Had my first outing in over three weeks.
Incredible how much the river and its inhabitants have changed in that few weeks. With little fly life about its like being back in march, cold wind... but different really, you know you are looking for trout that have seen it all over that last six months, a lot wiser and a lot less hungry than they were early season.
A few BWO's danced under the bushes sheltering from the wind, the odd caddis fluttered against the breeze as it sought shelter and a mate. Occasionally a trout rose, all oncers snatching at some morsel that would do little to help surviving the long winter ahead. Ten or so fish grabbed the nymphs as they glided between the strands of weed, precocious parr and small trout that have not yet learned their trade.
I fought a blustering downstream wind , enough to test a decent caster, for a french leader it was a test of endurance. I knew that this would be my last chance to nymph this season. So I persisted, willing one decent trout to cast aside the fact that nymphs are no longer on the conveyor belt and take my offering.
Cast after cast, as I covered the better lies I re-lived all those previous battles this season with magnificent 3/4lbers from each little pocket of water. The 1 1/2lber behind the rock in a pocket 10" deep, the pounder that fought like a 3lber...... The 1 1/2lber that Murt took from an unlikely spot that I had success from a few weeks previously. Somehow I was resigned to the fact the season was drawing to a close and that nature was closing its door on a world that only fly fishers get a glimpse of.
As I sat at the top of the long stretch I had little inclination to change to a dry, and less inclination to head home. As I pondered on this dilemma a small caddis landed on my hand. I marvelled at its perfection, amused by the fact that when its brothers fluttered around in swarms and the trout sought them with vigour I had little time to admire them , mind bent on sending the bubble sedge towards each bulging rise.
Then a small platoon of BWO's headed out over the water, battling the wind, dipping, egg laying playing out the last scene of their life. Their presence did not go un-noticed and a few enthusiastic trout zipped up from the weeds and slashed at them, not the normal sips, these were more hurried rises, as though these olives were a last meal.
What the hell I thought, if theres a chance then lets take advantage of it. Off with the spool with the french leader and on with the dry line The brain said a big bushy dry, nourishing enough for a trout to bother rocketing up through the weeds for an impulse take. The heart said a BWO spent spinner, they may just remember how easy a meal these were, and so the BWO was attached to the tippet more in hope than with confidence.
The choice was justified, two rises in as many casts. With this turn of events I walked with a bounce in my step down to the bottom of the pool and recommenced with a vigour that I thought would not return till next season.
For the next fifteen minutes I lost count of the number of fish I rose from what appeared like a graveyard, though few came to hand - but nevertheless I was more than content. When a fish of about 3lb launched itself out of the water no more than 10 yards away, i near wet myself. Though used in different contexts I have only one word for such fish " Prickteasers". Like the lotto the odds are 10 zillion to one, but if your'e not in you cant win.
I waited and watched, then a solid sip a few yards upstream from where she showed, the type of sip that you know was not made by a half pounder. I waited again, surpsed by my own patience, usually I would have cast straightaway. A few minutes passed and then another solid sip a couple of yards further out from the previous. No, I thought , it cant be her, such a fish would not usually venture more than a yard or so from the cover of the bushes that reached right down to the water - its a good fish but no three pounder.
And so I cast 4 yards above the rise, then another , another, closer to the bushes, further up , and then right tight to the bushes where she first showed and I knew this to be my last chance. She obliged with a gentle sip that barely moved water. I lifted and all hell broke loose. Thankfully she chose the weeds rather than under the bushes, with all the rain this summer the weed growth has been sparse and so the disaster that would have occured any other season was averted. I coaxed her through the weed time and time again until she finally succumbed. As I slid her over the net she lunged one final time and was gone.
Mother nature can now shut her door on this season, the memory of that fish will be enough to see me through till the next generation of large dark olives are next on the water