Ah Grasshopper…

     In the middle of August the grasshoppers appear, droves of them. When I mow the lawn a wave of the critters flees ahead of me. Some appear as large as humming birds. Even our bird dogs sit and watch the hoppers fly about.

     During a late afternoon break I trekked down to my favorite brook below the house. A couple of hundred yards downstream a field is on the opposite side. Over this bend in the water grasshoppers flit about and occasionally land in the water. It was pretty obvious which fly to tie on, but all my hopper patterns were back at the house.

     The closest imitation in my boxes was a big alder fly I’d tied a couple of weeks before. The body was dubbed a light gray on a number ten hook and the wing was just deer hair tied sort of muddler style. The colors on the real insect went from gray to yellow on the abdomen, but this one would have to do. Bigger would have been better.

     The fly landed with a splat, much like a real hopper falling into the stream. It didn’t drift a foot when it was inhaled. During the next hour I caught and released over three dozen trout all on the same fly.

      A few days later I went back with an imitation tied with a yellow body and the same seen repeated. A week after that I couldn’t catch a trout on any fly I floated.

     That’s fishing, isn’t it?

Tying Flies

Red Tag Coachman.

     There are few things you can do indoors that tie you as closely to the outdoors as tying flies. You can be tying flies to imitate the insects that hatched last week or the ones that are prophesied for next week, it doesn’t matter. Fly tying can get you through the cold of winter or a rainy stretch any time of the year. The flies can be for trout, the bonefish down on that flat down in the Florida Keys, or striped bass up in the rip outside of Boston Harbor.

     Right now it is August. Most of the time it is on the warm side for trout fishing. The hot sticky temperatures take the fun out of it and catching to release in heated streams stresses the trout. Small back country creeks, where the water is still cold, provide about the only real trout fishing around. The big river is fickle, depending on the weather.

     Outside it is pouring. A front is moving through to wipe away the hot sticky weather of the last few days. If we get two or three chilly nights in a row and the river will fish well.

     So it’s a prefect night to tie up some hopper patterns. A few of the live ones are huge, almost as big as a grown man’s pinky finger. We’ll hope for a cool stretch and then flop some of those enormous flies in the water. Maybe a few of those giant old brown trout will wake up hungry.

Tomah Jo

     Last winter an urge to tie the old classic wet flies hit me. There’s a whole box full in my vest now. Sometimes I fish them and they seem to catch as many fish as anything else I toss. I love history and those flies are history

     For much of February I tied Clouser minnows, dozens of them. No, dozens of dozens of them. I haven’t fished them much and I’ve given away many. Then I finished out the winter tying my favorite dry fly patterns. You can’t have too many, not the way I catch tree limbs.

     Down in the basement is a Wheatley fly box full of salmon flies, just in case someone invites me along. They are all nearly thirty years old and never have been wet. I can dream, can’t I? There’s boxes of saltwater flies too. Some of those have been fished. Did I ever tell you about the day where I caught six striped bass over thirty inches long? I'm allowed to dream about doing it again, aren't I?

     Maybe that is what tying flies is all about. Dreaming. I think both hunters and fisherman spend a lot of time dreaming.

Dreams.

Mayflies

     The month of June is ruled by mayflies. Sure, there are stoneflies and caddis flies, and on the last trip down to the stream a half dozen damsel flies were holding a congregation. But hatching mayflies get the attention of the fly casters.

     This past week a maddening array of varieties flittered over the water. March Browns were still present with Quill Gordons also in flight. A monstrous Green Drake landed on my hand, it looked to be well over two inches long.

     Little trout rise with abandon. Wiser trout are larger and less likely to take an artificial.

     So we swap flies and swap them some more. Bigger, darker, spentwing or dun? There are so many choices.

     Just like in bird hunting, if it were easy we would get bored.

Gravel Roads

      The dogs sit up, every time, slipping from silent slumber to restless wonder faster than I can straighten out the wheels.

      Under the truck’s tires gravel grumbles and the pace slows. We weave to miss washed out holes in the road and the air smells different. There’s nobody else around and moose tracks travel the same direction we do.

      The dogs absolutely know this road leads to another adventure.

      Up where we live not all town roads are tarred and logging roads are only maintained while logging is active. The dogs know dirt roads lead to out of the way places and that is where fun always awaits. In the summer it might mean trout fishing or just plain hiking, but come fall it means bird hunting, which is their greatest of all joys.

      It could be a mile in the woods or fifteen miles into a wilderness valley they have never visited before. Either way they will be intensely alert until the truck stops.

