Hey Doggie

When I was 3 years old, my Mom says she had to re-wallpaper my room because the cowboys and indians on the walls were too frightening for me.

I've never been afraid of the normal things i.e.: heights or public speaking.  You know those long gravel beds on the side of downhill highway stretches?  If I so much as glance at a truck arrester bed my heart rate doubles.

Last September, I was working my way up to a deep run that felt like it had potential in Mogul.  As I worked my way upstream, I noticed what appeared to be a large fox of some sort.  The picture I posted is reposted below.

 

He looked injured.  I thought to myself "maybe the owners of the property were rehabilitating wild animals".  He'd watch me a bit, then turn to glance upstream, then look back at me, twitching his tail occasionally.

From time to time, I've returned to that stretch.  Sometimes the "fox" is there, sometimes not.  Either way, I cross the river 100 yards downstream to avoid startling the wounded animal.  The law says everything below the waterline is fair game, but guard foxes are not well read. 

Last week I went back.  The owners had signs posted, so in the interest of avoiding a heated conversation about waterlines with a property owner, and because I was afraid to test my 40m time in waders, I decided to keep my distance.  I found some fish that were eager to participate as soon as the sun was off the water.  Caddis and hare's ears did the trick.

Evening crept in, and the sky was crystal clear.  The range of color in a desert sunset is unreal, even without clouds.

On my way out, I unintentionally crossed back across the river a little early, thereby cutting the distance between me and the fox down to about 30 yards.  He stared upstream, and wouldn't even glance at me.  Something was off.  I started making "pssst" sounds like an angry librarian.

Louder.
Even louder.
Louder still.
Nothing.

Desperately, I started hollering.

HEY DOGGIE!
HEY!
HEY DOGGIE!
Nothing.

I slowly closed the distance between us, and then everything I knew for the last year was turned on its head.

Decoy on a post.  Designed to turn in the wind.  Real tail.  Click the image to see my shame enlarged.

Cheers.

Wardens & Whitefish

"Can I get you to come over here for a minute?"

This is what the game warden called out over the river's white-noise as he motioned I move towards him.  I exhaled, reeled my fly in, and began to navigate some shallow but quick water between us.  After producing my license he made an effort to be pleasant and I made an effort to be compliant.  I should mention that I deeply appreciate and respect what wardens do; protect our natural resources, prevent the abuse of our wildlife, and crack down on illegal activity.  It's $61,620 well spent.  The difference however, between a warden and say, a traffic officer, is that you typically have to do something wrong before you end up face-to-face.

This was my third visit from the warden in the last year.  The first time I watched him pull 4 out of the 5 anglers downstream of me and send them packing, presumably for participating in "Free Fishing Day" four months late.  The second sighting was with my Dad, who eagerly initiated conversation with the warden to discover he had misplaced his license.  Good ol' technology came through and the warden's computer in his truck verified my Dad had paid his dues...literally.

As I began to turn from the warden, I was already back to fishing in my mind.  But I had forgotten I wasn't alone.  You see, this particular day I connected with a great guy that I've talked about fishing with for two years.  He sloshed and marched across the water like something was about to attack him sub-surface.  After a couple of seconds I realized he was moving quickly because he was utterly thrilled to show the warden his license.  He kept saying, "I never got to show my license before!"

Just before my visit from the NDOW, I pulled this mountain whitefish out of some slow water.  Trash fish?  More like cash fish.  The bigger ones run hard so it's fine by me.

 

I also hadn't known that despite all of our conversations about sight-fishing, Drew had never actually stuck a fish on the fly rod so I was pleased to get him into 3 or 4 fish.  I could tell Drew was enjoying the outing when over my shoulder I heard, "this is the best day ever!" While he was honing his drifts, I saw some water on the far bank that looked fishy, but the water between us was angry.  Despite unsettled weather I made the haul downstream, across, and back up.  I was convinced I was going to outwork the last guy that fished this stretch, and that would pay dividends.  Instead I only gained the attention of several wee lads.  The one below chased Stefan McLeod's brick, and the guy below that, a prince nymph.

There are a ton of bugs out.  Yellow stones, crane flies, baetis, and a few caddis.

We're finally hitting the time of year when time of day is a bigger factor.  Mid-day bite is a lot tougher as the water temps slowly climb.  Unsettled weather gives you some leeway on this it seems. 

Everything I'm reading says now is the time to get out there, because the low snow-pack is going to make fall very technical.  By the way, if you're reading this and you don't have a license, I'd recommend remedying that today at Wal-Mart (or better yet), your local sporting good spot.

Record Breaking

I've been breaking records the last couple of weeks.  Might call me a bit of a record smasher really.

