Once each season I take a special fishing trip with
my friend Tom Morgan. Because he is in Montana while
I'm in Cheeseland, it is a spiritual journey. No
worries, the communication is effortless. His gentle
voice is there at my shoulder when I need advise.
Adding to the Joy Factor, our outings usually produce
an unusually outstanding fish.
You know how fast and loose I am with trout advice.
More than you may want at times, but the price is
probably all right, and the refills are free. With
Tom it is different; his is a quiet wisdom. It comes
with a confidence that it is offered only after
careful consideration.
This year has been a difficult one for finding big,
healthy fish on my home river. It seems there are
fewer big fish overall and that almost all of them
are slim to the point of being worrisome. Further
compounding the situation has been the increased
angling pressure all the way through June. That's why
I held off on my journey with Tom until the hot
weather, high weeds, and better educated fish to take
their toll on the hordes of recent fly fishing
converts. It is amazing how quickly the weeds reclaim
what was once a well-beaten down angler highway.
When you comment to me about how slim the pickings
are on your favorite stretch, I'm quick to advise
that it is time to break out of your rut and explore
some new water. The end in mind of course is to scout
out a new "tank" or at least find some nice size fish
that aren't in full time mono shock. There is nothing
like a few big, fat virgins for putting the buzz back
in your trout fishing. Well, this tale is about what
can happen when the entire formula for success comes
together. For a brief snapshot in time, you find
yourself in the zone. It is also all about choices,
including a decision to take some of my own advise
about not pounding the same old path. As you read
this, hear all the choices that influenced the
outcome and you'll have a better idea who is really
driving the bus in our lives!
Fishing with Tom you don't get a lot of advice, but
it is worth taking note of when offered. For the past
two years he has been talking up his new #3 rod and
kindly sent me a prototype to play with. As you may
know, I'm hooked deeply, to the point of irrational
dependency, on his #2 and hate to waste prime fishing
hours experimenting. So, I hadn't spent much quality
time with his new rod. Since I was heading out West
in a couple of weeks and knew that there will be no
choice but to use heavier rods, an action plan gelled
around capitalizing on the hot, windy weather to fish
hoppers with Tom's #3 rod while at the same time
exploring new water. Great way to get my arm in shape
and since Tom is one of those dry fly purity guys;
I'd keep the flap to a minimum by staying on his side
of the surface.
Now, over the past twenty-five years my wading boots
have left their mark on just about all the stream
bottom of my favorite river worth fishing. This
usually makes exploring new water a matter of
semantics, where the changes over a couple of years
create new situations. However, there was one stretch
that old time fishing pal Bob "Booker" Reynolds had
mentioned years back that had stuck in mind. I
remember him saying that it had big fish potential
and it sight-nymphed well. Somehow I had not taken
the time to sample it. Okay, okay, in the interest of
full disclosure; it is a long walk in. Besides, I had
never done that well in the area, although Bob had
had several heart breaking experiences there. His
invitations for going there, mostly for in the early
morning, were skillfully deferred under the guise of
needing to take care of booker business elsewhere (a
"booker" is a twenty inch or larger trout). Mostly
closer to the road!
What the hell, the recent months had been
exceptionally generous with big fish, so I looked
forward to enjoying a day of good spiritual company
and some pure fishing for fun, which is what you get
when the fish are on the lookout for hoppers. As Dave
Whitlock would say, it was a "Hoppertunity" Day. The
first riffle quickly produced two slashing eats and
in the next, three fish in a row ate on successive
casts. One was a nice brookie; the rest determined
browns up to the mid-teens. Tom mumbled something
about this was what real trout fishing was all about.
Difficult to debate when you are laughing so hard.
Further adding to the moment was being able to set-up
on these hopper blasters with all necessary force,
knowing that the 4X would hold. Actually, it felt
like bleeping cable after months of nothing but 7X.
Everything was working out nicely. Secretly I was
concerned about my ability to set the hook on a light
tippet with this rod. It is a real gun compared to my
# two rod that he made for me. The additional power
was downright scary to me. Just the day before a
nice, but not too big, brown took long term ownership
of my favorite hopper along with a couple feet of my
6X. Hey, it just isn't good form to be breaking off
fish when you hanging out with the guy who designed
the rod. Talk about pressure. Yet we were off to a
great start, so we pushed on around the bend to
discover what destiny would offer.
