Thursday, 26 September 2013

Throwing Strikes in the Wind

 
" I ain't ever had a job, I just always played baseball".
- Satchel Paige

One of my favourite trout rivers is a five hour drive south of my home. The time spent crossing over the flat barren land is well worth it as the river offers incredible dry fly fishing. It has great hatches and I can usually find large fish feeding on the surface. There are individual fish along the banks or in other likely haunts, and sometimes pods right out in open water. It is quite a sight watching large numbers of trout feeding frenetically on the surface. I often go there in the Fall hoping for a strong hatch of Olives to pull the fish to the surface.

The river runs through open arid terrain and the region experiences more than its fair share of wind which accelerates down off of the great continental divide just to the west and races across the plains. One year on the drive there a motorcyclist travelling in the opposite direction was listing severely in order to compensate for the stiff cross winds. This brought a smile to my face. Although my four wheels were more stable than his two, I had to keep a firm grip on the steering wheel in order to counter unexpected blasts. Sometimes tractor trailers get blown over here. Travelling this route can be a rough ride...think movie scenes depicting re-entry into earth's atmosphere.

When driving there in the Fall, usually in October, the morning sports report always reminds me it is World Series time. I have always enjoyed baseball, especially playoff games with the classic pitcher versus batter duals.

I remember one year arriving at the river and in a hurried attempt to erect my tent in the wind it went airborne like a kite. It was quite comical and embarrassing, especially amongst the conclave of condo sized RVs that surrounded me. I decided to wait for the calm of nightfall to complete the task. Instead, while sitting at a picnic table I built a tapered leader with several spools of leader material that I had recently purchased. Following, I geared up ritualistically, tugged my hat down tight and started walking the river bank in search of what I came for.

As is often the case on this wonderful stretch of water, it didn't take long to locate rising trout. My fly presentation, however, left a lot to be desired. I missed several great opportunities to catch large fish due to my inability to control where my fly landed. It was frustrating to spot noses poking through the surface and not be able to get my fly consistently in the strike zone. I caught some wonderful trout but missed many more. If I was a big league pitcher the sportscasters would be announcing I was "wild" or had absolutely  "no control". My manager would be cursing and alerting the bull pen. What it all came down to was I just wasn't able to consistently throw strikes!

That night I listened to the magical call of coyotes filtered through the drone of RV generators. My RV neighbours had their satellite dishes pointing skyward and TVs on loud. Baseball had also captured their imaginations. While lying in my tent I reviewed the day and came to the conclusion I have fished in worse conditions in the past and performed quite well. Usually I have some semblance of control over the fly no matter how adverse the situation. I am used to wind. The terrain that surrounds my favourite river at home has giant wind generators sprouting from it.

I had tried using the wind to my advantage but with little success. Even driving my line forward with more zest and speed by single and then double hauling didn't help much. Side casting low to the water also didn't help. It seemed that no matter what tactic I tried I was inconsistent in reaching my target. Something was different. My leader was clearly the weak link in the chain. It often collapsed or folded, and seemed softer or limper than the material I usually use. The wind was simply pushing it around. It was wimpy and so was I. Although I had bought the same brand of leader material I usually use and fish with success, I realised that it was a new product line. It wasn't like the old material. My struggles continued all weekend.

I returned home an unconfident angler. During the week I bought several spools of the old familiar stiffer material and built myself a new knotted leader. The following weekend I returned to the same river. As usual the wind was blowing and the trout were rising. I took the mound and dug in my spikes. This time, however, I had great control and the trout responded to my more accurate fly presentation. Arm, rod, line, and leader were performing, if I may say, artfully. Finally the energy I was exerting was being transferred consistently through to the fly. I imagined the same sportscasters announcing that this week I was in the "zone" and had "great control". My confidence was back. I was throwing strikes again!

Locating and casting to surface feeding trout is a wonderful activity. It is so visual and my favorite type of fly fishing. I often search for and travel to creeks and rivers that provide this type of angling opportunity. The world becomes very small and focused when you spot a mature trout rising consistently. You forget about upstream, downstream, yesterday, or tomorrow. When a trout is surface feeding on a dense hatch its attention, like yours, is intensely focused and narrow, and you can usually wade or walk fairly close to it if careful. A river surface disturbed by wind aids you in moving in tight. The fish will remain relatively stationary as long as food continues to glide consistently overhead and if it isn't disturbed by something. Casting accuracy and sometimes timing are important in these situations.

You don't need long drifts for this type of angling and therefore you don't need a lot of slack in your leader. The fly needs to be cast just a couple of feet upstream of a feeding fish. A stiff monofilament leader gives you the control and therefore accuracy you need to do this in adverse conditions (wind). Just add on two or three feet of regular soft tippet and that should give you just enough slack to go at  the fish and get just enough natural drift. If the fly is convincing and it appears at the right moment, then you have a chance of a hook-up. If your accuracy and drift are good but timing is off, then slide the fly away once it passes safely downstream of the trout and try again. With repeated pitches you eventually should get it right. The key is to throw strikes and in big wind a stiff leader helps you do that.

This past weekend it was blowing hard on a nearby river. Here are a couple of fish picked up while throwing dries and some strikes.






