Monday, April 27, 2020

'Gems' of the ANF

Gems of the ANF
4/22/2020 

 I decided to take a leisurely break from the high waters and strong currents of the bigger streams and visit one of my favorite brook trout creeks. Though the brook trout were transplanted I still consider them ‘gems’ as they are beautiful no doubt. Kind of like a Cubic Zirconia, not a real diamond but still beautiful to the naked eye. I used to catch real native trout in these waters a long time ago. I’m sure there are a few but I’m sure they are few and far in between.
  When I got to the bottom of the mountain there were a couple of trucks parked along the dirt road. As I drove on there wasn’t a vehicle in sight. It looked like I would have the creek to myself. Just a year ago on the first day of trout season there were vehicles and people everywhere. Each spot that a tent could be pegged or a small camper could be chocked there would be at least 4 to 5 vehicles parked near it. It looked as though everyone was having a family reunion. People lined the creek as if waiting for a boat parade to flow down the shallow waters. Dogs could be seen running around freely and small kids playing with sticks as their moms or elderly gents watching over them. Today, two weeks after the first day of trout opening, and with the scare of the COVID-19 and the Govs order of no camping, there isn’t a person or vehicle in sight other than the first couple. That’s a good thing!
  I park along the dirt road in a space just long and wide enough for one truck. I break out the 3 weight Hardy fly rod, put on my fishing rain attire and grab a few cigars. I angle my footing as I cautiously descend down the slope to the leveler forest floor. I follow the well used path between the trees, pass the remnants of an old campfire to the creek and look over the scenery. The water flows pretty much gin clear with a little glare from the afternoon light. Trees line the banks with many limbs branching out over the creek with twigs waiting to hamper my every cast. The sky is a pale cream shade with a touch of gray to make you wonder if rain is a possibility. Green moss line the creek as if a boundary to where the creek is allowed to flow. I step into the cold water, attach a Woolly Bugger to the 4x tippet and begin my brook trout quarry.
  By this time of year most of the trout have been harassed or harvested by many fishermen. Most of them fish the deeper pockets under tree limbs, submerged branches and deeper bends where the constant water flow creates undercut banks. They appear to pass on the shallower ankle deep to shin deep riffling water. Maybe their split shot lines get caught between the rock bed as they try drifting their bait in the flow. I’m sure a few minnow fishermen may give these areas a try but usually will not that I have seen. Everyone is eager to get to the deeper holes where they feel a bucket or two of trout still remain. The easiest way I found to fish this small creek and get the right angle is to wade in the creek itself instead of fishing off the bank or constantly plopping in here or there causing a lot of commotion. I make long casts down stream at an angle toward the banks and let the bugger swing till my line straightens. My aim is to coax the trout out from under their undercut hiding places or submerged hazards into the open water for my slow swimming offering. The distance between them and I are critical and I keep my movement to a minimum.
  It is slow going and fish-less at first but I think positive and besides that enjoy the sounds of the forest. I feel a tap of the fly line between my fingers as if something is sampling my offering but not just sure to take a mouthful. I let the bugger swing again in the same area and this time give it a little more action with a few twitching of the rod tip. Once the line straightens down stream a hardy grab bends the rod tip and I snap back the rod and my first brook trout is struggling in the shin deep water to free himself. I carefully bring in line as he splashes to the surface. I wet my hands before handling him.

 With the same tactic I try for another but there is no response. This one trout may have been alone in the shallows. I continue on downstream with the same strategy and hook another.
 
 I fish a couple of deeper holes but there appears that the trout, if any, aren’t being fooled by artificial imitations or they been harassed enough that they are too wary of everything. I light up a cigar and take in the scenery before wading on. There are half submerged branches to my right along the bank. The water is maybe shin deep at the most but brook trout will hold in the shallowest water if they feel safe. I drop the bugger upstream and let it drift and swing in front of the branches. I catch a flash beneath the surface but no strike on my offering. I let the bugger drift till the line straightens and start to bring in line for the next cast. I see another flash at my quicker moving offering and nod at the attempt. Another drift through and this time the take is a sharp tug and I quickly line set the hook. A brook trout scurries with my offering as the rod tip dances with delight. Another brook trout comes near but flips free before a picture.

