Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Grasshopper Flies
Grasshoppers can be a fat juicy steak floating cafeteria style down the feeding lane of an extra large trout. To survive, a big river wise, experienced trout has already learned how to get the most bang for his/her feeding buck. If it takes more energy to eat a bug than the amount of energy it will provide once eaten - a smart trout doesn't bother. So, when a large trout sees a big tasty hunk of an insect just a little outside of the regular dining zone, if it looks like easy prey, it WILL go get it! These flies are tied by my son Matt and sold all over the West as Simms Foam Hoppers. They have two piece fluttering rubber legs that move like the real thing, and have caught a greater proportion of over 20 inch fish than any other fly in my vest. They don't always work (what does?), but when they do, the strikes are so exciting, the tippet can be heavier, and the fish are usually landed!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
We encourage photos with brief (two or three paragraphs) poetic exultations about what we're seeing on the right side of the page. Written material should be an extension of the picture (which serves as the tip of the iceberg), not a description of it.
The big rainbow came up from the river bottom, that's where the action is for sizable food. My brown and yellow wooly bugger flashed halfway between sky and submerged rock, and that was enough to whet the appetite of a hungry trout. A dark torpedo shape was suddenly behind the fly, then inhaling it, then arcing a full 3 feet out of the water. My heart was pounding, my hands were sweating - but my old timers nerve held steady. After several reel screeching runs the living candy striped prize was mine. The family dog gave the fish a farewell kiss, then I returned it to the mysterious depths it called home.
EARLY MOMENTS IN A FISHING GUIDES LIFE
When my son Matt was eleven I took him on a fishing trip to Alaska. Then, as now, he had the best eyes for fish of anyone I've ever known. Matt can watch a trout rising to midges 50 feet away, and see the exact moment when they inhale his fly and not the natural. But in this case, my eyes were as good as his, because we were fishing for king salmon in a crystal clear river. Matt and I watched the big king move toward his red and white daredevil (all right, it wasn't a fly, but he WAS only 11 and he only fly fishes now), grab it, turn, and race 100 feet down river in what all seemed like a second. Needless to say, after a very long struggle, he caught the fish unassisted and I took this photo.
The big rainbow came up from the river bottom, that's where the action is for sizable food. My brown and yellow wooly bugger flashed halfway between sky and submerged rock, and that was enough to whet the appetite of a hungry trout. A dark torpedo shape was suddenly behind the fly, then inhaling it, then arcing a full 3 feet out of the water. My heart was pounding, my hands were sweating - but my old timers nerve held steady. After several reel screeching runs the living candy striped prize was mine. The family dog gave the fish a farewell kiss, then I returned it to the mysterious depths it called home.
EARLY MOMENTS IN A FISHING GUIDES LIFE
When my son Matt was eleven I took him on a fishing trip to Alaska. Then, as now, he had the best eyes for fish of anyone I've ever known. Matt can watch a trout rising to midges 50 feet away, and see the exact moment when they inhale his fly and not the natural. But in this case, my eyes were as good as his, because we were fishing for king salmon in a crystal clear river. Matt and I watched the big king move toward his red and white daredevil (all right, it wasn't a fly, but he WAS only 11 and he only fly fishes now), grab it, turn, and race 100 feet down river in what all seemed like a second. Needless to say, after a very long struggle, he caught the fish unassisted and I took this photo.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
RIVER MEDITATION
What's the best thing about being on the water? The time you're fishing, or the time between casts? Is your favorite fly the one that catches the most fish, or the one that catches you? Can you hold eternity in your rod hand? When everything comes together in a kind of magical zen oneness, is there anything better?
Sometimes fishing isn't about fishing, it's more about just being... Hold those moments close, because that IS eternity. Ahh, beauty and stillness, mixed with an inner trembling anticipation!
What's the best thing about being on the water? The time you're fishing, or the time between casts? Is your favorite fly the one that catches the most fish, or the one that catches you? Can you hold eternity in your rod hand? When everything comes together in a kind of magical zen oneness, is there anything better?
Sometimes fishing isn't about fishing, it's more about just being... Hold those moments close, because that IS eternity. Ahh, beauty and stillness, mixed with an inner trembling anticipation!
a river calls, by Steve Herter
Sometimes the river just beckons at improbable times. It’s a bright sunny day, the last of October. The hatches are mostly done and it’s a bit early for midging fish-but I’ve tied a dozen or so new baetis and I have to go look.
It’s too early in the day for the hatch and I’m not about to nymph, so I just walk slowly along the river, searching for just one nose up.
After quite a while I spot the big brown slowly tipping up. I’ve seen him here before but it always seemed like an impossible place to cast to. I’ve never fished to him. He’s on the edge of a shadow of a now bare willow bush. The reflection of the snow in the water has made him difficult to spot.
