The Moment

There are moments in fishing that have the ability to change the success and vibe of the day completely. Those moments are what those of us who are totally obsessed live for. For me, the ultimate in fishing, the biggest high, is casting to an actively feeding, visible fish, with a fly rod. Whether it's a mudding carp, a striped bass working along a beach lip, a tailing redfish, a darter tucked against a rock in a fast riffle, or a rising trout... species, size, water type doesn't matter. I'm pitting my abilities as an angler against a fish that I can see. I can watch its reactions. Observe its body language. If it chooses to eat  the fly I can see how it goes about it, and how its take corresponds what I can feel with the line and rod. I get the most data out of any interaction with a fish out of sight casting to one with a fly. And, oftentimes, I need not to be the one with the rod in hand to get a great experience. That was the case yesterday when an unexpected scenario made the day for Mike Andrews and myself.

We started the morning on a TMA looking to beat up some stockers. In fact, the trucks had been there this week, and, as evidenced by the footprints in the snow, so had some anglers. The fish had only been in a little while and had clearly taken a beating... a lot of them had lock-jaw. We only got a handful. One of Mike's, though, was a giant broodstock brookie.

We decided to end our morning on a small stream with trout that had actually been born there. We worked upstream, picking the pockets and poking the log jams, with no luck. As I turned the last corner though, I spotted those tell-tail rings on the surface of a great looking pool. Did something fall into the water, or had a trout risen. I didn't have to watch very long to get my answer. Not only was there a trout rising, there were four trout rising. Midges were hatching, it was pretty clear that this was what the fish were moving for. I could see a couple of them in the water, dark shadows over the light sand bottom. Aside from rising they were darting left and right, clearly taking pupa. These fish were on the feed, big time. I didn't make a cast. This hadn't been the plan, I didn't even have a single nymph on me, let alone a Syl's Midge or a Griffith's Gnat. I had plenty of streamers as big as a couple of these fish though. 

Two slightly staggered rises.

I shouted downstream to Mike. We assessed the situation. Like I said, I only streamers. I'm not one to throw a streamer at an actively rising fish. Mike didn't have any proper dry flies either. Looking in his nymph box though, I saw something without a bead: flymphs! That could work, maybe. They were large, for sure, but small stream wild trout are only occasionally very selective. Mike dressed the fly and started to work into position to make the cast. I stayed back and relayed the position of the fish that I could see best, which was the one furthest down the pool. Lining the fish was a concern, but I thought it was possible the fish would react to the fly hitting the surface, even if it were not up-drift from it. This is generally the case in warmer times, but we were in uncharted territory. I had never come across a substantial rise in this stream, let alone in March. I wasn't certain how they'd react. 

The bottom fish didn't at all react to the first presentations, which were down drift from it. As Mike adjusted position slightly, I saw that fish move upstream. We held off for a bit and made sure the fish that had remained in position continued to rise. They did, fortunately.

Mike had an idea. He tied on a dropper, a sz. 22 midge. When he got the right cast, it took no more time than for the nymph to reach its depth than for the flymph fished dry to drop defiantly. I watched the fish move, I watched the fly disappear, then I lifted my camera again. I'm glad I did, because I was in the perfect spot to capture the moment.

Though the fish fought valiantly, in a short time it was in the net. A gorgeous, fat wild brown. That made the trip, for both of us. We saw feeding fish, we planned our approach, and Mike finished the job perfectly. That was awesome.

I should probably have gotten out today on my part time home water. The conditions were gross but ideal. I'll probably regret that move. Tomorrow though, I'm going on an adventure. The late winter saltwater fish hunt will continue.

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Night Fishing an Impossibility

The nocturnal habits of the wild brown trout on my 'part time' home water have continued to befuddle me. I unlock little pieces of the puzzle every now and then, but less frequently than I'd like. More nights than I'd like to admit, I've walked away not really sure I'd learned anything useful.

Last night wasn't one of those nights.

I caught nothing. I never even heard any evidence that big fish were around and active at all. But I learned a lot more than I had on previous trips. It had everything to do with biomass, and it didn't teach me how or where or when I could catch a big trout at night on this river. I learned a lot about why I almost certainly wouldn't at night at this time of the year.

And it has everything to do with biomass.

To many, it is a cardinal sin to turn on a bright white light while night fishing. But if you are smart, you will for some amount of time every night you fish. Not to tie on a fly, tippet, or undo a tangle. For that I use ambient light as much as possible, and a concealed flash light whenever necessary. I can tie on most larger flies in the dark without turning on a light of any kind. But a bright light is a very useful tool at night, simply because it lets you see what's there. And if I hadn't spent nearly an hour with a light on seeing what was there, I would have learned very little about the goings on last night. 

What I discovered when I first turned on my light last night, was that I had been standing in a blizzard. There were warning signs... the feeling of tiny things dancing on my arm hairs, thing in my nostrils that just didn't belong there, an all too frequent bit of "protein" in my mouth that got there of its own volition. Yup, there was a midge hatch going on. An apocalyptic midge hatch. Breathing became perilous any time I had a light on for more than 15 seconds. I've seen some midge hatches in my day. Midge hatches so strong it made it look like a light fog was gathering. Midge hatches that were actually audible. But nothing like this.

The biomass was not limited to the air either. The emerging midge pupa and swimming freshwater shrimp of were so thick all a trout would have to do to eat its weight in the course of the night would be to open its mouth for two seconds every other minute. Add to that about 25 fish fry per square foot in any slow moving water and there is very little reason for any trout to need to eat a big streamer or mouse or wet fly under these conditions, and anything small would just be lost in the maelstrom of actual food drifting and swimming around.  

So. I'm still not dialed in on getting big trout at night there. But I know I can't do it at this time of year in that stretch. 

Big Midges

Although it may just seem like an oxymoron, winter midges can sometimes be quite large. For example, a size 16 will match some of those that hatch around small streams from December to mid February on warm days.