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

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 old timers.
That after decades of fly fishing we attain an almost Zen state, nobly
forsaking the ambition that the young ones have for big fish and
constant action for an enlightened state of mind where the journey,
not the goal, becomes important. Yoda-like, we are supposed to have
forsaken the faults of mere mortal fly fishermen and virtually hover
over the water, suspended by our own quasi-sainthood.

Bull****.

If we have gained anything it is the knowledge that nothing lasts
forever. Fishless days will be followed by fish-filled ones. Low, warm
streams will become cold and bank filled again. But it doesn't mean
that we old farts still don't desire. We, at least most of us, aren't
Buddhists. My year has had lots of fish but few bigger ones. And the
combination of hot sticky waders, the cloud of deer flies buzzing
around my hat and the slow fishing had awoken the desire in me for a
big fish. A miracle. But miracles are not something you can put an
order in for. They come unexpected, undeserved. And while I certainly
didn't deserve one, I was still calling for one. But, in Absolute
Justice, one did not come.

I fished up through the new improvements, mentally and unfairly
criticizing the sameness of there run, bed, bend, run repetitions.
They are too young to have grown any trees or shrubs and looked as
artificial as they are. But of course they are a vast improvement on
the stripped out river bed they replaced, themselves an artifice of
the old log drives of the early last century. When I left the new
improvements and approached the big spring hole I realized with a
start that this was improved water too. It was very similar to the new
stuff but from the size of the trees growing on them, decades old.

When I reached the slot and the spring hole I eased into the water. I
cast the Parachute Adams I had been using up into the slot and let it
drift back to me. Nothing. I then tied on a heavy Turkey Leech and
cast and let it sink. On one retrieve I felt it hesitate and I struck
and a big slab of bark rose up through the water, my fly firmly hooked
to it. When I first had stepped into the edge of the pool its coolness
was very apparent. But after standing in it for ten minutes I realized
that my legs weren't just comfortable but uncomfortably cold. The
water couldn't have been above 50 degrees, most probably colder. Good
lord, my legs were getting numb. After a few more fishless casts, I
stepped from the icy water and portaged around the hole again. I
re-entered the water and fished up to the gate and ford, with only
chubs and shiners to show for my effort.

Now a choice. I could continue wading up through the dead water of the
early afternoon or I could haul out and walk along the edge of the
huge hayfield and make my way back to the car in a fraction of the
time. Technically I'd be trespassing.

I was a great trespasser in my youth, fishing and grousing my way
along the river bottom that ran through our farm and through the cow
pastures and woods below for miles. But of course, trespassing was
seen differently in those days, both culturally and legally. Legally,
signs were required at minimum distances, on posted lands. Lands
without the required signage were open. Now days that is stood on its
head, with signs only required where private land adjoins public.
Everything else is legally closed. And I've also become culturally
attuned to the new views on trespass. I almost always stay in the
water, with my feet wet. I actually feel guilty if I have to get out
to pee on someone's unwatched back forty. But since I had already
fallen into the sin of desire, what matter the additional sin of
trespass. I clambered up the lane and started walking along the
field's margin, following the River upstream.

In hindsight I think it was the right decision. With the river flowing
to my left beyond a narrow strip of trees, each step brought a release
of tension and a partial dismantling of desire. I began to notice
things. The torn up ant mound that indicated a hungry bear. The
blueberry bushes with the bell-like flowers that occupied the sunlit
edge of the woods. When I reached the end of the field, where the
trail continued through the woods I looked back over that sandy,
infertile hayfield. I felt a little better. Not a miracle perhaps but
a benediction. Instead of stepping back into the River I continued my
trespass up into the woods. Soon I entered the section of old cedars.
Here a tiny stream, stained the color of strong coffee, wound through
the woods to enter the river below. There a small pile of bones spoke
of some unseen tragedy/bounty for the animals involved. Then I came to
the No Trespassing signs.

Just ahead I could see were the trail entered another big clearing.
The signs had made me hesitant. I had almost stepped back into the
trees, to be a trespasser still, but at least a hidden one. But I knew
the crossing to the parking lot was close and I wanted to get to
better water before evening closed in. I skirted the opening and
started down the trail to the River when I met another person.

