Turkey Down

 

Turkey Down

11/05/24

 It was a mild Tuesday morning, maybe in the lower 50’s, which is kind of warm for this early in November here in PA. It was to get close to 70 degrees by noon. It was still dark out but the light of the morning was still rising behind the tall hill across the river. I was dressed in camouflage from head to toe with my back against a big tree waiting for the first clucks of the turkeys across the river. My 12 gauge double barrel shotgun lay upon my lap loaded with 2 3” mags.

  Saturday the turkeys were roosting across the river, upon the steep hillside, which I’ve come to acknowledge the past few years. They roost in the pines overnight but each morning they fly over to my side of the river to feed. When I was camping a few weeks ago they were there and did just that. I’ve got 2 birds in the past few years and I was waiting for my third.

  Saturday they flew over but instead of feeding towards me they fed and rustled leaves from my right to my left out in front of me a piece. I was afraid I wasn’t going to get a shot as they passed so I picked one out, aimed at its head, and took the shot. Maybe they were a bit too far but I was sure I downed a turkey before from that distance. I rolled it as I saw its wings spread eagle. The other turkeys flapped their wings near by in shock. The one I shot at got up and I let the second barrel sound off. Some immediately took off back towards the river and flew across. I ran towards the rest of the flock hoping to scatter them in case I didn’t kill the one I shot at. My friend was somewhere up the hill behind me. When I got to where I shot the turkey there was no sign of the turkey or feathers. I reloaded my shotgun and looked in the trees for another turkey but apparently the rest of the flock turned and took off towards the river like a bunch of scared chickens being chased by a fox. The turkeys never flew back over the rest of the morning.

  Monday morning came and my friend and I set up a little closer to where the turkeys flew over and landed. My friend Rusty put up a camouflage net and stood a decoy to my left about 25 yards or so. We sat on each side of a big oak waiting for daylight and the calls of the turkeys across the river. To make a long, Monday morning story short, they never did fly over.

  Each morning, for about a few 100 yards stretch across the river, you can hear turkeys clucking and purring in the early light. There were at least 2 flocks and maybe three strung out along the other side of the river. When we started to hear the morning clucks Rusty started to call softly at times to get them to cross over. We heard them fly down from their roosts and it sounded as if they were at rivers edge a couple of times but wouldn’t fly over. We would both call now and then trying to encourage them but they never flew over. Near 11 we gave up and went back to the camper.

  In further thought I figured, being there were a couple of flocks across the river, the ones we were after didn’t want to mingle with another flock. It’s like a gang not wanting to cause trouble or get into a fist fight with another gang that got to the breakfast diner first. They even were afraid to cross the street. I believe we gave the turkeys we were after the impression there was another flock of turkeys, where they wanted to fly over, and that’s why they didn’t come over.

  The past few years I never had to, nor did I, ever call them over. I knew they would fly over and just hoped they would fly over and land or feed near me.

  Well, this Tuesday I sat alone at the same tree Rusty and I sat on Monday morning. The morning opened like any other morning as the crows starting to caw the first sight of light. Softly I heard a couple of putts and maybe a chirp or two across the river but not as anxiously as the last couple of mornings. Down river a flock of turkey were carrying on like a bunch of women at a Chippendales show. The ones across the river from me just weren’t too talkative yet. In fact most of the clucks I head were down some towards my camper. As morning light grew brighter, and hearing turkeys elsewhere, I discarded my thoughts of moving. I could still hear the cackling down river and was pretty sure I heard them fly across the river down there.

  As I sat in thought, my eyes were wide open searching the bare tree line for any signs of movement and my ears listening for any signs of life. The sky was like a sheet of smokey gray color. A cool breeze could be felt now and then. The remaining sun dried leaves left o the branches rustled lightly with each light gust of wind. Other than that, and a few clucks now and then from across the river, it was pretty quiet. All of a sudden, without a warning, 3 turkeys flew over my head and landed somewhere behind me on the hillside that I knew was too far too shoot. Their wings sounded like the wooshing sound of a wind turbine until they glided down to earth. As I turned my head to look three more flew over my head or at least near to where I sat. I turned towards the river waiting for one to fly between the river and me. I knew there were more turkeys to come so I waited patiently with my elbow resting on my bent knee holding my shotgun in the ready position. Two birds flew about 100 yards to my right closer to a knoll that overlooked the river and between my camper and where I sat. The camper was a few 100 yards to my right so I wasn’t worried about shooting in that direction if need be. I was still waiting for others to fly over when one turkey behind me, on the hillside, started to cluck as if letting the others know the coast is clear. I had lost sight of the other two down to my right but when I heard the one behind me starting to cluck they appeared within my vision. The turkey calling was up the hill to my right. The 2 turkeys were taking their time walking towards the clucking turkey. I knew they were going to get closer to me if they kept walking towards the clucking. I shifted the shotgun to my right and picked out an opening, through the forest, I was sure they’d pass through. Maybe it was a little further than I wanted but I figured, in open view without any interference, my 3” mag should connect and do some damage on contact.

