After a week of work followed by a day of helping out my mother, I was ready to tackle two streams in two days, each one with a mile of water waiting to be fished. A double-haul cast of fly line isn’t necessary on this kind of stream, but to double-haul my outings would be good for mental health.
1/ The “Miracle Mile” at a Trout Stream Near My House:
I was eager to try my newly tied “Grouse and Flash,” a wet or soft-hackle pattern based on the Partridge and Flash, a fly I learned about from the blog, Small Stream Reflections. I liked the contrast between the dark grouse fibers and the pearly Mylar tinsel. I would use it as a search pattern as I chanced a day with rain and storm predictions.
It rained fairly hard, and the wind blew, and the Grouse and Flash did not produce. I tried to find a pattern of the fly the trout were feeding on. A small caddis or a Trico would have done the trick, I’m sure, but a Pheasant-Tail Nymph was all I really needed.
There was nothing miraculous about the “Miracle Mile,” but the native trout cooperated nicely. One day short of the Equinox, the trout were not yet fully in their spawning colors. Summer’s withered growth, along with recent blow-downs and accumulated debris, made the wading difficult at times. The storm potential never eased, and it finally killed my plan to fish the full mile.
I was thankful to the fishing gods that I could still adapt to changes that surrounded me, and even to act soberly at times.
Pipelines, gas rigs, trucks, and more trucks greeted me while driving toward the run. Tioga County looked to be industrializing, and it maddened me. Our globe was heating up, burning and flooding, and the truck parade with its chemical stew and drilling gear grew longer and longer. Sure, it looked like money, but not the kind I like to earn.
I felt like a hypocrite, driving a gas-powered vehicle while heading toward a great escape, complaining of an industry’s choke-hold on these beautiful lands and waters. I was full of… contradictions (better than “shit,” I guess), as Walt Whitman would have said of any poet or angler.
I had satellite radio to distract me, Elvin Bishop singing “Old School,” heh heh, singing that a phone’s as hi-tech as the guy will get. And, “Don’t send me no E-Mail, send me a… Female!”
And the drab, cool canyon was a joy.
I forged ahead on my 11-mile walking/fishing journey from the mouth to the source of Cedar Run.
I chose to delay a mile of canyon fishing for a later day, perhaps in a week or so, with the foliage sharper, redder, with the sun spiking the wild browns into action. I chose to work a stretch between two bridges in the gorge.
I thought about this choice, this chance I took. To work one piece of water now, the other later. I concluded nothing. I remembered a Brian Eno line from “King’s Lead Hat.” He sang, The passage of my life is measured out in shirts.
The passage of this life seemed measured out in casts. A wet fly first, the Grouse and Flash, producing nothing. Then, a beadhead Prince, a pull from the depths…
The trout was on for several seconds. It broke off the tippet and escaped beneath a ledge within a deep and dreamy pool. Alright, the fish had caught me unprepared… No doubt, and damn it! The biggest fish I ever lost in Cedar Run…
Despite my fumbling on the rocky and uneven bed, the upstream trout were kind to me. They rose through the Red Rock Riffle, taking a dry fly– a Black Ant and a Rio Grande King. I saw several wild browns about 15 to 17 inches in length. Again, all the trout (I spooked a lot of them) were wary in this low, September flow.
These fish, whose lives depended on taking the smallest chance with movement, rewarded me with satisfaction. For the chance I took with them, I felt like the ripples of a stream, becalmed, or maybe like fatigue with a smile, or gentle waves approaching an ocean shore.