Tricos

The August sun was radiant, skies clear, hit 90 degrees in the heat of the day, and I had the place all to myself. With about a third of a mile of river on the Ranch, about the same on the neighbors place and a mile or so above to the first check, I thought, that’s a lot of water for one guy. 

As is the practice out in the bush, it pays to set things up right from the git go. It was a breeze. Just slide the tiny green rolled tent from the yellow sack, shake it out over the spot and stake it down. Bend one aluminum pole from side to side in metal grommets at the head and voile. Done in about three or four minutes. Slick. This was home for a while. 

The routine unfolded as the days passed. Awake at sunrise, dress, walk to the car sitting above on the dike road, opened the back hatch to find two fly rods reaching from the bottom of the hatch extending past the back seat ending with the tips bending against the windshield. Put on and zipped to keep the morning chill at bay as I slowly twirled 360 degrees to take it all in. Shorts, sandals & a soft shell was all I needed to greet the day. Grabbed the cooler, my copy of The Way West, then walked down the road a piece where the blue folding camp chair sat facing the Willowy bank. Each and every morning, I’d sit there eating a breakfast of cold oatmeal, left over chicken,  a finger full of peanut butter, washed down with what was left of yesterday’s Coke. 

I’d read a chapter and every once in a while I’d raise my head from the pages of A.B. Guthrie, Jr.’s epic tale of the Oregon Trail to stare directly into the heart of that deep run protected by a stand of overhanging willows on the far bank, with a sense of determination to “storm the fort”, “breach the mote”, “ford the stream”. Knowing that the depth of the channel guarding the approach to the dark water, at its flow rate, would keep me from reaching that place for another day. Just had to wait it out till things settled down. 

By eight-thirty or nine, Trico’s began to swarm around the slow water above the small check. It was a crude means to hold the river back so the farmer on the other side of the river could divert water into his fields. The check was built by piling black igneous rock from both banks, leaving a twenty-foot gap for the river to flow through. Trico swarms hung in the air above an eddy below the check on river right. Looking upstream, to the slow water above the check, similar swarms were in full flight along the river bank. In this slow water ripples began to appear on the surface. At first one or two, then minutes later, the water surface broke in a series of concentric rings throughout this reach of the river. Things where certainly developing, as much of the river came alive. It was fun to watch, more fun to cast into. At first the catching was slow and frustrating. So much activity, so few hook ups. This was the classic “many raising fish, but few takes”. I tied on every small dry pattern in my considerable collection, but success was fleeting. I had to figure this out. This is my river. It had to be mastered.