Eventful non-events

I parked away from the water I planned to stake out for the hex fishing, though it wasn't a tactic to hide my location.

The closest parking was through a farmer's yard and would have given me front row seats to the river.  I had driven in and used his access many years ago and the farmer had never cared.  He always waved when he saw me.  That was then and I haven't talked to him in quite a while.  I think there is an easement that includes access through his property but I still feel that I should have a discussion with him before rolling past his mailbox and scattering his cats.

As it was, I parked a half mile away and followed the train tracks back to his farm and noticed that another angler was parked in my old spot.  He was closing the tailgate on his vehicle so I shouted out a "hello" in hopes of stopping him to discuss turf.  It appeared that we might be heading to the same water and I thought that I should clarify his intentions before crowding him out.  Nothing ruins a quiet night on the water like a jackass lowholer...and I didn't want to be on the giving or receiving end of that relationship.

The guy was probably in his mid-thirties and said he'd fished this water for the past 13 years.  I mentioned that it was funny that we hadn't crossed paths.  Through the back and forth banter that comes with streamside conversation between strangers, we figured out that we had met many years ago.  It seems that at a Trout Unlimited function, almost 10 years ago, we had discussed his (then upcoming) plans to do some trout fishing in the "West".  He reminded me of a few of the suggestions I had given him and then told me that he had followed some of my advice and stayed at a neat little lodge/resort in the Paradise Valley of Montana.  In fact, he said he'd been back a number of times in the past years.

I turned to the river and asked what section he wanted and he told me.  I pointed out the water I was hoping for and he was fine with it.  He then suggested we have a beer after the fishing and we went to our designated beats and waited for the hatch.

I saw four hex flies.

That's all.

A few small fish rose for spinners of a lesser mayfly and I floated my hex pattern over one of them...just because.

The guy who had questioned me about fishing Montana and had written my answers down fast and furiously 10 years ago, came through the brush and paused 100 feet away and asked if I had seen any bugs.  I told him about the non-event.  He said his water was the same....nothing.

I tied on a muddler minnow and spent another 15-20 minutes working a few deep undercuts while chatting with the guy in the dark.  I could've worked fast and moved down through the brush and fished another half mile of excellent night streamer water.  But I didn't.  I thought about the potential big brown trout and weighed it against the fact that this guy had suggested a beer.

I feel like I screw up some decent human interaction when I am keyed into fishing.  My wife always asks me, especially after I've been out fishing with someone I don't know very well, "What did you guys talk about?".   My answer is always the same..."uuumm....errr...fishing?...I guess?"

I was actually thinking about this when I reeled up and suggested it was time for "that beer".
The other thought was that I had parked a half mile from here because I hadn't taken the time to talk to the farmer in the past few years.

Too keyed into the fishing to stop and talk.

Back at his rig, the guy offered me a nice chilled micro-brew which went a long way towards making me forget about the potential monster brown trout just waiting for my muddler.   We'd been talking trout and the hex hatch for awhile when the farmer walked down from his barn and joined us for a drink.  The guy reached into the back of the truck and handed the farmer a sixpack and said, "Thanks for letting me park here."

I thought that was a nice move.

We stood in the dark, drinking beer and talking about rain and drought and crops and hatches and wives and mosquitoes and bats.   I told the farmer that he had a nice piece of water here in his backyard and thanked him for being so easygoing about the access.  It was heartfelt statement but fell short of the impact a cold six-pack has.

The farmer asked how the fishing was and wondered if we'd be able to send him any pictures of some fish from his property.  He said that a lot of people ask him how the fishing is and he'd like to show them.
The guy was in the middle of telling the farmer that he'd be happy to send him some big fish pics, when I interrupted him and told the farmer that I'd give him a cold 12 pack if he'd just tell all of the interested folks that the fishing on his land sucked.

The farmer said we had a deal.

