Building a Better Trout Trap?

Well folks, this is difficult.

I've been racking my brain trying to think of a way to introduce this topic in a way that doesn't completely destroy my dignity and leave me looking like the world's biggest milquetoast.   I can't seem to come up with any way, other than to tell the truth and hope you won't hold it against me too much.

I don't like mice.

It's a little embarrassing for me to admit it, but it's undeniably true. For as long as I can remember, mice have given me the creeps.  Two things truly and consistently frightened me as a young child.  One was Lurch from the Adams Family.  The other was the sight of a mouse darting across the floor in the immediate vicinity of my feet.  We always seemed to have a few of them lurking around the house, fresh from the fields that stretched for miles outside the confines of our backyard fence. Ever since one of them managed to sneak into my bed at night and run across my scrawny childhood torso, the sight of a mouse jumping out from behind a heating vent or scurrying out from under the stove instinctively causes my heart to race. Were it not for a clinging sense of pride and the realization that I outweigh them by approximately 225 pounds, I'd have no trouble picking my feet off the floor and onto the couch the way I did as a young boy whenever one surfaces. My fondest memory of a mouse to date was waking up to my dearly departed cat Samantha (God bless her) and seeing a mouse tail dangling out of her mouth. In short, I hate the darn things. Snakes? No problem. Racoons? No fear. Mice? In the words of thousands of teenage girls worldwide: “EEEWWW.”

Imagine my joy to suddenly learn that I could exact a measure of revenge for the years of mouse-driven fear by slinging artificial replications to big trout and bass!  I'd never considered that the little varmints could serve such a useful purpose!  I decided to try my hand at tying a few, and can't wait to actually sling one of the ugly little buggers out into the current.  

 

 

As if tying artificial mice and revealing more of the inner workings of my internal neuroses than any of you wanted to hear weren't evidence enough of a clear case of cabin fever at its worst, I finished up a woodworking/arts and crafts project for my grandfather.  Gramps is a lifelong woodworking aficianado, and certainly got a good laugh when I dropped a size .01 prince nymph on his workbench. 

 

I don't know about you guys, but I need some stream time, and fast!

From the therapist's couch...

The Flywriter

A Numbers Game...

The look of puzzlement on Jae's face matched the confusion dancing circles in my own mind.  "Tough fishing today," he deadpanned.    

Tell me about it.  I've only sent five separate flies drifting down this stretch over a thousand times for the past hour.  I was having a silent conversation with myself, trying to figure out what could have been happening.  The shallow riffle ran down a small, gradual shelf into one of the few slicks that had any water to speak of.  Overhanging vegetation and a few bunches of undergrowth formed some structure that looked eminently fishable.  Most of the river - at least this stretch of it - has settled into the familiar winter routine:  Trickles of shallow, unfishable water interspersed with a few deep, but stagnant pools.  We thought we'd finally hit pay dirt on this particular stretch.  It actually looked like a river is supposed to look through the eyes of an angler.  We'd tried everything under the sun, short of floating dries on the surface, which seemed like a silly idea.  We hadn't seen a fish surface all afternoon, so we figured our chances of enticing one to even look upward were slim.  Tiny midges dead drifting naturally with the current did nothing but dead drift naturally with the current.  Nymphing bead heads became frustrating, and we'd each hooked enough sticks to build a small raft.

"Well, I'm going to hunt for some more water upstream.  I'll catch up with you in awhile."

"Sounds good, Jae."  I did my best to feign a smile.  Well, I'm just going to stand here like an idiot and beat some more hell out of this water for awhile.  I haven't felt enough pain yet.

I watched Jae turn on his heels and begin to trudge the path in search of greener pastures, or at least deeper water.  Taking a deep breath, I gave myself a moment's rest.  My ankles were getting sore from navigating the rocky, slippery terrain lining the Poudre's floor.  I took a small pinch of Copenhagen - my only remaining vice, or so I tell myself - and decided to change flies...again.  I was running out of alternatives, but a couple of possibilities sat waiting in the waterproof Otterbox hanging around my neck.   

Stupid 6X.  I don't exactly have the hands of a surgeon, and I must have looked comical trying to feed the tiny tippet through the tiny eye on the tiny hook.  Finally, an eternity later, I managed a respectable knot and unfurled the line from my new 3-weight toward the far bank, sending the miniscule fly hurtling recklessly in the vicinity of where I wanted to start the drift.

Not even close!  The fly landed beautifully in an overhanging branch.  I'd elegantly casted right into the trees.   

Seriously, John!?  I bowed my head and counted to ten.  You all know the trick, right?  Count to ten and the urge to swear like a sailor will go away.  I lowered the rod tip and pulled gently, straight back, turning my head to avoid a flying hook in the face.  Pop!  Line free, fly gone.  Stupid 6X.  I thought back to one of Doc's economics lessons.  Clearly, I'd gone beyond the point of diminishing returns, where an increase in labor and man-hours actually causes production to drop.  Or something like that.  All I know is that I was running heavy on labor and ever shorter on productivity.

