Grasshopper Flies

For the beginner wanting to start in fly fishing, we have the very successful  
LEARN TO CATCH TROUT THE FIRST DAY. This is a 6 hr school, everything provided, to teach you how to catch trout, guaranteed; lunch is even provided. This will be the last of this school until next season.  

For the intermediate to advanced fly fisher wanting to improve their steelhead fishing skills, we have a school to help with the pursuit of the summer steelhead:          
6-HOUR SUMMER STEELHEAD TUNE UP !  
August 22 /04. Sunday, 8:00 am to 2:00pm.     "Presentation" with floating lines, on both sides of the river for dry and wet flies will be covered. Single handed and two handed casters welcome. Your instructors will be Leroy Teeples and Ron Lauzon, both FFF Certified Fly Casting Instructors, and guides, anxious to help you meet your fly fishing goals. This class will be held on the Clackamas River; bring your own gear, lunch and beverage. Cost is $125  per person; 6 people; (first come, first served). Meet at 6:45 am, at The Fly Fishing Shop, leave at 7:00 am.  

Fly anglers are visually oriented people.  They are also detail oriented people.  It is no wonder that there are so many books and videos devoted to the subject of fly fishing.  It is possibly the third most written about subject in the English language .  There have been thousands of volumes in the last 500 years and there are hundreds of volumes a year written about fly fishing.  Many volumes are re-hashes of old thoughts.  Some are ego trips.  A few are a waste of time.  Some are worse than that.  However as in all subjects, each year produces a few gems and each century produces its own classics.  Two of the books below are our picks to become classics of the 21'st century.  They are "Spring Creeks" by Mike Lawson and "Spey Casting" by Simon Gawesworth.  Lawson's book was and easy pick.  It is so visually overpowering with its sharp reproduction of exquisite photographs and Dave Hall drawings that you don't have to read one word to enjoy it.  Then you throw in the wisdom of Mike Lawson and the pros of Thomas McGuane to boot.  It is a book that you have to open time and time again.  It keeps drawing you back.  Simon's book is of course harder to put into the "classic" category because it isn't even off the press yet.  I haven't seen it and I haven't talked to anyone who has.  But I'm going to put myself out on a limb and predict that it will be a "21st Century Classic" because I know the man. Simon is the most precise fly caster I have ever met.  This is particularly true of two handed rod casting.  Simon understands "Spey Casting" like no other.  Interestingly enough both Mike's and Simon's books are published by Stackpole Books and both have forwards by Thomas McGuane.  
Chris Santella's "Fifty Places To Fly Fish Before You Die" is a great read.  It takes you to the ends of the Earth with a fly rod in your hand and at each destination puts the most experienced guide at your side.

0-941130-98-3

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1-58479-356-2

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE
By Mark Bachmann 

The scorching glare of mid-day radiates from the slow moving water.  Lifeless bodies are strewn upon the grizzly surface.  This is surely the carnage of some terrible cataclysm, or the scene of a holocaust.  Flotsam and wreckage keep pace with bubbles and scum.  Corpses are heaped upon corpses.  In places where the wind and currents meet the shore, the dead are blown into rafts so thick that the tightly packed bodies are indistinguishable from one another.

            Only a few lucky ones survive, and they quickly flee to the shade of the trees.  One by one they depart.  To stay in the sun is sure death from dehydration.  And there are some, trapped in the meniscus and not quite dead, who wriggle in agony.  Others smother slowly, wrapped helplessly in the membrane of rebirth.  A few of their kin ride the surface, unable to fly with broken or deformed wings.  They reside in quiet desperation as the relentless sun sucks the fluids from their parched, aching bodies.  Thus carcasses cover the surface of the huge slow back-eddy pool.  Left only is food for the scavengers.

            The scavengers come lazily.  No need to hurry; there is enough for all.  Long, sleek and spotted they lounge just below the surface, sipping in the dying, one by one.  The feast is Pale Morning Dun, served helpless but alive.

            Three fat, lazy “Red Side Trout” lie in the shade of an alder two feet from the shore.  The glassy surface is an endless conveyer of food brought by the slow steady currents.  Beside the Pale Morning Duns, there are two species of caddis in unbelievable numbers and a smattering of small yellow stone flies to complement the menu.  After an orgy in the darkness, the caddis had oviposited early in the morning.  Now all are quite dead from exhaustion as they ride the surface.  The caddis and stones are ignored by the trout, which prefer the more succulent flesh of the living Duns.  Dozens of tiny morsels pass each trout each minute.

            The hatch of cripples lasts for over an hour while I sit in the shade under an alder six feet from the feeding fish, while watching them through my seven-power high-resolution binoculars.  
Not one cripple gets past the trout.  Not one healthy mayfly is eaten.

            Like wolves feeding on Caribou, where the very young, very old or infirmed are selected, trout are opportunistic predators.  They capitalize on the maximum intake of protein for the least amount of energy expended and the least amount of risk taken.

