Fishing images

What kind of mental images come to mind when you think about fishing? Perhaps 'images' isn't the right word. For me, my most vivid fishing memories are made up of sights and sounds and snippets of conversation. If you put them together any-which-way, they make a collage of what fishing is all about for you. If you put them together chronologically, they can also tell a story about your journey as an angler and the people who helped you get there. Here's part of mine:

1980's:
'Trout Haven' - a pay-per-fish lake in Green Mountain Falls, Colorado: You hook into a good rainbow and you are seriously worried that it will pull you in. You are 6 years old.

South Platte River, Colorado: You are fishing salmon eggs with a little Zebco in Eleven Mile canyon. Fishing is slow and you spend most of the time climbing around the house-sized boulders. Your grandfather catches a fish where you had been fishing earlier. He is genuinely apologetic for 'stealing your fish.'

Trout Haven - 6 years on from the first experience: You are fishing a yellow eagle claw fly rod with a size 10 Adams on a level leader. Within 30 minutes you have caught 6 trout. Your dad tells you that you have to stop catching fish because its going to be too expensive. Your heart swells with pride.

Spring Creek, Texas: You spent all of your 13th birthday money on a snazzy Plano tackle box and some bass lures. Lots of the little drawers are still empty, but you filled the first tier. It fits nicely on your skateboard. You cast in a jointed Rapala and jump when a little bluegill instantly rockets out of the water and takes it down. You catch that same fish several times until one day he's gone.

1990's:
Lake Dillon, Colorado: You are fishing little Mepps spinners and power bait for good sized stocked rainbows off a rock shelf about 10 feet out from shore. It is high summer and the light reflecting off the water is electric - dazzling. The mountains in the background are deep blue-green. Soon they will dry out and turn brown, but for now, this is paradise.

Lake Woodmoor, Colorado: First time fishing with an Old Friend. You cast in a small pink jig and almost instantly hook a good sized yellow perch. Truth be told, it is the biggest you have ever caught in this lake, but you want to impress Old Friend, so you act nonchalant about it. This lake becomes the core of your fishing friendship. Later, it gets drained to water a private golf course.

South Platte River, Colorado: Back in Eleven Mile canyon. Your first camping/ fishing trip with an Old Friend. It is April and there is still a crust of ice on the edges of the river. The Old Friend drops your shared jar of 'Pautzkeys' salmon eggs in the river in about 5 feet of water. You can still read the label in the crystal clear water. Old Friend volunteers to strip down and go in after them. You let him.

Poudre River, Colorado: Old Friend is up to visit for Labor day. Its mid-afternoon and the weather is gorgeous. You are skipping your philosophy lecture to go fishing. Old Friend bends over to release a trout and drops a brand new pack of Marlboro 'cowboy killers' into the river. You squint as the pack drifts towards you in the Indian summer light. You dry them out on a rock, but they taste terrible.

Madison River, YNP: Your first fishing road trip with Old Friend. A thunderstorm is brewing in the distance and the wind has come up with the smell of rain. Fish are rising steadily on the far bank - about 25 feet away. You don't have waders and are not proficient enough at casting your fly to reach them from the bank against the wind. Another angler snakes up beside you and starts casting to them. You aren't confident in your knowledge of fishing etiquette, but you're pretty sure this qualifies him as an asshole.

The 00's:
Green River, Pinedale Wyoming: The end of a long and unsuccessful fishing/ pack trip into the Gros Ventre range with the Old Friend. You've just seriously messed up your dad's car by connecting at 70 mph with a doe mule deer. You pull over to settle your nerves and decide to fish the river running under the highway. For three hours you both catch small rainbows almost continuously. You are now forever hooked on fly fishing and vow to do nothing else, at least if you can help it.

