Persistence, Luck, and Underwater Photography

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I've been lucky.

Wanting to work on a few brown trout paintings, I've been in search of opportunities to shoot good reference photos... a deceptively difficult task given the nature of brown trout. Even when conditions are ideal, the task of underwater photography has a multitude of challenges to overcome.

About as good as it gets most days.

Where I live, browns tend to live in some less than pristine places. The water is often murky and dark. The streams can be choked with silt, so every movement stirs a cloud of debris into the water. Brown trout, especially big ones, most often feed during low light periods... sometimes the really big fish can be nocturnal (perhaps a brown trout nocturne painting in the near future? Hmmmmm...). Dark overcast skies, rain, snow, and general crappy weather can make fish aggressive and result in some outstanding fly fishing. None of these things are good for aquatic photos. 

Related to the item above, the best photos I get always seem to come during bright sunny conditions. Water quickly defuses light, so color and contrast quickly fade as the point of view moves deeper into the water column. The midday sun on cloudless days makes for remarkable patterns of light and hues really pop. Unfortunately, trout can be spooky and all but impossible to catch on these bluebird days. 

 

Nice shot, Sparky.

Aside from dawning snorkel gear and submersing myself in 45° water (which there's no chance in hell I'm going to do), aiming the camera to get the fish in the frame is a crap shoot. It's always a little easier if I've got someone along to wrangle the fish while I concentrate on the camera. Understandably, my fishing buds aren't nearly as interested in getting these shots as I am and tend to be off doing their own thing. So most times I'm left to handle this on my own. My photography technique consists of holding the line with one hand (after I'm lucky enough to catch a photo-worthy fish), jamming the camera into the water with the other, and trying to guide the fish and the camera in coordinated movements. It's akin to the old barroom 8-ball "poke and hope" method. When the fish are particularly frisky, this can lead to some comical mid-river dance moves and lots of fishing line wrapped around my legs. I've looked up on occasion to find I have a puzzled yet amused audience watching from the stream bank. I'm actually amazed every time I manage to get a great shot. There are literally hundreds of clunkers for every good one.

All that being said, I've managed to get some absolutely outstanding material in the past week. The water has been unusually clear and the fish surprisingly cooperative. LUCKY! LUCKY! LUCKY! Oh... and I get to go fishing and call it work. HA!

Oh, and if you were hoping to see my VERY BEST shots here... FAT CHANCE! There are enough lazy "artists" out there using to web to rip off the work of others. I think I'll keep those pix for myself ;)

Okay, I'll probably paint a version of this shot soon.

"Time for a Change"

"Time for a Change" 16x20 oil

This is the last of 14 original oil paintings headed to Gettysburg for the History Meets the Arts show, June 13-14. Contact Lord Nelson's Gallery for more information.

"Clear Creek Brown"

"Clear Creek Brown" 10x10 acrylic

It's been a few weeks since I've finished a painting, so it was time to get my butt in gear! I'm happy to add this one to the "done" list.

A Day Off

I decided to take the day off yesterday and do a little fishing. The forecast called for a high in the upper 40s after a night in the teens. While the temperature may have reached the 45° mark in some places, it sure as hell never got that warm in the creek gorge!
Of course, that seems to be the theme so far this year... delusional weather prognosticators missing forecasts by 10° or more, the first of April is baring down on us, and the nights are still so cold the river eddies freeze over with more than just a little ice. Still, I can't help myself and sometimes I just have to get outside... and fishing seems to be the most agreeable excuse. After all, there are only so many nights I can spend tying flies by the fire without getting some of them wet.
I hiked more than a mile downstream from the road planning to fish my way back to the truck. Wood ducks and hooded mergansers flushed ahead of me as I picked my way through the giant icebergs that still line the banks of the stream. A great blue heron squawked in disgust having his hopes for a trout lunch thwarted by my approach. I was taking my time and being pretty careful. The last thing I needed was to twist or break an ankle!
My starting point was a spot lined with giant river carved rocks and old hemlocks on the far bank. The water was clear (and COLD!). It didn't take long for my feet to feel the affects of the icy water as I drifted my flies through the deepest sections of the run. I fished for what seemed like an hour or so without so much as a bump from a trout. I occasionally changed flies hoping one of the combinations of fur and feather would appeal to the trout. I realistically thought to myself that the extreme cold temperatures of the night before had probably pushed the fish into a state of near dormancy, not moving an inch to eat anything... no matter how enticing. But then it happened... my line hesitated during the drift and I lifted my rod. To my surprise, it was a nice brown trout!