I watched as the 2 turkeys calmly walked into the opening without a fear in the world. My safe was already off and, with the barrel already lifted towards them, I looked down the rail and positioned the bead on one of the turkeys head and pulled the trigger. I felt the recoil against my shoulder and saw the bird tumble flapping its wings without her head showing after the blast. The other turkey turned and took off towards the river like a scared chicken. I head the wings of a couple of turkeys flying. One went over my head back towards the river. Another flew high in the tree just above where my turkey was having his death roll. Behind me I heard another take flight and headed towards the river.

I sat patiently watching my helpless turkey flopping around like a chicken with it’s head chopped off until it disappeared behind an uprooted tree trunk. I watched the other turkey, in the tree above it, as it looked around trying to figure out where the blast came from? It was if she was some news reporter gathering information of the killing of her friend to report back to the others on the morning news report. I watched as she finally left the branch and flew towards the hillside behind me. I stood and clipped my hot seat to my belt loop, opened the break-open double barrel and slipped the empty shell out of the lower barrel. I replaced it with a fresh 3” mag load and clicked the over-under shut. I started to stride my way to the downed turkey counting each step. It took 62 paces to reach where my turkey first fell. Behind the uprooted stump my bird lay, with its wings stretched, and head cocked in an uncomfortable position. I looked at my watch before taking hold o the bird and it was 6:46. I field dressed the turkey and tagged it before heading back to my camper.

 

 After hanging the turkey up, from a tree branch, I switched clothing to orange and decided to squirrel hunt being it was still early and cool out. I figured I would let the turkey drain out before defeathering it. Anyhow I did get one more squirrel before returning to my dead hen before it got too warm out.

 

 I started to pluck the turkey but it took too long and tedious that I decided to just skin it. There wasn’t a BB in any part of its body except for its bloody neck. The 3” mag 5 shot made a vital hit! 

 

 After cleaning it up good, along with the squirrel, I wrapped the turkey in freezer paper, put it in a plastic bag and laid it in my big cooler I brought for such an occasion. Then I hung the tail up on my success line with the squirrel tails.

 

  Before taking off to vote, I put the cooler in the bed of my pickup. I took out a rewarding cigar and lit it up and puffed on it on my way driving to the voting booth.

 

~doubletaper

 

Taking The Edge Off

 

Taking The Edge Off

9/11/24

Having not fished or camped for the past few weeks I was on edge and needed to get out. I was at the state of mind, like listening to young campers a few sites down playing rap all day long which would be ludicrous. I’d just want to scream out “Rock and Roll”! Tuesday I hooked up the camper and headed down to the river.

  Near 4 weeks ago I was camping but after a heavy rain storm it left the river high and muddy. After a few days it came down some and turned to a pretzel brown color. I still had the nerve to get out with the fly rod and fish. The smallmouth wouldn’t come up for a noisy popper on top so I fished below with a long tailed Woolly Bugger. I caught a few smallmouth each day and at least one big one each day. This camping trip I was determined to make a smallie or two rise to a popper.

  Wednesday I had the kayak loaded and headed 4 miles up river. After getting the kayak in the water I pieced together my 9’ 6 weight Compass fly rod. I attached a popper and was ready for a 4 mile fishing float!

  It was 50 degrees in the early morning so I wasn’t in any hurry. By the time I started my journey, after talking with the neighbor camper, it was near 10:00. The sun was still rising and there was still some slim shady near the far bank under the leafy overhanging trees. The sky was like a sheet of pastel blue art paper without a cloud near by. No wind to speak of which was a plus for fly fishing. Forest green trees lined the banks with an occasional boulder extruding above the water surface. The river was pretty much gin clear and low so I knew I had to make long casts. With the low water conditions and full sunshine above I figured the smallmouth would be hugging near the banks in the shady areas. In deeper water I’m sure they would be sitting on the bottom. Off I went.

