Post by rbaileydav on Feb 12, 2008 9:46:12 GMT -5
(i was asked by a friend to dredge up some reading material ....... hopefully he ain't readin it in the same place he does all of his normal reading cause these computers don't work well after you drop em in ........ tryin to flush................. this is an old one from 2003 haven't gotten out enough for new material maybe something from this weekend which i am looking forward too)
As usual, my trips for the past few years start off with a blank spot on the calendar and believe me that is by far the toughest thing to find. Football season was over and my voice was actually beginning to return to normal after months of coaching, correcting and yelling at a large group of 8th grader football players and “would be” football players (try to explain that difference to a parent). I actually could see a clear clean white section of the calendar in the early part of November. Great, it was right after my 41st birthday so I could ask for a guilt free weekend in the woods as my birthday present, and which of us fly fishermen could argue with that kind of present … … unless of course you are counting on getting a custom made bamboo flyrod for your birthday … … which of course I wasn’t ...........but I can dream can’t I. So this was as good as I was going to get. With the time slot carefully reserved and marked appropriately on the calendar …… I began the ritual of trying to decide where to go. In the beginning of my explorations that was always an easy decision, I went to whatever destination the crowd steered me toward. But somehow over the years I have developed a list of favorite places which is only rivaled by my list of “want to go” places which is even further complicated by all of the wonderful places I have caught hints of in the whispered recesses of fly shops and bulletin boards. Anyway the decision always comes down to exploring something new or reliving past successful trips. Inherently I always end up wanting to do the exploration thing that is so near and dear to all of us who like to wander those thin blue lines of the Delorme. So I made all of the usual inquiries of all of those fantastic people who have in the past, faithfully steered me toward the streams and mountain valleys that are near and dear to their hearts. At this point I would like to stop and offer my most sincere thanks for sharing these small slices of their souls with me and hopefully I have treated them with a reverence that is reserved for such an honor. The choices were numerous and all of the options promising but one of the recommendations caught my eye as a trip I just had to make. Boots graciously agreed to come along as a chaperone to make sure that I didn’t get into too much trouble, so the planning stage was complete.
I have recently invested in a whole lot of “stuff” that I didn’t even know I needed much less understand how to use … which should be read as a poop load of expensive new camping/backpacking gear which obviously enriched and provided great humor to the man at REI who obviously “saw me coming” miles off. So this time getting every thing laid out, packed and loaded was easy and I didn’t even have to repack … … too many times. We arrived at the designated destination it looked like anything but a trailhead to a wild trout stream. In fact it looked a lot like a boat dock for a southern bass fishing lake, which kinda made me nervous. Several locals working with a group of radio collared hunting dogs stared at us with some curiosity and large amount of undisguised humor as we got out of the truck and struggled to gracefully slip 40 pound packs onto fat aging old bodies. Read that as they laughed their ass off about these two dumb asses walking into the woods with all of that stuff on their backs just to go fishing when there was a whole lake sitting right there. (Okay Boots, I am talking about myself not you so stop whining, I didn’t call you fat and old … … he hates it when I write about him). The beginning of the trail was an old roadbed so it was pleasant walking for the first part of the trip. We peacefully plodded along so caught up in the anticipation of the trip and that inevitable worry that we weren’t “headed in the right direction” that we barley took notice of the lovely Appalachian scenery that was spread out in front of us. Suddenly the roadbed turned in one direction while my map said we were supposed to go in another. After standing there for a few seconds I though I saw a small thin break in the under brush that looked like it might be a rabbit trail and decided that must be our trail. The next twenty minutes or so found us traveling over an obvious trail but it sure wasn’t MUCH of a trail. Just about the time I had decided that I really had screwed up and sent us in the wrong direction we came across some wooden trail improvements and realized that we must still be headed in the right direction. We were still following the lakeshore curving around each bend and trudging up and down each ridgeline but still no stream … … I was beginning to get tense as the distances mounted and still no sign of a trout stream. I am sure the actual distances traveled were fairly small as hiking destinations go but based on the sweat pouring off of me and shortness of breath involved I sure felt like I had covered a lot of ground. The trail began climbing and climbing but still the magical sound of a trout stream maddeningly eluded us: had we taken a wrong turn, or were we the victim of some elaborate internet “urban legend” joke about a mythical trout stream in the hills. Finally we reached a crest and stopped to rest long enough that my gasping for breath subsided to a point where I could hear, off in the distance, the sound that I had been anticipating so. The Rushing Water Orchestra was playing my favorite song Trout Stream Concerto