There’s a kind of hush ...

The Betsie River flowed smoothly downstream toward Lake Michigan, and acted as if it was in no big rush to get there. My wader-clad legs had carried me into thigh-deep water, and the comparative coolness of the water felt refreshing.

There was a trout rising near a sweeper but I had to move six inches deeper in hopes of putting the fly just upstream from the current seam the fish was feeding in. One step, and another, and my boots put me into the sweet spot.

Some fly line was pulled through the guides and the river murmured around me. The sounds of river music began washing away the dog-day blues.

A silent and stealthy approach, and a well-placed presentation, was needed.

A No. 12 Adams, my go-to fly when I don't know what else to try, was knotted to my tippet after several frustrating minutes of trying to  push a 4X tippet through the eye of the hook. Tying the leader to the fly line is easy and could be done in the dark but tying tippets to flies is a major challenge these days.

The fish rose every few minutes, but he wasn't willing to take my offering. Meanwhile, in preparation to cover that fish, it was time to soak up the sounds of silence.

The river, in this location, made little noise. No audible gurgles, no hissing of water around the tip of a sweeper, and no rushing water sounds. There was a kind of hush all over the river as if even the birds and insects felt it was a time not to be very active, and they got no argument from me.

Hot summer days wear me out. High temperatures and high humidity combine to sap me of any excess energy. The same results occur with strong windy showers like we had today.

Casting in the wind wasn’t easy but most of the gusts were missing me.

My thought was to reach the river,  pull on my warm-weather waders, step into the knee-deep water, hitch up my waders like an old lady pulling on her girdle, and then put together my rod.

It was shady here, and it was a blessing of sorts. I stood, listening to the music flowing through my head, studied the stream flow, listened to the water dripping off the pines, and spotted a rising fish. A few steps closer and then I stopped.

A few more steps, and I stopped again to tie on the fly, and then I was within easy and accurate casting distance. I stood, silence wrapped around me like an invisible cloak, and made one false cast and the leader rolled over and the fly landed four feet above the riseforms I'd seen earlier.

The line was mended once, and the fly drifted past his feeding spot. Another false cast to shake a bit of water off the hackles and tail, and another cast was made to the same spot without a rumble.

Five casts were made, and it was unlikely that any wading noise had spooked the fish. A sixth cast was made, and again the fly was centered in the seam of current where he fed.

Too big, I  thought, thinking perhaps a smaller fly was in order. One size smaller to start, I thought, and a No. 14 was tied to the tippet after a 10-minute battle with a hand-held magnifying glass, my reading glasses and a lot of luck.

All the other paraphernalia was stowed in my fly vest, and then a 10-minute wait for my eye to regain its proper perspective for the scene in front of me,  and then a cast put the fly in the right spot. It was difficult for me to see the Adams, and it sat astride the surface in a perky sort of way.

Switching to a slightly smaller size proved to be the right move.

Nothing happened, a roll cast, once to dry the fly, and it was laid back in the same spot. The line was mended, and then the fish hit. Mind you, it wasn't a smashing strike but more of a sip of the fly off the surface. A soft salute with the rod tip caused the fly to bite home, and then came that old familiar  bend in the rod that felt the soft touch of an old friend.

The river brown wasn't big but he had been out-thought, and had responded to a quiet approach, a change in fly size when it became apparent the larger fly wouldn't work, and besides, in the  deep shade of the cedars and pines where I stood, the rain seemed a long ways away.

I tussled with him going at it mightily when my rod pressure was calm, patient and with just enough pressure to make him do all of the work. He came to me reluctantly, and it was a male of about 14 inches. Not a lunker but good enough for the present day.

I didn't want to work too hard with a really big fish. Calm, easy, and no sense in working too hard after taking a tumble in my back yard. Out came my hemostats, and they gripped and twisted the fly loose.

He swam off, free again, and setting him free made me feel  good. I stood for a few moments in the cool of the shade before wading ashore. One fish was enough to keep my hand in, and it satisfied any need I had to fish for trout on a soggy, rainy, windy day.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors