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Watching the droplets run down the glass in my picture window, and seeing drips fall steadily from the roof eaves, I sighed and shook my head. Our region had just gotten over two full days of rain early in the week and now the weekend was into a second straight day of precipitation.
It wasn’t coming down in buckets, but it rained steady, then drizzled for a few hours, followed by another shower that turned to a heavy mist and then a sprinkle, and finally back to a drenching rain. It might not stop a serious fisherman, but it sure would dampen your spirit.
I’d postponed a trout-trolling trip on the local river the day before due to the wet weather, and had talked with both friends again this morning after a call to the regional weather bureau.
Halfheartedly, we all agreed to wait and see if there might not be a break in the constant overcast and rain for at least a few hours. After all, the forecast called for only 60 percent chance of precipitation this afternoon. “But you’d never know it by looking out the window”, I mumbled to myself, gazing at my big Scott canoe rigged and ready on its trailer in the driveway. More rain drops pitter-pattered on the window glass in reply.
By noon, the rain had become intermittent, by 1 o’clock an occasional break in the clouds allowed a few rare rays of sun to slip through. I called the weather phone once more, chance of evening rain was 100 percent, so with work staring us all in the face tomorrow, it was now or never.
Mike Wallace answered on the first ring, “I’m ready”, he said, “Let’s hit the river before my wife decides it’s dry enough for me to mow the lawn.” I could almost see him standing at the door, tackle box in hand for the escape dash to his truck and the five-minute drive to my place.
Roger Shaw, the third cog in our trolling trio, had a paint brush in his hand when he picked up the phone of the third ring, and that’s never good news. He’d given up on the rain stopping and started a small painting project, it would be at least an hour before he could join us. Because of an evening engagement I had to be off the water by 6:30, but offered to leave the canoe so Mike and Roger could fish until dark.
I told Roger that Mike and I would return to the landing at 4 p.m. to pick him up, and not to fret, they could stay and fish the late shift.
Beautiful brookies
When Mike and I pulled into the parking and launch area at quarter to three, to our amazement only one other vehicle was at hand, and they were loading up to leave. We chatted while waiting, and the pair of anglers in full rain gear lamented that not only had the weather been miserable for the last four hours but so had the fishing. They had boated only one fish. Never what you want to hear at the start of an outing, but I’d caught fish before when others hadn’t, and besides, the weather had changed.
After loading the gear and launching, I quickly motored upriver 1,000 yards, and turned the long canoe gently into the current below a large island. As the bow settled into the calm edge beside a long set of riffles I cast a long, narrow, bronze lure cross- current toward shore. A few seconds later Mike slung a silver spoon toward mid-river, and his lure had no more than hit the water when a fish struck my bait. I played the brightly polka-dotted trout as we free drifted and soon unhooked and released the 10-inch fish.
Still in sight of the landing, we could see the departing anglers driving away from the ramp area. Because they caught only one fish during a wet morning outing, Mike hoped aloud that the dejected pair hadn’t seen us take a trout in the first 50 yards of trolling.
I swung the boat around and made another pass, and we once again enjoyed action right away as Mike had a hit-and-run strike and I hooked and landed another brookie, a twin to my first. Over the next half hour we made a dozen passes over various portions of the river above the boat ramp and only two failed to produce a strike. By the time we decided to prospect farther downriver I had landed and released six, Mike had boated and returned three, and five fish had been hooked and lost in the heat of battle.
Apparently the cessation of rain and sudden appearance of a few patches of blue sky had revived the fishing, for as we explored river runs farther downstream the trout maintained their appetite.
As a matter of fact, all the birds and animals seemed to be out and about. Dozens of species of birds swooped and soared over the waterway, muskrats swam past us and dozens of ducks paddled amazingly close, quacking and dabbling for food. All during the aerial and aquatic animal show that occurred as we trolled a couple of miles downriver, not another boat was spotted and only twice did we see shoreline anglers casting at brook mouths.
As the landing came into sight a little before 4 o’clock, we noted that Roger hadn’t arrived yet, so I opted to make another pass or two along the run below the island where the trout had been so cooperative earlier. Halfway through the first pass, right next to a heavy chute of rapids, Mike’s rod took a nose dive. With no question that this was a hefty trout, I dropped the anchor and enjoyed the battle. Brook trout seldom leap, but this fellow must have been part rainbow as it actually left the water twice during the tense tug of war.
At more than 16 inches, the fat fish was notably heftier than the 141/2-incher I’d caught earlier, and it actually somersaulted from Mike’s hands during its release.