in E minor. My blood pressure immediately dropped, my stress level vanished and my pack got 15 pounds lighter as I rushed down the hill to get my first glimpse of that magical water. It was sure enough a trout stream rushing out of the mountainside toward the lake below. A clear cold, perfect series of light bluish green plunge pools connected by long gin clear glides of icy water sliding over giant folded rock formations reflecting like bursts of cheap crystals in the sunlight. And interspersed in this liquid splendor were those occasional darkened shadows that glided in and out of sight just often enough that my casting arm began to twitch slightly. Once again my shadowy inter-net informants had been right. I stood next to the stream listening to its roar and drank in the scenery spread out before me, the green of the hemlocks mixed with the darker green of the pines mixed with the lighter green of the moss all of which clashed with the still vibrant fall carpet of leaves that lay under foot. Dancing like golden ghostly wisps through the trees was the last remnants of golden yellow leaves that somehow managed to cling to the trees in spite of the perilous winds of autumn. We hiked next to the river, oblivious now to the thin barely recognizable trail that had only a few minutes earlier annoyed and worried us. We covered enough distance hiking by the river to make sure that we would have room to fish in either direction from camp and found a great little spot nestled right on a flat relatively quite stretch of water, it was tucked under the trees but positioned to soak up the spectacular but limited fall sunshine and even had a banked fire pit with wood already gathered by the former occupants. Life doesn’t get much better and we immediately dropped packs and bounced down to waters edge to filter a much needed drink of that clear cold water. The thousands of fallen autumn leaves were rolling around in the current like the flashing of feeding rainbows, brown and brookies providing a constant rolling collage of motion and color. Somehow I savor that first sip of freshly filtered river water with as much delight as a wine snob savoring the first quaff of a new vintage that they had paid way way too much money for. As I raised the blue naglene bottle to my lips I could smell the earthy musk of the leaves and the first taste had that unmistakable “oaky wood” finish of good bourbon due to the wonderful acidic tannins of the many leaves in the water. That first “oaky” taste of cold stream water was worth the entire effort of the trip all on its own.
We quickly set up camp and got everything stowed away so the fishing part of the adventure could begin. As I slipped into waders I contemplated the question that had perplexed me since we caught sight of the stream. Do I rig the 5wt and go deep to the bottoms of the plunge pools for the bigger browns or do I rig the 3 wt and flip a dry and dropper combo in the flats. This is always a tough question for me, I truly love dry fly strikes but have long since learned that nymphs are most likely going to be more productive for the majority of this type water in early November. So I did what any rational fly fisherman would do … rigged the 3wt for dries for me and talked Boots into rigging deep for nymphs. At least that way I would know what worked the best today as advance knowledge for tomorrow. We split up and headed in opposite still rushing as fast as the river in that first fish lust that predominates the early part of a fishing trip. The first group of holes were fairly unproductive and I felt myself getting even more impatient for that first fish. It seems that even a short dose of delayed harvest can get us accustomed to way to many fish per foot of water than is rational and couple that with a summer of wild brookies and their normal reckless abandon at any fly within striking distance and a guy can get downright impatient. Fortunately I finally found a fish that liked my small green cooper john dropper. The fight was short and sweet and soon a small 8 or 9-inch bow lay in my hand. There is nothing quite like the release of pent up energy when you finally land that first fish of the trip. It seems that everything is right with the world as you are outdoors and fishing and you know you can’t get skunked cause you are already on the board. I fished hard for the next couple of hours catching some fish from the likely looking holes but finding myself shaking my head at much more of the likely looking water as I couldn’t seem to coax a strike. I reached a beautiful waterfall hole with a series of deep plunge pools that I knew would be tough to fish with a dry but I saw some likely looking water just under a rhododendron branch hanging into the water. I suddenly realized that this wasn’t just a normal Rhododendron but one of the world famous fly eating rhododendrons that strikes fear into the hearts of southern fly-fishermen everywhere. I knew that I would have to make a nearly perfect cast or I would find myself doing battle with that terrible fly eating rhododendron, that wax leafed bastard. As you might expect I missed my first cast but somehow managed to keep my fly from becoming a permanent part of the foliage, so armed with a miraculous second chance I fired away with a side arm bounce cast that somehow managed to find the target circle of water. I expected an instant strike but was rewarded only with a bobbing dry that eventually sucked into the vortex of the start of another plunge. But as I lifted my rod to flip the fly back to the surface I felt a solid weight and a telltale headshake that let me know that luck had struck again and I was fast to a fish. With little room to run in the rock hemmed pool the struggle was brief but memorable as the rainbow leaped magnificently into the air twice, one of which was nearly as high