tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63082446796719222172024-03-05T09:07:54.473-07:00The Flywriterob·ses·sion [uhb-sesh-uhn]
the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc.
Lunatics don't have hobbies, they have obsessions. Welcome to mine!JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.comBlogger125125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-7846418481048992062012-07-02T13:57:00.000-06:002012-07-02T15:02:00.927-06:00Intelligence Report: The Iron Is Smokin' Hot!<div>
Just intel today, folks. Raw, unfinished, actionable intel. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are fly fishing <i>pros</i>, and </span>there is fly fishing <i>prose. </i>Then there's me. I can't, with any honesty, count myself among the former, and on the latter my efforts often fail miserably. I've tried waxing poetic in the past, fruitless efforts to find meaningful and profound literary parallels between fly fishing and the keys to success in the greater Cosmos. I won't say that such efforts have been dishonest, but certainly grandiose and exaggerated on occasion. Short of coming to the realization that I feel incredible joy - supplied, I'm firmly convinced, by a wonderful, magnificent God - when I'm slinging artificial bugs in a stream, I've somehow failed to magically unlock the secrets of life and the Universe through fly fishing. There's still the matter of life, with all its frustrations and challenges, and fly fishing can't take those away. Believe me, I've tried! My hours on the water allow me to escape, to bring balance and perspective. Nirvana, however, eludes me. I'll keep searching, and I'll let you know when and if ultimate enlightenment arrives, and I'll let you know how I got there. For now, forgive me if I take a more "nuts and bolts" approach. <br />
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I take heart in the knowledge that my obsession may be of great practical value to others of like-minded fanaticism for the cast, drift, and hook-set. Hours of hands-on field research lead me to a conclusion that most all of you will find heartening: The Poudre is fishing flat-out spectacular right now, right here in Bellvue/Laporte/Fort Collins. I'd make every effort to strike while the iron is hot, however, because I'm not too confident of what lies ahead in the next couple of months. </div>
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Here's the sitrep:</div>
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Obviously, the High Park fire has been <u style="font-style: italic;">the</u> news here in NOCO for the month of June, and I'll confess to being slightly shook up about it. Friends of mine have been on pins and needles, many of them evacuees wondering whether "home" is still there. I got slightly concerned on one June morning when I snapped a photo of what I'll call "The Beast," which was lumbering eastward quickly enough to make me uncomfortable. The view from the back alley was pretty ominous, to say the least. Real-life heroes in the firefighting, law enforcement and public safety communities have done remarkable work to keep people in this community safe, and saved as many homes and structures as humanly possible. They're all a source of inspiration and deserve a level of thanks that folks in NOCO can't possibly express. Our gratitude is sincere, if inadequate.</div>
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In addition to the fire, this June has been an aberration in the normal cycle of fly fishing on the Poudre. June normally brings a healthy run-off from the winter snowpack in the mountains. From my casual observation, this year really had no run-off. I've been comfortably fishing since March without any real high water, and at this rate I see the Poudre drying up pretty early. I'll be pleasantly surprised if the fishing holds up throughout the summer and into early fall. In the meantime, it's been hotter than a pistol! In March, I was struggling to master the presentation of small midges and emergers to finicky trout, and had a measure of success, landing some beautifully-colored rainbows. Seemingly overnight, and thanks largely, I suspect, to the warmest spring I can remember, fish began to feed rather indiscriminately on whatever I threw at them. In late May, I stalked, hooked, and lost a beauty that had been actively feeding on the surface in a section of the Poudre in Bellevue that, for some reason, rarely sees much fishing pressure (at least not when I'm there). Having suffered through countless drifts of BWOs and caddis in various sizes, I managed to fool the trout with a Royal Humpy, which he promptly spit back at me shortly thereafter. I managed to land a slew of nice little browns, and one really nice rainbow, mainly on large stonefly patterns.</div>
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It's been so good that an April trout even rose to a hot pink strike indicator. Now, I'm getting better at this sport, but I haven't yet figured out how to hold a trout on a piece of hot pink foam with no hook. I've settled, instead, for throwing dozens of princes, pheasant tails, and large stoneflies, all of which have produced consistently. </div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;">On
the surface, consistent caddis hatches are in full swing, but I've
had unusual success with hopper patterns, and quite frankly there has
been no need for me to deviate much from a standard hopper/dropper
combination. My initial thought was that the hopper would
merely serve as an indicator, and if a trout happened to develop a
craving for a big, juicy meal, so much the better. In early
May, however, a stout cuttbow ignored a small brassie - the "hot
fly of choice" at the time, I was told by a local fly shop - and
absolutely slammed the hopper, engaging me in a battle that required
a lengthy run downstream. Shaped like a football, the cuttbow
literally drug me through mud and silt before conceding. Since
then, it's been a matter of course to lead with a hopper pattern. If
you're into tying, I don't have the killer, end-all-be-all hopper
pattern for you. Just go grab some foam, rubber legs, hi-vis,
deer hair, and get to it. They've been nailing my ugly cutting
room floor hoppers with regularity, especially in shallow, fast
riffles (where they likely don't have much time to examine my
"handiwork").</span></div>
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The final day of June launched me into a completely unprecedented dimension of giddiness. Best day of fishing on the Poudre for me ever, hands down, as if every fly in my box had been drizzled with some magic elixir, leaving the trout helpless to resist. I did a horrible job of memorializing the day-long slugfest, thanks to a moment of clumsiness that sent my camera dropping in slow motion into the river, a horrifying spectacle if ever there was one. It eventually dried out and seems to be functioning again, but not in time to memorialize some absolutely gorgeous trout. I managed a few, pre-clutz photos, mostly of Doc, but you'll just have to take me at my word (convenient, huh?).</div>
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I don't know what the rest of the summer holds for us. The water is well below its normal level for this time of year, and there's no telling how much of an impact an 85,000 acre wildfire will have on the water quality coming down the canyon. But I can tell you that as of this moment in time, the Poudre is fishing just fine here in town. Get out while the gettin's good!</div>
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The Flywriter</div>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-712843584683735452012-03-25T23:02:00.002-06:002012-03-25T23:04:05.611-06:00Emerging Awareness, Part Two (March 25, 2012)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi34dJI-EH22yKOGBF9k2a9r_WVrtnF8D4n0PgEwqNl5x3Pnlq8e_j5iYb0XR0Fv3jDUOhgi8DYFfv1BcRhGTCpn4NkZ9qIj1xuGsr8DLHEY3a4rJPxw6gny5MxrkY9G_YP-vPDS52gLOs/s1600/emerger2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi34dJI-EH22yKOGBF9k2a9r_WVrtnF8D4n0PgEwqNl5x3Pnlq8e_j5iYb0XR0Fv3jDUOhgi8DYFfv1BcRhGTCpn4NkZ9qIj1xuGsr8DLHEY3a4rJPxw6gny5MxrkY9G_YP-vPDS52gLOs/s200/emerger2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Trudging down an elevated footpath overlooking the Poudre, I gather intelligence, oblivious to the perfection that surrounds me. A sip of hot coffee, sweetened to perfection with cream and sugar, warms my insides while the sun in the sea of blue above me takes care of my outsides. I've timed things perfectly. I'm early enough to beat what I'm certain will be a flood of fellow angling fanatics to come, yet late enough that the overnight chill has burned off and the riverbed is coming to life. The path to my ultimate destination sits at the top of the steep riverbank, a shelf of rocks descending from my perch above to the water's edge. The river is clear, and there are big fish visibly racing along the bed of the stream. Many of them are surprisingly large. The visual sighting of big trout very nearly throws a roadblock in front of my progression. I'm tempted, but the water is too calm for me. In a moment of clarity and self-awareness, I realize that the fish I see are big for a reason. They can sense my presence. A couple of steps down the rocky embankment sends them scurrying away at full speed. I'm nowhere near stealthy enough for these fish, and my dilemma of temptation is solved. I move along.<br />
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When I get to where I'm going, I'm both pleased and wary with what I see. Ringlets of water popping up in rhythmic progression. The trout are awake here, and they're looking upward. Their rises, however, are subtle and controlled. I see no signs of naked aggression. Whatever they're feeding on, they're feeding like gentlemen. <br />
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<i>Hmm</i>...<i>this all seems too familiar.</i> The deeper I fall in love with this hobby, the starker the realization that I've gone too far down the road in this obsession to simply fall back into old habits. I've learned that my default setting for surface action can no longer be set to "dry fly." The season, like the bug life, is still young. There will be ample time for the fish to slam hoppers and stimulators. Things are simply more delicate right now. <br />
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My default setting is different today - a small but bushy Adams trailed by an RS2. The Adams will serve, I think, a limited purpose today. If I lose sight of the RS2, I'll watch the Adams as an indicator. If it sinks, I'll hit. If something surfaces near it, I'll hit. <br />
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With virtually no idea whether I'm doing anything right, I decide to gink the RS2. The tuft of white antron is visible on the water - a small white dot that looks identical to all the other small white dots on the water's surface. But I can follow it. In almost no time, a small brown takes the emerger.<br />
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I release the brown back into the current, fearful that his small but vigorous fight has disturbed the fish I've really come here for. I hold my breath and wait. In short order, the frenzy begins anew. Having calculated correctly with the dry/emerger combo, I'm in for something special. In rapid progression, beautiful rainbows dine with abandon on the emerging bugs, and occasionally inhale my imitation.<br />
