I’ve been thinking lately about Jim, one of my boyhood fishing buddies. He and his family lived in our neighborhood, in a brown, shingle-sided house a few hundred yards from our house, up one of the rutted dirt lanes that passed for roads in our neighborhood. As kids, we had an interesting relationship both off and on the water, to say the least.
Jim was a rail-thin and gangly kid with a buzz cut (I had one too in those days and I probably wouldn’t hesitate to get one now if it meant I could have hair again) that only emphasized the prominence of his sizeable ears. I used to tell him that from the neck up, he looked like a fuzzy cookie jar with a frown face and two huge handles (his ears). Usually when I told him this, he’d call me a runt and chase me until I climbed a tree to get away from him. We were ten year olds and this is what ten year olds do, or at least it is what they did back then.
Jim liked his dog, potted meat sandwiches and his 35 inch Louisville Slugger ball bat. It was the longest bat in the neighborhood by a couple inches and he could really swing it. To this day, I’ve never seen a kid in that age range hit a ball as far as Jim could when he connected. He named the bat “Thunder” and whenever he stepped to the plate, he would announce that he and Thunder had arrived and that the rest of us on the field should begin to weep and pray for mercy, for our doom was surely upon us. When we weren’t playing ball, he kept Thunder wrapped in an old sheet and lying on a pillow in his room. There it rested sort of like King Arthur’s sword, only waiting to be summoned forth at the hour of need once more.
Like me, Jim loved to fish. Back then, most of our fishing was done with spinning outfits and lures for largemouth bass. We were lucky to have great bass fishing less than a five minutes walk from either of our doors. A low-gradient warm water creek, the outlet of the local glacial pothole lake, ran along the back edge of our neighborhood and from there snaked its way another four miles south through hickory bottoms, swales and impenetrable stands of cattails to its junction with French Creek. The creek was for the most part our private kingdom, perhaps because the clouds of mosquitoes down there were so thick the stream often looked as if it were wreathed in pale smoke. Not many other people could put up with them. That was OK with Jim and I because we knew that mosquitoes weren’t the only thing the creek had in abundance. Its slow pools, weed beds and log jams were loaded with largemouth bass. It was worth a couple hundred mosquito bites to us to see one of the creek’s bass rush out from the shelter of a sunken log or patch of water lilies to stop our Flatfish or Rapala dead and then unzip the surface of the stream as it vaulted from the water in a head-shaking leap. At these magic moments, every mosquito within a mile could have been trying to hone in on our eardrums and we wouldn’t have known the difference. Neither of us ever got tired of seeing that first angry leap by the bass.
We plied the creek for it's bass, sometimes on our own and sometimes together. We would slog our way far downstream from our houses, just fishing and forgetting about time and the world. We’d compete. “I got three and lost two more”, I’d tell him in as I waved my arm in front of my face like a windshield wiper run amok to keep the insects momentarily at bay. “So what?", he’d fire back. “All yours were dinks. I got a 15 incher..” And so it would go. We were kids and we had a wonderland virtually right at our doorstep. We escaped to it every chance we could.
Jim was a somber boy, not given to a lot of exclamation or expression. Things that would cause me to bust out laughing until my sides hurt would often only bring the ghost of a smile to his face. In retrospect, I tend to think that things at home for him were often not all that good. Family problems, perhaps. So, there was a stoicism and even a bit of a sadness about him. But there was one set of circumstances that never failed to delight him and get him laughing so hard, he had to sit down to catch his breath. All it took was for me to fall on my can in the creek or slip and take a dunking or virtually just about anything that caused me pain, discomfort or distress. Truth be told, I faked falls and various personal mishaps a number of times just to get him to laugh. I’d pretend to trip over a log and go flat on my face and make an “ummmph” noise like it had knocked the wind out of me. He’d roar and laugh so hard his eyes would tear up.
From time to time, Jim would take a more active part in engineering minor disasters for me to experience and him to enjoy. He’d walk in front of me as we hiked our way through the woods along the creek and he’d hang on to the tree branches he was walking through, letting them go just in time for them to thwack me in the ear or throat. I didn’t like it, but I occasionally pulled the same stuff on him now and then. And, as I mentioned, these little episodes seemed to be one of the few things that made him laugh or seem happy. I never got hurt, so I didn’t really mind. And besides, we were young boys. It was uncool to whine or carry on, well, like a girl.
We used to take my Dad’s aluminum cartopper boat and row up the creek a half mile, almost to the lake and then drift and fish our way back down. Jim would always row; he insisted on it. And with good reason. I was small framed and while my legs were pretty powerful from all the wading I did through the muck and swamps along the creek, I didn’t have anywhere near the strength in my arms Jim did. He was skinny, but his arms were sinewy and powerful and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He could cover the half mile in less than 20 minutes.