 

 In the first couple of hours I switched different color poppers testing to see what they liked. I determined a silver popper probably wasn’t very visible on the surface with a fish looking upward into the bright sun. It would be like trying to pick out an ice cube floating down a sun-glared river. I started to use darker colors. I thought they would be more visible like m & m’s in a vanilla ice cream cone. I managed to raise, but missed, the first couple of smallmouth that I figured were just small ones that couldn’t get their mouths open enough on the #2 bass hook. Once I got a rise I stuck with the orange/brown popper most of the float. I did end up catching a couple small smallies on the fifty cent size popper by noon.

  Once the far bank became more shaded, as the day wore on, I concentrated casting into the shady areas. I didn’t kayak too close to the banks, being it may be too shallow, but stayed out a bit casting a few yards from it. Every once in a while I would drop the anchor to slow me down or stop me so I could cover the area more thoroughly. I was down river quite a ways slowly drifting with the slow current. There was a fallen tree down river with its trunk still on the bank. The brown leaves, still attached to the branches, told me it had fallen not so long ago. I figured it would be good cover for a bass wanting to ambush a stray fish like a cautious snoop dog creeping up on a covey of grouse and then exploding upon them.

 I was casting the popper into the shady areas way before I got to the downed tree. On one long cast the popper plopped into the water and I stripped it towards me making not too much noise. There was no need to. The water was clear enough that any nearby bass should be able to see it and there was no need to scare it with noisy popping. A smallmouth came up and noisily gulped the popper. I waited a second or two and yanked back the 9 footer. The line whipped up from the surface, the rod bowed and the line tightened. I quickly tossed over the anchor while the fish was tugging up river. We had a good battle going on before I was able to get him in. He wasn’t a real B.I.G. one but a nice average size smallie for a picture.

 
 

  Pulling up anchor I started to drift out from the fallen tree. Within casting distance I dropped the anchor. I was casting out from the tree branches and missed a small grab for the popper. I figured it was another small bass after the feather tail between strips. After a few more casts I picked up the anchor and let the kayak drift down a little further keeping my distance. I dropped the anchor again and started to cast out. On the second toss a fish rose to the popper as if sipping it off the surface without much fuss. I figured it was another small bass but I waited a second or two and gave a big yank backward. The rod bowed with a tight line. The fish swam up river without much of a fight. Even though the rod arced pretty good I wasn’t aware what I had on, on the other end. On its way up river the fish swam through a sunny spot and I was able to see this wasn’t a small smallmouth after all. It wasn’t fighting hardly at all, kind of like a walleye I had caught in the river on a crawdad imitation off a spinning rod. I started to bring the line in and he followed momentarily. About a couple of rod lengths from me he turned and took off and it felt like I hooked a lost wading boot in a swift current. Line peeled off the reel as he swam up river. He finally started to give me a good battle with tugs and hearty pulls. I had him coming towards me a couple of times, during the tussle, but he was able to force himself, with enough strength, that I had to let out line. Nearing me for the third time, he was a couple of rod lengths away, when he rose up out of the water and shook the line like a rabbit in a hanging snare trap caught by its lucky foot. I couldn’t see the popper hanging from his mouth nor noticed it flying off. He plopped into the water and the line tightened once again. Reeling him close to the kayak I wasn’t going to lip him, not knowing where the hook point was, so I grabbed the net and scooped him up. I found the popper was embedded into his tongue. There was no way he was going to get away. I had to take my time surgically removing the popper from his tongue. He stayed still during the whole operation like he was immobilized from a spinal block. I dropped him into the water and he swam away immediately.

 

 While lighting up a rewarding cigar it made me think about the catch.

  I thought he was a smaller smallmouth the way he took the popper. Almost like a lone trout sipping a grasshopper off the surface as if the trout knew it couldn’t fly away. It made me wonder how many bigger smallmouth I took for granted were small, and I never set the hook hard?

  I floated back to the exiting point without another hit. The neighbor camper helped me get the kayak back to my campsite. He offered to drive me up river to my truck.

  After a nap and a venison chip steak sandwich, with onions and BBQ sauce on a sub role, I washed the dishes and was ready for some camp life. That evening I sat back, next to the campfire, smoking a Rocky Patel Edge stogie and sipping on Even Williams 1783 small batch straight bourbon. The day definitely took the edge off. 

 

 That's a rap.

~doubletaper

 

Losers Weepers

Losers Weepers

8/12/24

 

  I paddles my kayak to the stony bank and made sure it was secure not to float down the river without me. I put my tin of poppers and buggers in my shirt pocket and grabbed my 9' fast action Icon fly rod out of the rod holder. Wading out in knee deep water I started to cast a brown bugger out into the riffling water that flowed down into the deeper section of the river. Each cast was further out as I watched the arc of my fly line floating on the surface as my Woolly Bugger swung following the fly line.

