Restless Waters: Conjurer's Trick

Restless Waters: Conjurer's Trick

Cold, crisp air stabs my lungs and numbs my fingers as I put up my rod. Sitting on a large, water polished log, in a cluster of driftwood, I track two Kingfishers as they sprint upstream. Long shadows drape over me and the sun is still an hour away from this section of the river. The vivid ochre of big-leaf maple stands in splendid relief against the steep slopes of sugar and ponderosa pine, and charcoal cliffs. Steam rises from the river, creating a foggy, wispy layer over everything.
The flows are higher than I expected, and getting across looks risky. I choose to walk the moss-covered, submerged lip of a long, smooth tailout. If I falter, I go in deep. A pod of rainbows, from 8 to 12 inches, barely shifts as I hover over them. I can touch them with my staff. Are they that jaded? The water is more powerful than it looks, but the shallow depth allows me to walk a fine line and carefully cross over to the south bank.

Furtively watching the high ground for bears and lions (what would I do if I saw one?), I work my way downstream to a long, deep run. This spot has been good to me in the past, producing a modest mix of chunky browns and sleek rainbows. I take my time, working the run thoroughly with my nymphs. Then, I work it some more. Two hours later I have pretty seriously dredged the run from two separate rock outcrops that double as fishing platforms. Two fish to show for it: One rainbow about 8 inches long, and a brown of about 4 inches that probably, no definitely, weighs less than the split shot pressed on the leader several inches above the beadhead baetis. Not so good.

What now? Back up at the driftwood log jam there is a long slack-water eddy that allows the gymnast/angler to hang from various perches and sight-cast to some very large trout. Since my companion fell out of his perch a few years ago, tipping over and doing a monkey stand on the rocks over the rising trout, he dubbed this area the “wailing wall”. Large trout ply the slow, clear, shallow water, right along the bank. Depending on your elevation, you can watch, big screen style, as these fish inspect and reject your offerings. The place puts a premium on roll casts, the patience of Job, immunity to the poison oak pushing you further out over the drop, and if all goes right, luck.

But I don’t have those things today. As I watch a very nice rainbow feed a foot below the surface, my bow and arrow roll cast puts my emerger and nymph combo in the tree limbs above me. To stand up and try to free the flies now means to kiss the large trout goodbye. So, I re-rig and try to stay calm while my quarry, seemingly ignorant of my presence a mere ten feet back and ten feet up, continues to patrol the subsurface. My next bid lands too far out, and passes beyond the fish. My third try is aborted by the sharp edged rocks all around me, and I unwind the line from the stones. Fish still there but for how much longer with this carnival unfolding at center stage? The answer is until my next attempt, when I put the fish down. Time to return to the beach, stretch out on a log. Sarcastically I mutter that maybe a similar fish will be feeding right in front of the beach.

And presto, I see another large rainbow working the drop right in front of what had been our staging area in the early morning frost. Trouble is, the fish is upstream on the steep, brushy, left hand bank, and I’m left handed. To make matters worse, about 10 feet behind the fish, about 15 feet ahead of me, a large cluster of limbs hangs down to a mere four feet above the glassy surface. Of course, I could, no should, head inland up the cliff face and make the cast from above, nice and neat and clean. But what the hell, if I can conjure a fish, maybe I can pull a cast out of the trick bag too.

On the fourth try I make the backhanded, under the limb, stay to the left cast. When the magenta and gold trout engulfs the Stimulator and streaks away, I gently smile. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve got a few more tricks up my sleeve.