A Hog In The Trough

by Dale A. Darling

It’s the middle of March and transition time. A few warm and mild days are followed by several cold and blustery ones. After several snowy days and the promise of a good warm day we’ve decided to take advantage of an offer by my friend John Hagen to fish at Boxwood Gulch. He has Boxwood and Longmeadow, private stretches of the North Fork of the South Platte, reserved and says I can bring three friends. Joe, Dick and Frank are willing, so we meet at my house at 6:00AM for the drive southwest. We meet John and a two of his friends for breakfast at the Cutthroat Café and after stories, food and plenty of coffee head upriver to the property.

When we arrive it is calm and relatively clear.

“Looks like we might have a pretty nice day today,” I say to no one in particular. Even though a wisp of wind wiggles the bare willow branches the sky is blue and the sun warm. When we rig up most of wear our waders and just a piece of fleece for warmth. We’re feeling optimistic about the fishing and the temperatures.

Frank is thinking about guiding with me once in a while so he wants to see as much river as possible. Dick is interested in working on his casting and line control, and Joe just wants to fish. We head downstream to the lower boundary of the property. Walking along the road that parallels the river we note the ice flows drifting in the water. Still, the sun is warm and promises to thaw the ice and warm the water. A few sluggish trout, very big sluggish trout, mind you, hold in pockets and along edges.

As we walk Joe saunters over and says, “You know, when I was putting my vest on a bottle of Jack Daniels fell out of a pocket. I don’t know how it got there, though.”

“Really? How odd that you’d have such a thing along.”

“I know. Maybe my wife put it in for me.”

“That sure was thoughtful of Mary. She’s always thinking nice thoughts about you, isn’t she?”

“I just wanted you to know that we have medicine along just in case we have to internally medicate a hook jab or something.”

Joe’s smile is contagious, not that anyone needs the help while we’re fishing. At the end of the day I can examine the bugs that have emerged by scraping them off my teeth. I though I’d left that when I stopped riding motorcycles. Oh well.

“Let’s fish,” says Frank.

“Let’s move a little further downstream first.”

I continue, “Okay. Frank why don’t you walk down the bank to the big rock, wade in there and fish this riffle with your rig. Let’s see if a fish will eat one of your flies.” Before Frank gets in the water Joe’s headed upstream to another spot and Dick’s glance says, what about me?

Dick and I watch Frank fish for a few minutes. Nothing takes the fly. We look at the water down the bank and in front of us. Most of the streambed is covered with shallow water, but along the far bank there’s a big rock that forms a good pocket. Just downstream is another large rock and the area between the two is deep and dark. The water has a bit of color from the melting ice but is clear enough to see the bottom in most spots.

“Take a look at the pocket under that rock, Dick. See how the current moves faster along the edges but slows in between? That dark spot on the other side is where a fish might hold and feed. Let’s wade out and see.”

I check on Frank who continues moving upstream, and Joe, who is working the run above us. Neither has a bent rod; both are concentrating on fly placement and drift. Life is good.

Dick and I get into position. He’s right handed and the current as we face the other bank is moving from our left to right. I have to stand upstream so Dick can cast.

“Alright. See the submerged rock at the tail of this run?”

“Yep.”

“I’d like you to cast so the fly lands on the far side of the rock and drifts through the slot between the faster current lanes. When the fly gets to the rock that’s downstream cast again. Does that make sense?”

“It does. Let me see if I can do it.”

The day before Dick and I had worked on his casting stroke in front of the house. He wanted me to help him. After watching for a few minutes I made some comments and we worked on the basic casting stroke. Bend the rod. Form a loop. His tendency was to push the rod through the forward stroke, which makes putting a bend in the rod tough. He was also pushing his hand up and away at the end of this motion and that produces a tailing loop. I discussed using just the right amount of energy to make the desired cast. As is often the case, Dick was using too much energy. By the time we finished he said he knew what he had to work on.

Before we waded into the water Dick said, “You know what? I woke up at about 3:30 this morning and I was thinking about fly casting.”

“I had a tough time sleeping last night, too. There’s just something about new things and going fishing that does it to me.”

“Yep. Me too. I couldn’t believe I was trying to solve fly casting problems in the middle of the night, though! I guess that’s where my mind is right now, though.”