South Fork of the Flathead River, Montana: You are five days in to a 9 day pack/ fishing trip into the Bob Marshall wilderness. 9 days' worth is just about all the food you can carry on your back. You drift your sz 8 orange stimulator downstream over a short slick in some otherwise riffly water and it is suddenly engulfed by an enormous white mouth. The fish is on for a minute or so and then it is gone. The next day, the same scene is played out again in the same spot. The image of that white mouth haunts you. You never got a good look at anything else.

North Fork White River, Missouri: Old Friend hooks into a huge brown. The fish of a lifetime. It is early spring and the surrounding woods are still a drab brown, but the river is a beautiful shade of green. As the trout rises to the surface for the first time, you see an enormous eye trained right on you. Old Friend whoops with joy and it echoes through the woods. There's no one around to hear it except you and him.

River Taff, Wales: A cold day in February, but the sun has just come out through the clouds. There is a good-sized trout rising steadily to a hatch of dark olives about 20 feet upstream right in close to the bank. You wait for a break in the wind, and place the fly perfectly about 6 feet in front of the fish. You hold your breath until the trout takes. Suddenly you are connected to a golden torpedo that tail walks out into the main current, throwing diamond droplets of water around it in the pale sunlight.

Green River, Utah: The spring BWO hatch is in full swing. The river is crowded. You and Old Friend have been catching big trout steadily on small dries all day long. As you set the hook into a particularly nice one, you inadvertently shout out: 'this is the greatest day of my life!' You feel a bit sheepish, but Old Friend doesn't judge. Maybe its not entirely true, but then many men have sold their greatest day for much less. You turn back to the river to play the fish and watch a guy on the far bank shouting into a cell phone.

RTMBN, Norfolk: It is pissing down with rain. The river remains clear. There's a pool up here where you know several wild brown trout hang out. They are next to impossible to catch, but you suspect that the dimpled water and fading light might work to your advantage. You cast a large sedge pattern to the far bank, and it is almost instantly taken by an 8 inch brownie. You have just enough time to laugh out loud before it jumps clear out of the water and into the bushes on the far bank. It throws the barbless hook and flips back into the water. You are still laughing.

The river that musn't be named

Tonight I had a few glasses of cider (which I won as part of a 'cider hamper' on father's day from my local pub/family eatery here in sunny Norfolk). I've never won anything in a prize draw before, so I was pretty pleased.

Anyway, I am feeling emboldened by the delicious cider, and so have decided to post some first pictures of the river that I fish on in Norfolk for salmo trutta, including the sea going variety. Yes. You read that last part right.

Why do I need to be emboldened to talk about it? Well...because its a secret. And the other club members, some of whose names you will recognize from the fly fishing 'tabloids', are fairly adamant that it should remain so. In fact, I was warned by the committee not to publicize it, because we didn't want 'the others' poking their noses in. It seems that there are all sorts of groups that might count as the opposition in terms of keeping a river pristine for fishing (which might not be the same thing as keeping it pristine for other sorts of activities like bird watching, irrigation/ livestock or poaching).

Sooo - I will play along and not reveal its location or name. After all, I've got some of my own money sunk in the membership fees (which are a bit steeper than what I'm used to paying in S. Wales...or the US for that matter). It is therefore in my economic interest to keep it quiet. And probably my sporting interests too. So from now on, I will refer to it as the River That Mustn't be Named (RTMBN). I like that, because the last three letters are my initials.

On the other hand, it is probably not going to hurt to post some carefully composed shots of the river from time to time in order to add a bit of context to my ramblings. I do spend a lot of time in these surroundings, and its nice for other anglers to 'have a butchers' at the other guy's patch. So here's a couple to just introduce you to where I fish...or at least one place where I do it often:




And of course, the obligatory fish porn shot. This guy will go about 2 pounds. He will not be easy to catch in that spot. These fish spook at the slightest hint of rod movement. A long drift and a stealthy approach are required for success here. Note the boil - top left- where I spooked another trout when I poked the camera lens out of the bushes too quickly.