It was close to midnight when I walked the tracks back to my car and slid out of my waders.
It had been a good evening. 
The air was a cool 56 degrees and there hadn't been a mosquito on me all night.
The barnyard discussion was interesting and even damn funny at times.   
The beer was cold.
The fish could wait.

And, when I come back for them, I'll park in my old spot.

Clarity

EB made a suggestion for a lake we should fish.  We texted back and forth and vacillated between the lake and gambling on some high water hex fishing for brown trout.  In the end, we trailered up my boat and hit the lake.

Clear.

That's how we found it. 

It's spring fed, has decent depth and is clear.  After bemoaning the green mid-summer water around here, I have found clarity.  It didn't really matter that we only hooked small gills and bass...it was clear. 

We pulled poppers and landed a few small fish.  The sun dropped and then the temps cooled off.  No mosquitoes and only sporadic rising gills.  At 9:45 or so, I dropped my rod and picked up the oars to slowly push EB around, trying to find edges and rising fish. 

EB cast and kept casting.  Nothing like a guy who is as eager to catch small gills as anything else.  I squinted my ears to listen for rising fish knowing that when we found them if EB presented the fly near them they would take a whack at late dinner.  

At 10:30 I rowed us back to the shore and kept my headlamp on the whole way... taking no small pleasure in looking into clear water.

HEX - trade secrets

I have fished a fair number of hex hatches over the years and I have settled on certain aspects of fly design.  There are a number of excellent patterns on the market and many more tied by guys like me who have their own secret "Hex" weapon.  But, when it comes down to the few hours a year I get to fish the hexagenia hatch, (and if I am fishing dry) I tie on one of these two patterns.

Here is what I've concluded about dry flies for the hex hatch.
1.  I like an extended body...but I don't like them to be rigid.  I've had a number of fish suck a fly down and yet I never got a hook in them.  I believe that the rigid extended bodies have kept the hook from getting into the "hooking zone".  I originally switched to a segmented body threaded onto a 5wt running line thinking that the line would add floation.  The segmentation worked well as I believe that my hooking percentage went up.  I don't think the 5wt running line was as limp as it should've been so I've since changed to doubled over 4-5x tippet...you'll see what I'm talking about in the pics below.

2. I fish spinners 95% of the time.  If it's a spinner fall the spinners "match the hatch" (or more correctly the "fall".  If it's an emergence, I believe the fish see the down winged version as a cripple/stillborn or at least a healthy struggling fly with damp wings unable to fly.  I believe that fish that have spent a few nights feeding on a hex emergence see this version of the fly as easy pickings. 

I've reached a point in my Hex tying that I haven't revised this fly much in the past few years.  It's a little bit tedious to tie in terms of prep work, but once the extended body is assembled it's pretty smooth sailing.  Take a look and if you are interested, confused, or have some thoughts on improving these patterns... shoot me a message.

Salmo's Hex Dun

Old aluminum tent pole, sharpened and beveled to cut foam disks. 

 

 

 

Disks threaded onto doubled over 4-5x tippet

Zap-A-Gap on Tippet and then foam is slid into place. Doubled tippet left long to lash to the hook and as tails. 

Extended Body attached to the hook

Parachute wing post of relatively stiff (but not too stiff!) synthetic.

Under Thorax of foam lashed and thorax dubbed.  Add two hackle feathers.

Hackle wrapped, thorax foam pulled under and secured behind the eye.

Clip excess foam, whip finish and cement the thread.  Abdomen colored with marker (optional). 

View from below.

Salmo's Hex Spinner

Extended body attached to the hook.

Synthetic down wing + a little flash, figure 8 tied.

Top View

Dubbed Thorax

Foam Head/Thorax.  Poke a hole in the foam and slide over the eye.

Lash the foam behind the wing / in front of the extended body.

Cut foam.

Buzz

It's 5:00 pm on Monday June 24th.  Ive been awake since 6:30 am Sunday June 23rd.  I fished Sunday night and took a short break only to start again at 3:00 am this morning.  At 8:45 this morning I called it quits, took a shower, had breakfast and spent the day with my family and McSteel's family doing things that make kids giggle and smile.  And then they do something that isn't giggling or smiling and I think I probably should have slept last night because my patience was left at yesterday's door.