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Like all perfect moments, this one comes quickly to an end. The sun is now higher in the sky, and the trout have eaten their fill. I briefly consider changing my game, maybe trying a different approach to extend the perfection. And then I realize that it's been <i>enough. </i>In fact, it's been just right.<br />
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The elevated pathway leads me back to my car. The bank is still steep, the water is still clear, and the big fish are still down below the surface, ready to dart away at the first sight or sound of human intrusion. A challenge for another day.<br />
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I'm ready, at long last, to render a verdict: Emergers in March. At least for this angler. I'll leave the mayflies for later...May, perhaps?<br />
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Watching trout sip...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-41918498692194960272012-03-25T21:43:00.000-06:002012-03-25T21:43:10.047-06:00Emerging Awareness, Part One (March 10, 2012)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5v0bgEUSHEdSkVN7qziTCdo_lWpsbBGy-itekx0s2mCKaQy1mTEEUSofdQqftsc0Rya76hH3Tl_ddx2TCW6juKkzJxhlQDvCnF5foizE0kflMk8kxVo8nm2a62NI0MSnSUyji67Ao4U/s1600/emerger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5v0bgEUSHEdSkVN7qziTCdo_lWpsbBGy-itekx0s2mCKaQy1mTEEUSofdQqftsc0Rya76hH3Tl_ddx2TCW6juKkzJxhlQDvCnF5foizE0kflMk8kxVo8nm2a62NI0MSnSUyji67Ao4U/s200/emerger.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I was surrounded by rings of water, telltale signs of feeding trout that did nothing but increase my frustration as I watched the imitation mayfly drift effortlessly past me, time and again. The water flow - actually, it was more of a meander - was completely not to my liking, especially since my repeated casts and drifts were yielding nothing in the way of results. I'd gone as small as I could. There were no dries in my fly box smaller than a 20, and the parachute BWO I'd chosen simply wasn't to the trouts' liking on this day. Fishing without any decent sunglasses was leaving a strain on my eyes, my polarized glasses a casualty of my own absent-mindedness. Somewhere along the banks of the Poudre, my little windows into the sub-surface life of the river sit, waiting for another angler to stumble upon an unexpected gift from the Flywriter. I was suddenly longing for the smoking hot days of late summer, wishing I could simply toss out a monstrous hopper to active, lively trout that inhale meaty terrestrials rafting down the middle of a fast, shallow riffle. Instead, I was being taunted by little kisses from below the surface, disturbing just enough water to form dozens of concentric circles in clear, nearly-stagnant water.<br />
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I was conditioned from a young age to react instinctively to signs of rising fish. If they were feeding on the surface, you forgot about whatever nymph you were drifting and replaced it with a dry that resembled whatever bugs were on the water. In March, on the Poudre, that almost always means an olive hatch underway, and a basic BWO mayfly gives you the results you want more often than not. That's been my M.O. for years. Two weeks ago, I learned that it's more nuanced than that. <br />
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I suppose I was being lazy, or maybe just hopeful. I understand how emergers work, and I had a feeling that all the rings on the river's surface were evidence that the trout were feeding on them. O.K., it was more than just a feeling. <i>It was obvious.</i> I was just hoping it wasn't. I never quite know how to fish an emerger effectively. Dry fly fishing is so cut and dry. Cast, drift, watch, and set. Watch and react. You're either quick enough, or you aren't. Casting to trout that are feeding on emergers leaves me feeling like I'm fishing to trout in Never Never land. Not really nymphing, and not quite dry fly fishing.<br />
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<i>No sense watching 'em refuse this mayfly any longer</i>, I thought to myself<i>. </i>I decided I would have to fact the music and figure out this emerger thing. Slipping some tippet around the bend of the mayfly's hook, I clumsily attached a basic emerger pattern and sent the tiny bug flying. The mayfly landed softly on the surface, and I strained to see the emerger. It was gone, seemingly into thin air, although I knew it was somewhere in the vicinity of the mayfly. I watched the mayfly intently, hoping it would at least have some utility as an indicator. <br />
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Another glance upstream revealed another ringlet of water. Ten seconds later, I lifted the rod tip and casted to it. The mayfly landed in the middle. In the next nano-second, a flash on the water's surface caused the mayfly to disappear, triggering a familiar cognitive reflex in my mind, and I set the hook. And then...resistance. The rod tip began to shudder, and the fight was on. <i>Son of a gun took the mayfly. Go figure.</i><br />
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At this point, I was puzzled, although my confusion was less relevant after a heck of a fight with a large rainbow. Twenty casts later, my mind became consumed by it. The only way out of the dilemma was to continue fishing both flies. Shortly thereafter, the internal debate grew even more difficult to resolve, as another beautiful trout slammed the end of my line, this time taking the emerger and running downstream with it. <br />
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That was it for the day, leaving me no closer to enlightenment than when I started. I didn't catch enough fish to infer any statistically significant indication of what a trout prefers in March on the Poudre. Which is good news, in a sense. All the more reason for continued research!<br />
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Hope to see y'all in the laboratory...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-53565870972355075262012-02-06T18:23:00.001-07:002012-02-12T12:37:55.789-07:00Building a Better Trout Trap?<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Well folks, this is difficult.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I've been wracking 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.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't like mice.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">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.”</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">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. </div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5b9n8wAtN_SbLY3Y_ZBTgfu-SP8vByo4NAxpIfSdV1ISCkDoWyKvDWHZfXhuQo0XSF3ZoKXa9QyKIGZp3Hp0aUM5ZMbT5Yq5Y9hCcr-h4SS4MlK2dqs50ILSoqbSNOiF2AivTEfpWUbo/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5b9n8wAtN_SbLY3Y_ZBTgfu-SP8vByo4NAxpIfSdV1ISCkDoWyKvDWHZfXhuQo0XSF3ZoKXa9QyKIGZp3Hp0aUM5ZMbT5Yq5Y9hCcr-h4SS4MlK2dqs50ILSoqbSNOiF2AivTEfpWUbo/s320/004.JPG" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know about you guys, but I need some stream time, and fast!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From the therapist's couch...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Flywriter</div>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-85713885686458074232012-01-17T00:05:00.002-07:002012-01-17T22:42:16.349-07:00A Numbers Game...The look of puzzlement on Jae's face matched the confusion dancing circles in my own mind. "Tough fishing today," he deadpanned. <br />
<br />
<i>Tell me about it. I've only sent five separate flies drifting down this stretch over a thousand times for the past hour. </i>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.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm going to hunt for some more water upstream. I'll catch up with you in awhile."<br />
<br />
"Sounds good, Jae." I did my best to feign a smile. <i>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><br />
<br />
I watched Jae turn on his heels and begin to trudge the path in search of greener pastures<i>,</i> 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. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Stupid 6X. </i>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.<br />
<br />
<i>Not even close! </i>The fly landed beautifully in an overhanging branch. I'd elegantly casted right into the trees. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Seriously, John!? </i>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. <i>Pop! </i>Line free, fly gone. <i>Stupid 6X.</i> I thought back to one of Doc's economics lessons<i>. </i>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.<br />
<br />
<i>Still, it's such a beautiful run of water. One more fly.</i> 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.<br />
<br />
The cast felt good. The drift seemed good. The indicator floated evenly with the current. <i>Holy cow, John, it stopped! Set the hook! </i>A quick raise of the rod tip, and I finally, mercifully felt something bouncing around on the business end of the line. <i>I'll be damned.</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC4NhNk-J303Dy8uXkYygshFW0VX1RwjCRZmheTRzSxHD3YqowrFqaNaUjpuQq4lCAm5qcKRgQzEL3YFSMCdAOJkx9NrySPUBbS5IgVBw4SgEpHNSrYyVleW6GcONYyvDwH4SjNIojrNA/s1600/025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC4NhNk-J303Dy8uXkYygshFW0VX1RwjCRZmheTRzSxHD3YqowrFqaNaUjpuQq4lCAm5qcKRgQzEL3YFSMCdAOJkx9NrySPUBbS5IgVBw4SgEpHNSrYyVleW6GcONYyvDwH4SjNIojrNA/s320/025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><i> </i><br />
<br />
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 <i>way </i>too proud of myself. "What do you think?"<br />
<br />
"Tough fishing." His friendly smile spoke volumes. "Good day, though." <br />
<br />
<i>Yeah. Good day.</i><br />
<br />
Back at the vise....<br />
<i>The Flywriter</i> <i> </i> <i> </i> <br />
<br />
<i> </i> JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-19469658342822064172012-01-01T00:40:00.005-07:002012-01-01T13:17:30.163-07:00Reflections from the Home Waters, 2011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gF_sgWAk4yVVYySpBux_oGJstw9T3LsPPEU1_3NTENBALa9YeCxuGGDJSvVkKiVV2ERF9g_q_dBWkC4_7Ghnf8EKNoyyi_MgxuHCLAR3gm4uvTg16bbsVFMuY4J6JhnyIibUr5Q_aAQ/s1600/015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gF_sgWAk4yVVYySpBux_oGJstw9T3LsPPEU1_3NTENBALa9YeCxuGGDJSvVkKiVV2ERF9g_q_dBWkC4_7Ghnf8EKNoyyi_MgxuHCLAR3gm4uvTg16bbsVFMuY4J6JhnyIibUr5Q_aAQ/s200/015.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>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 "<a href="http://www.owljones.com/">fishertainment</a>" (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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://www.theriverdamsel.com/2011/09/rocky-mtn-frenzy-is-on-bloggers-unite.html">Rocky Mountain Frenzy</a>, which sounded like too much fun to have missed. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
