The Hidden Run

 

As I approached the river and turned my car slowly down the winding access road, my sense of anxiety grew. Would there be anyone in my hidden secret run? Would anyone trespass on my last privacy on the water? I was relieved to see the opening through the bushes marking the way to the river unguarded by another car, and carefully nosed mine into the nearby scrub a hundred yards short of the access point. I retrieved the magnetic sign I had made and attached it to the side of my car. ‘Biohazard! Feces collection and vector study vehicle’ it read. That should keep people away! I hopped into my waders and ran for the opening before anyone could spot me, dropping toy rubber rattlesnakes and spiders as I went. I would rig up the rod later on the river. Less time for somebody to spot me by the road and find my hidden run: my only sanctuary.

Then I woke up from the dream….

 For that is the irony… The hidden run does not exist. At least as much as it is truly hidden. It is there for all to see and is not secret, it only lies obscured by the lack of ability in reading water and breaking with common convention. Later that day I pulled into the hidden run. There were people walking their dogs on the road, and anglers driving past to other destinations on the river. Even if they found my hidden run, it would still be hidden for they would not fish it.

Why not?

On our tributaries to the Great Lakes and especially my local river, fly anglers pursue anadromous fish such as Steelhead and large Brown Trout the same way they pursue the salmon, that is in general one of two methods is used. The first is sight-fishing: find a fish spawning and fish to it until you catch it, frighten it off, or foul-hook it. The second method is even more productive. Dams and waterfalls have a habit of slowing the progress of fish up the river to spawn. Often they pool up or congregate the fish for several hours and even days. In some instances, the obstacle is too difficult or high to jump over at all, and the fish reach an existential and real dead end right there. Here is a good spot for lots of good catching. Note I didn’t say good fishing, that might be something different if we are sport fishing and not gathering for subsistence. Both of these methods place many fish on the end of an angler’s line, so they are the most productive method, if not questionable in a sporting sense. In this case, what is productive and common convention does one other thing: it prevents our metaphorical ‘Hidden Run’ from ever being discovered by the madding crowds.

Why? Because there are no waterfalls or dams, and only the top head of the pool may have the occasional odd salmon struggling to spawn with its back half out of the water. Beyond those obvious signals and signs, the water is a confusing tumble of boulders, riffles, pools, slack water and fast shoots. In other words, it needs interpretation or reading, it takes analysis. It takes more effort to find fish in holding water than to just shoot deer in a petting zoo. Opening that page opens the world’s longest book. A book and a study so rich with promise and eye-opening that hidden runs are suddenly everywhere, and this is the second irony, the hidden run both does not exist unless it remains hidden by lack of wisdom, and it exists everywhere afterwards when that knowledge is gained and placed into practice.

Still reading?

Lets give a few examples. In spring when the water is high on our tributaries, anglers walk the banks and almost always ask each other the same question like a ritual: “Have you seen any fish?” Last year I had a nice conversation with another angler in a parking lot while rigging my gear. He went down to a shallow riffle, wandered around the water looking down and peering for twenty minutes or so, and then left. I started working a sweet piece of water that fishes best when the river is high and clear. Twenty casts later, I hooked a screamer of a steelhead in the boulders at the tail out. The other angler had been within 50 yards of this water, but instead of unlocking the possibilities, began putting into operation the common convention of looking for fish. Then this spring two anglers were walking down the river in this very spot, actually walking through the good water when one of them recognized me and asked if they were in good water. “Is this featureless water O.K. too?” they asked. I looked at the run with a hidden Rosetta-Stone of little clues as to boulders and pockets, scallops and spits and told them that indeed they were in good water. Then after they left ten minutes later, I proceeded down the run and briefly hooked a fish exactly where they were standing.

Trout too:

The same quagmire of convention and ease of path taken also happens on trout streams to all our detriment. Often trout anglers concentrate their efforts of two distinct things in the water. LUNKER structures or artificial undercut banks providing cover, and riffles at the head of pools. Smart anglers too, for the riffle is a hatch factory providing broken water and cover, and the LUNKER structure holds the majority of fish in a given pool in most situations. However there are a lot of other targets out there. Fishing to a rising fish with a dry in the true English style will tell us where the fish intercept the bugs, but what about when they don’t? Do we pass by the log sunk in the side of the tail-out for the obvious ten-incher rising in the riffle above, or… would it be a good time to explore that water with our fly? If we never depart from our common path, we may never find new avenues of discovery and knowledge, and yes… pleasure. But that might mean taking that strike-indicator and bead head nymph that has been glued to our line for the last ten years, and placing on a Sawyer style lightly weighted nymph and working it actively and with thought and planning. On my local trout stream I have meet some great anglers, some characters, and everything in-between. Once during a hatch of mixed Hendricksons and March Browns, I came across two guys who were fishing prince-nymphs downstream on a dead-drift. They were working down the stream as I was working up. I greeted them politely, they told me they had not hooked anything yet, and I asked them if they had any mayfly imitations around a size 12. Nope, they both always have used size 12 prince nymphs with a split-shot or two. They continued on their way shackled by their own convention. The hidden run that day was all around in the air, and had wings.

If we walk the same path everyday we see the same scenery, only differently in hues, never a different view entirely, and if we follow the hatchery truck, always fish the same 3 flies, or ask everyone else what they do so we can ‘bah’ like sheep in the same language, the hidden run will remain locked tight. We have to get away from the dams and waterfalls, and think beyond the riffles.