But it's 5:00 pm on Monday and we are going back out fishing.  My brother-in-law, my father-in-law, McSteel and me.  Easy wading, a short hike, lots of mosquitoes.   Hopefully we will get some walleyes after the sun sinks.  If not, the lake has Northern Pike, Small Mouth Bass, Perch...maybe some Crappies.

We pull over to the side of the gravel road on the way and my brother-in-law jumps out of the truck to harvest some Oyster mushrooms off of a dead Poplar tree.  In the cab of the truck he shows them to me and I wonder why mine come in a foam box with cellophane wrapped over them and his come on a tree.

We get to the brushy turn off and park in a clearing that was obviously logged a number of years ago.  Rods are rigged and Deet is applied to my hair and neck and the back of my hands.  I'm careful not to get the chemical on my palms.  I'd hate to melt an $80 flyline.  I wipe the back of my hands on my ears and under my chin so that the mosquitoes will hesitate before biting me there.

McSteel and I wade in and my father-in-law and brother-in-law find a spot among the cedars to cast out into the flowing neck that connects these two lakes.  My father-in-law says it's shallow and it should be easy wading.  The bottom is covered with bowling ball to desk sized boulders that make the wading slow and deliberate.  Plus, I've been awake for too many hours and I'm not feeling as nimble as all of this requires.  I cross the narrow channel and head to the shore of the upper lake.  Pitching my fly as I stop between steps, I pull in a decent perch and then two 12" pike.  McSteel calls them snot-rockets.  Good name.

At the corner where the upper lake ends and the narrow flow begins, I double haul out and strip back.  At first I double hand strip and then, when I am satisfied that I can allow the fly to sink, I slow it down and retrieve with a single hand.

My spun deer hair streamer attracts the attention of a 16"-17" smallmouth that pulls hard against the graphite in my 8 weight.  I realize that I am pulling back hard and the fish is doing the same with some success.  Eventually subdued, the bass is healthy and dark with some bronze showing through its flanks.  A pretty fish and a hard fight.  I count this as a success.

After almost landing a 3-4 pound northern pike that eventually gets it's teeth on my leader and cuts the line as it thrashes by my side, I hear some commotion behind me and learn from my brother-in-law that his Dad has caught the twin to the one that stole my fly.

The sun dips below the horizon and lights up the remaining clouds with a pink glow.  I pause and take a few pictures and notice that the mosquitoes are buzzing in the exact same tone as my tired brain.

I am back at the bank having successfully retraced my steps from earlier.  McSteel, and my brother-law are watching my father-in-law fish.  McSteel has his buff pulled up and when he speaks it sounds like he's wearing a scarf.  Still, I wish that I hadn't forgotten my buff back at home.  I'd wipe Deet on it and pull it up over the back of my cap, over my ears, under my hood and leave just my eyes exposed.  My brother-in-law kneads his hands unconsciously and this seems to stop most of the mosquitoes from getting a bite.  I look around me and realize that I'm surrounded by a cloud of them.

The tired buzz in my brain is no match for the din of these assassins.  They win and we leave them to find an alternate source of blood for the evening.

Oyster mushrooms before

Oyster mushrooms after

Perch Non-photogenic

SMB

Evening on a secluded lake in N. MN

Back Home Up There

It was supposed to be a bucket list weekend for me and McSteel.

He finished the Birkie and then joined me in a training program that was supposed to culminate in a joint trip to Duluth, MN for the Grandma's Marathon.  (Our wives ran it last year and left us feeling like maybe we needed to step up our game.)  Two weeks before this weekend's race, McSteel shot me an email with a photo of his freshly broken ankle.  It was a freak accident that cracked a bone and broke a few hearts....tough stuff after a 374 mile training program including a couple of 20 milers.  Despite the tough break, he and his family joined me and my family and we made the trip.  The ladies ran the half marathon and I completed the full...McSteel just put on his game face and supported all of us.

