The Flywriter

Building a Better Trout Trap?

2012-02-06T18:23:00.001-07:00

Well folks, this is difficult.

I've been wracking my brain trying to think of a way to introduce this topic in a way that doesn't completely destroy my dignity and leave me looking like the world's biggest milquetoast. I can't seem to come up with any way, other than to tell the truth and hope you won't hold it against me too much.

I don't like mice.

It's a little embarrassing for me to admit it, but it's undeniably true. For as long as I can remember, mice have given me the creeps. Two things truly and consistently frightened me as a young child. One was Lurch from the Adams Family. The other was the sight of a mouse darting across the floor in the immediate vicinity of my feet. We always seemed to have a few of them lurking around the house, fresh from the fields that stretched for miles outside the confines of our backyard fence. Ever since one of them managed to sneak into my bed at night and run across my scrawny childhood torso, the sight of a mouse jumping out from behind a heating vent or scurrying out from under the stove instinctively causes my heart to race. Were it not for a clinging sense of pride and the realization that I outweigh them by approximately 225 pounds, I'd have no trouble picking my feet off the floor and onto the couch the way I did as a young boy whenever one surfaces. My fondest memory of a mouse to date was waking up to my dearly departed cat Samantha (God bless her) and seeing a mouse tail dangling out of her mouth. In short, I hate the darn things. Snakes? No problem. Racoons? No fear. Mice? In the words of thousands of teenage girls worldwide: “EEEWWW.”

Imagine my joy to suddenly learn that I could exact a measure of revenge for the years of mouse-driven fear by slinging artificial replications to big trout and bass! I'd never considered that the little varmints could serve such a useful purpose! I decided to try my hand at tying a few, and can't wait to actually sling one of the ugly little buggers out into the current.

As if tying artificial mice and revealing more of the inner workings of my internal neuroses than any of you wanted to hear weren't evidence enough of a clear case of cabin fever at its worst, I finished up a woodworking/arts and crafts project for my grandfather. Gramps is a lifelong woodworking aficianado, and certainly got a good laugh when I dropped a size .01 prince nymph on his workbench.

I don't know about you guys, but I need some stream time, and fast!

From the therapist's couch...

The Flywriter

A Numbers Game...

2012-01-17T00:05:00.002-07:00

The look of puzzlement on Jae's face matched the confusion dancing circles in my own mind. "Tough fishing today," he deadpanned.

Tell me about it. I've only sent five separate flies drifting down this stretch over a thousand times for the past hour. I was having a silent conversation with myself, trying to figure out what could have been happening. The shallow riffle ran down a small, gradual shelf into one of the few slicks that had any water to speak of. Overhanging vegetation and a few bunches of undergrowth formed some structure that looked eminently fishable. Most of the river - at least this stretch of it - has settled into the familiar winter routine: Trickles of shallow, unfishable water interspersed with a few deep, but stagnant pools. We thought we'd finally hit pay dirt on this particular stretch. It actually looked like a river is supposed to look through the eyes of an angler. We'd tried everything under the sun, short of floating dries on the surface, which seemed like a silly idea. We hadn't seen a fish surface all afternoon, so we figured our chances of enticing one to even look upward were slim. Tiny midges dead drifting naturally with the current did nothing but dead drift naturally with the current. Nymphing bead heads became frustrating, and we'd each hooked enough sticks to build a small raft.

"Well, I'm going to hunt for some more water upstream. I'll catch up with you in awhile."

"Sounds good, Jae." I did my best to feign a smile. Well, I'm just going to stand here like an idiot and beat some more hell out of this water for awhile. I haven't felt enough pain yet.

I watched Jae turn on his heels and begin to trudge the path in search of greener pastures, or at least deeper water. Taking a deep breath, I gave myself a moment's rest. My ankles were getting sore from navigating the rocky, slippery terrain lining the Poudre's floor. I took a small pinch of Copenhagen - my only remaining vice, or so I tell myself - and decided to change flies...again. I was running out of alternatives, but a couple of possibilities sat waiting in the waterproof Otterbox hanging around my neck.

Stupid 6X. I don't exactly have the hands of a surgeon, and I must have looked comical trying to feed the tiny tippet through the tiny eye on the tiny hook. Finally, an eternity later, I managed a respectable knot and unfurled the line from my new 3-weight toward the far bank, sending the miniscule fly hurtling recklessly in the vicinity of where I wanted to start the drift.

Not even close! The fly landed beautifully in an overhanging branch. I'd elegantly casted right into the trees.

Seriously, John!? I bowed my head and counted to ten. You all know the trick, right? Count to ten and the urge to swear like a sailor will go away. I lowered the rod tip and pulled gently, straight back, turning my head to avoid a flying hook in the face. Pop! Line free, fly gone. Stupid 6X. I thought back to one of Doc's economics lessons. Clearly, I'd gone beyond the point of diminishing returns, where an increase in labor and man-hours actually causes production to drop. Or something like that. All I know is that I was running heavy on labor and ever shorter on productivity.

Still, it's such a beautiful run of water. One more fly. I'd run through every bug I thought I'd need for a short afternoon outing, but there was an old Prince Nymph I'd clearly used before that seemed to be the right size and still had it's goose biots intact. I replaced what remained of the severed tippet and resolved to give it one last college try with the Prince.

The cast felt good. The drift seemed good. The indicator floated evenly with the current. Holy cow, John, it stopped! Set the hook! A quick raise of the rod tip, and I finally, mercifully felt something bouncing around on the business end of the line. I'll be damned.

Five minutes later, I was admiring one of the most beautiful sights a fisherman's sore eyes could ever hope to see. Like a salesman who finally closes a deal, I'd landed a treasure of a trout simply by playing the numbers game. Probably not how the masters would do it, but good enough for me.

I'd exhausted my supply of flies, as well as my casting arm, and I decided to leave well enough alone. I approached Jae feeling way too proud of myself. "What do you think?"

"Tough fishing." His friendly smile spoke volumes. "Good day, though."

Yeah. Good day.

Back at the vise....
The Flywriter

Reflections from the Home Waters, 2011

2012-01-01T00:40:00.005-07:00

I'll ask you to forgive me in advance if this post gets a little too sentimental for the average angler. Then again, it's been my experience that fly fishermen are sentimental folks. In my extensive reading of the various great fly fishing blogs that dot the landscape of the information superhighway, I've encountered folks with diverse fascinations. Whatever the particular obsession - small flies, small streams, foam hoppers, fiberglass rods, vintage reels, tenkara rods, dry flies, a special river, a special fishing partner, or "fishertainment" (keep up the good fight, Owl) - fly fishing takes us beyond the realm of simply slinging bugs into a river. If you're like me, fly fishing provides a steady stream of memories that multiplies with every trip to the water. If that sounds cornball, so be it - I'm a sentimental guy.

As I look back on 2011, I realize why I didn't make any fly fishing resolutions at this time last year. Privately, I had some pretty lofty ambitions, most of which remain unrealized. Like most fishermen, I lament the fact that I fished far less than originally planned, and certainly far, far less than I wanted. I never did get around to learning much about fishing streamers, nor did I experiment at all with tying any. I missed every single trico hatch on the North Platte. Constant crowds on the Big Thompson kept me fleeing back to the Poudre, a fact that I'm sure doesn't bother anglers from Loveland or Estes Park. Regrettably, work and some personal obligations kept me from diving headfirst into the Rocky Mountain Frenzy, which sounded like too much fun to have missed.

Far and away, my biggest regret is another summer come and gone without a trip to my childhood paradise, the White River valley at the foot of the Flattops wilderness It's where I learned my craft. It's where I hooked my grandfather in the ear on a back cast, just hours before a skunk strolled through his legs without so much as thinking about unleashing it's natural brand of chemical warfare upon any of us. It's where Doc planted a fly fishing seed in my heart, many years before I ever set foot in the Poudre. It's where, at the ripe old age of 13, I hooked, played, and lost what I still believe to be the biggest trout I've ever tied into. And it's where Doc learned that a good cowboy hat is good for a lot of things, but netting a monster trout for your son is not one of them.

New Year's Eve isn't about regrets, however. 2011 had plenty of highlights:

1) The Year of the Hopper. I fell in love with the Hopper! They came to my garden in droves yet again, but it was a record year for my tomato plants nonetheless. And I learned how to tie decent imitations that proved to be tempting to some big trout on the Poudre. It happened by accident. As I was wavering between a pheasant tail nymph and a run-of-the-mill caddis, Doc started slaying some mighty fat rainbows with a big caddis imitation with rubber legs. On a hunch, we tied on a giant hopper imitation I'd tied on a whim that just happened to resemble the vast multitudes of grasshoppers lining the banks of the lower Poudre. The results were better than we could have hoped for on that particular day. The fish were sitting in a fast, shallow riffle, the strikes were aggressive, and the big rainbows sprinted, thrashed, and went aerial. The afternoon was a natural high that fly fishermen crave, a high that adds fuel to the fire.

2) The Tazmanian Devil? I learned that fishing can occasionally be scary. Horror movie scary. Biblical/Armageddon scary. When I happened upon this guy as I waded out of the river at the end of a long day, my heart got more of a jolt than it needed. I often hear people say that fishing isn't always about catching fish, and I think I understand what they mean. On this occasion, I could just as easily have done without the extra "experience." I enjoy seeing wildlife during my days on the water as much as the next guy or gal. I just prefer to see it from a comfortable distance, and sans dangling entrails. I guess even badgers have it rough sometimes.

3) Battle Poudre '11. It was a nail biter, but on balance I'm going to have to swallow my pride and declare Doc the overall winner. I'm basing this conclusion on an afternoon in April when Doc tied into two monsters. I don't suppose anybody wants to hear about the pig that I stuck that took the bug and proceeded to sprint for the nearest underwater bush, wrap my line around it, and snap the tippet? I didn't think so. The battle goes to Doc. This friendly competition, dating back to 2009, really exists solely on the pages of The Flywriter. We don't keep score, and nobody cares who the victor is. Still, I have to offer a picture of yours truly with a nice brown just to be fair and balanced...to myself!

Jae's Pretty Brown

The Flywriter's Rainbow

4) Jae and the Giant Peach. My friend Jae served as my informal guide up the canyon and got me on a stretch of the Poudre that I should have known about but had never fished. It's always more fun to fish with another fanatic, and Jae fills the bill on that one. Calm, focused, and serene, Jae is my kind of fishing partner. An added bonus to fishing with Jae arrived at lunchtime when he tossed me a peach the size of Montana. I swear, I'm still shampooing the nectar out of my beard. It might just have been the best thing I've ever eaten.

5. The RS2. I had a fun year at the vise too. In addition to my newly found love for all things foam - on top of the hoppers, I discovered a foam-back humpy pattern that I much prefer to the elk-hair version - I managed to put together an RS2 that I'm not absolutely horrified by. It took awhile to bring the split-tail up to a respectable level, but thanks to the Hopper Juan's tutorial, I'm much improved. I'm also happy to report that they're catching trout on the Poudre.

As much as I didn't accomplish as an angler, I look back at 2011 through the lenses of gratitude. Grateful that I have a loving, personal God who walks every step with me. Grateful to have a family that could have justifiably written me off when I wasn't anywhere near my best, but simply refused to. Grateful to have a job when others don't. Grateful to have nephews who still look at the world with wonder, optimism, and joy. And yes, grateful to have a hobby - nay, an obsession - that I share with so many others out there.

I'll finish in a way that I know all fly fishermen will appreciate. An unexpected afternoon away from work coupled with some mild temperatures afforded me one last opportunity to create a final 2011 memory. By the skin of my teeth, I managed to net one last trout in 2011, approximately 36 hours before the ball dropped in Times Square. I can't think of a better way to close out the year.

That's the year in review from Flywriter HQ. May God bless and keep you in 2012.

Happy New Year...
The Flywriter

The Year of the Hopper

2011-12-24T14:53:00.002-07:00

Clark W. Griswold would be proud of me. It's rapidly turning into a Christmas made for National Lampoon. I managed to scatter lights across the front of the house and throughout the branches of the crabapple trees in the front yard with nary a single bulb left un-illuminated. The little lights aren't twinkling, but they're lit. Packages have been purchased, wrapped, and placed under the tree for two parents, two siblings, two siblings-in-law, two grandparents, and three nephews. I think everything's ready to go.

I'll take a moment to be honest.

At this particular moment, I don't care if I see thread, foam, bobbins, hackle, beads, or a whip-finish tool for a considerable period of time. Just five short hours before the whole famn damily descends upon Flywriter HQ for our annual Christmas bacchanalia, I've finally set aside the scissors and and vise as I survey the damage in the area around my tying table. The chaos is remarkable, even for someone with my penchant for disorganization. The clean-up will be a buzz-kill that I'll just have to postpone until the joy and revelry of an old-fashioned family Christmas fades into history.

