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NOV/DEC 2019
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FISHING|
AUTUMN: CRYSTAL WATERS
BY EDMUND WADESON
Part of the fly fishing game is showing others on stream that you know what you are do-
ing. This can be quite subtle or incredibly brutal when carried out in full view of other an-
glers. If you are the one having the success it is a good thing for you, however if you are
one of the cast of unsuccessful witnesses this can be quite demoralizing. If the successful
one is magnanimous there is the chance to share tactics and fly choice and thus elevate
the collective game and ensure luck all round. If less than magnanimous, the successful
angler can simply crush his fellow fishermen, ignoring them completely and making them
helpless before his skill, even rubbing their faces in it by laughing. I admit I have been in
both camps, but today I decided to help my fellow angler out and give him some of the
flies that were proving so successful for me, though he would have to come to my side of
the river to get them.
Side Note: It is not always other anglers that get one worked up into a particular state,
nothing does this better than the trout themselves. I have been transformed to fever pitch
on occasion by trout that absolutely refused to take anything I presented to them. I have
spent hours fruitlessly casting every kind of fly in my boxes to no avail, only to surrender in
defeat, reel up and walk away. It can be crushing when you experience being man handled
by trout in this way, and can lead to all kinds of penetrating questions about yourself. You
can witness the desperation of any fly fisherman by the fly patch on his vest. If the patch
(where he places flies just used to dry out) is either bare or holds just a few flies and he
has a smile on his face, you can infer he is doing well and thus feels good about himself.
If he has a fly patch festooned with every type of fly imaginable, and he has a far-away,
somewhat crazed look with glazed over eyes, it is obvious he is not having a good day, and
may even be entertaining bad thoughts.
Been there, it comes with the territory. Can I get an Amen??
My friend waded across to me and I gave him a few of what I was using, in exchange he
picked a few soldiers from his perfect ranks and handed them to me. After wading back
across to his side and tying on, he cast downstream and I heard a muffled “Aw-Right”
soon after. His extended arm and bent rod, plus the smile and the thumbs up he shot my
Venturing out on the water brings well-worn and familiar rituals that easily flow from one
to another, all wrapped loosely into the overall experience of being out there with a fly rod.
When fishing one favorite haunt, I typically take an empty canteen along. There is a place
where springs gush to the surface and feed into the flow of the adjacent river. One small
spring in particular consistently pushes a strong current to the surface in a quiet back
channel where it shows itself as a small upwelling. It is quiet and unassuming and over
the years I have come to select it as the place I fill my canteen. Finding this exact spot
is one small ritual that has come to characterize the beginning of a day at this particular
place. The last time I was there I filled the canteen and then halted in the knee deep flow
to take the first drink of the day. Percolating down from the Cascade peaks to the West,
snowmelt is strained and filtered through countless miles of subterranean volcanic sands
and lava flows, to arrive at the surface as the cleanest of clean and the purest of pure
water. It is always a joy to partake of it, I haven’t found better tasting and more delectable
water in all my life.
Pausing momentarily on a flat rock I took a long look at the small back channel in the
early morning sunshine slanting through the nearby trees, taking in what was in plain
sight, yet noticing it in ways that I hadn’t before. The water, as clear as oxygen, was filled
with sunlight animating the sand and rock strewn bottom with the reflection of golden
surface ripples. The beds of weeds were revealed in glowing high-definition olive, green
and chartreuse, waving slightly from side to side in the gentle current. Small fry darted
here and there with a tiny animated shadow following. Caddis larva dragged their stony
homes along and appeared to hold to strict inches wide swaths of territory on every rock
or submerged piece of wood, maintaining invisible borders acknowledged only by them-
selves. There was a slight drift of surface steam down the gentle breeze, belying the early
morning chill that was all too evident round my ears. Presently the sunshine through the
pearlescent blue sky would raise the air temperatures pleasantly, but for now and for each
morning until Spring, sub 30 degree temperatures reign before gradually relinquishing
their hold on the day.
My most favorite places are like this one - small, unassuming spots unmarked on any
map, noteworthy for the honest simplicity in which they exist, and remarkable in their hum-
ble beauty. That trout exist in places like these is no accident, it is part of the rightness
of things, the way things were meant to be. Trout themselves share many of the fore-
mentioned characteristics almost as if the two were meant for each other. This is why, I
suppose, I am innately drawn to both.