  It was around 1:00 by now. I had been floating for about a few hours and only caught a couple of smaller smallmouth on the bugger. I tried a popper now and then but didn’t get any risers to it. Maybe because the river water was still the color of a chocolate milkshake. The sky above was a deep royal blue with bellowing white clouds moving slowly above the green forest tree line.

 

  The sun was bright above, avoiding the white clouds now and then, and shining down upon the river with warmth. A gust of a cooler breeze would be felt at times. The breeze gave no warning as if the river just decided to let out an underwater sigh of cool air. My straw, wide brim Carolina hat, kept the bright sunshine off my face and protected my scalp from getting sunburned.

  As I slowly took small steps casting out I was careful not to slip on the loose stony river bed. A fish grabbed the drifting bugger and I reared back the fly rod to set the hook. He fought like a bigger fish than what I found when I got him in. He knew well how to work the wavy current in his favor. Holding him up, for a picture, I reached for my camera in my shirt pocket. That’s when one of those surprising gusts of wind rose up and blew the Carolina straw hat off my head. I was dumbfounded to say the least.

  My straw hat fell into the water and slowly started to drift with the current downriver. There was no way I was going to scramble across the stony riverbed to try and retrieve it. Besides I was holding a smallmouth by the mouth in my hand. I let the smallmouth go, still connected to my fly line, and tried to direct him towards my drifting hat. Not that I thought it would work but? I gave up and brought the smallie back in my grip for a picture. After the release I looked downriver and watched the crown of my straw hat, and part of the wide brim, slowly floating down stream. 

 

  My straw hat was drifting about a few feet or so from the bank and continued on. It made sure it went around any obstacles that were protruding out of the water and out from the bank. It was drifting sooo slow as if tempting me to get in my kayak and try to retrieve it. I watched till it was beyond my vision. I thought maybe it would get caught up in some tangle along the river or maybe drift into a back eddy. I kept on wade fishing for a while and figured on kayaking close to the bank as I continued my way downriver.

  I hooked another smallmouth briefly in the same area I lost my hat. He grabbed the bugger, swam about a foot and exploded out of the water like he got shocked from an electrical fence wire. The bugger went flying and he plopped back into the water free from the hook. After that I spent another half hour and then got back in my kayak and floated down the river.

  Slowly, as I floated and paddled, I searched for my straw hat hoping to see a glimpse of it below the brown stained water or along the bank. I finally drifted into deeper water where I paddled my kayak into a back eddy near the bank. Steady, within the back eddy, I started to cast out the bugger again. On one long cast I was watching the fly line when a fish grabbed it like an eagle, swooping down on a scurrying field mouse, and B-lining it to its nest. The only thing was, with this catch, was attached to my fly line which was attached to my reel and rod.

  The spool spun out fly line that shot out of the tip top straight towards the sprinting swimming fish. He tugged and swam in a straight line towards the opposite bank, maybe getting into shallow water, before turning down river. I watched the fly line cut across the muddy surface water like a bright comet tail streaking through the night sky. He stopped briefly before continuing on up river. I wasn't sure what was below the chocolate stained surface so I held the rod high as I reeled in line keeping the line tight. He swam in haste up river out in front of me a ways before turning down river again with ferocious tugs and pulling the line as if we were in some kind of tug a war contest. I’m not an amateur at this kind of stuff and played him hard, not giving him any more slack, when he toughened. It took some convincing but I finally got him to the kayak safely.

 

 That deserved a rewarding cigar even after losing my hat.

 

  I was pretty close to the canoe launch y now and only fished a little longer. After pulling my kayak ashore I took one more look across and down river hoping to spot my straw hat.

  Back at camp I thought about all the items I could remember that the river swallowed up. Two float fins, on two different occasions, while float tubing while fishing. One hammer anchor that got caught and I was unable to retrieve. An assortment of poppers that either broke off of a hooked fish or simply decided to come un-knotted after a cast. A few Woolly Buggers and other weighted streamers and now a wide brimmed Carolina straw hat. Oh well, the rewards of catching big smallies and trout makes the loss not crying over.

Maybe at some time someone will find such things and wonder how someone else lost them?

