40
MAY/JUN 2019
41
FISHING|
EARLY SPRING: SOLITUDE & SOLACE
BY EDMUND WADESON
ever I might hear. As expected it was the wind that made the strongest impressions as
it soughed through nearby tall Ponderosas and rushed through the bank side vegetation
and round my neck. It became the soundtrack for the day - continuously present above,
around, behind and seemingly through everything.
I didn’t select a fly to begin prospecting the water for trout until after many minutes of
standing, scanning, deciding. Fly selection is less art than intuition, at least for me. I find
it’s really about discernment based on what I see and feel. It’s also about changing tactics,
leaders and flies due to what the water might be doing at any moment. These things are
less taught than caught over the years, and I have spent a fair share of the past 35 years
or so trying to hone whatever craft I now claim. I’ll never get to the end of it.
Fly fishing at this time of the year demands a kind of stoicism reserved for hardy souls
that allow themselves to endure a few hours of cold and being buffeted by wind gusts
on every quarter. Then there’s the question of casting with a stiff breeze blowing. The
wind can completely trash your cast, so spending time positioning the fly line relative to
the wind direction may require you passing up the most likely looking spots. There will be
moments of pulling the fly out of nearby willows or even from the back of your own hat, as
I did this particular day. Eventually, with the wind gusting higher as the afternoon wore on
I retreated to a bank with the wind hitting me square between the shoulders blades, and
resorted to roll casting with the wind. Even so I was able to get a floating midge pattern
a respectable 60 feet along the bank to where I had noticed some indistinct rises among
the waves.
It can be lonely out there this time of the year when traces of winter still linger and the
mountains to the west continue to huddle beneath a mantle of snow. The season hasn’t
quite prepared itself yet and there is an almost palpable question in the air as to whether
we have seen the last of the snow for real. Periodically, the vast Pacific gyre forces
unimaginable volumes of unstable atmosphere against the Cascades western ramparts
and the clouds pile up in roiling masses above the peaks. We then receive the inevitable
outflow that turns our days blustery beneath glowering, gray clouds that intermittently
spit rain and sleet as they are ushered on their way out east by the west wind. It’s hardly
fishing weather for most.
Being alone out in the cold with nothing to break the inexorable rush of wind from the
mountains is indeed a solitary avocation. Although, I find it not so much lonely as more
internally evocative and mournful absent the component of sadness. It is part of what
Nature offers when venturing afield this time of year, and I have come to accept the at-
tendant solitude as one of the conditions of my continuing desire to find fish when and
wherever I can find them.
These early days of the fishing year are rarely easy, not at all like the high summer days
when trout are freely rising to an abundance of insects and slow submarines cruise the
shorelines for easy pickings. Early season days demand their tribute which is often paid in
discomfort due to the elements, although it has been said that there is no such thing as
bad weather, merely inadequate clothing. Stillwater trout are apt to hunker down during
the cold seasons, becoming reclusive and harder to find than those of the high summer
days. Such was the case recently when I took advantage of an afternoon to visit a lake I
hadn’t fished for a while. I thought to renew my acquaintance with that water once again
and to reconnect with a place I discovered many years ago that, while not easy to fish, has
given me some splendid rewards for the time spent stalking the banks.
I expected the afternoon to be spent mostly alone, which was sorely-needed. Not being
inherently antisocial, what I was seeking was a respite from the telephone and emails,
from contracts and questions, from problems demanding solutions and from the relent-
less chaos that has become coin of the realm of a working life. I was looking for peace
more than trout to center myself again and I knew I would only find it somewhere with my
fly rod. As I wandered a familiar path to the water, I entered slowly yet resolutely into the
spirit of the place. I put up the rod and strung the line, keeping an ear open for what-
The first fish grabbed the midge dry fly and took out several feet of line while I was
momentarily distracted by a Killdeer that exploded from the grass close beside me. These
birds stay frozen until one walks quite close and then either leap into the air with high
pitched cries of indignation or, in nesting season, flutter along the ground with plaintive
alarm calls to draw attention away from their nest. I have seen this many times and have
learned that if I wait quietly nearby and watch out of the corner of one eye I can witness
the bird sneak back and settle after a while. Invariably, I can locate the nest after treading
carefully. I use the term ‘nest’ with some hesitation, the barely scraped together assem-
blage that passes for a Killdeer nest may seem like so much laziness, but it is in fact
excellent camouflage more than lack of effort. The same goes for the eggs that blend in
so perfectly against the ground that one can pass within feet and miss them completely.
Killdeer have the ability to color their eggs to match the ground on which they are laid.
Eggs laid on gravel appear as speckled stones, eggs laid on bare dirt resemble small
orbs of mud, which is pretty marvelous in my opinion and yet another example of Nature’s
wonder.
That first trout gave a most satisfying bend to the rod as it gave account of itself before
yielding to the net. At barely 14 inches long yet beautifully colored, I admired it for a mo-
ment before holding it in the water and letting it gather itself before it darted back into the
lake. For a couple of hours with the wind gusting around my ears I roll cast size 20 midge
dry flies down wind and landed four trout for eight hooked. None of the fish were large
but all were beautiful with those classic strawberry flanks, pink cheeks and the iridescent
silver sheen that rainbow trout display to all who are lucky enough to hold one up close.
As I walked through the windswept grass I watched a male bald eagle swoop along a far
bank and descend with his legs and talons extended. I expected to see him grab for a
duck but instead he dropped to the ground and then rose again clutching a large bunch
of last year’s dried reeds. He circled down the wind and disappeared behind a screen of
Ponderosas to where his mate chittered from a nearby snag; apparently their nest build-
ing was in full swing anticipating the eggs and young that will no doubt soon be there. I
paused near some willows at a bend in the lake shore to see if an opportunity for one last
fish might present itself before I took the fly rod down for the day.
Along the far shore a slim brown shape pushed a bow wave along the surface before
angling for the bank and sliding out. An otter revealed itself rolling in the dry bank side
grasses. I gave a couple of mouse squeaks to see what it might do. It slid down into the
water and undulated towards me raising its head and uttering small chuffing noises. I
dropped slowly to the ground behind a small bush and continued to squeak. It swam back
and forth at a safe distance looking straight at me, chuffing for several minutes before
executing a lithe dive and disappearing. I took that to be my cue and with a last look at
the cloud-hidden peaks to the west I clipped off the midge, reeled up the fly line and
called it a day.
Walking across the dry grass field back to the truck I mused on the past few hours. I
hadn’t spoken to anyone; I spent the time in the company of a few horses, many birds and
one otter, not to mention the four trout I held and the other four who were only fleet-
ing acquaintances. The afternoon provided what I needed with a simple, yet rich palette.
There was no personal best fish, no great decisions made, no momentous conclusions
reached - nothing that could be described outwardly as great success. But, inwardly I was
replenished sufficiently for the demands of the so-called ‘real’ world.
I had found the solace I was looking for alone in the wind, the call of wild birds floating in
the air and the promise of spring just over the horizon.
Edmund Wadeson lives, fishes and introduces others to fly fishing in Central Oregon.
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