The Signaling of Summer

The wind howled through the willows as they doubled over seemingly to shelter themselves from the brutality of the imposing force.  Waves crashed against the grassy shore as we pulled into what would become our home for the next two days.  Vincent had already landed a fish by the time we got there, and sat proudly beside his perfectly assembled tent, as if to give casey and I an extra incentive to get going.  A mere ten minutes passed as we threw together our tents and changed into our waders.

"I hope this dies down, there's nothing I hate more than fishing in the wind" Casey muttered under his breath.  I watched as he forged a perfect path through the wind bitten air with his masterful casting stroke, admiring the simplicity his methods were fueled by.  Chironomids buzzed like a power-line around the lake, signaling the start of a long summer to come. Chuckling as the lake began boiling with eager fish, he looked around in appreciation, seemingly lost in his surroundings.

About a month earlier, a few of us had made plans to spend the weekend camped out at Delaney Buttes, and it was sure to be an unforgettable time.  Both Casey and Vincent have been and still are mentors of mine in the sport, and have taught me much of what they know, a gift I cannot thank them enough for.  I have spent countless hours annoying them both with my methodical questions, trying to unlock anything and everything they hold within.  As the nights get warmer, there is nothing I love more than sitting by a campfire with friends, and looking back at this trip, I'm reminded that these are the times that will never escape my best memories.  Sometimes you just have to say "screw it, I'm going camping this weekend."

Casey watched intently as his tiny dry fly sat perched on the still surface, trying its best to support the offering suspended below.  Without losing focus, he sat, perched like a heron waiting to strike.  Time passed, and before long, a trout fell victim to his offering.  setting confidently, he buried the hook in the corner of the fish's jaw, and fought it quietly to the last burst of energy the fish could muster up.  Delicately removing the hook, he placed the fish back into the water with the upmost appreciation for its natural beauty, and smiled as it flicked water at his face signaling its departure.

The satisfaction could be seen in his face, a sight unparalleled. He checked his rig, and continued fishing, the way it was meant to be.

Of course, he didn't catch the only fish...

Vincent Su Photo

Working it...

Doubled up!

Todd with a dandy

A carpin' surprise

"There's a tail, 12:00, about 25 feet out... you got one shot, don't mess it up."  My brother sat on the bank teasing me as I did my best to convince the large "carp" to eat.  I stared into the water for a few minutes following his every movement in hopes of determining his pattern.

Every few seconds, bluegill would come leaping out of the water hurriedly, and disappear back into the depths.  One presentation after another ended up being stolen by a pesky panfish, and it was starting to annoy me.  Trying my best to avoid the panfish, I waited until the tail came closer to shore, and only then would I present my offering.

What seemed like hours passing turned out to be only a few minutes as I waited for my shot at the fish.  As the large, looming tail approached the bank, I dropped the fly on his nose, and watched as the tail accelerated quickly, and then came to an abrupt stop.  I waited, "one mississippi, two mississippi, set!"  I gave the line a tough strip set, and before my eyes, line began peeling away from my reel.  Game on.

With nothing but a mud bottom, the fish didn't have much to do but run, and with 2X tippet, he only lasted a short time before succumbing to the constant pressure of my line.  As I slid him on shore, I realized hat this was no carp.  With whole bluegill tails hanging from his throat, I couldn't believe my eyes as I hoisted the largemouth from the water.  While I was hoping for a carp, I was equally as happy with a fish of this caliber.

Excited? Yeah, you could say that!

I revived the fish carefully, and watched as he swam slowly back to his feeding grounds.  It puzzles me as to why he was tailing like a carp, but I guess I'll never know!

Silenced Observations

Waltzing amongst the multitude of swirling currents and taunting greedy predators below, it didn't take long for the single dry fly to become the target of a wily brown trout.  I watched as a mouth appeared from below, and in a fraction of a second, the synthetic offering attached to the end of my line sat firmly embedded in the corner of the unsuspecting trout's mouth.  Shaking his head in disapproval, the fish soon succumbed to the resistance of my tippet, unaware that all I desired was a picture before releasing him to fight another day.