~doubletaper

 

 

Morning River Smallies

 

Morning River Smallies

8/15/24

  The river was still receding from the heavy rain from the past week. It has been clearing up from the chocolate color that was caused by the heavy rainfall. The river was still a bit on the high side but color wise, a fair shade of wet cardboard, I felt was the best day to get out and fish. My mom was in a rehabilitation housing, from hip surgery, and I was planning on visiting her so I had to get back to the camper by noon to head home. I woke up early, ate a quick breakfast and drove upriver where I had caught smallmouth before.

 Stepping into the shin deep water, off the bank, I could tell the water had warmed up a bit from the past chilly evenings, though it has gotten into the 70’s and 80 degrees during the day. I wore a long sleeve ‘t’ shirt under my Columbia button down for the chilly morning. I waded upriver through the shin deep water to where I wanted to make my first cast into the riffling water.

  Green leaf tree branches overhung the river bank as far as my eyes could see, downriver, so thick I couldn’t tell one tree limb from another. The sky was a sheet of blue as if a painter used a wet roller and took one sweep across the top of his canvas with sky blue paint. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun was still rising behind the mountain and forest behind me which casted a shadow upon the water about 3 quarters across the river. I stood in the shade and had yet to feel the sun warmth. The river though, where the sun rays reached the water, sparkled the small waves like white beach sand blowing across the beach in direct sunlight on the ocean front. Somewhere crows were calling out, as they usually do in the morning, making their presence known. Other than that it was a peaceful easy morning. 

 I waded out knee deep, of my hip waders, and started casting out a long tailed brown Woolly Bugger. I maybe spent about 15 minutes without a take as I slowly waded down river step by step searching for a hungry fish. I tried a popper hoping to raise a curious fish with surface commotion but that didn’t work either.

  The sun was rising above the tree line behind me and slowly uncovering the blanket of shadowed water as if pulling a dark quilt down slowly, on a bed, exposing the white satin sheet underneath. I was hoping the warm sunshine was going to get the fish hungry for breakfast soon because I wasn’t too thrilled how things were going thus far.

 I made a long straight cast across river and watched the weighted bugger plop into the surface. I made a mend upriver so the bugger had time to drop deeper before taking its course down stream with the current. I was watching the arc of the fly line on the surface, as the bugger drifted down river, when it kind of slowed and I felt a nudge bump as if the hook caught a snag below. I pulled up the rod enough to straighten the line and gave a nudge to maybe unhook the snag. To my surprise I thought the snag nudged back and with the rod high enough it was arced without pulling anything in my direction. All of a sudden I felt the rod wiggle and saw the tight fly line sway back and forth cutting the water surface. I yanked back to set the hook deeper and the object on the other end yanked back in disgust. He pulled some line out but not as if he was in a hurry to start a fierce battle with me. I had a feeling I had a heavy fish but he didn’t fight like one as I slowly but cautiously started to reel him towards me. He followed reluctantly, giving a sharp nudge now and then, but nothing too furious. When I got him within two 9’ rod lengths from me, he must have saw me, and that pissed him off! He turned and took off like a kid being spooked in a dark alley by what he thought was a noisy ghost. Line pulled off the spool and spun like a winch attached to a falling tree. I put the 9 footer butt in my gut and held the rod steady as line shot through the eyes. (And I thought I had a lazy fish from the start!) After he swam downriver and out a ways I turned the drag knob a couple of clicks putting more tension on the long line and arcing rod which I felt was bending into the butt section. He slowed down some but his weight was enough that I wasn’t gaining any ground between him and I.

 He fought in the distance with heavy tugs for awhile swimming about at will as if he owned the stage. I kept the rod up, well at least my tight grip on the cork handle, as the rest of the rod was arced towards the fish. During the fight I really wasn’t sure if I had a smallmouth or a big brown trout being it stayed below during the whole battle.

 I swung the rod upstream and he swam in that direction with a tug or two keeping his distance. Slowly I was able to reel some line in closing the distance. Upriver he turned and swam down river within my sight just below the surface. That’s when I was able to see his bronze sides and size as it brightened under the sunshine. The smallmouth continued down river, keeping his distance, and I let him take a little line out that I had reeled in previously. He tugged his way down river and I turned the drag knob a little more putting more tension between us. He turned towards me as the arcing rod and drag tension was too much to fight any more. Closer to me I brought the rod up as he shook the line, splashing, with his head half above the water surface. I reached down and finally got a thumb in his mouth and pinched his lip.

