On the bank opposite the
cattle guard there was a well worn path leading up from the water. The
distinctive prints of wading boots marked the mud at its foot and I
walked up it to where it ended at the edge of a broad field, many
acres in extent. To my left the path continued into the forest, being
an obvious leapfrog of all the shallow water I had spent the last hour
futily fishing through. To my right the field stretched for many
hundreds of yards. At its far verge I could faintly see a red coated
deer, swishing its short tail at flies, feeding on the poor excuse for
a hayfield that the opening represented.

I returned to the water. I hoped that the riffle at the guard promised
more interesting water below but it resumed its character from before.
I may have caught one or two small trout but the memory of them was
lost in the growing sense of despair I was feeling. It is rare... very
rare, that I ever feel a day on the River is wasted. But all the
unproductive, no...thats not strong enough.... "anti-productive",
water I was fishing was oppressing me. Even the splash of a deer who
had entered the water above me failed to lift my spirits. I had heard
the disturbance and had turned, hoping to see the rings of a big
feeding fish, but instead there stood a doe. She stood there in
mid-stream. Her tail fluttered ineffectually at offending deerflies.
She ignored my whistle and then only noticed me when I finally yelled
"Hey! Deer!". Even then she showed only modest surprise and strolled
to the opposite bank to disappear in the bankside vegetation, instead
of making the leaping, splashing escape I had expected.

I came to another cattle guard. This one was flanked by a gate and
lane that led down to the where the tractors and machinery forded the
river to get at the huge hayfield opposite. I took a small trout in
the fast water below and was relieved to see the River's character
finally seemed to be changing It narrowed and deepened slightly. It
was overhung by trees and the spiderwebs were festooned with bright
green midges and the dessicated bodies of a few Sulphur mayflies. I
fished my way downstream, doing no better than above, when I came to a
hole. The water crept higher on my wading torso and the river squeezed
through a slot framed by overhanging tag alders, stretching out from
both banks. I cast repeatedly and let my fly drift through the slot. I
then stripped it back upstream under the branches. But there were no
takers.

I hauled out to my left into another hillside covered by dense woods
but this one was mostly gray trunked hemlocks. The forest floor was
open and uncluttered, the remains of an old barbed wire fence
threading its way through it, its posts rotten and fallen over. I
returned to the River after my short portage and cast upstream towards
the slot. Again no takers. But the River continued on downstream
through bends and trees.

When I came around one bend sudenly I was confronted by the evidence
of recent stream work. The River had been forced into a meandering
path. The backhoes had taken what had obviously been another long
shallow stretch and turned it into a series of deep glides and sharp,
deep bends. Big boulders had been placed in the stream bed. Behind the
berms of gravel were small ponds where the old river bed had spread.
Some were stagnant looking but others showed the characteristic flora
of other northern spring ponds I'd seen. I had no doubt that there was
cold water at the bottom of them. But despite the improved character
of the stream my slow catching continued. At one spot, as my fly swung
through the eddy behind a DNR boulder, I felt a tug and snugged up on
a considerable force. I fat brown of about a foot flew out of the
water, shaking its head and throwing the hook. I fished the rest of
the re-worked River more carefully, but nothing else interrupted my
casting.

When I saw the cabin I was surprised. I suddenly knew where I was. I
had come farther than I expected. I was familiar with the faster,
riffly water below the cabin and as I expected I began to pick up
trout regularly. Small brook trout, they pounced eagerly on whatever I
cast to them. Normally, I find this type of fishing immensely
satisfying. But the funk I'd fallen into from the earlier wasn't
lifting and I was also confronted by decision of what to do with the
rest of my day. I could fish my way down to the bridge that lay not
far below and then remove my waders and walk the several roads back to
my car. Or I could turn about and fish my way back through all the
water I'd already come through. For reasons I only barely
comprehended, I turned to retrace my steps.

It really made no sense. It was getting late, about 6 p.m.. I wanted
to try some other, more productive water, in hope of catching the
Sulphur spinner fall. I was still in a sour mood. Maybe walking out to
the road, shedding my waders to save wear and tear on the inseam, and
walking the round about 3 miles back to my car seemed too much like
surrender. Maybe I hoped to run across a emergence in the improved
water, revealing that each installed boulder hid a fat trout like the
one i had so briefly connected with earlier. Maybe I'm just a stubborn
old man. For whatever reason I turned and carelessly fished my way
upstream.

I'm still a little unfamiliarly with the bamboo rod I'm using much of
the time now. When my timing is right, when I don't push it too hard,
it is a fantastic casting appliance. But when I rush or, especially,
try to push it hard on a distance cast, I have trouble. My stiff
graphite rods forgive the misapplication of power I put on them. When
I apply power in the middle of my cast instead of at the end, their
structural characteristics save me and I end up throwing loops that
close but usually don't collapse into full blown tailing loops. But
the little golden rod I was fishing with yesterday demanded more from
me, more than I had to give in my foul state of mind. I was fishing
fast upstream, making long casts to a few select targets (and catching
no fish). And all to often on those longer casts I'd mis-time and
throw prodigious tailing loops, my fly line doubling and sometimes
tripling over itself. My fault, all my fault. But frustrating all the
same.

There is an unspoken (and sometimes spoken) myth about us ...

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Wow. Layers and layers...

--riverman