Same River……….Different Days [2003]
Fishing like you mean it
Despite fishing much more than the previous few years, I’ve been rather lazy this year, fishing the same river, using dry fly from the off. Matching the hatch when there is one, (and up til recently there’s been plenty), fishing general & terrestrial patterns if there’s no hatch. I’ve caught a few fish and been content to mostly fish to risers.
As I started up beat 3 with a #17 Humpy on my tippet, I assumed all would be as usual. Dry fly’s an easy way of “fishing to fish”, and if you’re not bothered about maximising your catch, allows ample excuse to sit around on midstream boulders watching the activity of the river. In fact, doing this, I saw a mink yesterday, the first one I’ve encountered on this particular stretch. Pouring itself through the jumble of boulders and deadwood, flowing along the shore, led by its nose. No spaniel could’ve covered the ground more thoroughly. Watching it passed ½ an hour or so.
These beats are heavily wooded and run several miles up, (and I mean UP), a steep sided ravine. A total absence of paths either side of the river renders them impenetrable to all but those with a "combat wading" head on, and ensures solitude. An access point booking system reassures you that you’re not fishing in another’s wake.
After an hour without a fish, I realised I hadn’t seen any rising either. This isn’t unusual under the deep canopy bits, but a prospecting pattern usually pulls them up. I then noticed that the river, though not really coloured, was like cloudy cider. This, in combination with some turbid foam and a not unpleasant, but somehow faintly unwholesome smell, suggested that the recent heavy thunderstorms had tested some of the Victorian sewage works in the upper valley. The water is usually cold, probably on account of the rivers’ dependency on dam emissions for life support, but it was definitely a bit icier than 2 weeks ago.
It dawned on me that I’d just fished up a good distance of river without making any more than a half hearted attempt to catch anything. The awareness of prevailing conditions and the deep concentration I used to experience whilst fishing, had been replaced by a simple pleasure at just being there amongst the plunge pools and mossy logs and boulders and waterfalls and wooded slopes. I was a passive accessory in a Simms style tackle advert. Simple pleasure is all very well, but not half so effective at crowding out unwelcome thoughts as deep concentration. So with more than usual on my mind, I resolved to fish like I meant it.
Nothing rising? Shallow riffles and runs? An upstream #17 Waterhen Bloa brought a small Grayling to hand on the 2nd cast. It was followed by another, then a similar Brownie. At the first deep pool it was exchanged for a Snipe n’ Purple on a heavier hook, (#14 Drennan traditional wet fly with the barb crimped). As the fly was tumbled deep by the waterfall at the head, a good 14ins trout accepted it. By now I’d stopped noticing the wildlife and was in the Minks' purposeful frame of mind, continuing to fish hard up the ravine, bringing a succession of Trout and Grayling to hand, or sometimes, to net.
At the next major pool, (on here, I think a pool with an impressive fall or huge boulders should be classed as major), a weighted nymph replaced the spider. These fast deeper runs, (3-4ft or more), scream “Czech”, but my neglect at the vice meant that the choice was rather light, in more ways than one. Eventually a fairly classic, (well 10 year old!), leaded PT nymph with a chocolate ostrich thorax was selected. From this point on I started getting a slightly better stamp of Grayling and realised that for the first day ever on this river, my catch return was going to show a 50/50 Trout/Grayling split ……
As a refugee from competitive fishing, I think my approach had swung rather too far the other way, and there have been 1 or 2 days when I might as well have left the rod in the car and waded the river with binoculars round my neck. For me the realisation is nothing profound, merely that the benefit of fly fishing like you mean it, might be that you catch more Grayling! As well as achievement of that temporary hypnotic trance where nothing matters except acceptance of the deception, whether it's a gulp at the surface.....or a draw into the depths.
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Dredging with Czech nymphs
A description of fishing the “pots” with a Czech nymph prompted me to cut a corner and buy a set at the game fair.
Hot Sunday dawning. My head said go back to bed. But my heart knew a cool green shady place, with Jacuzzis of cold amber water, not really pots, more “bathtubs” of Trout and Grayling.