Now, as we stood on the water, I could tell Dick was a bit uptight. It was a new place, the first time he’d fished since last year and he still had lots of casting info drifting around in his head. His casting motion was tense. The wind was picking up and getting blustery. When the fly didn’t land where we wanted it he tried harder, applying more power and making more mistakes. He was growling at himself, which is something I understand in spades.

“That was a good drift, Dick! Did you feel what you did that time? When you can do it once you know it can be done; that’s good news for old fat guys like us, isn’t it?”

He chuckled and kept casting. For the most part casting was what we were doing, rather than fishing. Much of the time anglers spend on the water involves casting practice rather than fishing because the fly rarely lands in the right spot; when it does it rarely drifts properly to the fish’s position. We’d learn more about this later.

After we worked through our stretch Frank had finished fishing the riffle he was in and was just downstream. “Did you hook anything?” I asked.

“I had one fish move for the fly right over there in the bend along that bank, but it didn’t take the fly,” he said.

“See the spot right above you and on the far bank?” I asked. He nodded and pointed his rod to confirm the spot. “Make a few casts in there. We didn’t fish that spot at all.” A few moments later Frank’s rod was bent deep and a large rainbow was thrashing through the riffle below.

“Nice fish!” he said. “He was laying right behind the rock and attacked the fly when I put it in there.”

Then, the fish came loose. Frank’s rod went straight and his line dangled in the breeze. For a moment his countenance dangled a bit, too. When he waded up to our position a few minutes later he said, “Guess what? When I looked back in that spot the fish was back in there and it took the fly again! I was so surprised I missed it. That was cool, man. Nice fish.”

The water was past cold. There was still a little ice floating with the current and clouds covered the sun. The warm temps we anticipated were not happening; I started wondering if I had enough clothing on. Still, there was fishing that needed done. Joe’s smile was present and accounted for; I don’t know if he’d taken a drop of medicine or not. Dick was relaxing a bit and Frank was fishing the next run, concentrating with hope.

Dick and I moved into another spot above both Joe and Frank. The other guides call this area Deer Camp. There are racks tacked on trees; a deer hide, skin down with hair on, is drying along the bank. “Hey, anybody need to tie a Goddard Caddis?” I ask, pointing at the hide. No one even hears me; I have to use the comment again a while later.

In the broken water of Deer Camp Dick and I notice a fish move out of deep water and back to the cover of a large submerged rock. “Did you see that?” I ask.

“Yes. I did.”

“Okay. Put the fly on the inside of the outside current of that lane and let the fly drift right up against that far side of the rock.”

He does. The fish takes the fly and Dick sets the hook. Then, he lets out a whoop that gets the attention of Joe and Frank.

“Hey Dick, good job!” Joe says.

“Way to go, Dick!” says Frank.

Both men walk over to where Dick is fighting the fish. We land it, take a few pictures, revive it and let it go. “How was that?” I ask.

“That was great!”

“You know, Dale, some of the stuff you are talking about is beginning to make sense. Thanks. I’m going to try some more on my own for awhile.”

Within the next fifteen minutes or so Dick lands two more very large rainbow trout. He’s happy.

“Now it is really starting to sink in,” he says. “This is great! Thanks.” Dick is pretty relaxed at the time.

Over the next few hours we cover more water, hook more fish and begin to get very cold. Snow flurries pelt us as they ride the wind. As we continue working upstream we find several very large fish. All of us are awed at their splendor and by their wariness. Trout understand their environs and know how to survive. Joe and Frank hook a several very nice trout. Once they have a double.

After lunch – grilled beef tenderloin, baked potatoes, fresh asparagus and good wine – we head back out. Kristin Goode, an interning photojournalist from the local paper, wants more pictures and joins us. Dick is somewhere on his own. Frank stops in new water and Joe, Kristin and I head back to Deer Camp. There were very large fish holding and feeding along a deep run and we imagine we can hook them.

We imagine wrong; still, we try. We change flies, positions, depths and so on and don’t hook a single fish. Oh well.

“Hey Joe. Why don’t you try fishing the riffle along the far bank,” I say.

“Okay.” He hooks a nice rainbow on a small Prince Nymph. We only have one rod – Joe’s 8-1/2’ 4-weight Winston. I’m carrying the net and helping Kristin get into position for the pictures she wants. The light is good even though the snow is getting a little heavier and moving parallel to the stream. It is cold. All of us wear more clothing than we did this morning. Kristin’s long, straight, blond hair is topped with a stocking cap that covers her ears.

