I found this pattern in the tying section of my local (read : only) flyshop, Shannon's in Califon, NJ. His son runs the place now, I think, but Les was quite the character. Either smoking up a storm, chatting about the hatches, or grumpy at your lack of contribution to the conversation, he was a treat to run into.
His emerger pattern is quite excellent. The ostrich herl really provides a nice imitation of leg movement. And the lack of bulk should make it effective.
Labels: tying
I’ve always had a keen eye for reading water. It’s probably my biggest strength as a fisherman. I’ll never claim to cast with ease or beauty. I don’t see fish particularly well. I can’t identify more than a dozen bugs, and that’s being awfully generous. “Ant” counts, right?
But I can read water. I can see where the fish are even if I can’t actually see the fish. There is no specific grand theory I put into practice to be able to do this. Instead, it’s countless little ones, all those bits and nuggets collected from dog-eared magazines and overheard around campfires. These have all found their way into my cluttered brain over the last twenty years and somehow they come rushing forward the moment I see water.
And yes, it’s that very moment. The first glimpse I get of a stream, river, creek or puddle, whether it’s approached quietly by trail in waders or if I’m zooming by in a car as the expressway crosses overhead. Heck, it’s half the fun I have in looking at pretty pictures.
The exact moment I see water, I always think, “Where are the fish?” I’ll stop on the trail or crane my neck from the passenger seat of a moving vehicle to find that fishy spot. If driving, I’ve been known to pull over even if my gear is a hundred miles away. I just like looking for fish.
Countless books and articles can be found to guide you through the basics of reading water, but time is the best teacher. And obsession doesn’t hurt the cause. Commit yourself to something crazy and you too can see bubble lines in your sleep, eye pools forming behind big boulders in your breakfast cereal, and imagine downed timber in the riffles of rain water running curbside after a big storm.
But I can read water. I can see where the fish are even if I can’t actually see the fish. There is no specific grand theory I put into practice to be able to do this. Instead, it’s countless little ones, all those bits and nuggets collected from dog-eared magazines and overheard around campfires. These have all found their way into my cluttered brain over the last twenty years and somehow they come rushing forward the moment I see water.
And yes, it’s that very moment. The first glimpse I get of a stream, river, creek or puddle, whether it’s approached quietly by trail in waders or if I’m zooming by in a car as the expressway crosses overhead. Heck, it’s half the fun I have in looking at pretty pictures.
The exact moment I see water, I always think, “Where are the fish?” I’ll stop on the trail or crane my neck from the passenger seat of a moving vehicle to find that fishy spot. If driving, I’ve been known to pull over even if my gear is a hundred miles away. I just like looking for fish.
Countless books and articles can be found to guide you through the basics of reading water, but time is the best teacher. And obsession doesn’t hurt the cause. Commit yourself to something crazy and you too can see bubble lines in your sleep, eye pools forming behind big boulders in your breakfast cereal, and imagine downed timber in the riffles of rain water running curbside after a big storm.
Labels: skills
The ninja and I managed to get out on the Little Lehigh once this weekend. We had awesome weather and managed to hook up with a number of fish. Spring has certainly sprung and the time is right to catch trout. It's a beautiful thing...
Labels: little lehigh
Dave Letterman, eat your heart out!
That's quite a strange phrase when you type out the words. How does one eat one's heart? And what does eating it out entail? Ingesting something runs contrary to this idea. These are the laterally random thoughts that keep me from completing the work I am paid to do. But I digress...Back to the Letterman reference.
Midcurrent has assembled a sampling of responses to the eternal tinkerer's question of what 10 flies to carry and how to organize them. Great food for thought as the trout season is starting to heat up.
That's quite a strange phrase when you type out the words. How does one eat one's heart? And what does eating it out entail? Ingesting something runs contrary to this idea. These are the laterally random thoughts that keep me from completing the work I am paid to do. But I digress...Back to the Letterman reference.
Midcurrent has assembled a sampling of responses to the eternal tinkerer's question of what 10 flies to carry and how to organize them. Great food for thought as the trout season is starting to heat up.
Here are some additional pictures from Friday's adventures in the rain.
That's ninja's fish from when we first met up with him, Neal netting his first of the day, and me with my skunk-buster brown.
That's ninja's fish from when we first met up with him, Neal netting his first of the day, and me with my skunk-buster brown.
Labels: little lehigh, photography, rain
No matter how tough the fishing, being on a river with friends will always be awesome. This weekend put that to the test in a major way, but the simple truth still holds. The company of good friends trumps even the worst of fishing.
As planned, Neal and I met with Mike at the Little Lehigh on Friday morning. For anyone not within a six-state radius of Pennsylvania I’ll tell you that it rained on Friday. And it rained a lot.
Perhaps not surprisingly, earliest in the morning proved the most productive for fishing. The ninja hauled some fish to hand between his really early arrival and our joining him at around 8:15 am. In fact, he was netting a fish as we strolled up behind him along the wall. Good timing.
We joined the fun and some fish were caught over the course of the morning. Only yours truly was left out of the action. It needed to rain some more before I got my fish. And rain it did. It rained and rained and rained.
This allowed us to test out our foul-weather gear. It also kept the crowds down. At one point I noted that I wasn’t sure if I should be proud that we were the only ones out fishing despite the weather or if I should think that we’re the only ones dumb enough to be out fishing in such weather. Either way, we only saw one other angler all morning.
After a thunderstorm came and went, I was able to finally hook up with a nice little brown. Landing a fish was all it took to make the morning well worth it in my book. Wet clothes and a sniffle are a small price to pay for catching fish.