About half way up the stretch of creek towards the lake, there was a downed tree that fell across the full width of the stream. Eventually, somebody would come along in a boat with a chain saw and take it out. But until then, you had to duck low in the boat and grab the trunk of the tree to push the boat underneath and through to the other side. We didn’t mind doing this. The way we figured, like the clouds of mosquitoes, downed logs across the creek were another form of protection of our kingdom from discovery and exploration by outsiders. One thing would lead to another and eventually, they’d start catching our bass. Our paradise would be exposed and violated. We certainly didn’t want that.
One day, Jim rowed us up to the highway bridge that spanned the creek just downstream from the lake. This was our traditional starting place for these float fishing excursions. It was Jim’s turn to sit in the bow and get first crack at all the new water as we drifted along. I took the middle seat, using the oars to keep the nose of the boat pointed forward between casts. We drifted our way downstream, picking up a few bass here and there until we reached the downed log. Jim ducked and he and the bow passed under. I set my rod down and hunkered low in the boat in preparation of doing likewise. In the meantime, Jim made a cast over to the far bank. Just as I was about to pass through beneath the log, Jim yelled out; “Hey! I’m snagged over there. Grab the log and hold us steady so I can get my lure back, willya?” Make perfect sense to me. Bass lures cost around $1.50 each back then and I made about $6.00 a week on my paper route and most of that money went right in the bank to help pay for college someday. It was serious business when you were in jeopardy of losing a lure. So, I grabbed the log and hung on so Jim could free his snagged plug. But I no sooner grabbed the log than Jim lunged ahead, grabbed the oars and rowed the boat right out from under me. There I hung over the creek with both arms wrapped around the log and my good sneakers completely soaked. Jim held the boat in place for about 30 seconds, roaring in delight while I writhed and screamed at him to bring it back. The water beneath me was only about 30 inches deep and I was in no danger of drowning, but it was the principle of the thing. Finally, he took a couple pulls on the oars and put the boat back underneath me so I could let go of the tree trunk. I resolved right then and there that were would be no more faked pratfalls for his benefit, not if he was going to pull that kind of stuff on me. Additionally, I started making fun of his ears more than I had been lately. But I had to be careful not to take it too far. He was a lot bigger and stronger than I was. But I got him back, even if it was on the installment plan.
As I sit here now thinking and writing about these things that happened 40 or more years ago, it isn’t the tricks that Jim pulled on me that come to mind first. Oh, I remember each and every one, believe me. But what I remember most is Jim’s lean frame silhouetted against the backdrop of the hemlocks that anchored the mud banks of our creek. He’d be bringing his rod ahead in an overhead casting motion, trying to put his Rapala just a couple inches closer to the edge of the bassy-looking weed bed 50 feet down the near bank from where he stood. The lure would land right where he was aiming it (for once..) and he’d turn the handle once to flip the bail over. The Rapala would twitch in the water and a silver green bullet would engulf it. The bass would make one hard run and then try to kiss the sky, his head shaking and gills flaring. “Got him!”, Jim would exclaim. He would fight the bass as its runs and lunges slowly became weaker until it finally allowed itself to be landed. Jim would reach down and grab the bass by the head and hoist it from the water for me to see. “This one’s gotta go at least 16 inches”, he’d crow. Usually, he was about 3 inches long in his estimates, but that’s OK. I did the same thing when I caught one. It was all part of being a boy, blessed as we were with this wonderland and angling classroom all but at our doorstep. That’s what I remember, the wonder and magic of the thing. Our creek, our bass, our kingdom.
The years went by. We graduated from high school together. We drifted apart. I paid for the first semester of college with my paper route money and was off on my academic adventure. Jim went to work in a factory and soon after, his greetings from Uncle Sam arrived and he was drafted. It was early in the first term of the Nixon administration and the war in Vietnam, while slowly winding down, was still hot. Jim was lucky, he managed to stay stateside and spent a good deal of his Army hitch exploring the excellent bass fishing opportunities around Fort Hood in Texas.
Years later, when we were both well into our 30’s, one evening when I had just arrived home from work, the phone in my apartment rang. I picked it up and there was Jim. He told me he had heard of a secluded steamer pond along the rail line that ran between our boyhood hometown and Cambridge Springs, a town about 10 miles down the line. These ponds were fairly common when I was a boy. They were leftover remnants of the days when the trains would stop and fill up their boilers with water to run the steam-powered engines. He said he heard the pond was full of big bass that hardly anybody ever bothered fishing for. Did I want to go with him and check it out?
That decision took all of two seconds for me to make. Tell me about an under fished, new place to explore and I lose all ability to make rational choices. All I want to do is go there right now. I told him I’d meet him at his place in the morning. He said great, we’ll park by the big trestle pool on French Creek and carry his canoe down the tracks to the pond, which couldn’t be more than a half mile from where we parked. Piece of cake..
