| western watershed romance |
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They were strangers once, but now they’re
neighbors, in waters old and new, throughout the world. Strangers
initially, yes, but they complemented each other elegantly in both
space and time: one in faster water, the other slower, one a spring
spawner, the other autumn, one dropping deep in still water when warm,
the other so often remaining shallow, one liking gravel for nests, the
other smaller stuff such as big sand, one feisty and anxious, the other
wary and measured, one frequently an open-water roamer, the other often
lurking among shadows of plants and wood. In so many waters close to my
home, the newer one in many ways replacing the kings now denied the
streams by the copious dams. A fitting replacement, and expanding the
breadth of possibility for a modern fisher.
Yesterday was my weekday off from work, and with Irongate - my
breadbasket as fish-basket - no more, I had to go fishing, and also
because of - me. Terrified me, of me, because I learn about me, about
my decay, it becomes tangible, my fading touch and sight, my fraying
perception of space and direction, my delayed reaction time. Mistaking
fish for snag and snag for fish. Too slow to the trigger. Imprecise
casts, so more lures banged off rocks or stuck on overhanging plants.
Unrecognition of shifting conditions, losing opportunity. Following
wrong road or trail, so arriving too late. Fumbling, stumbling, and,
most embarrassingly, tumbling down to bash palm and knee and shin.
Result: more lost lures, more scabs and bruises, fewer fish caught. But
I am a fisher, so to not fish would be self-denial. I’d have to adapt
to perform well, and I had to choose a waterway I'd never known - gotta
retain some novelty in the face of fear, otherwise stagnation's the
fate. "In the face of stagnation, the water runs, before your eyes" -
Siouxsie.
I pined for a pattern I've
experienced much, still-water pre-spawn rainbows near inlets, timing of
which delays with increase in elevation. A few weeks ago at New Melones
I was too late, with most wild 'bows already in the streams. So this
time I was higher, not quite Sugar Pine height (where rainbows ascend
between mid-February and early March, with the exact time dependent on
streamflow and water temperature), but in between, ‘bout 2,000 feet,
where they should go in early February. Weather forecast wasn't ideal,
though – a storm, before which had been many others that’d blown out
rivers and swirled the surf into tempest. Slaty, snotty, cold weather
at lower elevations normally doesn't kill the bite as higher, but even
at 2,000', stable weather remains best. If any post-spawn browns were
around, however, they would certainly be more on the prowl given they
love dimness, and further, I’d be on the storm’s front rather than its
end, and that for sure riles brownies up (e.g.,
Schulz and Berg 1992). Another advantage of stormy weather - it chases
nearly all modern "outdoorsmen" indoors. It’d just be she and I.
Got to the reservoir with dawn barely peeking - didn't get lost, fruit
of poring over a map and measuring each segment of road to
intersection. Ambled down to the water to check the clarity, and, with
relief, I could see several feet down, so the trout could see my
offerings, too. Checked the temp - 41℉ - and while cold, not so cold as
to put 'em off the bite, though takes would be slow. As far as lures,
metal and plugs were absolutely out, but like in late autumn, jigs (and
that includes flies, which are just weightless jigs) and bait - in this
case, the old redworm – could tempt.
With
the sky lightening to violet-tinged grey and heralding dawn, I donned
pack and started off, thermometer my guide - wherever the water temp
dropped from inflows, the trout, both flavors, would be downstream in
the warmer reservoir water. Although reservoir, in this case, is a
little inaccurate, a little incomplete. This waterway is one of many
hydropower stopovers, and their stages vary so much less than
water-supply reservoirs, such that aquatic plants can flourish, with
more of the waterway a littoral zone than pelagic or benthic. Too,
perennial plants on the shore can grow, with frothy, rangy brambles and
sedges and rushes - in other words, more lake-like. But unique
nevertheless because her small size - this waterway's about the size of
little Green Valley Reservoir who I fished so much in my youth - and
her high-elevation water source that results in no stratification and
cool-to-cold water throughout the year. So more akin to a massive
spring creek.
