My position leaves me with a regular cycle of work-related stresses, that peak roughly every three months, as well as staying at a high level for the last couple months of the year. It’s not new to me, having been in this role for almost 8 years, but that means that I’ve had to build outlets and recovery into the normal cycle of things. This year, my company is also in a transition state, so the chaos of Q4 is further exacerbated. The solution, of course, is planning Fly Fishing outings to disengaging when it’s possible. Sunday afternoons are ideal for this.
I pulled out of the driveway a bit after 2pm, which put me at the waters edge at perhaps 3:15. I am again reminded of how fortunate I am to be this close to such beauty. Overcast day, and a bit cool, but almost no wind at all. The kind of day where one could continue fishing for quite a long time, with no fear of overheating, and with enough opportunity to step out and warm up if the water is a bit farther down the thermometer than you would like. I hit the pool at the top of the stretch I had been recently fishing, to again try to re-hook the fish that had danced and flipped it’s way off my hook, previously.
After a few casts, the #12 Adams I was throwing out got swatted by something with a very nice side-flash! On the next couple of casts, it would get more attention, but never a take.
Oh, well.
I had planned to try this pool, then move downstream and work my way back up, possibly changing flies when I got back to this point. Happy with the show of interest, I waded to shore and trudged downstream, keeping back from the river’s edge. I eventually slipped in at the usual spot, and began wading upstream while casting several times, after each step. Great chance to work on my loops and just soak up the day. I could tell by my footing that I was perhaps a bit tired from the recent driving, on the trip to Seattle, but just enough to make a few steps unsteady and provide opportunities to laugh at myself a bit more.
Not that I find myself with a shortage of those opportunities, by any means.
After a good while, I found that I had worked my way up to point where I had hooked a very nice fish, on the previous outing to this river. Despite some really good casting (note that I am not saying ALL the casting was good), I still had not seen any interest in the fly. Standing in the more still water of a shallow stretch, I clipped off the Adams and tied on a #12 Yellow Stimulator, tied with bleached elk hair for it’s wings. Great, high-visibility fly, which I thought might just do the trick.
Still no luck. I worked my way through some water that usually offers up at least a couple of smaller, energetic, and less-wise fish, but saw nothing.
I passed through into the bottom of the large pool, where I had started this day, and again got some rises in the same area, but nothing took the Stimmy. I know that this is likely just one fish, that perhaps knows the smell of my waders and has taken up the task of taunting me right out of the water, but I guess I am just not quite smart enough to get past trying. After a few more casts with the Stimmy, I switched to a Parachute Adams, in a #12. A few splashes in that pool, then nothing.
Smiling as I mentally chalked up one for the “Fish of the Deep Pool” team, I waded up into the riffles above it’s head and fished some small pockets.
I often have success in these waters, when all others deny me in a day. These pockets have challenging surroundings, so a medium or even short cast leaves your line quickly getting sucked under by the next pool, and moving closer makes you far to high to not be seen by the occasional eddy-dweller, that then runs off and scares away his friends. As a result, there is a strong tug to overcome when taking in what should be slack, before picking up to re-cast.
The other effect is…when the fly suddenly gets snatched off the surface, you have to overcome that pull before you set, making the set sometimes a bit too energetic.
It is this very effect that resulted in the smallest possible fish to take a #12 suddenly flying over my head, and making a crinkling landing in a bush, behind me! He had been just hooked enough that the tug of me clearing the line from the eddy pool below him sent him straight out of the water, fly not even attached!
I don’t let a fish I’m not going to eat (which is maybe 1 in a year), flop around on the banks for any length of time, if I can help it. All attempt at stealth was discarded in the rush to get to it, gently cup it in my hand, and return it to the water, whereupon it hastily shot away into the deepest, darkest pool it could find.
Smiling, I clipped off the fly, reeled in the line, and turned to head back to the truck. A great day, even without the humorous ending. Being in such places always recharges me. On the way back to the truck, I noticed that my earlier hint of weariness was all but gone, as I took long strides from dry rock to dry rock, and recalled all the times I have debating going fishing due to being tired, sore, or a headache, only to discover that after the first hour, those fall away and seemingly get washed downstream.
Although I never underestimate the raw force of the river, for my own safety, I often underestimate … or just don’t remember fully … it’s ability to rinse away the things we really don’t need.
Tight lines.