My friend TP and his wife joined us for dinner that night after the run.  Drinking and eating and talking about fish (and art) was a great way to end an already successful day.   TP grew up in the same town I did and lived a life of fish and hockey and art much the way I did.  He's an interesting guy for me to talk to because though our early years were very similar, he is quite a few years younger than me and he's learned some things that I have missed.  Always a pleasure. 

We packed up the morning after the race and headed north to a place where I've spent a quite a bit of time.  It's further north than my original hometown but the roots of my wife's family run deep up here and I've adopted it as my own.  (I like it so much that my wife and I plopped down some cash on a couple of acres for the days after the kids have moved out and we fully intend to be sick of the grind.)  We settled in to a nice relaxing post-race day and McSteel and his wife put together a fantastic dinner before I suggested we grab our waders and hit the door for the shore of Lake Superior and some late evening fishing.

The lake was settling down from a day of waves and rain and the fog hung heavy.  It wasn't the ideal evening, like when the lake flattens out and you can scan the surface for rising fish, but it wasn't exactly miserable either.  We put in about an hour and half before it got dark enough that I couldn't see McSteel across the outflowing river current that was dividing our fishing water.  Fishless, we decided to call it a night and headed back up to warmth and dry clothes and cold beer.  We had covered a mile of the two mile uphill drive when we both noticed that the fog was gone.   It was surprising to see the soft glow of the sun edging the northern horizon at 11:00 pm.  There is something stunning about being far enough north that you can get at least a small taste of the midnight sun.

I suggested we head back down to the lake the next morning at 4:00 and try to be fishing by 4:30.  McSteel said that I should go and that he'd meet me there.  I went to bed at 12:30.  Lying in bed I thought about how much I love fishing up here and the beauty of the lake and how happy I was to have finished a marathon and then I looked at my watch and it was 1:30 am.

I grabbed my phone and googled a few things and read about MN fishing regulation changes and the history of North Shore Commercial Fishing from 1839-1847 and then I looked at my watch again and it was 2:30. 

At 2:45 I was downstairs drinking hot coffee and quietly washing the agates that I found the previous day.  At 3:15 am I was at the lake, waders on and pitching flies into the outgoing current looking at the glow from the Northeast and watching the "Supermoon" going down in the southwest.  I waded out to a chunk of exposed rock and stood there in a moment of complete awe.  The flat lake reflecting the most beautiful morning I could ever remember seeing.  I thought about the "Double Rainbow" guy whose videos went viral on youtube.
I felt like that guy.

As if all of this wasn't enough, at a little before 5:00 am a freight train hit my fly, tailwalked for a few feet, splashed down again and then put on a series of aerial acrobatics that made me think I'd hooked a baby tarpon.  When I finally got things under control, I fumbled with a few quick snapshots of a 25" chrome bright, unclipped steelhead. 

Perfect mornings.

At around 6:00 I went back to my rig to swap out a line.  The SA streamer line that I was heaving didn't like the temp of the Big Lake and was getting tangled in the stripping basket.  In my haste to re-string and get back on the water, I dropped the rear window of my Honda Pilot back to the closed and locked position with the keys inside.  I considered worrying about how I was going to remedy that situation when it occurred to me that some problems can wait.

This decision was made all the more easy by deciding that the fishing certainly could not wait.

At some point in the morning I turned and saw McSteel swinging the current with his switch rod.  He didn't make a production out of his arrival, just stepped in and started.  That's one of the things I like about him.  I climbed down from my perch and crossed over the river to where he was fishing and he told me that he just had a pull and was hoping to get his hands on whatever it was that had intercepted his fly.  I fished near him for awhile and within 15 minutes I watched his rod bow and jump with the tension of a hooked fish.  That fish stayed on for only a few seconds which confirmed a few things I already knew,
1. This place has fish
and
2. You don't win them all.