 After a few more drifts near the branches I concentrate on the left side of the creek where the water is maybe a little below knee deep with a nice riffling effect to distort the water surface. I roll cast my line and offering into the riffles and let it drift toward the smoother surface water. I feel a tap through the fly line but miss the take. I challenge the trout with a few more drifts and light twitches of the rod tip and he can’t resist the temptation. Another comes to hand.
 
 Now this is getting interesting. With each few drifts I get another and than another strike. I start pulling struggling hooked brook trout to me like a boated bait fishermen finding a school of hungry crappies. Evidently the bait fishermen passed over these shallow water trout and it’s as if I found a mother load.

 
  I know I can’t take pictures of them all but each one has its own characteristics and beauty like contestants in a beauty pageant. Their eager fight to undo the hook as they dart beneath the surface. Their wet sides shimmer in the allowing light showing off their fascinating colors. Though they might not be true native gems of the creek they are still gems of beauty in my eyes.
 
 With each hook up I hope to catch the ‘big one’ but it doesn’t come to be. Maybe there isn’t a big one to catch. Even so I'm not in one bit disappointed in my find. After a few more the bite dies down and I continue on. It takes sometime wading and fishing downstream before I find another few brook trout that wants to play with me.

 The light starts to dim and my body tells me I had enough fun for the day and it’s time to give it a rest. I attach the hook to the hook keeper and step to the bank as sprinkles of rain start to fall. I follow the well used path to the old blackened coals left from a campfire and head up the hill. It’s been an enjoyable and fun time finding these ‘gems’ from the little creek and letting them swim free again for another time.
 
 I sit by the camp fire now back at my camping spot. The wind blows gently as the flames flicker and wave with the lazy breeze. I puff on my birthday cigar, an AB Select Corojo Churchill, a day late. The day before was a rainy wet day that a campfire was not feasible to make or sit by. I’m content and relax enjoying the rest of the evening under the deep blue sky.

~doubletaper 



Monday, April 13, 2020

Mountain Run Off

Mountain Run Off

 3/31/2020


 I packed the backpack with supplies for the day and decided to go native brookie fishing. I was into my 5th day camping along the river and just decided to take a hike up the mountain and bring the fly rod.

  I parked the truck along the road, grabbed my gear and headed up the gated dirt trail. Bare trees stood up through the mountain laurel. Looking up the cloudy sky was like a pale gray canvas color. If I looked long and hard enough I could see glimpses of the light blue sky above but the sun was nowhere to be found. More or less what the weatherman called for. The air was a bit nippy but it was still morning.

  The water flowed down the mountain at a good clip around big boulders, downed logs and over flat rock shelves. Water gushed over near-surface exposed boulders causing small deep pools and rushed over the rock shelves falling into plunge pools that weren’t very long in length. The roar and gurgling of the cascading water was deafening to the ear but a pleasant sound none the less.

I really couldn’t call it a stream. When I think of a creek I think of narrow brook waters. Because of the rain the past few days there was a lot of run off water coming down the mountain and into the river. This one particular run off appeared to flow all year round so I just decided to take a hike and see if it holds native brook trout. Heck, I didn’t have anything else to do being that the river was high and muddy.

  From the trail the hillside to the run was steep but manageable. Once I got down to the run I found an occasional narrow game trail that followed along water. With the many downed trees and big boulders I had to be careful as I traveled. Let’s face it, I’m not some kind of mountain goat.

Along the run I took off the back pack and assembled the 7’ 3 weight Hardy Fly Rod and attached the reel with DT3F line. At a tail out I laid a Humpy as close to the bubbling water fall as I could and let it drift to the tail out. The pools themselves were short in length so there was constant casting in the narrow runs before the water flowed over shallower water than between more boulders and rock shelves down the mountain. It was like watching an out of control slinky uncoiling down an endless flight of a crooked stairwell.

  It took some time to convince myself that the trout, if any, weren’t going to snap at a dry fly. I switched to a dark Cress bug and dropped a bead head Hare’s Ear off of that. I hadn’t any takers for some time but I was willing to bet there had to be some natives in the run somewhere. I felt like I was in a maze trying to find the right corridor to the food. I climbed back up the hillside when it got too rough to follow the run.

