Stoned on Sunday

First, let's be clear about the title of this post.

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.

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.

My only problem is that I have yet to master the art of tying stone flies.  Not that I've really mastered any 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.

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.

Hook:  10
Thread:  Olive
Tail/Legs:  Light brown goose biots
Lower body:  Gold wire
Thorax:  Peacock hearl 

I'm a Fishing Legend in my own mind

Flywriter's Note:  Thanks to the folks over at Wind Knots & Tangled Lines for the writing prompt.  Also, check out www.flyfishingcrazy.com to see a really cool logo and a great, original website with a decidedly unorthodox, refreshing viewpoint on fly fishing gear.  


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.

Wouldn't it take "legendary" skills to catch a fish on something as ugly and unrefined as this?:

I sure think it would.  Oh...but wait...turns out I never caught anything on it.  DAMNIT!

Still, my experimentation with the Colorado Humpy notwithstanding, I'm a fishing legend in my own mind. 

My exploits should be well-known by now:

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;

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;

3)  A 10 inch rainbow single-handedly caused me to fall into a raging patch of whitewater;

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);

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,

6)  I fish with a $20 fly rod, patched-up canvass waders, and until very recently, old boots that weren't made for walking.

All of this, of course, makes one wonder why I keep coming back to the river.

Oh yeah!  Here's why! (and please make note of the aforementioned San Juan Worm in his mouth):

The stuff of legends?  I think so!

Ed and God on a lake

Not that he doesn't love us all, but God loves fishermen.

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.

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.

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.  

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. 

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.  

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?

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.  

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.


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.


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.  


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.  


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.  


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.

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.  

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.  

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 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.

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 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.  

Did God spare us all so that we might continue to honor, praise, and serve him?  I think so!

Flywriter's note:  Ed, now in his mid-90s, keeps fishing and honoring God.  And for that, we're all grateful and blessed.

Drifting along with God...
The Flywriter

 

The Benefits of Restoration (or, Quit Your Whining)

For the past two years, trout have been laughing at my expense.

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.

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.   

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.

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.

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:

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.

Riding to Wonderland...
The Flywriter

Super 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).

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.

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.

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:

RS2

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:

Flashback PT

Flashback PT

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. 

Poison Tung

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.

I'll catch you on the open water!

It's beginning to look a lot like...

...TROUT SEASON!!

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.

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.

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.

RS2

Blue Poison Tung

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.

Ahhh...serenity.  Lovin' my Poudre.

Very Good, Young Grasshopper (or, One Man's Garden Rodent is Another Man's Bait)

Talk about a love/hate relationship!

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.

 

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.

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.

Think Warm Thoughts...

I've been going a little bit stir crazy over the past few weeks.  Not a good thing.  Crazy people don't need to be "stirred."  Cabin fever hit me hard there for awhile.

While it's warmed up nicely this weekend - enough to turn 10 or so inches of snow into sooty, filthy slush that sticks to the bottom of your shoes no matter how hard you wipe them off - last week was a cold and snowy one.  With the river pretty much iced over and the bike paths alternating between dry and slippery, I'm firmly stuck in the middle of my least favorite time of year.

So, here's my version of a "sun dance."  It's designed to transport us into late July, when grasshoppers and other terrestrials annoy gardeners and excite fly fishermen.  It's the first hopper pattern I've taken a stab at tying, and I had a blast putting it together.  I have no idea how the fish will react to it, but I'll certainly find out this summer.

  
Hook:  Size 10 Streamer Hook
Body:  Pre-cut olive/beige foam
Legs:  Green rubber
Wings:  Elk Hair/white hot spot

A well-stocked fly box, coupled with lunacy...

...sheer, unadulterated lunacy.  In retrospect, I'm not sure how it happened.