An anxious early drive down the farm track revealed no other cars in the limited parking space, so as I ducked under the bridge to sign in for the beats, my heart was glad. But my head was still insisting that it was too hot.
I’d never fished with Czech nymphs, though the general design reminds me of some weighted PVC backed OE style shrimps I used to tie and fish. Conflicting magazine info about how to tackle up saw me dithering:
A tandem New Zealand dropper set up?
A rig with a conventional 6ins dropper?
A short "Jiri" leader?
A leader as long as the rod?
But bearing in mind some advice, I finally settled on a single nymph on 4ft of 5x Fulling Mill fluorocarbon from a 4ft furled leader. Just over the length of the rod.
All the Rhyac’s I’ve found in this river so far have been a kind of pastel, almost turquoise green, like a pale caterpillar with a shiny mahogany head. So the nymph under starter’s orders was one of the lighter set, #12 in “pea green” with an orange thorax. A #3 set up proved less than ideal and the 3rd cast saw the nymph hit the top joint of my beloved St Croix with a sickening thwack.
But I soon got into the rhythm of an underarm upstream swing, feeling the nymph ticking back downstream over the rocks. The advantage of a single nymph became very apparent when it snagged, being easily freed by simply winding down to the barbless fly and using the tip ring as a disgorger. Now for some serious Grayling action.
But the first twitch resulted in an 8ins Trout. And as I fished my way up the beat between steep wooded slopes, the subsequent fish that either came to hand or shook off were small to average Trout. Where were the Grayling of 2 weeks ago? The water was still cold and at a good level. But the day was much brighter, even under the canopy. Spots that yielded Grayling a fortnight ago were fished hard, sometimes with a Spider just to check it wasn’t the method that was excluding them.
Very few rises. At the first major pool the light pea green made way for its heavy counterpart. Tick, click, click, tick, then a stab……... The Ultegra clutch purred as a large Grayling furiously back pedalled, sinuous reversing accompanied by a deep down brassy gleam, (everything looks yellow viewed through cider). Then it fell off. Larger Grayling aren’t common here, a scale reading survey suggested an upper limit of 5 years old, 14ins(ish). Don’t know why, possibly residual pollution from ochre still leaking from the mines.
A few more small browns. No Grayling. Later, a proper cast under the fall at the head of the next major pool, fished back as a conventional upstream nymph, resulted in a conventional take. The Ultegra momentarily squalled rather than purred, then a large Brown was airborne. After an eternal few minutes it was in the net. Measured against the butt it overlapped the St Croix logo by about 3 ins. How long is that? Errm, I don’t know. I forgot to measure the distance when I got home. It was my biggest from this river though.
The upper limit of beat 4, indicated in faded white paint on a huge riverside boulder. Obviously daubed by an angler, cos it can only be seen from midstream. It’s 4pm. Decision time. Carry on up beat 5? (if so, you’re committed, you can’t climb out til you reach the upper limit). Go back to the bridge and fish the technical dry fly water, round the "FF&FT photo opportunity" boulders?
All food and water gone, so the dry fly won. After 10 minutes of climbing a steep slope through nettles and thorns, I emerged into a baking industrial wasteland with my chest on fire. You’d never guess it was so hot up here, back down there in the river tunnel.
So began a long trudge across the pale grey slag and rubble, back to the car. Neither Doctor Who or the Daleks were anywhere to be seen, but it looked like they might be around somewhere. Dismissed them, pushing through thistle and rosebay willow herb, pondering along the way:
Should my Czechs trundle rather than tick?
Should I use 2 flies?
Is that old knitting wool, (the green shade mum always used when knitting for babies of unknown gender), the right Rhyac colour, if not what to mix it with?
Would a spider on a dropper be complimentary?
Is this Czeching the excuse to buy that slooow 10ft #4 I really want, but don’t really need?
Wouldn't a 4 metre whip be just as effective?
Is it really flyfishing?
Actually I don’t care about that last one. Flyfishing or not, I was definitely angling. And a hot day in the cold river had given my mind enough food for thought. To tide it over for a week or so. Til the next time.