Reached the inlet, light
muted and low and perfect, and the storm began gently, drizzle and
light showers and only occasional exhalations of breeze. The waterway's
very accessible, which, added to her size, sparked my apprehension that
she'd get fished out. But many rises just as I reached the bank and
began casting quelled that fear. As long as the water surface remained
unruffled by wind or rain, the trout continued to rise, mostly on
midges, albeit more fish rings opened on the far bank than my own.
Still, I'd many surface dimples nearby, and several times I fired off
the slip-float rig with small redworm right at 'em, but unlike
virtually every other similar situation I'd been in, not once did the
float sink from a trout take. Nor did the set-rig rod with a suspended
worm receive attention. That continued for about two hours, and,
perplexed and with apprehension reasserting, I hiked over to the
fishier other side.
Despite the gnawing
premonition of going fishless, the loveliness of the place really held
me above the lip of free-fall despair - the rain more musical than
calamitous, a lovely, thick mixed-coniferous forest soothing my ancient
soul, glistening ponderosa pines and some sugars, the feathery
incense-cedars, and underfoot the spiky leaves of the sleeping black
oaks. And the robins, the beautiful robins, they were on the far bank
that was now my bank, and their ever-cheery songs and chatter spurned a
fantastical notion in my head that they were heralding a connection
between trout and I. The place, the time, still echoed Green Valley,
but now more so Deer Creek Reservoir in the mountains I now call home
and Frog and Harriet in Oregon's Cascades where brownies dominated over
20 years ago.
Why this bank was more
attractive was now apparent - just a whisper of flow, and when the
water's in the low 40s, both species nearly always want to be in the
slowest water. Apprehension lightening, but as I fished down-reservoir,
my rods remained unexplainably silent while trout continually rose,
though fewer than during dawn. Starting to consider silly stuff such as
a fish imitation given the bait failing, out of the corner of my eye I
saw the set-rig line move, and not from current. I hoofed over, saw the
line had indeed been tightened by a fish, reared back, and felt a
swinging weight at the line’s end. After a short, sunken, bullish shake
and sway, I netted a fine brown trout, fully wild, arrow-straight fins
and creamy belly and lemony flanks. My fear evaporated. With a near
pathological need for documenting my successes of late, I pulled out
the camera and tripod and ripped off a few frames before killing and
bleeding her.
I re-baited and flung the
worm back out there, quickly catching two more brownies, size
increasing from 11 to 12 to 14 inches. All three were flawless, so
healthy, beautiful, so she deserved restraint: I vowed to only kill
four fish and then stop fishing rather than killing the legal limit of
five. Too, one more fish could be the meat of two given a few risers
I'd now seen certainly reached fillet-able size. But a lull set in as
time slid to that so frequently staid early afternoon, and I began to
doubt that a fourth would materialize. Despite only the one spot
gifting all three trout, I pulled outta there and continued
down-reservoir, with an increased powerhouse discharge raising the
stage and putting a heave of current in the spot.
Contentment with the three fish mixed paradoxically with the
apprehension that a fourth wouldn't come, and the absolute stillness of
the slip-float rig, nearly always the more effective method in such
settings, reaffirmed the fear. I pondered whether I should grind it
'til dusk, which I've had to do so, so frequently the last few years,
for that fourth fish, or bow down, thankful with three, and then bow
out so I could reach home by dinnertime She decided for me when the
line on the set-rig again moved but not like from the force of air or
water. I hurried over, thinking I'd mistook the movement for a fish,
but my initial judgment was confirmed when the rod bowed over and the
spool spun. I snatched the rod, set, and then had to immediately loosen
the drag - this was a heavier fish. He dived, rolled, and zigzagged,
and when he came within view, the rod’s sense didn't lie - indeed, he
was one of the bigger brownies I'd seen rising. I loosened the drag
further, swooped with the net once, missed, then swooped a second time,
and there cradled a deep-bodied canary brownie, a solid 16-inch fish,
and I had to combat my low self-esteem with another photo shoot. But I
remained disciplined in that after I shot and killed and bled him, with
rises still occurring, and of bigger fish of his ilk, I de-baited the
rods, loaded my pack, and strolled back to my ride, the showers a song.
