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| Autumn River ~ Doris Loiseau |
Transitions
September is the month of the
ambiguous hero. Transient. Melancholic. At the beginning of the month Autumn
sneaks up in the cool of the night & lingers into the chilly morning until
the conquering sun of high summer tops the ridge. Yet even the sun, still
winning at midday, can’t defeat the ever tilting parallax. The hubcap bright
heat of summer inevitably gives way to slanting rose light & ripened
pumpkins, & the hatchless dog days of August slowly give way to Fall insect
hatches, October caddis, binge-feeding trout fattening for winter.
The months pass too swiftly
& seem to accelerate with each year. You hear it said that “time is money”
but I don’t think so. Like money, there’s just never enough time. Funny thing:
time spends quicker, yet can buy more than money.
And all the money in the
world can’t buy a single minute.
You may know that Peter Fonda
passed away in August. SHJ reader & friend, John Tobin, shares a personal
recollection of crossing paths.
A Recollection of Peter Fonda
At the news of the death of
Peter Fonda I was reminded of once having greeted this “Easy Rider” and avid
fly fisher. It was in the early morning
of a summer day in 1981 or ’82 on an overlook above Paradise
Valley, near Livingston, Montana. My friend Randy and I had just departed our
tent trailer at Pine Creek campground high in the Absaroka
Range, on our way down for a day’s fishing the coveted, private
water of Nelson’s Spring Creek. As was
our habit on the first day of this annual event, we stopped at a little
overlook 500 feet above the valley.
There lay the expanse of ranch and field and forest, transected by the
north flowing Yellowstone
River, bathed in morning
light. Then, tranquility was suddenly
broken when half a dozen bikers came roaring up the slope and pulled in. Out of courtesy, or maybe awe, they shut down
their hogs. I glanced out of my open window
to see, parked next to me, Peter Fonda, astride not the film’s iconic “Captain America”
chopper, but a respectable Harley. He
was unmistakable: hatless, windswept hair, aviator shades.
I called out to him, a little
showy, “Hey Peter, how’s fishing been?
We have rods on Nelson’s today!”
Randy rolled his eyes.
Peter turned to us with his
unmistakable, trademark grin and nodded politely.
Then we continued on our
way.
I learned later from Helen
Nelson that Fonda had a ranch close by, on Suce Creek road, and sometimes
fished their creek when he could get a rod. It seems now it could not have
been a better instance of life imitating art than if Jack Nicholson had been
riding pillion on Fonda’s bike that morning.
John Tobin
The Confluence
Comes a time we travel to meet new rivers
and the confluences of rivers, and the compelling mystery of the journey and
that first meeting is what excites us the most.
Arrived at the smaller river, about a mile
above its confluence with the big river, Reverend James and I stand surveying
the flow unskeining down over smoothed glacial till. Late autumn and the rivers
are low. Still, there is a lot of water, the major portion drained from the
northern West Slope passes by us. The river is about one hundred yards across
at its widest, maybe six feet deep in places. For the most part it is a three
to five foot deep glide terminating in an intriguing set of riffles just above
the confluence. The entire mile down to the confluence looks fishable. The
glide is slow in places, a steelheader might pass some of it up, but this is
trout water. Trout live here and are eating, not single-mindedly passing
through to some upstream spawning destination, so they might be anywhere.
Even the slowest water down the glide
appears to have enough velocity to swing our gear. We’ve come with light Spey
rods, rigged with short sink-tips and 8-foot leaders. The leader is longer than
most steelheaders like, but this is trouting, the longer leader gets more takes
and also helps prevent the sink tip from dragging the fly into the bottom in
shallower water. Our flies aren’t weighted. And if the water’s too slow to
swing, we’ll fish through anyway – cast and strip.
An eagle drifts across the long sky, head
tilting. The river basin is wide and rimmed with mountain peaks holding a skiff
of fresh snow. It’s early and the day is already warming, the mountains
releasing their night gathered clouds. Down the bank I note a few adult October
Caddis crawling among the rocks. Lots of empty nymph shucks on the river
stones. Good sign. We were hoping there’d be October Caddis.