Well, it was more like a mile and a half on one of the hottest days of the summer. With my hands occupied carrying my end of the canoe, I was at the mercy of the mosquitoes and they were drilling me pretty much everywhere there was exposed flesh. So, I was snorting, swearing, waving my free arm and was generally miserable. Which Jim seemed to enjoy. At least that hadn’t changed.
Finally, we arrived. It was indeed a nice looking pond. Deep with downed timber on one end and a nice weed bed on the, opposite, more shallow end. Lots of good looking bass cover. I was pretty whipped from the long carry. I set the canoe down and stepped onto the big white gravel bed that is a ubiquitous feature of just about every rail line. I took one more step and the gravel went out from under me and I went bouncing 25 feet down the steep grade on my butt all the way to the edge of the pond where I came to rest with my nose in the mud and my feet flapping in the air. Back up on top with the canoe, Jim was howling with glee and holding his sides. Same old Jim… We launched the canoe, caught a few small bass and decided it was a dud. Sometimes, that’s the way it goes. But like every time I go fishing, it was magic. It always is.
I hope Jim’s doing well..
Monday, October 17, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
If I Could Only Carry A Dozen Fly Patterns
Well, I suppose it is time to produce a “If I Could Only Carry One Dozen Fly Patterns For Trout, What would They Be?” list. To be truthful, just the thought of being limited to a dozen fly patterns gives me the willies and makes me feel under gunned. I seldom carry less than three dozen of any given pattern that I have confidence in and I have confidence in several hundred patterns. Which is why if you see me on the stream in my vest, you would assume I was on my way upstream to a picnic for 20 people and carrying all the food and beverages for the event. The small chest packs that are the current rage among fly anglers are not for me. They don’t hold enough flies. I had one once that was of a size that I figured was a good compromise between my need to carry all my flies and the practical upside of not having to lug all that excess weight around. It was big. When I was wearing it, I looked like Myron Floren with his accordion strapped on. And I had it so crammed with fly boxes that I was forced to sit down on the stream bank and really yank on the zippers to get any of the compartments open. So, other than for vacations where I would be doing a limited amount of fishing, I have set the pack aside and returned to wearing my vest which has more pockets than the average Super 8 motel has rooms. My shoulders sag, but at least I don’t feel naked and unprepared.
But now its time to get over it. After all, what is fear of the unknown but something to be squarely confronted and overcome? That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way.. I really don’t know. If something really scares me, I tend to go fishing so I don’t have to think about it.
But I think I can do this, even without drinking or taking a tranquilizer. I know I can. All I have to do is see it as an exercise in “what if”. I mean, I’m never really going to be limited to only carrying a dozen fly patterns, right? Right? Don’t answer that if you’re not going to tell me what I want to hear. Anyway, let’s take a step out in faith and explore this really, really scary idea…
If I could only carry one dozen different fly patterns for trout anywhere at any time, here is what they would be (in no real order of preference or importance):
1) Hare’s Ear Parachute in sizes #12-#18 - This simple combination of the Adams hackle mix with a hare’s ear body and poly or calf tail post has become my most reliable searching dry fly when the fish are mostly attuned to various caddis and smaller mayflies in the brown to gray color range. I’m never with less than 100 or so of them in my boxes
2) Whitlock Fox Squirrel Nymph in sizes #8-#16 – The Whitlock nymph, with or without a bead (I like copper best) is perhaps the most versatile nymph of them all. In larger sizes, it can pass for a stonefly nymph and the smaller ones are a pretty good generic imitation of a caddis larvae or even, once the fly gets ragged enough, a pupa. Its amber abdomen shows up well in moderately off-color water, making it a fine high water fly.
3) #18 Blue Quill with a body of brownish/gray poly or fur - While not precisely imitating either, this fly is close enough to be effective when fishing hatches of the early Baetis or Blue Wing Olive mayflies as well as for what is perhaps the most under appreciated hatch on Eastern waters, the Blue Quill or Paraleptophlebia mayflies of April and early May. There are better individual imitations of both insects, but remember I’m only allowed to carry a dozen patterns in total. This one does a good job of bridging the gap between these two very important hatches.
4) Pheasant Tail Nymph in sizes #12-#22 - My pheasant tail has the traditional abdomen of ringneck tail fibers ribbed with copper wire, but has a thorax of medium hare’s ear fur rather than the peacock herl called for in the original pattern. I tie these in a variety of ways. Some with beads (again, mostly copper), some with Krystal Flash wingcases and some (especially the smaller ones) on curved scud hooks like the Tiemco 2487. Like the Whitlock nymph above, the pheasant tail is a generic, buggy looking fly that is vary reliable for prospecting any piece of water that looks like a good place to try a nymph.