New Year's Eve isn't about regrets, however. 2011 had plenty of highlights:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV62-h-Xme6NYle2wTjOxp9PymPeCLA-u7OX_SftW9b8fz-oEWSfOvxZLNSYpzJBt1jRVx1TpXrSWbNjNA3PG5Mq9Lfuem7pZwnZt5mTLJAPYzvlqHWXmnDLtOiMi90YfMukrNH648PXQ/s1600/big+bug.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV62-h-Xme6NYle2wTjOxp9PymPeCLA-u7OX_SftW9b8fz-oEWSfOvxZLNSYpzJBt1jRVx1TpXrSWbNjNA3PG5Mq9Lfuem7pZwnZt5mTLJAPYzvlqHWXmnDLtOiMi90YfMukrNH648PXQ/s200/big+bug.png" width="200" /></a></div><b><u>1) The Year of the Hopper.</u> </b>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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvST9kj-TQVRy05OyKR2ZAqJ2-iVBBl6a_6RAW9qiislSA-c8chnSsg4E7ZIRObiVdzcm7kg3kd_9Ilul3gxLk19s9k_0X79t5ii6AKUp8xQ37EfOe_gPo5vT58adSa8aVvQsQKE4_68s/s1600/013+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvST9kj-TQVRy05OyKR2ZAqJ2-iVBBl6a_6RAW9qiislSA-c8chnSsg4E7ZIRObiVdzcm7kg3kd_9Ilul3gxLk19s9k_0X79t5ii6AKUp8xQ37EfOe_gPo5vT58adSa8aVvQsQKE4_68s/s200/013+%25282%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><b><u>2) The Tazmanian Devil?</u> </b>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 <i>sans</i> dangling entrails. I guess even badgers have it rough sometimes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2sb6DRCunGGQV_o4pp5G5hXNBmZfIONxdoyk9j3b7-Pb1PQv6XkPemMa5oT3s_IG5Q68qwKPQUe9Q56TBjKT2pGacnOMeEUymzpF0jI1smWVB1MBtxLLQaKzS9Fr7wCD4kkF21-zcAzk/s1600/Seaworth+brown2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2sb6DRCunGGQV_o4pp5G5hXNBmZfIONxdoyk9j3b7-Pb1PQv6XkPemMa5oT3s_IG5Q68qwKPQUe9Q56TBjKT2pGacnOMeEUymzpF0jI1smWVB1MBtxLLQaKzS9Fr7wCD4kkF21-zcAzk/s200/Seaworth+brown2.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuavyy6XCEgSVs1FhxN0meBukvUO9xlNfGN1s7JDhsZMoYOH0x8TOOdDh7vldSyo9DZcp4xTXO77Lg5RHfIKxGu6nr82qzxI0b8anx5daPNNfGXyn6u3pcbJaXkVLpL7vKR8R_lQVuXc/s1600/beast+SR+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuavyy6XCEgSVs1FhxN0meBukvUO9xlNfGN1s7JDhsZMoYOH0x8TOOdDh7vldSyo9DZcp4xTXO77Lg5RHfIKxGu6nr82qzxI0b8anx5daPNNfGXyn6u3pcbJaXkVLpL7vKR8R_lQVuXc/s200/beast+SR+2.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0v-n43z4vw5jvN_RlL-ggrzORhe0qvvObI4MPCyizTODplGpcufA6JUFKSMXDJOW0uBPNuteC6XDF6bGzlpeycQU_aFmTYg6SF3kTkpJHGiFQyF8gd-sz8xUDS5DnpKboKlNUNuDU2gI/s1600/beast+JR.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0v-n43z4vw5jvN_RlL-ggrzORhe0qvvObI4MPCyizTODplGpcufA6JUFKSMXDJOW0uBPNuteC6XDF6bGzlpeycQU_aFmTYg6SF3kTkpJHGiFQyF8gd-sz8xUDS5DnpKboKlNUNuDU2gI/s200/beast+JR.JPG" width="200" /></a><b><u>3) Battle Poudre '11.</u> </b>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!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDRWCBKVvToLknZG5G2_GcG3yo6EY23LCswOOdd3u4Jt_X8gpVVN1bIxcIyhzGIkH9WGqbXKK6fYuiS034QJGPctW_0Ag_NIhXD8mJHPlwzS2cxaXs98XEUXXwyCwGKArLglR_Ua3q6Q/s1600/P9110029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDRWCBKVvToLknZG5G2_GcG3yo6EY23LCswOOdd3u4Jt_X8gpVVN1bIxcIyhzGIkH9WGqbXKK6fYuiS034QJGPctW_0Ag_NIhXD8mJHPlwzS2cxaXs98XEUXXwyCwGKArLglR_Ua3q6Q/s200/P9110029.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Jae's Pretty Brown</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uuinTh3Zkd79-xPVdWUSGlWNcKPVdRx_Z_iOxotieXkq6GjkG5ohxaSAOYKCdJWH6_IldC0MppO38CX1LA-hrsxVkdsUGRIW47fHb3WulXyb6E5jRwgMaLaZoy12Y2Hxd5xqmB1fFO4/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uuinTh3Zkd79-xPVdWUSGlWNcKPVdRx_Z_iOxotieXkq6GjkG5ohxaSAOYKCdJWH6_IldC0MppO38CX1LA-hrsxVkdsUGRIW47fHb3WulXyb6E5jRwgMaLaZoy12Y2Hxd5xqmB1fFO4/s200/005.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>The Flywriter's Rainbow</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><u>4) Jae and the Giant Peach</u>. </b>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 <i>still</i> shampooing the nectar out of my beard. It might just have been the best thing I've ever eaten.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVxq-z_BjvjlpXyStlUY_fY_aoqM2LnoOTjRuoR32AydkMScG7hk-E8wxJFD1XfcwQpROislRA86nxdBpxNBpsW0wFl-fwsMgI6axW2UYxNOdttn1X4BeLNH_ghm8ICMjWJifNlkJ3jY/s1600/rs2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVxq-z_BjvjlpXyStlUY_fY_aoqM2LnoOTjRuoR32AydkMScG7hk-E8wxJFD1XfcwQpROislRA86nxdBpxNBpsW0wFl-fwsMgI6axW2UYxNOdttn1X4BeLNH_ghm8ICMjWJifNlkJ3jY/s200/rs2.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><b><u>5. The RS2.</u> </b>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 <a href="http://vimeo.com/9924843">Hopper Juan's tutorial</a>, I'm much improved. I'm also happy to report that they're catching trout on the Poudre. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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That's the year in review from Flywriter HQ. May God bless and keep you in 2012.<br />
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Happy New Year...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-7104717463751147992011-12-24T14:53:00.002-07:002012-01-01T13:19:45.552-07:00The Year of the HopperClark 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. <br />
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I'll take a moment to be honest.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dXCSnjJiNVUgtnh_soS3ECu8W-wPwV3Bn_1p1fDBGEbnHyRL3HYwOUIkT27q1qMybovtDj6CvfB5IHdvda9LaMpOleOq2g14RU8zGUmTmiQowoA13yczjwa7r_Ahi89bv1r94mz5WtM/s1600/hoppermouth.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dXCSnjJiNVUgtnh_soS3ECu8W-wPwV3Bn_1p1fDBGEbnHyRL3HYwOUIkT27q1qMybovtDj6CvfB5IHdvda9LaMpOleOq2g14RU8zGUmTmiQowoA13yczjwa7r_Ahi89bv1r94mz5WtM/s320/hoppermouth.png" width="320" /></a>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. <br />
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Needless to say, I'm a bit tired of foam, rubber legs, and super-glue. <br />
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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.<br />
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Joy to the world...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-38325807686867688962011-09-25T19:03:00.000-06:002012-01-01T13:19:56.299-07:00Three strikes, One Fish......still far, far better than work. <br />
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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.<br />
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Doc fared a little better, managing a couple of nice fish - a rainbow and a cutbow. <br />
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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.<br />
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From the medicine cabinet...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-92133751450199552062011-09-23T00:43:00.000-06:002012-01-01T13:20:21.190-07:00Ad-libbing, Algae, and the Best Peach Ever.The build-up was almost too much for us.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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It was almost over before it began.<br />
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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.<br />
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"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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Shampooing the nectar out of my beard.... <br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-87996984806122570772011-09-10T17:42:00.003-06:002012-01-01T13:21:03.354-07:00Big Bug Bonanza<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Sometimes, size does matter. <br />
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I should clarify that I'm referring, of course, to fishing, so there's no need to avert your eyes. As the summer closes, I've developed a fascination with big bugs; specifically, grasshoppers and any artificial variation thereof. <br />
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Ever since I can remember, grasshoppers have been a scourge to those of us in northern Colorado, particularly those of us who've made any earnest efforts to grow corn, tomatoes, peppers, and other vegetables. They don't seem to make much of a dent in zucchini or cucumber plants, but I'm convinced that grasshoppers bear sole responsibility for several failed corn crops in the last few years. As a child, I used to get a kick out of frying them under the concentrated light beams of a magnifying glass, and to this day I like to hone my fine motor skills by running them over as I pedal my bike to work along the bike path that follows the river to town. It likely comes as no surprise, therefore, that I would find delight in the revelation that big trout will seemingly rise to the surface from a deep slumber to suck the big, juicy bugs in a mid-day feeding frenzy.<br />
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Last weekend, Doc and I discovered first hand what many before us already knew. Our day trip to the lower Poudre started off no different than most. After quickly scanning the water for rising fish and seeing nothing, I hastily secured a Pheasant Tail nymph to some 5X and unceremoniously descended the bank to the river, bidding Doc good luck with an equally hasty "I'll catch up with you downstream."<br />
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For awhile, it seemed like the right choice. The PT nymph with a gold bead head (and usually a rib of red wire) has become my go-to fly for the Poudre when no obvious alternative reveals itself. On this particular morning, it was enough to fool two browns within the first half hour, one of which was as healthy looking as I've seen on this stretch of river. The PT also produced a really nice cut-bow that fought like a demon and measured about 16".<br />
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After an hour or so, feeding on the PT came to a halt, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts just in time to see Doc pitching something big into a fast riffle that emptied into a nice run of heavy, deep water. Curious, I made my way dowstream. In the time it took me to wade the hundred or so yards between us, I watched as he consistently casted, drifted, and yanked back the rod in several attempts to set the hook. Just as I arrived, he brought one to net and remarked that I'd missed the first few he landed. He was throwing a fly I'd tied for him that's basically a large caddis with legs. The trout, he said, were inhaling it in the fast water. I reasoned that if the large stimulator-esque creation was drawing attention, it might be fun to see if any of my amateurish hoppers would produce similar results.<br />
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I think two things happened in the next couple of hours. One, I think we happened upon a genuine "honey hole" that happened to be full of stout, actively feeding trout; and two, the trout weren't the least bit interested in carefully examining or scrutinizing the bugs we threw at them in the fast water. They weren't necessarily hooking themselves - a bunch of missed hook sets prove that we still had to actually try - but the fish were hitting the hopper in a pretty convincing manner.<br />
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On a humorous note, I also spent the better part of 10 minutes earlier in the day sight fishing to a mysterious fish that rose every couple of minutes and created a huge splash each time. When I would cast upstream, I would hear the splash downstream. At the downstream end of a drift, the splash could be heard upstream. Finally, and too close for my comfort as I drifted the PT fairly close in front of me, I got a visual on the source of the splash and realized that I'd been fishing to a mink who was out for a frolicking swim. He popped out of the water no more than 10 yards from where I stood, stopping my heart momentarily before rolling over, darting underwater, and resurfacing on the far bank, content to burrow into what I'm sure is an elaborate underground network of secret tunnels. Needless to say, he startled me enough that I saw imaginary mink flashing about for the next half hour.<br />
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This weekend, I'll be changing scenery a bit and venturing up the canyon to fish some of the upper stretches with a good friend of mine. I have the feeling I'll be trading green drakes in for hoppers, but I'm hoping for some more of the same action. The Poudre seems to be fishing great these days, and the trout I'm landing appear to have benefited from the long runoff period, with increased size and far fewer battle scars.<br />
