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(These really are just friends. They're here because they deserve to be, not because of business.)
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There is a thread in the community titled “Small Stream Trout Pics.” Some great photos there. This one was recently posted by member “ksbioteacher”… Amazing… Amazing underwater trout pics from ksbioteacher, taken in a "small stream in the Colorado Wilderness…"  Adult salmonfly cocktail, no olive. As I posted a few times ago, my eldest son just went to college. He’s studying Biology, and in his current Zoology class he is tasked with finding and collecting five different phyla. When he told me that, I immediately started thinking about the entomology aspect of fishing the fly. I’ve always loved insects, and collected them in one form or another it seems. When I was about 12, that “hobby” was known enough that my great uncle used to send me interesting packages, including live praying mantis eggs in the mail.  Small stonefly nymphs, pickled. When I started fly fishing, I was enthralled with “matching the hatch” and the art and science of that endeavor. I bought the typical books – the “Orvis Streamside Guide to Trout Stream Insects” and the like. I learned what a mayfly, stonefly and caddis larva looked like, and started counting tails on mayflies I saw while out on the water… and realized I’d completely gone off of the deep end. I was (am) ok with that. I realized that I could never really “match the hatch,” and that the best I could do was approximate the estimated diet of my quarry. Sure, I could get a close size shape and color in my meager offerings, but I could never match it. Continue reading My experience, or lack thereof, with entomology After watching this trailer, I’m so going to try and find this… Enjoy. (I’ve no relation to trufflepigfilms… but do think this is potentially an incredible video…)
Feeling a little nostalgic today, so here is a post I made on a personal web log almost eight years ago, before there were “blogs.” ——————————————– 17 September 2002, Rogue River at Touvelle State Park I went out to the little side channel of the Rogue at Touvelle yesterday morning. You know, the one many of us just trudge through to get to the “real” river and the nice riffle on the other side. It’s maybe 25 feet wide or so, one to two feet deep. At 7am, the weather was brisk - the sky doppled with high wispy ice crystals forming the cirrus couds. There had been sprinkles the evening before, but the water was still flowing mostly clear as it had been lately. With the steelhead running like they have been on the Rogue, you might ask yourself what I was doing wasting my time in that small side creek. Well, here’s the report. Eleven years ago, on September 17th, 1991, I became a mushball. No, really. Dad’s know what I learned and became that day. Ever since then I’ve tried to be a good Dad, and not force my own desires (aside from good character, manners, integrity and the like) on my son. I love to fish, but have never forced it on my kids, and he being the eldest was first in line if anyone ever was. Sure, I’ve gotten him a nice little five weight and supported any interest he’s had, but I’ve never not given him some other option when it came to fishing. It’s always been that we could ride bikes, or skateboard, etc. instead, as it was just spending the time that was important. Back to the trip report. He’s expressed interest lately. Lots of it. Even if it’s just to get my approval, it’s there. So Monday night I asked him if he’d like to “go fly fishing for real”, and was prepared for a “naaah, let’s play nintendo.” What I got was a “Yeah! Can we get up at 5:12 when I was born to leave!?” I was thinking of taking his birthday off. That sealed the deal.  Partridge and Oranges lined up and ready to go... As I’ve traveled this road of continuous learning and fly fishing, I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone has a go-to fly, or fly type. Some people love the dry fly – the sipping, the matching of insects and the puritan quality that dries seem to give. Some utilitarian fishers go straight to the nymphs – good old Hare’s Ear or PT, the Prince or some new variation of something similar. Personally, on a small stream, I reach for my little silver Wheatley first and foremost… it’s a tiny box, dedicated to one specific type of fly, the venerable old soft hackle. Soft hackles, for me, are the epitome of a fishing fly. They are arguably the oldest documented fly, and have been called funny things over the years, including a favorite funky name – “flymphs.”
One of the most frequent searches that leads people to this site is “learn to flyfish small streams.” I was thinking about that last night and thought it would be a cool series of posts, so here you go. I have no idea how frequent these will be and I encourage the “team” to think about adding posts of their own in this vein! I was standing looking at my bookcase of fly fishing books when it hit me, and it didn’t take me too long to grab the first book I recommend to just about anyone interested in learning about fly fishing, the Curtis Creek Manifesto, by Sheridan Anderson (Amato books.) I need to say that there is no substitute from learning from someone who loves small streams or fly fishing in person. None. But we’re not all that lucky, and frankly, you can’t have some smelly, grubby vested fly flinger sitting on your couch every night to shoot the breeze with you and coach you to the enlightened zen of smallstream fly fishing. Somehow I doubt the Mrs. would think that was too groovy and you may end up sleeping on said couch (again.) So, like many, we have to resort to reading.
I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariable ugly; because of the television commercials, cocktail parties and assorted social posturing I thus escape; . . . → Read More: Testament of a fisherman This was the winning entry of the smallstreams.com writing contest a few years ago… brought back to life recently in the forum by the author, member John M. Larson (Alpinefly.) Enjoy… The Winter had been bitterly cold and dreary. Then again, what more can be said of Colorado’s San Luis Valley; the cold spot of the nation most of the time. With the Sangre De Christo Mountains to the East, the Methodist Mountains to the North, and the San Juan Mountains to the West, arctic air would sweep down into the valley with an unrestrained vengeance. Survival experts will simply tell you that an exposed body would be hypothermic and dead within minutes as the air sucks the water and life out of every living thing. There was something more then just arctic air that had sucked the life out of me on this Christmas day. Seven years before, I was married on this magical day. Now the magic had turned to a bitter divorce. On this Christmas day, I went hunting, more out of tradition then desire. A fun little video of two smallstreams members, Roy and Palewatery, on stream in Ireland in Roy’s home waters… enjoy! No movement other than the flicker of an eyelid betrayed the Old Predators presence as he scanned the ambush site for movement his trusty weapon of choice clasped in a sinewy right hand. He had taken up his chosen position at the side of the clearing while the sun descended ever lower on its slow arc to the western horizon and temporary oblivion. Past experience had taught the old man well. He was well aware of the suns reluctance to surrender its position of dominance to the approaching darkness. He was also aware that this struggle for dominance would probably allow him enough light by which to carry out his mission. He knew he would need to act swiftly and silently if he was to succeed. Observations from two previous sorties with some careful stalking, had determined where and when would be the best time and position from which to strike with the greatest chance of success. His preys inbred instinct for survival and uncanny ability to sense imminent danger, coupled with excellent vision, made an undetected attack across the open clearing almost impossible in daylight. |
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