McSteel seemed more excited than disappointed and he verbalized later the thing that intrigues me most about the fishing in Superior.  He said, "I wonder what that thing was?"

I left him alone to try and answer that question and headed back to my rig where I secured a coat hanger (don't ask...) and broke into my own vehicle in less than 2 minutes.

As I suspected...these kinds of problems can usually wait.

(Note:  In a rush to get on the road I left a packed bag on my bed at home.  Inside, my fleece wading pants, rain jacket, buff and camera.  Cold and wet I can deal with...no camera is more than I can bear.  Luckily my wife lent me her little Canon point and shoot and I tried my best with what I had.)

McSteel eyeing the flow after dark.

25" Chromer...landing and taking the picture of this hot fish was a wee bit challenging.

Sage, Hatch, Supermoon

McSteel swings the big blue.

Hatching at the time

 

McSteel and the incredible light

McSteel, end of the evening.

Invitation Accepted

Just to Clarify:
When a buddy asks if you want to go out and fish Muskies in his boat while he rows...Say yes.

If you offer to take the sticks for awhile and he says "no, I'm good, keep fishing", just turn around and keep casting. 

But know that you will owe him some beer eventually.

If the same guy accidentally bumps the anchor lock and rows for 30 minutes dragging the rock, while he pretends that the rowing doesn't absolutely suck...
...keep casting because you can get at least 3 shots at the good looking spots. 

But NEVER, NEVER, EVER tell anybody it happened or post it in your blog or you will risk never getting invited on board again.

Special Thanks to MK for taking me out in his Clacka and letting me cast.  We attracted (but didn't land) a few crazy bass that took on our 10" flies and otherwise had a great time trying to convince a musky to eat, chase or follow...with no success. 

A finer fishless evening couldn't have been had.

MK, I hope you feel the same.

Bonk Mentality....in the house.

MK on the sticks...all night.

No size 16's in here....

Heave...

...Ho

What lies beneath...

I didn't intend to come back tonight.

The plan was to take a drive and fish another lake but some conflicts in scheduling at home made me reconsider.  It's a common enough problem.  Drive further for better fishing but decrease the time on the water...or stay close and get as much fishing in as possible.  It seems like I choose the latter more often than the former.

I decided to work down the shoreline and was paying attention to snapping turtle heads popping up and disappearing in the low easy waves.  I was waist deep and moving slow as I pulled out my camera and started taking a few zoomed shots.  I was hoping to get close enough to the bobbing turtles for a decent shot in the low light.  They kept popping up and then going back down.

In the back of my brain I was thinking about the story I told EB and JP the other night after fishing:

When I first moved here, my wife and I took the canoe out for a paddle on this lake to see what we could see.  Floating about 50' off shore in almost the exact location I was now standing, a large snapping turtle caught my attention as it clattered down the rocky bank, hit the water and bee-lined directly to the canoe, ramming it with it's nose.  It was obvious that it was not rushing out to make friends.

There I stood with a number of my important body parts below water line, trying to sneak up on snapping turtles...the thought was still bouncing around my brain when something rammed into my leg.  Thinking turtle but hoping carp I kicked at it and I am pretty sure I said a "word" out loud.  Whatever it was rammed me again prompting me to clear out quick. I didn't stop until my thighs were above waterline.

I headed back to my usual post on the lake.   A place where in previous nights nothing had rammed into my leg underwater.  I had a number of short strikes and popped a few small white bass.  At 10:30 after a couple dozen unanswered casts, I pointed my camera up at the half-moon, snapped a few pics, waded to shore with my lower extremities still intact and headed home.

This is the picture I was snapping when I got rammed in the leg.  Further inspection of the photo has changed my mind about the critters I was looking at.  The pointed snout suggests that they weren't snapping turtles but instead Spiny Softshell Turtles. The DNR's website says this about them "...spiny softshells are often aggressive when seized, and can inflict painful bites."  Good to know.