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With love to the Hopper....<br />
<i>The Flywriter</i>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-24707411301564230622011-08-14T00:13:00.001-06:002012-01-13T16:43:21.385-07:00Right Where I BelongI suppose it's easy for most people to determine that my fishing preferences and skills are far short of being multifaceted. I gave bass fishing an <a href="http://flytiewriter.blogspot.com/2011/05/my-confession.html">honest-to-goodness try</a>, and we all know how that went. I tried to hit some stillwaters for trout, had some success, but could never manage to pour my heart into it. Not surprisingly, when my homewater rivers blow out, I'm one of those fair weather fishermen that more or less goes into hiding. You all know my type - complaining about the "runoff" while leaving it to the most highly skilled, ambitious, and committed anglers to carry the torch through July. No surprise, I guess, that my placeholder on the worldwide web at www.flytiewriter.blogspot.com remained unchanged since late June.<br />
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My return to the Poudre yesterday was a triumphant one, at least by my standards. It's been a summer long on heat and high water, and short on days pursuing the primary source of joy in my life. Joy came roaring back in spades yesterday. Unless you happen to be an unfortunate young badger. <i>Huh?</i> Keep reading. I'll come back to that in a minute. <br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"></div>Like most good things that happen in my life, my quest for river dominance began with modest humility. The initial drifts were marked by rust as I struggled to mend the line correctly and drive the bright, shiny bead head nymph through an obvious holding lie. The complexion of the river has changed, too. The sheer volume of water that's made its way down from the mountains over the past two months has added structure where there was previously none, forming new eddies, holes, and fast riffles that all seemed unfamiliar on a <i>very</i> familiar stretch of water.<br />
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One nice thing about fly fishing is that after you do it for awhile, habits form. When your line stops and takes a nosedive, you kind of know how to respond. A small brown provided a preview of what would come later in the day.<br />
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In perfect progression, the remainder of the day proved to be one of the most diverse fly fishing experiences I've ever had, with nothing resembling pattern or predictability. I caught fish on the surface, and I caught fish dragging nymphs along the bottom. I caught browns, rainbows, and cuttbows on pheasant tails, princes, yellow sallies, royal humpies, caddis, and two hopper patterns.<br />
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After fighting and losing what looked like the fish of the day, Doc had a slow morning followed by a stellar afternoon. It never takes him too long to get into the act, and yesterday was no exception.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As if the fish weren't excitement enough, my heart took quite a jolt just after landing and releasing my final trout of the day. I took a few steps through the water, so enamored with my surroundings as to be oblivious to them. Some inner voice told me to look down before I waded any further. Along with a glance at the rock just beneath my descending right foot came the realization that it wasn't a rock at all, just a petrified mass of teeth, fur, and paws adorned with a dressing of flies:</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>BADGER OR ALIEN? YOU TELL ME!</b></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br />
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Not what I was hoping to see, to say the least. As I pondered whether it was a badger, tasmanian devil, or simply a yet-to-be-discovered mystery creature from the depths of the Poudre, I of course had to snap a photo. Doc watched with a look of either amusement or curiosity - I'm not sure which - and shook his head. I could almost hear him silently quoting the wise words of <a href="http://www.wvah.com/programs/kingofthehill/HankHill.shtml">Hank Hill</a>, one of animated television's great minds. <i>The boy ain't right!</i><br />
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Grotesque carnage aside, we said goodbye to the river for the day, but not before receiving a send-off from a handsome couple, the most gracious of hosts. They watch us closely, but never intrude<i>.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3ZBohZkJTgPVz6YVMUcc8nYWZp8RmR3wiYAPhcVl7MIi6mBeOAyVLNdhbejcb5Zu1TnjcctZ-lBeBs9k0FXSopxQYKC-qkAYvC8pqJtopufd2DKBgMQ6xvCVZqdehZJifPYUKbvAVFo/s1600/deer4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3ZBohZkJTgPVz6YVMUcc8nYWZp8RmR3wiYAPhcVl7MIi6mBeOAyVLNdhbejcb5Zu1TnjcctZ-lBeBs9k0FXSopxQYKC-qkAYvC8pqJtopufd2DKBgMQ6xvCVZqdehZJifPYUKbvAVFo/s400/deer4.png" width="400" /></a>We climbed in the truck having satisfied some primal need that I can't explain. I realized how long a month can be in the mind of an angling-obsessed trout freak. Yesterday fulfilled a need that couldn't be satisfied by slinging hoppers to bluegill and crappie, or even ambling along in a float tube on a lake filled to the brim with trout. I belong in the stream, as one-dimensional as that may sound, and it's good to be back where I belong.<br />
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Here's to self-awareness...<br />
<i>The Flywriter</i> JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-68009913417305584772011-06-25T00:27:00.002-06:002012-01-01T13:21:27.036-07:00Joy In a Thousand Cutts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I suppose "a thousand" is a bit of an overstatement. OK, so it's a huge overstatement. But during a few brief hours two weeks ago I felt, for the first time, like I could do no wrong with a fishing rod.<br />
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The Poudre's been a raging torrent for the better part of a month now, and - as per the norm - I've been in a bit of a funk while I resolve myself to waiting out the worst of it. While the predicted gloom and doom of swelling banks and flash floods have yet to materialize, the ginormous snowpack that remains unmelted high in the Rockies may keep me out of commission for awhile yet. A month ago, the tree in this picture wasn't present on this stretch of water. I'm sure the stunning force of the current snapped it like a twig somewhere up the canyon, and it lodged itself smack in the middle of one of my favorite runs.<br />
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Consequently, I've grudgingly accepted my fate for the next month: stillwaters.<br />
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Not such a catastrophe, as I found out two weeks ago. When you take a 95 year-old retired choir director, a 70 year-old retired Economist, a 40 year-old crazy trout freak, and a 30-something golden boy, and then throw in a lake full of cutthroats, something indescribably joyful takes place. The four men described above met for what is becoming something of an annual Father's Day tradition, and this private little family affair didn't disappoint this year. Being the only "non-father" in the group, I took the liberty of playing the role of the token kid on the trip, which gave me license to catch as many fish as possible. Here's how it all went down.<br />
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7:00 a.m.: Golden Boy arrives punctually, as instructed by the Economist the day before. Trout Freak, having been twitching in anticipation since 2 a.m., is mainlining coffee and obsessing over a box of nymphs. Choir Director screams up the drive moments later, driving faster than any 95 year-old should.<br />
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8:20 a.m.: Choir Director's favorite breakfast Diner in Laramie, Wyoming is closed...for good. It's been retooled into an Indian restaurant, and they don't serve hash browns or french toast. Economist and Choir Director decide on McDonald's. Golden Boy cringes. Trout Freak wonders why everyone is concerned with something as trivial as breakfast.<br />
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10:00 a.m.: Economist - through walking - takes his spot along the north bank of the lake. Choir Director proceeds, purposefully if slowly, to the west bank. Trout Freak grabs Golden Boy and the two descend upon the northwest corner of the lake, where the trout are known to strike at anything with a bead head. Pheasant tails, in this case, preferably with a red wire ribbing.<br />
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With all the actors in place, the fishing commences, followed shortly thereafter by the catching. Bent rods and happy smiles all around. The cutthroats are abundant. Trout Freak is in heaven.<br />
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For three short hours, three generations of my family experienced the joy of a thousand cutts. The fish came in streaks of dozens. Golden Boy ultimately won the prize, landing a stout cutthroat and garnering the sole photo-op of the day. <br />
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The Economist mentioned something about a similar fish, but the veracity of his claim remains in doubt. Still, every time I looked in his direction, his rod was bent and shaking.<br />
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The Poudre remains unfishable, at least by my standards, and I keep twitching with anticipation for the days of late summer when the caddis hatches are heavy and a day at work simply kills the time in between daily trips to the river. Until then, I'll take a day or two like this one and be a happy man.JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-40326686561105183662011-05-30T21:18:00.004-06:002012-01-01T13:21:36.877-07:00Threat Level Orange: Terrorist Hits Flywriter HQ...Again (or, the mangy mutt ate my hackle)In a precise, highly coordinated attack earlier today, a suspected terrorist lashed out at Flywriter HQ. Early indications suggest that the attack was carried out by Brooke the Cairn terrier (aka Ch. Cairncroft Brazen Brooke):<br />
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This callous, heinous, vicious attack wiped out the remaining brown hackle supply at Flywriter HQ. Fortunately, our security officials were able to mitigate any damage to the remaining inventory of hooks, thread, chenille, bead heads, pheasant tails, and a large collection of additional hackle.<br />
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The attack appears to have been timed to roughly coincide with the anniversary of <a href="http://flytiewriter.blogspot.com/2010/05/uncivilized-house-guests.html">the events of May 7, 2010</a>, during which Brooke and her long time mentor and companion, Kyra, launched an equally brutal attack targeting stockpiles of white and grizzly hackle housed in the same secured facility.<br />
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Brooke has been placed on a watch list in response to credible intelligence suggesting a planned future attack on the vegetable garden. Despite recent security enhancements to the garden, it remains vulnerable to assault, given the inadequate perimeter fencing.<br />
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All anglers are urged to practice heightened vigilance and be on the lookout for possible copycat attacks, particularly from small terriers.<br />
