Waiting for the Rain
First published in Prairie Times, July 2007
I look out across South Catamount reservoir and watch the storm clouds as they rush over the mountains. I am always amazed by their quickness as they arrive without warning. It is no wonder that you hear of the poor souls that unexpectedly get caught in the midst of an October blizzard with no more protection than a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I wasn't too worried about that in early June, but I was a little concerned about the impact to my fishing outing. Moments after the clouds first appeared on the horizon, the calm lake was suddenly filled with numerous rings as the rain drops fell. Having fished this lake on many summer evenings, I knew that if I had the patience to wait it out, I may still have a couple of hours of fishing before it became too dark. With the rain increasing, I reel in my line and head to the protection of the pine trees. I know that the true diehards will continue to fish in the midst of the rain. “The fish don't stop eating just because it is raining” or “it isn't raining under the water,” they would always say. I knew they were right but as much as I enjoy fishing I also prefer a certain level of comfort, so I decided that this was a good opportunity to relax. While sitting underneath the protective branches of a ponderosa pine tree, I began to reminisce about my fishing experiences throughout the years.
Nearly all fishermen that I know began in a similar fashion. A bucket of worms, an old Zebco rod and reel combination, and a red and white bobber were usually the common ingredients. One early June when I was six, my dad introduced me and my sisters to fishing using that particular setup. We walked through a pasture that was wooded with huge hardwood trees. As we walked down a hill the wooded area gave way to a flat and open meadow where cattle were frequently grazing. Winding through the middle of the meadow was a slow moving stream called Buck Creek. This stream is the quintessential meandering creek and whenever I am reminded of such an idyllic setting I am instantly swept away to that warm day sitting on the bank of that stream. The water gently rippling over the small stones harmonizes with the melody of songbirds and releases a chorus that has yet to be duplicated by human means. I was introduced to the joys of fishing listening to this chorus and watching a bobber floating on the water knowing that a worm is on a hook a few feet below. As the bobber starts to move contrary to the flow of the creek, I hear my dad encouraging me to wait until it sinks below the surface to pull on the rod. After patiently waiting, I am rewarded by the sporadic tug as the fish attempts to escape the trap as we match strength in a battle that ends with me reeling in my first catch. The image of my proud smile as I hold a stringer of fish is memorialized in a picture album somewhere at my dad's house. A few years later this seemed a little too simple for me.
My uncle Marvin is an avid fisherman who enjoys fishing the many trout streams located in North East Iowa. These streams are situated close to my dad's farm and on his occasional trips he would take my cousin and me to the stream and teach us the intricacies of trout fishing. My introductory trout fishing methods consisted of attaching a yellow salmon egg to a small hook and quietly casting the salmon egg into a deep pool of the creek and wait for the subtle strike. Looking back now, I realize that there are few places that match the quietness of the lonely streams of Iowa. Often times I embark within my mind back to those days while trying to make my way through the busyness of this world. Such a wonderful time and experience certainly kindled my love for trout fishing. However, dunking a small yellow egg into a quiet pool can only keep a young boys interest for so long, so I eagerly watched as Marvin dipped into his tackle box. My curiosity soared when he retrieved an object with a flashy spoon, a treble hook, and some black feathers. I couldn't quite understand the purpose of such a device and what a fish would think of it, but Marvin was very confident that it would catch fish. He described this device as a rooster tail spinner and that its purpose was to imitate a small fish that trout will occasionally eat. After watching him catch several fish by casting this device and dragging it through the stream, I knew that I must try it. Before long it became my favorite tool of the trade and I spent many evenings after the farm chores were completed catching my limit of trout in those small streams with this contraption.
One early evening, late in the summer, we were fishing with no success. We tried salmon eggs, spinners, and anything else we could tie onto the line and not a single bite. Being unsuccessful on a fishing outing is not and was not that uncommon for me, but it is always quite frustrating. What made this even more frustrating than normal was the constant flow of fish after fish leaping out of the water. The pool was teaming with fish, but it was apparent that the fish were eating something different than the bait and lures that we were using. I looked to Marvin for an explanation. He kind of shrugged his shoulders and explained to me that they were filling themselves with the large number of insects on the water. He wistfully mentioned that this would have been the right time to bring his fly rod. My quizzical look encouraged further explanation which opened my eyes to the form of fishing called fly fishing. This fishing technique is one that imitates the insects that these fish were literally jumping out of the water to attack. This opened a new world of fishing which I knew I absolutely needed to try.
Shortly after that experience, I expressed my desire for a fly-rod to my dad and he came through and purchased one for my birthday. Neither one of us knew quite how to set it up, so after a few failed attempts to attach leader material to the fly-line, the fly-rod and reel sat in the corner without much use. As providence would dictate, several years later, I moved from the Midwest to Colorado. I soon found out that fishing in Colorado consisted primarily of fly-fishing and my opportunities to fly-fish would greatly increase. Living and working in this area, it didn't take me long to happen upon a number of “expert” fly-fishermen at my place of work. We spent many hours discussing and honing my fly-fishing skills in the parking lot of our place of business. These skills were eventually transferred to several of the local lakes and rivers with a fair amount of success. I have actually had the opportunity to experience the thrill of fish jumping out of the water to chase my flies. I continued to pursue more advanced fly fishing techniques. That was when my fishing partners introduced me to the tandem fly concept. A tandem fly setup uses two flies at the same time. The fly that is attached to the leader also has a short leader tied to the bend of the hook. At the end of this leader another fly is tied. Using this technique you are able to fish two different flies at the same time. After some experimentation, I came to the conclusion that my favorite tandem included a dry fly on top with a nymph trailing below. This particular configuration allowed me to catch the fish eating surface flies as well as those that are eating submerged insects. Moving to such an advanced setup, how could I ever return to the old bobber watching fishing techniques?
While sitting under the tree thinking about this tandem fly setup, the rain stopped falling and the rings on the lake were no longer caused by the raindrops but by the fish that started chasing surface flies again. I tied on my favorite dry fly-wet fly tandem combination, an elk hair caddis with a hare's ear nymph dropper, and walked down to the shore of the lake. I cast this combination onto the lake and watched as I continued reminiscing about my fishing maturity. While watching the caddis fly floating on the lake, it suddenly sank below the surface, just like the small red and white bobber I used in years past. Remembering my dad’s instructions, I leaned back on the rod with the same enthusiasm as a six year old boy with a submerged bobber, and a moment later reeled in a small rainbow trout. While unhooking and releasing the fish, I realized that maybe I haven't matured as much as I thought. And now, after reflecting on the pleasure of that experience, I hope I never do.