I watched appreciatively as the trout regained stability, and swiftly slipped through my fingers as it hurriedly swam for the security of the depths.  Refocusing my uninterrupted attention on the slow moving run, I watched.  Not moving, not casting, just... watching.  Minutes passed, when a small dimple caught the attention of my peripheral vision.  The fish sat farther downstream in the slowest moving part of the run... A rather tough position to get to on my part.  Knowing that the fish would have all the time he needed to evaluate my imitation, my fears of cruel rejection combatted my willingness.  This was just a fish... yet it worried me more than being denied by any good looking girl.  

So, I removed to beaten little fly from its secure spot on my hook keeper, and crouched on the bank as I prepared to cast, knowing that my fate awaited.  I knew I would have one cast at this fish before he retreated to the depths, so it was now or never.  Emotions roaring inside of me, I dropped the fly 2 feet upstream of the trout's lie, and quickly laid a mend in the line.  Watching, watching, watching, surely I had already drifted over him, but some weird internal sense was screaming at me to keep the fly on the water.  It seemed I couldn't bring myself to cast again, I was going to get something on the first drift.

As if being summoned by the fish gods, a lazy brown appeared behind my fly, and as slowly as physically possible, he engulfed the fly gracefully. Resisting every urge to set the hook, I waited until he disappeared, and smoothly raised the rod.  Fighting valiantly, the educated trout dove underneath branches and rocks, making every attempt to break the 7x tippet.  Eventually the resistance proved superior, and he slid calmly into the deep bag of my net.  I had succeeded, a feeling that could be unparalleled by seemingly any other happening.  

I relished in my achievement, and knew that I could now call it a day.  Striding confidently away from the river, I felt on top of the world...  What a day.

Sunburns and Dry Flies

Tiredly I ran up the stairs hurrying to answer the phone call that was causing my obnoxious ringtone to sing as loud as it could.  I answered with a sloppy "hello" as I sat staring out the window using all the internal strength I had to peel my delicate eyelids apart from each other after a long nights sleep.  It was my great friend and mentor Steve Thrapp, asking if I could meet him at the river in twenty minutes.  Despite still wearing my shorts and crinkled T-shirt, and my hair being strewn in every which direction, I agreed, and the usual routine began.  I managed to piece together a decent array of clothing from what I had laying around my room, and before I knew it, I was headed out the door.  Thankfully, I keep all of my rods rigged and ready in the back of my car, so I could be on my way quickly.  Before I could take off, my dad reminded me to grab food and a drink.. something I often forget.

Upon arrival at the water,  I slid on my waders and boots, and as Steve pulled up, we shook hands and exchanged our latest fishing tales.  Chatting as we approached the water, one look down river revealed hundreds of rising fish throughout the many riffles and pools.  We split up, and began targeting fish as best we could.  After roughly an hour, I had only tempted a single fish, and Steve had raised a few others with none landed.  Frustrated, we headed upriver in search of other (hopefully) willing fish.

As Steve roped in one fish after another, I sat and watched a single rainbow as she fed rigorously in the heart of a shallow riffle.  I couldn't believe how intently she was feeding, as her mouth opened roughly every three seconds.  Rigged with a dry - dropper, I made a cast to the fish, and to my surprise, she took the midge dropper on the first drift.  The fight lasted roughly 30 seconds, and the fish soon laid at the bottom of my net.  After pictures, I carefully released the beautiful fish to fight another day.

For how rigorously this fish was feeding, she was awful thin!

Trekking further and further down-river, we finally found more fish, and Steve really began to teach them a lesson.  Steve has been and still is one of my greatest mentors, and he has taught me much about what I know today.  Every time I am able to fish with Steve I learn a ton, and it is always amazing to watch him as he dissects the water, and brings several fish to hand.  Steve is also the creator of the PIOPod, sold by Fishpond, and his care for the environment shows with every outing.  With seemingly every cast, Steve hooked up, and over the course of roughly 30 minutes, Steve landed a myriad of different fish.

As the sun began to set, we tried one last stretch, only hoping for a good fish.  Cast after cast produced nothing, until I managed to hook up with a decent rainbow as I swung the flies through the current.  After an intense battle,  I hoisted the fish for pictures, and released it swiftly to its watery home.

Colors!

Sunburnt and tired,  I had to call it a day, and as we removed our waders, Steve and I shook hands before leaving.  With plans to do it again soon, we went our separate ways, and headed towards home.  It had been a tough day on the water (for me at least), but hey, I was glad to have gotten out. 

