Deep Pool

This past year I’ve noticed something…

Of all the things to be aware of, I’ve noticed my attitude change—really. Small, subtle changes that at times have caught me off guard, and other times I’ve embraced as an epiphany or just taken in stride. Growth or regression? Don’t answer that.

Let’s face it: the more you fish, the better you get—or should, I hope. Also, it's the thrill of the hunt, as opposed to getting off on beating up a pod of stockers that just got planted. Let’s all admit it—we’ve found the fresh tracks of the hatchery truck and then finished the day with a sore shoulder, permanent imprints in the river bottom in one spot, and an ego that couldn’t fit back in the truck for the ride home. This act gains experience and confidence for sure, but when you realize (hopefully) that this no longer satisfies you and it’s time to move on, there’s the growth.

When the act of doing something changes into an extension of self, that’s where you’ve crossed over. When all you operate on is instinct, that is the shift.

There was a time when any fish that took my fly was a good fish, and the more I caught, the better I thought I was. Note here: never once have I thought of myself as a master of fly fishing. I’ve always considered myself a forever student. I learn something new every time I go, and I have been humbled many, many times. I still think the harder the fishing, the better it is. I’ve come away skunked and learned more about how to improve than I have on high fish-count days.

Old bull versus young bull, I guess. Now on to the gravy.

I got out early and was working a tight canyon. The sun was just starting to peek over the eastern ridge, laying patches of light on the lower end of the pool. Caddis were starting to come off, and soon maybe even at the top of the pool. It was the perfect time to find a rock to sit on and re-rig for dries. I ate a snack and observed a pair of water birds doing their morning business. I had no idea they actually swam, or that they submerged completely to eat. It’s the simple things I find intriguing.

I used a larger green drake pattern as my point fly—something I could actually see and follow, knowing my size 20 Adams would vanish between the foam and spotty sunlight. As the sun finally reached the top of the pool, I saw the hatch grow. This was my cue to find the spot on the right side of the fast water and cast downstream, estimating line length and water load before a single cast to my targeted spot. I had picked out the obvious place where I might see a rise, but also knew it could vary a few feet back or to the right. I had plenty of line for correction and, most importantly, not a single branch behind me—haha, to those who know. I caught sight of a slurp and waited a few seconds, anticipating the next take.

It was all over in a few seconds. My Adams and drake landed lightly to the right of the seam, and the wild brown was there without questioning my artificial. I was able to guide him to the side and back of the pool with little disturbance. He was released within moments of the encounter.

This is where I paused before launching again at my alternative spot. The pause came instinctively, and I knew to rest the pool even though we hadn’t thrashed the area with the last take. Everybody calm down now—even me.

I took a moment to check my knots and inspect my flies. I took a sip of water. I looked around and noticed the sun lighting up a grove of aspens, freshly gold and electrifying. After that glance, I spun around and shot my line to my second-choice spot. Just like the first, with a confident snatch of my Adams, and within a few seconds later, the brown darted out of my net and back into the feeding lane. I strung up my rig and set out to find the next pool.

Two was enough. I could have left after just one, and have many times before, but it was too good in that moment—my calculations and the fish—for this moment anyway. There was plenty of hatch left and plenty of sunlight to come, so I didn’t feel like I’d molested the pod enough to shut them down. Winter is coming, so fatten up, my little browns, so I can find you next time.

I continued upriver for a few more hours. With lower water, I was able to access spots I’d have to pass up earlier in the season. There was a pool where I was refused. I went from Adams to Wulff to elk hair caddis before I felt like I’d put them down. I’d be back on the way out. Later, he too took the Adams without hesitation. With a couple of hours’ rest and the right presentation, who could pass up a fresh fly on the first cast?

I really enjoy sight casting as opposed to blind casting—who doesn’t? But the alternative to sight, especially on this river, is knowing where fish may be holding. It’s nothing new; it’s in all the books on how to “read water,” and hopefully it comes naturally with experience… hopefully.

On another river back in June, runoff was still persistent. I was committed for a week, so I went. Yes, the water was high and I had to work my ass off, but it was worth it. The fish were there, and they were hungry. High water poses other challenges to locating fish. Being able to slow down, read the water, check knots, and dial in—that’s the game.

Pausing, observing, and anticipating seem to be what's honing my skills. Somewhere in the last fifteen years, I must have gained some knowledge. Experiencing, reading, and asking questions have allowed me to be here now. I can honestly say that catching one fish out of a pool satisfies me; after that, I’m ready for the next spot. The more challenging the presentation, the better. This “sport” has many avenues to explore and satisfy, and as participants, we each find the place where we feel most comfortable—and keep exploring.

I really don’t know why I fish. To an outsider, it may seem left-field. To a novice, it’s a dream of location and trophy. To my wife, it's not fully understood, but she respects what it does for me.

Maybe the act of fishing happens in a split second—but it takes me a lifetime to write about it in reflection.

Fish on