Opening Day

Opening day found me staring blankly into my fly box, trying to figure out how to get back into the game. Russ was already on the board, hooking three or four Arkansas River brown trout before I had fully comprehended that the game had begun. And, being a Cubs fan, I couldn’t help think of a certain goat, and a curse that seems to have some merit. However, like the start of each season, I reassure myself that this is my year. Well, it could be.

A curse?

I looked up from the box long enough to see a few skittering caddis recklessly tempting fate by playing their inherent game of “frogger” across the top of the off colored water. Unaware of what’s watching, it’s just a matter of time before one of the native brown trucks breaks from its foam feeding lane and puts an end to the fun. Unfortunately for this bug, there is no high score to beat, one more quarter does not bring new life, and there certainly is no bullshit as to what just happened. A hungry trout earns their meal, letting nature determine life and death in a split second.

Russ and I had made plans to fish the Arkansas a week earlier, both finding time in our schedules to slice some time away from the boxes of our moves and the daily routine of concrete, emails, conference calls, and some work that doesn’t seem to relent. The trip south would be a welcomed retreat, as reports were coming in that the river was fishing well, with healthy blue wing hatches coming off, and the first sightings of some of the more famous caddis in the west.

A healthy Arkansas brown

It had been awhile since I last had the chance to fish with Russ. Last July, Mike and I had found ourselves in Wyoming, chasing barren two lane roads north to Montana, where we’d be fishing for a few days in the Centennial Valley for Westslope Cutts. Russ had been kind enough to break the trip up for us, inviting us to fish a certain unnamed creek close to where he lived at the time. Allowing us a few hours on the water, and time for a few cold drinks and stories at the Lander Bar. He didn't have to ask twice. My only regret is squandering some good juju at the bar, guessing the bottle cap correctly from a much needed pre-fishing PBR. It was the five of clubs. Mike and Russ both caught fish, while I broke off my only chance to a poorly tied surgeon’s knot. I’ll blame the beer.

My flies stared back at me intently, probably taking a look around and wondering if they’d be coming back. It had been a few months since I’d taken the time to twist a few bugs, and the boxes were starting to show more vacancy than normal. Something I’d have to remedy, as I’m sure last year’s bugs are outdated. I picked out one of my prettier olives to match the landscape, a sparsely tied black and olive jujubaetis. A pattern designed and perfected by Charlie Craven, a pattern butchered and unrecognizable by me. I just hoped it would be serviceable. I wet the knot before pulling it tight, and I reached for some “Gink” to help float the pretty store bought dry that I had chosen for the surface.

Twenty yards downstream Russ methodically guided in another resident brown. Smiling, he took a quick shot and released the trout back into confusion and familiar water. Shit. How long had I been looking in my box?

“What did you get him on?”

“An olive soft hackle”, he grinned.

“Nice”, I envied.

The “Collegiate Peaks” cut the soft clouds in half, billowing in a not so subtle change from blue to gray. The change in weather funneled a different life down the canyon, quietly dropping the temperature, as the wind picked up from the north and west. And if on queue, the river awoke. Checking my flies, I watched the first dimpled rises of feeding fish to the olives that now dripped effortlessly from the moving canvas. Trout rose and disappeared to the easy rhythm of certain flies that weren’t quick enough to stretch their wings.  A subtle reminder that opportunity is meant to be taken advantage of, be it fly, trout, or fisherman.

I watched the trout roll on the outside seam of a boulder thirty five feet in front of me. It was a good fish from what I could tell, but I couldn’t be certain as the fish was riding low in the water column and coming up to feed in the heavier foam line just to the right of the rock. The first few casts missed their mark, and were instantly pulled away from the fish by conflicting currents. Trying not to slip, I worked my way into position directly downstream from where the fish was still actively working and ripped off some line. I waited for the next rise, then the next, and then, I cast.

Photo courtesy of Russ Schnitzer

Opening day found the Cubs losing at home to the Nationals 2-1. A not so great start to the year that they win the series. But hey, there are 161 games left to be played. That’s a lot of Old Style. I on the other hand, spent opening day on a river that cares nothing for score, throwing dry flies to wild trout with a good friend.

This will be my year.

The Arkansas

Go Cubs Go!



*Check out Russ's site at http://www.schnitzerphoto.com/ if you haven't already, be prepared for some world class photography and really good content. What's not to like?