For Doc's holiday fly-box this year, I went heavy on the hopper. I didn't fish nearly enough over the summer or fall, but during those days of bliss I did spend on the water, I developed a fascination with the hopper. It became my bug of choice after an action packed afternoon on the lower Poudre in early September. Over the last year I've supplied Doc with enough BWOs, PMDs, and caddis flies to last him well into next season, but our flyboxes have always been a little short on anything bigger than a size 16 stonefly. No more! Thanks to my end-of-year tying frenzy, he'll now have plenty of big bugs to pitch during those summer afternoons when the trout love to inhale them. I'll have to concede that they look a bit rough around the edges, but I'm getting better.

Needless to say, I'm a bit tired of foam, rubber legs, and super-glue.

As the year rapidly draws to a close, I hope you all have a most joyful Christmas with your loved ones. May the Almighty grant you every blessing. Here's hoping that visions of hopper-consuming trout dance in your heads tonight.

Joy to the world...
The Flywriter

Three strikes, One Fish...

2011-09-25T19:03:00.000-06:00

...still far, far better than work.

Ridiculously low water levels and bright sunshine made the trout stalking pretty difficult yesterday. The fish were feeding selectively, and it seems that every time I tried to cast to the rises, they would move to other locales. It was, I'm afraid, a classic case of the angler spooking the fish. The rainbow pictured above was a real beauty, and the result of sheer patience. I finally enticed him with a large hopper, which matched absolutely none of the bugs on the surface of the water.

Doc fared a little better, managing a couple of nice fish - a rainbow and a cutbow.

The day on the water didn't do wonders for the cold I've been trying to fight off for a few days. I woke up this morning with my head about to explode. I guess there's a price to pay sometimes; tough work, but somebody has to do it.

From the medicine cabinet...
The Flywriter

Ad-libbing, Algae, and the Best Peach Ever.

2011-09-23T00:43:00.000-06:00

The build-up was almost too much for us.

For months, my friend Jae and I have been talking the talk, comparing notes and fly boxes, and spinning yarns about our previous angling conquests. Between work schedules and family obligations, we found it difficult to walk the walk. On a cool day in early September, just on the cusp of fall, we finally found a day to put up or shut up, and wandered up the canyon to see if we could cash the checks our mouths had been writing.

Jae strikes me as the classic outdoorsman. Despite my years of fishing the canyon, I have an appalling lack of useful knowledge about the miles upon miles of public access on the Poudre, a river literally in my backyard. My method of planning for a day on the Poudre typically consists of driving the winding road until I see a stretch of river that looks interesting. Jae, on the other hand, knows the canyon. He's actually capable of formulating a plan for the day, and brings along neat things - like maps - to aid in getting to a predetermined location. With Jae along, I felt strangely prepared.

It was almost over before it began.

As we slipped - or in my case, struggled - into waders and boots, I noticed a quizzical look on Jae's face, followed by an increasingly blank expression that was rapidly turning into that "oh, crap" look.

"You didn't see my reel, did ya John?" Uh-oh. "No, Jae, I sure didn't." I started sifting through gear in the trunk while the wheels in Jae's head started turning, a clear indication that he was already thinking of ways to turn his nine-foot into a makeshift Tenkara rod. In a rare moment of either clarity or good fortune, I'd tossed in an extra reel that would save Jae the indignity of turning his rod into the world's longest cane pole. I'm sure the line weight didn't precisely match the rod, but we were adapting.

Having solved the reel "issue," I unzipped my tubular fly rod case and turned it upside down. The bottom half of a fly rod fell out, and then...nothing. "Uh, you didn't see the other half of my rod, did ya Jae?" Double uh-oh. "No, John, I sure didn't." I knew darn well that I hadn't thrown in another fly rod. So much for clarity and good fortune. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I turned the case over again and shook it violently. To my utter relief, the top half of the fly rod fell on the ground. So, no nine-foot Tenkara rod/cane pole for Jae and no four-foot Tenkara rod/cane pole for me. A hearty round of laughs and a hodgepodge of rods and reels later, we were off to see if we could muster up anything beyond a continued comedy of errors.

The good news is that things fell into place and we enjoyed a good day of fishing. We hit a stretch of the Poudre that I'd never fished before, probably because it flows away from the main road and out of my normal field of vision driving up the canyon. After a short, easy walk, we were on some great water that was marred only by some sort of invasive, prolific, bright green algae that had grown on the riverbed. The algae did very little, in my view, to hinder the fishing, although I did have to periodically clean off the nymphs I was drifting for much of the day. It also made wading a little more precarious than usual, although the riverbed up the canyon is somewhat difficult to wade to begin with, being full of big rocks as opposed to the sand and gravel I'm used to in the stretches of the lower Poudre.

After a period of adjustment, trial, and error, we started tying into some small but healthy trout. Despite being handicapped with an unfamiliar reel of lesser quality, Jae proved himself to be a skilled fisherman with a keen eye for reading a stream.

After hooking up with a couple of trout and struggling with nymphs and algae-covered rocks for the remainder of the morning, I found a little bit of a groove in the afternoon session and managed to save a little bit of face. My recent obsession with hoppers and big stimulators paid off with several pretty little rainbows. Some decent afternoon surface action went a long way toward helping me to forget about my less-than-graceful tumble into a whopping five inches of water earlier in the day.

One final but not insignificant highlight of the day: In addition to being a skilled angler, a calm and serene presence, and an adaptable fishing companion, Jae has the additional gift of picking high-quality, choice produce. At lunchtime, he offered me a gigantic peach that was just about the best thing I've ever eaten! No bruises or blemishes, perfectly ripe but not mushy. A nugget of heaven in every bite. As I frantically wiped away the juice that was streaming down into my goatee, I took a mental note that I was just where God wanted me to be on that day. No ruminating over the past. No fear of the future. Just living in the moment right there in front of me. Good place to be.

Shampooing the nectar out of my beard....
The Flywriter

Big Bug Bonanza

2011-09-10T17:42:00.003-06:00

Sometimes, size does matter.

I should clarify that I'm referring, of course, to fishing, so there's no need to avert your eyes. As the summer closes, I've developed a fascination with big bugs; specifically, grasshoppers and any artificial variation thereof.

Ever since I can remember, grasshoppers have been a scourge to those of us in northern Colorado, particularly those of us who've made any earnest efforts to grow corn, tomatoes, peppers, and other vegetables. They don't seem to make much of a dent in zucchini or cucumber plants, but I'm convinced that grasshoppers bear sole responsibility for several failed corn crops in the last few years. As a child, I used to get a kick out of frying them under the concentrated light beams of a magnifying glass, and to this day I like to hone my fine motor skills by running them over as I pedal my bike to work along the bike path that follows the river to town. It likely comes as no surprise, therefore, that I would find delight in the revelation that big trout will seemingly rise to the surface from a deep slumber to suck the big, juicy bugs in a mid-day feeding frenzy.

Last weekend, Doc and I discovered first hand what many before us already knew. Our day trip to the lower Poudre started off no different than most. After quickly scanning the water for rising fish and seeing nothing, I hastily secured a Pheasant Tail nymph to some 5X and unceremoniously descended the bank to the river, bidding Doc good luck with an equally hasty "I'll catch up with you downstream."

For awhile, it seemed like the right choice. The PT nymph with a gold bead head (and usually a rib of red wire) has become my go-to fly for the Poudre when no obvious alternative reveals itself. On this particular morning, it was enough to fool two browns within the first half hour, one of which was as healthy looking as I've seen on this stretch of river. The PT also produced a really nice cut-bow that fought like a demon and measured about 16".

After an hour or so, feeding on the PT came to a halt, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts just in time to see Doc pitching something big into a fast riffle that emptied into a nice run of heavy, deep water. Curious, I made my way dowstream. In the time it took me to wade the hundred or so yards between us, I watched as he consistently casted, drifted, and yanked back the rod in several attempts to set the hook. Just as I arrived, he brought one to net and remarked that I'd missed the first few he landed. He was throwing a fly I'd tied for him that's basically a large caddis with legs. The trout, he said, were inhaling it in the fast water. I reasoned that if the large stimulator-esque creation was drawing attention, it might be fun to see if any of my amateurish hoppers would produce similar results.

I think two things happened in the next couple of hours. One, I think we happened upon a genuine "honey hole" that happened to be full of stout, actively feeding trout; and two, the trout weren't the least bit interested in carefully examining or scrutinizing the bugs we threw at them in the fast water. They weren't necessarily hooking themselves - a bunch of missed hook sets prove that we still had to actually try - but the fish were hitting the hopper in a pretty convincing manner.

On a humorous note, I also spent the better part of 10 minutes earlier in the day sight fishing to a mysterious fish that rose every couple of minutes and created a huge splash each time. When I would cast upstream, I would hear the splash downstream. At the downstream end of a drift, the splash could be heard upstream. Finally, and too close for my comfort as I drifted the PT fairly close in front of me, I got a visual on the source of the splash and realized that I'd been fishing to a mink who was out for a frolicking swim. He popped out of the water no more than 10 yards from where I stood, stopping my heart momentarily before rolling over, darting underwater, and resurfacing on the far bank, content to burrow into what I'm sure is an elaborate underground network of secret tunnels. Needless to say, he startled me enough that I saw imaginary mink flashing about for the next half hour.

This weekend, I'll be changing scenery a bit and venturing up the canyon to fish some of the upper stretches with a good friend of mine. I have the feeling I'll be trading green drakes in for hoppers, but I'm hoping for some more of the same action. The Poudre seems to be fishing great these days, and the trout I'm landing appear to have benefited from the long runoff period, with increased size and far fewer battle scars.

With love to the Hopper....
The Flywriter

Right Where I Belong

2011-08-14T00:13:00.001-06:00

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

2011-06-25T00:27:00.002-06:00

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)

2011-05-30T21:18:00.004-06:00

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

2011-05-22T23:08:00.011-06:00

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

2011-05-16T22:29:00.001-06:00

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...

2011-05-15T22:24:00.002-06:00

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

2011-04-14T16:22:00.000-06:00

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)

2011-04-09T21:47:00.001-06:00

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

2011-03-13T21:14:00.001-06:00

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

2011-03-03T22:37:00.002-07:00

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

2011-02-27T18:18:00.003-07:00

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)

2011-02-23T16:15:00.002-07:00

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)

2011-02-06T18:31:00.001-07:00

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...

2011-01-27T19:26:00.003-07:00

...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)

2011-01-19T18:59:00.002-07:00

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...

2011-01-15T16:34:00.002-07:00

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...

2011-01-08T18:01:00.004-07:00

...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

2010-12-31T11:44:00.001-07:00

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

2010-12-25T00:23:00.004-07:00

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

2010-12-24T21:21:00.001-07:00

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

2010-12-20T22:52:00.001-07:00

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

2010-12-18T20:54:00.006-07:00

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)

2010-12-15T22:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-12-15T22:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-12-12T20:51:00.002-07:00

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

2010-12-11T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2010-12-10T19:32:00.001-07:00

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

2010-12-09T22:21:00.000-07:00

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

27 in 27, Day Eleven: Oh Hairy Boy (a Flywriter Original)

2010-12-08T19:54:00.011-07:00

OK, so I probably need a better name for it than "Oh Hairy Boy." Frankly, I'm not sure what to call it, so I could use some suggestions. Today's fly is an attempt to keep a special memory alive, and replicate a bug that caused a bunch of little brookies to go absolutely bananas.

About three months ago, I had an epic day catching Brook Trout on the South Fork of the Poudre up near Sky Ranch, a Lutheran camp where my folks took me to camp when I was a kid. All things considered - environment, contentment, company, and numbers of fish in a short timeframe - it was probably the second-best day of fishing I had over the summer.

Let me digress for a moment. I say "second-best" while fully keeping in mind all of the "bests" that I've had with Doc over the past two years. Doc and I have shared so many wonderful days on the water that I've kind of lumped them all into one huge day. Still, I had one day of fishing with Doc that nothing could ever compare to, simply because we both caught huge trout and because I was able to laugh my ass off when Doc impaled his trigger finger with a pheasant tail nymph. That was truly funny. Doc's hands are giant. He can pick up a basketball like you and I can pick up a grapefruit. I had to crack a smile watching him try to shake a size 18 pheasant tail nymph out of his meaty paw.

When he finally conceded that the hook was buried in his hand, I remember wanting to gnaw the buried hook out with my teeth rather than leave the huge trout that we were catching. To no avail. Doc's sense of adventure was overwhelmed by his desire to avoid an infection from a hook that had just been in a trout's mouth. That gory spectacle aside, there's just nothing better for me than fishing with Doc. My Dad and I simply breathe the same air when we're on the river. I guess it's just me having followed his lead for all these years. We rarely need words to communicate perfectly. When we're in a spot to actually talk to each other, it's usually either Doc telling me to straighten out my back cast (he still doesn't like my sidearm) or me telling him to sink his nymph with a little split-shot. Otherwise, we communicate non-verbally, and it just works. Doc has some minor hearing difficulties, exacerbated by his reluctance to wear a hearing aid on the river where it could be an expensive casualty during a wading misstep, yet the two of us can carry on complex conversations hundreds of yards apart with sign language and facial expressions when we're on the river. When he looks at me and subtly raises his eyebrows, that means "big fish on!" (or, alternatively, "get your ass down here with the net"). When I smile at him as my fly rod bends down, it means "see, my sidearm cast ain't so bad."