Still, it's such a beautiful run of water.  One more fly.  I'd run through every bug I thought I'd need for a short afternoon outing, but there was an old Prince Nymph I'd clearly used before that seemed to be the right size and still had it's goose biots intact.  I replaced what remained of the severed tippet and resolved to give it one last college try with the Prince.

The cast felt good.  The drift seemed good.  The indicator floated evenly with the current.  Holy cow, John, it stopped!  Set the hook!  A quick raise of the rod tip, and I finally, mercifully felt something bouncing around on the business end of the line.  I'll be damned.

Five minutes later, I was admiring one of the most beautiful sights a fisherman's sore eyes could ever hope to see.  Like a salesman who finally closes a deal, I'd landed a treasure of a trout simply by playing the numbers game.  Probably not how the masters would do it, but good enough for me.

 

I'd exhausted my supply of flies, as well as my casting arm, and I decided to leave well enough alone.  I approached Jae feeling way too proud of myself.  "What do you think?"

"Tough fishing."  His friendly smile spoke volumes.  "Good day, though."

Yeah.  Good day.

Back at the vise....
The Flywriter            

    

Reflections from the Home Waters, 2011

I'll ask you to forgive me in advance if this post gets a little too sentimental for the average angler.  Then again, it's been my experience that fly fishermen are sentimental folks.  In my extensive reading of the various great fly fishing blogs that dot the landscape of the information superhighway, I've encountered folks with diverse fascinations.  Whatever the particular obsession - small flies, small streams, foam hoppers, fiberglass rods, vintage reels, tenkara rods, dry flies, a special river, a special fishing partner, or "fishertainment" (keep up the good fight, Owl) - fly fishing takes us beyond the realm of simply slinging bugs into a river.  If you're like me, fly fishing provides a steady stream of memories that multiplies with every trip to the water.  If that sounds cornball, so be it - I'm a sentimental guy.

As I look back on 2011, I realize why I didn't make any fly fishing resolutions at this time last year.  Privately, I had some pretty lofty ambitions, most of which remain unrealized.  Like most fishermen, I lament the fact that I fished far less than originally planned, and certainly far, far less than I wanted.  I never did get around to learning much about fishing streamers, nor did I experiment at all with tying any.  I missed every single trico hatch on the North Platte.  Constant crowds on the Big Thompson kept me fleeing back to the Poudre, a fact that I'm sure doesn't bother anglers from Loveland or Estes Park.  Regrettably, work and some personal obligations kept me from diving headfirst into the Rocky Mountain Frenzy, which sounded like too much fun to have missed.   

Far and away, my biggest regret is another summer come and gone without a trip to my childhood paradise, the White River valley at the foot of the Flattops wilderness  It's where I learned my craft.  It's where I hooked my grandfather in the ear on a back cast, just hours before a skunk strolled through his legs without so much as thinking about unleashing it's natural brand of chemical warfare upon any of us.  It's where Doc planted a fly fishing seed in my heart, many years before I ever set foot in the Poudre.  It's where, at the ripe old age of 13, I hooked, played, and lost what I still believe to be the biggest trout I've ever tied into.  And it's where Doc learned that a good cowboy hat is good for a lot of things, but netting a monster trout for your son is not one of them.

New Year's Eve isn't about regrets, however.  2011 had plenty of highlights:

1)  The Year of the Hopper.  I fell in love with the Hopper!  They came to my garden in droves yet again, but it was a record year for my tomato plants nonetheless.  And I learned how to tie decent imitations that proved to be tempting to some big trout on the Poudre.  It happened by accident.  As I was wavering between a pheasant tail nymph and a run-of-the-mill caddis, Doc started slaying some mighty fat rainbows with a big caddis imitation with rubber legs.  On a hunch, we tied on a giant hopper imitation I'd tied on a whim that just happened to resemble the vast multitudes of grasshoppers lining the banks of the lower Poudre.  The results were better than we could have hoped for on that particular day.  The fish were sitting in a fast, shallow riffle, the strikes were aggressive, and the big rainbows sprinted, thrashed, and went aerial.  The afternoon was a natural high that fly fishermen crave, a high that adds fuel to the fire.

2)  The Tazmanian Devil?  I learned that fishing can occasionally be scary.  Horror movie scary.  Biblical/Armageddon scary.  When I happened upon this guy as I waded out of the river at the end of a long day, my heart got more of a jolt than it needed.  I often hear people say that fishing isn't always about catching fish, and I think I understand what they mean.  On this occasion, I could just as easily have done without the extra "experience."  I enjoy seeing wildlife during my days on the water as much as the next guy or gal.  I just prefer to see it from a comfortable distance, and sans dangling entrails.  I guess even badgers have it rough sometimes.