At first I mistook the look on his face as anger. Here I thought was
the Owner, justifiably unhappy to find the angler casually ignoring
his Rights. But on closer look, the face had the appearance of
sheepishness and the fly rod and waders with the conservation
organization patch sewed to his vest made me realize I'd probably met
another brother of the angle and probably another person who wasn't
sure of the path he was walking. He asked me if I had come from
upstream or down. I replied from downstream and had not been through
most of the water for hours. Hatches? None to speak of. Fish? Just
little ones and the brief encounter with the brown. We wished each
other a wary good bye.

I crossed the River and walked up to the parking lot. The once empty
spaces were now occupied by two trucks, one small and old, one big
shiny and new. I slipped the bamboo through the back gate of the
wagon, took off my vest and got inside and drove off. I was looking
for redemption of some sort before the days fishing ended.

(To Be Continued)


g.c.

On Sat, 02 Jun 2007 16:38:31 -0500, George Cleveland
wrote:
[...]

Do with me what you will, I'm hooked.

/daytripper (just be gentle, that's all ;-)

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 ...

read more »

Wow. Layers and layers...

--riverman

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
news

(To Be Continued)

Best news we've heard here lately.

Excellent stuff, George.

Wolfgang

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 old timers.
That after decades of fly fishing we attain an almost Zen state, nobly
forsaking the ambition that the young ones have for big fish and
constant action for an enlightened state of mind where the journey,
not the goal, becomes important. Yoda-like, we are supposed to have
forsaken the faults of mere mortal fly fishermen and virtually hover
over the water, suspended by our own quasi-sainthood.

Bull****.

If we have gained anything it is the knowledge that nothing lasts
forever. Fishless days will be followed by fish-filled ones. Low, warm
streams will become cold and bank filled again. But it doesn't mean
that we old farts still don't desire. We, at least most of us, aren't
Buddhists. My year has had lots of fish but few bigger ones. And the
combination of hot sticky waders, the cloud of deer flies buzzing
around my hat and the slow fishing had awoken the desire in me for a
big fish. A miracle. But miracles are not something you can put an
order in for. They come unexpected, undeserved. And while I certainly
didn't deserve one, I was still calling for one. But, in Absolute
Justice, one did not come.

I fished up through the new improvements, mentally and unfairly
criticizing the sameness of there run, bed, bend, run repetitions.
They are too young to have grown any trees or shrubs and looked as
artificial as they are. But of course they are a vast improvement on
the stripped out river bed they replaced, themselves an artifice of
the old log drives of the early last century. When I left the new
improvements and approached the big spring hole I realized with a
start that this was improved water too. It was very similar to the new
stuff but from the size of the trees growing on them, decades old.

When I reached the slot and the spring hole I eased into the water. I
cast the Parachute Adams I had been using up into the slot and let it
drift back to me. Nothing. I then tied on a heavy Turkey Leech and
cast and let it sink. On one retrieve I felt it hesitate and I struck
and a big slab of bark rose up through the water, my fly firmly hooked
to it. When I first had stepped into the edge of the pool its coolness
was very apparent. But after standing in it for ten minutes I realized
that my legs weren't just comfortable but uncomfortably cold. The
water couldn't have been above 50 degrees, most probably colder. Good
lord, my legs were getting numb. After a few more fishless casts, I
stepped from the icy water and portaged around the hole again. I
re-entered the water and fished up to the gate and ford, with only
chubs and shiners to show for my effort.

Now a choice. I could continue wading up through the dead water of the
early afternoon or I could haul out and walk along the edge of the
huge hayfield and make my way back to the car in a fraction of the
time. Technically I'd be trespassing.

I was a great trespasser in my youth, fishing and grousing my way
along the river bottom that ran through our farm and through the cow
pastures and woods below for miles. But of course, trespassing was
seen differently in those days, both culturally and legally. Legally,
signs were required at minimum distances, on posted lands. Lands
without the required signage were open. Now days that is stood on its
head, with signs only required where private land adjoins public.
Everything else is legally closed. And I've also become culturally
attuned to the new views on trespass. I almost always stay in the
water, with my feet wet. I actually feel guilty if I have to get out
to pee on someone's unwatched back forty. But since I had already
fallen into the sin of desire, what matter the additional sin of
trespass. I clambered up the lane and started walking along the
field's margin, following the River upstream.

