Jan 21 2009
Memories of Small Streams
It is late September, and the weekend of fishing started early on Saturday morning at the ‘it’s still dark’ time of 06:00. The Lady/Boss/Girlfriend was starting the first day of her new job, and so what else is a guy to do with a free Saturday? The weather was fantastic; the end of trout season was looming a hateful ten days away; and the decision to go fishing was made the previous week. After waving ‘the Boss’ off at the door, I grabbed my gear and headed for the upper river for a days lonesome fishing.
I had thought that my previous visit to the stream would have been my last for the season, and so I felt as if my life had been somewhat extended. As I parked the car and began tackling up, the view of the valley beneath me held an almost electric quality. Hell, I was so excited with this ‘bonus day’ of fishing that I’d picked up a couple of nice cigars the night before, but in my defence, I aimed to celebrate every second that I was able to spend on my favourite stream before the trout season ended. They weren’t expensive cigars, but they’d do nicely; this trout season was going out in style.
In my short time fishing this stream I have fallen both obsessively and jealously in love with it, and if anything, it has taken priority over all the other waters I fish. I already know it intimately, and selfishly, have stopped naming it publicly. I like fishing there alone as (realistically speaking) it is only a small stream where even a group of two can feel crowded in some places. I like to fish the stream at a gentle (almost lazy) pace, as of course, this type of small stream fishing dictates.
The thing I love most about fishing small streams, however, is the fact that you are fishing in solitude and off the ‘beaten track’. The fish here are generally smaller, faultlessly finned, and a true image of what perfection should be.
A typical upper stream trout
It is 06:30am and the early autumn sun is still yet to rise, but the air has a tender warmth about it that allows shirt sleeves to be rolled up comfortably. After a ten minute walk to my normal starting spot (a small pool no more than 10’ long with small, but confident, white riffles creating its head and tail) I find myself once again awed by the majesty of this place. Thousands of thin light beams glisten brightly as the morning’s sun hits the voluminous dew droplets which have formed over night on the grass, leaves and trees. The river glistening welcomingly, as if she knows that this will be the last time we will meet until next March, and holds a light layer of mist above her. Standing in the early morning twilight, with only the sounds of the stream gurgling by and the morning song of the awakening birds as company, I smile as I tie on a #14 tan Klinkhamer; content with the situation I find myself in: my own personal ‘Heaven on Earth’.
All but the last of the ferns have turned a deep brown and the multitude of thick trees are all signaling the arrival of autumn with splashes of golden yellows, browns, and oranges. The stream, passing below a low ceilinged corridor of trees, offers shade and cover to a few rising trout that are rudely interrupted now and then by parachuting leaves, gently floating to the water’s surface. The shedding trees shattering the confidence of the rising trout for a small moment.
A low tunnel of fly grabbing trees
I am using my cheap 7′ #3 weight rod, and for all its inelegance and ‘budget level’ features, is the firm favourite of my rod collection; the smallest, but most adventurous and mischievous of my children if you will. Crouched low, and slowly working my way up to the head of the pool, I pick up three small trout that quite fancy a lunch of ‘Size #14 Tan Klinkhamer’ – no side salad please. All were as wild as the hills, fin perfect, muscular, and immediately furious with me for interrupting their early morning feeding. All three fish were taken from my ‘starting pool’, and I smile sadly to myself as I realise that I won’t be passing this spot on the way home; those were my last wild trout of the season from that particular spot. It is like waving goodbye to a child on their first school away-trip. Take care until March.
Fishing my way through the steep banked corridors of trees, knee to waist high in wild stream water, the trees (all of which have now reverted to their autumn wardrobes) paint the valley and its stream in rich golds, yellows, and olive browns.
A view from high up in the Gorge
At one point, as I stand mid-stream lazily changing my fly, I hear a frantic rustle in the foliage on the far bank. Instinctively my head shoots up and as I focus on the area of the disturbance, all falls silent. My eyes locked onto the source; small bushes with a dark shadow moving with ancient malevolence within their shady cover. Just as I started to fear that a monster with three heads might pounce from within and devour me, out pops a black, furry, weasel-like, and roguish face of a rather inquisitive mink. After a lot of ‘Shoo’-ing and shouting to scare the damn thing away, I make a mental note to log a call with the Environment Agency when I get home – we can’t have those things running about if we want a river with fish in.
As the day’s morning drew out and turned into mid afternoon, I had caught two dozen wild fish, and covered more than two miles over rough terrain. I was tired, but carried on fishing, casting to a riffle at the head of a pool. At that point I heard my name called, and at first thought I was really tired; but no, it was Sam, and not insanity grasping at me.
Sam had been fishing down-stream of me for the past few hours, and had successfully picked up around a dozen fish himself, and, standing on the opposite high bank more than 7’ above me, he stood there with a knowing grin on his face, “How many you had? It’s fishing its head off”. With a grin and a wink, I replied “I’ve had one or two.” It is indeed a good day my friend.
The two of us fished together for the rest of the day, casually leap-frogging one another’s position up the course of the stream, and both silently knowing that it would be our last visit for the 2008 trout season. We were but both determined to end the trout season in style, with plenty of fish, and by enjoying every second of it.
The odd “Yes!” from one of us would make the other’s head shoot up to see an angler complete with grinning face, a bent rod, and a wily, infuriated wild brown trout attached to the end of it.
Hatches of sedges, stoneflies, olives, and midges, were all seen in abundance throughout the day, although the hugely opportunistic nature of these small wild fish needed no more than a tan Klinkhamer or CDC & Elk to spark an interest and a confident rise.
A few other of the stream’s inhabitants – Caddis
At the end of the day, and in the warm, early evening sun, we both sat chatting about fish, flies, tactics for the next season, and enjoying a stream chilled beer in what seemed (and probably was) a very distant field in relation to where we had parked our cars. We had both caught more than two dozen glorious wild brown trout, and were both as happy as any fisherman can be after a tiresome, but very successful day at the end of the trout season.
At dusk, I had been on the stream for nearly fifteen hours, and was seriously tired. So, Sam and I started the three mile hike back to our cars, only stopping to either fish a section of stream that just screamed for one last cast, or to take a seconds rest in the fading warmth of this early autumn day in September.
The last trout of the season being returned