Setting aside all the "battle days" on the Poudre where Doc and I try to outdo each other, with his elegant, flowing dry-fly casts eclipsing my workmanlike nymphing, my day this past July on the South Fork near Sky Ranch was pretty special. I was fishing with my brother-in-law Matt, who is so busy with career, family, and personal issues that he rarely gets to put a line in the water. He's an absolutely wonderful guy - I wish I was more like him - who takes such great care of my sister and my nephews. And like most things he tries to do, he's a natural with a fly rod. With some more time on the water, he'd be an expert. He needs a better teacher than me!

Matt and I had just finished waiting out a ridiculous lightning storm, complete with hail that actually hurt when it hit our uncovered heads. The clouds lifted and the fish started rising to dries as if they were candy floating down the stream. The South Fork is a Colorado treasure, winding through a gorgeous meadow for an eternity. You never know when you'll run into a Moose, a Bear, or see a Bald Eagle. It's wild country. You can wade the stream for miles without seeing another soul, and it's chock full of wild brookies like this one:

On that day, I was fishing a dry/dropper rig, and the small brookies kept ignoring the small dropper in favor of a big, hairy para-caddis that I thought would basically serve as an indicator. After a few fish hit the big caddis, I initially switched to a double dry rig with a small caddis serving as the trailer. The little brookies kept going after the big monster indicator, so I just clipped the trailer off and fished the big para-caddis. In the hour and a half that Matt and I spent on the stream before heading back to our families at camp, I landed over a dozen wild, feisty brookies.

For today's fly, I was trying to remember what the big para-caddis looked like, and this is the best that I could come up with, from memory. It's big, fat, and hairy...and I like it. I guess you could call it my first original pattern, although that would be generous, as it's more like a memory wrapped in a passing thought wrapped in a "what I have on my tying table" creation. The good things is, it'll float and it's easy to see.

Hook: 3XL Streamer/Nymph, Size 14
Legs: Some kind of green rubber - it came in a strip that looked like a fan belt
Thread: Iron Gray
Collar/Wing: Elk Hair, White Antron

27 in 27, Day Ten: The Best Damn Scud Pattern, Period (tied by one of the worst damn scud tiers, period!)

2010-12-08T17:18:00.002-07:00

I can honestly say I've fished a scud pattern once, on a lark. It was a slow day on the Poudre, and I scraped up some rocks from the bottom of the stream and found a small, gelatinous, squirming thing in my hand. Knowing what I know now, it was a surely just a fat aquatic worm, and I'd have been better off tying on an annelid or a San Juan Worm to match it. At the time, however, I looked in my flybox in an effort to find something that looked like what I had in my hand. In the box, I noticed something that looked like a shrimp - I think it was covered in something like epoxy. Or hell, maybe super glue. I tied it on, and promptly caught...nothing.

Nonetheless, I'm broadening my horizons here, and out of respect for an obviously skilled angler who flat out consistently catches hog trout and has a flair for writing hilarious fly flishing prose (he occasionally refers to himself as Alpha Male, a label I like to apply to myself on rare occasions), I decided to mimic his scud. He calls it the "Best Damn Scud Pattern, Period." I followed the tutorial on the pattern, and I think I stuck to the recipe pretty closely. And yeah, I realize I went overboard on the tail fibers - I just don't have the energy to clip it, take another photo, and upload it. Otherwise, I hope I did it justice, or at the very least haven't embarrassed the man behind the scud. If the latter, I take full responsibility, and encourage the reader to view the links to the original recipe. While you're there, you'll read some great stories and see pictures of some of the best trout in Colorado.

Here's the Best Damn Scud Pattern, Period! You'll just have to trust me.

Hook: Size 16 Light Wire Scud
Tail: Pheasant Tail fibers
Thread: Does it matter?
Thorax/abdomen: Gold Ice Dubbing
Rib: Red Ultra Wire (small)

27 in 27, Day Nine: The Lazy Boy Emerger

2010-12-05T21:26:00.002-07:00

Courtesy of the Midge Man over at Poudre Canyon Chronicles, this fly works nicely for me as a hack flytier who has yet to master the split tail of the RS2. In keeping with the "use what you have on hand" theme, the tail is comprised of flourofiber with some color in it. The gold ice dubbing comes out a bit hairy, but I'm assuming that won't matter much under water. I had some decent luck on the Poudre with this one as a trailing fly behind a big caddis.

I'll try my hand at an RS2 later, but I filled a row in the flybox with this one tonight.

Hook: Size 20
Thorax/body: Charcoal thread covered in Gold Ice Dubbing
Wing: White antron
Tail: Dark sparkle flourofiber

27 in 27, Day Eight: Blue Poison Tung

2010-12-05T18:27:00.001-07:00

I don't know much, but of two things I am reasonably certain: 1) there is a God, and I'm not him; and 2) some guys and gals like tying microscopic midges, and I ain't one of them.

Since I'm certain that some - if not all - of the components of this valiant effort of mine stray from the original recipe, I'm almost wanting to name the fly pictured here the "Patience Tester." After a few attempts at this size 22 bug, I at least finally figured out an easier way to get the bead head on by holding the eye of the hook in a pair of needlenose pliers and then lowering the business end of the hook into the hole in the bead. Still, the little hooks gave me fits. On at least three occasions I had to start over after snapping the thread on the barb as I wrapped it around the shank. When I read about folks who tie bugs down in the 30 range, I shake my head in amazement with a new found respect for midge tiers.

I give you the Blue Poison Tung (once again...sort of)

Hook: Size 22
Head: Small tungsten bead
Thorax: White ice dubbing
Body: Gray thread, small blue micro-wire

27 in 27, Day Seven: The Poison Tung

2010-12-04T07:54:00.000-07:00

You'll recall that when I started this project, one of my objectives was to broaden my horizons - both on the water and at the vise - and start building an inventory beyond my typical go-to flies (BWOs, Caddis, PMDs, PTs, and Princes). This broadening will cover both ends of the size spectrum, from small midges to large streamers and maybe even a hopper or two. I've not yet made any serious efforts on any of the above.

To start, I'll be tackling some midges for a few days. Yesterday, I tied a simple Brassie. Today's fly, a variation (as always) of Charlie Craven's Poison Tung, was literally a physical challenge for me. I used a size 22 hook, which is small for my big, clumsy fingers. I had difficulty getting the midge tubing connected to the bend in the hook, and had even more difficulty getting the maddeningly small bead head onto the hook.

It's far from a perfect replica, I'm sure. You'll have to forgive the constant "variations." It's largely a function of me trying to make do with the materials that I have on hand rather than making constant trips to the fly shop for new materials I can't really afford at present.

My first attempt at the Poison Tung:

Hook: Size 22
Head: Small tungsten bead
Thorax: Hair's Ear dubbing
Body: Black midge tubing
Thread: Charcoal micro

27 in 27, Day Six: The Brassie

2010-12-03T18:50:00.000-07:00

As with all my fly patterns in this experiment, I offer the caveat of "sort of." I think I'm safe in calling this one a Brassie, as it contains all the necessary components (thread, wire, dubbing) in colors I chose. From all the reading I've done, it appears that tiers tend to fall into one of two schools of thought on color choice: 1) those who think it's of critical importance in imitating the aquatic life of a given river; and 2) those who see color as far less important than matching the general appearance of that aquatic life. For the sake of this post, I'll conveniently lump myself in with the latter (at least for now).

Thus, the Flywriter's version of the Brassie:

Hook: Size 20
Thorax: Olive dubbing
Thread: Olive
Body: Hot yellow Ultra Wire, small

The midge theme continues tomorrow with my first attempt at a classic (or a variation thereof), Craven's Poison Tung.

27 in 27, Day Five: The Adams

2010-12-02T21:35:00.000-07:00

This little bug - tied here in a size 22 - is one of my go to dry flies on the Poudre, particularly in the early spring, when small BWO and PMD hatches dominate the aquatic life on the surface. Considered one of the universal classic dry flies, I've found the Adams to be an effective both in its own right and as an alternative to either the BWO or PMD, particularly when those hatches are so prevalent that a slightly different looking bug seems to draw the attention of actively feeding trout. Of course, who knows? Maybe it's just been dumb luck for me.

Hook: Size 22
Wings: Grizzly hackle tips
Hackle: Grizzly
Body/Thorax: Hair's ear dubbing
Tail: Grizzly hackle tip

27 in 27, Day Four: The Royal Humpy

2010-11-30T16:41:00.001-07:00

Day Four was a challenge. Four days into the 27 in 27 experiment, I've tried to answer the first part of Key Question #3. I'm not sure if I managed, so I'll leave the ultimate answer up to you, the reader. But I'm reasonably happy with it.

Tying a good quality Royal Humpy isn't easy to begin with, and for a rookie like me, it's even harder on a size 20 hook. I'll take it.

Hook: Size 20
Tail: Golden Pheasant Tippets
Body: Red floss
Hackle: Grizzly, with white Antron
Wing case: Elk Hair

27 in 27, Day Three: GO2 Prince

2010-11-29T22:03:00.000-07:00

I've read so much about this fly on the Poudre that I had to try and create something approximating Tak's GO2 Prince. Here's the first effort. I'll have to return to this one to refine it (my tying, that is - not the pattern)

Hook: Size 16
Head: Diamond bead
Body: Peacock hearl, gold wire rib
Wing: White antron
Tail: Pheasant tail fibers

27 in 27, Day Two: Big Hairy Gold Stonefly Nymph

2010-11-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

Day Two complete, inauspiciously and a day ahead of time! OK, so it might be 28 in 27. It's a gold stonefly nymph, sort of. It's heavy on the peacock hearl.

It's big and hairy and ugly, and I love it! I'm also confident that the dumb cutthroats on the Poudre will see it as a delicacy, not to be passed over. So there!

Hook: Size 16
Thorax: Peacock hearl
Legs, wings (?), and tail: Brown goose biots
Body: Gold wire

27 in 27, Day One: Pheasant Tail Nymph

2010-11-28T11:23:00.001-07:00

Day One completed. Obviously a variation on Sawyer's original. It's a fat one, I'll admit. Hope it captures the essence, however.

Hook: Size 18
Thread: Micro Olive
Thorax: Blue/green peacock hearl
Tail/Body: Pheasant Tail

An Amateur Tier's Holiday Experiment

2010-11-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

27 flies in 27 days.

I know, I know...it's nothing monumental. Nothing in my life is right now. But since I have a lot of hooks and way too much time, I'm conducting an experiment. The experiment contains a couple of interesting variables and will hopefully answer a few key questions:

1) Can The Flywriter truly master a few go-to flies that have served him well on the Poudre?
2) Can The Flywriter branch out in new directions and tackle some midges and streamers?
3) Can The Flywriter not only tie one professional-looking Royal Humpy, but can he tie more than one in a reasonable amount of time?
4) Can The Flywriter create reasonable replicas, or at least reasonable variations, of patterns developed by the masters?
5) Will anybody even notice?

The answer to question #5 will be interesting and entertaining. The answer will largely depend on the readership of this blog, which has been up and running for well over a year now. So far, by my count, I have one very loyal follower, a few master fly fishermen and tiers who occasionally send a word of encouragement, and somebody in Russia who occasionally pops in for a view.

Why 27 days? The experiment ends on Christmas Eve, when I will wrap up a few holiday boxes I'm putting together for folks who are special to me and are perfectly willing to fish with flies that fall well short of perfection. Then again, the price falls well short of expensive!

The experiment will be hilarious to many of you. It's modeled very loosely on a concept conceived by someone with far more talent than me. All I have to do is tie a different fly every day for less than a month. This guy creates works of art every day of the year, and they're really cool. In any event, I hope to develop my tying skills and maybe even impress a few people, but I'll settle for a few good-natured laughs from the wisemen in flyfishing blogdom.

The fun starts today! Come along for the ride.

Family Fun

2010-10-31T09:25:00.000-06:00

Another rough day on the Poudre yesterday, despite the gorgeous weather and my declaration of war on the fish. Another day, another skunking. Starting to get a complex.

Our pre-Halloween festivities compensated for the lack of fishing productivity. I decided to honor Halloween with a well-constructed scarecrow, and the rest of the clan put their artistic abilities into play during our annual jack-o-lantern contest.

Maybe he'll have better luck than I have lately.

Happy Halloween from the Flywriter.

What's That Smell???

2010-10-29T19:48:00.000-06:00

Something stinks here at Flywriter Headquarters.

It's a slightly familiar stench - I swear I've smelled it before, but I can't quite put a finger on it.

Wait...could it be...? Yeah, it's THAT stench!

The animal pictured above is symbolic, of course, and really doesn't deserve such an unfair, slanderous commentary on my part. He's really just the namesake for the most offensive, embarrassing, and dreaded catch phrase a fisherman can hear: the "skunking."