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Godspeed, from the Command Post...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-61670988987246785072011-05-22T23:08:00.011-06:002012-01-01T13:22:32.199-07:00My Confession<div style="color: white;">It wasn't supposed to go down the way it did today. </div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><div style="color: white;">As always, I came home from church today in a good mood, making note of the sunny skies and an afternoon completely divorced from any pressing obligations. It's the way life is meant to be lived, and if I had my druthers, every day would be a Sunday afternoon in late May. I rounded up Doc, interrupting his meticulous landscaping, and with some gentle persuasion, suggested that the afternoon was meant for ignoring yard work. Without so much as a threat of waterboarding or other "enhanced coercion," I soon found myself in the passenger seat of his big Dodge, on my way to my own personal paradise.</div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><div style="color: white;">We arrived to find the Poudre running both swiftly and murky. <b>[INSERT SOUND OF WIND BEING TAKEN OUT OF MY SAILS HERE]. </b>The realization that runoff season is beginning hit me like a ton of bricks. With grudging acceptance and a healthy dose of futility, we nonetheless hunted for a stretch of water that was both fishable and promising. In retrospect, the search was over, almost before it began. Fighting my own instincts to come up with a plausible and persuasive argument to convince Doc to give it a whirl, I conceded that the water really didn't look too promising. I decided that no immediate harm could come from putting off an experiment with high water fishing for another day.</div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><div style="color: white;">Sensing my troubled soul <b>[INSERT MELODRAMA HERE]</b>, Doc did what any good father would and came up with a counter offer. "We could hit one of the bass ponds." Doc is fortunate enough to have access to a bass pond or two, although he rarely fishes them. Quite honestly, neither of us know the first thing about bass fishing. </div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><div style="color: white;">Here's where the confession comes into play. I felt a strange sort of deja-vu, although it took me a few minutes to remember why. I'd been in this very situation before. The small boat, the smaller motor, the strange sensation of having a rod in my hand, yet not being entirely certain what to do with it - I'd been here before! Suddenly it hit me. I vaguely remembered an encounter with bait salesman just about this time last year, complete with <a href="http://flytiewriter.blogspot.com/2010/04/crack-for-bass-i-think-not.html">promises of "bass crack" yielding undeniable success</a>. A vision of a rubber worm came rushing into my mind like the Poudre during runoff. With almost no time to prepare myself either mentally or emotionally, I was fixin' to go bass fishing!</div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Forgive me father, for I have sinned</span><span style="color: white;"> </span><span style="color: red;"><b>[INSERT SOLEMN GREGORIAN CHANT HERE]</b></span><span style="color: white;">. </span><span style="color: white;">OK, not </span><i style="color: white;">really</i><span style="color: white;">, but </span><i style="color: white;">sort of.</i><span style="color: white;"> I mean to cause no offense here, and I have nothing against bass fishing. From my limited experience, it's fun. I don't even have anything against worms, rubber or otherwise. I'm just a trout fisherman, that's all, and a stream fisherman even more so. Even fishing for trout in stillwater just doesn't give me the same buzz. </span></span></span><br />
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</div><div style="color: white;">In the end, I put on a brave face and toyed <i>very </i>briefly with a rubber worm. Still not "bass crack" by the way. Being ill-equipped for a bass outing, Doc and I racked our brains for a minute, wondering aloud what we might have on hand that could serve as a tempting offering. I did the best I could, pulling out two hoppers I tied a couple of months ago.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1C11f7ZPV0U4gMGHG-juVkMIULL2gKwbxtp2Jb-MndpWoSAj-Heeh9dSwhGq2LnWwrwSB1nFSdVxS_itmwdT2y3RsUMJZCQLGK8mYfKDCB3sfzqGx1jgHAaq_iNy8p9Pj_tlpqosuF4/s1600/hopper.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1C11f7ZPV0U4gMGHG-juVkMIULL2gKwbxtp2Jb-MndpWoSAj-Heeh9dSwhGq2LnWwrwSB1nFSdVxS_itmwdT2y3RsUMJZCQLGK8mYfKDCB3sfzqGx1jgHAaq_iNy8p9Pj_tlpqosuF4/s200/hopper.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="color: white;">Lo and behold, the hoppers turned out to do the trick...sort of. With all the talk of bass in this post, I should point out that I think only one bass was harmed during the making of this makeshift, comical affair. A whopper it was most certainly not! Doc even refused to pose for a picture with the little guy. Instead, we caught what we believe to be a handful of crappies on my homemade hoppers, which was highly encouraging and ego-boosting by the way. Encouraging because they floated nicely on the surface, and ego-boosting because they actually drew the attention of a number of fish. I have high hopes for late summer, when we'll undoubtedly have a rash of terrestrials on the Poudre.</div><br />
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</div><div style="color: white;">In the end, Doc and I decided that we might just make a concerted effort to have another go at these "other fish" from time to time. Maybe it's not so sinful after all.</div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><div style="color: white;">I said a few "hail Mary's" just in case.</div><div style="color: white;"><br />
</div><div style="color: white;">From the confession booth...</div><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The Flywriter</span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-19645642808003450272011-05-16T22:29:00.001-06:002012-01-01T13:23:34.343-07:00Doc and the Furious RainbowBoy. This rainbow got all NASTY with Doc.<br />
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There's a story behind this, I'm sure. Trouble is, I've forgotten what it is.<br />
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I found this short video clip hidden in a bunch of pictures I'd long since forgotten about. I vaguely remember the day as being one where I basically struck out and just started filming Doc, since he was catching all the fish anyway. I can't say I remember the fish very well, but from the looks of it, it was a halfway decent catch.<br />
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</div>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-10353007451305969012011-05-15T22:24:00.002-06:002012-01-01T13:24:10.726-07:00Back Into Focus...It took a gentle reminder today to jolt my memory and get me back on the stream, where I belong. <br />
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For lack of a better way to put it, life's been full of a lot of garbage over the past month. In retrospect, it's really a shame, because I allowed the garbage to get in the way of one of the few things that keeps my armor securely in place in my daily effort to keep the wolves of life at bay. I've been doing my best for the past month to clean house (figuratively) and keep my head above water, exerting all the willpower I can muster to make smart decisions in confronting monsters that keep rearing their heads, and I'm happy to report that many of them have either been beaten into submission or quarantined into manageable quantities. Still, I have to confess to an inexplicable loss of enthusiasm for the stream and the tying bench over the past several weeks.<br />
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Sometime during this morning's church service, an old friend left a voice mail for me. He's one of the very few loyal followers of this blog, and probably the only follower who isn't as obsessed and crazy as I am about fly fishing. Someday I'll convert him, but that's another story. In any event, he mentioned that he stopped by the Flywriter home page and found that nothing had changed for over a month. As funny as it may sound, those who know me best quite rightly wonder if something's out of whack when I don't report anything new from the fly fishing front more often than every thirty days. <br />
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So this one's for you, JDH. Thanks for the motivation! <br />
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There was nothing spectacular about today's quick outing. I got to the river late this afternoon, relieved to find the water in decent condition and grateful that all the other anglers who have been crowding this particular stretch of river as of late seemingly had something better to do on a cool, gloomy Sunday evening. While the water is no longer crystal clear, and likely won't be for a few months now, it's still very fishable. The insect life was pretty thin, and nothing was showing on the surface at all, so I turned to some big, heavy stone flies to start. After an hour in slow deep runs with no response from the trout, I scouted out a nice shallow riffle and started slinging pheasant tail nymphs. I had to work pretty hard for awhile, but I finally did coax a couple of nice little browns to the net. The second one was actually pretty stout, working his way into some fast water and making an exciting downstream run before I steered him to the shallows.<br />
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Some sanity always comes back to me when I make the time to do what I love. Cleaning up life's messes has its own rewards, but I've had enough cleaning up for awhile. Creating some new memories - that's the sweet stuff in life! Today was a chance to get back on track. No trophy fish, no frenzy of activity. Just some much needed solitude and the chance to sweep some of the garbage aside for a couple of hours. And everything felt right again.<br />
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Game on (again)...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-9257047899760733822011-04-14T16:22:00.000-06:002011-04-21T18:30:41.280-06:00Guard DutyThere's more to the Poudre than just fly fishing (I know, I could hardly believe it either). Every now and again you see something really spectacular if you simply stop to look:<br />
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This guy was perched atop a tree overlooking one of my favorite stretches of the river. He's keeping an eye on things for me when I'm off the water. I suppose - technically - he could be considered part of the "competition" for fishable trout water, but in this case I'm not going to complain. JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-63589479947056334942011-04-09T21:47:00.001-06:002011-04-21T18:29:56.608-06:00Springtime Glory (or, Doc's Sweet Revenge)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXyMzwXBI_at-shX50quDKVXiYKEBniS3xb_9QSXhq6arIuT2ut09w6oE9V73o8CAuHZRxG16ruWmInuDV3LCGmZxbIzwAgceDYRXNHq1oBN6KOPSY-tak1Wqsy2uOfAHe62Rxm2hErQ/s1600/015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXyMzwXBI_at-shX50quDKVXiYKEBniS3xb_9QSXhq6arIuT2ut09w6oE9V73o8CAuHZRxG16ruWmInuDV3LCGmZxbIzwAgceDYRXNHq1oBN6KOPSY-tak1Wqsy2uOfAHe62Rxm2hErQ/s320/015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It was bound to happen sooner or later. The sight of a magnificent Blue Heron sticking out like a sentinel in mid-stream should have been a clue that I was in for a special day.<br />