How many times can I ruin a perfect opportunity with horrendous presentation?
How many fish over 20" can I lose at my feet?
How many times can I risk injury by wading into fast, chest-deep current to salvage a $3 fly and 18" of tippet?
How many homeless people will yell some kind of indistinguishable coaching tip at me before I nod in feigned gratitude?  (The answer to this last one is three.  I'm sure of it.) 

Incidentally, should I be concerned that all homeless adults possess vast fly-fishing expertise?  Is there a causal relationship between these two things?  Am I inching my way towards the streets with each hook-set?

I've got into some great fish, but haven't closed many deals.  I genuinely believe that many of the urban runs I frequent are full of hard-knock, street-smart trout.  I mean, I know their brains are slightly larger than a chickpea, but somewhere in that chickpea is a catalog of fishing gear, triggering horror and aversion.

A typical bow and brown from the past couple weeks.  Both of these li' guys were convinced I didn't look like the catch-and-release type, and fought above their weight class.  I'm enjoying the Hydros rod for these baby bouts.

It's become a bit of a curse that if I lose a large fish, I inevitably catch a thawed out fish-stick on the next cast.  It's an emotional yo-yo because for a brief moment I think I'm getting a second chance.  Redemption is near!  No, never mind.  She left five minutes ago...you just missed her.

Here's one of those booby prize fish, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't mind the ol' memory card got this shot instead of the beast before it.

I nymph 90% of the time so big stones, hares ears, baetis, and micro mayflies have been doing the heavy lifting.  Looking below, it isn't hard to see why.  March brown and baetis adults were fluttering past me today, occasionally landing on my sling pack to rest.  I suppose that's safer than the water's surface most days.

 

Here's to some more meaningful records getting smashed.

Passing It On

A little soundtrack for this post...

We try to make sure our kids know that good choices mean rewards, and bad choices mean consequences.  This isn't easy, and it becomes even more complicated when you try to teach your kids what "grace" is.

All that to say, one of my son's favorite rewards is what he calls, "adventures".  Translation: river stomping.  After snagging whatever container looks the most intriguing from the recycling bin, we head down to the water.

 

We worked our way down the bank until we found a pocket of 9"-12" planters.  The evening quickly turned into the perfect evening of kid fishing: constant grabs from small, easy-to-manage fish.  I lost count after 15 but the bead-head flashback hare's ear was getting it done.  

Shortly after we started a middle-aged man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat joined us across the river.  He was throwing spoons and was visibly pissed that he wasn't getting the same results, but when I saw that he had a stringer on his hip with two 10" fish I decided not to feel bad about it.  

Fishing with a 3-year-old is very different than a quiet evening midstream but it has a sweetness to it nonetheless.  His favorite part is watching the indicator disappear, gasping each time.  That and giving each and every trout an enthusiastic farewell that usually includes the title, "Mr. Fishy".

Call it fatherly bias but I think my kid has some good handling technique; soft hands and quick releases.

I suspect the dynamic of these trips will change over the years.  It has between my father and I and these sort of things tend to repeat themselves.  Assuming he keeps an interest, we have a lot of river to cover together.  It's hard not to look forward to watching him downstream with his rod doubled over.  That said,  I treasure the curiosity and simplicity of this chapter too.

Driving home listening to his retelling of the evening's events over the top of The Lumineer's "Charlie Boy", while watching the horizon change colors is the perfect end to any day.  Grace indeed.

Spring Has Sprung...and Slowed

River clarity and my fishing efforts took a dive about two weeks ago. I've heard theories all over the map from construction to the Verdi pump house.  At one point I actually stood midstream and watched the muddy-wash work its way towards me like a disease on the CDC map.

 Then 10 minutes later.  Literally.

  

I was in the pacific northwest for the last week on business so I was pleased to see that when I got back the river had straightened itself out a bit.  There are a few parks in town I never go to.  A variety of reasons really; overcrowded, constant pressure, car break-ins etc.  I broke that rule are tried Dorostkar this past weekend, but I should have listened to my gut.  Not only was the fishing slow, but someone's car got busted into only minutes before I pulled in.

This little baby beaver (I believe it's called a kit) watched me for a bit, then charged right at me like I had a bag of wooden treats in my pocket.  I was so confused by his tactics that I just froze and filmed the whole thing.

 

Baetis chaser with baby teeth.

Today I stocked up on midges and hare's ears and headed down to the river for a little redemption from the streak of dismal outings the last couple weeks.  Started great.  3 hook-ups in 7 casts, including a very aerial brown.  About 10 minutes in, my feet got twisted and I ended up flooding my waders.  Awesome.  The drive home with my son was quiet.

If at first you don't succeed, watch some epic fly fishing videos, get inspired and get waist deep again.