as my head as I was standing in a pool several feet below the fish. When I got the fish to hand it taped at just a shade under 13-inches which is a pretty good fish for this type stream, if I do say so myself. The stream we were fishing is famed as a “brown stream” but here I was catching more rainbows than browns, oh well I wasn’t arguing no matter what type fish I was catching … at least I was catching fish. By then the daylight was starting to fade and so was my energy level so I decided to drag my worn out butt back to the camp. I picked Boots up along the way and we wearily trudged back to camp just as sunset was starting to turn the mountain tops around our stream a washed out orange, like a fire burning way off in the distance. Boots “cooked” dinner for us with those meals that you just pour water over the chemical packet and watch them start to smoke and heat up while I fixed a couple of bourbon and stream waters for us. A cook and a bartender what else can you ask for. Those little heat a meal deals are really neat and surprisingly tasty when you have hiked and fished all over hell’s half-acre and are starved to the core. Soon the food was devoured, plates washed (I mean burned) and we were stretched out next to the campfire smoking a cigar and enjoying the bourbon and the silence. The thing about a good camping partner is they know just the right mix of when to talk and when to just sit and enjoy the silence, which is a thing far to rare in our modern suburban lifestyles. As the fire dies lower and the bourbon bottle slips to nearly empty then the conversations turns philosophical and intense but in that first hour or so of darkness the sound of the river and the fire are just about the perfect thing to listen to. Before the cigars had even burned halfway down we were treated to a rising full moon, a soft bright yellow almost like a golden coin sliding out of the purple shadows of the mountain tops with just the faintest darkened air-brushings creating the face on the front. And then as the exhausted cigars butts were being cast into the fire pit we were treated to a miraculous lunar eclipse. It is easy to see how a lunar eclipse could have raised such awe and consternation among the native people of the world, as they are a truly awesome spectacle to see. The shinning golden moon slipped into shadow as if it was being eaten by some unseen monstrous all-powerful force, disappearing from view only to suddenly reemerge whole on the other side. It was perfect ending to a great day so we said goodnight and slipped into our tents and off to an untroubled exhausted sleep.
The next morning was cool but only pleasantly so, one of those mornings where the transition from snug sleeping back to warm flannel shirt is a quick breathtaking affair but fairly painless. Morning oatmeal was inhaled in a matter of seconds and we soon had camp broken down and were dressed for the days fishing. The 2nd day of fishing always has a more relaxed feel to it than the hurried frantic pace of the first day. We decided to each fish the same type rig as we had fished the day before: me back on the dry dropper and him on the double nymph rig, but to fish together today splitting the water as it was dictated by depth and type. This time we hiked a decent distance above a beautiful 20-foot waterfall before we began fishing. This waterfall is supposedly, according to all of the books, the beginning of the “brown” water. But after yesterdays rainbow day I found myself doubting the accuracy of the books. The stream was delightful looking in the clear indirect morning light. The morning light of fall is such a treat as the sunshine becomes like a tolerant kindly warming grandfather compared to the harsh taskmaster overbearing ways of the southern summer sun. I found myself standing enjoying the view as the sunlight filtered into the water illuminating it as if there was a soft spotlight underneath the water shinning upwards. Every item floating in the water was silhouetted in relief against the backdrop of rock formations. It seemed to pretty to cast into it yet when the fly landed with a soft ripple it too was silhouetted in a light shadow as it rode on the current. An unseen shadowy shape quickly detached itself from the ripples of light reflecting off the bottom of the stream and rose in an almost slow motion take. It was not a hard fast take but more of an insistent slurp off the surface, frozen in a freeze frame in my memory in a detail and coloration that was all golds and shadows as if in an old gold washed painting. Here I was into the first fish of the day … and on my first cast. When I brought the fish to hand it was indeed a gold washed day as I held a wild brown with the deepest golden coloration I had ever seen. In the spirit of King Midas I almost couldn’t bear to return that bit of gold back to the stream. I held the fish under the surface resting in my hand and just watched him until finally the sting of the icy water brought me back from my gold washed reverie and the little brown swam slowly off. From that point forward my day was made and complete so I fished on in a state of satisfaction that found me simply observing the water, the woods and the world as much as actually casting for trout. After all I knew I couldn’t surpass the perfection of that first take. Boots was successful in catching several nice fish all beautiful brightly colored wild browns and somehow in spite of myself I also caught a few more. So forgive me oh great Jimmy Jacobs for ever doubting the accuracy of your words. The day was perfect in temperature and in the scenic beauty of our surroundings and we lost ourselves in the glory of the world around us until all too soon we knew we had to return to the campsite to pick up our packs and begin our descent into reality out of this wooded flowing wonderland.
