July 5Th Trip Report

I set the clock the night of the 4th for precisely 4:45 the next
morning. I planned on taking advantage of the predicted overnight 40
degree lows and hit the "Mayfly" (my somewhat pretentious pseudonym
for a small river about 20 miles from Merrill) at about the same time
as the first rays of sunlight did.

At 6:30 I opened my eyes. The sun was shining through our bedroom
window. A quick oath and I was out of bed. I stumbled downstairs, made
a pot of coffee, gathered up my stuff, packed the back of the station
wagon, poured a travel cup full of too hot to drink java and pulled
out of the driveway at 6:45. I in and outed the Holiday to pick up a
couple of Krispy Kremes and headed in the direction of the river.

With the very low water I thought I'd hit the 'Fly a little farther
up stream than I usually fish it. Searching my memory I realized that
I hadn't been that far upstream in years, decades actually. When I
pulled up to the bridge a peaked over the edge the water was
depressingly low. But I quickly suited up and unsheathed the little
Daiwa 4 wt, tied on a new tippet, the last bit on my 5x spool (had a
spare in my vest) and tied a Pass Lake to the end of that. I didn't
tie on a different pattern the rest of the day.

I waded through the shallow water below the bridge. The stream took a
little jog to the left and then... disappeared. Well actually it split
into several smaller streams and they flowed through what was once a
riffle with some tiny islets, except now the islets were clothed in 5
foot high grass. Before I entered the mini-jungle I seriously thought
of turning back and fishing the more open water downstream. But I
didn't and pushed my way through. On the other side the stream
regrouped and continued on through a tangle of alders. At the end of
the alders was a riffle. I cast the Pass Lake into the riffles foot
and immediately hooked a smallish brookie. That was a pleasant
surprise.

The pool below the riffle was shaded by tall maples and hemlock. To
my right I noticed a spring seep entering the water. I took out my
little thermometer, immersed it and read with some surprise the number
53. That was the coolest water I'd fished in over a month and a half.
I continued down the shaded stretch of stream. I picked up an
occasional trout, all small, but fishing wasn't very fast. Below one
riffle the bottom of the stream dropped out. The shin deep water was
suddenly flirting with the top of my waist highs. I scooted over to
the east shore and threw a few casts through the deep water. Nothing.

I kept on, wading the increasing volume of the little river. When I
came to where the water left the big trees and into the sunlight I
again found myself threading through an alder tunnel but now the water
was knee deep instead of ankle deep. And when the water broke out of
the tunnel I was presented with the first stretch of long flat water
which I remembered as being typical of this part of the river. Twenty
years ago I had waded through these areas thinking that they were
lifeless, but now with eyes that had seen a bit more and a brain that
had absorbed at least a bit of what it had been exposed to I realized
that this stretch of "dead" water was in fact edged on the western
shore for a hundred yards or so with springs seeping up from the
bottom. And, sure enough, the water, even here in the full sun, was
still in the middle fifties. But, for all this cool water, I hadn't
seen any fish rise at all. Finally I picked out a rise form about a
hundred feet below me.

The water there was pinched slightly by a tangle of small tree trunks
sticking out into the current. Any food would be directed out into
midstream. And thats where the fish were. The biggest was closest to
cover but his smaller compatriots were lined up along side him. The
big one (all of 9inches) and three of his fellows all fell to the Pass
Lake.

After that the long flat continued. Occasionally I'd see a riser just
off the drooping tag alders. If I could cast and accurately place the
fly from 40 feet out I caught the fish. Any closer and they
disappeared back into the shade of the overhanging brush.

Finally the flat stretch ended. Another short tunnel was followed by
a sunny riffle. And dancing over the riffle was a shimmering cloud of
tiny mayflies. I few grabs and I had one wiggling in my palm. A tiny,
squat dark body supported a pair of clear wings. It would have fit on
a size 26 hook. It looked like a trico to me, albeit smaller than the
ones back home on the River. There were a few fish rising at the foot
of the riffle and keeping with my feelings on tricos they both hit the
#14 Pass Lake.

I continued on down the river. Each stretch of riffled water had its
own cloud of mayflies. Most had a fish or two rising at its foot. I
hit another stretch of flat water, but this one lacked the fringe of
duckweed that marked the first and the water did look dead. After that
I came near to water I'd fished in the recent past. I passed the mouth
of a feeder stream.

This is the same stream that had been the sight of my pursuit by the
"Thing" a few years ago. The "Thing", after a vague glimpse of a pale
long face, fifty feet away in the alders, had been a mostly formless
crashing and splashing to my side and behind me, as I waded , then
high-stepped my way through the May dark, back to my car at the
bridge. Even in the bright light of a 10 a.m. July sky, the memory
raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I hurried past.

Now I was in more familiar waters. The tricos were falling and fish
were rising more freely. I picked off a few at the foot of one riffle.
And at the next I looked at the swarm and noticed that these bugs
looked different. After a couple more swipes I had the bug in my hand.
It was a light olive thing, about size 20, with wings a cloudy bluish
tinge.