 

I was happy. The fish fought hard and I marveled at its markings and color before letting it go. Five casts later, I had another.

And so it went for the rest of the afternoon. I caught the occasional fish... enough to keep me focused and happy. My feet got progressively more numb until I found myself stumbling along the trail unable to feel the ground beneath me. I even took time to get a few underwater shots of a nice healthy rainbow in an unusually clear stretch of stream.

 One thing about photographing fish in conditions like this... you work fast! It doesn't take long for all the heat to be sucked from your hands and turn them into useless clubs. For the next 15 minutes after taking the photo above, I might as well have been wearing boxing gloves. My fingers were not working at all!

January's Black Cloud

There are winters that seem to breeze by without much drama or strife and pretty much transition from fall to spring leaving me wondering where all the snow went. This in not one of those.
It's only January and already I've been skulking around here with a scowl befitting a monster villain on Scooby Doo. I haven't resorted to throwing things yet, but I can feel it coming. It's that black cloud again and I know when it gets here, it can be awfully difficult to shake. Otis the Wonder Dog has been staying pretty close and keeping an eye on me... frequently putting his feet up on my painting chair and giving me doggie kisses because he knows. He always tries to help, dropping his favorite ball on my foot and wagging his tail.
Keeping my mind busy with work here in the studio has kept me productive, but done nothing to improve my disposition. It was 22° outside and the forecast was calling for highs in the single digits most of the next 10 days. I really needed a break.
Knowing it would not be any warmer for the next week or so, I put my fishing bag in the truck and headed for a trout stream. At the very least, I would get some fresh air in my lungs and work some of the cobwebs out of my brain. Of course I was hoping for a trout or two, but that was almost too much to ask on a day like this. Still, I need to get out and go through the motions.
As it turned out, the fish were cooperative and I managed to catch a few. It seemed strange to hear myself laughing on the deserted stream, but the trout made me giggle. The sting of frigid air on my hands after releasing them was another story.
For 3 hours, I moved cautiously along with the wind and snow biting at my face. I'd make a few casts letting my flies cover the better areas of the pools, take a couple of small steps upstream, and make a few more casts. I knew the trout would be very near the bottom in this cold water and my flies were constantly hanging up on rocks, sticks, and leaves. But every once in a while, the line would pause and I'd lift my rod to feel the dull throbbing of a fish. Of course, under normal circumstances this would be nothing remarkable. Today, it was shear joy... if for no other reason than the contrast of my mood just hours before and the absurdity of fly fishing in such nasty weather.
I had planned to fish until dark, but could no longer feel my feet. It wasn't far back to the truck, but when I got there, my wading shoes were frozen solid. With my cold fingers operating at about 30% dexterity, I had a hell of a time getting my boots off. The wind was picking up and there came a sense of ergency to get this done. I really wanted to be in the cab of the truck getting warm!
By the time that was done, it was beginning to get dark. I carefully put my fly rod back in its case and stored the reel in my fishing bag. The truck had been running, so it was warm inside and I huddled inside letting the heat soak into my body. Again, I heard myself laughing. It's no wonder people think I'm freakin' nuts!

April at Its Finest

I left the studio yesterday morning at 9:00 setting off to explore a small trout stream I had not fished since I was a youngster. My calls to fishing partners the day before were unsuccessful, so I was on my own... and that was okay. The solitude would offer me the luxury of moving at my own pace, poking along the stream banks and lingering as the mood dictated.
Soon after I left the truck, the morning sun had warmed the countryside enough to make my fleece jacket unnecessary. I stuffed it into my daypack and started looking for trout.
It's funny how I can get distracted from the task at hand on days like this. Wildflowers carpeted the brushy stream banks and I found myself spending quite a bit of time photographing them. Trout lilies, spring beauty, and large toothwort (I think) were thriving in the rich soil of the valley floor. I happily crawled along the wet muddy ground shooting photo after photo.

Trout lily

Large toothwort

Caddis flies along the stream

With that out of the way, I got back to trout fishing. There were clouds of caddis flies hovering above the water. The streamside brush was covered with them. It wasn't long before I caught my first fish... a large fat brook trout that made me smile as I popped the hook from its jaw and let it swim away. That was a very good start!