The hike out was a quiet one as we were both lost in the memories of our trip and the beauty of the fading sunlight of the fall afternoon. We each fell into our own comfortable pace and walked in solitude even though the other was never very far away. The soreness of over used muscles was almost pleasant, as it seemed to mark the passage of distance and as a measure of our strides as they pushed us further and further back up the side of the hill leading out of the stream valley. As we reached the top of the hill and came out facing the lake our half of the lake was bathed in a soft purple shadow while the other half of the lake was ablaze in the golden wash of the afternoon sun. It was so bright in contrast to our shadows that all color save the golden hues of the sunlight was lost. What little breath I had left was instantly taken by the majesty of the scene before me. I snapped several mental photographs while wishing I had a real camera although there was no way mere film could do the contrast in light justice. I stood still and silent and drank in the light as long I dared knowing that we still had miles to go before reaching the truck. It was with a content but resigned sigh as I finally forced myself to turn back to the trail and the remaining descent that signaled the end of a beautiful golden fall weekend of fishing and scenery.
(pardon the backcast but maybe it was worth the re-read)
As usual, my trips for the past few years start off with a blank spot on the calendar and believe me that is by far the toughest thing to find. Football season was over and my voice was actually beginning to return to normal after months of coaching, correcting and yelling at a large group of 8th grader football players and “would be” football players (try to explain that difference to a parent). I actually could see a clear clean white section of the calendar in the early part of November. Great, it was right after my 41st birthday so I could ask for a guilt free weekend in the woods as my birthday present, and which of us fly fishermen could argue with that kind of present … … unless of course you are counting on getting a custom made bamboo flyrod for your birthday … … which of course I wasn’t ...........but I can dream can’t I. So this was as good as I was going to get. With the time slot carefully reserved and marked appropriately on the calendar …… I began the ritual of trying to decide where to go. In the beginning of my explorations that was always an easy decision, I went to whatever destination the crowd steered me toward. But somehow over the years I have developed a list of favorite places which is only rivaled by my list of “want to go” places which is even further complicated by all of the wonderful places I have caught hints of in the whispered recesses of fly shops and bulletin boards. Anyway the decision always comes down to exploring something new or reliving past successful trips. Inherently I always end up wanting to do the exploration thing that is so near and dear to all of us who like to wander those thin blue lines of the Delorme. So I made all of the usual inquiries of all of those fantastic people who have in the past, faithfully steered me toward the streams and mountain valleys that are near and dear to their hearts. At this point I would like to stop and offer my most sincere thanks for sharing these small slices of their souls with me and hopefully I have treated them with a reverence that is reserved for such an honor. The choices were numerous and all of the options promising but one of the recommendations caught my eye as a trip I just had to make. Boots graciously agreed to come along as a chaperone to make sure that I didn’t get into too much trouble, so the planning stage was complete.
