Restless Waters: Slate Gray Day

Restless Waters: Slate Gray Day

The sharp, steep hills loomed over us in the early morning light. Cloud obscured the sky, but the ceiling was not low enough to cut off the saw blade rocks crowning the mountains. The grassy fields and slopes were silver-tipped with frost, reminding me of the rich fur of the gray squirrel. Here and there by the road, puddles had frozen, and ice crystals made diminutive but fantastic sculptures. It was cold.

The lot above the bridge had two trucks in it, parked at opposite ends. The one nearest the creek was empty, but ice completely covered the windows; it had been there all night. The other was a large king cab type rig, with a camper shell on top. The rear window of the shell was in the up position. We hurried to take a look at the rushing water. Nobody. Like claim jumpers we left the warm sanctuary of the car, and hustled into our gear. At the water’s edge we parted ways. I crossed just below the road, then headed downstream to nymph the Glory Hole.

I picked my way among the humble-jumble of large rocks covered in moss. Pausing on a perch near the tail of the pool, I let my eyes adjust to the light. Then I remembered I left my glasses in the car. My car, back at the house. But in the low light I could see the black shapes holding, shifting now and then, in the slick water. I counted 7 fish, each at least 18 inches long, at least three well over 20 inches. The largest specimen turned on its side like a flounder, its sides catching the rising light and flickering on and off in a kaleidoscope of neon pink, burgundy, and crimson, digging at cobbles with its tail. The others jockeyed for position.

I left them alone and turned my attention to the large pool. Groping for footing among the upturned slabs and chunks of granite, I moved cautiously into position. The easy water at the pool’s side caressed my belly, but its grip was frigid and I was shivering before I made my first cast. It was going to take some action to keep me warm. In the middle of my floundering a rather large rainbow rolled right in the sweet spot of the current’s edge. I worked it, then worked it some more. Wishing I had worn fleece, I hauled out on the rocks at the top end, checking out George above the bridge. He was either praying, or tying something extremely tiny.

Leaving the pool, I speculated at the number of fish that must have avoided my gear. I put the number at around 15 to 20, given the size of the hole, the long current seam on one side, the weed growth, the rocky grottos. Great start. We met at the top of the hill, and George reported 3 fish, one very large. None landed. I gave my stingy report, and we warmed up in the car with the heater on full bore as we headed down the road to another access. Coffee facilitated a partial thaw, and I spent the remainder of the morning thinning the aquatic weed crop, cast by cast.

After lunch we headed for the bottom end, looking for the island. The cloudy sky was darkening and a light drizzle was falling. An icy wind blew up from the valley in fits and starts, rattling the few straggling oak leaves that had not yet joined the carpet on the forest floor. The largely leafless giants, limbs extending in all direction like bony arms and legs, stood in stark relief on this slate gray day. The wind relented, the leaves settled down in new resting places, and I walked to the edge of a good looking riffle looking for signs of life.

I’ve always heard about blue winged olive hatches on cold, pissy days. I’ve only seen those days. I did see a flotilla of slate gray mayflies resting on the large body of slack water near shore. They must have hatched in the morning, then decided it wasn’t a great day for flying and canceled their travel plans. The fish were leaving them to their indecision, and leaving my nymphs alone too. Time to search out the back channel.

I found it littered with great skeletons of fallen oaks, deep, dead pools, and long shallow riffles. The greedy front channel had grabbed the most water. But the weaker sibling had collected some in a small, deep plunge just below the split. It was eerily quiet, the wind blocked by the broad shoulders of grass and vine at the top of the island. A great blue heron looked disdainfully at me from its perch on a limb over the main stem. I shrugged my shoulders at the bird, stripping out line. The line tightened, the surface shattered, and suddenly it was quite nice out.