“You want to give it a try, Dale?” Joe asks.

“Do you mind?”

“No. Go ahead. I need to get my fingers warmed up.”

I hook a rainbow. Kristin takes a few pictures. After we release the fish Joe puts his hands back in his pockets. I take that as a sign and start fishing once again. Another fish takes the Prince Nymph. More pictures.

“I’m really getting cold,” Kristin says. “Do you think we can get into a place where I can stand across from and over you to take some shots?”

“Sure. Do you want to fish, Joe?”

“No. You go ahead.”

“I’ll try the fish at the top of the run again, but from the other side. Let me know if the position is good for the pictures you need, Kristin.”

“Just fish. I’ll get what I need.”

After stumbling around and bumbling up the bank I get into position and make a few casts. The glare on my side makes it very difficult to see into the water.

“Dale, your fly is right over that big rainbow. He’s not moving. The fly is drifting over the fish, but they don’t seem to be taking it. Nothing new, huh?” says Joe.

“I’m going to wade upstream and just fish the water,” I call back. “Do you mind if I change the terminal rig on your outfit?”

“Naw. Go ahead.” Even though it is getting very cold Joe is still smiling. His hands are in his pockets, too.

I move quickly, lose a fly in a bush, retie and move on, casting to pockets, into deeper riffles and along the edges of runs. Nary a fish moves to the dry fly. Really, we’ve seen very few fish rise today. They are lying on the bottom and seem to be sulking. Most of the time their mouths are closed. We’ve been practicing our casting.

Kristin and Joe are on the left bank as I wade upstream. I’m trying to fish spots along their bank so she can take the pictures she wants. I hope she’s getting a few good shots, even though they are fishless. Every time I look up, both of them are shivering and trying to stay warm against the constant wind and snow, which is still moving downstream parallel to the streambed. I didn’t look at the sides of the trees, but I’ll bet they have snow packed on their upstream side. It’s not hitting the ground, that’s for sure.

A spot on the right bank catches my attention. Empty willow branches hang over the deep, fast moving water. A downed tree lies along the bank and lots of rubble and large rocks are just to the side. Between the fast water and the bank, but under the willows, is a deep pocket. It is long and narrow and looks like a trough. I like it.

There are flies decorating the willow’s limbs; other anglers have fallen for this spot. I make a cast. A shadow appears. I stop to look. The shadow comes into focus. I make another cast. The shadow rises, but not to my fly. The shadow is a very large rainbow trout, probably about two feet in length. Its rise is slow and its mouth is open. The fish’s head is completely out of the water and suspended. One big eye seems to glare at me before the fish submerges back under the water. Now I can see the white of its mouth as it feeds on passing bugs. When it moves to the surface I can see the dark spots and olive back of the fish.

“Joe! Kristin! Wade out here. Please wade slowly and don’t make any noise! There’s a huge fish over here that you’ve got to see!”

They look at each other. I think both have been thinking of heading back to the clubhouse to warm up. Still, the lure of a big trout entices them down the bank and across the stream.

“Can you see it?” I point out the big red rock that is between the fish and us and the three smaller red rocks along the bank. “See the white and light spot between the rocks in that trough? This fish is huge, and it’s feeding!”

Soon the fish rises again. Joe has spotted. The movement gets a rise out of Kristin, too. Joe lets out a whoop. Kristin is trying to get into position to shoot the fish. I don’t realize that I’ll be in that mode sooner than later.

“Joe, do you want to take a shot at this guy?” I ask.

“No. Go ahead. That sure is a tough spot to make a cast.”

I make casts. Sometimes the fly drifts over the fish and the fish moves. It never takes the fly. I keep making changes. Sometimes I’m forced to do so as my flies add to the willow decorations. The fish rises once every few minutes. Its mouth is always open and the fish always suspends in space with its head all the way out of the water. Kristin is having a hard time spotting the fish through the camera’s viewfinder, but she gets two great shots of the open-mouthed fish suspended over the water. We all look at the first picture and ooh and ah over the great shot.

“I’m having a hard time keeping the camera still,” she says. “I’m shivering and freezing to death!” After a few more pictures and plenty of practice casts Kristin decides to leave.

“Would you mind if I go back to the clubhouse for a cup of hot coffee?”