Around the net corner there may wait...

      Complacent driving often leads to speeds a little too fast. The tires roll sideways on gravel, as if coasting over ball bearings, sort of floating the truck through a turn. Meeting a pickup truck or moose in a corner snaps me back to the present. The youngest dog sometimes steps from the back up onto the center console and I always scold her.

       Like sentries on the back seat, they stare ahead. If the backseat windows are opened halfway, they’ll stick their heads out. Wouldn’t it be grand if they could tell us all the things they smell? Moose, deer, bear?

     Today it is about trout fishing and we turn down a bumpy cart path to park next to a stream that shall  remain nameless. The dogs will sit on the bank and watch with intensity as the fly floats downstream, just as I do. Maybe it isn’t bird hunting, but they still know it is a hunt.

Maggie watching a large mayfly on a leaf.

An Expedition

What Makes an Expedition?

Merriam-Webster defines an expedition as a journey or excursion undertaken for a specific purpose. That definition covers a lot of territory. It could mean traveling to the North Pole to see what is there. Or flying to the moon. Or it could mean a hike into the forest, searching for a wilderness trout stream to see if brook trout swim in its water or if woodcock live among the alders on its banks.

Looking for a remote stream sounds better than the cold of the arctic and much safer than flying to the moon.

There’s a locally well-known stream that has no easy access and long has been an interest of mine. The logging road that parallels part of it is gated and the headwaters are more than a dozen miles from that gate. Hours have been spent pouring over maps and aerial pictures trying to find a reasonable way in.

Finally the pieces fell together. An accessible logging road leads to a grown in logging road that shows up in aerial photos. It should only be a few miles down a long grade to find the stream. What would it be like? The expedition was planned…lunch, fly rods, camera….

The hike in was uneventful. Icy cold water flowed over a gravelly bottom, in spite of the hot August weather. Alders covered the entire wide bottom of the valley until the land started to rise into hardwoods on the hills. The remote place felt like we were the only people on Earth.

And I am not going to tell you more than that.

Gunning for Trout

   

    Grouse season is months away. The new pup’s attention span is measured in minutes that can be counted one’s fingers, so training seasons take up little time. Heavy foliage takes much of the fun out of scouting for new grouse cover. What to do?

    The stream calls as it winds through the valley below Camp Grouse. Sometimes it’s a whisper, others it’s a roar, but most often the sound is a constant chortle that never ends. Alders line much of its banks, in other places tall softwoods blot out the sky. Where it winds through old pastures there are glimpses of farm country turning back to forest. Yes, it is grouse country.

    The water tugs at ankles protected by Lacrosse boots. Pesky deerflies dart in around the edges of a tired hat. Mosquitoes whine while downstream a kingfisher rattles a raspy tune. The stream sings softly as it riffles to the west.

    A trout dimples the surface for a third time.

    Dobson flies bounce across the surface. A large stonefly struggles to break free of the water’s grasp, finally swimming amazingly well to the bank where it climbs a blade of grass to freedom. Pale green caddis struggle to stay aloft then kiss the water to lay their eggs.

    The trout makes a splash.

    He is inches ahead of a washed in log whose stubbed branches provide shelter. Alders lean low directly over it from the left bank. Closer, head-high alders reach of from the right. The bony stream bottom is impossible to walk quietly on, so waiting and plotting are in order.

    The kingfisher flies downstream, protesting all the way.

    A cast cocked to the right weaves between the reaching branches, straightens out, and gently sets the caddis imitation three feet upstream from the log. It drifts back atop the inky current.

    Anticipation.

    The surface dimples and reflexes snap the rod aft. The trout dives free of the hook. It’s same rush as walking in on a pointing dog when wary old grouse flushes wild. Usually that is no fault of the dog or the gunner, but this might have been a slow set. But it’s just nice to know the quarry was there.

Camp Grouse

    Camp Grouse is a dream perched on a knoll. Around this knoll the land rises, creating a nearly empty valley, where a stream constantly serenades and a breeze funnels regularly between the hills. Clouds of warblers swarm the trees in June and dragon flies patrol the yard on August evenings. Grouse drum in the woods come March and the forest becomes a riot of color come September. During the winter months there is a pristine silence, as the snowy world sleeps before repeating the cycles.

Dreams of spring.