We start beneath a high bridge where the
river breaks from a deep, slow pool in a narrow passage and opens, the
elevation suddenly dropping to hurry the flow to a short riffle section. Under
the bridge a rock formation rises midstream to split the riffle. The deep water
slot is on the near side of the rock and it is too deep to wade so the enticing
water on the far side can’t be reached.
James is ready. I’m not ready yet.
Selecting an October Caddis wetfly from my box, I nod toward the slot,
unleashing James. He ghosts toward a position while considering the flow.
Reverend James fishes with the intensity of a hound yet moves like a heron. He
is observant, staying back from the stream until settling on a post, then
quietly slipping in where he can best cover the run while remaining
unobtrusive.
I decide to fish the water below James,
where the riffle thickens into the long glide extending downriver. I’m not to
the spot yet and hear the startled scraw of a fully activated click-pawl and
turn to observe James’ rod bent deep to the grip. It’s a good fish. I stop to
watch him fight it. At the other end of the line, the
trout chooses the ‘flight’ option, and I think it odd that we say the fish is
‘fighting’, as if mute fish deliberately seek to challenge and beat us at this
contrived game wherein we win no matter what and can only beat ourselves. The
trout is only trying to get away, it rips upstream and then across above the
midstream rock island, and then turns and heads downstream again –
horse-shoeing James’ line around the rock – and comes unbuttoned. It happens
quick.
James smiles and shakes his head, fishes a
thin cigar from his pocket. “See that? Schooled me,” he says.
“Yup. Saw it. ‘At one was an evil-doer.”
James, suspecting there’s another fish in
the slot, sits on a rock and smokes the cigar while resting it.
I come away empty on the tail-out and
start working down the glide. Trout could be anywhere in this so I want to
cover it thoroughly. Working down, I take three steps between each casting
position. The bank is fairly open, gravel, smooth footing. I make a short cast
then place my steps, giving the fly an extra moment to sink while I move down
to finish the swing at the new position. There, I make another short cast and
fish it out, then make a long cast, then another short cast which I fish while
slipping down to the next position.
A whoop from under the bridge signals
James is on again. The trout is neither as big or canny as the first one he
hooked. He brings it to net. A nice redband just the same. Some places it might
be considered a wall-hanger but here it is average. James leaves it in the
water and releases it quickly.
I stick to the routine; the #4 Spey covers
the water. We’re trouting, so James and I are both using 15’ heads backed with
30 pound test, low-memory mono shooting line. We like mono for trout, as it
allows maximum distance with the lighter, short heads, and a relatively
low-cost spool supplies a lot of shooting line. The 15’ heads will carry tips
up to 15’ in length. My line is rigged with a 5’ fast-sinking poly leader, and
James is fishing a 10’ poly leader with a slower sink rate. The 15’ heads with
interchangeable tips give us a 20’ to 30’ casting line, depending on the length
of tip used. The day is warming but the low sun still weak, the slanted autumn
light won’t penetrate the river to create a mid-day doldrum as in summer. I
step and cast, taking in the day.
A steelheader might angle the cast more
downstream but, old school, I quarter casts to place the fly slightly upstream.
I’m not big on mending a lot. Generally one mend at the completion of a cast,
if I need to. I just want to get in contact with the fly. Whatever it takes. In
faster water, if necessary, a single upstream mend; slow water, a downstream
mend to speed the fly up. Quartering across or upstream allows the fly to sink
and present dead-drift for a ways before accelerating down into the swing phase
of the cast. Trout will often take during the initial dead-drift phase of the
quartered upstream cast. If the fish indicate they are liking it dead-drift,
I’ll angle my casts more upstream to achieve a longer drift, as in the classic
wetfly presentation. The water here has
some velocity and depth. The fly drifts downstream of my position, picking up
speed dropping down the current. I let line slip through the fingers of my rod
hand, six inches, then stop, six inches, stop, slowing the fly’s drift some
while activating the fly. Trout like it jiggling. At the end of the swing the
fly is still in likely water, so I fish the dangle, lifting the rod, then
lowering it. I do that a few times, raising the fly then letting it drop back,
then holding the rod tip close to the water and sweeping it slowly side to
side, swimming the fly back and forth – and doing that brings a take and I pull
the hook into a good fish.
