Posts from the ‘Fish’ Category
Here is Day Number Nine…
They were all of insignificant size, but it didn’t really matter. Nothing more than a few hours of bliss, reeling in acrobatic cutthroat trout, enjoying those peculiar sounds where riffles and current combed over shallow uneven cobblestone beds. Choice of fly was none other than that of an Adams. Pure surface action, with every ounce of me engaged. Irritations melted away, drifted away, like those white pudgy columns patrolling the skies overhead. Each throw of line put the Adams on a different voyage, riding high on surface while moving shadows beneath kept a curious eye. Everything in their world, passing morsel or otherwise seemed always under strict surveillance. And then there was the familiar break, where surface split, and the Adams going bye-bye.
It’s depressing, hearing that Beau’s been lacking the ability for even the simplest of rise from trout in the Salem Ditch. It’s like he’s going soft, showing his son that it’s okay, totally acceptable to allow some hungry cutthroat trout not even five feet in front of him to get the very best of him. Way to roll, man. Do you need some soft hackles? Perhaps red tags? Maybe run home and let the cat out?
Why the long face?
Amanda and I had no problem on the Ditch. Sure, we dodged a few overbearing patches of gray, but we never had an issue with overbearing cutthroat or lingering rainbows.
I’m in the process of creating a Facebook fan page. I’m taking a break from that to upload a few photos from Saturday. Dad and I were looking for salmon and steelhead up and throughout the canyon, where November skies brushed the foothills with a white powder. We never found any steelhead, but we did find chinook, just not in the form we had visioned.
Dad and I were up on Link Creek. Now, at first glance you had these massive schools of undersized, and I’m talking completely unprivileged kokanee, ranging anywhere from six inches to about a foot in length, and they were spawning. Six inches! What a waste of a life. But then the hatchery gene doesn’t travel far, thus the progression of barely legal brain dead fish, spawning and passing on the weakening link.
Then you had the browns. Big browns. Suttle Lake browns. Brown trout feeding on the spawning kokanee, which collected in massive schools along the banks where soft shallow current granted rest, revealing their eel like presence, waving like a thousand ribbons in unison.
But the browns weren’t only foraging on the small fragile kokanee, they were also making babies of their own. I hope they forgive me for sneaking in a few photos. I promise they’re not R-rated.