3)  Battle Poudre '11.  It was a nail biter, but on balance I'm going to have to swallow my pride and declare Doc the overall winner.  I'm basing this conclusion on an afternoon in April when Doc tied into two monsters.  I don't suppose anybody wants to hear about the pig that I stuck that took the bug and proceeded to sprint for the nearest underwater bush, wrap my line around it, and snap the tippet?  I didn't think so. The battle goes to Doc.  This friendly competition, dating back to 2009, really exists solely on the pages of The Flywriter.  We don't keep score, and nobody cares who the victor is.  Still, I have to offer a picture of yours truly with a nice brown just to be fair and balanced...to myself!

Jae's Pretty Brown

The Flywriter's Rainbow

4)  Jae and the Giant Peach.  My friend Jae served as my informal guide up the canyon and got me on a stretch of the Poudre that I should have known about but had never fished.  It's always more fun to fish with another fanatic, and Jae fills the bill on that one.  Calm, focused, and serene, Jae is my kind of fishing partner.  An added bonus to fishing with Jae arrived at lunchtime when he tossed me a peach the size of Montana.  I swear, I'm still shampooing the nectar out of my beard.  It might just have been the best thing I've ever eaten.

5.  The RS2.  I had a fun year at the vise too.  In addition to my newly found love for all things foam - on top of the hoppers, I discovered a foam-back humpy pattern that I much prefer to the elk-hair version - I managed to put together an RS2 that I'm not absolutely horrified by.  It took awhile to bring the split-tail up to a respectable level, but thanks to the Hopper Juan's tutorial, I'm much improved.  I'm also happy to report that they're catching trout on the Poudre. 


As much as I didn't accomplish as an angler, I look back at 2011 through the lenses of gratitude.  Grateful that I have a loving, personal God who walks every step with me.  Grateful to have a family that could have justifiably written me off when I wasn't anywhere near my best, but simply refused to.  Grateful to have a job when others don't.  Grateful to have nephews who still look at the world with wonder, optimism, and joy.  And yes, grateful to have a hobby - nay, an obsession - that I share with so many others out there.

I'll finish in a way that I know all fly fishermen will appreciate.  An unexpected afternoon away from work coupled with some mild temperatures afforded me one last opportunity to create a final 2011 memory.  By the skin of my teeth, I managed to net one last trout in 2011, approximately 36 hours before the ball dropped in Times Square.  I can't think of a better way to close out the year.

That's the year in review from Flywriter HQ.  May God bless and keep you in 2012.

Happy New Year...
The Flywriter

The Year of the Hopper

Clark W. Griswold would be proud of me.  It's rapidly turning into a Christmas made for National Lampoon.  I managed to scatter lights across the front of the house and throughout the branches of the crabapple trees in the front yard with nary a single bulb left un-illuminated.  The little lights aren't twinkling, but they're lit.  Packages have been purchased, wrapped, and placed under the tree for two parents, two siblings, two siblings-in-law, two grandparents, and three nephews.  I think everything's ready to go.  

I'll take a moment to be honest.

At this particular moment, I don't care if I see thread, foam, bobbins, hackle, beads, or a whip-finish tool for a considerable period of time.  Just five short hours before the whole famn damily descends upon Flywriter HQ for our annual Christmas bacchanalia, I've finally set aside the scissors and and vise as I survey the damage in the area around my tying table.  The chaos is remarkable, even for someone with my penchant for disorganization.  The clean-up will be a buzz-kill that I'll just have to postpone until the joy and revelry of an old-fashioned family Christmas fades into history.


For Doc's holiday fly-box this year, I went heavy on the hopper.  I didn't fish nearly enough over the summer or fall, but during those days of bliss I did spend on the water, I developed a fascination with the hopper.  It became my bug of choice after an action packed afternoon on the lower Poudre in early September.  Over the last year I've supplied Doc with enough BWOs, PMDs, and caddis flies to last him well into next season, but our flyboxes have always been a little short on anything bigger than a size 16 stonefly.  No more!  Thanks to my end-of-year tying frenzy, he'll now have plenty of big bugs to pitch during those summer afternoons when the trout love to inhale them.  I'll have to concede that they look a bit rough around the edges, but I'm getting better.

  

















Needless to say, I'm a bit tired of foam, rubber legs, and super-glue.

As the year rapidly draws to a close, I hope you all have a most joyful Christmas with your loved ones.  May the Almighty grant you every blessing.  Here's hoping that visions of hopper-consuming trout dance in your heads tonight.

Joy to the world...
The Flywriter

Three strikes, One Fish...

...still far, far better than work.