    About the time the snow disappears and the streams swell, dreams turn to trout fishing. The mighty river, a mile or so away, holds larger trout, but the small stream down the hill from Camp Grouse is full of native brook trout. Every spring the brook is different, with the snow’s runoff carving a new course and recently fallen trees always crisscrossing the stream. The new logjams and undercut stream banks will create deep dark holes where the brook trout will hide. Hopefully, a few will be coaxed out to fry in bacon fat for breakfast.

Dreams at the vice.

    Upstairs at Camp Grouse, inside the big pine desk, is everything imaginable to tie trout flies. Books on patterns and trout sit atop that desk, and the hours slide away there, tying and dreaming. It really is as much fun as fishing.

    Hiking books and maps, stored in the bookcase by the stairs, help plan our short expeditions. When the weather is nice during the summer months, our daily hikes keep both the dogs and us in shape, and so far we haven’t run out of new places to explore.

    In stormy weather, or even with the morning coffee while waiting for the sun to climb higher, there is usually a jigsaw puzzle in the works on a card table beside the sliding glass doors. Bookshelves are filled with hunting and fishing lore, along with favorite novels and books on New England history. Upstairs a guitar waits to be picked. A rainy day certainly isn’t a hardship.

Friends helping.

    As September winds down clay targets are launched from the deck to be turned to dust as they sail out over the alders at the bottom of the knoll. Come the first of October the dogs will lead us into the vibrant fall foliage, their bells ringing and enthusiasm never wavering.

    And when the leaves drop and the bird hunting is at its best, friends shuffle through Camp Grouse, and all of us hunt until our legs hurt. There are so many coverts that we never get to them all. Memories are made and stories are told while tired dogs sleep in front of the heater.

Dogs warming.

    And all too soon winter blankets the land again as the world readies itself for spring again.

A place to dream. 

Trout Fishing

My desk.

I’m a lousy trout fisherman. By that, I mean everybody usually catches more fish than me. But I love it. I love the rhythms of fly casting and the history of the sport. It is a great way to pass the time between bird seasons.

My bookshelves are lined with volumes of fishing literature, and I’ve read every one, some many times. I can spend hours at my fly tying desk and enjoy every minute of it. A few years ago I built myself a fly tying desk, with stacked shallow cedar-lined drawers, which are now filled with every imaginable fly tying material.

More than a few of my flies are tied with feathers from ruffed grouse or woodcock. The colors look buggy to me, and apparently to a few of the fish too. Soft hackle wets can be tied from grouse hackles, and woodcock feathers make great wing cases on nymphs.

The old traditional wet flies, like Parmachene Belle, Tomah Jo, Coachman, Montreal, and White Miller, are all favorites of mine and I fish them all. Sometimes brookies are still fooled by the bright colors, but they seem to have gotten smarter in the bigger streams.

Where's the trout?

More than a few rainbows have been fooled by those Tomah Jos, but the wood duck flank feathers needed are hard to come by. Just looking at those beautiful feathers is half the fun of those flies. Did I mention that I have tied hundreds of Atlantic salmon flies and stored them in a large Wheatley box? And I’ve never been salmon fishing. I just like pretty flies.

Sylvester Nemes’s soft hackle wets catch more fish for me than most wets or nymphs, and some of the patterns even call for partridge, like the Partridge and Green. That makes my heart smile.

My fly boxes are filled with traditional streamers, from Black Ghost to Grey Ghost, and Edson Tigers to Warden’s Worry, almost all the patterns originating in my New England. The only thing I’ve ever caught on a Muddler Minnow is the back of my head. Actually, the Black Ghost is about the only streamer that I have much faith in. And it had better be tied on a number ten or smaller.

Adams, Wulffs, Royal Coachman, and a down-wing fly I call the Red Tag Coachman are the dry flies in my vest. In a box that stays in my fishing duffle, are hundreds of dries that I tied over the years, tied just as Art Flick would have taught, and they sure are pretty to look at. Once in a great while I dig through them, but usually, if the fish are rising, it’s those simple flies in my vest that I use. And most of the time they work well enough to keep me fishing.

I’m stuck in the old ways I guess, which may explain why others catch more than me. But fun in fishing isn’t measured in numbers of fish caught.

The thing I love most about trout fishing is the country. I’d rather fish a hidden stream, way back in the woods, than a crowded popular river any day, even if that secret stream rarely produces a fish while the popular one is loaded with trout.

Spring grouse.

And so often on the hike in, I’ll scare up a grouse, which of course both startles and delights me. Or sometimes a woodcock will flutter ahead, paralleling the stream bank before disappearing into the forest, giving me another place to return to hunt in the fall.

Maybe trout fishing for me is just prospecting for grouse and woodcock.