Rainbow trout

The trout, mostly rainbows, were finicky. I fished long stretches of spectacular water without a sign of a fish, then happen upon a spot where I'd catch one and maybe miss another. The lengthy distances between fish contacts were puzzling. I don't feel like I ever really figured the fish out, so every time I managed to hook one, it seemed like I accomplished something.

One of many deer along the stream

The wildlife activity along the stream made me think the critters were enjoying the warm sun as much as me. Deer would wander up to me as I stood in the middle of the stream before realizing I was there. Turkeys scurried through the skunk cabbage. Ruffed grouse flushed ahead of me offering only a glimpse as they winged through the dense undergrowth. At one point, a sharp-shinned hawk nearly took my hat off as it zipped by.
This morning, my sore legs are a reminder of a great day afield. I can get back to my work in the studio with a renewed enthusiasm. Time to get busy!

Goofing Off!

For the first time in weeks, the weather dummies had predicted a day above the 50° mark. After working on my taxes for a couple of days (still not done!) and spinning my wheels with a painting currently on the easel, I needed a break. It took a few phone calls the night before to wrangle a fishing partner, but with that out of the way, I put my fishing bag in the truck anticipating the next day's adventure.

I let Otis the Wonder Dog out at 7am and thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. The thermometer read 15°! Are you kidding me?! As I poured my first cup of coffee, I was happy for both the warmth it offered and the fact that BT wouldn't be arriving for a few hours. I was keeping my fingers crossed the air would at least reach the freezing mark by then.
Neither of us were absolutely hell bent on fishing until things began to warm a bit. On the way to the river we stopped here and there checking other streams, looking for turkey sign, and generally goofing off the way outdoor types do when there's time to kill.

Once we were on the water, we fished hard. We always do. And I'm not ashamed to say that after 5 hours of wading, casting, changing flies, and trudging along the stream bank, BT caught the only fish we saw all day.
When we'd both had enough, we pealed off our waders next to the truck. It finally felt like the temperature was near 50° and the warm sun felt good on my back. For the next hour we sat on the tailgate of the truck, drank a cold beer, and laughed about stories of misadventure in years past. Tree swallows checked out nearby bluebird boxes, to a serenade of spring peepers and a lone Canada goose was already on a nest within sight of our position. It was perfect.
It's funny how there's a necessary process to times like that. You can't just jump right into a tailgate powwow without first going through the preliminary actions... be they fishing, hunting, painting, whatever. It just doesn't work that way. But the entire day was leading up to that moment on the tailgate of the truck when we clanked beer bottles and BT said around his cigar, "This is quite a day, eh Bortzie?"
Quite a day indeed. Thanks BT. I needed that.

"Riffle Riser"

"Riffle Riser" 8x8 acrylic

It's been quite some time since I last posted. It seems the issues I was having with image uploads have been resolved (at least for the time being), so back to the important stuff.
I love painting trout... especially when I have outstanding reference material to work from. Photographing trout underwater is quite a challenge and more often than not, I end up with a whole lot of useless images on my camera. It's at least a two person operation. On the rare days when I can get someone to go fishing with me, there has to be a decent amount of sun (or the images end up blurry) and, of course, we need to fool a couple of fish. When it all comes together, I end up with a painting like this :)

"Conewago Rush"




"Conewago Rush" 16x8 acrylic

 Inspired by a recent fishing trip, I've attempted to capture the essence of the crystal clear water in the "narrows" section of Conewago Creek. The fish were wild and frisky. The scenery was breathtaking. It was a day spent in fly fishing paradise.

A Day in Paradise



Tumbling water on the Conewago



Somehow the planets aligned last week and I was offered a slice of paradise for a day. Conewago Creek is a spectacular little trout fishery throughout most of its upper reaches, but the fabled "Narrows" may be some of the most outstanding water on the planet. Leased and maintained by the Conewago Trout Fishermen group, this area is off limits to the public. My hope was to wrangle permission to photograph the area for painting reference, but when the invitation was extended to stay and fish as well, I just couldn't pass it up.