The next pool was nipped in the middle by a small, alder capped
peninsula. Below that, there were small dimples and rises. Shiners,
was my first thought. But the set up was a perfect ambush spot... both
for the fish, who had food funneled to them and to me, who could stand
behind the out-jutting vegetation and cast side arm into the pod of
feeding fish below me. The first cast brought a delicate rise and then
my tippet was racing through the water attached to the mouth of an 11
inch brook trout. All the other "shiners" proved to be covered with
red and blue spots and had orange edged fins. I caught 3 "keepers" (9
inches on this stream) in my first four casts and probably took over a
dozen from this one spot in the next 15 minutes. This seemingly
featureless pool did reveal one aspect of its fishiness when I finally
waded through it and felt the gravelly bottom soften up below my boot
soles, revealing the strong spring flow streaming up through the
substrate. A quick check of the thermometer showed 56 on the digital
face.

I was now approaching the next bridge down from my car. I took a
handful of fish from a run just above an old log cottage that I had
always admired. Then I arrived at the bridge.

This place had achieved some notoriety as the spot in which the body
of an old farm woman had been discovered about 20 years ago. Her
whole family had been murdered and left at the farm. But she was
unaccounted for until her animal chewed remains were discovered strewn
about the adjoining marshland. A gruesome reminder of the terrible
depths that the human psyche can fall to.

I fished a short stretch below the bridge, but the water here is a
favorite to the locals, and except for a few tiny brook trout only an
assortment of fat, gulping chubs came to hand. Then the light, which
had been only broken by the occasional passing cumulus cloud, took on
a flatness that made me look up. A wall of dark gray clouds was moving
swiftly down from the north and soon I was in the midst of a hard
shower. I pulled my rain jacket from the back pocket of my vest and
pulled it over my already wet nylon shirt. I waded back to the bridge.
In a break in the rain I noticed some rises in the sheltered area
under the span and took a few cracks at the riser, putting sidearm
propelled Pass Lakes near the pylons. A couple of nice brookies
rewarded my efforts but soon an increase in the rain made me take
cover under the bridge also and the fish were put down.

As quickly as it started the rain quit. I was left with a choice.
The river flowed diagonally between the two bridges and was
undoubtedly the shortest way back. But even though the roads would be
close to twice as far I knew that the current and the irresistible
urge to fish would make the roads much faster than the stream. And I
felt that I was skirting dangerously close to the 12 o'clock time I
had set for my homecoming. So I started back on the rain soaked gravel
road. After a mile and a half I came to the bridge where I had
gratefully found my parked car a couple years past, next to "Thing"
creek. And another mile or so later I finally made it back to the
bridge on the main river. I passed my parked car and again peered over
the railings.

The water below looked thin and stagnant. A quick scramble down the
bridge edge rip rap had me dipping my thermometer into the noticeably
warmer water. 67 degrees. Still not bad for a shallow stream in July
but a far cry from the 59 degrees that my thermometer had registered a
mile and a half downstream and 45 minutes ago. I looked up and a red
deer was standing 50 feet upstream from me. I whistled and she turned
her head. I snorted and she clattered across the shallow water,
followed closely by a gangly fawn, spots already growing dim. A late
summer fawn for sure. And a late summer stream also. I unsuited and
de-geared at the car. When I slipped into the seat and powered her up,
the car's clock showed 1:45. More than a little late. And it occurred
to me that Time had been my partner on this little trip, both measured
in hours and minutes and in years and decades.

A few hours later, as I was sitting and resting on the couch, at
precisely 4:45... p.m. ... my alarm went off.


GeoC

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...
I set the clock the night of the 4th for precisely 4:45 the next
morning....

Excellent stuff, George, made all the better for me by having fished some of
the same waters in your company.

Wolfgang

George Cleveland typed:
I set the clock the night of the 4th for precisely 4:45 the next
morning.
snip
A few hours later, as I was sitting and resting on the couch, at
precisely 4:45... p.m. ... my alarm went off.

Hey, I've done that! ;-) Nice report, George.
--
TL,
Tim
-------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

On 7/6/06 3:09 PM, in article ,
"George Cleveland" wrote:

The
big one (all of 9inches) and three of his fellows all fell to the Pass
Lake.

You boys got those Curdistani fish trained up there or something? :-)

Thanks for the report.

Bill

"George Cleveland" wrote...

snip

And it occurred to me that Time had been my partner on this little trip,
both measured
in hours and minutes and in years and decades.


Thanks for the report. A wonderful read.

Dan

George Cleveland wrote:

More than a little late. And it occurred
to me that Time had been my partner on this little trip, both measured
in hours and minutes and in years and decades.


good stuff george... thanks.

jeff

On Thu, 06 Jul 2006 14:09:28 -0500, George Cleveland
wrote:

I set the clock the night of the 4th for precisely 4:45 the next
morning. I

Very nice report.
--

r.bc: vixen
Speaker to squirrels, willow watcher, etc..
Often taunted by trout. Almost entirely harmless. Really.

http://www.visi.com/~cyli