WOW!  The biggest smallmouth I had caught thus far this camping trip. His scaly bronze colored sides kind of glowed as if a spotlight was directed towards him in a museum showcase. There was no doubt he’s been eating well as his belly was well rounded. After the picture I unhooked the brown bugger hanging from his lip and released him back into the river. I thought maybe he would dash away but he just swatted his tail easily and swam away in no haste as if he was glad to have some excitement in his boring life as if he was the successful one.

 

 No doubt that deserved a rewarding cigar!

 

 I continued to fish till a little after 11. I caught three more smallmouth on the bugger. A smaller one, an average size and a bigger one. The biggest of the three put up a good battle.

 

  I figure there is no use making this short story any longer. The star of the show made his appearance, thrilled us with his performance and bowed out gracefully!

~doubletaper

 

 

Hardy Quest

 

The Hardy Quest

6/06/24

 

  It was the 6^th of June, another warm day camping along the Clarion River. I’ve been fishing the river almost everyday since I set up my camper. Casting out to smallmouth and trout with a 6 weight fly rod. I was wanting to relax and try to find some trout in one of the many mountain streams that flow into the river. I kind of knew where some trout might be congregated under a canopy of trees, in cooler water, out of the sunlight. After breakfast I drove down river and up the dirt road to start my quest for trout.

  I took out and assembled my 7’ 3 weight Hardy Demon fly rod. To this I attached my Quest fly reel to the uplocking reel seat. After threading the three weight Cortland DT fly line through the rod eyes I walked down to the creek and crossed over to the far bank. Walking up the bank, keeping my distance from the water, I looked into the water searching for fish. I spotted a few only by noticing their tails slowly waving in the slow current. Once under a canopy of trees I pulled out line and began my quest to make them rise.

  I like using the 7’ Hardy rod for a couple of reasons on small streams. First off it is like a medium fast action rod. I can wrist cast it without coming to a full overhead draw and avoid the leafy tree branches behind and above me. I can shoot a dry fly out without much effort. I guess it’s like the difference between a cross bow and a long bow. Once loaded you just pull the trigger of a cross bow as with a long bow you need elbow room to pull the string back. Since the distance I’m casting isn’t very far the 7 foot, quick action rod, is plenty on length to do the job. After casting the 6 weights on the river the past few days, the light 3 weight feels like balsa wood compared to a lengthy piece of hickory.

 There were a couple of rises already, on occasion, coming up. I couldn’t see any bugs on or flying around but there evidently was something on the surface, or just below it, the fish were eating. I knotted on a #18 caddis and tossed it upstream in a narrow run of about shin deep water that flowed down into the wider section of the creek. A fish surprised me and rose immediately to my caddis. I missed him of course but will be determined to get him if he gives me another chance.

  Out in front of me the creek was wider and somewhat deeper. I’m able to see bottom ½ the creek width and see a few trout scattered about. I start to cast outward letting the caddis float on the surface riffles. Another trout comes up for my caddis as if it hasn’t had a meal all morning. He splashes the surface water and a scuffle begins. The 3 weight flexes and follows the trout as it scampers about tugging line. I bring him towards me and he fits nicely in the net. A nice size rainbow that looks as if he’s been around for quite some time being his dark color and pale green sandstone belly. ‘One down’ I say to myself.

 

 Letting the water settle in front of me from the sudden activity of fighting the trout, I turn my attention up in the riffling run. My second cast drops the caddis on the far side of the run and I see a fish turn on my quick floating caddis. It happens so fast I pull back line as quick as he grabs the caddis. The line tightens and the fish swims up creek and then swiftly swims across creek. I hold the rod firmly and let a little line out between my tension fingers. He swings in an arc and plays with me across in front of me. I raise the rod and carefully bring him to the net. This time a nice brown trout fits in the net nicely. 

 

  There’s a rise down in the slower water out from me. I cast across creek, with slack line upstream from my offering, and watch it drift down. A fish swirls at it but I’m hesitant on trying to hook the trout. He doesn’t take it and lets it drift by. Maybe because of all the commotion I’ve caused with the first two trout the others are more cautious. A couple more drifts and one more trout rises and checks my offering out like a small dog sniffing a scrap of decayed food to determine if its edible or not. He evidently doesn’t like the looks or smell and refuses.

  I shoot a long cast out ¾ across creek into darker waters. I can’t see below the surface. The caddis doesn’t sit on the surface long before a trout rises and gulps the caddis off the surface. I rear back the rod and line and the trout pulls back and starts the melee. He scurries about as in confusion which direction he wants to continue the skirmish. I hold on to the rod as I feel the tip section flexing with his actions. He swims, tugging, all around the area as if we are in a sword fighting duel. He tires and I reel him towards me to the net. Another nice rainbow flops in the net.