5) Grizzly Wulff in sizes #10-#18 - This yellow-bodied, high-riding dry fly with the upright deer hair wing and the brown/grizzly hackle combination has been a very effective fly for me both on small freestones back home in Pennsylvania and on the Driftless spring creeks of Wisconsin and Iowa. In a pinch, it can serve as a reasonably good sulfur imitation in size #16. And there is something about the yellow body that seems to pull trout to it that might let another fly float on by. But there’s a catch… I don’t think you can use just any yellow for the body, especially not that bright school bus yellow that is so ubiquitous in so many dubbing assortments. You want a yellow that looks a little beat up and dull and is one door down towards tan from bright yellow. The right stuff isn’t always easy to find. I’m lucky to have a several lifetime supply that I obtained when I bought a package of poorly dyed yellow zonker strips. Will I send you some? Maybe.. I might be willing to swap some of it for a new rod or an all expenses paid trip to one of the destinations on my Bucket List.
6) Copper John Nymph With Dark Green Wire Body on 1XL hooks in sizes #14-#18 - Not olive or chartreuse, dark green. No fancy epoxy wingcase either. Just pearl Krystal Flash gooped into place with a drop of acrylic nail polish. And no, I don’t know why it works so well. If I did, I’d be a trout and I just don’t think its worth that happening to me just to find out..
7) OK. You knew it was coming… All Black Wooly Bugger in sizes #6-#12 (3XL hook). While a lot of the old sayings used to convey fly fishing wisdom are just so much nonsense; in this case, the old saw that “there is no wrong way to fish a wooly bugger” is right on the money. Strip retrieve it, dead drift it, walk it past cover on a tight line while holding the rod tip high, swing it through the pocket water and let it rise as the line tightens. They all work reliably and catch fish. The combination of black saddle hackle and pulsing black marabou tail makes the Bugger look truly alive and irresistible to trout.
8) Deer Hair Delta Caddis in sizes #14-#18 – This fly is a hybrid of the simple downwing deerhair caddis and the hackle tip-winged Delta Wing Caddis that first became popular when it appeared in Eric Leiser and Larry Solomon’s groundbreaking 1970’s book, “The Caddis And The Angler”. My Delta Wing Caddis is simply a deerhair caddis with the wing material split into two equal portions and then anchored at a 45 degree angle on either side of the shank with figure 8 wraps. I then tie in a hackle feather just ahead of the base of the wings and proceed to dub the body the rest of the way to the eye. Then I wrap the hackle forward, tie it off, and finish the head and then clip the hackle flush on the bottom so the fly floats low in the water. This is an extremely versatile and effective fly that floats like a cork in broken water, but lays flat and flush on the slower moving surface of the pools. The best colors are a hare’s ear body with brown or cree hackle and a tan body with a dark ginger hackle. A very dark brown to almost black bodied version with a dark dun hackle is also good, especially during the annual Grannom hatches. I’m never without at least 100 of these either…
9) Generic Glop Of Fur Muskrat Nymph in sizes #10-#20 - This fly is exactly what it sounds like, simply a bunch of muskrat fur with the guard hairs left intact dubbed onto a standard length, 1XL or scud hook and sort of tapered from front to rear. Within reason, the sloppier the tie, the better the results. This is one of those flies that becomes more effective as it descends into ratty lookingness (a new word I just invented) from use. Weight them or not. Add a head of black fur or a collar of grizzly hen hackle. Or not.. Doesn’t matter. This is one of the most effective and consistent nymphs around.
10) Lead Wing Coachman Wet Fly in sizes #10-#18 - This is another of the generic fishy-looking flies that tend to make up the majority of what is in my fly boxes. In the larger sizes, this fly is an excellent attractor pattern just about anywhere and in the smaller sizes (#14 and below), it is as good a caddis pupa imitation as any fly specifically designed for that purpose. Deadly in #14-#16 when fished with a swing and lift during the Grannom hatch, but worth trying any time.
11) Partridge and Orange Soft Hackle in sizes #12-#18 – Tied with a thin body of orange thread or floss and a sparse collar of brown partridge on a standard wet fly hook, this is another fly that looks like both nothing and everything a fish might see in the water and be compelled to take. Maybe it imitates a drowned crane fly or maybe a caddis pupa or even a sunken mayfly dun or emerger. Or maybe the fish think it’s a Partridge and Orange Soft Hackle. That could be too.. I don’t know. I do know that it works. Like the Wooly Bugger, there really is no wrong way to fish this fly. Cast it up in the heads of the pools and let it drift back just under the surface and watch for the boil of the fish. Do a swing and lift drift through the places in the pool where the water finally begins to slow down. Or feed it in under a brush pile or along a grass hummock-lined bank and then bring it back with short twists of the wrist. It’s equally deadly whichever method you choose.
