I had intended for months to fish dry flies here in May, so I didn't miss the mark by much. It rained heavily last night, and the water was a little high and a little stained. To me, that felt fishy as if the browns might be feeding. I had arrived late in the morning and the sun never came out until I was done almost an hour-and-a-half later, so even though the morning had lingered awhile, it felt early. Temperature was about 70 and I guess the water might have been in the low 60's. Browns make it through summer here, so it stays pretty cool.
I never got hit, but I never gave in to nymphing, even though that might have made sense after a rainstorm. I felt entranced by the casting, placing my dries where they might be effective, the repeated casting to dry them off, and the hope that something would break surface. That's happened to me here in Jersey before from wild browns, but I admit my successes are few.
I got to remembering the sunfish I'd also caught on my TFO two-weight, and wondering if I can get some smallmouth action on it over here at the North Branch near home. Pretty soon I'll retire, and since I like to get lost in time, just letting the hours pass as I try to do something--like catch a few smallies on the TFO--I probably will. But my imagination carried me further. I began to think I could get on a jet in Newark and go rent an SUV in Colorado to fly fish spring creeks. Then I suddenly remembered a ranger friend from when I worked at Fiddler's Elbow, who told me about fly fishing native rainbows in Alaska. All I'd have to do is message him and take the info with me on a plane for that destination. And pay the cost.
So...yeah...but naturally my thoughts turned to more accessible waters. That same ranger despises fly fishing in New Jersey as involving trout "you have to work for." I don't mind a little work. And it's possible that when I have more time, I'll enjoy the casting and find some fish. I am going to be busy at my writing. It's not like you'll read six fishing stories from me each week, but what the hell. I always think of Zane Grey, who wrote more than a hundred books, if memory serves me, and he got out and fished all the time.
