One of the things I love most about fly fishing is how this sport endlessly generates new stories. Even with the shocking amount of data in this world (the internet doubles in size roughly every two years), we haven’t run out of things to say about fly fishing.
The Drift: Life on the Water is a new weekly column here at Flylords, and it’s my attempt to hopefully put out some enjoyable stories for you. From observations on the water to opinions in the fly fishing world, my goal is to tackle it all. I hope you can learn something from these stories, as well.
To kick things off, I want to share what happened on the water last week.
First Signs of Spring
I live in Wyoming, and winters here are never easy. This winter was tougher than usual, though, thanks to a few cold snaps that held temps around -20F. It’s the sort of cold that seeps into your bones and doesn’t leave, no matter how high you crank the furnace.
The cold finally broke in the past two weeks, and it’s more like spring now. At the first sign of decent weather, I ditched my work obligations and spent most of the afternoon on a local tailwater. It might be warming up, but the freestones are still frozen solid.
This particular river fishes well year-round, but this transition between winter and spring can bring out some of its biggest fish. Last year, I hooked into a rainbow trout that was every bit of 25 inches. Of course, I didn’t land that one. It snapped my leader with an almost disappointed shake of its head, as though the fish expected more of a fight from me.
As we all do, I had a slight hope I’d hook into that big fish again. Everything seemed to line up perfectly, too. The ever-present Wyoming wind was taking a smoke break, it was about 45F, and there were clouds of midges hatching when I pulled up to the river.
There weren’t any fish rising, but that’s typical for this portion of the river. It takes a thick hatch to bring these trout up, and while this midge hatch was the best I’d seen all year, it wasn’t anything crazy.
I tied on a sow bug and midge, found a bobber in my vest, and got to work drifting through the deeper runs and pools.
This river tends to fish slow, outside of June and July when the Yellow Sallies, caddis, and pale morning duns are out and about. So, I didn’t think much of it when an hour had passed, and I hadn’t hooked into anything yet.
I moved on to another part of the river, where the water’s a bit quicker. I thought that, even if the fish weren’t rising, maybe the fish would follow the midges into faster water.
Another hour passed, and I hadn’t touched a fish. I hadn’t even seen a fish. The river felt as lifeless as a Super Bowl party without wings. I started to worry about getting skunked.
I don’t mind getting skunked. I know it really rubs some anglers the wrong way, and I have a few friends who do just about anything to avoid going home empty-handed. I’m willing to take my lumps when they come, but I don’t enjoy it. I just reckon the days of not catching anything are part of what I signed up for.
But this was one of those days where the skunk just didn’t make sense. I fished hard for three hours. I picked the water apart to the best of my abilities. I switched out flies, toyed with my depth, and drifted through anything that looked like it might hold a fish.
The trout, if they were there, ignored everything. The river was thoroughly kicking my butt. My pride was taking a hit, too. I’ve lived in this part of Wyoming for three years now, and I like to think I have a handle on my local rivers.
No matter how well you think you know a fishery, though, I’ve found they’ll always surprise you.
With about an hour of daylight left, I drove out of the canyon, following the river where it flows through a nearby town. I parked next to a bridge, tied on a squirmy worm, and started drifting through a little trough.
I could see houses across the river, and cars drove over the bridge. It was hardly a wild setting, but at least I was putting in the time and effort to not get skunked.
I felt a half-hearted tug on my line, so I set the hook. The trout fought like it was still winter, but it wasn’t a bad fish at all.
These days are a good reminder that fishing isn’t supposed to be easy, but it’s definitely meant to be rewarding.