October weather is frequently raw and wet. For a week I’d been expecting the rain to change to snow overnight, or whenever the cold front driving it pushed through. The forecasters were, no doubt, tearing their hair out in frustration at trying to predict the whims of the season. Me, I wanted to fish. I knew the brook trout were out there, spawning, ready to attack any gaudy dry fly that dared to invade their territories. At last, an afternoon lull occurred between one cold front and the next. No rain. More than a little windy, cold and cloudy, but good enough for a Rabbit in the terminal stages of cabin fever.
As I drove, I noticed the autumn colors had been muted. Most of the leaves had been stripped from the trees by the storms, and the mountains showed a subtle shading of gold-bronze, with occasional accents of dark green, bright orange, or red. The birch thickets I passed showed signs of rebellion: Within thirty yards, there would be trees with gold leaves, trees still green, and trees stripped bare. Birches are the rugged individualists of the forest.
My original plan had been to take my annual pilgrimage to Young Woman’s Creek, but the briefness of my good-weather window convinced me that fishing closer to home would be wiser. Kettle Creek had been fishing well three weeks earlier, so I headed there. I was decked out in my “autumn camouflage,” an orange technical shirt, which was also a wise choice in an area bow-hunters frequent. My choice of weapon? My split-bamboo Ron Bennett “Pine Creek Special.” As I was gearing up, I was annoyed by a swarm of those Korean Ladybugs. They landed on me, tried crawling into my waders, and generally made themselves a nuisance, which is what they do best. I found myself wondering if even the fish would eat the musk-reeking, disgusting things. But I tied on my usual attractor dry fly and hiked in.
The water was almost a foot higher than it was three weeks earlier, and running faster, but was clear. Once in awhile the sun would break through the wrack of fast-moving clouds, and the breeze was a bit stronger than I like for accurate, delicate casting. I got quite a few bumps from small fish down in the deep cut below the big hole, but got distracted by a… I can only describe it as a “flushing” sound under the drooping branch over the deep hole.
“Holy cow!” I exclaimed. “Either something heavy fell out of that tree, or there’s a BIG fish in there!” I wondered which as I worked my way up the seam, wading with the slow silence needed to approach wild trout. What could possibly have fallen out of that tree and made that sound? Or was it a fist-sized meteor I’d failed to spot? When my fly finally landed in the “money slot,” another fish came up and nosed it, but this was not a small one. This bump had been slow, a lot of water bulging in advance of the fish’s snout. I cautiously waded closer to get a better float, and this time I saw the inspection-and-refusal. “Holy cow” had been a fairly accurate description. What I saw was at least fifteen inches, at a conservative guess.
Inspection-and-refusal. Hmm. Best tactics, change to an imitator. I went for the reliable X-Caddis, although upon reflection I should have used a dark pattern rather than a light one. A dozen casts with this drew no interest. Then I thought about those Ladybugs. I chose a Foam Beetle with peacock-colored tinsel chenille belly. No interest from the big guy, but an unexpected rise in the current below the hole resulted in a six-inch wild brown who jumped and fought nicely for his size. I was pleased; A wild brown of any size makes me happy.
I looked up at the hole and considered my options. I was “dueling,” concentrating on one fish rather than “looking for the stupid ones.” There was a lot more very good water to cover, and it seemed to me the clouds had thickened overhead. I could drop a Copper John or Green Weenie off a bushy dry fly for this big fellow, or weight a Wooly Bugger, and probably hook him. Not land him, as I don’t carry a net when fishing the local brook-trout waters, and know well my ineptitude landing large trout by hand. I could move on. Or I could try one last dry fly: The reliable Yellow Humpy had gotten his attention, perhaps the Royal Wulff, another attractor, might do better. This is the fly Donna Trexler describes as “the hot fudge sundae of dry flies,” as it looks nothing like a trout meal, but oh, my, it looks luscious! With great care, I made sure the knot was perfect, and served the delectable dessert fly right in the big trout’s alley. Nothing. A few more fruitless floats with this fly and the wind grabbed it on the back-cast, tangling it in a tall shrub.
Carefully I waded back and freed it, knowing that my attempts for this big fellow were over, at least for today. I walked quietly up the bank and got a good clear look at him, not spooked but obviously not feeding anymore, unconcerned in the bottom of the hole. A brown trout, undoubtedly wild, at least as big as my first estimate.
“You have defeated me,” I told him formally, saluting him with my rod as a fencer would with a saber. I’d be back, probably not until spring, with a net and my best flies. But meanwhile, I wished him health, luck, and many progeny.
Be there in May, Mr. Brown. It’s a date.
