A half-hatched plan for trout

To chase the hex fly hatch on the White River there needs to oppressive heat. And humidity. It’s got to be miserable. Word was the hatch fired up earlier in the week and a few fish were rising. But that’s when it was in the high 80s — it’s not even going to climb out of the 60s today. Everybody said the hatch will shut down. It’s late June and it doesn’t feel right. Might was well stay home.

But there we stood, next to each other — me and Dangerous Dan Bloomquist. We’re the only ones here at the river. Guess it’s about 9 o’clock. There’s not another vehicle to be seen. We’ve got the place to ourselves. We’ve got to be just about stupid — there’s a reason nobody else is here.

Before leaving home in Grand View I figured I wasn’t going to catch anything, so I strung up an ultralight St. Croix flyrod on the off chance that if I did it would be all kinds of fun.

I had some bad fly line on the short rod with a fly reel I’d found at the dump. If the weather isn’t going to cooperate, I might as well bring junk for gear to further emphasize the futility of fishing. I call it my “do everything wrong” tactic.

Standing on the slab surveying the river, Dan was downstream just a bit. The slab is a concrete perch that sits alongside the river near where I fish.

It’s been my experience that fish who aren’t rising are not going to be caught during the “before hatch.” There’s no reason to cast until it’s dark, until the mosquitoes are wrapping up their second encore of the night, and until Cory’s dogs up the road are done barking. Wait for the flies. Wait for the rises. Only then should an angler toss out his fake fly.

As I said I’m using this cheaper fishing rig. It’s very small. The line isn’t the correct weight. I probably should take a couple of casts to make sure I can even get my fly out into the drift.

The surface of the river is pristine. Clear. Not a bug to be seen. No rising trout, either. Ho hum……

On my second pre-hatch cast I managed to get my fly halfway across the river. The fly looked good out there. Suddenly a flash of a fish rising from the depths zeroed in on my fly. And WHAM-O! It’s on!

Setting the hook, the fish took off. The little flyrod and light line are no match for the trout. With the reel singing the fish bullied its way upstream further than I’ve ever had a trout on for. How far? Thirty yards? Forty yards? It was out there.

I could see the trout’s plan of action, get up stream and bust me off in the brush. Not this time buddy! I held the reel ever so slightly and lifted up on the flyrod. The trout turned and came back past me heading downstream. Ha! Ha! Now I’ve got you.

The trout tired and came to the net in defeat. I say it was 16 inches. Dan says it was 14 inches. I say Dan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Dan asks if I want a black eye? Him and what army, I ask?

Anyhoo.

Rocking the fish back and forth in the water the trout regained its sea legs and drifted off bewilderedly but with enough confidence we knew it was going to survive.

It wasn’t much after that the skies opened and the rains began pouring down. Lightning lit up the heavens. And thunder rolled in heavy. We pulled the plug on the night.

I dodged a lot of frogs on the road on the way back. The cat met me at the door and together we sat in the recliner watching the late news. I told the cat the trout was 16 inches. He gave me the same look Dan did.

Still, the end of the day felt right, even though it should have been all wrong.

Darrell Pendergrass is an outdoorsman and writer who lives in Grand View.