  From the uphill trail I spotted a couple of big boulders the water flowed over and between. I descended down the hill, through the mountain laurel and found good footing along the waters edge. The water converged over a submerged boulder ledge, gurgled and bubbled into a deep plunge pool. It flowed deep for a short distance before shallowing in the tail out and again over ledges and between boulders. I added a little weight to the leader and nymph fished the run extending the 7’ rod out above the water. I had to be careful of the laurel and hanging branches as I could only roll cast.

 I would cast the nymphs upstream into the splashing bubbling water and let slack out to get my offering down quickly. In the fast flowing conditions it was hard to notice a strike so I would tight line as long as possible and wrist the line up quickly with a little more authority just before my next roll cast.

  One drift my line swirled into a back eddy as I was high sticking it back towards me. I thought I saw a hesitation and wristed the rod upward. The top section of the rod dipped and I felt a struggle through the fly line. I brought the rod up and my first native brook trout wiggled and tussled all the way to my wet hands. 


 I fished the same plunge pool a few more drifts without a taker. Above the falls there was another deep bubbling pool that looked promising. I had to just about crawl through the low hanging laurel and over loose rocks to get to the bank.

  Casting up into the bubbling falls I watched my fly line as it floated erratically on the surface. The fly line dipped and I wristed the hook set. Another wild brook trout wiggled the rod tip section and my 2nd native came to hand. 
 
 I traveled upstream along the bank, where I was able, and fished the nymphs in deep pockets and plunge pools. Time went by as I journeyed along the run and through the forest. I believe I missed one take but really wasn’t sure before I felt I had climbed far enough up and between the mountain valley. There was heavier bank side laurel and twisted branches making the land along the water impassable let alone trying to fish. I attached the hook to the hook keeper and decided to start my way back down the mountain.

  By now the sun was high overhead and I could feel the warmth through my clothing. The bare branched tree tops threw twisted shadows upon the forest floor. Shed sized boulders, on the mountainside on the upper side of the trail, where scattered as far as I was able to see. Moss covered partial sides of the big boulders and broken limbs extended over their sides in no particular order. Ferns appeared drably but the fir trees about appeared to glimmer in the sunlight as an easy breath of a breeze swayed their olive branches. Twigs were scattered upon the forest floor of brown autumn leaves left over from last year and through the winter months. Downed branches took on contorted shapes wedged in between the boulders and tree trunks. The ground was still soft from the rainfall so I listened intently as I traveled down the trail. The cascading water was still within hearing distance but not as deafening. Small birds fluttered from bush to bush and a woodpecker could be heard knocking on hollow trees all the while I walked down the mountain trail.

  Within sight of the road I glanced over and saw a nice lengthy pool of water. I walked down to the run and found myself a good foothold upon the rocks. Water splashed upon the surface and bubbled before clearing up as it flowed beyond. I knotted on a moth pattern and soaked it good with dry fly dope. I was hoping there was a trout looking upward for a meal. Each cast I would fling the moth out further than the cast before. Each time I watched the moth pattern come out from the end of the bubbling falls and drift down into the shallower tail out. I saw a flicker of a trout come up quickly for the moth but he missed it. Two casts later I got the moth drifting in the same location. This time the little guy grabbed the moth pattern and I was Jerry on the spot and nailed him. He shivered and shook the line violently as I lifted him from the waters edge.


  Light rain started to fall in more of a mist than raindrops. The cloud cover took a darker turn. After a few more drifts with the moth I switched to a dry Adams. Well, that didn’t fool anything else either. I called it quits and headed to the truck.

  Back at the camper I put my gear away and cased the fly rod. I turned up the heat in the camper and let it warm up inside while I got a campfire going.

  Mmmm! A juicy venison steak over coals with zucchini noodles and onions  sounds tasty for tonight’s dinner. After that I’ll sit around the campfire enjoying a stogie and a beverage or three.

  It turned out to be a challenging adventure. Though the rewards were few it was well worth the exercise and entertainment. 
 





 ~doubletaper