As I wrung my socks out back at the car, one thing was obvious. My 15 year old black Dunlops have had it. Stockingfoot breathables are the way forward; get some proper grip and ankle support on those slimy rocks. But here we go again:
How would they’ve just fared during the ascent from the river?
Would I be compelled to fish my way to the top of beat 5 on every visit, for fear of punctures?
If yes to the above, will the air ambulance be able to land close enough.......?
Can you get waist highs in the UK ?
Felts or cleats or both?
What brand?…………………
By the way, I didn't get a Grayling.
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Logan’s Run
Despite it still being August, (just), the temperature has dropped from “shirt sleeves comfortable” to “marginal fleece” during the ascent to the headwaters. The very upper limit of our fishing, the beat booking diary revealed only one member had fished it over the previous week. Winnie the Pooh wearing a red waistcoat sits on a plinth next to the padlocked box containing the diary. A plaque below proclaims, “caught below #### weir on a Golden Olive Bumble by......[the same member who fished last week]”.
The hay has been cut and a few sheep graze the remains, but the path cut by the keeper to access the pheasant pens is still visible, so I follow it diagonally across the meadow to the bottom of beat 5 and cross the river. Leaving the open skies, walking through the wood well away from water I’ll fish on the way back up, I’m surrounded by half glimpsed poults, rustling, peeping, creeping, uttering occasional rusty hinge noises. Pheasants skulking under forbidding firs, reminiscent of Giant Grum’s chinamen charges in BB’s Little Grey Men. Back over the river via the packhorse bridge, under open grey skies again, below the hall, along the field, short cropped pasture empty of Curlews now. Hawthorn, Alder and occasional Willow mark the course of the river here.
Into the cold, clear, refreshing beer, at the open bend, the water here seems little changed from the dam emissions a few miles up the valley. I think this is the start of beat 4, doesn’t matter, I’m starting where I finished last time, so that will do fine. I can see a rising fish every 10 - 20 yards up the river. Dry fly day, but I’d already decided that back at the car!
A 5ft furled leader, followed by a 2ft of 6X then a yard of 7X, terminated by a pale green bodied, blue dun hackled, #21 loopwing parachute. A test cast turns over perfectly, plenty of slack coiled in the 7X. Five minutes stood midstream reveal Stonefly, Sedge, Pale Wateries, and some large reddish brown things with antennae, almost Cranefly, but not.
The first 100 yards of progress up shallow glides demonstrate what 2 weeks of Wetfly and Czeching can do to your dry fly skills. Missed fish, frightened fish, pruned trees, hands glowing from fly recovery nettlings............
An Alder growing out from a wall bounding the river offers cover and somewhere to lean. Sidecasting up a dark tunnel brings four 8ins Trout to hand before the run falls silent, apart from one, right under the Holly bush. A challenge, has to be a bigger fish right? On the 3rd attempt the fly kicks under the bush and phlup, is instantly accepted. The fish is identical to the others though. Miraculously I’m still fishing the same fly as I started with. Not wanting to wade through this productive place, I climb out and walk to the low falls above, sitting on a large block of hewn granite next to another wall, casting up into a deep slow pool. Fish rise as gusts of wind sway the Sycamores, so remembering a post about Greenfly, the loopwing is replaced by a #20 emerald green blob with a dun hackle. The Trout are unconvinced, and cease rising as I gradually reach further up the pool.
Above the next riffle the banks open up. A Cattle drink, then beds of Ranunculus still bearing a few flowers, (incongruous in this moorland stream?), narrow and speed the flow. The odd midget parr holds station in the shallows but I walk around them, not wanting to herd them panicking up toward the deeper eddy formed by a Hawthorn bearing promontory, where a fish rises steadily. The loopwing goes back on. The first presentation directly upstream into the slack, drags after scant seconds. Crossing the river and kneeling in the shallows allows a cast up into the run below the tiny fall; this delivers the fly straight into the eddy where an 11 incher accepts it. A repeat of the same ruse results in an unseen rise in the rough water, the first I know is when the minicom shoots upstream, another lovely Brown, slightly smaller.