12) You thought I forgot, didn’t you…:) Big, Ugly, Deerhair Ant in Size #10 or at smallest, #12. This is the nuclear bomb of dry flies for trout from about mid-May until first autumn frost, and sometimes beyond in both chronological directions. So simple of a fly to tie that even a ten-thumbed tier like me can churn out 15 or 20 an hour, the two big humps of deerhair separated by a slim waist with a few hairs pulled off to each side to represent the legs has probably accounted for more nice wild trout for me than any other three flies combined. They don’t last long, maybe seven or eight fish before they are so ripped up they look like a tiny black pincushion. But until their compressed bulk fails to the point that they start casting like a maple spinner, they’ll still catch lots of fish. And it is so easy to make bunches more. Additionally, this is an extremely enjoyable and exciting fly to fish. It’s like throwing a bass bug. You watch it splat down and see the V-wake of the trout hurrying to intercept and engulf it. I never get tired of fishing the big ant. And so far, the fish don’t seem to have become tired of eating them. I’m never without at least 200 of these.
So, there you have it. My “Can’t Do Without Dozen”. That wasn’t nearly as hard on me emotionally as I feared it might be. I’ll close though by letting you in on a little secret. I originally intended to make this a 10 fly list, but I just couldn’t do it. Oh well, its progress, not perfection…:)
But now its time to get over it. After all, what is fear of the unknown but something to be squarely confronted and overcome? That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way.. I really don’t know. If something really scares me, I tend to go fishing so I don’t have to think about it.
But I think I can do this, even without drinking or taking a tranquilizer. I know I can. All I have to do is see it as an exercise in “what if”. I mean, I’m never really going to be limited to only carrying a dozen fly patterns, right? Right? Don’t answer that if you’re not going to tell me what I want to hear. Anyway, let’s take a step out in faith and explore this really, really scary idea…
If I could only carry one dozen different fly patterns for trout anywhere at any time, here is what they would be (in no real order of preference or importance):
1) Hare’s Ear Parachute in sizes #12-#18 - This simple combination of the Adams hackle mix with a hare’s ear body and poly or calf tail post has become my most reliable searching dry fly when the fish are mostly attuned to various caddis and smaller mayflies in the brown to gray color range. I’m never with less than 100 or so of them in my boxes
2) Whitlock Fox Squirrel Nymph in sizes #8-#16 – The Whitlock nymph, with or without a bead (I like copper best) is perhaps the most versatile nymph of them all. In larger sizes, it can pass for a stonefly nymph and the smaller ones are a pretty good generic imitation of a caddis larvae or even, once the fly gets ragged enough, a pupa. Its amber abdomen shows up well in moderately off-color water, making it a fine high water fly.
3) #18 Blue Quill with a body of brownish/gray poly or fur - While not precisely imitating either, this fly is close enough to be effective when fishing hatches of the early Baetis or Blue Wing Olive mayflies as well as for what is perhaps the most under appreciated hatch on Eastern waters, the Blue Quill or Paraleptophlebia mayflies of April and early May. There are better individual imitations of both insects, but remember I’m only allowed to carry a dozen patterns in total. This one does a good job of bridging the gap between these two very important hatches.
4) Pheasant Tail Nymph in sizes #12-#22 - My pheasant tail has the traditional abdomen of ringneck tail fibers ribbed with copper wire, but has a thorax of medium hare’s ear fur rather than the peacock herl called for in the original pattern. I tie these in a variety of ways. Some with beads (again, mostly copper), some with Krystal Flash wingcases and some (especially the smaller ones) on curved scud hooks like the Tiemco 2487. Like the Whitlock nymph above, the pheasant tail is a generic, buggy looking fly that is vary reliable for prospecting any piece of water that looks like a good place to try a nymph.
5) Grizzly Wulff in sizes #10-#18 - This yellow-bodied, high-riding dry fly with the upright deer hair wing and the brown/grizzly hackle combination has been a very effective fly for me both on small freestones back home in Pennsylvania and on the Driftless spring creeks of Wisconsin and Iowa. In a pinch, it can serve as a reasonably good sulfur imitation in size #16. And there is something about the yellow body that seems to pull trout to it that might let another fly float on by. But there’s a catch… I don’t think you can use just any yellow for the body, especially not that bright school bus yellow that is so ubiquitous in so many dubbing assortments. You want a yellow that looks a little beat up and dull and is one door down towards tan from bright yellow. The right stuff isn’t always easy to find. I’m lucky to have a several lifetime supply that I obtained when I bought a package of poorly dyed yellow zonker strips. Will I send you some? Maybe.. I might be willing to swap some of it for a new rod or an all expenses paid trip to one of the destinations on my Bucket List.