A small wild rainbow in the gin clear stream



Both the scenery and trout surpassed my expectations. The stream banks are lined with rhododendron, hemlock, and boulders the size of a truck. The water itself weaves and tumbles along this stretch creating pockets and plunge pools everywhere you look. The trout are feisty and wild... and some are quite big!



More painting inspiration!

 It was only a couple of short days ago, but the whole experience seems more like a dream than reality... a dream I won't soon forget!

An Exercise in Patience

Fran called last Friday morning.


“I wanna go fish the sulphur hatch on Spring Creek today. Can you go?”


It seemed a little foolish at the time (actually, it still does), but within an hour we were headed east, sunglasses on and windows down, quickly clicking off the miles of the 2½ hour drive.

Spring Creek

If you’re unfamiliar, Spring Creek in central PA is one of the more famous trout streams in the eastern part of the US… especially in the Fisherman’s Paradise “catch and release” area. The trout are notorious for being tough and selective for most of the day, then feeding with reckless abandon during the more prolific hatches… like the sulphur mayfly hatch. It had been about 30 years since I last fished Spring Creek, yet I felt had a pretty good idea of what I was in for.

Of course being the Friday before a holiday weekend, there would be plenty of fishermen… and there were. The parking area was nearly full and not being a fan of crowds… especially on trout water… I had a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that our time might be better spent elsewhere… sulphurs or not.

There were maybe a dozen wader-clad fishermen milling around the parking lot and the buzz seemed to be that the sulphurs were done. The hatch was good two nights prior, but almost nothing the next night. Again, there was that subconscious tug saying we should be somewhere else.

Still… we weren’t somewhere else, so I pushed that negativity down and decided to make the best of it. Fran was pretty excited about fishing here and I have to admit… I was getting a little anxious myself. I had no idea of the fist-clenching-teeth-grinding-tangled-line-no-fish-sonovabitchin’ day ahead.

We hiked upstream past most of the fishermen. As we passed, I noticed two things: There were a lot of guys standing there with rods tucked under their arms staring at the water, and no trout were visible anywhere we passed by. As we continued upstream, it occurred to me that we’d picked the hottest part of the hottest day of the year so far to strap up chest waders and fishing vests and hike uphill for a mile. For the rest of the day, my waders were as wet on the inside as they were out… an irony lost on me until much later that evening.


Finally, we picked a fishy looking stretch of water, tied on weighted nymphs, and waded in. The water was cool and it felt good to be fishing. As we worked our way upstream, the dense growth along the stream gave us a bit of a break from the sun and heat. Still, there were places where it seemed I was standing next to a blast furnace and the combination of bug spray and sweat burned my eyes.




Fran with a nice Spring Creek brown trout

 As the afternoon wore on into evening, fish were still not showing… but my frustration was. At times, I just had to find a rock to sit on and regroup. Fran had managed to land the only two strikes he had… a pair of browns, proving there were actually fish in the stream. I switched flies regularly hoping to find something that might work for me. Nothing.


A few fish began to rise here and there and the odd sulphur dun floated by. I clipped off my nymphs and tied on a small dry fly. On the first cast a fish surveyed my offering, but refused and faded back to the bottom of the stream. Almost as soon as fish began to rise, the mayflies disappeared… and so did the trout.

The sun had dropped behind the trees and once again, it seemed like I was flailing at a fishless river. I change back to a nymphing rig and worked my way upstream probing the depths for a fish I now knew were there. Finally, my line twitched and I lifted the rod smartly. My fly made a solid connection and my rod bent… to a large flat stone on the bottom of the river. Frustrated, I jerked my rod upstream several times trying to free my flies. Success! The flies pulled free! That small victory was soon washed away by the realization that my leader was now hopelessly tangled around my rod tip. I stood in the thigh deep in the rushing water for several minutes attempting to straighten out the mess. It just wasn’t going to happen.


Eventually, I waded to a large rock and sat down. The light was fading quickly and still, there were no signs of the tremendous sulphur hatch we’d hoped for. Upstream about 50 yards Fran stood motionless in the stream staring into a fly box as though he were reading scripture. I took out my clippers and dispatched the tangled mess at the end of my rod, all the while contemplating conceding defeat and keeping my butt planted firmly on that rock until Fran came back downstream.


