I will show you some on Monday when I get back to workpezvela
(339 posts)
07/17/09 7:54 AM
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I posted this on another local forum and the response was so good that I thought I might place it here in the hopes that you too might enjoy it.
It's been a long week. I'm old and worn out. It seems as though only fishing keeps me going. I was sitting in my garage this morning lamenting the fact that my boat is in the shop and will be for at least 2 weeks.
I got up from my cold coffee and walked slowly across the concrete to the north wall that is adorned with rack after rack of rods. I removed two long rods from their brackets and carefully looked them over. Not misuse, but dust and dirt covered them. They had rested here for at least ten years, perhaps more. These were rods I had used so long ago for trout on local waters.
Carefully I cleaned the dust from them and wiped both of them dry. Leaders were attached and then I gathered my other gear-vest-waders and boots. I doubled checked to see that everything I might need was there. An hour had pasted before I was satisfied everything was in order. I loaded the truck and backed into the road. Boat or no boat, I was going fishing.
As I drove into the mountains I reached back of the seat and touched the rods as if seeking reassurance. The predecessors to these two were what started me on a long road that I as an angler has been compelled to follow as if I have no will of my own.
My thoughts were of the great rivers I have fished in the last 50 years; the Babine and Frasier for giant winter runs of steelhead, the Suisitna, Chuitna, Ugashik for giant salmon. The Naknak for salmon and unbelievable rainbow. Those and a hundred others stretching from California through the northwest and on to Alaska and across the bering straights to Siberia.
But it was not a great river that I sought out today. My legs have lost their strength and the current of even the Provo might be too much for me. I sought out a smaller water, a trout creek from my boyhood.
I was born during the last days of the great war at my grandfathers ranch at the mouth of Diamond Fork. It was here that I learned to fish with a grasshopper or a worm. But even this water might be too much for me so I drove on.
It was approaching noon when I arrived and already hot. It had been at east 10 years since I had been here and I feared that all of it might be posted. Relieved, I found none of the insidious signs on the fences.
The valley?s air was flush with the fragrance of the stream, the willows and the wild grasses that adorned her shore. Camp-robbers, swallows and a wild canary welcomed me back after the long absence.
The water was only slightly chilled like a bottle of wine from a short stay in a ice bucket. It felt good on my legs as I climbed carefully through the barbed water.
Of the pair of rods I has chosen a 8 and one half foot six weight rod with a nondescript reel. Unless the reel is designed to do battle with fish of untethered ferocity there is no need to go to the expense of a good reel. For trout fishing the reels only purpose is to hold the line. No need to waste money or be pretentious.
The first casts were clumsy like a beginner and that is what I was....only beginning to learn again. A size 16 black bodied humpy was on the leader when I loaded the rod and reel so I left it there. It slapped at the water and scared any trout that might have been there as I started out.
As I moved upstream the rhythm of the little creek overtook me and the long rod, the stream and I became one. For most of the time the dark dry flie landed where I wished and rode the currents back to me with little drag. I studied the river as one is expected to, should he or she expect to take a fish.
The first take was lightning quick and my slowed reflexes almost missed the strike. A diminutive brown trout took to the air at the sting of the hook with its crushed barb. The fish was tiny barely 5 inches. I took a quick picture and then gently released the trout admonishing him to demonstrate more wariness in the future.
I was flush with excitement. Although the fish was small...I had caught one and the promise of more was there. I tied on a trude coachman so that I might see its float and moved slowly upstream.
Fish darted away at my approach in the martini clear water. One, two then another brown trout rose to the fly but I missed them. I cursed silently, but it didn't really matter a strike was nearly as good as a take I rationalized. A check to see if the barb was broken and fresh dope applied I continued my quest.
The second fish was much bigger than the first. I though of killing him for dinner then quickly dismissed the thought. How could I kill such rare beauty? The fish was photographed and released.
Fish lie in virtually every pool and trail water, but all were not catchable. In the clear water they spooked at my approach or rose to the fly only to dismiss it as a counterfeit.
As I moved along the creek I continued to search for signs of a hatch, but found none. Regardless of what was happening on the stream, there were grasshoppers in the valley below so I attached a small elk hair hopper that I had tied long ago when my eyes were still capable of completing such tasks.
Each time I opened the fly boxes I moved to shore not wanting the precious treasure to spill on the water and be washed away. I realized with a almost frightening certainty that the treasure of hook and hair would have to last me the rest of my life as I could no longer see good enough to tie.
The midday sun was baking me. I sat on the grassy bank and reflected on the last three hours. Six magnificent brown trout had fallen to an old mans skills, however rusty they might be. All were returned to continue their life's in the little river just as their presence helped restore life to me. I breathed deep of the rivers scent, caressed the long rod and began the long treck back to the truck fulfilled as only the angler can be.
If you haven't figured out where this magical little stream is, the picture below should tell you.
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