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The stars must have aligned over northern Colorado last night, for when I awoke this morning, the temperature was perfect, the skies were just a bit overcast - hazy would be a better description - and most of all, there was no hint of a wind. Mercifully, the gusts of the past week finally eased up. All the elements were in place for the creation of another memorable day on the Poudre. And boy, the old girl didn't disappoint today.<br />
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Some of the <a href="http://liarflies.blogspot.com/2011/04/cache-la-poudre-fly-fishing-report.html">more knowledgeable angling folks in the area</a> (check out <a href="http://liarflies.blogspot.com/">Liarflies</a>, by the way) have generated some promising recent fishing reports for all segments of the Poudre, from the upper canyon to the stretch near and through Fort Collins. Based on today, I'd have to say they were right on target. We arrived on the river to find a decent hatch with fish rising aggressively to the surface, not only in glassy slicks and holes, but also in shallow, fast water. I don't know why I always insist on rigging up before I get to the river, but the surface action on the water today caused me to break down a double-nymph rig I'd prepared just minutes earlier and replace it with a single, homemade BWO. Between BWOs and a couple of PMD mayfly patterns, I fished dry flies all day. Kinda makes me wonder why I spent all those winter months experimenting with various patterns at the bench, but truth be told, I did it as much for simple enjoyment as as for expected success on the water. In any event, a box full of BWOs sufficed for today. <br />
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Doc, meanwhile, must have felt the stars aligning as well, because he came out of the gate with a vengeance fueled by a seven-month hiatus from fishing. He initially struck first blood on, of all things, a San Juan worm. I think that's primarily because it was what happened to be on the end of his tippet from last season. He landed a nice, fat rainbow in the range of 13 inches, which would be about the size of my standard catches for the remainder of the day. Having broken the ice, he then switched over to a BWO and proceeded to absolutely destroy it with two huge rainbows serving as bookends around several smaller fish. It was a stunning start to his 2011 season, and I suspect a healthy helping of sweet revenge for last April, when he landed a nice 18 inch rainbow only to see me follow up later that day with an ugly trout that easily broke 20 inches. There would be no out-dueling him today, and the pictures don't lie.<br />
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I found myself remarking that this last fish was the biggest one "we" had taken out of the Poudre to date. Isn't it convenient when "he" becomes "we?" After all, I tied the flies and took the pictures! (Oh, just hush and let me live vicariously for a minute).<br />
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I didn't have a bad day myself, landing about a dozen fish and being slow on the hook-set on too many others to count. I didn't hook into anything tremendous, but most of the fish were healthy and chunky, and all of them put up enough fight to leave me smiling from ear to ear.<br />
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Every time I think this hobby/obsession/passion/addiction can't get any better, a day like today comes along and blows me away. There aren't all that many days where I lose track of the number of blessings I really do have in life, but I think today was one where I couldn't tally them up if I consciously tried. Watching Doc clearly surge into the lead in the third iteration of our annual seasonal battle for angling supremacy was a special treat. Seeing tangible results of my still basic but ever-improving tying skills was another. <br />
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A friend from the blogosphere once gently chided me after reading of one of my several skunkings, pointing out to me that the occasional troutless days on the river are a necessary reminder of how special the truly epic days on the river can be. Wise words, and never more true than today.<br />
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Slingin' homemade BWOs in my dreams tonight,<br />
The Flywriter<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-82454034249038933742011-03-13T21:14:00.001-06:002011-04-21T18:30:53.577-06:00Stoned on SundayFirst, let's be clear about the title of this post.<br />
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I didn't go off the deep end and start experimenting with mind-altering substances to fill the hours on a Sunday evening. Not that kind of "stoned." Neither did I join some puritanical cult practicing a severely medieval variety of punishment. Rather, I chose another form of frustration - tying stone flies in preparation for the mid-summer high water.<br />
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It's inevitable. Every year, I spend the early spring months pitching small dries and nymphs as the weather begins to warm up while the water level stays low. Come June, I get sidelined during the painful, intolerable run-off, and pace back and forth like the lunatic I am, waiting for the water to drop. This year, I'm planning a different approach. The annual run-off hiatus won't disappear entirely, but with the help of some big, heavy stone flies (along with some San Juans and annelids), it's going to be a lot shorter.<br />
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My only problem is that I have yet to master the art of tying stone flies. Not that I've really mastered <i>any </i>flies at this point in my short tying career, but the stone fly gives me fits - specifically, the legs. I pulled up an old photo I took last summer of a stone fly casing that sat on a rock along the Poudre and tried to replicate it as closely as possible. After a number of drafts that came out pretty ugly, I at last got to a version I can live with.<br />
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I'm hoping this one will fish nicely along the banks and shallower seams during the post-runoff period. It's based on a pattern tied by a local tier here that Doc and I have had some success with the past couple of summers. I tied it awfully big (size 10), but I'm cautiously optimistic that it will draw the attention of some big browns that have been eluding me for awhile. <br />
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<i>Hook: 10</i><br />
<i>Thread: Olive</i><br />
<i>Tail/Legs: Light brown goose biots</i><br />
<i>Lower body: Gold wire</i><br />
<i>Thorax: Peacock hearl </i>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-53374154157505679142011-03-03T22:37:00.002-07:002011-04-21T18:31:08.745-06:00I'm a Fishing Legend in my own mind<i>Flywriter's Note: Thanks to the folks over at <a href="http://cofisher.blogspot.com/2011/02/are-you-fishing-legend-in-your-own-mind.html">Wind Knots & Tangled Lines</a> for the writing prompt. </i><i>Also, check out <a href="http://www.flyfishingcrazy.com/">www.flyfishingcrazy.com</a> to see a really cool logo and a great, original website with a decidedly unorthodox, refreshing viewpoint on fly fishing gear. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
There are no two ways about it. I'm a fly fishing legend. In my own mind, that is. After all, crazy people with hobbies tend to live in their own minds, where just about anything is possible.<br />
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Wouldn't it take "legendary" skills to catch a fish on something as ugly and unrefined as this?:<br />
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I sure think it would. Oh...but wait...turns out I never caught anything on it. DAMNIT!<br />
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Still, my experimentation with the Colorado Humpy notwithstanding, I'm a fishing legend in my own mind. <br />
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My exploits should be well-known by now: <br />
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1) I sling San Juan Worms - with no apologies - whenever the conditions call for it. Call me part of the "ham and eggs crowd" if you must, or scold me for abandoning the "purity" of the sport. The fact remains that the good old San Juan Worm is thread and man-made material, pretty much like any other fly; <br />
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2) I once hooked an 80 year-old man in the earlobe on a back-cast, the result of which was a string of expletives that had never before crept into my 12 year-old ears; <br />
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3) A 10 inch rainbow single-handedly caused me to fall into a raging patch of whitewater;<br />
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4) My nymphing ratio of snags to legitimate hookups is, by my count, somewhere in the ballpark of 10,000/1. (Yes, that's 10,000 to ONE);<br />
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5) I once caught a whitefish and asked Doc what kind of trout it was. Haven't quite heard the end of that one yet, after 20 YEARS!! (Put it to bed, Doc); and, <br />
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6) I fish with a $20 fly rod, patched-up canvass waders, and until very recently, old boots that weren't made for walking.<br />
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All of this, of course, makes one wonder why I keep coming back to the river.<br />
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Oh yeah! Here's why! (and please make note of the aforementioned San Juan Worm in his mouth):<br />
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The stuff of legends? I think so!JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-73113984442006796142011-02-27T18:18:00.003-07:002011-04-21T18:31:16.661-06:00Ed and God on a lakeNot that he doesn't love us all, but God loves fishermen.<br />
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This post is a little different. It's a story relayed to me by one of my favorite fishermen in the world. I'll just call him Ed. I re-wrote parts of it simply for clarity and effect, and I also chose to disguise the true identity of Ed's companions. While some of the words are mine, the story is Ed's.<br />
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<i>But for the care and protection of God, I should not even be living. With deepest humility and gratitude, I am bold to relate a frightful happening that I endured on a late summer afternoon.</i><br />
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<i>Four close friends set off to enjoy a simple day of fishing on Diamond Lake, 25 miles north of Laramie, Wyoming. Rumors of the "big ones" whetted our appetites, not to mention our collective anticipation. Though we were all getting along in years, we traveled to our destination with the excitement of children, eager at the chance to land a few lunkers to add to our vast collection of fishing tales. </i><br />
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<i>At 6:30 a.m. we gathered at a predetermined location. As was our common practice, we stood in the middle of a driveway, four men joined in prayer to the Almighty. We asked God to keep us safe. We are now convinced that God heard our modest prayers. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Following a jovial, hearty breakfast at Foster's Cafe in Laramie, we headed north in two cars, with two boats in tow. Foster's has been my favorite breakfast destination for as long as I can remember. I'm not sure if it's the food, the friendly local charm, or simply that it seems to be on the way to wherever I'm headed, but a day of fishing always seems better after a strong cup of coffee and a steaming plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns. </i><br />