 

  Under the tree cover fish have been rising on occasion to my right. I slowly move along the bank within reach of the rises. I make an over the left shoulder cast with my right hand. The caddis falls short of my target and because of the slow moving current sits in shallow water. I recasts, pulling line out, and drop the caddis under shade of the leafy tree limbs. I see a fish rise just below the surface checking my offering out as if it was a replica or the real thing. He refuses and swims below uninterested. I cast a few more time without any any takers.

  I decide to knot on a beetle pattern. The beetle falls to the surface like a beetle falling from the leaves above. It creates a small splash and dimple on the water. A trout rises, almost hesitates with a quick look see. He likes what he sees and sips my beetle. I pull back the rod and the line tightens. The trout angers and starts to tug and head shake the line. My hand around the cork handle can feel every throbbing pressure from the angry trout. He swims down creek as the surface water is disrupted along his way. We have a little battle and he tires. A rainbow comes to the net safely.

 

  I still don’t see any bug activity on the surface but the trout seem to be hungry enough, though wary now, of any food that comes along the way. There’s small slurps and dimpling on the surface with an occasional hearty splash as if a trout is after an emerger before it reaches the surface. I cast out the beetle but get no results and not even seeing a trout rise to it. I switch back to the caddis and cast to the trout I’m able to see out in the knee deep water and riffles. I hear a splash down from me and turn to see an opening swirl just out from the bank. I make a short cast down towards the swirl and let line out as my caddis drifts drag free just out from the bank. A fish rises and sips it as if he knew it wasn’t going to fly away. I yank the rod up and over my left shoulder and you would of thought this trout was never caught before. After a quick tug, as if he wasn’t sure what the caddis was attached to, he takes off down and out into deeper water. The rod bows and line slips through the guides and eyes of the 3 weight. He heads for the opposite bank and I hold the cork firmly as I keep line tension between my fingers. He swims I haste below and I keep the line up avoiding the small boulders below the surface I can see. He tugs as I guide him towards me battling the whole time against my will. Nearer to me I can see he is a feisty brown trout not wanting to be captured and swims about frantically in font of me. I’m able to corral him in my net.

 

 My caddis looks as if it was about to come unhinged if the struggle lasted any longer.

 So that’s the way it went. I cast out into the shady waters under the canopy of trees. Here and there I pick off a trout with the caddis and at times with a small blue quill pattern. I enjoy a cigar and the quietness of the mountain steam.

 As the noon sun rises the temperature and humidity increases also. I watch as trout start to move up, out of the sunny water down creek, into the shaded area around in front of me. I continue to cast out different shades of caddis. I watch as trout rise to inspect my offering and I get many refusals. Every once in a while one will accept my imitation and put up a good fight to my net.

 

 Very few rise. Across creek I’m able to pick off a couple more that are unaware of my presence. It is evident some had been hooked before, by the wounds in their mouths, and fight like they were angry they got fooled again.

 

  Things really slowed down going on 2:00. It was if it was siesta time and the trout weren’t wanting to play anymore. I walked down creek along the bank to where I could cross without disturbing any trout. I called it a day under the hot sunshine and returned to camp feeling successful in my Hardy Quest for finding hungry trout.

~doubletaper

 

 

 

 

Colors Along the Clarion River

 

Colors Along the Clarion River

6/26/24

  It was a beautiful morning along the Clarion River in the ANF. It was a cool morning and I was ready for some smallmouth fishing kayaking the river. The river has been receding the past few days being there has been a dry spell with no rain. Taking the kayak down the sections I’ve been fishing, or even float tubing, I knew I’d be scraping bottom in the kayak and tube and maybe losing a flipper. I decided to head upriver to the deeper flat section and try to make some smallmouth rise to poppers.

  At the launch area I loaded up the kayak and drug it to the water. As I said it was a beautiful day.

  Off white clouds slowly roamed under the blue sky above. Green leaf trees as well as olive fir branches lines the river as far as the eye could see. Gray hues of rocks and boulders protruded up out of the water like discarded hay bails on an open field. The water looks brownish but maybe because of the sun rays bringing out the brown riverbed below. Kind of like looking down into a glass of water with rust stains on the bottom of the glass. The surface water reflects all figures above the surface as if looking in a mirror. Looking through the forest, black, gray and brown barked trunks stand tall branching out their limbs and branches holding their green leaves steadily in any sweeping breeze. Along the river banks brown dirt lay about with any downed logs or branches that happen to get washed ashore. Among the brush that also line the river banks are purple and white wild flowers that sprout up in any given area.