A couple of months ago, a really cool and persuasive lady asked me if I'd like to play on a co-ed soccer team.  Having grown up playing the game and turning into a pretty respectable player by the time I reached high school, I've toyed with the game on a love/hate basis throughout adulthood.  About six years ago, my career came to a screeching halt thanks to a torn achilles tendon.  I rehabbed the heck out of it, but never made it back to the pitch, short of casual playing with a bunch of 10 year-olds I coached last year.

First of all, since this is primarily a fly fishing blog, I thought I'd share a quick shot of my recent holiday tying experiment.  By the standards of most of my readers, the fly box probably looks a little rough.  I tried to make it neat and tidy like the boxes full of beautiful flies I see on other blogs.  It just doesn't look the same, which is OK by me, since putting it together was a labor of love.  Doc really appreciated it, and he should be more than sufficiently stocked for a spring/summer on the Poudre:

Which brings me to the lunacy.

As if trying to tie a box full of effective, or at least passable flies, isn't crazy enough, I couldn't keep my crazy, lunatic mouth shut.

The words came out of my mouth without any serious consideration, and with little opportunity to grab them back out of the comic-strip bubble that seemed to hang in the air above my head.  "Sure!  Sounds fun."

It starts tonight.  Instant panic attack.  Given that my primary exercise in the past year has been hiking in the hills and wading rivers, I'm far from "match fit."  I've been riding my bike a lot, trying to get my lungs back in some semblance of form, but I guarantee you that it hasn't been enough.  I held up OK - somewhat - doing some two on two with my nephew, sister, and brother in-law.  So, throwing sanity to the wind, I've loaded up my bag with an old, well-worn pair of turf shoes, Tiger Balm, Ace wraps, $4 shin guards, and a sense of optimism.  My plan is simply to survive, and then start running again; that, by the way, excites me very, very little.

See you in rehab!

JEG

Reflections from a year on my home waters

I've learned a lot about myself throughout 2010.  The lessons were revealed to me in a number of different contexts.  A lot of people stood by me when they really had no reason to do so.  God carried me through some things that I couldn't manage on my own.  I alternated between useful and useless; good and not so good; and turmoil and contentment.  I'm sure it must just sound like life to most "normal" people, but for someone like me it's been a year of enlightenment.

In any event, one thing is certain:  my moments of sanity and serenity more often than not came from being knee-deep in water; specifically, the Cache La Poudre River.

I don't keep a detailed count of my days flinging flies into the current in search of rainbows and browns, but it's safe to say that I spent more time wading the stream than a crazy man should!  As a result, I learned a lot about fly fishing this year as well:  sometimes through trial and error; sometimes through intuition; sometimes through remembering something I'd studied or read; and quite often simply because of dumb luck.

Some of the more memorable reflections from 2010:

1)  I learned how to tie a decent caddis, and that's something absolutely critical to fishing the lower Poudre during the summer months.  My journal notes - as well as some earlier posts to this blog - lead me to believe that having an entire box full of caddis flies, ranging from sizes 16-22, will draw the attention of most rainbows and cutthroats in the lower Poudre.  The browns didn't seem nearly so inclined to go after them, and while I have several theories as to why, I'm not confident enough in those theories to actually put them in writing.

2)  I picked up a handy tip about "streamside surgery" from a fellow angler who runs a great blog.  Buried hooks, and day-ending trips to the doctor, can be remedied by carrying some wire cutters, disinfectant wipes, and super glue in your vest or chest pack.

3)  I learned that sometimes size matters, and sometimes it doesn't.  And before I go any further, let me offer the caveat that I'm referring entirely to fishing in making that assertion (I'll leave it to Cosmopolitan or Maxim to answer that eternal question in its more commonly-referenced context).  In fly fishing, I'm convinced that the size of a bug can make a world of difference between getting skunked and landing big numbers.  In that sense, size indeed matters.  Having said that, one of the most enjoyable days of fishing I've ever had was on the South Fork of the Poudre.  I was fishing a small stream catching little brook trout, none of which exceeded 10-11 inches.  Maybe it was the company, maybe it was the scenery...who knows?  But it was a blast, and size didn't matter.     