“Go ahead. I don’t want you to get hypothermia out here today. That shot of the fish out of the water is fabulous! I want a copy of that!”

“If you catch it you both have cameras; be sure to get some good pictures.” Joe and I both knew her camera had the last pictures it would take that day.

I kept changing positions and casting angles in my attempt to get a good drift over the fish. Every time it rose Joe and lost one heartbeat. This fish was big!

“I can’t believe how it just hangs over the water like that,” said Joe. “It’s like the water there isn’t even moving when everything around it is moving very fast. That fish has the honey hole. It’s like a musky; a fish of a thousand casts.”

“You want to give it a shot?” I ask. “I don’t know how many casts I’ve made, but this rascal isn’t taking what I’m offering.”

“No, you go ahead and try again.” In the search through my fly box I find a few black beetles. At lunch, one of John’s anglers said he hooked a few trout on black beetle patterns. It’s not the season but if one fish ate a beetle maybe this fish will, too. After tying one on – it’s a lovely, but hideous looking fly with olive and black barred legs, an orange spot on top and grizzly hackle in front.

“Look at this fly, Joe.”

“Can I have one of them for a sample? I need to tie a few of these guys.”

Within two or three casts the fish moves for the fly, for the first time turning within its lair, but not taking the fly. Joe and I miss three heartbeats this time. After a few quick cuss words – I tell my girls that daddy cusses when he fishes and plays golf – we laugh. When we look back the fish is still holding. Earlier we’d reflected on the possibility that John had put a mechanical fish in this spot to attract anglers, and that he was taking film for a candid camera show. Remember, it was cold; we could think what we wanted. When the fish turned, we knew it was the real thing.

“Want to give it a try now?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Joe.”

“Yea.”

“If you hook that fish I’m going to break your fly rod.”

“What did you say? If I hook the fish you hope I break the rod?”

“No. I said if you hook that fish I’m going to break your fly rod. While I’m at it I might break something else, too.”

“Maybe it is time for some medicine.” While he took a pull from the bottle he said, “I wonder if that trout likes Jack Daniels?” He treated the fly.

After a few casts I said, “I don’t know if the fish likes whiskey or not, but there is a problem with treating a beetle with it.”

“Oh yea. What’s that?”

“The fly sinks.”

“My hands are getting really cold. I think I need more medicine. Here, why don’t you try again? This fish is like a musky; a fish of a thousand casts.”

Within a few casts I hooked a large rainbow that was feeding just below the musky and a brook trout that was along the tree. Both were beautiful.

“Imagine being disappointed by such great trout,” I said. We both laughed again. Joe took another dose of medicine; I’d had a wee dram, which was enough.

When we turned around Frank was at our side.

“What are you guys doing over here?” he asked.

“Can you see that fish under the willows and by the bank? It’s huge!”

“No.” The fish was so obvious to both Joe and I we responded in a less than cordial manner.

“What? How can you not see it? Keep watching past the big red rock and toward the three small red rocks above the tree that is in the water. It’s right there. See the white? That’s the fish’s mouth opening. See the light spot behind it and the red? That’s the fish’s gill plate.”

“No. I don’t see it.” Then, the fish rose, suspended and submerged. Again. “Wow! What a fish! That thing is huge.”

Joe and I just looked at one another. “Want to give it a try?” I asked.

“It’s like a musky,” said Joe.

“A what?”

“Fish of a thousand casts.”

“Oh.”

Frank started casting. The fish rose again. Three heartbeats were lost.

“Hey Frank,” I said.

“Yea?”

“If you hook that fish I’m going to break your fly rod.”

I don’t know if we made a thousand casts or not. I know a few were good; a few moved the fish, and once we thought it would eat the fly. It didn’t. We got some good looks at the fish’s mouth and there wasn’t a mark on it, regardless of all of the flies in the willows.

“Dale, I gave my gloves to Kristin. My hands are freezing. Let’s go,” said Joe.

“I guess the score here is trout one, anglers zero.”

“Yep.”

“Well, that’s enough for me. I don’t know if we made a thousand casts or not, but we know where this guy lives. I’m going to try him again one of these days. He sure lives in a great spot, huh?” I said.

“Do you want any more medicine?”

“Naw. Let’s go back to the clubhouse and see how everyone is doing.”

Sometimes the best fish are the ones we can’t fool.