Squaretails of Iron County (Part 2)

That moment between deep sleep and awareness is a precious, fast thing. Waking in the Cabin of Iron County with the new found knowledge, lost once in the night, that a morning of Brook Trout hunting awaits is a glorious feeling. Enthusiasm remembered from youth redevelops, providing ample energy to rise from slumber into the cold of a predawn, spring morning. 

An unexplored stretch of the Paint River awaits the new three-weight. Just enough early morning light shines through the cabin's hazy-glassed east window for a quick fly-tying resupply. This time I will tie a few caddis imitations to arm my three companions. The morning in Iron County rarely brings a Mayfly hatch, common to more southern areas, so the Caddisfly is the Brook Trout and fisherman's mainstay until the warmest part of the day restarts the mayfly activity. The companions agree the Diving Green Caddis pattern should be just what the fly fishing doctor ordered. With a white sparkle yarn wing over a few wisps of partridge underwing adorning an olive rabbit dun body and two winds of a brown neck hackle, the Diving Green Caddis takes merely a few short minutes to tie. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee mixes with the audible heckle of my companions. Coffee and kibitzing combine to unsteady the hand. 

The Caddis is always a good bet anytime of the year and anytime of the day. Unlike his more primitive and much heralded stream-living buddy the Mayfly, the Caddis is considered to be a more advanced insect. He undergoes a complete metamorphosis from egg to larva to pupa to adult. We fisherman meet-up with him in his nymphal stage as he leaves his little stick house or his handmade sand palace. The Speckled One meets him earlier and often as he grows in his little worm house and then feasts on him as he ascends from the bottom to his winged mature state. The fisherman fools the Slippery Devil with winged imitations of the emerging adult. Little expertise is needed by us as we fish wet, semi-submerged or dry. The brookie figures it's a caddis and he'll eat it without much fanfare.

Blustery winds and 30 degree temperatures side with the Brook Trout this morning. I remind myself to be patient as I work down current . Extreme caution is required to provide ample room between fish and fisherman. Again, I take to the 10-foot leader and slowly pitch across stream, allowing the #16 Diving Green Caddis to start a float. I pull him down-under after a ten foot run to allow him to look "emerging" as he reaches his downstream end, rising rapidly from the bottom as the current accelerates the movement provided by the line drag. I "pan" for strikes from the 2-foot depths of the rocky bottomed Paint. This technique works to entice the laziest, foul weather brookie from his midstream hiding spot. Usually, the brook trout holds behind a rock or a stick peering upstream for his breakfast. When it's cold and rainy, he is not inclined to move far for his food. My panning technique brings the fly to his face. It is my trickiest, last ditch effort to persuade the Speckled One to give me a try.

The persistent roll cast, retrieve and concentration keeps my thoughts off the biting cold and rain. As a doe crosses creek not more than 10 yards from me downstream, I'm reminded that I am not alone in this weather. She pauses to give me a quick glance, then curiously looks to her downstream side and continues across. For a moment, I ask myself if she is giving me a clue that these few rocks ahead are holding the day's game? I too would be eager to point out a meaty alternative if I knew that it was not my time to be hunted.

I approach her suggestion with renewed enthusiasm and the stealthy concentration borne from it. From my three-weight blooms a fancy crossover roll cast to stream's center, calculated to follow the drift to quarter upstream of the promising boulder. The 10-inch Sentry strikes hard. He takes his signature run to the deeper water with a figure-eight and a gallant leap. Not often does the Brookie jump, but when he does it's in acrobatic style! He doesn't jump out of desperation as his cousin the Brown. Nor is it an unconscious habit like his native cousin the Rainbow. With the clever Brook Trout, it is always a calculated, knot producing strategy which works much of the time. To the fly fisherman, it's a moment to hold your breath and see what happens.

With a perpetual wiggle he comes to net. My intention to dine high this lunch wiggles away in a blurry flop out of the net and into the stream. I reformulate a new, spontaneous plan designed around the Senior member lurking in back of the boulder. Trout, like most animals, have a hierarchy. The younger set take to the upstream side of the rocks and logs, while the mature members of the family hold with less effort behind. If you get a strike ahead of the structure, make sure to go after Big Brother. He has had a chance to view the game a little, but in his senile ways he will quickly forget if you give him a little time.

I take rest at stream's edge, with self doubt for my middle-aged endurance of the elements, just long enough to catch the brief, low-flight splendor of the Bald Eagle making his way along the stream - a kindred spirit who no doubt has witnessed my loss and shares regularly in the same frustration. But alas, back to the Senior Member and into the stream I wade with partially thawed feet.

One, two, three and four passes of the #16 Diving Green Caddis. The fifth, and my best, is a roll cast to stream center using a stacking technique to bring my fly as close to the bottom as possible. I start the pull and lift as Mr. Caddis rises on his mock emergence. I pull to break water with fly along side the eddy of the rock's lei side. Too much for His High and Mighty!

With an attack uncharacteristic of the otherwise sluggish, cold weather brookie habits today, he snaps at my caddis. With the preplanned mindset to shake the life out of whatever is hanging on to his food, he circles the rock. Through the slack water behind the boulder and one circle around it, he cannot lose the invisible competitor. He changes direction in the blink of an eye and runs upstream to his challenger. My slack is taken up in a jerky response good enough to hang on to this one, but my frozen fingered reaction would have been surely too slow for a larger fish. Fat as a football, this 11-incher goes to creel to feed four of us this lunchtime. The battle, as old as cat gut and bird feathers, is the only cure for thawing the frozen fly fisherman.

Brookie action! My spirits are lifted and I'm eager to rendezvous with my companions to plan this evening's strategy.