Emergency Landing

December 30, I caught the biggest trout of my 29 years of fly fishing, rounding out 2013 to be a great year on the fly for this guy. I may have hooked trout this size, but I've never landed them. The story of landing this trout is the best part of this fish tale, and it was only possible with a little help from my friends (cue Joe Cocker and the Wonder Years).

I had taken two high school guys up to the Davidson River with hopes of putting them on some big fish. Atticus is an experienced fly fisherman who is passionate about the sport. Hayden is a little newer to fly fishing, and was breaking in his new rod, reel, and chest pack he had just received for Christmas.  The biggest hope was to get Hayden on a good fish. After about an hour and a half with no strikes, I was ready to move to a different piece of river.  As I was trying to convince the fellas to move down stream, we noticed a few takes on top, and thought a little hatch of midges was emerging. Two cast later I set the hook on a huge brown. I immediately asked Atticus to grab my net saying "this will be the biggest fish of my life!"

I was fishing three flies on a four weight, all on 6x tippet. My subconsious told me there was no way I was going to land this seemingly 24+ inch trout.  She ran me down into the deep hole below the run I hooked her in, then proceeded to look for every rock and log she could wrap my leader around. I was confident she would stay in the safety of the deep pool, but after about 5 minutes, she made a run down stream towards a long set of shallow rapids full or rocks, limbs, and debris.  I had to duck a fallen tree and run my rod tip under a submerged limb to keep from getting wrapped up. The big hen settled in a little piece of pocket water just above a log jam, 60 yards downstream from where I hooked her. Atticus suggested we spook it back up towards the big pool to narrow the variables of landing She-Brown the Wonder Trout.  Super idea. We got behind her, spooked her, commenced dodging logs and limbs like a fly rod clad ninja back upstream, and sighed in relief when she entered the tail out of the big hole.

The trout proceeded to dive 10 to 12 feet deep multiple times, without seeming to tire,  causing all kinds of strain on the 6x tippet, and creating a massive tight belly in the fly line bending under the weight of fish and current. She nearly had me down to my backing a couple of times. As I thought the trout was finally beginning to tire, it headed towards a couple of small fallen trees at the far side of the pool which  I had managed to move the fish away from early.  Maybe I was overconfident at this point, because i didn't worry, but the fish slowly moved in amongst the many limbs of the submerged trees as I applied pressure trying to coax it in the opposite direction. It slowly writhed in amongst the labyrinth of limbs, like a Katherine Zeta through the laser field in Entrapment, then the pressure I applied grew static and I realized my line was wrapped in the limbs. I knew my fish was certainly gone.

Atticus had been scrambling across the tail out trying to get to the far side of the deep hole to spook the fish away from the tree fall.  He crawled on top of the trees laying across the river, but my line staid tight around a limb.  I was certain the fish had broken the 6x tippet at this point, and returned to the safety of the deep water. "Do you see anything," I asked Atticus with low expectation. "No. I stirred up mud walking over here and can't see anything," he replied. I was dejected as he hovered above the cold waters lying on a few waterlogged branches.

Then it happen. Atticus communicated with focus and determination, "I see it! I'm going for it." He plunged his right arm in amongst the tangle of limbs, shoulder deep in the frigid water, and lifted the thick brown trout up into the 36 degree air by the tail, gripping it like a steelhead. Victory.

Hayden, Atticus, and I all celebrated with hoots, hollers, and jigs.  Hayden and I tromped across the river to examine all 25 inches of the healthy trout. After a few hero shots, the fish vigorously swam out of my hand and back into the hole it had fought me in minutes earlier. It was the biggest trout I'd ever landed; a fish of a lifetime.

Maybe it was worn out from the fight, and holed up under the safety of the branches, to tired to leave when Atticus approached the fallen trees and climbed on top of them, but for some reason we landed the beast. We shouldn't have, but we did. One good head shake would have easily snapped the 6x tippet with my line wrapped around a tree. This was definitely the fish that should have got away.  Without Atticus as super net boy and landing coach, it would have been just another fish story about the one that got away.

Fall Freeze Out

Whats cooler than cool? Ice cold.