There’s a rock out of the water between him and the shore, creating a little dead zone behind the rock and two tricky current lines that he’s feeding in, along the shore. He’s obviously midging, too early in the day for the bigger bugs.
At first it seems like it is impossible place to cast to-protected by two current lines, a dead zone of the rock and an overhanging bush in real shallow spooky water. Finally, I decide to get directly below him and chance a cast up, under the bush and right over his back.
He’s feeding cautiously, but regularly in that seemingly safe sanctuary and I have little faith that I can make the pitch. I have one of the new baetis tied on and it isn’t even the bug he’s feeding on but I really want to float the new boat.
I throw a few casts to the outside edge and watch the fly drag horribly into the dead water behind the rock, right next to him. I strip out a bit more line, take in the deep breath and chance a side arm cast under the bush.
The fly miraculously zooms under the bush, over the big trout and settles but 6 inches above his nose. I watch in amazement as he slowly tips up, surges forward and gulps my little bug. It happens so fast that I can’t screw up-I quickly raise the rod and set the little size twenty four hook into his lip.
He explodes forward, nearly beaches himself under the bush and then starts racing up around the rock and out towards the middle of the river. I stumble forward trying to keep the leader up from the rock and direct the fight into more open water.
He bulls forward upstream, then races right at me and then circles around and right back behind the rock! Miraculously, my little fly affixed to a 7X tippet holds and I don’t fall over as I whirl around. The exact same fight takes place a second time. This time he’s racing closer still to shore, thrashing over and over in the shallows and again diving forward, around the rock and into the deep river channel.
Again the drunk, stumbling chase to follow the beast has me dancing about as he, again bolts right at me but this time I’m able to keep him in the main channel. As big browns do, he keeps his head down and every time I try to lift, he fights strong and down to the bottom. There hasn’t been a second when I didn’t think that he would break off and I am now laughing at myself thinking that I haven’t taken a breath since this fight began. Just as I coach myself to calm down, he leaps from the water and starts towards the bush again. I’m so startled by this I nearly break him off but gather myself and bend the little rod back to the middle of the river.
Finally, he weakens enough for me to gently lift his head up, time after time, until he glides into my net. Even after he’s in the net, I can hardly believe I’ve caught him-I marvel at the tiny fly in his upper lip that just falls out when I touch it.
It’s too early in the day for the hatch and I’m not about to nymph, so I just walk slowly along the river, searching for just one nose up.
After quite a while I spot the big brown slowly tipping up. I’ve seen him here before but it always seemed like an impossible place to cast to. I’ve never fished to him. He’s on the edge of a shadow of a now bare willow bush. The reflection of the snow in the water has made him difficult to spot.
There’s a rock out of the water between him and the shore, creating a little dead zone behind the rock and two tricky current lines that he’s feeding in, along the shore. He’s obviously midging, too early in the day for the bigger bugs.
At first it seems like it is impossible place to cast to-protected by two current lines, a dead zone of the rock and an overhanging bush in real shallow spooky water. Finally, I decide to get directly below him and chance a cast up, under the bush and right over his back.
He’s feeding cautiously, but regularly in that seemingly safe sanctuary and I have little faith that I can make the pitch. I have one of the new baetis tied on and it isn’t even the bug he’s feeding on but I really want to float the new boat.
I throw a few casts to the outside edge and watch the fly drag horribly into the dead water behind the rock, right next to him. I strip out a bit more line, take in the deep breath and chance a side arm cast under the bush.
The fly miraculously zooms under the bush, over the big trout and settles but 6 inches above his nose. I watch in amazement as he slowly tips up, surges forward and gulps my little bug. It happens so fast that I can’t screw up-I quickly raise the rod and set the little size twenty four hook into his lip.
He explodes forward, nearly beaches himself under the bush and then starts racing up around the rock and out towards the middle of the river. I stumble forward trying to keep the leader up from the rock and direct the fight into more open water.
He bulls forward upstream, then races right at me and then circles around and right back behind the rock! Miraculously, my little fly affixed to a 7X tippet holds and I don’t fall over as I whirl around. The exact same fight takes place a second time. This time he’s racing closer still to shore, thrashing over and over in the shallows and again diving forward, around the rock and into the deep river channel.
Again the drunk, stumbling chase to follow the beast has me dancing about as he, again bolts right at me but this time I’m able to keep him in the main channel. As big browns do, he keeps his head down and every time I try to lift, he fights strong and down to the bottom. There hasn’t been a second when I didn’t think that he would break off and I am now laughing at myself thinking that I haven’t taken a breath since this fight began. Just as I coach myself to calm down, he leaps from the water and starts towards the bush again. I’m so startled by this I nearly break him off but gather myself and bend the little rod back to the middle of the river.
Finally, he weakens enough for me to gently lift his head up, time after time, until he glides into my net. Even after he’s in the net, I can hardly believe I’ve caught him-I marvel at the tiny fly in his upper lip that just falls out when I touch it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