I have recently invested in a whole lot of “stuff” that I didn’t even know I needed much less understand how to use … which should be read as a poop load of expensive new camping/backpacking gear which obviously enriched and provided great humor to the man at REI who obviously “saw me coming” miles off. So this time getting every thing laid out, packed and loaded was easy and I didn’t even have to repack … … too many times. We arrived at the designated destination it looked like anything but a trailhead to a wild trout stream. In fact it looked a lot like a boat dock for a southern bass fishing lake, which kinda made me nervous. Several locals working with a group of radio collared hunting dogs stared at us with some curiosity and large amount of undisguised humor as we got out of the truck and struggled to gracefully slip 40 pound packs onto fat aging old bodies. Read that as they laughed their ass off about these two dumb asses walking into the woods with all of that stuff on their backs just to go fishing when there was a whole lake sitting right there. (Okay Boots, I am talking about myself not you so stop whining, I didn’t call you fat and old … … he hates it when I write about him). The beginning of the trail was an old roadbed so it was pleasant walking for the first part of the trip. We peacefully plodded along so caught up in the anticipation of the trip and that inevitable worry that we weren’t “headed in the right direction” that we barley took notice of the lovely Appalachian scenery that was spread out in front of us. Suddenly the roadbed turned in one direction while my map said we were supposed to go in another. After standing there for a few seconds I though I saw a small thin break in the under brush that looked like it might be a rabbit trail and decided that must be our trail. The next twenty minutes or so found us traveling over an obvious trail but it sure wasn’t MUCH of a trail. Just about the time I had decided that I really had screwed up and sent us in the wrong direction we came across some wooden trail improvements and realized that we must still be headed in the right direction. We were still following the lakeshore curving around each bend and trudging up and down each ridgeline but still no stream … … I was beginning to get tense as the distances mounted and still no sign of a trout stream. I am sure the actual distances traveled were fairly small as hiking destinations go but based on the sweat pouring off of me and shortness of breath involved I sure felt like I had covered a lot of ground. The trail began climbing and climbing but still the magical sound of a trout stream maddeningly eluded us: had we taken a wrong turn, or were we the victim of some elaborate internet “urban legend” joke about a mythical trout stream in the hills. Finally we reached a crest and stopped to rest long enough that my gasping for breath subsided to a point where I could hear, off in the distance, the sound that I had been anticipating so. The Rushing Water Orchestra was playing my favorite song Trout Stream Concerto in E minor. My blood pressure immediately dropped, my stress level vanished and my pack got 15 pounds lighter as I rushed down the hill to get my first glimpse of that magical water. It was sure enough a trout stream rushing out of the mountainside toward the lake below. A clear cold, perfect series of light bluish green plunge pools connected by long gin clear glides of icy water sliding over giant folded rock formations reflecting like bursts of cheap crystals in the sunlight. And interspersed in this liquid splendor were those occasional darkened shadows that glided in and out of sight just often enough that my casting arm began to twitch slightly. Once again my shadowy inter-net informants had been right. I stood next to the stream listening to its roar and drank in the scenery spread out before me, the green of the hemlocks mixed with the darker green of the pines mixed with the lighter green of the moss all of which clashed with the still vibrant fall carpet of leaves that lay under foot. Dancing like golden ghostly wisps through the trees was the last remnants of golden yellow leaves that somehow managed to cling to the trees in spite of the perilous winds of autumn. We hiked next to the river, oblivious now to the thin barely recognizable trail that had only a few minutes earlier annoyed and worried us. We covered enough distance hiking by the river to make sure that we would have room to fish in either direction from camp and found a great little spot nestled right on a flat relatively quite stretch of water, it was tucked under the trees but positioned to soak up the spectacular but limited fall sunshine and even had a banked fire pit with wood already gathered by the former occupants. Life doesn’t get much better and we immediately dropped packs and bounced down to waters edge to filter a much needed drink of that clear cold water. The thousands of fallen autumn leaves were rolling around in the current like the flashing of feeding rainbows, brown and brookies providing a constant rolling collage of motion and color. Somehow I savor that first sip of freshly filtered river water with as much delight as a wine snob savoring the first quaff of a new vintage that they had paid way way too much money for. As I raised the blue naglene bottle to my lips I could smell the earthy musk of the leaves and the first taste had that unmistakable “oaky wood” finish of good bourbon due to the wonderful acidic tannins of the many leaves in the water. That first “oaky” taste of cold stream water was worth the entire effort of the trip all on its own.