I sat there and started to laugh. Feeling like maybe I’d lost my mind and seeing humor in that, I laughed a little harder. Okay. Fine. I pulled a section of tippet material off the spool in my pack and began to repair my leader. Even if I didn’t make another cast, I decided to make this a Zen exercise. I’d take my time, try to remain calm, and at least be ready to fish if I chose to do so. It would be a much bigger test than I anticipated.


It was now dark enough I was having trouble tying my knots, but I managed to achieve my goal... going so far as to even tie on the same two flies I'd just extracted from the tangle. When I was finished, I ran my fingers down the length of my new tippet and found a knot that wasn't supposed to be there. Really? I usually get to make a cast or two before that happens. I shook my head and with a sigh and a wry smile, calmly worked the knot out of my line.


Now ready to fish once again, I carefully made my way back into casting position. But before I could make that next cast, I noticed mayflies in the air above the stream. The sulphur spinners were finally making their way back to the stream to mate, lay eggs, and die. They danced above the riffle below me by the hundreds. I looked at the nymphs tied at the end of my leader and wondered if I should change to a dry fly… again. That question was immediately answered with the splashy rise of a feeding trout. Then another… and another. Like someone had turned on a switch, dozens of trout began to rise within casting distance. I shook my head once again and without having made a cast… changed flies.


By the time I had a #16 sulphur spinner imitation tied to my leader, thousands of mayflies were both in the air and on the water. Newly emerging duns and dying spinners drifted by on the surface… and the trout greedily ate both. With less than 20 minutes of dim light left and so many feeding trout, I could hardly contain myself. Any of the grace typically associated with fishing dry flies went quickly out the window. So much for Zen. So many trout were rising so frantically, it was hard to just pick one and make a cast. More than once, I changed my mind mid-cast and the result was an embarrassingly inept jumble of line on the water in front of me. The trout didn’t seem to care. They went on feeding even as my line clumsily crashed to the water just above their heads. Even with my less than stellar technique, the fish ate my fly… or attempted to. I missed at least the first half-dozen takes. When I finally did connect, it was briefly, as trout and fly came unbuttoned within seconds. I suppose any other day, that might have pissed me off… but today, it seemed like a victory.


Finally, after dozens of strikes and a several brief hookups, I could no longer see well enough to fish and I made my way back to my rock. It wasn’t long before Fran made his way downstream. Even in the dark, I could see the big grin on his face. He’d done well using nymphs and was happy with the last fish he caught… a hard fighting 15” brown.


The hike back to the truck was pretty much in total darkness and I was happy for the well-worn trail. The parking lot was empty by the time we peeled off our waders, broke down our rods, and stowed our gear. Several fireflies blinked at us from the other side of the river and we sat on the tailgate savoring cold beer from the cooler. Not one to wish for too many fishless days, I still felt like something was right with this day spent on the water. I was happy… or maybe I’d been in the sun too long.

A Chance to Explore

Taking advantage of an opportunity to get out of the studio, I loaded my fishing gear into the truck yesterday morning and headed out. A remote stretch of stream not known to hold many trout (actually, not known for much of anything) had been on my mind, so if nothing else, I'd get a little exercise. I'd never been on this part of the creek, so it was truly an exploritory adventure.



The hike to the stream was actually more bushwhacking than hiking and it occurred to be that my abscent fishing partner (who cancelled on me the night before) probably wouldn't have enjoyed this anyway. When the forest opened at the edge of the stream, I found a well-used deer trail and followed it downstream. I was immediately struck by the absence of human sign... a rarity in this part of the world. No trash or flood debris littered the banks and the only boot tracks were those made by yours truly. I found an old fire ring back in the timber a bit that hadn't been used in years and the remnants of a makeshift shelter. That was the last an only sign of humanity I encountered.



The "fishy" spots were few and far between, but there was plenty to see and I didn't have much trouble finding things to photograph. I have to admit, I felt a little smug when my first cast ended with my fly in the mouth of a nice brown trout.

As I moved downstream, I discovered dozens of neatly arranged piles of small stones in the middle of the stream. Ever-curious about the goings-on of the natural world, I had to wonder about these conspicuously out of place mounds of stone. They were about two feet in diameter, eight or ten inches high, and the rocks were 1" to 2" wide. Most of the rocks on the stream bed were coated with sediment, but these smaller stones were relatively clean... so why were they there? It wasn't long before I found the apparent cause. Many small fish, maybe chubs of some sort, were using these stones as a "community" spawning area.