Temptations

I couldn't help it: temptation raged inside me like a violent winter sea.  A new Rascal Flatts song played on the radio.  The lyrics "You gotta go deep, way on back, cross a few creeks, and a couple little shacks... You gotta get lost, way on out!" were belted out as proudly as can be, and my judgement finally surrendered as my desires broke loose, resembling a pack of wild dogs running for freedom (figuratively speaking of course).  I speedily cruised the winding hills of the far reaches of Fort Collins, gradually building up anxiety as the river entered my plane of sight. 

Similar to the undisturbed focus of a child perusing the walls of a candy store, my dedicated mind drove every action as I dodged the punches of my only enemy: the clock.  My waders were on and layers assembled before my lousy opponent could bother to reach minute five; a tremendous personal accomplishment for 7:30 in the morning on a sunday.  Rods had been rigged throughout the week: a product of fishing almost every day after school.  A trusty wooden net was strapped to my waist as I descended upon the section of water, hoping for the best.  Scanning the surface and its structure below, it didn't take long for my tired brain to realize what was transpiring before my eyes.  Bicyclists stared in wonderment as I jumped up and down in celebration of the midge hatch (admit it ~ you've done it too), bringing seemingly every fish in the river to the glassy surface.  

Approaching stealthily, a single riser attracted my attention, and a few quick casts produced a wily brown trout: something that would become common throughout the day.  Glaring at me as the hook that pinned him tightly to my tippet was removed, I carefully set him free to continue feasting himself on the buffet of midges now drifting down the delicately flowing river.  Continuing upstream, one rising fish after another was targeted, and as the hours drew by, several willing fish were brought to hand.  Time after time, the low-riding dry fly danced elegantly amongst the complex currents, only to be rudely (but welcomely) interrupted by the tug of a hungry fish below.

If you look closely behind the gill plate, you can see the scratches from where this little guy almost became a snack...

By high noon, fish began to descend into the depths of the abyss, and my satisfied self returned happily to the car.  "Take that, clock" I muttered under my breath, slowly removing my cold waders, and leisurely placing my gear back into the trunk.  I had all the time in the world it seemed, and it had been a good day.  Every once in awhile you have those day where everything just happens to go right, and while this was not exactly one of those days, it was pretty close.  

Colorado Gems

The ferocious wind howled as it dove between tree branches and hovered across the water's surface.  High hopes were gradually reduced to actualization as tippet fluttered every which way in the myriad of wind currents, making it nearly impossible to attach flies to my line.  But we couldn't give up, we had to at least give it a shot!  

Upstream, Sanders stood knee-deep in a run dropping his rig in front of countless risers.  Before we could even say "hey" and shake hands, Sean angled his rod backwards, and was set into a quality brown.  I assumed the position of net-man, and after a hard fought battle, we had a beauty of a brown in the net.  Pictures and fist bumps followed, and the beautiful creature was then released back to its chilled home.

Sanders' Brown... Like 5 minutes into the day

"Damn Sanders... not even a minute into the day you have a fish in the net?  I gotta quit fishing with you!" I said jokingly as my dad hopped into the river in hopes of bringing the next riser to hand.  As sanders and I sat clumsily re-rigging, my dad started working a single rising fish.  Cast after cast was rudely ignored by the picky fish, until finally the dry was attacked from below.  "Got him!" he yelled as he raised the rod slightly, sending the frightened fish into an astonishing fit of headshakes. Minutes later the tired little fish was slid into my dad's hands as he hoisted it proudly for the camera.  After a swift release, we proceeded up-river in search of a few more willing eaters.

As my fingers slowly lost feeling, I barely managed to finish assembling my rig, cinching down the last knot as quickly as possible.  The wind battled my balance as if I was being pushed over by a ghost of some sort.  Leaning into the powerful storm, I speedily laid down a cast on the water's surface.  Watching intently as the flies drifted downstream, I reacted immediately to the feel of a fish on the line.  A smooth lift of the rod produced a nice cutbow, and as I released the fish to call it a day, sanders yelled out requesting help on the net.

Sanders' Last Fish of the day... 