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<i>By ten o-clock, we were on the water, eagerly casting to the beautiful rainbow trout who occupied a normally productive area on the lake. With a take-home limit of two fish, both of which must measure 16 inches or greater, our day on the lake - by necessity - would be a success only when both criteria were met. Mind you, any day on the water is a good one. For a fisherman, however, both limits and size tend to define success. Fun is one thing, but how could we face our wives and friends back home without measurable, tangible success?</i><br />
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<i>While Jake and Bob drifted with ease thanks to a new battery-driven trolling motor, Tom and I suffered in an old 12-foot aluminum boat with a four horsepower Mercury. The motor was new, but the boat was old. I'd managed to make it a bit more comfortable by installing some stadium-style seats, one each in front and back. The seats weren't luxurious by any means, but they were a vast improvement over the hard, cold aluminum benches that were built into the original boat. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>After performing as advertised, the new motor suddenly went dead. We were smack in the middle of the lake by this point. I have no idea how deep the lake ran, but it was certainly deep enough that our limited swimming abilities would offer little in the way of survival. At the mercy of Wyoming's unrelenting wind, we drifted helplessly toward the east shore. My efforts to nurse the sputtering engine back to health were futile.</i><br />
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<i>Noting our need for help, Jake and Bob approached us with concern. The four of us pondered our predicament for a short time, and decided that our only recourse would be for Jake and Bob to tow us back to the boat ramp. It might have been a simple solution but for the limited power Bob's trolling motor provided. I pulled out the two oars I kept in the boat, but with the strong wind blowing directly in our faces, rowing seemed to make little difference.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>With a considerable distance yet to go, we stopped in the middle of the lake to assess our progress. Without the slightest warning, the worst thing possible happened. An unusually strong gust of wind, even by Wyoming standards, whipped across the lake. I briefly lost my balance, leaning heavily to one side of the boat, and within a millisecond we capsized. Tom and I suddenly found ourselves overboard in the uncomfortably cold water. </i><br />
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<i>By some miracle of God, the hand-holds at the rear of the overturned boat were right in front of me. I stretched for the hand-holds and tightened my grip, struggling to simply keep my head above water. Tom wasn't so lucky. Momentarily tangled up in the anchor rope, Tom struggled for breath and then strained for something...anything...to hang onto. With a lunge, Tom reached out for Bob's boat and began to haul himself to safety, latching onto the side of the boat. The stadium-style seat in Bob's boat functioned as Tom's hand-hold on life. A coincidence? I think not. </i><br />
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<i>Meanwhile, as I waited my turn with a calm that surprises me to this very day, I realized that I wasn't feeling the panic or terror that should have engulfed me. As Jake and Bob struggled to pull me into the boat, I glanced at the seat and saw something I couldn't believe. My new, $1200 hearing aid had fallen out of my ear and landed on the seat. Again, a coincidence? I think not. </i><br />
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<i>The four of us left my boat to drift with the will of God and the Wyoming wind. We reached the safety of the boat ramp after 10-15 minutes of bone-chilling wind. Hypothermia began to set in just before we were able to rid ourselves of our wet clothing. A few minutes in the car with the heaters blowing full-steam allowed the uncontrollable shaking to abate. The wait gave us all private time to thank God for his life-saving mercy.</i><br />
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<i>The fiasco continued, however, as we pondered a way to retrieve my old aluminum boat and motor, which by now sat a considerable distance across the lake. Bob's battery was simply too weak to do the job. Fortunately for us, two Wyoming fishermen had witnessed the entire drama. They're being present a coincidence? I think not. </i><br />
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<i>The two gentlemen volunteered to put their own antiquated motor on Bob's boat and tow mine to shore. Again, a simple solution? Not so. Understandably, since nobody had thought to retrieve the anchor in the midst of our brief dance with death, the anchor dragged the grassy bottom of the lake. It made for slow going, but we eventually reached the boat ramp. The old antiquated motor proved to be dependable, if slightly out of its prime. </i><br />
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<i>Bob donned his fishing waders and managed to turn the boat right-side up. Amazingly, we found fishing rods, a Thermos, and one oar. Even more amazingly, Tom's billfold was soggy, but all the important documents it held remained intact. Coincidence? I think not.</i><br />
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<i>I backed up my old 4X4 Blazer as close to the water as I dared, and we pulled the boat onto dry land. Minutes later the tow boat was at the ramp. We expressed our heartfelt gratitude to our newly-found friends - Good Samaritans if ever there were any - as they silently slipped away. We wanted to somehow compensate them for their act of kindness, but assumed they wouldn't have accepted such a gesture anyway.</i><br />
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<i>We gathered two styrofoam coolers with all our fruit, sandwiches, and beverages. The contents were as dry as they had been when I'd packed them hours earlier. We had a quick lunch and headed for Laramie. Our day was spent, and we all seemed to languish in a state of after-shock, completely forgetting to call our wives and ease their concerns over our late return.</i><br />
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<i>I am certain, in reflection, that God had been with us that day. I am personally most grateful, for I know now that I caused the boat to capsize. I cannot help but think about the "what ifs." If Tom had not managed to latch onto the hand-holds of the seat on Bob's boat, I would no doubt have been forever consumed with guilt. What a travesty it would have been for him. A Purple Heart veteran from the Korean War to have fallen victim to the Wyoming wind during a routine fishing trip! I can only attribute his survival that day to God's mercy and direct intervention. </i><br />
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<i>Did God spare us all so that we might continue to honor, praise, and serve him? I think so!</i><br />
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Flywriter's note: Ed, now in his mid-90s, keeps fishing and honoring God. And for that, we're all grateful and blessed.<br />
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Drifting along with God...<br />
The Flywriter<br />
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<i> </i>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-81606723404010987632011-02-23T16:15:00.002-07:002011-04-21T18:31:31.115-06:00The Benefits of Restoration (or, Quit Your Whining)For the past two years, trout have been laughing at my expense.<br />
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I've taken to riding my bike to work as often as possible. It's a blessing in many ways. It keeps me on the verge of becoming physically fit, although my Saturday night soccer games prove that I haven't quite crossed that threshold yet. The biking also does wonders for my mental fitness; particularly the morning ride, during which I cut loose the background noise that seems to seep into my subconscious during the night and prepare to think and communicate with some semblance of coherence throughout the day.<br />
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More than anything, the morning ride takes me along the banks of the Poudre for miles before I have to veer south into town. Just as I begin the morning trek, I cross under a bridge that serves as a boundary line between some public and private access areas of the Poudre. I've fished every inch of water on the public side, but being respectful of private property, I stop at the very last inch before that imaginary line in the river. Naturally, I see trout rising freely, with impunity, 25 yards downstream from the demarcation. I'm certain they're smiling at me as they do so. <br />
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The trail crosses over the river again about a hundred yards later, drawing another demarcation line between private access and no access. On the "no access" side of the trail lies a natural preservation area, with a tasteful, subdued sign reading "restoration in progress, no access allowed." In other words, Flywriter, don't even bother dreaming about what might be in the water for the next mile or so.<br />
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I have to admit, the restoration area is like a big never-never land. Each morning, I stop at the end of the bridge, just before the bike trail extends into a flat prairie for the next mile, and glance into the forbidden forest. I have no idea what lies in the water downstream from that point, and it kind of drives me nuts. There's no doubt in my mind it contains some big fish. I envision them all congregating there, safe from the heavy fishing pressure their brethren endure just half a mile to the west.<br />
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Still, I'm all in favor of the restoration project. If nothing else, it allows my imagination to wander. And today, just at the edge of that forbidden trout-haven, I caught a glimpse of the results of restoration:<br />
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The trout will probably keep laughing at me from the safety of private access and "no access" water as I pedal away the morning cobwebs, but somehow I'll keep arriving at work in a better mood. Each day, I'm restored, and restoration's a good thing.<br />
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Riding to Wonderland...<br />
The FlywriterJEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-61374919676491315522011-02-06T18:31:00.001-07:002011-02-06T22:19:46.514-07:00Super Bowl Sunday (or, a good excuse to work on the fly box)Few things enthuse me less than the Super Bowl. Along with Valentine's Day, it falls increasingly into the category of "non-event" for me. The last one I really enjoyed - at least in terms of the actual game - was the Broncos/Packers game in the late 1990s, when I took pleasure in watching John Elway completely shut down all the obnoxious Packer fans with whom I was forced to endure a pre-game party. I toyed with the idea of watching a bit of today's game, but I got no further than the National Anthem, which was butchered both musically and lyrically by Christina Aguilera (the twilight's last gleaming apparently occurs twice in her rendition).<br />