It's been a pretty cold November here in North Carolina.  This morning when I stepped in the river around 8:30, it was 22 balmy degrees of guide icing cold. It helped concoct what would be a perplexing morning for me. I hoped the chill would keep the throngs off the Dirty D, but the wader clad army was full tilt on this Thanksgiving weekend.  I bypassed the crowds of the usual honey holes upstream of the bridge and near the parking lot, and walked a bit down stream to one of my favorite, and typically less visited, runs.

The water was flowing just over 100 cfs and had been as high as 1000 cfs a few days before after the rain and snow.  The "log hole" i was headed for needs at least 100 cfs to fish well, and seems to be getting shallower over the years as more water gets diverted to the other channel of the river. Upon arrival, I was pleased to see fish actively moving about and even rising regularly to sipp midges. I fished a three fly rig with a stone fly as my lead fly, then an egg, then a midge larvae.  I cycled through the normal midges, and changed eggs once.  I managed to get only one strike from a naive dink in two hours of persistent nymphing. I could smell a skunk. I hadn't been skunked trout fishing in … I can't remember the last time I was skunked.  At least 9 years. Hashtag humble.

I decided to move back to the crowded section near the parking lot and see what was crackin.  I had about on hour left to fish before I had to lay down my trout wrangling (or lack there of) for toddler wrangling. I slipped into to a familiar run, a piece of transition water at the head of a long slick.  The fish were visible, and not as seemingly active as the fish I had left. I still had my version of a Morris Stone as my lead fly, a carolina egg, and the trusty red midge on my 6x SA flouro tippet (buy one get one free at Davidson River Outfitters right now). In less than five minutes, I was into my first fish of the day. Red midge. Soon after I had my biggest fish of the day, a football of a rainbow that ate the stone fly.

A couple near me seemed excited, disappointed, and perplexed after I landed two fish rather quickly, so I struck up a nice conversation with the lady about the finicky Davidson River and my fly choices and tactics. I walked over to her,  showed her my flies, gave her my productive pieces of water, then proceeding to quickly pull 4 fish out of the piece of water she had been previously fishing with no success. I'd been lieing if I told you I didn't enjoy hearing her shout out "He caught another one!" a few times in a fashion uncouth of proper fly fishers. My ego is grateful for her uncouthness.

The 45 minutes of fishing near the couple from Atlanta/my-biggest-fishing-fan, was fantastic. Just before leaving I had that inner dialogue and self-pact that anglers often construct in their minds; "I'll leave as soon as I catch one more."  After I caught the next fish, I deemed him to small to count, so I caught another in about four cast, and then climbed the bank of rhododendron with a goofy smirk on my face. I felt like Babe Ruth calling his shot, except my accomplishment was way lamer and not as significant, and nothing at all like Babe calling his shot. Nonetheless, I left the river feeling like the Great Bambino, having called my own shot.  Thank you Asian Atlanta lady for adding to my delusions of grandeur.  If only I could leave the river like that every time.

As the kidz say on twitter, I left the river smh (shaking my head). Though grateful for the stellar 45 minutes of fishing bliss, why couldn't I get those fish in the log hole to play ball with me? The fish who did impale themselves on my hooks took the Morris Stone and red midge at almost an equal rate.  I stuck one on the carolina egg.  The fish in the first hole snubbed the myriad of my offerings. There were hardly any risers in the section I caught fish in, and plenty of rises in the stretch that kicked my glutes.  I suppose the risers down stream that heartlessly shunned me were dialed in on some emerging midge. The stone fly I was using as a lead fly must have been getting my midge trailer lower than the film trapped midges the fish must have been keying on. STILL… you think in my buffet offering of midge larvae, a few troots would have eaten my midge even if it was lower in the water column. The water was pretty shallow, so it wasn't as if my flies were floating under the fish. A buddy suggested a greased leader, size 26 fly, and hook sets on any visible rise near the area I suspected my fly to be in could have cracked the case of selective sippers.  I'm not sure I'm compelled to fish in that technical of manner yet. I'll just move and find some more willing fishes to fall prey to my current arsenal of tactics… and an excitably city lady with more fly savvy than her hubz to cheer me on.  Until then, see y'all in the funny pages.