Once again out of pure curiosity, I drifted a fly through the pod and caught one of them just to get a look. The little guys were quite colorful with pink sides, orange-tipped fins, and stark black and white markings. They looked more like aquarium shop fish than something native to the streams of PA. The mounds where I found fish were much lower than those that no longer had fish on them... again, making me wonder how these small fish move the stones and why. As much as I would've like to stay and watch, there were more things to see and trout to catch... so downstream I continued.

Tiny mayfly spinner

Mayflies swarmed the riffles by the thousands and small caddis flies were hatching and quickly flying to the safety of the overhanging branches. Trout sipped the bugs noisily and I took advantage of the chance to catch several on dry flies.
At the next deep run, I switched back to my trusty nymphing combo and quickly caught a few more fish. I was a happy camper.

As I released the last nice rainbow, I looked downstream at the next bend in the river and wondered what treasures were waiting for my discovery. Alas, they would have to wait for another day. I was already a long way from the truck and these old knees don't slog back upstream as easily as they once did.

"Rainbow in the Sun"

"Rainbow in the Sun" 6x8 acrylic

Just off the easel, this little trout study was inspired be a recent day of fly fishing. Of course, it's just another good reason I need to spend more time fishing :)

Cast and Blast Weekend



My view for the weekend.



 The plan for the weekend was pretty simple. It was going to be a "cast and blast" adventure at Ben's hunting camp near Marionville, PA. Ben is a hell of a hunter, a damned good fly fisherman, and one of those people that can walk forever at a very fast pace and never stop... and he's 63! Saturday, in the early morning darkness, we began what turned out to be a 6 mile death march up the side of a mountain and back. Even at the pace of a "normal" human, this would've been about all my out-of-shape legs could take. It ended up being a brutal beating on my knees and I was happy to see the truck again. I was done. Ben laughed at me, of course. I told him if we'd have had a shot at a turkey that far from the truck, I'd have missed on purpose just so I wouldn't have had to carry the damned thing out!

The rivers we wanted to fish we high from all the rain earlier in the week, so the fishing was tough. We managed to do pretty well on smaller streams where the water levels were more manageable. Still... I spent a lot of time feeling like I was trying to keep up.

So my memories of the weekend are filled with visions of Ben far ahead on the trail vanishing into the dense mountain forest or disappearing around the distant bend of a stream. If I'm going to keep up with him in the future, I may need to buy a 4-wheeler!

"Nittany Mountain Jewel" 8x10 acrylic

"Nittany Mountain Jewel"

Inspired by my fishing trip a week ago, this painting is an attempt to capture the almost outrageous colors of a wild brook trout. It always amazes me that something this colorful can blend into its surroundings so well.

A Penns Creek Adventure

A spectacular wild brookie


There are times when the crush of life seems to push me to a reclusive extreme. Last week I found myself far back in my introverted shell and not really wanting to come out. Rather than gritting my teeth and facing the world, I usually retire to the safety of my studio and accomplish next to nothing. Fortunately for me, I had been invited to a fishing camp on the famed waters of Penns Creek for some downtime with friends. The timing of this outing couldn't have been better. The mere preparation of my gear for the trip kept my mind and hands busy with organization. It felt like I was at least moving forward... even if the steps were small.

Tiny jewel in a trickle of a stream

As my truck covered the miles eastbound, I could feel the burden of everyday life being lifted and the knot between my shoulder blades slowly worked itself away.

Somewhere in the mountains of central Pennsylvania, my brain shifted gears and began to work at a more pleasant and productive pace. Thoughts of wild brook trout threatened to put my final destination on hold. Finally, I gave in and drifted the truck to the side of a narrow dusty road and lashed up my little 3-weight rod.

I was not disappointed as my rod was soon bent with a spectacularly marked little trout. I laughed out loud knowing no one was there to hear me... but not really caring if anyone did.

The scene played itself over several times in the next two hours. The trout were there, but nearly impossible to get a fly to. Well-placed casts were rewarded with a confident take... though most of my casts were not "well-placed" and much of my time was spent picking my fly out of the hemlock branches. Such is life on a tiny tangled mountain stream and I walked back to the truck grinning like I'd won the lottery.