Saturday, 21 September 2013

In the Canyon

"We have to stop and be humble enough to understand that there is something called mystery."
- Paulo Coelho

thick rainbow

canyon bend


exiting the canyon



I knew there had to be rainbows down in the canyon. Probably some rattlesnakes too. The reptiles are rare but they're there. And I thought that if I looked real hard I might see a dinosaur head sticking out from a canyon wall, staring right at me. I felt that if I was scared down there, the trout would sense it and I'd never catch a big rainbow. I packed some water, some apples and granola bars along with some extra courage and hiked the 400 to 500 feet down into the canyon, and went downstream into the heart of it. I never saw a soul all day; just my own reflection. The high thin cirrus clouds and pale vertical cliffs created blinding glare. Spotting trout was difficult. I kept hunting for them while keeping an eye out for falling rocks, a T-Rex face and listened for rattlers and even canyon spirits. I only spotted three trout in the five hours I was there. One saw me before I saw it...gone in an instant. The second fish ignored my fly. Then it ignored my second fly...then third...then feeling harassed disappeared into deeper canyon water. I started to think the rainbows smelled my fear and that the spirits were talking and conspiring, and that it wasn't my day. The third sighted trout ate my offering but no hook up. The fly slipped out when I lifted the rod. Then I saw no fish for a very long time. It seemed the canyon was getting the better of me so I decided to hike upstream out of it. Once out, the high wispy clouds disappeared and in the broad valley looking into the river for fins became much easier. My canine sheep herder friend from the Pyrenees appeared from out of no where. Then some friendly Alberta cattle. Then a timid six foot South American Llama. Then like the flip of a switch, I started tricking big rainbows.



sheep herder after belly rub
locals



Friday, 13 September 2013

Fish it to the End

" A trout is a moment of beauty know only to those who seek it."
- Arnold Gingrich


There are not many weekends left in the angling season and therefore I always try to get out as often as I can. A rooster fishing friend in Baja is usually Steelheading on the Deschutes at this time of year. I always contact him in the Fall to see how he is doing on that Oregon river and he reciprocates with a question on how the trout fishing has been. His final note is always, "Fish it to the end!"


I returned to a Plains river this weekend and spent the afternoon on it. When I arrived it was tough going due to the clouds. Sight fishing is so, so weather dependent. By late afternoon the sun poked through and there was opportunity.


The first fish I caught died. I honestly can't remember when that last happened to me. Maybe 25 years ago. I guess there have been fish that I caught and released that could have died after they swam away but I never witnessed it. I did witness the death of this fish. I was fishing a dry fly and missed the take as I was distracted by a noise upstream. When my eyes returned to the slack water I had casted to, where my fly had been floating, it was gone. I knew something was up so I raised the rod tip, felt tension and the rainbow took off across the river. It fought harder than most but I was able to land it fairly quickly. The fly was lodged deeper than usual probably because I missed the take and reacted late. I debated whether I should simply clip my line and leave the fly. Instead I managed to extract it with relative ease with forceps. The fish, however, seemed spent. I held it in a flow for about 20 minutes waiting for it to revive but it never did. Rigor Mortis occurred and the pulse of its gills became faint. There was no kick of the tail or body wiggle as usually happens. With this fish, nothing.

I guess it is a reminder that fly fishing does occasionally kill fish and certainly damages some even when good angling practises and precautions are taken. One of the best parts of fly fishing is getting to admire a trout up close, its beauty, and then the release, and watching it return to the wild below. Unfortunately, this was not the case today with this particular fish.

I left the fish upright lodged between two mid-sized river stones with a gentle flow running over it, dorsal fin protruding skyward. As I walked downstream I kept looking back to see if it was still there; to see if by some miracle life might have surged back into it, and it would swim off.

Everything has a spiritual essence; a soul. I'll try and be even more careful in the future.





Wednesday, 4 September 2013

Sight Fishing, Hula Hoops and Sheep Herding

"You don't leave fish to find fish."
 -Joe F.

"The Lord can give, and the Lord can take away. I might be sheep herding next year."
 -Elvis Presley


The mantra that you "don't leave fish to find fish" keeps me going back to two rivers out on the Plains. Some big fins are out there and they have been cruising and feeding, and so I keep showing up to try and trick them. A blue sky above on a day off means get the car keys and go.



Once stream side I forget about most of the river and search the first five to ten yards out for any sign of life: a dark back creeping up a run, a shallow water bank feeder, a cycling feeder. The sight fishing all takes place in a foot or two of water, or less. My ankles get wet and that's about it.



It was blue above on Saturday morning and so I made the drive. I hiked downstream and spotted some trout. I also spotted a large family or group of friends camping in the Coulees. They were dreadlocked and playing with hula hoops. It was kind of carnival like with the trailer, tent and outstretched tarps. I kept looking for a juggler, or a stilt walker. They looked like they had been there all summer. I thought, "not a bad place to hang out".





It was sunny on Sunday and so I went again. Surprisingly I had the place to myself. I never saw another angler. This time I went upstream; way upstream. I was on my knees moving in on a bank fish when I heard a loud panting behind me. It was a big white Pyrenees like pooch with a dangling pink tongue. She was a sheep dog. She nudged me and flipped over waiting for a belly rub. How could I resist. After that she had a brief swim and then slipped back under a barbed wire fence to watch over a sizable herd up on a hill. A dutiful employee.

 

On both days the sight fishing was mesmerising. I had to cover a lot of territory but with the high sun and blue sky I got to watch a dozen fish react to my offerings. I was watching them think. One fish came up to my fly which landed between it and the bank...it looked at it and then lazily turned away, only to circle and return a couple of seconds later for another look, suspending itself right in front of the fly for a few more seconds, and then it gently broke the surface with its nose and ate it.


On the drive home on late Sunday afternoon a pack of reservation dogs stood on the highway and stared down my approaching car which was going 120km. When I slowed down and swerved they went for my tires.



It was a good weekend. Some of the best visual angling I have ever experienced. I saw my reel backing two times, got lucky and landed several great trout. I also got to see hula hooping Bedouins, a friendly sheep herder, and some reservation dogs with attitude... just about anything can happen, and often does, out on the Plains!


Post Script-
When I got home I rummaged through the garage to see if I could find and old hula hoop...