Shivering violently, I netted Sean's fish, and after quick pictures, I hurried back to the car in search of heat.  the radio came to life as the engine hummed, and warm air gradually brought the feeling back to my frigid fingers.  It was awesome to fish with Sanders (as usual) but I was really happy to have gotten my dad out on the water again, and watch the smile run across his face with each hook-up.  As we sped towards home, I couldn't help but think of how lucky us Coloradoans are to live in such a beautiful place.  As my mind expanded on this thought, I watched as the fiery orange sun nestled itself to bed for the night behind the purple mountains that Colorado is so well known for. "This has gotta be the good life" I muttered under my breath as a smile came across my face.

Fishing has been minimal lately.... With finals, homework, and getting hit by a car a couple of weeks ago, I haven't been out on the water very much, and each time has resulted in rough conditions with few fish landed.  But hey, that's why they call it fishing not catching, right?

So, in response to not having any fishing news or pictures to post, I figured I would share an essay I wrote for my AP Literature class.  We were told to write about a specific event in great detail, so I decided to write about a fishing trip from this summer.  Enjoy!

Tight Lines

The grasshoppers were never active in the cold morning air.  I knew that I could remain there, lying under my toasty, green and brown striped covers for another hour.  At that time, I could head out in search of a trophy, a magnificent trout, with a fly rod in hand.

At nine o’clock, I was awakened by the deep, moaning sound of my alarm.  I threw on my favorite shirt and shorts, sloppily placed my worn, old fishing cap on my head, and let my crooked, scratched sunglasses hitch a ride on my tired, saggy face.  I clumsily climbed the stairs from my room, greedily reached for a few granola bars, and stumbled out the door of my house into the garage.  Slowly but surely, I loaded all my fishing gear into the car and left with strong ambitions. 

“I will be back in an hour to get you, okay?”  My mom yells from the car as I nod hurriedly, and sprint down to the water’s edge.  The raging water came crashing over rocks, and the grasshoppers had awakened from their night’s rest.  Beer cans were littered around the bank, and a bait fisherman sat upstream from me, staring in wonderment.  I poked and prodded in the bank side grasses, scaring the innocent insects into the water.  Intently, I watched as the small creatures floated down river.  The sound of the fish inhaling the hopper was similar to that of a toilet flushing.  I saw a flash of pink, and the grasshopper was gone.

I crept into a casting position, and nervously muttered to myself, “Well, here goes nothing”.  Would my new hopper pattern work?  The rapid beating of my heart caused my temples to throb.  I presented the fly, and prepared for warfare.  As if my imitation was a natural, the fish calmly slurped down its meal, and I knew that this was what I had been preparing for.  

I slowly lifted the fly rod, and the surface immediately erupted as if Mt. St. Helens was exploding from beneath.  Twisting around branches, rolling near the surface, and diving beneath boulders, the colossal slab of silver and pink worked against me like a piston in a racecar.  The fish ran across the river as if he was being chased by a monster from a childhood dream.  Reel in, pull back, reel in, pull back, like a game of tug-o-war, we fought for bragging rights.  The muscles in my arm burned like needles puncturing one’s skin, and screamed for the battle to end.  The sun’s intense heat felt like a laser burning into the skin on my neck.  I could feel the wondrous beast starting to tire, and entered the refreshingly cool water in hopes of netting my trophy.  This was it: one wrong step and the entire thing could end.  Slipping, scrambling, and falling over the river bottom, I moved into a comfortable position.  I raised the rod, and slid the fish towards my awaiting net.  My mind was rushing like a running-back going for the touchdown.  I reached, I leaned forward, and then it happened: I felt the weight of the monster in my net.

I could not believe my eyes as I glanced down at the beautiful specimen in my net.  The zipper on my chest pack screamed as I dug for a scale and measuring tape.  I attached the rusty old scale to my net, and the marker dive-bombed straight to eleven pounds.  Against the old metal tape measure, the gorgeous fish measured at twenty-four inches, a true behemoth.  

Speedily, I removed the bent and deformed hook from the jaws of the beast.  Gasping for air, I rocked the gentle giant back and forth in the water.  Little did the fish know, all I desired was a few pictures.  With the current pouring over the fish’s fluorescent red gills, the brilliant creature regained its breath, and slowly swam into the abyss.  My emotions had quieted, and all that could be heard was the trickle of the river water.

Thanks to all who took the time to read it! I hope you enjoyed it!