6) Copper John Nymph With Dark Green Wire Body on 1XL hooks in sizes #14-#18 - Not olive or chartreuse, dark green. No fancy epoxy wingcase either. Just pearl Krystal Flash gooped into place with a drop of acrylic nail polish. And no, I don’t know why it works so well. If I did, I’d be a trout and I just don’t think its worth that happening to me just to find out..
7) OK. You knew it was coming… All Black Wooly Bugger in sizes #6-#12 (3XL hook). While a lot of the old sayings used to convey fly fishing wisdom are just so much nonsense; in this case, the old saw that “there is no wrong way to fish a wooly bugger” is right on the money. Strip retrieve it, dead drift it, walk it past cover on a tight line while holding the rod tip high, swing it through the pocket water and let it rise as the line tightens. They all work reliably and catch fish. The combination of black saddle hackle and pulsing black marabou tail makes the Bugger look truly alive and irresistible to trout.
8) Deer Hair Delta Caddis in sizes #14-#18 – This fly is a hybrid of the simple downwing deerhair caddis and the hackle tip-winged Delta Wing Caddis that first became popular when it appeared in Eric Leiser and Larry Solomon’s groundbreaking 1970’s book, “The Caddis And The Angler”. My Delta Wing Caddis is simply a deerhair caddis with the wing material split into two equal portions and then anchored at a 45 degree angle on either side of the shank with figure 8 wraps. I then tie in a hackle feather just ahead of the base of the wings and proceed to dub the body the rest of the way to the eye. Then I wrap the hackle forward, tie it off, and finish the head and then clip the hackle flush on the bottom so the fly floats low in the water. This is an extremely versatile and effective fly that floats like a cork in broken water, but lays flat and flush on the slower moving surface of the pools. The best colors are a hare’s ear body with brown or cree hackle and a tan body with a dark ginger hackle. A very dark brown to almost black bodied version with a dark dun hackle is also good, especially during the annual Grannom hatches. I’m never without at least 100 of these either…
9) Generic Glop Of Fur Muskrat Nymph in sizes #10-#20 - This fly is exactly what it sounds like, simply a bunch of muskrat fur with the guard hairs left intact dubbed onto a standard length, 1XL or scud hook and sort of tapered from front to rear. Within reason, the sloppier the tie, the better the results. This is one of those flies that becomes more effective as it descends into ratty lookingness (a new word I just invented) from use. Weight them or not. Add a head of black fur or a collar of grizzly hen hackle. Or not.. Doesn’t matter. This is one of the most effective and consistent nymphs around.
10) Lead Wing Coachman Wet Fly in sizes #10-#18 - This is another of the generic fishy-looking flies that tend to make up the majority of what is in my fly boxes. In the larger sizes, this fly is an excellent attractor pattern just about anywhere and in the smaller sizes (#14 and below), it is as good a caddis pupa imitation as any fly specifically designed for that purpose. Deadly in #14-#16 when fished with a swing and lift during the Grannom hatch, but worth trying any time.
11) Partridge and Orange Soft Hackle in sizes #12-#18 – Tied with a thin body of orange thread or floss and a sparse collar of brown partridge on a standard wet fly hook, this is another fly that looks like both nothing and everything a fish might see in the water and be compelled to take. Maybe it imitates a drowned crane fly or maybe a caddis pupa or even a sunken mayfly dun or emerger. Or maybe the fish think it’s a Partridge and Orange Soft Hackle. That could be too.. I don’t know. I do know that it works. Like the Wooly Bugger, there really is no wrong way to fish this fly. Cast it up in the heads of the pools and let it drift back just under the surface and watch for the boil of the fish. Do a swing and lift drift through the places in the pool where the water finally begins to slow down. Or feed it in under a brush pile or along a grass hummock-lined bank and then bring it back with short twists of the wrist. It’s equally deadly whichever method you choose.
12) You thought I forgot, didn’t you…:) Big, Ugly, Deerhair Ant in Size #10 or at smallest, #12. This is the nuclear bomb of dry flies for trout from about mid-May until first autumn frost, and sometimes beyond in both chronological directions. So simple of a fly to tie that even a ten-thumbed tier like me can churn out 15 or 20 an hour, the two big humps of deerhair separated by a slim waist with a few hairs pulled off to each side to represent the legs has probably accounted for more nice wild trout for me than any other three flies combined. They don’t last long, maybe seven or eight fish before they are so ripped up they look like a tiny black pincushion. But until their compressed bulk fails to the point that they start casting like a maple spinner, they’ll still catch lots of fish. And it is so easy to make bunches more. Additionally, this is an extremely enjoyable and exciting fly to fish. It’s like throwing a bass bug. You watch it splat down and see the V-wake of the trout hurrying to intercept and engulf it. I never get tired of fishing the big ant. And so far, the fish don’t seem to have become tired of eating them. I’m never without at least 200 of these.