James, done with the slot under the
bridge, hound-dogging down the bank, arrives to net the trout for me. We admire
it laid out like a newborn in the net bag. It’s a boy. A buck redband well over
20 inches. Big kype on him, leopard-spotted and colored-up, three inch wide
stripes down its flanks vermillion as the final blood meridian of day. I slip
the hook from its jaw, it gathers strength, rights itself and fins away. We
watch the water absorb its light and it is gone.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Reverend James looks at me, surprised,
secretly amused, says: “It’s hustle time.” With that he turns and heads to a
position about a cast downstream of me, as is our custom when swinging a long
run together. Catch a fish, the other guy leapfrogs to the lead position. James
is thorough and as fishy as they come. Fishing behind him is pretty much just
exercise. I’m not sweating it. Entertaining a selfish motive, I’m counting on
James scoring a fish before we get down to that gravy riffle section just above
the confluence, putting me in position to be first at the riffle. Selfish? Nah.
Given the chance, James would have no problem getting the first shot at that
riffle. It’s new water to us and we’re already on the boards, so we’re charged
and stoked.
Basking in the afterglow of my recent
battle with Mr. Buck, I take a seat on a nearby boulder, have a drink of water
and roll a smoke while watching Reverend James work down the slowest portion of
the run. He is methodical, solemnly self-possessed, each cast placed as a
gesture of offering. I amuse myself carrying on an imaginary conversation with
the trout: Be careful. Rev James is not
offering absolution. He’s tricky.
There’s a hook inside that imitation food item he wants you to eat. The
only salvation in this comes when he’s done with you, and that’s no sure thing.
There’s always the possibility you will become the chosen one and he will hit
you over the head with a rock, drop you into his pack, then grill you over hot
coals later. Last supper.
The trout aren’t listening and James
receives a grab, yet fails to set iron. He turns in my direction and nods
toward the water letting me know he had a grab, then makes a few more casts
before stepping along.
James is at the slowest portion of the run
now, not far above the enticing riffle section. He’s mending downstream with
each cast, creating a downstream line belly to gather flow and swing the fly.
But there’s not enough velocity to the flow and he hangs the bottom. He jiggles
the fly free then places another cast – this time opting not to swing, instead,
after placing the cast, mending to get direct contact with the fly, letting it
sink for a five-count, then retrieving with quick, short strips. A few strips
and James’ October Caddis softie gets nailed and he is on. The fish stays deep
and puts up a bulldogging fight. I arrive on time to net it, a 17 inch brook
trout in full autumn color. We take pictures of the brookie, then I get along
down the bank. I don’t feel guilty leaving James the rest of the slow section.
Maybe he’ll catch another char. We love char, especially the larger models.
The riffle, with good fish-holding depth,
proves as good as it looks. Barely into it, I take a nice redband. Plenty of
water left for Reverend James, who leapfrogs ahead and takes another good
redband farther down the riffle.
We can go no further down the smaller
river, so we stop for a smoke. The fishing is good, we both agree.
We consider the spine of low hills
entrained in reclining-woman profile between us and the big river. The riffle
section relaxes to a broad, deep pool of conflicted currents at the confluence
of the two rivers. The headland abruptly breaks to a cliff dropping into the
deep water of the confluence, barring passage down the bank from our side of
the river. It’s well past noon. Could be a mile hike over that hill to the big
river. Might be farther. We don’t know. It’s new country to us, and the main
vein waiting beyond that hill is a mystery newly minted and fresh. We check the
position of the sun. Scan the sky for weather. A raven calls from the woods
somewhere on the hill, between us and the big river. The agreement is tacit, we
hitch our packs and pass over the river stones, moving swiftly toward the raven’s
call.
American
Wetfly Masters ~ James Fish
James Fish is one of a
handful of talented upper Columbia
locals. His name says it all, James is a fishy dude (with impeccable tastes in literature & music). He is a master carpenter & builder of fine cabinetry, as well as an accomplished fly tyer. James & I share a love of trout spey & the music of Van Morrison. Last time we
fished I picked his box, & he kindly agreed to share his patterns with SHJ.
