Red-eyed Demons

The drive across the lake Saturday morning was colder than I figured. By the time we had driven to our fishing area, my forehead felt like it had 100 needles being driven into my brain at 50 MPH by the wind. I think it took a full 15 minutes after we started fishing before I stopped shivering. Luckily, I didn't have a lot of time to cry about it as the smallie hunt was on in full.

Fly box: Crawdads -- Check. Perch minnow imitations -- Check.

The first fish just about ripped the rod out of my hands. It was a demon fighting for it's dinner (crawdad pattern pictured above) and it didn't give up easily. It was one of the most fun fish I've ever caught. From the hit to the fight and the fish itself, it was memorable.

------> Come here you little devil....

---------> GOTCHA!!!

And the proud papa with his smallmouth bass:



It was, after all, the first smallmouth on the aptly named "Smallmouth" rod. Seeing that fish bend the 8 wt into a pretzel was downright scary.

And some final shots of other fish that great day...

The smell

I officially ended my trout hiatus the other night. Long overdue. Walking down to the stream, the first thing that hit me was the breeze -- a perfect mix of warm and cool ribbons of air carrying the smell of a trout stream in the summer. I think that's the pavlovian trigger that starts my mouth watering in anticipation of dry flies and wet wading. At the very least, it's a cool welcome back reminding me of the style of fishing I like most.

Summer small streams = minimalistic fishing. One or two boxes, one rod and a lanyard to carry what I don't want in my pockets. I'm a relatively recent wet wading convert so waders are taboo after spending last summer without them. There's just something about standing in the cold water like a nut-job mano-a-mano with the elements.

Starting off, it makes sense to throw the Grumpy Frumpy (hat tip to Cheech for the pattern and photo).



One thing about small streams is that trout find a way to work themselves into every nook and cranny big enough to hold them, provide them food and protect them from roaming herds of hyenas. The first such strip of water across the stream from my entry point holds promise. Two casts later, and a nice brown trout is wondering what happened to the Grumpy looking dinner he had planned and why he's being yanked out of his hidden abode. Next hole up a few boulders away, I find a couple more of his good friends including one with the nerve to swipe the fly. And on it continued...

Later, the caddis would swarm, the GF gets the boot to make room for some new caddis patterns screaming at me from the fly box direct from the testing department. Good times there too as the fish took kindly to what I floated by them. These flies earn a spot in my caddis box.

Finally, as the sun slithers down behind the canyon walls, I stood there and soaked it all in for a few minutes while the water carried on its whisperings to the trout. It's been a good evening. I headed back to the trail, my shorts were soaked and my wading socks were sloshing with water. I was short a few flies but I made a few new slimy friends that evening. The breeze is cooler now and it pushes me back to reality and my drive home. Times are good, my friends...times are good.