Unfortunately, I received one today, the first in many, many days on the water in 2010. Today's skunking was so incredibly thorough that I began to wonder if I really know anything about what I'm doing when it comes to fly fishing. Not only did I not catch a single trout, I'm fairly certain that not a single fish so much as sniffed one of my budget-conscious flies. While I could come up with a litany of excuses - the water was too high (it wasn't); the water was too murky (just slightly); the sun was too bright; the barometric pressure was radically different; the river gets too much fishing pressure - none of them would be plausible to even the most naive among us. More likely "operator error," as they say. I was fishing lazy and shaking off rust from two weeks on dry land.

It's like anything else, this obsession of mine. Use it or lose it. Practice makes perfect. Blah, blah, blah.

I'll stop short of bathing in tomato juice, but tomorrow it's game on. I'm declaring jihad on the Poudre's trout.

Fall on the Poudre, 10/10/10

2010-10-11T21:33:00.003-06:00

All too often, I tend to lose sight of the blessings that God has granted me in life. I'm prone to bouts with self-absorption, and quick to whine to myself when life just doesn't go according to my wishes. It's one of my many imperfections. So, I'm fortunate to attend a church where service to others is not only something that's preached from the pulpit, but something that's supposed to be put into practice. Today, the congregation broke into small groups and embarked on a series of efforts to live those principles. Among other things, some visited nursing homes, others prepared packages for the homeless, and still others wrote letters to soldiers and missionaries. It's something I should do a heck of a lot more of. It keeps me out of my own head and puts me in a position to practice humility while reminding me that my challenges in life aren't quite so dramatic as I sometimes make them out to be.

Fat Poudre 'bow

It was a fitting lesson for today. My afternoon on the river with Doc was one that might have normally caused me some minor annoyance. We arrived to find the wind blowing steadily; hardly the ideal weather condition for fly fishing. Right from the get go, things were challenging. I lost three flies to the trees across the bank. I dropped a full container of split shot into swift current, hopeless to retrieve it. Somewhere along the way, I lost a pair of forceps, so I had to be extra careful removing flies from the fish I managed to land. All this within the first hour. Through it all, we managed to land a few small trout.

My pretty brown

The wind briefly stopped, and a few fish started rising to the surface. No sooner had I replaced a double-nymph rig with a dry fly when the wind picked up again and the skies opened, unleashing a deluge of rain and small hail. So much for dry fly casting. As I sat drenched in the passenger seat of Doc's pickup, it occurred to me what a great fall day it was. The air was crisp, temperatures nice and cool - very "Octoberish." The great outdoors always feels a little more wild when the wind blows. How could I possibly complain about that?

As it turns out, we managed to do OK on the fishing as well. All it took was a little patience and some serious trial and error with the bugs.

Doc bends the rod again...

...and a quick catch and release

I can't speak for Doc, but I had the most success with a size 16 gold stone fly nymph, with a bead head providing enough weight to get down to where the fish were feeding. I also had a good run with a size 16 pheasant tail, as close to the original PT as I have been able to tie.

BWOs, RS2s, and H2O (or, Something Other than Caddis)

2010-09-22T22:14:00.002-06:00

Every now and then I get lucky. It's rare in my fly fishing world that the weather, water levels, and bug choices mesh perfectly into a nicely executed two-and-a-half hours of trout stalking. Today was one of those days. A nice taste of early Colorado fall put a positive spin on a day that had previously been painfully monotonous and mind numbing.

It's been a long, hot, dry summer here in FOCO, NOCO (that's Fort Collins, Northern Colorado). The fishing this summer has been fantastic, and progressed through a familiar seasonal routine. After a spectacular opening to the season back in April, when tiny blue-winged olives netted me a number of 20+ inch rainbows, the Poudre settled into early summer nymphing, with fish hitting largely on small nymphs - pheasant tails and princes in particular. Caddis hatches have dominated late August and September to this point - at times, it seemed like the trout in the lower Poudre wouldn't dine on anything else.

Today, we finally got some overcast weather with a brief period of light rain. On my bike ride home from work, I noticed a significant amount of surface feeding, with subtle little rings of water suggesting the fish were feeding just beneath the surface. No dramatic, splash-creating rises, just little kisses at the surface. My mind kicked into high gear - a rare occurrence on most days - and I started formulating a plan for some evening trout catching. In the last few minutes of my ride, I decided on a mid-size caddis as a lead fly with an RS2 trailing behind.

An hour later, I stepped into the Poudre in the middle of a very slight drizzle - actually more of a mist - and a full feeding frenzy. The combination of the overcast sky and the light rain seemed to be the dinner bell for the fish, and within ten minutes I'd taken three nice little fish. The caddis was simply window dressing at this point, serving no other purpose than functioning as a strike indicator. The fish were sucking the RS2 out of the film just the way I thought they would. Unfortunately, I'd only managed to tie one RS2 before leaving. I'm at a loss as to why my box isn't filled with them; with the exception of the split tail, they're an easy tie, and all the wisemen in fly fishing Blogdom (here, here, and here, for instance) consistently sing the pattern's praises.

After three fish, my lone RS2 had taken too much of a beating. The light rain stopped, but the feeding continued and the fish got more aggressive and began rolling over flies on the surface. Noting that none had bothered to hit the caddis yet, I decided that a small BWO might be a nice substitute for the RS2. After tying one on behind the caddis and immediately nailing a few more fish, I stuck with the caddis/BWO combination the rest of the night. During the second hour, the fish alternately hit both flies in almost equal proportions, although I'd give the BWO the edge. All told, I netted somewhere between 15-20 trout, all in the 10-12 inch range, with the exception of one really nice cutthroat that was probably around 14 inches. The Poudre slam eluded me once again - the picky browns apparently didn't like the bugs I was serving up.

So there you have it. No nymphs were harmed in the making of this blog post, but a number of dry flies and one emerger sure had the hell beaten out of 'em.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: It's a beautiful thing, this obsession of mine. I'm pretty sure there was nowhere I'd have rather been between 5:00 - 7:30!

Old-School Dry Flyin'

2010-09-04T17:03:00.002-06:00

Like a lot of things, fly fishing has gotten gadget-happy, with all sorts of toys and accessories ranging from the ornamental to the useful. I'll admit to having spent my share of dough on some bells and whistles over the years, but I've tried to make sure that I keep the hobby itself in perspective. I fish with a pretty cheap rod, a small bag to hold a flybox, and a lanyard around my neck for quick access to tippet and various small tools (nail clippers, forceps, etc). The frame on my net is aluminum; while I prefer the classy look of the wooden frame net, my wallet prefers the aluminum. When the water cooperates, I go without waders, which always seem to spring a leak anyway. I did, for obvious reasons, recently splurge on a new pair of boots - the old ones were becoming a safety issue!

When you get right down to brass tacks, fly fishing doesn't really need to be all that complicated. My most enjoyable days on the water have been those that required the least amount of planning and the fewest number of logistical challenges. So Doc and I went old-school yesterday afternoon - pretty much on a whim, thanks to the Poudre's proximity.

The river is lower than I've seen it in months, and the nightly caddis hatches have been ridiculous lately. When you combine those two variables, you've got an ideal equation for some good, old-fashioned dry fly fishing. Grab your 5-wt, tie on a big ol' stinkin caddis with plenty of hackle, grease it up with some Gink, and cast to the rises. Old-school. No frills. The way you did it when you learned as a kid.

Turned out pretty well. The Poudre continues to fish great. Numbers-wise, I had a solid double figure day, and Doc did the same, only he nailed a couple with some serious girth. I toyed briefly with a Prince nymph when the surface action seemed to slow up a bit, only to abandon that idea as Doc tied into a big rainbow.


Doc puts a bend on the rod.

Fat Poudre rainbow

By 8:00 p.m., we were looking for any excuse to keep fishing. The flies were impossible to follow, but we rationalized that if we could simply follow the flyline downstream, it stood to reason that the fly would be floating somewhere in the near vicinity. Just before the last bit of light, Doc saw a fish rise not too far from the end of the fly line and instinctively set the hook, landing one final chunky rainbow to end the day on.

Tough way to spend a Friday afternoon. Somebody has to do it, and it might as well be me.

No moral victories here...

2010-09-02T20:30:00.000-06:00

You won't see any photos in this post. That's because I blew it - twice - with two of the nicest browns I've tied into in quite sometime.

For over a month, I've been seeing signs of big fish in a certain holding lie along the far bank of one of my favorite stretches of water. The don't show themselves very often. Normally, I'll hear a big splash and then turn my head to see evidence on the water of a large trout taking a bug off the surface. They hang out under some overhanging tree branches, and they're difficult to cast to because the water in front of them tends to run pretty swiftly on most days, making the drift of the fly difficult to control without sinking it.

Tonight, the water level was just perfect and the caddis hatch was in full force. When the sun set in the west, the trout started their characteristic evening feeding. After landing a few normal (10-12 inch) rainbows and chatting with a couple other anglers, I noticed some aggressive feeding starting to happen. I tied on the biggest caddis fly I had and started casting directly to the spot. After a few drifts, I saw a large, golden flash on the fly and set the hook. Too gently, I'm afraid. Just as the angler downstream was remarking that the fish looked considerably bigger than the others I'd landed, the fish thrashed once and spit the caddis back at me with disdain. I'm embarrassed to say that an expletive escaped from my lips, hopefully not loud enough for the kids upstream to hear.

By 8:00 p.m., I was having difficulty seeing the fly, and was growing frustrated that fish continued to rise somewhere in the vicinity of a fly I couldn't see. On the final drift, I tried to imagine where the fly was on the water and decided to set the hook at any rise that could have conceivably been directed at my fly. I'll be darned if I didn't briefly hook up with another one, who promptly threw the fly back in my face.

Fun respite from the world at large. I now have a keen sense of what other anglers mean when they refer to fish that are destined to be caught on another day. I'm just serving notice right now that I'm going back for one of those two. I'll post the picture when it happens.

Sanctuaries

2010-08-30T22:36:00.003-06:00

Forgive me for digressing from the topic of fly fishing for just a moment. I know, it's unnatural for me too, but given my experience on the river yesterday, it seems to be an appropriate jumping off point to wax just a little poetic, or philosophical...or something.

I make it a point to stay relatively uninformed about the happenings in places like New York City or Washington, DC these days. There's only so much room left in my brain, and for better or worse, I prefer to reserve that slowly declining vacant gray matter for things that bring me happiness and warm fuzziness. I'll pick up the local paper and occasionally check out the Washington Post online, but it's usually only to check in and see how my former home team is doing (apparently not too well at the moment). My smarter, more liberal friends would undoubtedly shudder to know that I occasionally tune into the O'Reilly Factor on - gasp - Fox News. If nothing else, I enjoy the froth-at-the-mouth banter between the host and his guests. It entertains me. That's about the extent of my news consumption.

With that in mind, I had to take a crash course in civic awareness when I started reading tidbits about a proposed mosque that, depending upon whom you ask, might or might not be built on a site that might or might not be at Ground Zero in New York. In typical fashion, I tried to fathom what all the hullabaloo was about.

I quickly learned that the construction of a place of worship in a free country is suddenly cause for an apparent long-term news-a-thon. I started to hear all kinds of ugly things again. People who support the mosque are "insensitive," never mind the fact that what happened at Ground Zero killed Muslims. People who oppose the mosque are "bigots," never mind the fact that at least some Muslims oppose it as well. Marginal, retrograde churches hold "Quran burnings" while marginal and even more retrograde terrorists are likely still trying to kill us. Virtually as soon as I had lifted it, my self-imposed moratorium on news, particularly of the politico-religious variety, fell rapidly back in place.

While mosques and churches figure out whether they should be built, I'll savor my own sanctuary here at the edge of the foothills in northern Colorado.

The sun usually shines. Deer, ducks, foxes, racoons, snakes, skunks, rabbits, and an occasional tomcat all feel welcome here. There are a lot of bugs - mosquitos, caddis flies, grasshoppers, and slimy larvae - and they all worship here too.

Some of my favorite congregants showed up for services yesterday morning:

No bigotry or insensitivity here. Just a tip for all visitors: bring your Bible or Quran if you must, but don't leave home without a box full of size 18 elk hair caddis flies. The trout are going crazy on them right now.

Peace,
The Flywriter

Cutts on a Caddis

2010-08-22T11:08:00.002-06:00

Wow. I certainly wasn't expecting the last two hours of sunlight yesterday to go the way they did.

I stood knee deep in comfortably cool water yesterday evening. Dried house primer and paint splatters blended with spare tire soot had seemingly seeped into my skin, leaving me looking like some sort of alien. Prior to 6 p.m., my day had consisted of a flat tire, hours of waiting for it to be fixed, priming some siding on my sister's house, waiting for it to dry, painting over the primer, and helping Mom get ready for a BBQ. It doesn't sound like much, but it had eaten up most of the day.