4)  I used to be convinced that trout tend to generally stay in certain areas.  I can't say that anymore.  In fact, I'm now fairly certain that they move as the landscape of a river changes.  In late March and early April, I caught dozens of really nice trout in a deep pool during a time when the water level on most of the river was very low.  After the spring runoff, the hole became unfishable, as I knew it would.  In October and November, the water in the same spot dropped back down to a level comparable to that from March and April, and I started salivating at the prospect of once again nailing some big fish.  In several late season sessions, however, I failed to land a single trout in that stretch of water.  The lesson for me here is that fly fishing requires a constant study and re-evaluation of the water (and the insect life, I'm sure).

5)  Finally, I learned some valuable lessons about what one wise fly fisherman refers to as "streamcraft," including river etiquette and careful handling of fish.  On the former, I've always made an effort to be a gentleman on the river, trying to share a valuable resource with others while respecting their desire for solitude and enjoyment.  On the latter, I learned - simply by reading the insights of more experienced fisherman - that I've likely done some unnecessary damage to fish by handling them way too much, often due to an unintended vanity that comes with holding a fish for a picture.  I still take pictures of a lot of the trout I catch, but I generally try to simply snap a quick shot while they're still in the net or water, and I do my best to let them pop the fly out on their own.

So there you have it.  Mundane observations, I suppose, but part of my journey.  I won't bother making any fishing resolutions for the coming year.  I have no idea where life will take me this year.  The only resolution I can make is the one that's already a given:  the Poudre's in my backyard, and I'll be knee-deep in its waters again as soon as possible.

Happy New Year!

27 in 27, Days 24-25: Red Copper John, Czech Nymp

No mas!

I did the best I could, but a lack of materials and a waning motivation left me at 25 flies in 27 days.  I'll try for the consolation prize tomorrow morning (maybe), but here's the fnal two:

Red Copper John

Czech Nymph

It's been fun.  Ran out of time.  Should have gone heavier on some midges.

Thanks for checking it out.  I'll write up some "lessons learned" after the holidays.

I hope everyone has the most blessed of Christmases and a wonderful, fantastic new year.

27 in 27, Days 22-23: The Yellow Sallie, and the Elk Hair Caddis

Well, here we are at day 27.  My holiday boxes for my favorite fly fishing companions are essentially finished and wrapped.  Visions of rainbows and browns are dancing through my head; then again, that's nothing really unique to Christmas Eve - more like a daily occurence.

By my count, I've got three unique flies to tie tonight in order to follow through and get it done by the midnight transition from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day, which really leaves me no time to engage in any witty banter or offer any stories.  I'll just warn you in advance, the last three flies for the day could be uglier than normal, although I'm committed to doing my best work and finish strong.  Not sure what they'll be yet.

The yellow sallie is far too heavy on  the thorax, I realize.  Which I blame on the only roll of yellow thread I have; a thick, waxy thread that adds a lot of body with an undercoating of red thread for the hotspot near the tail.  Wings look good, though, I think.

Next is simply and elk-hair caddis with a hi-vis spot of white antron.  I'm keepin' this one for mself.  I think it will be a great lead fly with a small dry trailing behind, and I really liked the way it turned out.  I'm also going to tie a couple for my older brother Chris, who has the tools for catching fish but suffers from some aging eyes and has a hard time with some of the smaller bugs on the river.  I think the white hot spot will help in that respect.

Three left to go.  T-minus 2.5 hours and counting.  Wish me luck.
JEG

27 in 27, Day 21: Flashback Pheasant Tail

Dark green + a little flash = a feeding frenzy and a mangled paw (pun intended, Dad).

It was a winning combination for a few brief moments on the Poudre earlier in the summer.  Doc was a bit skeptical at first, but when he started hooking up with big fat rainbows on virtually every drift, he became a convert.

