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SEP/OCT 2019
FISHING|
SUMMER: IN PRAISE OF SMALLER THINGS
BY EDMUND WADESON
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I have developed what I call the ‘Smackdown’, a cast with
enough force to land the fly with a splat on the water. This
does two things; it forces the line through the bank side
grasses, and it gets the trout’s attention. Many times the
fly is engulfed the second it lands as a trout attacks from
the refuge of a shadow, which is always fun to watch.
Some of these trout are no more than 4” long and if they
manage to get the fly into their mouth they turn and dash
back to their hiding place, reminding me of a pugnacious
Jack Russell terrier making off with the Thanksgiving
turkey. I have found that if one is fishing in water where all
the fish are 4” long, then a 6” fish becomes a monster. So
it is in the alpine meadow waters where size is measured
in millimeters and an 8” trout is a trophy.
The resident trout display iridescent patterns of pinks, reds,
yellows and purples along with the characteristic white
edge to the fins and the black edges of the mouth. The
colors on their flanks mimic the flowers above which is an
interesting way to compare the rightness of things, despite
the historical fact that Brook trout are a non-native species
introduced into the west from back east in the 1800s.
Gorgeous as they may be and perhaps astonishingly,
Brook trout actually aren’t trout at all. They are members
of the Char family and cousins to the trout at best, at least
according to scientific taxonomy. Not that it makes any
difference to me, or to the Brookies themselves I imagine.
That they are there, beautiful and catchable is enough.
Up here I resort to what I call ’Fishing by Ear’. Typically the banks are so close to
each other and the water so far down, that to try to peer into it would be a guaran-
tee to spook whatever trout may be there. In places like this I extend a couple of
feet of line beyond the rod tip and simply flip the beetle or ant over the edge of the
grass without trying to see, listening intently for a splash that signifies a grab. Once
I hear it a quick tightening of the line sets the hook. Occasionally I simply lower
both the rod and the fly vertically towards the water in front of me while staying
concealed. At times a trout will leap upwards and grab the fly in mid air, hanging
there until I bring it to hand - I can’t imagine what it must be thinking. It is a highly
anticipatory way to fish, with all senses keenly concentrated for a few moments
while the fly drops into the unknown and unseen. The payoffs are both seriously
demanding and highly rewarding.
At the end of July I took a familiar rutted road up towards the timberline. At least once
each year I try to make this trip and fish waters that require rules of engagement different
than anywhere else. The potholes and washboards jostled the truck and a trail of dust fol-
lowed my slow progress as I drove towards some high alpine meadows I discovered about
15 years ago. Just shy of an hour from my driveway I turned onto the grass and switched
off the truck. My destination was a familiar no name place along the way between no-
where and somewhere else, holding treasures sought after and esteemed by wandering
fishermen such as myself.
It always takes me a little while to get used to the high alpine up by the tree line. Exis-
tence here is much simpler, more basic than elsewhere and it takes me time to adjust.
Life is direct and raw, imbued with implications more immediate than life in town where
survival depends on far different things. In the higher elevations life appears to be more
tightly wound and infused with an energy that vibrates at a higher frequency than at
lower elevations. Sunlight is more intense, colors more vibrant and sound seems to carry
further. The dividing line between success and failure, between win and lose, between life
and death is thin. An ‘eat first or die’ imperative compels the trout here to attack anything
resembling food with an abandon not found in the lower waters, where trout have the
time to almost casually inspect each offering coming their way and to sip at their leisure.
In the alpine waters the primary rule is ‘now or never’ and a savvy fly fisherman can take
successful advantage of this.
The meadows up here are bisected by streams small enough to step across, fed by moun-
tain glaciers, small lakes and the occasional seasonal spring. Carrying crystal clear water
they tumble and murmur alternately between bare lava and spongy bogs as they wind
through the low Salal bushes, thick grass carpets and stands of wild flowers that charac-
terize these beautiful places. The occasional tiny waterfall concludes in a miniscule plunge
pool that may be the only deep water around, the term ‘deep’ being relative given that it
may be only 8 or 10 inches in depth. The trout know this though and invariably you will
find at least one resident Brookie staking claim to pride of place in these minor worlds.