So, there you have it. My “Can’t Do Without Dozen”. That wasn’t nearly as hard on me emotionally as I feared it might be. I’ll close though by letting you in on a little secret. I originally intended to make this a 10 fly list, but I just couldn’t do it. Oh well, its progress, not perfection…:)
Dark Waters
I like researching and then fishing new wild trout streams. I enjoy the novelty of fishing a place for the first time with all the possibilities that come with the experience. I love to work my way up the stream’s course and see each new pool or trouty-looking stretch of holding water as it comes into view around the next bend. Usually, the first time I try someplace new, the experience is more consumptive than contemplative. More gulping than sipping and savoring. I work quickly, scurrying up the creek like I have an appointment in ten minutes at the next bridge and driven by a hunger to see and know what is coming next as I fish up through. I want to see it all or as much as I can in the time I have Next time I come, I will slow down and work the better water more thoroughly, slower and with more discipline. But this first time is for finding out everything I can and swallowing the place whole in one sitting. Its how I’ve always been and I don’t see it changing much if at all. I’m almost 60 and when I fish a place for the first time, I still move through it as if I were 30.
But there is one kind of stream that is an exception to my usual frenetic approach. I call these places “dark waters”. Virtually every trout region where I have hung my fishing hat for any length of time has these sorts of streams, from the North Carolina Blue Ridge to my native Pennsylvania to my adopted current home waters in Wisconsin and Iowa. Some areas have more of them and some have fewer, but there are a scattering of them almost everywhere you find wild trout.
When you pull up to the bridge at a dark water stream and see it for the first time, you whistle to yourself and murmur “oh, my my…”. Because you know that dark water means (or can mean) big fish. And the possibility of big fish is enough to slow down even a scampering stream rabbit like me. You can just tell by the look of the water. Even in normal flows that have not been tinted by recent rains, there is a cloaking murk to the water and more often than not, when you are knee deep in a dark water stream, you can’t see the laces of your wading shoes. (Well, unless you have red laces on your wading shoes, but that’s another essay.) The pools in dark water streams are slow, deep and often criss-crossed by sunken logs. Their bottoms are places of mystery and you just know that they hold trout as long as your arm. Or at the least, since you cannot see the bottom, you can convince yourself that it is so. That’s almost as good. So, I take my time on dark water streams. They hold too many mysteries and surrender too few clues for me to not take my time.
Dark water streams do not flow so much as they glide and slink along past the high clay banks and submerged root balls of fallen trees that frame the deep pools. There is no glitter of sunlight off the dancing water in the chutes and riffles. The sun neither penetrates nor reveals the mystery of dark water. Dark water streams are often brooding and sullen and I sometimes feel as if the stream itself does not want me around. On occasion, they can even seem downright unfriendly. If they are big enough, I may be unsure as to whether I can cross them, even in the places where it seems safe. I may find firm footing on rocks or gravel all the way across or I may sink to my waist in silt and sand. When I am on dark water, there is a feeling that I may meet up with something that is more than I can handle. That in the next pool upstream, my nymph will be stopped in mid-drift by a fish that will wreck my tackle and leave me sitting on the bank weak-kneed and mumbling to myself. The potential of what may lie beneath dark water waiting produces a strange but highly addictive mix of anticipation and apprehension in me.
Dark water is made for the nymph angler. Sure, from time to time, there will be enough insects flitting along the clearer edges of the flow to produce some surface feeding, but the real show is down there in the heart of the mystery on the bottoms of the deep, opaque pools and runs, in the places we cannot see. You throw your nymph out into the current tongue at the head of the pool and it is swept down into the depths. Then, suddenly it stops dead and so does your heart. You bring the rod tip up to set the hook. Sometimes you find yourself fast to a chunk of sodden hardwood or debris. Scratch one nymph.. But other times, the line will begin to move and through the murky flow, you’ll see the amber flash of a good brown. The rod will begin to buck in your hand and line will zip off the reel with the first run of the fish. You’re on your own now. You’ve violated the mystery and it is not pleased with you. Your fish may wrap you around a log and break off and be gone. Or you may luck out and eventually land him. If you do, there is a good chance that he will be one of the best fish of your season. That’s the reward that’s always out there on the edge of the possible for the angler with the courage and willingness to challenge dark water.