That particular day started out like most others, with an enthusiastic expectation that I
would find trout willing enough to take the fly I offered which was tied, like all the others,
with optimism that trout would find it sufficiently attractive to go for it. Fly fishing and
fly tying go together in interesting ways which are different for each angler, and which
ultimately reflect their take on the fly fishing game. Later that morning I peered into
the fly box of a fellow angler alongside the river to behold ranks of beautifully crafted
nymphs, each one painstakingly rendered in fur, hair and feather. His box resembled a
miniature army standing at glorious attention, ready for battle. As an impressive display it
wowed me into a kind of submission and left me in a quiet frame of mind, although not
exactly sure why. As a contrast, my own flies, when assembled in the ragged ranks in my
own well-worn and scratched up boxes, resemble more a group of mismatched partici-
pants at an odd fancy dress parade, each one being slightly different from its neighbor.
My fellow angler and I, after exchanging pleasant conversation for a few minutes in the
chill sunshine, took up positions on opposite sides of the river perhaps 20 yards apart,
close enough for conversation but far enough not to interfere with each other’s busi-
ness. Around mid morning trout started rising as the sun gained elevation enough for a
Blue Winged Olive mayfly hatch to commence sporadically. The trout rose and gulped
the small mayflies as they sailed down the current looking for all the world like a fleet
of miniature galleons off to war. Trout noses poked here and there in front of me.
I chose a small fly designed to float just below the surface and resemble an emerg-
ing mayfly nymph headed up from the bottom. This fly was tied with a body of wound
peacock herl and a collar of starling shoulder feather - flashy yet simple. I tied it on and
cast it out to float past the noses of a pod of trout that were steadily rising a few yards
downstream. With a swirl on the surface and the tightening of the line a trout grabbed
the fly then tore off downstream and leaped out of the water, landing back with a
healthy splash. My rod bent deeply and I held the line tight while the fish fought at the
surface sending liquid sploosh sounds across the water. After a few minutes of back and
forth I led the trout to the net which sagged into a deep bend at its weight. A beautiful
18 inch rainbow lay there while I backed the barbless fly out from its hold in the upper
jaw. I admired its beauty and then slid it back into the river and watched it slowly swim
away. Every few minutes a trout rose and took my fly and in perhaps 20 minutes I had
released maybe six nice trout. I could tell my companion on the other side was getting
worked up by my success juxtaposed against the lack of his own. You don’t ever want to
be on the wrong side of 6-0.
way told me all I needed to know. Even though he was now into trout he got my implied
message, “Yeah, Buddy, my flies may not be perfect, but they work”.
After a few more beauties from that spot I quietly left my new-found friend to his place
in the sun and walked downstream to prospect other runs I knew. I found an isolated
place with no one else in sight and some trout rising along a current seam. I lost my last
Peacock & Starling on a bruiser of a fish that ran under a submerged log and broke off.
I knotted on a Heron and Partridge, tied up using the delicate barbs from a heron wing
feather found alongside the Upper Deschutes last year, and started laying out casts to
float the fly among the rising trout. The fly worked well and I enjoyed a couple of hours
with about eight nice trout to show for them. Towards the end of the afternoon in the
declining sunshine I took photos of the last two fish as I released them and then sat on
the bank for a while to reflect back on the day. I took out my canteen and drank the last
of the water collected from my favorite spring that morning.
I am so glad I live in Bend where I can look to the West and see the
mountain peaks and forests I have come to know so well. I am incred-
ibly thankful that I can immerse myself in any one of a number of beautiful riv-
ers or innumerable lakes where trout thrive, and where I can be continuously
awed and amazed at the beauty contained within an arm’s length in any direction.
I leave these words here with an unrepentant Amen to pure sunlight sparkling through
crystal waters and to the gorgeous trout that live within it, trout that have long since
provided this fly fisherman with grist for his inner mill, without which he would simply fade
away.
Edmund Wadeson lives, fishes and introduces others to fly fishing in Central Oregon.
Find him at [email protected]