In hindsight I think it was the right decision. With the river flowing
to my left beyond a narrow strip of trees, each step brought a release
of tension and a partial dismantling of desire. I began to notice
things. The torn up ant mound that indicated a hungry bear. The
blueberry bushes with the bell-like flowers that occupied the sunlit
edge of the woods. When I reached the end of the field, where the
trail continued through the woods I looked back over that sandy,
infertile hayfield. I felt a little better. Not a miracle perhaps but
a benediction. Instead of stepping back into the River I continued my
trespass up into the woods. Soon I entered the section of old cedars.
Here a tiny stream, stained the color of strong coffee, wound through
the woods to enter the river below. There a small pile of bones spoke
of some unseen tragedy/bounty for the animals involved. Then I came to
the No Trespassing signs.

Just ahead I could see were the trail entered another big clearing.
The signs had made me hesitant. I had almost stepped back into the
trees, to be a trespasser still, but at least a hidden one. But I knew
the crossing to the parking lot was close and I wanted to get to
better water before evening closed in. I skirted the opening and
started down the trail to the River when I met another person.

At first I mistook the look on his face as anger. Here I thought was
the Owner, justifiably unhappy to find the angler casually ignoring
his Rights. But on closer look, the face had the appearance of
sheepishness and the fly rod and waders with the conservation
organization patch sewed to his vest made me realize I'd probably met
another brother of the angle and probably another person who wasn't
sure of the path he was walking. He asked me if I had come from
upstream or down. I replied from downstream and had not been through
most of the water for hours. Hatches? None to speak of. Fish? Just
little ones and the brief encounter with the brown. We wished each
other a wary good bye.

I crossed the River and walked up to the parking lot. The once empty
spaces were now occupied by two trucks, one small and old, one big
shiny and new. I slipped the bamboo through the back gate of the
wagon, took off my vest and got inside and drove off. I was looking
for redemption of some sort before the days fishing ended.

(To Be Continued)


g.c.


Way, way above my utterings, but I'm youthful enough to dream...........
Wonderful stuff, this. Pray, do continue.

Tom

On 2-Jun-2007, 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...

Great stuff!
Pls continue

Thanks
Fred

George Cleveland typed:
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.

snipped excellent Part 1
I have nothing to add to what others have said, but if I don't post
something I could be severely chastised for not appreciating on-topic fly
fishing content on roff. ;-)

Waiting for Part 2. . .
--
TL,
Tim
-------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

On Mon, 4 Jun 2007 16:43:21 -0400, "Tim J."
wrote:

George Cleveland typed:
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.

snipped excellent Part 1
I have nothing to add to what others have said, but if I don't post
something I could be severely chastised for not appreciating on-topic fly
fishing content on roff. ;-)

Waiting for Part 2. . .
Its partially done but I won't be posting it until tomorrow evening.
Work. Need I say more.


g.c.

George Cleveland typed:
On Mon, 4 Jun 2007 16:43:21 -0400, "Tim J."
wrote:

George Cleveland typed:
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.

snipped excellent Part 1
I have nothing to add to what others have said, but if I don't post
something I could be severely chastised for not appreciating
on-topic fly fishing content on roff. ;-)

Waiting for Part 2. . .
Its partially done but I won't be posting it until tomorrow evening.
Work. Need I say more.

Heck - it took me two days to get around to reading it, and I had to wait to
get back to work to do it. Staining the deck. Need I say more? ;-)
--
TL,
Tim
-------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

"Tim J." wrote in message
...
George Cleveland typed:
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.

snipped excellent Part 1
I have nothing to add to what others have said, but if I don't post
something I could be severely chastised for not appreciating on-topic fly
fishing content on roff. ;-)

We know where your children go to school. Behave yourself or we will give
them your address.....and your credit card numbers.

Waiting for Part 2. . .

There, that wasn't so hard, was it?

Wolfgang
who knows that the stick first, THEN the carrot, works better than the other
way around.