Above the little fall is a long slow straight. Into position, up to the wader tops, leaning back against the bank behind a handy tree. As the wind shakes the trees out and dumps leaves and “propellers” onto the river, fish reveal their positions, though they seem to be cruising rather than holding station.
But what are they taking?
A crude electronic version of “Duelling Banjos” demands my attention. My sister. “We’ve sold the house, but got to be out in 6 weeks”........ “Congratulations, better buy a big tent then”........ “It’s OK, we’ve finally found another we like, it’s more than we’d planned but"......... The stamp duty turns out to be more than we paid for our entire house. I congratulate myself on not migrating south like all my siblings.
The underside of my hat brim is covered in Stoneflies. There are 2 sizes of these aptly dubbed needle flies crawling on the green suede. A #21 “F Stonefly”, dark CDC wing and extended micro vernille body, looks about right. The fish agree, 6 are picked off by gradually lengthening casts up the avenue of tall trees, starting with (in the words of a video Joe Humphries), “just a squeeze, not THIS, NOT pushing thumb, just a squeeeze”, ending with side cast double hauls, back cast unfurling down a tunnel, forward cast extending up it. I do this so much better with the incentive of fish.............
The Fir wood houses a collection of deep pools connected by smooth glides between rounded boulders. The odd mossy log is scattered around for effect. Very nice. Stoneflies compete with Gnats, compete with Sedges, compete with Pale Wateries, even Autumn Duns, (or are they Spinners?) The F Stone is replaced by a #16 generic fly. Gold tinsel ribbed Hare’s Ear, Red Game & Grizzle Hackle & Whisks. Old and brittle, the point snaps off as I flatten the barb. Bugger! An identical replacement is knotted on, this time AFTER flattening the barb! Each fish is identical, 11-12ins. All accept almost instantly, presentation is good in the wood. How many? I disremember, half a dozen from 2 pools?
And so onto beat 5, through the rearing pens via the river. Perhaps because my aspect is less threatening down in the riverbed, or maybe because it’s feeding time?, I’ve collected an audience of curious, creeping peeping onlookers. A gradually swelling throng keeps pace on both banks. I could swipe a couple with my net, or come back later with my Lurcher. (but wouldn’t just here)
Back under open skies, with my ever increasing entourage. For some reason they put me in mind of the film, (and subsequent series), Logan ’s Run. Martin Landau? Euthanasia at 30? Tame as chickens just now, in a few weeks time they’ll be living clays, driven into the skies to test the guns. Never owned more than an airgun myself. Each to their own, I'd prefer rough shooting I think, these are just feathery stockies.....
Tying a loopwing back on, 3 fish further up the beat, I’m reminded of angling’s own contradictions, a coincidence to think on, particularly in view of recent claims and counter claims. A half pounder fights like fury, leaping repeatedly, even up onto the grass, twisting back down into the river to carry the fight on. Laughing at its spirit, I bring it to hand only to find it hooked in the eyeball.................
In places this upper beat is almost a ditch, choked with Ranunculus, overhung with grasses. And finally the road bridge, upper limit. I feel as if I've rushed this beat, but that's maybe its nature, not so many holding places. How far up the river can I catch a Trout? (Just below the dam, if you wanted to, you mystical Pratt!). I wade to stand under the bridge and symbolically poach above the upper limit of our water, double hauling toward a distant rise and finally leaving the loopwing in a bush on the wrong side of the road.
Back up the meadow to the car, trailing 30 yards of untwisting flyline behind.
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Get out of jail (Klink)?
Tackling up in the Wire Mill car park yesterday, I anticipated a good session. The temperature had dropped about 10F overnight, and the sky was wall to wall, soft grey cloud.
This length of our river, just less than a days worth of fishing, (bar the unlikely arrival of another member), had given up 19 trout to my dry flies one day in early May.