Which brings me back to 6 p.m. on the Poudre. Finally able to take a breath, I settled into a familiar, comfortable routine. The first five minutes were frustrating as I tried to keep track of the size 16 caddis on the surface of the water. The sun was in just the right spot to cast a severe glare on the water. I could see upstream, and I could see downstream, but there was a window of about 20 yards of river where the fly would disappear.

Mercifully, the sun dropped below the horizon and the water became completely visible. Seemingly at that very moment, I heard a small splash and quickly looked upstream, making note of a ring of rippling water in a calm slick, a clear indication of a rising fish.

As if on cue, fish started popping up all over the river, feverishly devouring the fruits of what was by now a significant caddis hatch underway. Much to my surprise, they started going after my artificial imitation as though it were the prime morsel on the water.

By 8 p.m., I'd taken somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 trout, a great many of them cutthroats between 10-15 inches. I'm not sure where they came from; cutthroats aren't uncommon on the Poudre, but the majority of the fish I take out of the river are rainbows accompanied by an occasional brown. It was certainly unlike anything I'd ever seen on this stretch of water. My eyes strained to watch the caddis on the end of the line - the 3rd one I'd tied on by this point. The fish just wouldn't stop feeding. Finally, unable to see the fly any longer, I turned and started making my way out of the river, the fly dragging downstream behind me as I waded out. As I started to step onto dry land, I felt the rod tighten and heard a splash in the water. I turned to see another fish on the line. It had taken the fly and run with it.

Unbelievable finish.

Chillin' in Boiling Water (or Stoneflies Safe for now)

2010-08-20T17:52:00.001-06:00

The heat is back on, and it didn't help the fishing today.

I got back on the water this afternoon with high hopes. The Poudre looked great on arrival - low flows and fairly clear. Lots of bugs flying around. Hot, though, with bright sun and no cloud cover. I got a little excited when I spotted this huge stone fly casing on a rock near the water.

Thinking back to the last time I pondered the validity of "signs," I decided that maybe this time it would work out. With casings on the rocks, surely I'd be best suited by tying on a stone fly. So, an elk-hair caddis took its place as the lead fly with a gold stone fly trailer. Off into the water I stomped with a purpose.

I soon found, however, that the key variable in the whole equation - the fish - weren't about to cooperate today. I don't take a terribly scientific approach to my fly fishing so I don't carry a thermometer, but I'd venture to guess that the water temperature was higher than normal. I was quite comfortable wading in my shorts, and didn't feel even the slightest initial shock of cold that normally hits me for the first few seconds in. For freshwater trout, I imagine the water felt like a hot tub today. Save for an infrequent rise, I saw almost no evidence that fish were anywhere in the river.

After exhausting both the caddis and the gold stone, I tried everything else I could think of - BWO, double nymph rig, hoppers - with no results on anything.

Guess the trout were just chillin' in the warm water today. It happens. The stone flies are safe for today.

Caddis Time!

2010-08-14T18:14:00.003-06:00

Had a blast this morning on the Poudre, just a stone's throw from home.

I can only describe this morning's conditions as perfect. In addition to a bright blue sky that one can only find in Colorado, the Poudre has dropped to an ideal level and the water is running crystal clear. To top it all off, we've finally gotten a break from the searing heat in the past couple of days, and it was cool enough this morning for a light sweatshirt (the green and gold of the Rams, of course).

A virtual swarm of grasshoppers have been mechanically gnawing away at my vegetable garden for the past week, and as I reached to retrieve my fishing net from it's hook in the garage, I noticed a grasshopper lounging carefree on the handle. I'm not generally one for "signs," but the proverbial light bulb flashed in my small brain, a clear signal to try a hopper/dropper set up for the morning.

In retrospect, I think it was the right idea, poorly executed. I don't fish a whole lot with hoppers, and as a result I have very few to choose from in my fly box. Negligence on my part, for certain, but I just don't fish them very often. I located a generic-looking hopper pattern - basically some foam and rubber legs - and tied it on with a size 18 pheasant tail nymph as the dropper.

The action started quickly, with two rainbows taking the pheasant tail on the first three drifts. I wasn't terribly surprised, as the PT has been a hot fly for me lately.

After an hour or so, I noticed that fish were starting to rise and hit bugs on the surface, none of which were hoppers/terrestrials. Then, out of nowhere, a fish went after the hopper. Too slow on the uptake. I drifted it again, and through the clear water was able to see a small trout giving chase to the hopper. He darted toward the bug, and then turned away at the last split second. For the next 20 minutes, the scene replayed itself with several fish rising to the hopper only to turn their noses at it at the last second.

Time for a change in strategy. Fish were still surfacing, and I considered that maybe the idea was right, but the choice of the hopper as the lead fly was wrong. I decided to replace the hopper with an elk-hair caddis. It was a better match for the surface flies, and quite a bit smaller. I shortly found that the caddis was going dominate for the rest of the day. Time and again, trout in the 10-12 inch range nailed the caddis, some quite dramatically. I landed one 12-inch rainbow that had a serious chip on his shoulder about something, because he fought as though he were a 30-inch lunker. He completely consumed the caddis, and went aerial a good three times in addition to stripping line like a champion.

After about a dozen fish, I pretty much forgot about the nymph, which was problematic because I became so focused on the caddis on the surface that I'm pretty sure I missed a couple of strikes on the nymph.

The remainder of the morning was all dry fly action. I've gotta say that I've had my fill of nymphing this summer, and it was really fun to get into some steady dry fly work. With the water running significantly lower, my feeling is that the fish are now starting to congregate a lot more in certain areas, which makes for a lot of fun and a little less stalking.

At about 1:00, the tubers started rolling through, and I called it a morning after losing the PT on a back-cast into the trees behind. All in all, I think the caddis/PT combination might be pretty productive on this part of the river.

I'm also embarassed to say I haven't ventured up the canyon yet this season, other than a quick overnighter on the South Fork. Never seem to have the time to venture up there, and don't enjoy the "combat fishing" on weekends. From what I've been reading, however, it's probably high time I got in the old Ford and made that trip. Some folks have been reporting staggering numbers up there.

Overall, a great morning. The river is fishing great, and the water is ideal. Hope to find a big one here or there sometime soon.

A Little Fun

2010-08-10T19:00:00.003-06:00

I thought something didn't feel quite right. I'm surprised I didn't break out in hives.

I've been going through the motions for the past couple of weeks, and suddenly realized I hadn't actually been on the water for over a week. Between increased hours at work, a weekend soccer tournament, and other distractions, I simply didn't get around to it. Doc and I had a frustrating day on the Poudre just over a week ago on a stretch of water that is normally killer. I notched one really nice brown out of the day, but otherwise it was small stockers.

Snuck out today after work and it was more of the same. The numbers were a little better, at least on a per hour basis. Generally small fish, but I did land a couple of nice, fat little browns.

On an encouraging note, despite catching all of today's trout on variations of pheasant tail nymphs, I did notice - for the first time in a long time - some significant surface action, particularly as the sun started to go down. Looking forward some good dry fly action in the near future.

In the meantime, the pheasant tails are still doing the trick, and I feel like I'm improving on the ties. The top is simply a classic pheasant tail, and the bottom, and I added a bead head and a flashback to the other.

One to Remember: Lower Poudre, 7/17/10

2010-07-18T09:48:00.006-06:00

I woke up yesterday morning feeling groggy, having slept a mere four hours. I'd stayed awake into the wee hours of the morning, eagerly and impatiently awaiting the start of another day on the river. This time there were no distractions to worry about. No suffering through another day of work-related annoyances. No errands to run. No bills to pay for a few weeks. I was entirely consumed and completely prepared. At around 2 a.m., I decided that it wouldn't hurt to have a few more flies in my arsenal, so I hopped out of bed and tied some pheasant tail nymphs. Something led me to a pattern with red wire ribbing. I'll never know why, but it would be a fateful choice.

At 6:30, I hastily jump into some clothes. I use the word "clothes" loosely here; an old pair of comfortable swim trunks and the lightest t-shirt I could find, my feet adorned by nothing but a cheap pair of Walmart-issue flip flops. The hum of the old man's Dodge diesel notified me that the river was ready, simply waiting for us to arrive.

At 7:00, we're armed and ready, and we arrive at the stream just minutes before another fisherman with trout-hunting on his mind. He looks somewhat put-off that we would have the temerity to beat him to the put-in spot, makes a brief, hopeful inquiry that we're not actually going to fish at this particular spot, then drives on downstream in a subdued huff. Doc smiles. That was close.

The first hour goes slowly. Most of the river is waking slowly. I cast and drift patiently, wondering whether the nymph will produce. Caught off guard, I react slowly as the line stops its drift and bends back upstream. I lift on the rod. Too slow. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Two minutes later, I'm alert. The strike indicator sinks, and I respond forcefully this time. Hook up. The sensation is familiar, yet surprisingly new and fresh. Like a kid, I look around for Dad's approval. He's busy upstream, so I start the battle. A hefty brown trout wanders back and forth along the bottom of the stream, my pheasant tail nymph secured in his lip. He instinctively runs for deep water...and then sits. The steady pull feels heavy, like trying to retrieve a concrete block. I follow his run, wading through waist-deep current. Finally, he surfaces, and finds his way into my net.

Swift, heavy slicks await us further upstream, and surely more trout. The entry point is fast whitewater, but runs smoothly and gradually into a quarter mile of perfect water. Trees overhang the river every 20 yards, forming a series of shady, concealed holding lies. I cast upstream and drift the nymph into the first. There's nothing subtle about the strike. A strong, river-seasoned rainbow consumes the nymph and runs. I make a feeble effort at setting the hook, which has already been sufficiently set. And I hang on for dear life as the trout begins to thrash. Unlike the brown who simply sat and tugged, this rainbow zigs, zags, runs upstream, runs downstream, and leaps. It's a heavy fish that isn't going to come in quietly. The bend in the rod is dramatic, but the sight of the trout in the net is one that will lodge itself in my memory, stored alongside images of others in my mind.

Under the next set of trees, the story repeats itself. The character is different, but the result is the same. Another rainbow. This one takes the hook a bit more cautiously. The indicator seems to stop, and then the line bends back upstream. My mind is now focused, attuned to react. A quick raise on the rod, and the fish is hooked. Not as large, but compensates with beauty.

Another set of trees, another rainbow. I play this one quickly, and he tosses the fly before I can snap his photo. It's just as well, because the final act in this drama is about to play.

Under the last bunch of trees, I drift a new nymph close to the far bank. I'm pleased at how the nymphs are holding up. The first was durable enough to survive two large trout through long, hard battles. The second survives another two trout, but takes quite a beating. They're patterns I've tied myself, and while they aren't as pretty as the store-bought variety, they're clearly working. A fresh fly on the line won't hurt at this point.

After several drifts, I finally get it right. The indicator is flowing downstream perfectly, neither racing ahead nor dragging behind the line. Suddenly it disappears, taking a nose dive for the bottom of the stream. I set the hook securely and listen as line immediately begins to zip out of the reel. I see a huge flash of silver take off on a dead sprint, and then turn back upstream. The monster goes aerial three times in rapid succession, each leap out of the water punctuated by mid-air thrashing. The big fish tries everything it can think of to shake the fly loose. Doc is watching this one, and drops everything to handle net duty. Marvelous, marvelous fish.

We break for lunch and respite from the searing mid-summer heat, then return to the same stretch. It's been so good to me throughout the morning that we decide to refish the stretch during late afternoon, this time with Doc leading the downstream progression and me playing cleanup behind. At the first set of trees, the scene is familiar. Doc sees the indicator drop and sets the hook. A brief battle ensues and Doc nets the fish.

As I start downstream to capture the fish on film, I see it give one thrash and disappear. It's out of Doc's hands and gone. Doc looks at me with an "uh-oh" expression, and mentions something about me having to "cut it loose." I have no idea that he's referring to the pheasant tail nymph stuck in his finger. I arrive on the scene and find this grisly carnage:

Doc finds it somewhat odd that I want to take a picture. He shoots me a look somewhere between perplexed and perturbed. "All part of the Flywriter's mentality," I say. He shakes his head and holds out his hand before asking, non-verbally, "can we get to the damn doctor now?"

Our afternoon ends. The physician at the clinic compliments Doc on his wherewithal to shove the barb through the skin, making it easier for him to clip through the hook and pull the remainder out.

Fun day. Looking forward to the next one...

Rod tips matter after all

2010-07-14T19:28:00.000-06:00

I'll start with the good news, which has been been infrequent in most respects lately. The Poudre continues to produce nice fish, like this little brown.

A few just like him entertained me on the lower Poudre yesterday. Great fun.

The bad news? Remember when I previously uttered this idiotic statement in Monday's post?

After calming myself following a brief period of hyperventilating, I reached for my other fly rod. You all know the one. I wrote about it previously, I think. It used to be nine feet, but it's now only about eight and a half, thanks to a broken rod tip. How big a difference could a tip make, right?

As it turns out, quite a difference!

I knew it was coming. A day after discovering that the top half of my one fly rod is MIA, the top half of my second rod...already tipless...suddenly got a lot shorter. I hooked into a fish that put quite a bend in the rod, and sure enough, without the flexibility of the tip, the remainder snapped in two, like a brittle old bone.