We quickly set up camp and got everything stowed away so the fishing part of the adventure could begin. As I slipped into waders I contemplated the question that had perplexed me since we caught sight of the stream. Do I rig the 5wt and go deep to the bottoms of the plunge pools for the bigger browns or do I rig the 3 wt and flip a dry and dropper combo in the flats. This is always a tough question for me, I truly love dry fly strikes but have long since learned that nymphs are most likely going to be more productive for the majority of this type water in early November. So I did what any rational fly fisherman would do … rigged the 3wt for dries for me and talked Boots into rigging deep for nymphs. At least that way I would know what worked the best today as advance knowledge for tomorrow. We split up and headed in opposite still rushing as fast as the river in that first fish lust that predominates the early part of a fishing trip. The first group of holes were fairly unproductive and I felt myself getting even more impatient for that first fish. It seems that even a short dose of delayed harvest can get us accustomed to way to many fish per foot of water than is rational and couple that with a summer of wild brookies and their normal reckless abandon at any fly within striking distance and a guy can get downright impatient. Fortunately I finally found a fish that liked my small green cooper john dropper. The fight was short and sweet and soon a small 8 or 9-inch bow lay in my hand. There is nothing quite like the release of pent up energy when you finally land that first fish of the trip. It seems that everything is right with the world as you are outdoors and fishing and you know you can’t get skunked cause you are already on the board. I fished hard for the next couple of hours catching some fish from the likely looking holes but finding myself shaking my head at much more of the likely looking water as I couldn’t seem to coax a strike. I reached a beautiful waterfall hole with a series of deep plunge pools that I knew would be tough to fish with a dry but I saw some likely looking water just under a rhododendron branch hanging into the water. I suddenly realized that this wasn’t just a normal Rhododendron but one of the world famous fly eating rhododendrons that strikes fear into the hearts of southern fly-fishermen everywhere. I knew that I would have to make a nearly perfect cast or I would find myself doing battle with that terrible fly eating rhododendron, that wax leafed bastard. As you might expect I missed my first cast but somehow managed to keep my fly from becoming a permanent part of the foliage, so armed with a miraculous second chance I fired away with a side arm bounce cast that somehow managed to find the target circle of water. I expected an instant strike but was rewarded only with a bobbing dry that eventually sucked into the vortex of the start of another plunge. But as I lifted my rod to flip the fly back to the surface I felt a solid weight and a telltale headshake that let me know that luck had struck again and I was fast to a fish. With little room to run in the rock hemmed pool the struggle was brief but memorable as the rainbow leaped magnificently into the air twice, one of which was nearly as high as my head as I was standing in a pool several feet below the fish. When I got the fish to hand it taped at just a shade under 13-inches which is a pretty good fish for this type stream, if I do say so myself. The stream we were fishing is famed as a “brown stream” but here I was catching more rainbows than browns, oh well I wasn’t arguing no matter what type fish I was catching … at least I was catching fish. By then the daylight was starting to fade and so was my energy level so I decided to drag my worn out butt back to the camp. I picked Boots up along the way and we wearily trudged back to camp just as sunset was starting to turn the mountain tops around our stream a washed out orange, like a fire burning way off in the distance. Boots “cooked” dinner for us with those meals that you just pour water over the chemical packet and watch them start to smoke and heat up while I fixed a couple of bourbon and stream waters for us. A cook and a bartender what else can you ask for. Those little heat a meal deals are really neat and surprisingly tasty when you have hiked and fished all over hell’s half-acre and are starved to the core. Soon the food was devoured, plates washed (I mean burned) and we were stretched out next to the campfire smoking a cigar and enjoying the bourbon and the silence. The thing about a good camping partner is they know just the right mix of when to talk and when to just sit and enjoy the silence, which is a thing far to rare in our modern suburban lifestyles. As the fire dies lower and the bourbon bottle slips to nearly empty then the conversations turns philosophical and intense but in that first hour or so of darkness the sound of the river and the fire are just about the perfect thing to listen to. Before the cigars had even burned halfway down we were treated to a rising full moon, a soft bright yellow almost like a golden coin sliding out of the purple shadows of the mountain tops with just the faintest darkened air-brushings creating the face on the front. And then as the exhausted cigars butts were being cast into the fire pit we were treated to a miraculous lunar eclipse. It is easy to see how a lunar eclipse could have raised such awe and consternation among the native people of the world, as they are a truly awesome spectacle to see. The shinning golden moon slipped into shadow as if it was being eaten by some unseen monstrous all-powerful force, disappearing from view only to suddenly reemerge whole on the other side. It was perfect ending to a great day so we said goodnight and slipped into our tents and off to an untroubled exhausted sleep.