The UC begs a downstream swing approach & we see that reflected in James’s
designs, particularly the long-shanked hooks he prefers on patterns meant to be
swung (short-biters beware).
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| Olive Sedge Emerger ~ James Fish |
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| Green Butt Partridge & Peacock ~ James Fish |
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| October Caddis ~ James Fish |
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| Spotted Sedge ~ James Fish |
The Reel News
Facing the inevitable &
changing gears.
This article is a bit cheeky
but this technology should be taken seriously. This simple, portable device
might make it possible to move sea-runs & smolts over the dams.
If you’re reading this, then
you probably understand the importance of ‘story’.
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| October Caddis Pupa |
October
Caddis
For those of us
afflicted with melancholus
habitus, autumn is the most
exquisitely melancholic season of the year. Life has emerged from summer’s oven
& cooled to a glorious apple cake that will, swiftly, become a sweet memory
in winter.
Gary LaFontaine wrote
that October caddis (Dicosmocus) are
the most important ‘big fish’ hatch of the West, & I agree. True, this
opinion isn’t shared by everybody. Based on my own experience, reasons for a
negative review may have arisen from having spent too much time presenting
“big, bushy” dry flies without great success. Or, perhaps, some confusion about
how October caddis actually look & act at emergence, & how important
that stage really is. Once we’re able to envision how the stage trout want
looks & moves, we’re able to abstract a killing simulation, the keying
characteristics of the natural enhanced, accentuated, or exaggerated, to
produce movement, obfuscation & light.
Adults are strong
flyers, seldom stranded on the water during the early hatch season. On my home
water, October caddis emerge early-September through October, mid-day to dark.
Dryflies tend to work best morning & dusk, & later in the season when a
lot of adults have accumulated & colder weather knocks them down. That’s
not to say dismiss any notion of fishing dries except during those times I say.
Good to try a dryfly on them. Keep ‘em honest. Yet, in my own experience, most
of the time, wet imitations produce better.
October
caddis are adaptable, able to utilize two emergence strategies depending on
conditions which might include: stream depth, bottom composition, water &
air temperatures. Cased larvae accumulate near the
edge of the river in July, where they seal off the case until pupae are ready
to emerge. Yet, if temps are too warm in the shallows, larvae will accumulate
in deeper water, as they did in my home water in 2015. That summer, places
where they usually are, I saw none, & feared there’d be no hatch. Then, in
early September, on schedule, they appeared, busting from the river over deeper
water.
The naked pupae are active clamberers
& strong swimmers (I suspect the swimming habit gets a lot of them in
trouble). Many crawl clear of the flow to complete a final molt to adult on
shoreline rocks & vegetation, but also a number emerging from the stream.
Like I said, they are adaptable. Air. Water. It’s all the same to OC, whichever
is more favorable when the alarm goes off. On my home water in 2015, with
record high air temps well into September, October caddis utilized the latter
strategy, emerging from the stream, & I found few empty shucks on
streamside rocks to indicate the usual number had employed the crawl-out mode.
As pupae mature the wing buds expand &
unfurl until, at maturity, they are an outstanding feature of the nymph, about
half the size of the full wing. On final molt the adult wings fully emerge,
whether at streamside or on the bottom of the stream. Emergers are strong
swimmers & the waxy, water-repellant wings aid in sailing them to the
surface, so winged patterns are effective when October caddis are present.
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| October Caddis |
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| October Caddis Speyed UC Hen |
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| October Reach |
The
Tying Bench
As October Caddis is the main dish in Fall where I live, I'm always experimenting with patterns for meeting them. I tie them both winged & wingless. Cold weather knocks a lot of the adults down onto the water, & that's when the winged patts get the nod. Pupae & adults exhibit similar coloration over the abdomen. Adults are pumpkin-orange when newly emerged, hardening to rust-orange. I use the same basic dubbing mixture for all of these: a mix of rust-brown rabbit, burnt-orange & orange SST dubbing. Less rabbit will give a more orange tone. Dark squirrel tail makes a good wing on the wets. Moose & deer hair winging on the floaters. Hackles include natural & dyed guinea, brahma hen, dyed orange hen, & gadwall. Antennae are turkey tail swords.
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