I'm officially flyrodless, and in my life, that is quite a catastrophe.

The hits just keep on coming.

Lower Poudre, 7/12/10

2010-07-12T22:32:00.001-06:00

Today was almost a day full of losses. But not quite.

I had a rough day at work. That qualifies as a loss, as in hours of lost living that I'll never get back. I lost patience. I lost fully functioning and productive brain cells. I lost enthusiasm. Nearly lost my mind entirely.

That's all completely unimportant, however. After all, it's only work. The real losses started to pile up later. As the sun began it's gradual descent, I couldn't shake the euphoria from the weekend's successful brook trout excursion and a newfound technique that I'm sure is old hat to many, but quite unique for me. I've never really spent too much time fishing two-fly rigs before, save for some double-nymphing that I played around with earlier in the spring. It's normally enough for me to focus on one dry fly. The double dry rig from the weekend, however, got me thinking that it's probably a good thing for me to keep mastering. A lot of the blogs I follow seem to treat the technique as second-nature. Like any good student, I learn by observation and emulation. So I kept after it today.

Which brings me back to the first loss. I opened up the case to my eight-foot five weight and found exactly one half of a fly rod. One half. I think there was supposed to be a second half in there too, but it's gone. No idea where. Searched high and low. Lost temper.

After calming myself following a brief period of hyperventilating, I reached for my other fly rod. You all know the one. I wrote about it previously, I think. It used to be nine feet, but it's now only about eight and a half, thanks to a broken rod tip. How big a difference could a tip make, right?

I got to the river and prepared to make the best of an increasingly frustrating chain of events. I reached in the fly box and pulled out a para-caddis pattern that doubles as a dry fly and an indicator. I promptly hooked myself in the thumb, frantically pulled it out, and summarily dropped it in the river. Lost about a half hour's worth of time spent at the tying table (hey, it's a hard pattern for me). Nearly lost mind.

After all these losses, I probably should have simply cut them and gone home. Nah. One last try.

A few chunky little rainbows kept the day from being a total loss, and kept me from feeling like a total loser. Thank God for this beautiful hobby of mine.

The flies of the day were the para-caddis on the surface and smallish (#18) pheasant tail nymphs trailing below, for those of you interested in that sort of intel. Fish took both of them consistently. The water clarity is good and the flow is manageable in most spots, although the far bank is still running awfully heavy.

Also, I'll be looking for a decent, budget-conscious fly rod. Recommendations will be greatly appreciated.

South Fork, 7/10/10

2010-07-11T17:11:00.001-06:00

Had a blast this weekend fishing for brook trout on the South Fork of the Poudre, near Pingree Park.

I hadn't really planned on fishing much, given that the outing was primarily a family get-together just for some R&R, but of course I couldn't fathom the idea of leaving the fly rod at home, especially with such a pretty little stream in close proximity to our camp.

I've never been much good on small streams. Come to think of it, I've never been spectacular on any stream of any size, but small streams in particular require a level of finesse and patience that I haven't really mastered just yet. I have a feeling that, like many fly fisherman, my hunger for big fish and my adequate but hardly elegant casting skills lend themselves to big waters with fewer opportunities for error (i.e. snags and overhanging trees/brush). Imagine my satisfaction this weekend at having seemingly found my groove on a stream that was small and shallow, but surprisingly productive and exceedingly fishable.

Along with my brother-in-law, and very briefly with my 10 year-old nephew, I managed to hook-up with just about a dozen gorgeous little brook trout like the two pictured here. We started after them with two-fly rigs, initially a para-caddis with small dropper nymphs. After the first hook-up and a number of misses, I realized that the fish were exclusively hitting on the para-caddis, which I was more or less fishing as an indicator. Rather than wasting any more time, I removed the trailing nymphs and replaced them with another dry-fly. It's the first time I've ever fished two surface flies at once, and it was a bit of a challenge to keep track of both flies on the surface, but it became a really productive approach once I got used to it.

The stream itself was a dream come true. Much of the stream winds back and forth through a meadow, providing ample turns in the river where the water grows deeper and calmer. These natural lies were generally full of actively feeding brookies. No other fishermen, the banks surrounded by meadows on both sides, surprisingly warm water temperatures (I didn't even bother putting my waders on, just an old pair of hiking boots), and a nice combination of sun and rain. The only drawback was an afternoon rainstorm, which wouldn't have been a drawback at all, except that it briefly turned into a lightning storm with some nasty little hail. Fortunately we were able to simply wait out the hail and lightning, and the rain and clouds made the dry fly fishing even better.

It was a really nice, fun change from my normal routine on the big, roaring Poudre. I can see several return trips happening.

Little Revolutionaries

2010-07-04T19:19:00.000-06:00

Happy 4th of July!

After church, I postponed sinking my teeth into a thick t-bone for a couple quick hours on the Poudre. The park along the river, which I expected to be jammed full of patriotic revelers, was nearly empty. Puzzled, I decided to take advantage.

The revelers were in the water, and they showed themselves to be fish born out of the tradition established by the founders of this country - revolutionaries with the odds stacked against them! Like this nation in its infancy, the little Poudre rebels fought with a tenacity well beyond their small stature.

Believe it or not, the fish shown above was NOT the smallest fish I caught today. I took his photo because - other than a larger brown I caught later in the afternoon - he fought unbelievably hard, jumping four or five times before I pulled him in and turned him loose.

One thing's for sure: I seem to have mastered the art of catching the small fish, but as of yet I haven't seen one over 12 inches. Still fun, but I'm wondering where the sizable trout have gone since late March and April. More water, more hiding spots, I suppose.

Here's hoping your summer is a revolutionary one!

Lower Poudre, 7/2/10

2010-07-03T07:05:00.000-06:00

My 2nd trip to the Poudre, post run-off, resulted in five rainbows totaling a combined whopping 30 inches of fish. I hesitate to even call two of them fish at this point, as they were scarcely any bigger than the flies I was throwing at them. The biggest was probably 10 inches, but at least put up a good fight. It was the first fish, however, that gave me a good laugh.

It generally happens to me once every season - the accidental catch. I suppose I should be thankful, but something about a fish jumping onto your fly and holding on while you're not paying attention really humbles the ego and makes you wonder if anything you're doing the rest of the time really works at all.

I'd just arrived at the river and was struggling to wade upstream through some thick vegetation and deep water along the bank. My line was in the water, the fly sitting in the current behind me. As I tried to keep my footing, I felt a little resistance on the rod, but didn't think anything of it. Having finally gotten to the point where I wanted to stop and begin casting, I set my feet and raised the rod tip for my first cast. Much to my surprise, I pulled on the rod and found a six inch trout trying desperately to free itself from a Gold Stonefly nymph just slightly smaller than the fish itself.

Some fly fisherman, huh?

I can't say that any pattern was any more effective than another. I caught the remaining four fish on a San Juan Worm, a Pheasant Tail nymph, a Prince nymph, and a green scud. The interesting thing was that each fish was caught on the first presentation of a new fly, which leads me to believe that they are generally hitting on pretty much any bug offered up right now.

The river itself is beautiful, dropping a bit each day and settling in after a month of rapid fluctuation in volume. I'm anticipating some great fishing for the remainder of the summer.

Lower Poudre, 6/30/10

2010-07-01T07:07:00.000-06:00

I took a few hours yesterday evening and spent some time on the Poudre, my first time on the river since the water finally started to drop to a fishable level. The water clarity is improving every day, and while the current is still really strong in most places, there are a few really nice runs forming natural holding lies for fish.

I spent most of my time trying to get a feel for the river, which has changed a lot since my last trip. Spots that were hot a few months ago are now beyond reach, and I found that the fish seem to have moved to areas along the near bank, which is filled with water in areas that were bone dry earlier in the year. I noticed almost nothing happening on the surface despite an abundance of bug life buzzing around. Short of one fish that briefly launched itself out of the water, I didn't see any coming to the surface.

I made one major mistake in preparation, leaving a small container of split shot behind. I think it would have made a difference, as I'm not certain the nymphs I was drifting were running quite deep enough. I fished with big, heavy bead head patterns, and landed a couple of nice rainbows on a gold stone fly and a red Copper John - both were heavy enough to get down in the water.

I'm really excited for the next month, as I think the water is in great shape and dropping nicely. More to come later.

Father's Day Trip Report, Hohnholz Lake, 6/20/10

2010-06-20T18:46:00.002-06:00

Wow. What a day.

I had enough unique experiences today to last me the rest of the season. Three generations - myself, my father, and my grandfather - hit the road in Dad's Dodge, bound for Hohnholz Lakes, just south of the Wyoming border. Much to Gramps's chagrin, we skipped a time-honored tradition of breakfast in Laramie. Dad and I were anxious to get to the lakes as early as possible. We did stop briefly at a fly shop in Laramie so Gramps could pick up some Double Renegades. When I asked for a quick report on conditions at the lake, the answer was a non-committal "throw a big woolly bugger" out there. Hmm. Not much to go on.

When we arrived at the lake, we weren't alone. About a dozen vehicles had beaten us to the punch, and several boats dotted the landscape of the water. The wind, normally at least tame at that hour, was already whipping up pretty good, so I abandoned any thoughts I may have had about getting in the float tube. Fortunately, there was plenty of space along the circumference of the lake. We stepped into our waders and the fishing commenced.

I decided on a bead head gold stone fly nymph. Why I'm not sure, but boy did it do the trick right out of the gate. My very first cast resulted in a nice little cutthroat. Not huge, but chunky. Nice opportunity for a photo op, right? Wrong. As the trout thrashed around in the water, I pulled out my camera and tried to execute the camera in one hand/rod in the other hand dance...and promptly dropped the camera in the lake.

Hence, no pictures, which makes me uncomfortable given what I'm about to say. Despite my clumsiness, I continued to enjoy an uncharacteristically prolific day of fishing. I landed 20+ trout today. I know it's true because I stopped counting in the high teens, before noon. The gold stone fly lasted for about the first seven fish before falling apart. The remainder of the morning was dominated by flashback pheasant tail nymphs for me and renegades for Dad and Gramps.

After lunch, things cooled off a bit for me. Gramps, at 95, started to wear out, so we watched Dad continue to land fish on renegades. As I stepped out of the water, I noticed some prominent horns sticking up from just over a small ridge. Abruptly, I stopped as a huge male Pronghorn Antelope stood up and stared at me. As Dad got out of the lake, we walked over and watched as the Pronghorn paced back and forth around the lake. Suddenly, something spooked him and he started running...fast....directly toward the two of us. No further than 15 yards in front of us, the antelope ran past us at a full sprint. It brought a completely new perspective to the word "speed" to see the stout animal moving that fast in such close proximity. It brought a rush to my heart. As we watched the antelope, I began to realize that the 12 inch cutthroat that caused me to fumble with my camera wasn't worth the photo I tried to take earlier in the day.

Finally, we decided to call it a day. As we climbed back in the truck and took in some scenery of the valley along the Laramie River, I noticed another huge animal in a meadow right next to the river. After a second glance, I realized that it wasn't just a big horse, it was a female moose. "Get your camera!," Dad exclaimed. Um, yeah Dad. The one I dropped in the lake? I did the next best thing and took a few photos with my cellphone camera. It doesn't take great photos, but here it is.

All in all, a great day. Wish they could all be like this one. Happy Father's Day.

Progress

2010-06-19T20:19:00.005-06:00

Things are coming along nicely.

My gardening exploits are once again proving to be an exercise in patience and observation. I jumped the gun this year and started planting in late April, just prior to a couple of late season snow storms. The initial row of lettuce and radishes survived nicely. We've been consistently harvesting lettuce and are on the second round of radishes. Conversely, the first round of squash and cucumbers either drowned immediately or simply didn't take root, because throughout May they never made so much as a whimper of an appearance. My corn was a mixture, with about half of the seeds taking off while the others never showed up.

With all the inconsistencies, I decided to plant a few things over earlier in June. It must have done the trick, because everything is now growing visibly every day.

Better than any of these diversions, however, is the steady drop in water level on the Poudre! I'm anticipating a return to the river in 2-3 weeks, at which time the summer/fall trout season will begin in earnest. I can hardly contain myself. In the meantime, I broke out the float tube tonight to make sure it's still leak-free for tomorrow's Father's Day outing to some stillwater in Wyoming.

Three generations of the Gray/Anderson clan will do their best to land a few trout. I make no promises, as I'm even less accomplished on a lake with a fly rod than I am on streams, but I'll post a report for interested parties tomorrow night.

All in all, life is starting to look a little greener these days. Not where I want it yet, but forward progress.

Blown Out and Bored

2010-06-11T22:32:00.002-06:00

It's Friday, which brings to a close another uneventful week here at Flywriter HQ. My daily review of my favorite fly fishing blogs, many of which are referenced along the right column of this website, suggests that I may not be the only one who is (im)patiently suffering through blown out river blues. There are a lot more posts lately about tying and a lot fewer fishing stories to marvel at. I'm fortunate to live in an area where hugely skilled fly tiers and fishermen keep me stocked with new ideas, knowledge, and fly patterns.