Al Budny with a typical Penns brown trout



When I finally arrived at the cabin on Penns Creek, fish were rising in the green water and would continue to do so for most of the next three days. The fishing would be spectacular by Penns Creek standards. Many wild browns were hooked and landed or lost and I still can't believe how hard they fight!



"Sweetie" napping on a pile of  waders



For a while at least, life slowed to a comfortable rhythm. Sitting on the cabin's porch in the afternoon, it was easy to spot fish rising to the abundant mayflies on the nearby river. Still, with a beer in hand, my butt firmly planted in a soft chair, and the pleasant company of a few well-mannered bird dogs, there was never much of a rush to gear up and fish. It happened in its own time. And if it didn't... that was okay too.



We ate and drank too much, smoked good cigars, told stories (some true and some not so much), and generally did the things men do when women aren't around to keep us in line. On the river, the inviting sound of hardy laughter carried above the hum of moving water. I slept soundly each night, tired, well-fed, and happy.

Joe and Al taking in the morning

We found ourselves awake early, drinking coffee and feeling better than we should have on only 6 hours of sleep. We watched the river and tied a few flies. Breakfast was a production of epic proportion. Sausage, bacon, eggs, home fries, Texas toast, pancakes... all cooked outside on a giant wood-fire-heated griddle called "The Monster." At no point was it necessary to think about lunch after ingesting the mega-calorie Monster breakfast. It was all I could do to bend over and lace up my wading shoes for the morning!

Finally, as if to tell us our Penns Creek experience was nearing the end, a steady rain set in. High winds and falling temperatures went almost unnoticed as we sat near the fireplace and celebrated the day. Still, we knew the fishing was done. As it turned out, an unusual April snow storm would pound the area a day later. Our departure was well-timed.

I hope to return to Penns in the near future. I also know it may never treat me this well again.

Recharging the Creative Batteries





Brilliantly marked rainbow trout

There have been a lot of check marks added to my "to do" list the last few days, so I decided to treat myself to an afternoon on one of my favorite local trout streams. After all, the weather was beautiful and I'm not sure my focus would've been very good if I had to spend the day at the easel.

Caddis flies



As I sat on the bumper of the truck and pulled on my waders, I noticed there were tiny wildflowers carpeting nearby forest floor. I wandered over to check them out and that's when I noticed a swarm of large brown caddis flies hovering above the stream. There were thousands of them... on branches... on stones... in the air... EVERYWHERE! What seemed strange to me as I watched the bugs bouncing all over the water, not a single fish rose to the surface to eat one. Okay, fine. I tied on a tandem of small nymphs and began to probe the deeper current seems for fish feeding below. It didn't take long before I had a fat rainbow splashing around at my feet. I was happy.

Spring beauty


  I don't count fish anymore. Numbers don't impress me and I'm not sure they really impress many others. If you know any fisherman, you understand the relative accuracy of numbers of fish caught and their respective sizes. They're pretty much always taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.

When I look back to my fishing experiences, I pretty much describe them as follows:

Wild brown trout

• Skunked
• Got a few
• It was a good day
• I did so well I never stopped smiling the entire day

• Don't even bother telling anyone, because nobody will believe you!

Today was one of those "never stopped smiling" days. I had to work for the fish, but if I put right fly in the right spot, I was usually rewarded. There were big fat holdover rainbows mixed in with the usual stockers and even a pair of pretty little wild browns. Nice.


As the sun was getting low, I worked my way back to the truck. I knew there were a couple of very large fish in the run just down from the parking area. I'm sure they've seen their share of flies (and even a few outlaw worms since I found an empty styrofoam container tossed in the streamside brush), but I decided to drift a few flies through before I called it a day. As if to end the day in appropriate fashion, I watched a large dark form shift slightly in the current as my flies passed. I lifted the rod smartly and the gin clear water erupted. The big fish shot straight in the air, slammed back to that water, and bolted downstream. My little 4-weight fly rod bucked and the reel howled.


I'm not sure how big that fish was, but when I had my hands on her, I knew I'd caught smaller steelhead! I unhooked her and slid her back in the water where she disappeared into the ever-darkening water. I clipped off my flies and walked to the truck.


Sitting once again on the bumper, I slid my boots off and breathed in the sweet evening air. Life is pretty good, I thought to myself. Pretty good indeed.

Rainbow SUPERTANKER!