I paddle upriver, against the slow moving current, as far as I want and will fish back down to the launch. I scout the depth and banks as I paddle along picking out where the smallmouth might be located. I find, as I paddle upriver, the water isn’t as deep as I thought. It’s deep enough not to show riffles in the shallowest places therefore I won’t have to worry about scraping bottom of the kayak.

I row to shore and take off my sleeveless shirt under my light fishing button down as the warmth is increasing as the sun rises. I take a cool sip of water and I’m ready to do some fishing.

 

  At first I let the kayak float freely, with the very slow surface current, as I cast a popper towards the banks. I strip the popper towards me in intervals causing commotion upon the surface. A smallmouth rises to my offering and takes it under. I wait a second and yank the rod back. The line tightens and I have a smallmouth fighting below the surface. My first hook up gets to the kayak safely.

 

 Well, that deserves my first lite up at a quarter to 10 in the morning.

 

  As I continue to cast about on occasion I drop the anchor and spend more time in areas I think the smallmouth might be. Whether it's near the banks or out in the open, deeper water. The smallmouth don’t appear to be picky about my home made poppers rather than a glamorous store bought or time consuming, spray painted to perfection, home creation. I think if the commotion on top, is as if something is swimming or dying on the surface, and the body size and color is to their liking they’ll hit it. Of course they have to be hungry or maybe annoyed by the presence of an intruder.

  A smallmouth leaps through the surface engulfing my popper. He reenters with a splash and I consciously wait a second or two and yank the rod back for a hook set. The line tightens once more and this one has a little more fight and will power. 

 

  The noon day sun is high above. It’s rays are like laser beams piercing down from the sky. I can feel the heat upon my bare arms. My wide brim straw hat keeps the rays from directly shining upon my face but I can still feel the warmth from the reflection off the water. The heat doesn’t appear to bother the thin blueish bodied dragon flies as many are fluttering around. 

 I turn and make an overhand long cast out into the open water as I slowly float with the current. The popper smacks down upon the surface with an obvious splashing that should be heard below. Rings form around it upon the surface as I start to strip it in in intervals. Bubbles follow its path as the cupped foam popper splashes towards me. I let it settle upon the surface every three strips or so. All of a sudden a smallmouth explodes through the surface water, mouth open, engulfing my popper. He submerges with a big cannonball splash taking my popper with him. I wait and yank back harshly on the 6 weight as if wanting to rip the smallies lips right off its face. The rod bows deep and the line tightens pointing straight through the surface and into the river water below. The fish tugs heavily and pulls line out the reel and through the guides. With one hand I hold the arcing rod steady as I drop the anchor. The smallmouth explodes up out of the water again trying to dislodge the popper as I see it dangling from its jaw. He shakes his body fiercely in mid air and drops back into the river water. He takes off down river in haste. My forearms are tense, my grip on the cork handle is tight as I put the butt of the rod into my chest keeping it stable. The fish makes an arc downstream and I’m able to reel in some line. He battles below with tugs but his weight and how he uses the current to his advantage I’m not able to pull him towards me just yet. We battle as if I’m holding a rope lassoed around a wild mustang not wanting any part of being restricted of its freedom. In time the fish slowly, relentlessly, swims towards me as I apply more pressure. I get him closer to the kayak as the tapered leader swings and moves erratically through the surface water as the smallmouth tries to escape unwillingly to give up. I reach for my net as I hold the bending rod with my right hand pinching the fly line tightly against the cork. I dip the net into the water and guide the smallmouth towards it. Close enough, I scoop him up and he falls deep inside the net basket flopping around with my popper still dangling from its jaw.

I say to myself, “that’s what I’m looking for!”

 

  After a proof photo I undo the hook and release him back into the river.

  I cast out a few times and then bring up the anchor. As I slowly float towards my exit point I continue casting out wanting one more battle before I depart. I cast out towards the banks and finally a fish rises to my popper. He grabs the popper as if in an ambush but not knowing the danger that unfolds. I yank the rod back once more and the line tightens again. The angry smallmouth leaps into the air, jerking the line violently before reentering the river. He swims a short distance and again rises, half body through the surface water, shaking the popper trying to release it. Water splashes noisily with his attempts before submerging. I give him little line and then cautiously steer him towards the kayak. Another bronzeback gets his picture taken.

It’s been a good day on the river. Peaceful, colorful and full of life and action. 

 ~doubletaper