I had to go fishing yesterday because it appeared the most reliable day of the week (i.e.,
third day of calm weather) to explore a new-to-me reservoir nestled in
conifers, when the water’d be clear enough for trout to see my baits –
been lots of rain lately muddying things up. I’d rather efficiently
prepped my equipment the afternoon before, then carefully delineated my
plan – the roads to take, the areas to fish, when to fish ‘em, and
contingencies if I failed miserably. Gotta have options in a day so one
failure doesn’t crush and implode.
I slept
rather well, somehow not horrified to open-eye anxiety because of the
fear of failure. I’d the ceremonial cup of coffee in black morning two
hours before dawn, a pleasant beginning. Started driving at a time that
should’ve planted me at the right spot and time – inlet, dawn – for
post-spawn brownies and, secondarily, pre-spawn rainbows.
I didn’t miss a single turn.
Cold but not freezing – frost on the ground, but no ice in the guides.
Inlet split by a little island at the confluence, and the inlet’s water
clearer than the mainstem’s – and yes, “mainstem,” as this was another
little hydropower reservoir where the water always has a little push.
The water was cold: 40℉. The trout, both flavors, would be moving very
slowly, so I’d have to wait and wait and wait for ‘em to engulf the
bait and load the rod before swinging.
Copious Common Goldeneyes and Buffleheads encouraged since they eat
aquatic bugs, too, but for the first 15 minutes or so, I saw no rises –
discouraging. My rigs, though, were fishing well, with a change in the
slip-float rig from shirt-button shotting pattern to lone sliding
tungsten sinker with float pegged so that distance from peg to sinker
was longer than the leader to inhibit twisting and snarls. And proof of
improved rig was that I saw my first rise, then slung the float rig
towards it, which unfurled and landed straight. Unlike what usually
happens when a trout takes in such cold, the float slowly submerging
and languidly tracing lines contradicting the current, for the first
few moments, the float stood idle. Then I threw a mend, the float
plummeted, the line raced out, and…eh, I erred, hitting with too little
force before the line’d tightened and the rod loaded. And the fish had
felt the hook’s sting, signaled by the few headshakes in the moment of
connection before he shook off back to freedom.
I sighed, and drooped my head in self-disappointment.
Drifted again with no activity, but as I began reeling to re-cast – a
take, again shockingly confident and fast given the cold water. The rod
loaded, and I hit, but I didn’t hit hard enough again, and though I got
more headshakes than the previous chance, this one, too, I lost, and my
disappointment edged to despair’s abyss. My error was falling to
mistake. Yet the high southern ridge and low winter sun gifted a very
long dawn, so a wider period of opportunity, and as I re-wormed the
float rig, the set-rig’s line moved, the slack lessening, the line
moving out – and I didn’t touch it, I told myself not to touch it. For
a few minutes, the trout played with the bait like carp so
frustratingly will do, the line’s arc from rod tip to water surface
slackening and straightening repeatedly, but I’d suffered the mistake
too much with carp as well as trout that if I were to land this fish, I
would have to wait until the line straightened and the rod then curved.
The line’s arc, though, then sagged for many moments, and I sagged into
the black hole, the indication being that the trout had dumped. I
shifted attention from the set-rig’s line to re-worming the float rig
when, however, graciously, the arc of the set-rig rapidly shifted from
line to rod, and I snatched that rod, hit firmly, and finally we were
tight, and the embrace remained all the way until he hit my net, a
burly, manly brown trout. We’d reached an understanding.
First fish of the year, and so I had to photo him, he of big ol’ angry
mouth, and in the icy air, he posed so very well. But as usual with
small-bodied fishes, I needed two more to grow relief into triumph.
Re-baited both rods with fresh wrigglers, and as the slip float reached
the confluence, its behavior changed – it slowly sank, but not smoothly
tipping to the water surface then sinking, as if it’d hung on the
bottom, but straight down, and then – then the typical slow desultory
path, float submerged, trout.
And this time, I didn’t fuck up – as she slowly pulled the line tight,
I matched her by ever so slowly reeling my slack up, and then, when the
arc was gone, I hit hard twice, and the rod, unlike the first two
slip-float failures, stayed hooped all the way until this one, too, was
in my net. The second, and I was on the rise between relief and
triumph.