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Instead, I spent the day finishing up a birthday present for my sister - which required a little time at the workbench - and then got about the more serious business of filling up the fly boxes. I've done quite a bit of tying in the past several months for other people, but my own stock has suffered. Between Christmas and birthday presents for others and a few mini-boxes tied for some folks interested in getting started, I've ignored my own supply, which at current levels will be gone in a flash by mid-summer.<br />
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I managed to get about three dozen bugs whipped up over the course of a few hours. That's a pretty good clip for me at this point in my "tying career," particularly since I chose a couple of patterns that are labor intensive for someone at my skill level.<br />
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My first focus was the RS2. Since learning about it and beginning to fish it in earnest last year, I've become a big believer in its versatility and productivity. From what I've read, it's particularly effective on Colorado tailwaters. I haven't had a chance to do any field research on that yet, but I've had some good results on the Poudre - a freestone river - when fish are kissing the surface but not quite rolling dramatically over dries. The tough part has been mastering the tie, particularly the split tail. I also figured out that the dubbing I was using (i.e. ice dub or hare's ear) was turning out flies that were excessively furry. Switching to some really fine dub, applied in very small quantities, made a world of difference. This one turned out particularly well, at least by my standards:<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3oBifp1mMMuqpDZzWBRNyKidQIFXSvFWm4MR0n70_9zQjrpg9UQ65cd6EK_ldqZ3os6FurMAMektqS2pz4aTWJ-1S-4vzX-kkP7qhD3U0MVJpca6fzdDHLzpXSkdx2rsxi9eb4lUy7OQ/s1600/rs2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3oBifp1mMMuqpDZzWBRNyKidQIFXSvFWm4MR0n70_9zQjrpg9UQ65cd6EK_ldqZ3os6FurMAMektqS2pz4aTWJ-1S-4vzX-kkP7qhD3U0MVJpca6fzdDHLzpXSkdx2rsxi9eb4lUy7OQ/s400/rs2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>RS2</i></b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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With a few notable exceptions of huge rainbows taken on dry flies, most of the large (16 - 23 inch) trout I've taken on the Poudre in the last two seasons have come on variations of two classic nymphs: The Prince Nymph and the Pheasant Tail. Both have been highly effective during late June and all of July during the high water post run-off time frame. I've found that the PT really draws the attention of the trout on the Poudre when it's adorned with some bells and whistles - beads, flashback, and red or green ribbing:<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-jbC928pDFz8IBfo8cuciJFll4LWDov-dCBVZepBAUz6YZx5E-_7wU4_NAvmAQNxNcI-QrvJonfmH9ZmspNRfBa4S4G70lPrNO1HtPruP2iVitq2jgSP7UbseZIir03H-zGVbW76P8s/s1600/flashback1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-jbC928pDFz8IBfo8cuciJFll4LWDov-dCBVZepBAUz6YZx5E-_7wU4_NAvmAQNxNcI-QrvJonfmH9ZmspNRfBa4S4G70lPrNO1HtPruP2iVitq2jgSP7UbseZIir03H-zGVbW76P8s/s400/flashback1.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Flashback PT</b></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE4KwWRrwq-9HegQ8GNYx-u1PHPVw6KjRGZe9rN6Kd-9pQAHpsDMt4PBEc6TY1EwOzR05mQIzlGopgTZOQVv2q1Vz2VslbCqebVv_DyqiQDShjSrGrRgIRU41UJatSzDXWMB_4TDLJjM/s1600/flashback2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE4KwWRrwq-9HegQ8GNYx-u1PHPVw6KjRGZe9rN6Kd-9pQAHpsDMt4PBEc6TY1EwOzR05mQIzlGopgTZOQVv2q1Vz2VslbCqebVv_DyqiQDShjSrGrRgIRU41UJatSzDXWMB_4TDLJjM/s400/flashback2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Flashback PT</b></i></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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Finally, the weather over the past week has made it clear that we're nowhere near the end of winter here in Northern Colorado. Even the lower Poudre in town became pretty well iced over this past week, thanks to a string of sub-zero days. Just before this latest deep freeze, I was able to entice a few nice little fish with some small midges. It was new ground for me, having done very little fishing with small midges. Since two of my three fish of 2011 so far have come on Poison Tung patterns (blue, specifically), I finished up the day's work with a dozen - six blue and six black. I think they're getting better. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVkm-nEzL2mtZA2LIqYCyNVoDfGniRSfRYpt_udLYnKDREmfvTixyMcQrnxVzivXKvG8cIrkWr3HSaoqJCMTieoJnWrvIag4oSlCODW55dUE_FGiu3VHkHuuWBc8jY_bphszF1kMZG1w/s1600/poison+tung.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVkm-nEzL2mtZA2LIqYCyNVoDfGniRSfRYpt_udLYnKDREmfvTixyMcQrnxVzivXKvG8cIrkWr3HSaoqJCMTieoJnWrvIag4oSlCODW55dUE_FGiu3VHkHuuWBc8jY_bphszF1kMZG1w/s400/poison+tung.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Poison Tung</b></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br />
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So, with apologies to the Steelers, Packers, and football fans everywhere, I can't tell you what the score is here at halftime. I can tell you, however, that the halftime show (which I admit to watching out of sheer curiosity), was completely incomprehensible and confusing.<br />
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I'll catch you on the open water!JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-20399310402249404762011-01-27T19:26:00.003-07:002011-02-06T22:20:35.087-07:00It's beginning to look a lot like......TROUT SEASON!!<br />
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As I've gotten older, I've generally lost my enthusiasm for winter. I'm not sure when it happened. I used to rather enjoy a little bit of cold and snow, but at this point in my life I almost envy those fortunate folks who migrate south for the winter. Despite its reputation, Colorado's winters are sometimes less onerous than most folks would envision. Still, January and February are slow fishing months for me, particularly since it's hard for me to make quick trips to any fishable tailwaters.<br />
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Needless to say, a recent warm spell that has melted away some of the ice and opened up some water has been a welcome January surprise. Combined with a slow period at work, the mild weather has allowed me to sneak away the last couple of afternoons in search of picky winter trout. After landing my first fish (using the term "fish" loosely) of 2011 yesterday, today offered a nice preview of what lies ahead for the year.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qmA7O2CMCEu-5bqaF56Y_mugHtbFc8x6hHw0DZ9Wv3MzA7y1L28qP9ew9rNcJ-QNiS4-tgpDTRMQE0y0h1UDgpTatKwoRlXWJ0AVSUfut7-kYDqp1h3k8VlcJS1JvJcrVt_TLp_ngjg/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qmA7O2CMCEu-5bqaF56Y_mugHtbFc8x6hHw0DZ9Wv3MzA7y1L28qP9ew9rNcJ-QNiS4-tgpDTRMQE0y0h1UDgpTatKwoRlXWJ0AVSUfut7-kYDqp1h3k8VlcJS1JvJcrVt_TLp_ngjg/s400/002.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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As is often true on the Poudre, neither of my two fish were huge - both about 12 inches - but each one offered a valiant fight that got my juices flowing again, after a two-month involuntary hiatus. Best of all, they were caught on new flies I tied during my less than auspicious holiday tying experiment. Yesterday's little dinker sucked an RS2 out of the film, and both fish today hit on Blue Poison Tungs drifted into a deep pool.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4mbRHs4346gREmfCN9OZG-OZ7DqN-2P2VPR2sLMS4yLniWBQDcwZ3QpZv-hf0KxXpqHat1Q2KtRRjklDlhmbZxlMekZDOF6xma4xBtG9bJ0pxUS_Zaxh_rUz1sqo928SYod0GUPn0ew/s1600/RS2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4mbRHs4346gREmfCN9OZG-OZ7DqN-2P2VPR2sLMS4yLniWBQDcwZ3QpZv-hf0KxXpqHat1Q2KtRRjklDlhmbZxlMekZDOF6xma4xBtG9bJ0pxUS_Zaxh_rUz1sqo928SYod0GUPn0ew/s320/RS2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RS2</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Poison Tung</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The numbers have been few, and the fish have been small. The fun, however, was big, and the sunset loomed as a promise of more to come, very soon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ahhh...serenity. Lovin' my Poudre. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308244679671922217.post-91621292747805242642011-01-19T18:59:00.002-07:002011-01-20T16:29:15.734-07:00Very Good, Young Grasshopper (or, One Man's Garden Rodent is Another Man's Bait)Talk about a love/hate relationship!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3prXdZlpSqNHbFfKB25GXe9XAOEmveqt6UayeZNqaso308NaLiKX4p1MXwaOwY0iZaJwvKdJE7h25JzoqlMUtExdGp23DeSgP1WC19CWfUUQSdizITFUKxANaiQFUnNZfsc_Wc0XARA/s1600/IMG_0112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3prXdZlpSqNHbFfKB25GXe9XAOEmveqt6UayeZNqaso308NaLiKX4p1MXwaOwY0iZaJwvKdJE7h25JzoqlMUtExdGp23DeSgP1WC19CWfUUQSdizITFUKxANaiQFUnNZfsc_Wc0XARA/s400/IMG_0112.JPG" width="400" /></a>Five months ago, I was cursing like a sailor. Grasshoppers were devouring three rows of corn I'd planted in the early summer months. Spraying them with toxic chemicals seemed like a good idea, until my brother's dog gave chase to a toad that had wandered into my culinary paradise. Seeing the poor pooch yak up a half-masticated Colorado reptile was about as appetizing as a plate of liver and onions. As you may recall, I gave the mangy mutt fair warning. Somehow, she slipped through my security protocols.<br />
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Fast forward five months or so, and all of the sudden I'm starting to think that maybe the good Lord had a purpose in mind when he created the grasshopper. I started to think that maybe if I tied more of their artificial brethren, they might wander away from next summer's garden and hang out by the river where they belong. I stopped by St. Pete's and picked up some HUGE hooks, foam, and hi-vis para-post wing material. When Doc caught a glimpse of the size ten hooks and shot me a "what the hell are you going to tie with those" glance - eyebrows raised and all - I gave pause. Doc's 70 year-old eyes are used to zeroing in on size 20 BWOs and Adams' dries. On the Poudre, they're all he's ever needed. He'll fish a nymph from time to time, and I even once convinced him to throw a tiny midge. Five minutes later he was throwing dries again. Fishing a huge foam monstrosity will come as a shock to him, I'm sure. To Doc, a hopper is an indicator. If a fish happens to hit it, he'll set the hook like a pro, but he'll shake his head in wonder as to why a fish would prefer a big, nasty garden pest to a small, beautiful mayfly. <br />
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As for me, I'll throw anything at fish. Including my first "original" hopper pattern, shown above. I say "original" with several caveats attached thereto. "Original" in the choice of colors - the orange hi-vis was my idea. "Original" in the sense that I borrowed several techniques and methods from various tutorials found on the pages of the blogs I follow. In my mind, it's the innaugural Flywriter hopper. I'm calling it the "Corn Sludge," named after the thousands of grasshoppers that destroyed my corn crop this past summer. I'm hoping a big brown will find it appetizing.JEGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548028585097869712noreply@blogger.com0