Nothing seemed to be hatching or rising as I waded through the dew sodden meadow toward the downstream boundary. The river was a good height and cold, but very clear as it often is this far up the valley. The only visible evidence anything is still amiss with the water is the brown slime that settles on the rocks in the slower stretches, a menace to the unwary wader.
Little surface activity, but due to the extreme clarity, trout could be seen “on the fin”
in the pool above the packhorse bridge. A Waterhen Bloa sat in the keeper ring, but having pondered on some of the theories expounded in the flyfishing media regarding emergers, some of which put me in mind of the theological matters debated by mediaeval monks, (how many angels could dance on the head of a pin), I removed it on impulse, deciding to be experimentally damp…..
My flybox gave up 5 x #16 Klinkhamers, all at least 10 years old, dressed on curved hooks, pattern unknown, (almost certainly Drennan or Kamasan though). 2 were grey herl abdomen, olive n hare thorax, grey/blue antron post and red game hackle. 1 was light tan abdomen, peacock thorax, white antron post and red game hackle. Another was similar bar the thorax of hare’s fur. And lastly, one to the maker’s original specifications!
First up was a grey/olive job. Cast up into the run between 2 small boulders and allowed to race, then drift, into the head of the bridge pool, it was accepted 4th cast by an unseen midget, which scattered the rest.
Kneeling now on the boulders, a rise in a run by the willow, 1st presentation was acceptable and vvvvvvpht, vvvvvpht, vvvvvvpht, a 1 minute flash and dash round the pool and solid. Following the taut line, reeling, then tracing the angled leader through my fingers, under the rock, a wriggle against my palm and vvvvvvpht, vvvvvpht, down into the bridge pool, rod angles all wrong, me facing the wrong way. Eventually a good fish in the net, not huge, but some fish just fight harder.
1 hour; 2 Dippers; a Kingfisher chasing a Heron toward me at head height; another, (or same), Kingfisher a rod length away fishing from a dead tree; a Sparrowhawk slipping through the hedge and almost brushing my cheek; 2 Klinks; (oh and another 8 Trout!); later, I was at the Smallholding pool. It was 10:30am . After 10, (mostly 10-12in), Brownies in less than 2 hours, I sat on an exposed spit of stones, drank a diet coke, and watched. Fish were rising in the run feeding the slow deep pool; other fish cruised the depths closer to me without breaking surface. Before the last of the Coke was swallowed, a huge Sedge suddenly popped out of the water and scuttled across the film to a midstream boulder. Risking disturbing the pool, I waded across for a better look at the sandy winged, red bodied, giant.
Replacing my Klink with a #14 Elkhair Sedge, I failed to interest any fish in the pool in the next 30 minutes. Returning the Klink to my tippet, I caught one of the deep cruisers 1st cast, followed by another 2 from the head of the pool.…….
And so I fished my way up the river, finding my slowly dwindling supply of Klinks outfishing conventionally hackled or my beloved parachute flies by about 3 to 1, despite an increasing number of upwinged and sedge flies on the water as the day progressed. I persevered with my “go to”, loop wing parachutes, but on the day………….
Not a scientific experiment, no controls or measures, indeed I don’t even know how many I caught, (I put 25 on the catch return).
Though I do know most were average, 4 were small and 1 was well up the St Croix Logo!
I know more than half were on the Klinkhamer, or, when I ran out, one of Roy Christie’s “Avon Specials”, with a similar subsurface body and large wing.
I know #16’s, (about a conventional #14?), worked best, the Avons, being a bit bigger, provoked more splashy attacks.
And I noted that the size of the above water portion of the fly seemed as important as the sub surface dimensions. This was most obvious with one particular Klink which I replaced after 20 minutes, as I must’ve over clipped the post whilst tying it, and this fly was markedly less successful than ones with longer wing posts.
I suspect many of the fish I caught were taking Sedge pupae, and I wouldn't've caught them on dry dries.
And yes, with the luxury of clear water and careful stalking, I observed several fish swing across pools to intercept my Klink..
I don't think I've ever changed my fly so many times in one day.
I now have a much greater respect for the Klinkhamer.
I forgot to count the number of dancing Angels though……………
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