Doc's a died-in-the-wool dry fly guy, and he'd much sooner float visible dries along the surface than drag nymphs underwater.  I think nymphing kind of bores him.  When I convinced him to submerge this bug and watch an indicator, he came around after a monstrous trout started zipping his line out, running full steam upstream in a violent streak.  The monster managed to spit the fly, enough to cause both of us to throw our heads back in one of those "doggone it" moments that all fly flingers go through from time to time.

The events shortly thereafter became comical, in retrospect.  Doc briefly got his revenge, landing another nice rainbow on the flashback PT, only to immediately have it lodged in his hand by the angry trout.

Hook:  Tier's choice.  I like them in the 16-20 range
Thread:  Dark olive
Bead:  Gold
Thorax/abdomen/tail:  Forest green pheasant tail fibers
Wing casing:  Scud backing or clear tinsel
Rib:  Dark green ultra wire (small)

27 in 27, Days 18-20: Platte River Special, Pale Morning Dun, BWO

Oy Vey!

I think that's an expression commonly used to convey exasperation or stress.  I'm not really feeling either at this point, but I've fallen behind in this 27 in 27 thing, at least in terms of posting the results.

The rookie's tying obsession continues unabated, however, and tonight I'll play a little catch up and post not only the three flies to correspond with the past three days, but also post some pictures of tangible results of today's flies - at least two of them.

The Platte River Special was a request from Doc.  I tried to oblige.  He's caught trout on them.  I haven't.  I'm not much with a streamer yet.  I've tried ripping a few, but I'm not sure I have a clue on the technique.  It's not really a complicated fly - just takes a big hook - but mine are ugly, as usual.  Doc must be rolling his eyes at this one:

A year ago, I'd have told you I was a nympher.  Can't say that today.  March/April 2010 converted me to dries.  A skinny stretch of water flowing into a deep hole under a rural bridge COMPLETELY changed my mind. 

On a day in late March, 2010, I reached frantically for my cell phone.  "Doc, you gotta get down here!  They're going nuts on this little BWO!"  Ten minutes later, Doc's standing on the bank behind me in street clothes.  His approach was stealthy, or else I was just too busy landing uncharacteristically big trout on a stretch of water we'd fished before.

Moments earlier, a guy named Bob was about 20 yards upstream from me.  Bob had been hooking up on virtually every cast for the past hour, and he wasn't landing normal 12 inch Poudre rainbows.  Bob was nailing big fish.  I wouldn't call them "pigs" (is that the term?), but they qualified at least as "piglets."  Bob was a true gentleman fly fisher.  I'd arrived at the river just behind him, wandered down to the spot we were now completely killing, and he'd invited me to join him.  "Come on in, friend," Bob called out.  "You got a little BWO?"

I had some BWOs, but they were too big.  "Go smaller," Bob advised.  "20."

I tied on a 20.

Bingo.

Bob left, with a friendly "have fun."  Cool guy.  Really cool guy.  Hope he shows up on the Poudre sometime again.

With Bob gone, I had a stretch of the Poudre to myself for an afternoon of what I can only describe as world-class dry fly fishing.  Doc arrived without his rod or boots.  He's caught enough trout over the years to simply enjoy watching.  As he wandered down the city-supplied bike path, I was playing one of the biggest trout I've caught on the Poudre.  Doc showed up just in time to snap a sweet photo of the fish, and an unflattering photo of his son, without so much as a curse word for having left his gear at his house.  That's Doc.  Just loving the moment, as always.

Anyway, I caught it on what I believe to be one of the two absolute key dry flies on the Poudre, the BWO.  Basic knowledge for anyone who's fished the Poudre, I guess.  BWO and Caddis hatches are common on my home waters.  Here's my version.  The pros over at St. Pete's tie it with CDC for the wings - and they flat out work - but I don't have the patience or skill for the oily little CDC fibers yet.

