I must confess that I can't ever remember fishing a trico hatch. Well, maybe once. With a guide. On the East Branch. More than 10 years ago.
For some reason, about two years ago, I bought two dozen trico flies: a dozen each of a parachute tie, and the spinner. I don't remember why. Each dozen of the tiny #20 or #22 flies came clipped around the perimeter of a small square of white paper to keep them from tangling up. Both squares were tucked inside a little plastic bag. I confess they kicked around my desk for the better part of two years. So when Todd invited me to fish the Tully ("It has a great trico hatch from about 7 to 9 AM."), I had to go searching for them. Much to my relief, I found the bag buried under some old bills. Perhaps that was a sign.
Thursday night, I organized my fishing gear, finally finding a home for these flies in a box. I bought my PA license online. And set the alarm for 5 AM.
Friday, I staggered out of bed, quickly dressed, made coffee in my french-press travel mug, and followed my GPS directions towards Reading. At that hour all of the roads were completely clear, and I met up with Todd at a convenience store about a half mile from the Tulpehocken at 6:45. Not bad.
We drove down to the stream. There were 3 other cars already parked there. Geared up, and walked onto the bank.
The Tully is a tailwater, perhaps 100' wide, and fairly shallow. Where we were fishing, known as the "Papermill Flats", the flow is nearly laminar, with almost no obvious structure. The bottom is mostly packed gravel, which is easy to wade. An occasional rock or sweeper provides a seam or two. The smooth water was about knee deep where we walked in.
The entire surface of the water was being dimpled by rising fish every few square yards. Wow!
Three fisherman were working a junction pool just downstream from us. Another fisherman was standing in the center of a smooth section of the Tully, about 150 yards upstream, making longish casts with a tight loop to dimples rising close to the bank.
Todd, who'd fished the Tully for the previous two days, said that he was going to walk upstream of this other fisherman. I found it hard to walk past so many rings, and decided to fish pretty much where we stood. As he walked away, Todd offered some advice, "I found them pretty spooky. You'll probably need to cast downstream to them." Oh, dear.
I tied on one of the parachute tricos.
It took me a while to get the hang of the downstream presentation. You had to cast fairly close to the rise, as you wouldn't get much of a drag-free drift in the downstream direction. Cast too close, however, and the fish would stop rising. I tried some casts 3/4 upstream. The fish stopped rising immediately. I tried some casts straight across. Same result. Fortunately, there were enough rising fish that I could just wade upstream a bit and find some fresh targets. Of course, I picked the splashiest, most aggressive rises. Todd had been right: I needed to cast about 3/4 downstream to have any chance of getting a fish.
But after a while, maybe 15 minutes, I realized I'd covered a number of fish quite well. I hadn't put them down, but still, the fly wasn't getting any strikes. I studied the water surface carefully, and realized there was pretty much a constant stream of tricos on the surface. They were spinners! Duh. I changed pattern.
On about my 3rd cast with the spinner, I had a strike. Set the hook, then noticed my fly line was looped around my reel. I stopped for a moment to untangle it, and some slack got into my line. When I lifted my rod tip a few seconds later, the fish was gone. Still, a promising sign.
A few minutes later, I covered a splashy rise again, and triggered another strike. This time, set the hook, and pulled in a 3" sunfish. Huh. Well at least the basic mechanics were now working. I decided to walk upstream to share my experiences with Todd.
"Oh, yeah. Those splashy rises are always going to be little fish. A trout will be sipping the hatch. You should be able to see his back as he rises to them." I wish I'd know it 45 minutes earlier.
I saw a sunken log in the water about 50 yards downstream, which created a little seam in which 2 or 3 fish were regularly rising. As I got close enough to cast, I thought I saw a back, though I couldn't be sure given the glare on the water.
On the second or third cast, the fish rose to the tiny spinner fly, which I could just track as a white dot on top of the water. I set the hook.
A powerful fish shot downstream and ripped about 10 feet of line off my reel! Mind you, I hadn't really thought about the drag on the reel prior to this moment, and it was set close to the minimum. Still it was fun. And surprising. The fish kept pulling hard, and I walked backwards, palming the reel, to get him away from the sunken log. After a minute or so he was under control and I reeled him in. It was a fat 14 or 15" brown trout, with a hooked jaw. A nice fish.
Releasing him was a trick. I don't fish with a net, and I try to avoid handling fish. As I stared down at him in the water, I couldn't see my little fly, and he broke off as I tried to follow the tippet down to my fly with my hand. Then, as I tied on a new fly, the loop connector at the end of my fly line (which is about 10 years old) gave out. I can only appreciate that it had waited until I'd landed the brown trout before giving it up.
It took me an other 15 minutes or so to catch up with Todd and sort-out stream-side repairs ("Just cut off the old connector and tie an overhand loop in the end of the line.") Duh, of course. But by now the hatch was over. Where once the entire stream was dimpled, there was only an odd rise here and there. I covered one, and pulled up another little sunfish. A few minutes later, and the water was entirely quiet.
Still, a lovely time. And an education.
No comments:
Post a Comment