The next morning was cool but only pleasantly so, one of those mornings where the transition from snug sleeping back to warm flannel shirt is a quick breathtaking affair but fairly painless. Morning oatmeal was inhaled in a matter of seconds and we soon had camp broken down and were dressed for the days fishing. The 2nd day of fishing always has a more relaxed feel to it than the hurried frantic pace of the first day. We decided to each fish the same type rig as we had fished the day before: me back on the dry dropper and him on the double nymph rig, but to fish together today splitting the water as it was dictated by depth and type. This time we hiked a decent distance above a beautiful 20-foot waterfall before we began fishing. This waterfall is supposedly, according to all of the books, the beginning of the “brown” water. But after yesterdays rainbow day I found myself doubting the accuracy of the books. The stream was delightful looking in the clear indirect morning light. The morning light of fall is such a treat as the sunshine becomes like a tolerant kindly warming grandfather compared to the harsh taskmaster overbearing ways of the southern summer sun. I found myself standing enjoying the view as the sunlight filtered into the water illuminating it as if there was a soft spotlight underneath the water shinning upwards. Every item floating in the water was silhouetted in relief against the backdrop of rock formations. It seemed to pretty to cast into it yet when the fly landed with a soft ripple it too was silhouetted in a light shadow as it rode on the current. An unseen shadowy shape quickly detached itself from the ripples of light reflecting off the bottom of the stream and rose in an almost slow motion take. It was not a hard fast take but more of an insistent slurp off the surface, frozen in a freeze frame in my memory in a detail and coloration that was all golds and shadows as if in an old gold washed painting. Here I was into the first fish of the day … and on my first cast. When I brought the fish to hand it was indeed a gold washed day as I held a wild brown with the deepest golden coloration I had ever seen. In the spirit of King Midas I almost couldn’t bear to return that bit of gold back to the stream. I held the fish under the surface resting in my hand and just watched him until finally the sting of the icy water brought me back from my gold washed reverie and the little brown swam slowly off. From that point forward my day was made and complete so I fished on in a state of satisfaction that found me simply observing the water, the woods and the world as much as actually casting for trout. After all I knew I couldn’t surpass the perfection of that first take. Boots was successful in catching several nice fish all beautiful brightly colored wild browns and somehow in spite of myself I also caught a few more. So forgive me oh great Jimmy Jacobs for ever doubting the accuracy of your words. The day was perfect in temperature and in the scenic beauty of our surroundings and we lost ourselves in the glory of the world around us until all too soon we knew we had to return to the campsite to pick up our packs and begin our descent into reality out of this wooded flowing wonderland.
The hike out was a quiet one as we were both lost in the memories of our trip and the beauty of the fading sunlight of the fall afternoon. We each fell into our own comfortable pace and walked in solitude even though the other was never very far away. The soreness of over used muscles was almost pleasant, as it seemed to mark the passage of distance and as a measure of our strides as they pushed us further and further back up the side of the hill leading out of the stream valley. As we reached the top of the hill and came out facing the lake our half of the lake was bathed in a soft purple shadow while the other half of the lake was ablaze in the golden wash of the afternoon sun. It was so bright in contrast to our shadows that all color save the golden hues of the sunlight was lost. What little breath I had left was instantly taken by the majesty of the scene before me. I snapped several mental photographs while wishing I had a real camera although there was no way mere film could do the contrast in light justice. I stood still and silent and drank in the light as long I dared knowing that we still had miles to go before reaching the truck. It was with a content but resigned sigh as I finally forced myself to turn back to the trail and the remaining descent that signaled the end of a beautiful golden fall weekend of fishing and scenery.
(pardon the backcast but maybe it was worth the re-read)