The catch represented good timing as well. In the next half-hour or so the river went from quite bad to completely blown-out. We spent another hour hoping for the return of fishable conditions and trying to trick the last remaining trout we could find with everything from big streamers to a mouse pattern, but it was not to be. So we left.
Neal and I parted ways with Mike and made our way out to Carlisle, PA to fish the Yellow Breeches. This is an old haunt for us and a reliable source of trickable fish. We got in around dinnertime on Friday night, but knew better than to waste our effort after all the rain. We decided to wait and hope that Saturday would be moderately better.
It was, but the fishing was tough. Really tough. The water was, of course, murky from the rain. And Saturday was opening day in PA. The Breeches is a special regs section so it's been open, but the pond in the middle of Boiling Springs was packed with people. Oh, and it was windy too. Really fucking windy.
So, with this trio of impediments stacked up against us, we went at it all day. You could fish the run just below the pond where the water was still clear, but you would have to deal with the wind. Or you could fish the section further down where the streams come together --- which was pretty much protected from the wind --- but you had to deal with the off-color water. And in both places you'd stand and watch green Power Bait float by in quantities that made you pretty sure your size-18 PTBH wasn't going to entice Mr. Trout anytime soon. It was as if the buffet was serving Big Macs and you're offering rice cakes.
Needless to say, Saturday was frustrating. And long. And tiring. By evening I was full of aches and disappointment. We caught one fish each. The one I fooled was seven inches, tops. Neal's was a bit better, but not of any significant size. I barely had a nibble outside of that one fish. It might have been different if we were getting bites, but most of the day was just spent flailing blindly at trout who clearly were not interested in things I had to offer.
By Sunday, asking me to go back out there fishing was like asking Spinks if he wanted to get back in the ring with Tyson. I was hurt in pride, mind and body. Neal concurred. We packed it in.
Of course, we had fun with the Wii, the beer, the tunes and a random charging skunk that was clearly out to kill, kill, kill. My arm is sore from a wicked combination of Tiger Woods 2009, bowling, tennis and too many casts into a heavy wind. Nintendo will probably have to provide a warning sticker of some sort when my lawyer gets done with them.
And while he's at it, we should probably get the good people of Carlisle to post a sign of some sort about fishing the Breeches on opening day into a chocolate milk river with driving gusts that blow leaders back at your face no matter how hard you throw them.
As planned, Neal and I met with Mike at the Little Lehigh on Friday morning. For anyone not within a six-state radius of Pennsylvania I’ll tell you that it rained on Friday. And it rained a lot.
Perhaps not surprisingly, earliest in the morning proved the most productive for fishing. The ninja hauled some fish to hand between his really early arrival and our joining him at around 8:15 am. In fact, he was netting a fish as we strolled up behind him along the wall. Good timing.
We joined the fun and some fish were caught over the course of the morning. Only yours truly was left out of the action. It needed to rain some more before I got my fish. And rain it did. It rained and rained and rained.
This allowed us to test out our foul-weather gear. It also kept the crowds down. At one point I noted that I wasn’t sure if I should be proud that we were the only ones out fishing despite the weather or if I should think that we’re the only ones dumb enough to be out fishing in such weather. Either way, we only saw one other angler all morning.
After a thunderstorm came and went, I was able to finally hook up with a nice little brown. Landing a fish was all it took to make the morning well worth it in my book. Wet clothes and a sniffle are a small price to pay for catching fish.
The catch represented good timing as well. In the next half-hour or so the river went from quite bad to completely blown-out. We spent another hour hoping for the return of fishable conditions and trying to trick the last remaining trout we could find with everything from big streamers to a mouse pattern, but it was not to be. So we left.
Neal and I parted ways with Mike and made our way out to Carlisle, PA to fish the Yellow Breeches. This is an old haunt for us and a reliable source of trickable fish. We got in around dinnertime on Friday night, but knew better than to waste our effort after all the rain. We decided to wait and hope that Saturday would be moderately better.
It was, but the fishing was tough. Really tough. The water was, of course, murky from the rain. And Saturday was opening day in PA. The Breeches is a special regs section so it's been open, but the pond in the middle of Boiling Springs was packed with people. Oh, and it was windy too. Really fucking windy.
So, with this trio of impediments stacked up against us, we went at it all day. You could fish the run just below the pond where the water was still clear, but you would have to deal with the wind. Or you could fish the section further down where the streams come together --- which was pretty much protected from the wind --- but you had to deal with the off-color water. And in both places you'd stand and watch green Power Bait float by in quantities that made you pretty sure your size-18 PTBH wasn't going to entice Mr. Trout anytime soon. It was as if the buffet was serving Big Macs and you're offering rice cakes.
Needless to say, Saturday was frustrating. And long. And tiring. By evening I was full of aches and disappointment. We caught one fish each. The one I fooled was seven inches, tops. Neal's was a bit better, but not of any significant size. I barely had a nibble outside of that one fish. It might have been different if we were getting bites, but most of the day was just spent flailing blindly at trout who clearly were not interested in things I had to offer.
By Sunday, asking me to go back out there fishing was like asking Spinks if he wanted to get back in the ring with Tyson. I was hurt in pride, mind and body. Neal concurred. We packed it in.
Of course, we had fun with the Wii, the beer, the tunes and a random charging skunk that was clearly out to kill, kill, kill. My arm is sore from a wicked combination of Tiger Woods 2009, bowling, tennis and too many casts into a heavy wind. Nintendo will probably have to provide a warning sticker of some sort when my lawyer gets done with them.
And while he's at it, we should probably get the good people of Carlisle to post a sign of some sort about fishing the Breeches on opening day into a chocolate milk river with driving gusts that blow leaders back at your face no matter how hard you throw them.
Labels: little lehigh, rain, Yellow Breeches