(See this gentleman's page, for example. Holy cow. Amazing flies and years of knowledge memorialized forever in cyberspace for addicts like me).

So on the eve of an American upset of the Brits in the opening round of World Cup play (yes, you heard me correctly - we'll see if I have to eat crow tomorrow), I managed to forget about the 3,000 + cfs of water blowing out the Poudre by tying the Granddaddy of all dry flies, the Adams. I cranked out about a dozen while watching the Rockies. I think they turned out pretty well.

Earlier this spring, when the Poudre was really low and trout were congregating in a few calm slicks in our neck of the woods, this fly was really productive. I managed a bunch of hookups on this pattern after running out of small BWOs early in the season. They're a little harder for me to see on the surface of the water, but they float great and were a good match for a lot of the small bugs on the surface at that time of year. The fly in the picture here is a size 16. It would have been too big earlier, but I'm thinking it might come in handy later on in the summer here.

The nymph box is finished - for now - and I'm eagerly awaiting a drop in the river so I can start dragging them along the bottom. There's a lot of madness on Colorado rivers right now - several drownings and numerous other close calls. Crazy as I am, I'm just not ready to brave the current, and I'm less than optimistic about the prospects for catching much anyway.

In the meantime, I think I'm going to take the float tube up to Honholz Lakes as soon as possible. Trip report to follow.

Lots of H2O!

2010-05-30T09:31:00.003-06:00

So, here's how it went.

I left work at about 2:30 on Friday and drove directly to the Poudre to do some scouting for the weekend. We've had our first few days of real heat here in northern Colorado, and I arrived at the river to find a blown out, muddy flood of mocha-colored torrent. The river reports suggested flows of nearly 1900 cfs, and I'd believe every bit of it at this point.

I know I previously spouted some nonsense about "hell or high water," but it's just too high for my tastes, not to mention the low visibility and lack of clarity.

I did some more tying instead, and focused on some gardening. Pheasant tails, Stoneflies, and a new garden berm.

Temperatures are dropping into the low 70s for a high today, so I'm hoping it will slow some of the snow melt up the canyon and give the water a chance to drop a bit and clear up a little. If everything cooperates, I'll swing back down tomorrow and give the high water a shot. If not, I'll keep playing the waiting game with Arnie.

More nymphs...

2010-05-25T18:06:00.004-06:00

I can't take it anymore. As the saying goes, I'll be on the river this weekend, come hell or high water (more likely the latter). I've got a box full of heavy, bead-head nymphs and stonefly imitations that I've been tying the last few nights, so I'll be high-sticking them along the near banks of the high-flowing Poudre.

Hopefully I'll have some trout pictures to show for my efforts in the near future.

Gold Stoneflies

2010-05-21T17:49:00.002-06:00

Making preparations for some nymphing here at Flywriter HQ. I caught some beauties on this type of fly last summer here on the good ol' Poudre. I picked one up from Hatch and the guys down at St. Pete's and brought it home to try and replicate with the materials I have on hand. As usual, mine's uglier than the pro's version, but I think I can make this one work. It's actually a pretty easy pattern to tie, as much as I hate working with goose biots. With a little fine tuning, I think I can mass produce a bunch of these.

Pheasant Tails

2010-05-19T21:34:00.002-06:00

I've always loved hitting the Poudre with Pheasant Tail nymphs. I seem to have great success with them, which is probably why I've never taken the time to try and learn how to tie them.

In keeping with my pledge for the season to fish only the flies that I tie myself, I bit the bullet and stopped by St. Pete's for some supplies and some advice. The gracious folks there were generous with both, and wished me luck as I headed home after work.

I'm happy to report that I think it's a fly I can master with some practice. I can see from the photo that I probably went overboard on the thorax with the peacock fibers, and there's probably too many fibers for the tail, but I'm reasonably happy with it. I used some red wire rather than copper - I like the way it looks - but otherwise it's a standard pattern.

Despite the waters running so heavy right now, I don't see myself being able to stay landlocked for too long. If I can drag one of these down deep and get the drift right, hopefully I can avoid the runoff doldrums.

UPDATE, 5/20/10:

OK, hopefully we're getting closer on these.

Renegades

2010-05-14T21:52:00.002-06:00

Haven't had much chance to get out on the water lately. The weather here has been super weird, even by Colorado standards. I'm hoping that no more snow comes our way, but in mid-May it's hard to tell around here.

I tied a bunch of renegades tonight. Have you ever had one of those experiences where you work on perfecting the smallest details on something only to lose sight of the bigger, more important picture? That happened on this "confused" renegade. I think it looks pretty good - as nicely trimmed as I could make it with my dull scissors. Sadly, I got my hackle colors mixed up. The white should be on the front. And just as I was about to be so proud of myself!

The second fly is a stimulator pattern. Both the renegades and stimulators have been good to us in the past up at Hohnholz Lakes, and my grandfather is dying to go up there, so these should come in handy during the next month, with the Poudre running a bit too full for my tastes/skills (or lack thereof).

Uncivilized House Guests (or, the Flywriter gets hit by terrorists)

2010-05-07T20:08:00.003-06:00

Some may have wondered if I was being a little paranoid in demanding background investigations for cairn terriers prior to allowing them anywhere near the vegetable garden.

Tonight, I had a couple of them visit the house, causing me to fall victim to a low-level domestic terrorist attack. They came to the house under the guise of needing "dog-sitting" while their owners (ahem) ventured out on a "getaway" to an unspecified mountain resort community. I say unspecified to protect the innocent.

A mere two hours after infiltrating my quiet abode in an operation utilizing unprecedented espionage tradecraft, the terrorists struck. Their intended victims? Two large bunches of entirely innocent dry fly hackle; one white, one bi-racial. The aftermath was sheer carnage:

I'm happy to report that with prompt medical attention, both bunches of hackle are expected to survive, although they have been permanently disfigured.

The Flywriter is offering a reward for the successful prosecution of the suspected saboteurs, identified only be the nommes-de-guerre of "Brooke" and "Kyra."

UPDATED SITREP, 5/8/10:

Additional investigation indicates that the suspects caused more carnage than originally thought, likely the result of a separate, coordinated attack on the garden. Exhibits A and B for the record document surreptitious entry into carrot and corn holdings.

Falling stock, taking stock, and stocking up...

2010-05-06T15:48:00.001-06:00

I've had an excess of free time today - normally the perfect excuse to throw the waders on and do some trout stalking. On days like this, however, I decided to take some time to simply breathe. Samantha (the cat) has been acting up lately and doesn't seem to be feeling all that well, and with Arnie still somewhat on the mend from an unpleasant procedure on his backside, I decided to stay close.

I watched - using the term loosely - some news coverage earlier and saw something I'd never seen before - a complete Wall Street panic, with the Dow dropping so rapidly that commentators speculated about a potential temporary stop in trading. It was dramatic - irrelevant to me, but I imagine pretty harrowing for the tycoons in the financial world. At one point the index was down by over 1000 points, and finished at -347 or so. It's mostly Greek to me, and as it turns out was mostly Greek to everyone. The Greeks are rioting in the streets at the idea of having to tighten their spending belts a bit in order to qualify for a loan from the EU and avoid bankruptcy, and the working folks didn't like the government's legislative response. It was fascinating to watch the ticker drop by the second.

Mostly though, I took stock of my rapidly declining fly boxes and decided to do some tying. I've made a commitment this season to fish only what I tie myself. That's almost as scary as watching the Dow drop 1000 points.

I'm not terribly worried about catching trout - at this point I can tie a few patterns that are prevalent on the Poudre and the Thompson with enough proficiency to catch fish. I'm more worried about being able to tie bugs for the other waters that I plan to visit this summer.

I worked on a bunch today. I re-stocked some BWOs and tied some more cream-colored pale duns. That will take care of the local waters, but my hope is to branch out and fish some streams in North Park (South Platte, Illinois, Michigan rivers), and return to the White River near Meeker. I'll have to get into tying Tricos and some different nymphs. Fortunately, YouTube has some great tutorials.

I'm happier with today's results - I think I'm getting the hang of some basic patterns, but the proof will be on the water.

(Very) Pale Dun

2010-05-05T21:37:00.001-06:00

Before the water level in the Poudre rose so drastically, I was having a lot of success with some cream-colored pale duns that I picked up at JAX Outdoor in north Ft. Collins. My compliments to whomever tied the flies. I can't make a perfect replica, but the attached photo gives you the basic idea. I found that it drew strikes from trout nearly as often as the BWOs, being the same basic pattern, but was even easier to follow on the surface. I tied a bunch tonight and look forward to floating them later on in the season.

I don't know about anyone else, but I've been struggling on the Poudre lately. Tuesday was particularly tough. It seems that every time I go out, the wind decides to blow, and when the wind blows, I suck. I managed to hook up a couple of times running some bigger nymphs along the bottom, but lost both. I also had more than my fair share of snags on rocks and sticks, even in the faster water. Guess my high-sticking needs a little work.

Fishing Fun with Dogs

2010-05-02T20:16:00.004-06:00

ome might call me sick and twisted. They might be right.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the world's first (at least to my knowledge) Arnie Hair Caddis Fly. Tied with olive thread, brown hackle, and genuine, bona-fide Cairn Terrier hair.

Poor Arnie had a rough day. He's a little woozy after having an abscess lanced and drained of fluid and being placed on antibiotics that have left him less than his normal, chipper self. Still, his coat is in great shape right now, every bit as coarse (and virtually the same color) as the batch of deer hair I normally tie with.

I'm still perfecting it, of course. In my haste to get the prototype out, I wrapped some hackle around the hook. But you get the general idea.

Fishing report to come...

Thanks for the donation, Arnster!

Rolling Toward a Forbidden River

2010-04-30T16:25:00.004-06:00

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

Not a season goes by that I don't get ahead of myself wading the Poudre. Last year it just happened to occur while fishing with a friend of mine from high school who I hadn't seen in twenty years. Enter water, glance at something, lose concentration...end up in the drink.

Today, it was a little scarier. The Poudre has begun to rage, and it's not really very fishable anyway, what with the cloudy water and the sheer volume of fluid surging from the canyon melt-off.

I know it may not look like much, but believe me when I tell you that the picture above is a portrait of strong, heavy current, not to mention the slick rocks on the bottom.

Still, I accomplished everything I had to do by noon today, so I couldn't help myself. Given the rapid rise in water levels, and with no noticeable rising fish, I tied on a pheasant tail nymph and commenced to wading. As is my routine, I sent out a few casts and gradually began to make my way downstream.

As the saying goes, a more skilled angler may be able to "walk and chew gum at the same time," but for some reason I can't seem to manage it. While trying to place the nymph in what I envisioned to be the correct spot, I took one step into a large rock and promptly tripped over it. Thus began my brief float down a pretty strong stretch of water. When I finally managed to get my momentum stopped, I was soaked from chest to toe. Thank God for the trusty waterproof camera bag, which also held my keys and wallet.

I got into some shallow water under the bridge and made a few more feeble casts before deciding that the cool breeze was becoming just a little too cool. I glanced downstream into a nice stretch of calm water, knowing full well that fish were probably congregating there. Conveniently, the calm water begins just where the river becomes private property. I'm certain that many a trout were gathered, enjoying a good laugh at my expense.

I gotta learn how to wade!

In the words of George Costanza....

2010-04-29T08:14:00.002-06:00

"....THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY!!!" For you Seinfeld fans out there, you'll understand the reference.

It was 79 degrees yesterday. Gardens were planted. Lands were scaped. Bass were safe from the simulated "bass crack" that I was "persuaded" to buy. Arnie frolicked on a thick green lawn to his heart's content.

All just in time for an April 29 Colorado snow.

UN-BE-LIEVE-A-BLE.

Never a dull moment here.

I had at least a small measure of good sense, enough to cover the strawberries and tomato plants. Hopefully the cold won't stifle the seeds in the other places.

Ugh.

Crack for bass? I think not.

2010-04-28T19:04:00.000-06:00

I know, I know. What is a Colorado trout fanatic doing talking about bass?

Today, Doc and I tried our hand at it.

The Poudre is raging and cloudy right now due to the recent rise in water, so we thought we'd try and see what this bass thing is all about. We've done it a few times in the past, and the last time we went I did catch some fish - bluegill, crappie - that I hadn't caught since my childhood days at Watson Lake.

Now don't judge me. After all, I'm confessing it on the Internet. But I did something impure. I fished with a fake worm. A big, juicy simulated nightcrawler. The gentleman that originally sold them to me described them as "crack for bass."

I'm thoroughly unconvinced, and walked away completely, utterly empty-handed, defeated by bass. We know they're in the pond. We saw them. We casted to them (yes, with spinning rods). Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Same result, by the way, when we tried tempting them with wooly bugger bubble-and-fly set ups.

I guess some days are meant to be fishless.

I won't be spending too much more time in search of bass crack. Trout crack, on the other hand...

