14: Patience is a virtue

Jun9

I guided John and his son Mike on the Farmington River for a full day of wet fly fishing. If you live in Connecticut, I don’t need to tell you that it was a dank, rather gloomy day. We had lots of fog and about two hours of a cold rain. Water in the upper end of the river was running at 360cfs and was 51 degrees. There was just a hint of stain to the water.

John materializes out of the mists. No, really. If you look closely you can see him in the center of the river.

To the fishing: well, it was one of those days where you had to work hard for every trout. We drew a blank at the first spot. The second was a little kinder; we rigged for a deep, short line wet presentation and both father and son hooked up. Downstream a ways, Mike lost a nice fish that hit on the swing. Spot C was unresponsive to our offerings. By now it was early afternoon, and we started to see a few size 16 BWOs (for the most of the morning it was a caddis and midges, though not in any great numbers). Off to the last spot of the day, and that’s when things got interesting. John and Mike had been fighting the good fight for hours with little to show. A little help from Mother Nature, please? Yes. A few more caddis, a building olive hatch, and then some creamy mayflies, about a size 12-14. For the first time all day, we had consistent risers.

John netted this stunning brown on a size 16 Partridge and Olive. Well done, sir.

Just when the going got good, I had to get going. So much for my brilliant plan to stay after the gig and fish. Not to worry, Father and son carried on quite nicely for a few more hours. Great job today, guys, in some very tough conditions.

Mike presenting up and across to a couple fish that were taking emergers along a seam. Sadly, they weren’t taking Mike’s flies. No worries. He knows where they live.

Farmington River report 6/4/14: The return of the hat

Jun4

Since yesterday’s outing was cut short by cloudburstus interruptus, I returned to the river today to finish the job. A quick in-and-out session before I had to go pick up the kids. Oh. And I had the hat this time. Much better. Life is beautiful. All is as it should be. Spot A was a 100-yard snotty pocketed run that proved to be a treacherous wade (the river came up slightly from last night’s rain, but was running clear). I managed two rainbows and two browns as I swung wets along its length. The size 16 black caddis were massed again, but there were no risers that I could see. Plenty of midges in the air, and a few stray small tan caddis. If you’ve ever taken my classes, or heard my “Wet Flies 101” presentation, you know I preach that absent any hatch activity or actively feeding fish, move, cover water, and present your flies in the most likely holding water. If you want to catch more trout on wets, I cannot emphasize this enough. All four fish came in different sections; all came because I was willing to wade and cover water. Another commonality was that all four took the point fly, a tungsten bead head soft-hackle Pheasant Tail, on the mended swing.

I made one more stop. It’s 50-yard section of river that I haven’t fished in at least five years. Once I remembered where the cafeteria line is, I came tight to a rainbow who thought he was a steelhead. One sky-high aerial, a bit of deep sulking, then another aerial before he spit the hook.

Not a bad way to spend 90 minutes in the mid-day June sun.

Where were you yesterday when I needed you?

Farmington River Mini Report 6/3/14: All for the lack of a hat

Jun3

Fished the Farmington from 3pm to about 7:30pm. Today’s mission was to hit a bunch of spots I haven’t fished in a long time, swing some wets, anticipate a strong evening hatch, and hope the trout were looking up. Things started poorly when I forgot my fishing hat. I mean, I need my fishing hat. My head felt naked. Exposed. It just wasn’t right. Serves me right for wearing it to Sunday’s soccer games, then taking it into the house (the hat stays in the truck when not in use. Idiot.) Spot A was a run that dumps into a deep pool. Swarms of mating black caddis (size 16) everywhere. No hits. I was surprised. Moved down to a second run where I scored Rainbowzilla. He took a size 10 soft-hackled bead head Pheasant Tail on a dead drift. This guy went straight to the reel and peeled off twenty feet of line. Just as I was netting him, he popped off. My rig flew into a tree. Lost it trying to retrieve it. I blame the lack of a hat. Motored off to a tricky wade where I was sure I’d get into trout. Nope. Just juvenile salmon. Two of them. A hundred yards down, hard against a bank, is a deeper-than-you-think little run. Same drill: dead drift, second mend, and I’m on with Son of Rainbowzilla, another some-teen inch brute. Unlike the first rainbow, this one had been in the river for a year. Deep pink lateral band, fatter than Mama Cass, and flawless paddle fins. Netted him, then lost him when he leapt from the net as I readied the camera, snapping off the bottom two flies on my team of wets. This bad mojo is clearly what comes to those who are foolish enough to leave their hat at home. The next two runs involved a lot of walking for absolutely no catching (have I mentioned that I forgot my hat?). Ended up at a place where I was sure the late afternoon transition into evening would bring a substantial hatch of Light Cahills or Sulfurs. Instead, I got a picking-up-breeze and ominous clouds …but nonetheless, some trout willing to jump on. I took two more rainbows in a half hour. Then the heavens opened up. Just when I was saying, “OK, time to go” out loud, bam! A nice wild brown. All three fish again took the point fly, a simple bead head, plain rabbit fur fuzzy nymph — only every take was on the swing. I got totally soaked on the way back to the car.

I really wouldn’t have gotten so wet if I’d had my fishing hat on.

A bronze totem from the wild tribe. He’s the reason I took such a good soaking. Thanks, friend.

These simple white flowers are all over the river. They have dark and light blue cousins, too.

Hiking through the hills carrying a stick

Jun3

I picked a cool, grey day last week to visit a stream in another state nearly three hours from my house. The water appeared to be on the low side of medium, and the brookies were looking up. While the subsurface downstream wet was effective — particularly in deeper pools and runs — the dry was eagerly and wantonly attacked by the local natives. I started off with a size 16 Improved Sofa Pillow, then switched over to a size 14 Ginger Elk Hair Caddis. On the way down, I used a black mini bugger and an ICU Sculpin. The cigar of the day was a Sancho Panza Belicoso. Delicious! Here are a few mementos from my adventure.

Contrary to popular belief, sometimes it is easy being green.

This was a highly productive set of pools. I am always intrigued by the number of fish that can occupy any given area. Population density here was impressive.

I often get to the point where I wonder,”how many photos of wild brook trout do I really need to take?” So I’ll try to ruthlessly edit my potential subject material. It needs to be a fish that stands out from the crowd in some way, whether its size, color, spirit, etc. What caught my eye on this particular fish was the clarity of its lateral line.

More of those “nature finds a way” plants that insist on proving that a boulder is a fine place to work and live.

The point of release. Playing around here with a slower shutter speed. I like the static distortion of the water near head and tail. Big pectoral fins for a char that size.