Being skunked is part of the process of learning the keys to opening those doors to the hidden run, as is stubbing one’s toe or getting lost.

So what is the lesson or the take-away? Perhaps it is simply that by taking the path that leads to the initial success of fish caught consistently, and not breaking with that tradition at some point in our progression, we have taken a short cut to a closed book and a dark forest. In order to find the path again, we may need to go fishing and not worry about the catching. Then the discoveries amongst the little riffles and eddies may lead us to the hidden runs and the spaces between the notes where the music is sweetest. The funny part is that it has been there all along, but how fragrant is the flower when finally uncovered. Asking about the secret spot may bring answers, but finding one’s own will bring fulfillment.
The door is right there, and there is no footpath…. Just look out for my rubber rattlesnakes!

Company vs. Crowds

When I was a young lad, I often played with a number of neighborhood friends. Two of us would play without incident until a third kid joined in. Somehow, two of us always ganged up on the third person. Who the third person was didn’t seem to matter, and I was the odd man out as much as not. Parents required to break up the fray would often mutter the cliché, “Two is company, but three is a crowd.”


The other day, I was reading an essay about the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River in Idaho. Those who practice the art of far and fine presentation to spooky trout consider sections of this water sacred. Accompanying the story was a photo of dozens of anglers lined up helter-skelter in the water. The article was full of praise for the river and its fishing, but my mood as I was reading it became soured. Why?

Somehow, the beauty of the trout, the scenery, and the holiness, history, and tradition of the place was lost for me when I looked at all those fly-fishermen. It looked like a convention of graphite, cane, and floppy hats.


What constitutes a crowd differs with each angler. Some of us like to fish alone, or with a carefully chosen partner. Others form in groups to fish. However, I would venture that there is some hidden number for all of us that defines the razor’s edge between comfort and discomfort in the numbers of people fishing near us. It may vary depending on the water type and size, or the type of fishing.


We fly-fishers have a lower tolerance for crowds and need more space for our fishing and peace of mind than most. Here in the Midwest on any weekend in summer, area lakes abound with dozens of boats jockeying for position within yards of each other. This is considered normal in the bait and hardware world. Place the same pressure on our fly-waters and I along with the rest of us would skulk off into the bushes muttering misanthropic thoughts.


This past year I ran into a few situations that pushed the buttons of my crowding alarm. One weekend day on a large western steelhead river, there must have been a drift-boat conclave. I have never seen that many boats on the river. They had every run sewn up. I started high on the river in an attempt to find an open run. I drove to a hidden spot, made my way through the poison ivy and loose scree down to the river, and was beaten into the run by seconds by a drift boat. The run is big enough for only one or possibly two anglers, as it has a defined sweet spot. The boat dropped four anglers. I drove off muttering to myself. For the next six hours I dodged drift boats, got sandwiched between boats, got low-holed by boats, etc. Finally, I got the idea of going back to the upper stretches of the river above or close to where the boats launch to find peace. Since it was now late in the afternoon, I figured there would be fewer boats. I was correct, as were the four or five other anglers that had the same idea I had. Now we got to compete and crowd each other for the few runs open to us. Sigh.


On another occasion, I was fishing a trout stream in my home state, when I noticed a pair of anglers working down toward me, as well as another pair of anglers moving up towards me. I was busy catching brook trout on dry flies during a sporadic hatch, and as the anglers approached, I began to feel as sociable as a pissed-off rattlesnake. The numbers line had been crossed. My personal space had been invaded. The worst effect of crowding actually drove a fishing partner and I off a river this year and sent us over a mountain pass to another river in search of seclusion for a few days.


Success and misery love company. Toward that end, many fishermen gather in groups or eventually gravitate towards each other in the river. When the number of people reaches a critical mass, thinking persons like me can no longer hear our inner-voice. Our sense of harmony is disturbed. Our place in relation to nature and our surroundings becomes unbalanced.


Some people like to fish in crowds. Others like to take the path less traveled by, and find themselves in a remote or spiritual place where they can practice their art in silence.


The nice thing is that it is usually our choice. There are exceptions to that rule though. As steelhead populations decline and dwindle, and more rivers are closed to fishing, more pressure is placed on the few rivers with healthy populations of fish. The same can be said of areas with trout streams that are suffering from drought. Healthy rivers with water concentrate both fish and anglers.


Weather can play a role too. Most people these days are soft. Raised on a couch in front of a television, they are afraid of snow, ice, wind and rain. Dark clouds send them scuttling back to the SUV. This opens an opportunity for others of us that enjoy getting a bit muddy or wet, and consider a few mosquito bites or a twisted ankle a right of passage.


Sometimes getting away from the madding crowds is as easy as putting as much distance between you and a pullout or bridge as possible. I found this out once again this year when I passed up several anglers fishing within a hundred yards of each other on a little trout stream. I drove upstream into a remote section and went exploring. I found myself alone in a cathedral setting. Granite walls a hundred feet high on one side and forest on the other. For the next four hours, I never saw another soul, and buttery brown trout were caught.


As the environment suffers, and consequently, opportunities for quality fishing decline, some of us will have to travel farther or crawl through more brambles to find the peace we seek on the water.

Back to that picture of the Henry’s fork, you can keep it. I will be somewhere else where I can listen to owls, and nobody can witness when I put down every fish in the pool with my first sloppy cast. Fly-fishing was never meant to be a team or spectator sport.