A flywriting slumber and a gardening frenzy.

2010-04-28T13:41:00.007-06:00

God famously provided fishes and loaves, one of his many miracles for a world he loves. As for me, I prefer to catch and release fish, and bread is something I take at communion and pack full of peanut butter and jam.

As much as I absolutely hate it, I can't simply fish from dawn to dusk. Believe me, if I were filthy rich or as enterprising and skilled as this gal, I'd do just that. At this point, however, I have neither the talent nor the money to travel around and find the right water at the right time.

The water level on the Poudre has risen substantially this past week. I still don't fully understand what constitutes a "runoff," but based on my experience yesterday, my favorite stretch of water has become less than fishable. What just one week ago was a calm pool with fish rising to the surface like Jiffy-Pop is now a fast-moving torrent, complete with tree branches jetting by on a surface too turbulent for my aging eyes to keep a dry fly in sight. I briefly - very briefly - ran a nymph through the stretch before promptly casting it into an overhanging tree branch. Frustrated by the change in conditions and stuck on the river with no additional leader material, I called it a day. I'll try and get motivated to explore some new water this weekend, but yesterday brought none of the familiar joys of "wetting a line."

I did spend a couple of hours on the bench to replenish some BWOs. Doggone it, they're still ugly, but they seem to catch fish.

With the fishing being slow, at least for me, I got "Garden 2010" operational. I won't bore you with the details of what was planted, other than to proudly state that I learned a few lessons from last year and avoided things like mini-canteloupe and rhubarb swiss chard this year. We also took a slightly different approach, planting fewer squash plants and putting a number of things in some elevated containers built with cheap lumber from Home Depot.

I also added some "conversation pieces" and a sign outlining the requirements for access to the garden. The garden will generally be open for viewing, but a few unwanted guests will be barred from entry, and certain other guests will have to pass a rigorous background investigation prior to being admitted. The foreman of the whole operation, Arnie, will of course have free reign, since he knows the rules and supervised the construction.

Sorry Chris and Heather, but Brooke, Kyra, Ezra, and Aspen will have to go through the clearance procedures.

We'll see what it produces this year. With any luck, and absent a repeat of last June's ridiculous hailstorm, I'll have food growing by June and be largely done with it by the time the "runoff" ends, free to once again focus my free time on pulling fat rainbows out of fishable water.

Who knows? Maybe I'll even be able to tie a decent BWO by then.

Wishing all you fishermen a bountiful harvest this summer!

Buck Fever, and a new convert

2010-04-18T17:29:00.014-06:00

I lost a huge rainbow today while trying to be "professorial" with my nephew. I'd hooked what had to be a 20+ inch rainbow that put on an aerial show for us, and while I was in the process of handing the rod to my nephew Brenden to play the fish, I wrapped my finger around the fly line just as the fish began another run downstream. Fish gone. Fly gone. Leader significantly shorter. One of those moments you don't get back. Just like the other THREE trout I managed to lose today after hooking up with them. SHEESH!

No matter. Got to watch my brother-in-law nail a picky Poudre brown on a dry fly. Very cool. He played it perfectly, brought it to shore, and watched as I promptly lost it for him prior to the picture taking! Brenden remarked very dryly that I might have considered bringing a net. Not a bad idea.

At the very least, I got some photos of Matt playing the brown so his wife can't accuse us of fabricating anything. Yes, Heather, the rod tip is bending forward, indicating that said fish is indeed attached to Matt's BWO dry. The pictures are also evidence for my brother, who occasionally accuses me of using Photoshop to enhance my credentials as a fisherman, which might include some highly infrequent exaggeration. Matt's integrity, however, is beyond reproach!

Success comes in different ways on the river. I'll give up a catch or two to watch a new fly fisherman land a trout on a dry anytime. And Brenden, next time I'll just pass the rod and keep my mouth shut.

Respite

2010-04-10T21:53:00.003-06:00

Life throws out funny moments every now and again that keep things in perspective.

Normally, after putting in a hard week at work and finding a few moments of solace to fine tune my life's passion, my biggest concern is avoiding competition on the river. That's been a tall order during the past few weeks, as the weather's been pretty nice and the fishing has been excellent, at least by my standards.

I was overjoyed today to find a river to myself. I really have no explanation as to why. My best guess is that the warmer temperatures have melted off enough of the mountain snow that many fishermen view the moderate increase in water flow as the beginning of the "runoff," that evil term among fly fisherman used to describe "unfishable" water. With the increase in flow, I'm assuming the fish have more options for holding lies, and perhaps more options for grub as well. In any event, my favorite stretch of water was uninhabited today. The fish were a bit more particular, but still obviously in the area and still rising to the standard small BWOs.

Just as I was remarking to myself how nice it was to not encounter another angler...two more appeared. The only difference? These anglers were of the four-legged, feral, feline variety, and not the least bit concerned about making a splash and scaring off the fish. Not your average house cats. Big, rough around the edges, and extremely assertive. I thought back to a helpful commentary I recently read on fishing etiquette, but thought its finer points might fall on deaf ears in this instance.

Cats notwithstanding, the fishing was excellent once again, and the catching was reasonably good too for a hack like me, save for a week's worth of rust from too much time working and not enough casting.

Fish landed: 4
Hooksets missed: Too many
Flies: Size 20 BWO dries, Adams

Loving the Poudre, as always.

It's an ugly world. Go fishing.

2010-03-23T12:33:00.008-06:00

Yesterday was an historic day in my little world.
It was the best day of trout fishing yet for 2010.

I know what you're thinking. "Did John not follow the news yesterday? A health care victory for all Americans!" Yeah, right. I think I may have seen something about that as I tied the laces on my waders and re-spooled the flyline on my reel. For the record, I guess I'm benignly ambivalent about the fact that millions of Americans who always wanted decent insurance but couldn't afford it will now be forced to either afford it or face the tax man yet again.

I used to be a news junkie in a previous, long-past life. I kicked that habit and pretty much quit watching it, reading it, or caring too much about it. Just out of curiosity, I decided to see what might be happening in the real world.

10% unemployment. Health care legislation to force that 10% to somehow afford insurance. Schoolyard name-calling in the hallowed halls of Congress. Baseball players signing contracts to "earn" $184 million over eight years (according to my math, that's a paltry $23 million per year, or just shy of $142,000 per game. Not bad for a night's playtime). Lines at food banks.

It's all out of whack. I quickly became exhausted by it, so I've chosen to once again simply not participate in any of it. The moratorium on news is back in effect.

Instead, I breathe, walk, cast, watch, catch, and memorialize in photos. Life's simpler that way. No drama, no arguments, no nastiness. Just me, Dad, and the trout yesterday. It's as it should be. Or at least the way it should be for me.

.

Crazy surface action

2010-03-20T19:23:00.000-06:00

The Poudre is treating me right this year!

I actually hadn't planned on fishing today. It was supposed to be cold, and I had dozens of other things I've been neglecting. By 1 p.m., it wasn't all that cold anymore and the sun was shining. I could hear the trout calling my name.

Did I mention that I never claimed to be sane? I thought so.

I got to the river just as a trio of fly fisherman were finishing up at my favorite spot. I asked if they had any success. "No - they're rising all over the place, but not hitting our flies." When I got to the water I saw a heavy hatch underway with trout coming to the surface in spades. If I hadn't known better I'd have thought it was raining. I promptly hooked up with a beauty of a trout - such a beauty that it snapped the tip of my rod (which had admittedly been snapped previously and was repaired by yours truly with super glue and fly tying material).

So my nine-foot rod is now more like eight-five.

Still, the hatch continued unabated. I made a quick call to Dad, who joined me a few minutes later, just in time to watch me pull in yet another outstanding Poudre rainbow:

The BWO on the line was pretty beaten up after this fish, so I tied on a fresh cream-colored pale dun, which is nice and easy to see on the surface. Turns out the fish like this one too, as I swiftly landed another nice rainbow:

Shortly thereafter, the rises ceased, save for an occasional flash. Made it home just in time to see the Jayhawks fall to Northern Iowa.

The unexpected all around today!

Old Faithful

2010-03-19T21:34:00.002-06:00

Some things are pretty constant.

It's March in Colorado, which pretty much guarantees that at some point you'll experience a 30 degree drop in temperature from one day to the next. I was singing a happy tune yesterday after catching my first really nice trout of 2010, being the beneficiary of a glorious 60+ day of sunshine.

Something happened overnight as I was sleeping soundly, dreaming of rainbows rising to small dry flies.

Ouch! I was kind of hoping the days of freezing eyelets on my fly rod were over for the year. Still, trout fever has ahold of me. I never claimed to be sane.

Much like the predictable fluctuation in March weather here in Colorado, I'm finding that my flybox contains something equally consistent: The Adams dry fly. I will never, ever be without an Adams dry fly. When all other patterns fail, I can usually rely on an Adams to draw a rise, and today was no exception. The cold kept the fish from rising as frequently as yesterday, but after tying on the Adams I had four hits in a row, with the last one resulting in a hookup with a really nice fish that I subsequently lost.

The Adams is the "old faithful" of dry flies. Just to make certain my enthusiasm for the fly wasn't misplaced, I did a little research and found this great article, which is filled with information about the fly and gives an expert tutorial on how to tie one.

My only complaint with the fly today was that I had a hard time keeping track of it on the water due to the angle of the sun and its reflections off the riffle on the river. The high sitting wings, however, allowed me to sight it pretty regularly.

Stock your flybox with a few of these. They come through when the BWOs won't.

Prince Nymph

2010-03-19T21:04:00.001-06:00

In honor of my Fantasy basketball bracket (The Prince Nymphs), and in an effort to save some dough, I'm trying to tie more of my own flies. For some reason, the goose biots for the wings and tails give me fits, but it shouldn't be all that difficult a fly.

Bead head or no bead head? Thoughts?

No laughing.

Rainbow Days...

2010-03-18T20:20:00.003-06:00

Every now and then, things just click. It doesn't happen very often, but sometimes, in the midst of darkness, God seems to heed your cries of "enough already." One of the ministers at my church refers to these times as "rainbow days," days when we experience "God sightings." I'm not certain, but I think today qualified.

For awhile, I've been forcing the issue with God. Personal challenges have taken their toll on me, and I finally came to grips with the notion of ceasing to try and will everything to happen on my own. It's not a matter of giving up, per se, but definitely one of relinquishing control of outcomes.

When I get to the point where I don't know what else to do, I instinctively turn to fishing. It throws me into at least a few hours of intense concentration, where I can focus on nothing other than the moment at hand. Sometimes it results in fish, sometimes it just results in some fresh air and some mental rejuvination. It's selfish, I suppose, but it works for me.

Today, the result was not only a change in perspective, but a couple of really gorgeous, wild rainbow trout. I fished a stretch of water where I've frequently had some success, but normally catch very small fish. Everything seemed to be aligned for me - mild temperatures, a nice mix of sun and cloud cover, and a dearth of other fisherman giving me the solitude I so often crave when I fish.

The fish weren't exactly jumping on everything I threw at them. They were rising all over a calm stretch of water where the calm current allows them to be particular in their feeding - plenty of bugs on the surface give the fish in this area a target-rich environment. During a trip to the same stretch a couple of days ago, another fisherman suggested I downsize on the flies I was using. He thought the patterns were on target, but were too big. So, I did my best to match the bugs on the surface with the smallest Adams pattern I could find. Nothing. I threw small BWOs at them. Rises all around, just not to the bugs I was throwing. Switching to a cream-colored pale dun pattern, I didn't fare any better. Finally, convinced that my imitations were still simply too big, I ventured fifty yards upstream where fish were still rising to the surface, but doing so in much swifter current.

Suddenly, the "rainbow day" effect kicked in. Literally and figuratively. A small 'bow jumped at the fresh BWO I tied on, quickly easing my frustration and whetting my appetite for more. A few short minutes later, the BWO was consumed by a hit from an aggressive trout. I set the hook and applied just enough pressure to firmly secure the trout to the fly. A few minutes later, I landed the biggest trout I've ever pulled out of this particular section of the Poudre. What a beauty!

I returned the beautiful trout to the current and watched him bolt away. Having destroyed the fly, the trout forced me to replace it with another fresh BWO of the same size. The trout continued to feed off the surface as the sun began its descent. I chuckled as one launched himself completely out of the water. I made note of the spot on the river and placed a cast just upstream. I drifted the BWO carefully over the remaining splash, and sure enough, a trout nailed it. Again, an aggressive hit that made the hookset fairly simple. Not quite as large, but quite possibly the prettiest fish I've ever caught. I love the coloring of rainbows at this time of year.

Just as quickly, the fish stopped coming to the surface, save for a random rise every two minutes or so. I smiled and marveled at how lucky I can be sometimes. Five minutes from home, yet light years away in my own mind.

It was just enough today. Enough to regain perspective, and enough to remind me to be grateful for what I have. And almost enough to make me forget how miserable my March Madness bracket looks after a mere day of action in the Big Dance. But that's just basketball.

A rainbow day indeed.