What a surprise, the next sweeping bend had it all,
depth, snags, big rocks, and an extensive riffle
above to provide lots of groceries. Couldn't bring
anything up on the hopper, even at the head of the
run where it meets the riffle dumped into the bigger
rocks. I would have pounded it with a nymph to see
who was home, but didn't want to listen to Tom whine
about not sticking with the hopper plan. Another
time. Above the riffle was a long smooth stretch that
looked inviting. As I eased through the last of the
riffle and into the bottom of the tailout above, a
dark form on the bottom stood out, smack in the
middle of stream, lit-up by the bright sun. No doubt
about it, a very nice fish. However, I was in a
difficult situation, directly behind the fish about
forty feet. The risk of spooking it was too great to
try sneaking around either side. Trees behind me
limited my casting angle to a nearly straight over
the fish shot. No movement to the hopper, not even a
fin quiver and no comment from Tom when the 6X tippet
went on and the nymph box was pulled out. This was
now serious business. A couple of test casts revealed
that there was a sprinkling of lesser sentential
trout just upstream and to each side of it. They
intercepted each presentation, but eventually spit it
out. The drill according to Tom, now suddenly a
nymphing expert, was to pick a fly with the right
density to quickly sink it into the strike zone of
the big fish without having to throw it upstream so
far that it came in range of the juveniles. Good
advise, so I picked a medium weighted LFB(Little
F'ing Bug pattern). A couple of hold-your-breath
casts while sorting out the exact range, them the
real pitch. Good as gold and with a little help from
the wind to hook the leader away from the fly, it
looked promising. The dark shape swung over into the
drift line of my nymph. When everything felt right, I
did anticipation strike and was rewarded with an
angry headshake, then a great, high speed leap. A big
blur of golden yellow flanks was followed by a
sizzling run. Very pleased to have survived the
strike on 7X, I gave chase. The extra leader strength
and the added power of the mighty three weight were
an unbeatable combination. Soon at hand, it was
gratifying to feel the heft of a well-proportioned
booker of slightly over twenty inches. Not fat, but
fit and one of the prettiest of the season. This was
turning into quite the day. Yes, indeed.
Two more spirited connections confirmed that we had
stumbled into virgin territory, at least for serious,
light tippet, sight-nymphers. My pulse rate climbed
and my palms started to sweat. This was going to be
sweet. And it was, but not every good fish spotted
cooperated and very few of them on the first drift.
Yet, most eventually ate. They were fit and there
were many. Hey, we all work had for moments like
these and I liked showing off our local stuff a
little for Tom. So, I worked each good fish
carefully. This was primo fishing. Nothing huge, but
in part the numbers made up for that. The two big
snag piles across stream looked like they could hide
even bigger stuff. I could easily imagine a major
cruiser sliding out into the current and setting up
on station. Not today, though. The afternoon melted
away.
Shadows lengthened and my thoughts darkened as I
tried to recall how much stream we had covered on the
way in. It seems that the older I get, the more the
trek back to the car has become distasteful. Maybe it
is the finality of it all. As is usually the case
when it comes to hot stretches, there wasn't much in
the way of a developed path. That meant slow going to
reach the car. And of course I left my flashlight in
the car. Remember that I'm a sight fisher, we don't
fish after dark like some dry fly guys do.
Out of habit on the return route, I kept scanning the
water while slogging through the thick bank weeds.
Before going more than two hundred feet, my wading
shoe brakes slammed on before my conscious brain
realized what had happened. Right in mid stream was
an eye stopping major hulkster, maybe twenty feet
below the first big snag pile. While Tom was reeling
his chin back up into a speaking position, the
cruiser swung over and made a half hearted attempt to
shag an eight-inch trout. Promising sign, I thought!
The little fella boogied for the rocks in the
shallows. Struggling to stay calm, I stripped out my
line and checked for back cast room. Very workable.
First cast with the LFB was reasonably on target
considering the circumstances and all the adrenaline
racing through my veins. For a breath-stopping
instance the form moved to where the fly should have
been, but turned away at the last moment. Then,
almost as if a delayed reaction, it shifted into
cruise mode and took off slowly, powered by a huge,
nearly black tail. Whoosh, out comes the breath along
with an emphatic Shit, Funk, Dam! What a fish; what
an opportunity lost. This wasn't the first time this
season that I had seen this behavior before. It is as
if they sense something wrong, but aren't immediately
sure what. Then, their brain tumblers seem to
eventually fall into the right recognition slot place
and they move away from the perceived threat.