But my dawn was running out, and
with it the brownies, being dominantly crepuscular critters, especially
with fish-eating birds about (Baldy’d already been flapping noisily
above the water). While these reservoirs tend to be dominated by
brownies - they moderate flows during late autumn and early winter and
thereby preserve their redds, and they’re often ringed with wood
deadfall and submerged willow thickets - good littoral habitat (e.g.,
Dedual et al. 2000) - rainbows are nearly always present, and they’ll
eat with more light. So while I ached for one more brownie, I felt my
window for them had closed but remained open for ‘bows. Yet as dawn
shifted to morning and sunrays lit my water, my lines remained quiet,
no fish rose, and I felt my morning chances at the inlet had evaporated
for both.
Further down-reservoir, however,
a very late dawn persisted, water surface still shadowed in a gentle
cove with deeper water, steep rock, and plenty of wood – a good spot
for trout to hunker down in to evade the eagles and Osprey, and given
it mid-morning, they still might be willing to eat a well-presented
bait. I sifted though snotty rock and trip-line blackberry brambles,
ducking under grotto willow trunks, and in it, the spot looked better:
a whisper of current was pushing right into the corner, and no doubt
with it, floating bits of buggy trout food. I carefully, lightly cast
the set-rig, and the extended sink time reflected the greater depth
here than at the inlet. Sent the slip-float rig out, and then, out of
the corner of my eye, saw the set-rig’s line slack decrease ever so
subtly – was it current or fish? I studied it intently, and it moved
again, but not in time to the current – trout. I put down the
slip-float rig but did not pick up the set-rig – the lesson was
staying. What I did do, however, and which is a mistake with carp given
their extremely fine-tuned sense of touch – I softly pulled line from
the spool to give the trout more slack. And some of that slack was
accepted, but so slowly that I questioned my interpretation of trout.
The reluctant dance again, like in dawn, for a few minutes, and then,
as in dawn, the arc shifted from line to rod, I hit with authority, and
then a swirling blaze, and there, in my net, my third, and as is so
frequently the pattern – a rainbow after the browns, a lovely wild fish
of cream and rose and jade.
As is typical
with wintertime still-water trout, the hook had penetrated just on the
lip – just a very mild piercing, nearly harmless. Since my primary
focus was brown trout, and given how this guy was hooked, it would’ve
been excessive for me to kill him. So after a few submerged shots, I
de-hooked him and smiled as he raced out of my hands and back into
veiling water, and I inched ever so closer to triumph, but that was a
rainbow, and I really needed a third brown to stand on that peak.
I re-cast the rods, the slip float drifting ever so attractively to the
rock wall, then so close that the crag threatened to snag my rig, so I
had to reel in. Often in such conditions, as during the dawn, trout are
around the worm but unaware of it – a little movement grabs their
attention, and then they bite, albeit still tentatively given the cold
water. I told myself this out loud, and slowly began reeling, and then
– tap-tap-tap, a trout had nibbled, so I instantly dropped the rod tip
to create line slack, the trout ran, the line then tightened, I hit
hard twice, and another connection had commenced. I pointed the rod tip
down to prevent her from breaching, where they often have a better
chance of tossing the hook than submerged, and she willingly stayed
deep – more brownie behavior than rainbow. When she came into sight,
darting here and there, I still wasn’t sure her identity until in my
net, and then, then I was on that summit, for a lovely brownie, very
well-caught, cradled in my net. I killed her quickly – respect – and
then de-baited the rods and stowed ‘em – to have kept fishing would’ve
turned triumph into desecration. Too - the lessons had been
learned.
REFERENCES
Dedual, M., I. D. Maxwell, J. W. Hayes, and R. R. Strickland. 2000. Distribution and movements of brown trout (Salmo trutta) and rainbow trout (Oncorhynchus mykiss) in Lake Otamangakau, central North Island, New Zealand. New Zealand Journal of Marine and Freshwater Research 34: 615-627.
Schulz, U., and R. Berg. 1992. Movements of ultrasonically tagged brown trout (Salmo trutta L.) in Lake Constance. Journal of Fish Biology 40: 909-917.