Roger’s truck pulled into view as I was hauling up the anchor so we headed for shore. “You might as well go back home,” I offered as the bow of the canoe slid onto the bank grass, “We’ve caught all the fish.” Laughing disbelievingly while handing his gear on board, Roger’s skepticism turned to amazement when Mike stated we had already let 14 trout go and lost several more.
As Roger settled into the center seat and we headed back downriver I showed him the lure I’d been using and lent him a close cousin since he had nothing similar.
Five minutes later a fish hit the spoon but didn’t stick, Roger dropped the bait back quickly as if it were an injured minnow, and bang, the trout was on. If that wasn’t enough to make him a believer, when I took two more brookies, an 8- inch and a 12-inch within five minutes, he was convinced that we hadn’t been pulling his leg. Mike and I each filled him in on the waterfowl and wildlife that had kept us entertained as well.
About half a mile of river slid past and Roger quietly and urgently said, “Look guys, there’s a moose.” Sure enough, a fair size young bull moseyed down the shoreline and waded into the river not 75 yards in front of us. Apparently the quiet running 15 HP Honda, four-stroke motor didn’t faze him, nor the canoe floating ever closer, as the moose waded, than swam the river so near I could have cast a fly to him. What an enjoyable sight to see, especially his ungainly exit as he meandered up the shoreline shaking himself free of water.
The hatch
Since it was time for me to leave, I turned up the throttle and made a long wake toward the landing. Mike suddenly turned in his seat pointing toward the shoreline and hollered for me to pull up and idle for a minute. As I looked where he was gesturing, two fish rose at the same time about 10 feet apart.
Using just enough power to keep us in place against the current, we watched closely and sure enough, every few seconds a trout would show as it took a fly on the surface. I maneuvered the canoe closer to the bank and we began to see mayflies emerging and then floating on the water. Despite the river being at trolling height the rain had triggered a fly hatch and trout were in a real feeding frenzy.
Being well prepared fishermen, both Mike and Roger had brought along a fly rod, and suddenly I was just so much extra baggage standing in the way of their dry fly casting. They couldn’t get me back to the ramp, unload my equipment and buzz my boat back upriver quick enough. My feelings were deeply hurt – not by their attitude, I’d have done the same thing in a heartbeat. My sadness came from not being able to cast to the hatch, a unique spring occurrence.
Only later when my “buddies” dropped my canoe off did I find out how much I’d really missed.
In an hour’s time Roger and Mike only covered 100 yards of water and brought 15 fish to the boat. The dynamic dry-fly duo picked or hooked and lost at least 10 other trout and the stream surface bubbled continuously all evening as fish fed on the hatching insects. Mike related the evening’s events as we unloaded the canoe, telling a story on himself that made me wish even more I had been on hand.
Mike’s a top rate fly angler, an excellent caster with precision fly placement, good knowledge of fly selection, and patience – up to a point. Just for the record, Roger has a commendable number of years fly fishing here and there across the country as well.
Well, it seems that Mike would present his fly to a rising fish to no avail, and shortly thereafter Roger would cast and hook the trout. Mike switched flies a couple of times, but Roger was still a 5-1 favorite on raising and hooking fish.
Mike was a great sport about the events, even taking time to move and maneuver the boat to help Roger reach more and larger brookies that kept showing themselves.
Finally, after Roger had played and released his seventh trout Mike couldn’t take it any longer. “Can I see what fly you’re using,” he asked, and Roger, who actually was feeling a bit guilty, immediately obliged. It was a gray slim Jim, a pattern tied by a friend and fishing partner to all three of us, Tom Tardiff.
Search as he might, Mike just didn’t have even a close resemblance among his feather and fur inventory, and Roger only had the one slim Jim. Finally Mike settled on a rather disheveled looking Henryville special that only half floated and left a slight wake in the water. Apparently the trout saw it as an emerging insect trying to struggle to the surface, and an easy meal, so Mike’s outing picked up.
As dusk settled among the fir trees along the river the boys reeled in their lines, grumbling and a bit resentful that trout were still rising, but not wanting to make the 20 minute run among river rocks in the dark.
It’s not often a trolling trip turns into a dry-fly outing, and everyone scores big.
Our trio caught and released 32 fish, delighted in each other’s company and relished the woods, water and abundant wildlife on a day that seemed doomed to be a rainout. Some things are just meant to be, because as we unhooked the canoe trailer from the truck, the first drops of that evening’s promised 100 percent chance of precipitation began to fall.
Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com
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