Thursday, September 26, 2019

Below the bridge

I parked next to a bridge over a spring creek yesterday where I had spotted fish in the past, but I didn't see any. Until I did - it must have been 20 inches and was definitely fat. It was sipping near a cutbank almost directly under the bridge. So I literally sprinted back to my car, wadered up, strung up the rod with a medium purple hopper, and jostled down the opposite bank (the knee-deep shit-storm from the muck was okay because I'd skillfully entered the creek downstream of the fish). I got into position then took a minute to slow down. I didn't want to go home mad at myself...

No time for good photos!
...I tossed a decent cast in the realm of the fish...

Slurp. But instead of a 20-incher, it was a 10-inch brown trout. So I trudged off in defeat, taking one last look over the bridge on my way back to the car. Grandpa was still there! I assumed the two fish wouldn't coexist, but the splishing apparently didn't bother the elder trout. So I ran back down and tried again... Then went home in defeat.

Sunday, September 22, 2019

Deciding in September

It's the time of year when the trout decide if they want hoppers or streamers. I had to decide if I wanted to wet wade or wear waders. My body then had to decide if it wanted to acclimate or go hyperthermic. Ben had to decide if he wanted to approach a trout with a baetis nymph or a hopper. We collectively had to decide if we wanted to stay. Then we had to decide which beer. Meanwhile elk bugled, leaves turned, the sun fell and we drove home.