Big as this one was and in only three foot of water,
relocating was no problem at all. I found it only a
little ways upstream and did my best stealth routine
to get into position. Switched to a late season
orange caddis pupa...had my new friend swing over a
couple of feet for a close up inspection on the first
cast, but no lip action. Second cast triggered the
cruise mode again. This wasn't going to be one of
those easy virgin deals; this fish knew the drill.
Kind person that he is, Tom didn't suggest going dry!
Another relocate, this time downstream. Great angle
and best opportunity yet. Big whoops, over shot it
badly. This time the hulk is gone, dusk is settling
in, and I can't see it anywhere. No comments from
over my shoulder. Had destiny closed the door? Oh
well, it had been a magic day and there was a big
reason for a replay visit.
Excited voices downstream. Shit, I thought, making
matters worst company is here. Out of the corner of
my eye I see a chunky looking guy in jeans go sliding
down the bank and into the stream with a huge splash!
Live entertainment; what a bonus. Could he be mocking
my stealth routine? Then I noticed the spin gear and
knew that we had an unwanted audience for the rest of
the evening. So much for secrecy. A little magic
quickly faded from the day.
Back to the challenge at hand; getting one last shot.
Anxious minutes later, I caught a hint of movement in
the soft water near the opposite bank. Yes! The fat
lady hadn't sung yet; she held up directly across
stream almost on the bank. With a tongue of faster
current between us, this was the worst position yet
for making a decent presentation, but with fading
light this was it. Out of habit I ran the tippet
through my fingers....double-dam...a wind knot
several inches from the fly. Quick time check: 7:35.
Decision time: cutting out the knot would result in a
shorter than I like tippet; leaving it in with a fish
this big was certain disaster; no time to tie on a
new length. So it was clip it out and retie. May as
well try the same caddis pupa it showed interest in
earlier I thought.
Took a one glance, intuitive gauge of the situation,
two false casts to get on target, and then made the
pitch. The slight plop of where the pupa hit
indicated that I should be on track if the faster
current didn't screw up the drift. Regretfully I have
no visual recall for what happened next and what
triggered me to strike. It must have been as
base-brain, autopilot thing, but I struck with
authority. There was no pop of the tippet and the rod
took on a serious bend. I could feel Tommy beaming
with pride. The connection made, but what now? Oh let
me land this one, please.
Furious head shakes jolted me back into the moment.
No happiness on the monster's end of things. Then, a
mad rush toward me followed by a surge downstream and
into the tailout. Each sweep of the tail carved out
major whirls as it powered by me. Big sigh of
temporary relief. What was a fantastic stroke of luck
with a major snag only thirty feet upstream.
Considering the anxiety I've had with snags lately,
maybe I was destiny due. Soon as it cleared my
position, I moved to the center of the stream in an
attempt to block it from the trouble upstream. Glare
on the water kept me from tracking it's path, so I
kept focused on where the leader entered the water
and repositioned accordingly. The first couple of
attempts to bolt upstream were easily foiled by
moving to head it off. I calmed a bit and my
confidence meter climbed a notch. Then it feinted
right, only to then quickly reverse and streak to the
left. The dark hulk was now in full control. A rising
sense of futility took over. All I could do was swing
around to face upstream and put on as much pressure
as I dared. No way was I going to slow this rocket.
Turning Point decision time. Tom may have been trying
to offer help, but I was deep into the Monster Zone,
where there isn't anything else. I decided to sprint
upstream, that is as much as a fifty plus guy in
rubber pants, knee deep in water, with fading light
can sprint. The big shape was traveling approximately
one hundred and three times faster than I was. Then
it did one of those dangerous and terrifying
catapult-spin type leaps, crashing back into the
water only a few feet from the logs on its left. It
looked even bigger out of the water, a lot bigger!
