May 4-5, 2002
Ol’ Grandaddy Brown
Have you ever lost a fish one year, gone back the next year, and caught it? I have. And I wasn’t even planning it — not consciously, anyway. Here’s the story of a 17" wild brown trout that didn’t get away — not the second time.
The creek he lives in is small. Too small for me to publish its location, even on this podunk web site that gets read by about 5 people. There’s already a bit of fishing pressure up there, and the people I’ve run into up there, while not many, seem to like to eat what they catch.
Last year was my first time up there, and the creek was fishing fairly well. I fished upstream from the trailhead one day, and downstream the next, and ran into fishermen both days. One told me the story of a 5-pound monster brown taken from the swimming hole the season before, and while he had probably exagerrated it size, as we fishers are wont to do, even accounting for the inflation it was probably a very nice fish. I didn’t land any browns last year, but I had enough action from small wild rainbows to keep me happy.
On the second day last year, I fished way downstream until I came to a magical spot where a Hawaiian-looking waterfall tumbled from a high cliff into a deep, mossy blue pool and then drained off into the main stem of the creek. Below the confluence was a very trouty-looking hole, nice and long and deep with good boulders and logs to hide under. Just before turning back upstream for the day, I flipped my nymph into the tailout and let it drift in among the logs. Bam! Something big and dark nailed the nymph and snapped my tippet before you could say, “Always be ready for anything.” I was zapped with adrenaline, exhilarated, disappointed and exhausted all in the same moment. Oh well.
This year I took Joyce back there, ostensibly to show her the waterfall that reminded me so much of the Maui where we had met, courted and spent 12 happy years. But now I know that I was really after that hawg brown, the King of the Creek, Ol’ Grandaddy. By the time we got there, it was midafternoon and hot. I had dragged Joyce through thickets of briars and poison oak, over mountains of streamside boulders and under cobwebby windfalls. Gnats and flies were biting and she was starting to ask me when we were turning back. I left her to lounge by the waterfall while I went to “check out just around the next bend.” Really, I swear I wasn’t thinking of Ol’ Grandaddy. Well, maybe just a tiny memory of him lingered in the corners of my mind. OK, I was back after a year to try for him again.
That’s why I crawled up to his hole on my belly and peeked over a rock to scan his clear, sun-dappled domain. And there he was — cruising the long pool in a lazy clockwise pattern and sipping something tiny (gnats? mosquitos? ants?) from the surface every minute or so. Before attempting to catch the old bugger, I went back to the falls and grabbed Joyce so she could see the object of my obsession. There was a very good chance I would simply spook the wily critter, and I wanted her to be there for whatever was about to happen.
I rigged up with a tiny mayfly imitation, waited until he was at the other end of his circuit, and cast it out. It slooooooowly drifted into his feeding lane as he lazily returned downstream. My heart pounded as he finned up to the fly and eyed it, then returned to his circuit and sipped another bug — not mine. Ok, so he didn’t take it, but he was still feeding. When he was at his furthest point, I retrieved my fly and re-rigged with another, smaller fly, I can’t remember now what it was — something small. Again, he refused, but this time he didn’t even inspect it.
Things were getting grim. My third try was with a black ant. They were attacking me relentlessly every time I sat down, so why not give it a try? Again, I carefully cast while Ol’ Grandaddy was far way, and let the fly drift gradully into his path. Slow as molasses, he cruised up and sipped in the ant. Eagerly I reared back and set the hook, only to pull it from his mouth. Dang! I was too quick.
Now I knew that he liked ants, and that I needed to adjust my timing. I gave him time to resume feeding and tried again...and I caught him. I can’t say it was an epic battle, for Ol’ Grandaddy seemed to be enjoying his twilight years. But he fought stubbornly, and wasn’t very cooperative at the photo shoot. We released him before long and he swam off, a bit perturbed and perhaps a bit wiser. After all, he wasn’t your typical brown trout, taking a dry fly at sunny midday. I hope he’s wise enough not to take a bait-dunker’s offering...I guess so, for he somehow got to 17 inches in that little creek.
Long live Ol’ Grandaddy!
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