Rain

 Few things are as soothing as the sound of rain. Without rain the world would be nothing but a ball of dust. And why is it that the dogs sleep so soundly every night when rain falls on the roof, even when they’ve been wound up all day?  And so do I.
     The rain has been falling for hours now. It is time to tie flies and dream of streams filled with trout.
     Woolybuggers. Maybe it’s because I’m not much of a nymph fisherman that I use woolybuggers so much. They don’t look like any particular life form, so there is no wrong way to fish them. A fish might mistake one for a leech or a small fish or a stonefly or a dragonfly. A few weeks ago a trout came to hand with a hellgrammite in its mouth almost the same size as the number twelve woolybugger beside it.
     My woolybuggers don’t have much flash, not like the ones I see in fly shops. Drab green body of shaggy wool is my favorite, with black marabou tail and wrapped with black hackle. Fine black wire keeps everything tidy. Wet the fly is a very dark fly. I tie other colors too, some with bead heads and some without, but green catches the most fish for me.
     If it doesn't stop raining soon the pile of woolybuggers will be a foot high.

The Hole

      The water shoots from a tangle of fallen softwood trees that fell into the stream, rattling down a riffle into a sharp left-hand bend, where the water has carved a hollow out against the streambank. From there the water eases through a long deep pool guarded by fallen tree trunks. It possibly is the longest pool on the entire stream. Tall spruce and fir trees shade the riffle and pool.
      There had to be a big trout in there. Only a few pools in the stream are deep enough to hide the bottom and this was one. But fallen trees and sagging limbs shielded the fish.
      Stealth! It cannot be overstressed when fishing small streams. A stony outwash created space to work from, but the stones underfoot were noisy. Crouched low, to remain unseen, line was stripped from the reel.
      The flow of the riffle carried the leader and fly into the shadows. Overhanging softwood trees blotted out the sunlight. Patience. The bead-head woolybugger danced unseen in the current. Mending the line would let the fly sink, tightening would raise it up. Moving the rod tip out over the stream swam the left and right.
      It felt like an automobile snagged my fly.

The Stream

 

 

   

  

     During the summer months a fly rod always leans the corner of our screened porch, rigged and ready to go. It is a three-weight rod and the fly on the end of the four X tipper is usually a green woolybugger, if not a woolybugger then a red tag coachman.
     A week ago I caught a seven inch trout with an inch long hellgrammite in its mouth beside my #12 woolybugger. That is described as gluttony, I think. Dry flies are always fun, but the fish are usually smaller.
     Now there is a beaver pond just upstream from our property. What fun. It must have been built this past winter. The dam is nearly four feet tall and thirty feet wide. I will be back.
     Today the wind funneled right up the valley, making accurate casting impossible, but fish were still caught. Walking back towards the trail that leads to home, the wind rocked the trees on the hellishly steep hill to the south.
     The path along the stream has grown in and needs some trimming. During the past winter dozens of softwood trees blew down, some across the stream and others landed in the old path. That kind of work, cutting up trees and moving logs, is fun when accompanied with our dogs, almost as much fun as fishing.
     A woodcock flew across in front of me as I walked the trail to home.

 

Red Tag Coachman

Hook: Dry fly, #16 to 10

Tag: Red wool

Body: Peacock Herl

Wing: White calf tail, tied down-wing caddis style

Hackle: Brown

Thread: Black

 

Think of it as a down-wing attractor pattern. It can also be tied and fished as a wet fly

An Adventure

 

     It doesn’t take a lot to make an adventure. How about a spot on a map and time to go find it? That’s what we had. 
     The spot was a stream that drains a mammoth softwood bog before joining another

stream to flow together into a lake. In satellite images of the upper reaches there appeared to be white water or rapids where the stream tumbled from the large swamp. And a complete lack of easy access made the goal so much sweeter. The quarry was wild brook trout.
     Early morning rising means wet foliage, so with pants soon-to-be soaked we headed off, trekking generally northeast. After only a short distance we heard the stream off to our left.
     It wasn’t easy following the stream. Over the eons it had carved what was more or less a canyon or gulley. Approaching the banks, it was often ten or fifteen feet below us, so following the stream bank closely was

Maggie was guiding the way.

impossible. The land parallel with the stream contained small plateaus divided up by rocky ridges and narrow valleys created by feeder streams, all in the shade of softwood trees. For a while an ancient logging road made easier walking, but then it disappeared in a ravine. Occasionally there were small openings in the forest, where tall green grass covered the ground. Walking through those really soaked one’s pants. We preferred the silence of soft ground under the spruce and fir trees.
     Eventually the land started to flatten so we followed along the stream’s edge, trying to find a place that looked “fishable”. The water was almost as dark as coffee, stained with tannin leached from the softwood bog upstream. In places the water squeezed between rocks or rattled down riffles. As the land leveled out it started to slow and meander. Soon after a hard zigzag in its course we found a pool half the size of a tennis court. Along the right-hand side three rocks protruded from shore, creating an easy place to cast a fly from. Beneath the glassy center of the pool the water looked dark and deep.
     A bulging dimple in the surface grew into an expanding ring…trout were there.