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Column nr. 5, 2016
Perfect Fall
Morning
In
deep Alaska, rural Vermont circa 1970s, upstate New York or far
northern Yosemite I have had perfect mornings armed with six
weight Bamboo light gear consisting of only necessary flies, hot
tea and lots of tippet material traveling light and quickly..
First hint at a possible perfect morning is lack of any other
humans far as my eyes can fathom! Next not too cold and no
snakes. After finding isolated deep pools or fast water rippling
and easy to reach. Hatches of insects I have many patterns in my
pockets multi rising wild trout reading currents not needed.
First cast hits water and slam fish on glistening bright colors
in the chilled sunrise. If its Brook Trout then my eyes marvel
at the golden colors as they flash about healthy dancing aqua
jewelry never to be forgotten... These few perfect mornings fly
by time wise. I look at my old Rolex and its 11am already hours
have passed and my hands are cold, face tingling from ice cold
water spray. As I take a front row seat leaning against a tree
sipping last Luke warm tea and gaze up and down the little
creeks and streams that run through my life fly fishing.
Smelling wet fallen leaves in cold late Fall as summer slips
into sweet dreams of endless wrist pulls and catch and release
over and over and over...
I always say silent
thank you prayers to the Lord of Lords for my endless good luck
living the fly fisher life. Try hard to watch the many little
dramas that happen almost inevitably just under my feet. Tiny
ants moving food all around. Belding Squirrels moving like mini
race cars up down trees. Birds and their sound symphonies and
the fresh green smells everywhere. On occasion I have found
mushrooms and wild berries and truffles. All these sensory
attacks giving perfect mornings full three dimensionality. After
letting creeks, streams reset and get back to no human
intervention activity. I carefully work new pools or ripples one
last time before calling it a perfect morning.
In the time I lived near
Niagra Falls upstate New York circa early 1970s My 12 gauge semi
auto Remington shotgun was always stowed near my three or four
fly rods in the trunk of my gold 1971 Camaro. Fall meant
knocking on farmers doors with bottles of single malt scotch and
huge smile seeking permission to hunt Pheasant. Wondering many
small creeks and streams loaded with still wild trout! One 5am
around mid September I was approaching a small creek full of
fair sized Rainbows only me and two Owls were watching pure slow
running water.
Fish rising all around
my heart racing hurrying to get my Grasshopper with Nymph
dropper tied just right. Fish were rising three feet in front of
me. Expectations for a trip to remember were high. Suddenly a
large flock of Mallards landed taking up residence and the party
was over... The farmer laughed and said, "You want the scotch
back young man?"
In deep Alaska in the
1980s working with a guide who was gifted my day began by
catching almost all available species of salmon and trout in one
day. A rare potential Grand Slam was possible. We worked several
hours looking for a nice silver Salmon and a Dolly Varden to
make the Slam work. Several nice 12 inch Rainbows were caught
and released as was another Jack Salmon. Lunch was long and slow
as we had been out early before sun up. My guide said he knew
several places where the Dollies would be for sure. We walked
for an hour over fallen trees and stumbled across a Bull Moose
who after seeing us began stomping in the water letting us know
he was not happy! Finally we found a small tributary of crystal
clear water thought to be home to many Dolly Varden. As we began
working an odd event happened. Suddenly large amounts of
floating fallen leaves and tree debris floated in and killed any
chance of Grand slam hopes for the day...
In northern Vermont mid
1970s visiting an old Marine pal who had bought property blessed
with tiny creeks and streams full of trout my expectations were
high for endless action armed with 4 weight Bamboo and tiny
flies with almost invisible tippits. We had great conversations
about our time together as two teenage Marines in Vietnam
1965-66. Breakfast was wonderful featuring pancakes and maple
syrup I still remember. As we walked out toward the first little
creek his Labrador running and sniffing I was so happy with my
old friend and not a soul but us about to have a morning to
cherish. We had both just started working dry flies as many
rising fish were active and out of nowhere fifty or more wild
Geese landed and it was over! We both heart broken started to
laugh remembering many times in the Marines when everything went
south fast and we had to survive by implementing the three rules
all Marines live by! When stuff hits the fan Improvise, Adapt
and Overcome.
In upper California the
special Trucke River runs through the edge of the town of
Trucke. Still holding on to true western frontier spirit cowboy
hats and occasional horses quaint stop on any fly fishers tour.
Have spent many timeless days mornings working the river fueled
by Lake Tahoe run off at its headwaters. One of my easy access
after great breakfast haunts is near town down in a gully where
you can watch hiway commuters with jealous smiles head for work.
One has to be especially
stealthy to have any success as locals and travelers work this
water harder then Baseball players work tobacco chew. I never
get near the water after 7.30 am and always approach slowly
watching for any rises. One cool late October morning I had it
made no fellow bug throwers and not so cold my fingers hurt.
After deciding to begin with dry fly work as the rises were
frequent. I climbed up a small rock pile and threw about thirty
feet into a steady current running down the middle. From around
a sharp bend came 10 rafters in their bright balloon like multi
colored craft screaming yelling and laughing. As they came near
me within ten feet three at once yelled, “ Hey how you doing,
catch anything? How is the fishing? “ Adapt, Improvise and
Overcome indeed!
In the mid 1990s during
a long trip to France where I stayed mostly in the jewel city
Paris. I made friends with a land owner who boasted he had
property with several streams holding trout never disturbed by
fly fishers. As the land belonged to his family for generations
allowed no anglers to upset the tranquility! We hit it off after
I told him my life was mostly fly fishing with rare Bamboo fly
rods and my own fly patterns. He seemed open to my spending two
days working his pristine waters and maybe writing a piece he
would keep in family history books was the plan. On the first
day after one of the most delicious French breakfasts consisting
of home baked croissants and local mushroom omelets. We wondered
down to a stream no more then fifty feet across about ten feet
deep and meandering about two miles through the property. To say
I was elated and charmed beyond words would not capture my frame
of mind. What grand luck I had to come upon this fly fisher
heaven! No surface action or rises so I tied my best French
style nymph and began working the riffles bam fish on within ten
seconds. As I unhooked and let the small trout splash back into
peaceful existence. A large group of French choir boys age 10 to
16 in full form singing and dancing came rushing all around me
with their visiting choir master... Alas divine intervention.
Best laid plans of mice
and men. One very chilly late Fall morning while working the
ripples on the American River I spent two hours trying to entice
two rising trout about forty feet across the slow running water
unsuccessfully! Tried several patterns from Grasshopper to fat
Mosquito. Changed the angle of cast and waded close as possible
no luck. So I sat down on cold rock sorting through my favorite
patterns when up walked a young Dad in his thirties with his
seven year old son. They strung up the little spinning outfit
put on a bright red salmon egg and caught two nice Bows before I
could pack up head down laughing and head back to my favorite
Placerville Café...
Written by Dan
Fallon © 2016
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