Right Where I Belong

I 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 honest-to-goodness try, 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.

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.  Huh?  Keep reading.  I'll come back to that in a minute.

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 very familiar stretch of water.

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.

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.

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.

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:

BADGER OR ALIEN?  YOU TELL ME!

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 Hank Hill, one of animated television's great minds.  The boy ain't right!

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.

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.

Here's to self-awareness...
The Flywriter 

Joy In a Thousand Cutts

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.

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.

Consequently, I've grudgingly accepted my fate for the next month: stillwaters.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.   

 

















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.

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.

Threat 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):

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.

The attack appears to have been timed to roughly coincide with the anniversary of the events of May 7, 2010, 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.

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.

All anglers are urged to practice heightened vigilance and be on the lookout for possible copycat attacks, particularly from small terriers.

Godspeed, from the Command Post...
The Flywriter

My Confession

It wasn't supposed to go down the way it did today.

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.

We arrived to find the Poudre running both swiftly and murky.  [INSERT SOUND OF WIND BEING TAKEN OUT OF MY SAILS HERE].  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.

Sensing my troubled soul [INSERT MELODRAMA HERE], 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.  

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 promises of "bass crack" yielding undeniable success.  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!

Forgive me father, for I have sinned [INSERT SOLEMN GREGORIAN CHANT HERE].  OK, not really, but sort of.  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. 

In the end, I put on a brave face and toyed very 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.

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.

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.

I said a few "hail Mary's" just in case.

From the confession booth...

The Flywriter   

 

Doc and the Furious Rainbow

Boy.  This rainbow got all NASTY with Doc.

There's a story behind this, I'm sure.  Trouble is, I've forgotten what it is.

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.

Back Into Focus...

It took a gentle reminder today to jolt my memory and get me back on the stream, where I belong.  

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.

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.

So this one's for you, JDH.  Thanks for the motivation!

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.

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.

Game on (again)...
The Flywriter

Guard Duty

There'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:

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. 

Springtime Glory (or, Doc's Sweet Revenge)

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.

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.

Some of the more knowledgeable angling folks in the area (check out Liarflies, 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.   

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.

     

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).

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.

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.

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.

Slingin' homemade BWOs in my dreams tonight,
The Flywriter

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!