Each piece of the ground resembles a vegetated Jackson Pollock creation rendered
in the scarlet, blue, yellow and purple of Indian Paintbrush, Larkspur, Mountain Iris and
Fireweed. Butterflies explode in gyrating flocks, flashing checkered red and brown wings
as they brush past my knees, flapping crazily down the wind as I walk by. Insects hum
and buzz their way across the grass and congregate in clusters on wildflower blooms
that grow in scattered profusion alongside the miniature waters. Western Tanagers
unabashedly decked out in yellow and orange carve the air together with Townsend’s
Warblers and Common Yellowthroats, flipping and diving as they chase insects between
the scattered low bushes. Meadows the size of your living room contain a profusion of
life that boggles the mind as you try to take it all in. Survival moves at a rapid rate here,
with everything seemingly in mad competition to live, eat and procreate, taking advan-
tage of long summer days and the short summer season before freezing nights arrive in
September and life winds down to the dormancy of winter.
Fishing rules are unique along the tiny meadow streams, quite different from the
regional rivers and lakes where tackle, techniques and flies are more traditional and
expected. Simpler is better. Some years ago I built a snappy 6 foot long light weight rod
that I use exclusively up here. It is almost perfect for the short casts to the small pools
and runs that lie between the grassy banks. Simple does not let you off the hook though,
stealth is absolutely key, more so than perhaps elsewhere. Let your shadow fall across
the water or allow yourself a careless footfall along the bank, and that 6” trout you are
stalking disappears in a blink, leaving you staring at a puff of sand on the bottom and a
shadow zipping into hiding under the bank.
Your first cast has to be right on target due to the frequently intertwined grasses reach-
ing towards each other across the water. You have to drop your line between a gap of
inches or risk spooking the trout as you jerk the fly out of the grass. Don’t even think of
standing up to cast, you have to be on your knees peeking cautiously into water which
may be more than a foot below the grass tops. The brook trout in these streams spend
their lives looking up at the surface for the occasional beetle, ant or grasshopper unfor-
tunate enough to lose its footing or misjudge its landing. Their horizon consists of a nar-
row slot between the grass banks. Anything that crosses that horizon is easily noticed
by their quick and wary eye, with their typical response to anything unnatural being an
immediate disappearing act.
Poof! – Gone.
The flies I use here are simple also, small hooks, black or brown foam bodies and dark
rubber legs allow for a reasonably accurate and speedy reproduction of the ants, grass-
hoppers and beetles the trout expect. A handful of these in a small fly box can suffice
for an entire afternoon along a couple of miles of stream.
This particular afternoon wore lazily on as each cast followed a careful stalk and
trout followed trout, each one coming to hand to be marveled at, photographed
and released back into the water again. The fish of course are the real treasure I
was after, however, exulting in the knowledge that I am more than likely the only
one to know these waters and tread these banks is part of the reward. It was just
me, the flower-studded meadows, white clouds against the blue vault of the sky, a
bird calling now and again from somewhere over there, dappled water filled with
sunlight, and the elusive yet willing trout. I ended the afternoon as the edge of the
sun touched the peaks to the west and their shadows advanced towards me. I had
maybe 25 fish to show for the day although it might have been 30, it’s not impor-
tant anyway. I was satisfied and replete with my senses overflowing.
Next year I hope to take that unimproved road towards the timber line once more,
to renew my acquaintance with the alpine streams, to regard a few jewel-like Brook
trout, and to be satiated with it all again. There are days that I know are coming,
when the inevitabilities of age and infirmity will ultimately rob me of the energy and ability
to sojourn solo in those sun drenched meadows and fish for those brilliant wild trout. When
those days come, I know that somewhere within this fly fisherman’s heart there will always
be a place illuminated by memories and resounding with a genuine and heartfelt praise for
smaller things.
Edmund Wadeson lives, fishes and introduces others to fly fishing in Central Oregon.
Find him at [email protected]