klingy
Active member
- Joined
- Jul 31, 2010
- Messages
- 591
I love streams that not many people fish. Give me a ditch with cold water, and I'll have at it. There is a lot written about the majesty of beautiful trout streams, and I love being on a pristine wilderness river as much as the next guy. But I love witnessing the resilience of life, and especially trout, on such vivid display in some of the most unexpected places. Finding those places is satisfying to me. Maybe it's the contrast of a vibrant, brightly colored wild brown to a beat-down, silted-up gully. Maybe it's rooting for the underdog who refuses to go down without a fight. Maybe it's just finding fish in a place where nobody would expect them. Maybe it's just the adventure. I don't know.
There is a stream like this not far from me. I have fished it since I was a kid. I've caught fish in it in the past, though it is a shadow of it's former self (so I've read). It's one of those places you return to because you know there are fish there, even if they aren't as plentiful as they once were (though I have seen improvement recently). It's a stream where shadows of monster browns flicker in rocky runs made of cinder blocks and manhole covers. Glimpses of a rise blend with tattered grocery bags and a ragged old t-shirt flowing with the current.
It was in one of those runs where I spotted a rising fish last spring. It was holding in about two feet of water tight to an old locust that had succumbed to the rushing torrent the stream becomes after even a moderate thunderstorm. I could tell it was a sizable fish, as it's nose kept breaking the surface with each rise. That triangular protrusion followed by the silent rippling wake.
After about 10 minutes of watching, I tried to offer a dry to the working fish. My second cast put it down, but didn't spook it from its hold. I tried once more, but finally an awkward plop of my line sent him running.
I found myself at the same spot this evening. I snuck up slowly to see if the fish just happened to be there. No luck. I stood there for a few minutes to try and spot any rises. Nothing yet. It was about 8:00 and the sun was getting low. The evening was settling in. The crickets were beginning their chorus, and some small grey mayflies were silently drifting skyward.
My focus settled on the compact rippled run just upstream of the fallen locust. It was about three feet deep, and the surface was broken well. There was some nice holding water at the head of the run, just behind two sizable limestone boulders. I flicked my nymph rig in, and slowly lifted my rod to follow the flies through. The line tightened, and I raised my rod tip.
The weight of the fish was immediately felt, and it surged forward toward the boulders. I kept on constant pressure, and worked it through several charges and head-shaking jumps. The yellow-bodied brown wasn't going down without giving everything it had. I kept the line tight, and finally brought it to the net. As I unhooked it, and snapped a couple pictures, I felt satisfied. This fish was a survivor. It didn't live in a clean, gravel bottomed forest rivulet. It would never know life in a pristine alpine lake. But yet it was there. Strong. Fighting. Alive.
The fish lingered for a few seconds, then disappeared into the rippling darkness. I kept on until the sun fell well behind the buildings that crowd the stream. I climbed the banks, and walked back to my car beside the train that was hissing on the parallel tracks. As I drove home I thought about where I'll fish next. Maybe the letort. Maybe the Little J. Or maybe I'll come back here. I love streams that not many people fish.
There is a stream like this not far from me. I have fished it since I was a kid. I've caught fish in it in the past, though it is a shadow of it's former self (so I've read). It's one of those places you return to because you know there are fish there, even if they aren't as plentiful as they once were (though I have seen improvement recently). It's a stream where shadows of monster browns flicker in rocky runs made of cinder blocks and manhole covers. Glimpses of a rise blend with tattered grocery bags and a ragged old t-shirt flowing with the current.
It was in one of those runs where I spotted a rising fish last spring. It was holding in about two feet of water tight to an old locust that had succumbed to the rushing torrent the stream becomes after even a moderate thunderstorm. I could tell it was a sizable fish, as it's nose kept breaking the surface with each rise. That triangular protrusion followed by the silent rippling wake.
After about 10 minutes of watching, I tried to offer a dry to the working fish. My second cast put it down, but didn't spook it from its hold. I tried once more, but finally an awkward plop of my line sent him running.
I found myself at the same spot this evening. I snuck up slowly to see if the fish just happened to be there. No luck. I stood there for a few minutes to try and spot any rises. Nothing yet. It was about 8:00 and the sun was getting low. The evening was settling in. The crickets were beginning their chorus, and some small grey mayflies were silently drifting skyward.
My focus settled on the compact rippled run just upstream of the fallen locust. It was about three feet deep, and the surface was broken well. There was some nice holding water at the head of the run, just behind two sizable limestone boulders. I flicked my nymph rig in, and slowly lifted my rod to follow the flies through. The line tightened, and I raised my rod tip.
The weight of the fish was immediately felt, and it surged forward toward the boulders. I kept on constant pressure, and worked it through several charges and head-shaking jumps. The yellow-bodied brown wasn't going down without giving everything it had. I kept the line tight, and finally brought it to the net. As I unhooked it, and snapped a couple pictures, I felt satisfied. This fish was a survivor. It didn't live in a clean, gravel bottomed forest rivulet. It would never know life in a pristine alpine lake. But yet it was there. Strong. Fighting. Alive.
The fish lingered for a few seconds, then disappeared into the rippling darkness. I kept on until the sun fell well behind the buildings that crowd the stream. I climbed the banks, and walked back to my car beside the train that was hissing on the parallel tracks. As I drove home I thought about where I'll fish next. Maybe the letort. Maybe the Little J. Or maybe I'll come back here. I love streams that not many people fish.