Thankfully we were still joined somehow, but with
each second, I was fully expecting that sickening
slackening of the line that comes after the tippet
frays through. My heart raced with happier
expectations as the light colored fly line streaked
past the first dangerous snag pile and in route to
the next snag some 100 feet further upstream. Go
figure!! Time for mega Morgan butt power. I twisted
the drag knob on the #5 Hardy System reel to full on
and leaned into it with all the force I dared,
gradually letting it pull me upstream until I was
well above the first snag. Then I dug my heels in,
determined to slug it out from there. Gradually its
upstream progress slowed. Then I started to gain a
few inches of line at a time. Soon, with leader butt
in the guides, we reached a stalemate. Although my
arm was beginning to ache after fifteen minutes, I
could see that my monster was working much harder
than I was. Suddenly her gills flared, jaws flexed
wide and out hurled the parts and pieces of a small
fish that hadn't been quick enough. She had been well
feed, before now that is.
Content to keep the fight at close quarters, I
concentrated on pulling straight back from whatever
direction she headed; that used the full strength of
the 7X tippet at an angle that would sap her strength
the most. Once the power surges stopped, I switched
to trying to lift her head up. After a few minutes I
could pressure it near the surface; then using her
big pecs she would angle back down, which forced the
tail nearer to the surface. Man, did this thing have
a back, by far the biggest trout back I had pulled
behind ... ever? And length too. Could this be the
thirty-incher I had been after for so many years?
Just maybe. Another couple cycles of lifting her head
and forcing her to break the surface with her tail to
power back deeper and a landing plan formed. At the
end of the next cycle, my anxious left hand was there
in time to grab the tail as it neared the surface.
Solid grip. Next, Rod into my mouth and switched
hands on the tail with my left hand locking in under
her left side pectoral fins. Grip and Grin time. The
unmistakable feeling of my hands being a very long
ways from each other. This deal was done! A gasp from
Tom's direction when I swung that way confirmed that
she was major big. Slosh to the shallows. Very aware
of the substantial weight that I was carrying. Out
with the tape. Shaking hands drop it. She senses the
blunder and suddenly blasts loose. A groan somewhere
in the growing dark.
Long ago, after losing many potential bookers before
getting a confirming measurement, I had become very
anal about making sure that my leader is free from
the rod when I haul a major fish to the shallows next
to the bank. So, I wasn't nearly as concerned as Tom.
Back to work is was, but her power is gone. Soon the
tail is offered again and taken. More careful to
block her into the shallows tighter this time, the
situation calmed, although Tom continued to pace. She
is so long that it is difficult to keep the tape
lined up on both ends. Slow calming breaths, the tape
keeps pulling out further, and further finally
stretching out to twenty-seven inches. My biggest
ever on this river and on 7X to boot. She feels broad
and deep; tapes at thirteen...would have guessed
more, but that is a lot of girth spread out over
twenty-seven inches. Slip the pupa out of the roof of
her mouth and settled back to admire her and to feel
the mass in my hands, but she says this party is
over, and drenches me with a parting tail blast. No
worries about her being fit for another round later
in the season
Smiles all around as we danced downstream to discover
if our clumsy spin fishing friends had caught the
show. Applying my best guile, I ask how's fishing...
only to get a grumbling response. Going for it all, I
ask if they ever get any big ones around here. "No
wall hangers" is the retort. Clearly we were in
crabby company and it was time to light foot it back
to the car and have a proper celebration. The new
Mrs. Biggs was safe from these two guys unless one of
them falls on her.
A couple of days have now passed and the images
remain vivid and compelling. I hope they will last a
long time, but know time will fade them eventually.
What a fortunate chain of events. Had only one of the
many pivotal decisions been different, starting with
following up on Bob's ancient advise to explore this
spot and ending with when to make a grab for her
tail, the day could have ended like most others, a
good excuse to spend some quality time with an old
friend.
Could I have landed Mrs. Biggs under the same
circumstances with my trusty two weight? Maybe, but
the extra power of Tom's three certainly shaved many
minutes off an already lengthy encounter. It was
nearly twenty-five minutes as it was. Considering how
much power she had left to bust loose from my grip
twice, there was a lot more strength left than with
most of my bigger bookers that I have landed with the
two. Something to think about more, but first I have
to get this new rod out West and see what it can do
with the big, nasty rainbows of the Beaverhead and
the Henry's Fork. Maybe I'll ask Tom to go along if
he won't make me use dry flys all day.
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