Overcast, fog, rain showers, air temps nearing fifty — where do I sign up? The river was running clear and about 350 cfs, 40 degrees in the upper TMA.
So. The day began with my foolish decision to navigate a perilously steep slope down to the river. There was no snow. But, rats! I didn’t take into account the frozen tundra. I slid on my butt for about twenty feet, and my the only reason my ass didn’t end up in the river was because I managed to grab a sapling as I hurtled past. Thus chastised, I waded in, bloody fingertips (ice can cut you quite properly, thank you) and all.
You gotta love the naiveté of fresh stockees. They haven’t quite figured out that they’re supposed to hit that streamer at the head. As a result, I had about 400 hysterical tail nips, with some of the new residents following the fly almost to my rod tip. At least a half dozen of what was put in last week are already dead; I saw them on the bottom of one run, most missing heads and/or eviscerated my some unknown predator. Downsizing the fly from a 4 to a 6 resulted in more hookups. But you don’t need to see photos of recently stocked trout, do you?
Since stockees were not why I came out, I headed to the TMA. I had visions of big browns. We’ll quote another British band here: you can’t always get what you want. So I had to be content with three sticks and several Deep Threats presented to appease the river bottom gods. But the smoke from that Rocky Patel The Edge corona gorda looked positively sublime as it mingled with the mists over the rain-speckled water.
And I left the river happy.