 


















Today's last fly, in my opinion, is a dry fly fisherman's dream - the Pale Morning Dun.  It's so easy to keep track of on the water it almost makes dry fly fishing easy.  It's a big white target.  If you're awake, you'll see it floating  in whitewater.  And damn, I caught a beauty with it:

Hands down, prettiest fish I've ever caught.  You gotta have one of these in your box if you're fishing the Poudre.

Way too much info. from an amateur fly tier.  Goes to show you how fun this obsession of ours can be!

27 in 27, Day Seventeen: Zebra Midge (or, that's my story and I'm sticking to it)

The bead and rib are technically the wrong colors, but silver beads and wires are in short supply here at Flywriter HQ. 

I'll call it a zebra midge that has been slightly discolored.  Alternatively, I'll call it a "zebra midge from the island of misfit toys." 

27 in 27, Day Sixteen: Parachute BWO

Cut me some slack.  It's the first parachute pattern I've tried, and I'm pretty sure the chute is malfunctioning on this one. 

Regardless of how ugly it may look up close, I'm banking on it for big results on the Poudre come late March/early April. 

I tried!

27 in 27, Day Fifteen: The Prince Nymph

When I'm not fishing dries, this is my favorite fly, hands down.  Nymphing the Poudre, I've found that you can't go wrong with this one.  I like to tie in some red wire for the ribbing.  No particular reason, other than that it seems to be really productive.

 

Hook:  Size 18
Bead:  Tier's choice
Hackle:  Brown saddle
Abdomen/thorax:  Peacock hearl
Rib:  Tier's choice (I like red, traditional gold)
Wings and tail:  Goose biots (tier's choice)

27 in 27, Day Fourteen: Stone fly Interpretation

This one's my interpretation of a big stone fly.  It's particularly good during high water on the Poudre, with enough size and weight to attract attention and drag along the bottom.  I don't have a name for it.  It's a big, ugly fly with rubber legs in place of the traditional goose biots.  It looks "buggy" to me.

I also played around with some parachute BWOs, but I'm not happy enough with any of them to post a picture yet. 

Here's Day Fourteen's entry:

Hook:  Size 14
Bead:  Tungsten (gold would also work nicely)
Tail:  Brown goose biots
Thorax/abdomen:  Peacock hearl
Ribbing:  Gold Wire
Legs:  Dark Green rubber

27 in 27, Day Thirteen: The RS2

Having felt just a pang of guilt about yesterday's feeble entry (the San Juan Worm), I decided to tackle the RS2 for today's 27 in 27 installment.  It's actually not a terribly complex fly, except for the fact that I have trouble with the fluorofiber split tail.

I'll take the result.  I think I got it looking OK.  The tutorial from the Hopper Juan helped a great deal.  Whether or not I can pull it off consistently remains to be seen, but my target for the night is five to help fill a holiday gift box I've been working on.

Hook:  Size 18
Collar/abdomen:  Charcoal thread covered with dark hare's ear dubbing
Wing:  White antron
Tail:  White sparkle fluorofiber

27 in 27, Day Twelve: The San Juan Worm

I know what you're thinking.  It's pretty much cheating on my part.  Today's "fly" is the San Juan Worm.

I'm tired, it's past my bedtime, and I just struggled through several attempts at a Czech Nymph, which I will successfully master at some later point in this experiment.  Rather than spend the night cursing, I decided to tie a few of these bugs:

 
















The San Juan Worm seems to be controversial in the fly fishing community, alternatively viewed as either a pariah (much like an egg pattern) or a productive bug that gets results.  For me, it's the latter.  I've done particularly well with this bug during the summer as the runoff on the Poudre becomes manageable.  In fact, it drew the attention of what was probably the biggest rainbow I've ever caught on the Poudre. 

Is it a fly?  I guess not.  Still, from my perspective, it's made from artificial material and tied with thread, and mimics part of the aquatic life of my home waters.  I'd be an idiot not to have a few on hand. 

Hook:  Size 16 nymph hook
Thread:  Red
Body:  Red Chenile with tier's choice of bead