There was so much downed timber in the water, far more than I remember last summer.
The big, heavy kind that isn’t easy to navigate. You can’t go around it, thanks to the thick rhododendron lining each bank. You just need to climb it and go over. Or under if there’s enough clearance. Sometimes it wasn’t even tree trunks impeding one’s progress, a thick collection of dead branches served as a equally effective deterrent to upstream wading.
I went to one of my favorite creeks this past weekend. Played hooky from work on Friday to get my boots wet, following it up with another visit on Saturday as well. The spring weather was simply sublime. Low seventies, sunny, the kind of temperatures in which you start with a light jacket in the morning, but remove it once the sun is high in the sky.
Most would define this as “fishing trip”, as I did have a rod in hand. But on this occasion, I felt like I was doing more log hopping, straddling, and climbing than fishing. All the while making sure not to get poked by what once were branches… now stubby, pointy daggers just wanting to inflict damage to anyone making a simple misjudgment.
As if perfectly spaced, each tree allowed about fifty yards of unencumbered fishing until another stepped in to play the role of barricade. Traversing these obstacles was hard on the body. Shoulders, biceps, elbows, knees, calves, it all aches.
But for all the troubles, there was a magical three hour window each afternoon. One hundred and eighty or so minutes from noon to three when the caddis started to flutter in numbers just thick enough to notice. And I wasn’t the only one who saw them. The resident rainbows did too, taking their cue to rise up the water column. Reason enough for any inconvenience, ache, or pain to be quickly forgotten.
I was fortunate that more than enough small, wild fish mistook my flies for food.
That’s the thing about a day on a creek like this. By the time you’re back at the car, untying your wading boots and stowing away your rods, the log jams are no longer a hassle, but part of a fond recollection. A day handed to you without resistance isn’t one you’re likely to remember. But climb enough timber and wade enough cold water only to have karma repay you with a magic window of feeding trout?
Yeah, that’s why we fish.