In my fly fishing travels, I’ve been fortunate to always have a good variety of wild trout streams to choose from when it comes time to load up the wagon and have at them. I love them all, but there is a special place in my angling pantheon for my dark water favorites. The Willow, Billings and Knapp Creeks in southwest Wisconsin and the lower Mecan in Wisconsin’s Central Sands Region. The Oswayo, Allegheny Portage and Pine (Warren) Creeks back home in Pennsylvania. The Middle Branch of the Escanaba and the Carp River in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Iowa’s Bloody Run and French Creek. These are just a few of many. For fish numbers, sparkling water dancing over beds of multi colored gravel, carefree dry fly fishing with a searching pattern and a chance to work on my tan or take in the first warm afternoon of the new Spring, give me any of the hundreds of my regular favorite clear water creeks. But for a chance at big fish, an opportunity to solve the mystery and just a bit of a feeling of living dangerously, give me dark water every time.
But there is one kind of stream that is an exception to my usual frenetic approach. I call these places “dark waters”. Virtually every trout region where I have hung my fishing hat for any length of time has these sorts of streams, from the North Carolina Blue Ridge to my native Pennsylvania to my adopted current home waters in Wisconsin and Iowa. Some areas have more of them and some have fewer, but there are a scattering of them almost everywhere you find wild trout.
When you pull up to the bridge at a dark water stream and see it for the first time, you whistle to yourself and murmur “oh, my my…”. Because you know that dark water means (or can mean) big fish. And the possibility of big fish is enough to slow down even a scampering stream rabbit like me. You can just tell by the look of the water. Even in normal flows that have not been tinted by recent rains, there is a cloaking murk to the water and more often than not, when you are knee deep in a dark water stream, you can’t see the laces of your wading shoes. (Well, unless you have red laces on your wading shoes, but that’s another essay.) The pools in dark water streams are slow, deep and often criss-crossed by sunken logs. Their bottoms are places of mystery and you just know that they hold trout as long as your arm. Or at the least, since you cannot see the bottom, you can convince yourself that it is so. That’s almost as good. So, I take my time on dark water streams. They hold too many mysteries and surrender too few clues for me to not take my time.
Dark water streams do not flow so much as they glide and slink along past the high clay banks and submerged root balls of fallen trees that frame the deep pools. There is no glitter of sunlight off the dancing water in the chutes and riffles. The sun neither penetrates nor reveals the mystery of dark water. Dark water streams are often brooding and sullen and I sometimes feel as if the stream itself does not want me around. On occasion, they can even seem downright unfriendly. If they are big enough, I may be unsure as to whether I can cross them, even in the places where it seems safe. I may find firm footing on rocks or gravel all the way across or I may sink to my waist in silt and sand. When I am on dark water, there is a feeling that I may meet up with something that is more than I can handle. That in the next pool upstream, my nymph will be stopped in mid-drift by a fish that will wreck my tackle and leave me sitting on the bank weak-kneed and mumbling to myself. The potential of what may lie beneath dark water waiting produces a strange but highly addictive mix of anticipation and apprehension in me.
Dark water is made for the nymph angler. Sure, from time to time, there will be enough insects flitting along the clearer edges of the flow to produce some surface feeding, but the real show is down there in the heart of the mystery on the bottoms of the deep, opaque pools and runs, in the places we cannot see. You throw your nymph out into the current tongue at the head of the pool and it is swept down into the depths. Then, suddenly it stops dead and so does your heart. You bring the rod tip up to set the hook. Sometimes you find yourself fast to a chunk of sodden hardwood or debris. Scratch one nymph.. But other times, the line will begin to move and through the murky flow, you’ll see the amber flash of a good brown. The rod will begin to buck in your hand and line will zip off the reel with the first run of the fish. You’re on your own now. You’ve violated the mystery and it is not pleased with you. Your fish may wrap you around a log and break off and be gone. Or you may luck out and eventually land him. If you do, there is a good chance that he will be one of the best fish of your season. That’s the reward that’s always out there on the edge of the possible for the angler with the courage and willingness to challenge dark water.
In my fly fishing travels, I’ve been fortunate to always have a good variety of wild trout streams to choose from when it comes time to load up the wagon and have at them. I love them all, but there is a special place in my angling pantheon for my dark water favorites. The Willow, Billings and Knapp Creeks in southwest Wisconsin and the lower Mecan in Wisconsin’s Central Sands Region. The Oswayo, Allegheny Portage and Pine (Warren) Creeks back home in Pennsylvania. The Middle Branch of the Escanaba and the Carp River in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Iowa’s Bloody Run and French Creek. These are just a few of many. For fish numbers, sparkling water dancing over beds of multi colored gravel, carefree dry fly fishing with a searching pattern and a chance to work on my tan or take in the first warm afternoon of the new Spring, give me any of the hundreds of my regular favorite clear water creeks. But for a chance at big fish, an opportunity to solve the mystery and just a bit of a feeling of living dangerously, give me dark water every time.
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