Ridiculously low water levels and bright sunshine made the trout stalking pretty difficult yesterday.  The fish were feeding selectively, and it seems that every time I tried to cast to the rises, they would move to other locales.  It was, I'm afraid, a classic case of the angler spooking the fish.  The rainbow pictured above was a real beauty, and the result of sheer patience.  I finally enticed him with a large hopper, which matched absolutely none of the bugs on the surface of the water.

Doc fared a little better, managing a couple of nice fish - a rainbow and a cutbow. 

The day on the water didn't do wonders for the cold I've been trying to fight off for a few days.  I woke up this morning with my head about to explode.  I guess there's a price to pay sometimes; tough work, but somebody has to do it.

From the medicine cabinet...
The Flywriter

Ad-libbing, Algae, and the Best Peach Ever.

The build-up was almost too much for us.

For months, my friend Jae and I have been talking the talk, comparing notes and fly boxes, and spinning yarns about our previous angling conquests.  Between work schedules and family obligations, we found it difficult to walk the walk.  On a cool day in early September, just on the cusp of fall, we finally found a day to put up or shut up, and wandered up the canyon to see if we could cash the checks our mouths had been writing.

Jae strikes me as the classic outdoorsman.  Despite my years of fishing the canyon, I have an appalling lack of useful knowledge about the miles upon miles of public access on the Poudre, a river literally in my backyard.  My method of planning for a day on the Poudre typically consists of driving the winding road until I see a stretch of river that looks interesting.  Jae, on the other hand, knows the canyon.  He's actually capable of formulating a plan for the day, and brings along neat things - like maps - to aid in getting to a predetermined location.  With Jae along, I felt strangely prepared.

It was almost over before it began.

As we slipped - or in my case, struggled - into waders and boots, I noticed a quizzical look on Jae's face, followed by an increasingly blank expression that was rapidly turning into that "oh, crap" look.

"You didn't see my reel, did ya John?"  Uh-oh.  "No, Jae, I sure didn't."  I started sifting through gear in the trunk while the wheels in Jae's head started turning, a clear indication that he was already thinking of ways to turn his nine-foot into a makeshift Tenkara rod.  In a rare moment of either clarity or good fortune, I'd tossed in an extra reel that would save Jae the indignity of turning his rod into the world's longest cane pole.  I'm sure the line weight didn't precisely match the rod, but we were adapting.

Having solved the reel "issue," I unzipped my tubular fly rod case and turned it upside down.  The bottom half of a fly rod fell out, and then...nothing.  "Uh, you didn't see the other half of my rod, did ya Jae?"  Double uh-oh.  "No, John, I sure didn't."  I knew darn well that I hadn't thrown in another fly rod.  So much for clarity and good fortune.  With a sinking feeling in my gut, I turned the case over again and shook it violently.  To my utter relief, the top half of the fly rod fell on the ground.  So, no nine-foot Tenkara rod/cane pole for Jae and no four-foot Tenkara rod/cane pole for me. A hearty round of laughs and a hodgepodge of rods and reels later, we were off to see if we could muster up anything beyond a continued comedy of errors.

The good news is that things fell into place and we enjoyed a good day of fishing.  We hit a stretch of the Poudre that I'd never fished before, probably because it flows away from the main road and out of my normal field of vision driving up the canyon.  After a short, easy walk, we were on some great water that was marred only by some sort of invasive, prolific, bright green algae that had grown on the riverbed.  The algae did very little, in my view, to hinder the fishing, although I did have to periodically clean off the nymphs I was drifting for much of the day.  It also made wading a little more precarious than usual, although the riverbed up the canyon is somewhat difficult to wade to begin with, being full of big rocks as opposed to the sand and gravel I'm used to in the stretches of the lower Poudre.


After a period of adjustment, trial, and error, we started tying into some small but healthy trout.  Despite being handicapped with an unfamiliar reel of lesser quality, Jae proved himself to be a skilled fisherman with a keen eye for reading a stream. 

After hooking up with a couple of trout and struggling with nymphs and algae-covered rocks for the remainder of the morning, I found a little bit of a groove in the afternoon session and managed to save a little bit of face.  My recent obsession with hoppers and big stimulators paid off with several pretty little rainbows.  Some decent afternoon surface action went a long way toward helping me to forget about my less-than-graceful tumble into a whopping five inches of water earlier in the day.

 

One final but not insignificant highlight of the day:  In addition to being a skilled angler, a calm and serene presence, and an adaptable fishing companion, Jae has the additional gift of picking high-quality, choice produce.  At lunchtime, he offered me a gigantic peach that was just about the best thing I've ever eaten!  No bruises or blemishes, perfectly ripe but not mushy.  A nugget of heaven in every bite.  As I frantically wiped away the juice that was streaming down into my goatee, I took a mental note that I was just where God wanted me to be on that day.  No ruminating over the past.  No fear of the future.  Just living in the moment right there in front of me.  Good place to be. 

Shampooing the nectar out of my beard.... 
The Flywriter