We were looking for somewhere new. We felt this year that we should be exploring a little, not just going back to the places we had now, after several trips, become somewhat familiar with. So we had made our way to a new spot further downstream. As usual, it was the first week of June—bug week–and although rain had caused the upper New York State’s Ausable River to be a bit high, we thought this particular morning, that it was still very fishable. After a bit of a hike in through the fresh spring woods, full of hope, we hit the river. Where we hit the river was not especially remarkable, so we split up in search of a good place to start. I went downstream and my brother Martin went upstream.
Pretty quickly I came to what looked like a great pool in the shape of a gentle, wide, S-bend. The water was high and, standing on shore and surveying the water, I worried that might mean meagre hatches and scarce rises. But a good rise at the tail end of the pool provided some reassurance . Anticipation was beginning to build.
We knew from having fished the last few days that the Grey Foxes were hatching
and so I tied a Grey Fox Comparadun on
and gingerly began wading out to a point where I figured I could reach the spot at where the fish had rose while keeping my cast under control. If the fish was as good as that rise seemed to indicate, it was going to have to be an equally good cast, and well controlled, and I didn’t want to be at my maximum in terms of casting distance. At my maximum, too much could go wrong.
The Ausable, however, is infamous for being difficult to wade because of a thin layer of very slippery algae that coats the rocks. Your footing is, at the best of times, treacherous. Very carefully and with gritted teeth I continued to wade out, looking up frequently to assess the distance left to the tail of the pool. Notwithstanding the care with which I was wading, I was still scrambling half the time to keep my footing.
The fish rose again, and I was increasingly sure that it was a good fish. I was also more certain as to where I needed to put my fly. I mentally marked the spot in terms of a boulder on the far side and a seam in the current that the fish obviously liked.
When I finally was close enough that I felt I could reach the spot I needed, I shuffled my feet in a test of my footing so that a weight shift in the course of casting was not going to send me stumbling. Then I rested for half a minute to catch my breath and relax after that tricky wading.
I began false casting, working out line until I thought I had the distance right. I put my fly on the water where it floated high and dry. But it was two feet short of where I had meant it to land. The fish was, however, forgiving and rose to my fly. But It wasn’t just a rise. In a magnificent arc, the brown came right out of the water. In the sunshine and clear spring air its colours were spectacular, and sure enough it was a good fish, heavy bodied and what looked like seventeen or eighteen inches. The fish missed my fly, but did not get pricked by it either, so I figured there was a good chance I could raise it again. I was full-on excited now. But I was also wary that my tippet might have a windknot left over from yesterday. A fish that nice required that I check and, when I did find a windknot, I did what all the good advice says, but which I seldom do, and I actually took the time, excitement notwithstanding, to tie on a new tippet. I was a little more patient than usual thinking that the time it took me to tie on a new tippet would also rest the fish. And I replayed that arcing show of the trout and thought, maybe, I had underestimated its size. Perhaps it had been closer to twenty inches.
I began casting again and when I thought I had the right distance I added another couple of feet to my cast, just to be sure. If we don’t learn from our mistakes, we’re doomed to repeat them.
This time my fly landed where it was suppose to—on the edge of that current seam. It floated for a couple of feet and then the fish co-operated again and took it with gusto. I set the hook and although I was concentrating on not losing the fish, still managed to marvel at the way my fly line lept off the river’s surface in a spray of water and a kind of salute to promise. It seemed like a good hook set and I marvelled even more at the tug of the fish as it barreled for deeper water. The trout made several powerful head-shaking runs. Not a lot of time for contemplation now, but just enough to realize that I was smiling at the wonderful beauty, excitement and fun of it all and just really enjoying every second of it.
After a few minutes there was an ebb in the trout’s energy and I felt that I could work it towards me. As I brought it close, in the clear water flowing past my waders, the fish was impressive. I brought it to hand and cradled it in the water, noting that it was solidly and classically hooked in the corner of its jaw. For just a few seconds more I admired its beauty–the incredible yellow of its lower flanks. The heavy spotting–mostly black spots, but with some of those red wine coloured spots too. The golden halos around the spots on its upper flanks. Gold highlights on its back just behind its head that sparkled in the sunshine. I measured its length against the markings on my fly rod, and then using my forceps to remove the hook, released it.
I rested again, letting the excitement become the warm flush of success. I found my tape measure in a pocket of my vest and checked the fish`s length. I laughed at my revised twenty inch estimate—the trout had been sixteen. I don`t want to say only sixteen inches because a sixteen inch trout is a good, good fish.
I also marvelled again, as I have many times before, at how effective fly fishing can be during a good hatch. How you can almost wonderfully rely on a fish to rise to your fly. And I realized again, that this was what I really enjoyed.
These thoughts came to an abrupt end as forty feet upstream, closer to the head of the pool, there was another big rise. I switched from the warm flush of success back to hunting mode.
Thankfully I didn’t have to move much to get a good angle on this second trout. A few false casts and I was putting my fly on the water a few feet upstream of the rise. Again there was that instinctual co-opearation from the fish. I set the hook and the trout was on. Another good fish. Judging by the fight, maybe even better than the first. I’d like to say poetic and metaphorical things like my heart and soul were singing, but I was again more immediately concerned about not losing the fish and was focussed mostly on that. Still, I had enough room left over to appreciate how fortunate I was to be catching two good fish back to back, and to have a great feeling of enjoyment suffusing everything.
After a few minutes, that second brown came to hand and, once again I went through the process of briefly admiring it, measuring it against my rod, and releasing it. Sure enough it had been even a little bigger than the first one—a glorius seventeen inches.
I saw my brother Martin making his way downstream along the shore just as yet another nice fish rose a little further out. I waited for Martin to hike down to where I was and told him of my great fortune in catching the two browns, and about the third one that was still rising. My brother had not caught anything upstream and had not found anything as good as the pool I had been fishing. As I was catching him up, that third fish rose again and Martin began to get excited too. He fished to that rising trout for a good fifteen minutes, however it was not to be. Our collective luck had temporarily run out. So we hiked back to the car to go find some lunch.
Dan is a fly fishing and outdoors writer who has been writing about the outdoors since 1983 when he first had an article published in Ontario OUT OF DOORS magazine. He was the magazine’s fly fishing editor from 1998 through 2015. Dan enjoys fly fishing in all its dimensions, from the heritage, history and literature of the sport, to fishing for trout and alternate species. He has been an adjunct lecturer in outdoor recreation at the University of Waterloo. In 2008, Dan won the Greg Clark Award for outstanding contributions to the arts of fly fishing at the Canadian Fly Fishing Symposium. He has been a popular guest speaker at fly clubs across the province, at the Canadian Fly Fishing Forum and at the Grand Opportunities Fly Fishing Forum and has been a fly tying instructor at the Canadian Fly Tying Symposium. Dan retired in 2019 as the Director of Engineering and Planning Services for the Township of Woolwich. Dan has also been a long time member of the KW Fly Fishers and in 2020 he became the President of the Club. Dan lives in Rockwood with his wife Jan, cats Tiger and Finnegan, and golden retriever Mitchell.