            Pale Morning Dun Mayflies are very small.  The species that hatches on the Deschutes River in July is size eighteen.  It can take vast numbers to make a meal.  Some trout feed on them voraciously.  They are obviously very tasty.  However, the trout concentrate only on certain stages of the hatch.  Some trout, especially during the early part of the hatch, hold tight to the tops of weed beds.  Here they take the slim red-brown and olive nymphs as they emerge from the vegetation.  These nymphs are so tiny that the fish work at extremely close range.  Often the feeding lane is less than a foot wide.  These lanes are always positioned in line with the maximum concentration of insects. 

Many holds are textured valleys  in the weed-bed that have been worn away by the abrasion of the currents.  Often these weed beds are situated near the shore in soft smooth flows.  A sneaky approach and careful observation will disclose trout making sporadic swift attacks while rarely moving more than a foot in any direction.

            A size sixteen unweighted Pheasant Tail Nymph is a deadly imitation for this stage of the hatch, but only if fished precisely.  The fly must approach the fish with absolutely no drag.  It must be in the feeding lane and on the trout’s level to bring success.  Study the currents carefully before you cast.  Place your fly upstream, mend your line, and let the fly come to the fish.  This is most easily accomplished when fish are within close range and holding in relatively shallow water.  These fish are often spooky, and the angler gets few second chances.

            Once Pale Morning Dun nymphs leave the bottom and are dispersed among the currents, they become hard to see and are therefore difficult to catch.  The trout tend to ignore them and concentrate on the surface tension.  Here the nymphs fight their upper thorax through the meniscus.  Their backs split open and the adult insect crawls out on top of the surface film.  Some hatch easily, while others have problems making this transition.  All are helpless during the act of changing from water breathing to air breathing existence.  All are easy prey.  Many trout prefer to intercept these hatchlings at the exact moment they are most vulnerable.  They can neither swim nor fly. 

The rise form is a deception waiting to happen.  The trout are obviously feeding on the surface.  Their rises are often lazy and blatant.  At times you will see the roofs of their white mouths as they inhale insects from the surface.  Healthy duns will be plainly visible, riding the surface with upright wings.  The emergers and cripples will be difficult to observe with their lower silhouettes.  You may tie on one of your best dry fly imitations.  Your presentation may be flawless.  It is almost guaranteed that an uncivilized vocabulary will be the only reward for your efforts.

The first duns usually appear about 11:30 a.m.  They are very well camouflaged for mid-day.  Their graceful up-right wings are pastel gray.  The top of the body is yellow to yellowish-green to blend with the mid-day surface glare.  Their bellies are pale green to pinkish-orange, matching, to the trout’s eye, the surrounding vegetation or the fireball sun.

            On warm days Pale Morning Duns reach the surface and hatch quickly.  They are especially fast to leave the water after they are free from the nymphal shuck.  The full length of the hatch may be over in a matter of minutes.   Some days the hatch may come and go before the trout can adjust to an efficient feeding rhythm.  This is not usually the case.  PMD hatches are normally pretty reliable.

Cloud cover or rain slows down metamorphosis, and the hatch can continue for hours.  The higher humidity must hold a key to survival as some wet days produce hatches of unbelievable density.  Drying time is slowed and insects may ride the surface of the river for hundreds of yards before wings and exoskeletons are hard enough to support flight.

            Duns, which have hatched in a healthy manner, are usually ignored.  They are too much of a risk; too much of a chance at calories missed while energy was expended.  Instead, the trout concentrate on the mayflies as they are sliding out of their nymphal shuck.  A low floating comparadun with an Antron tail (often called a Sparkle Dun) is the answer.

            As the days hatch tapers off, fewer emerging insects are available to the fish.  Or so it would seem to the casual observer.  This is true in moving water areas where the currents can carry them away.

            Injured and deformed insects are unable to leave the water and ride the currents aimlessly.  Often they end up as flotsam in back-eddies where they can collect in vast numbers.  Some eddies are situated so that they collect nearly all of the dead and crippled insects that come down the river.  Here the currents revolve slowly, and the insects are carried round and round until they are rafted upon the shore or are finally brought to the vortex of the eddy.  Trout will normally concentrate on the places where maximum numbers of insects collect.

            I watch the vortex of the eddy and several trout are rising there.  Their dorsal fins often break the surface as they quietly inhale the mayflies.  The binoculars are replaced inside my shirt, and I pick up the four-weight rod that lies in the sparse vegetation beside me.  There is an opening in the trees to my left from which to cast, and I slowly start to stalk the feeding fish.  The tippet and the fly are examined while getting into casting position.  My movements are slow but efficient and fluid.  The trout are thirty feet away, and clearly visible while suspended just below the flat surface.  And now I am in position.  The rod is raised in preparation for the cast...

 * * * * * * * * 

            From high in the air another predator watches the trout through steely eyes.  The Osprey floats silently on the gentle up-drafts that rise from the deep canyon.  She adjusts her long, slim, muscular wings and loses elevation, being careful not to let her shadow fall upon the pool.  Saliva runs from her triangular tongue and the vicious, hooked beak opens and closes.  The killer singles out its victim, folds its wings tight to its streamlined body, and drops from the sky like a falling stone. An explosive geyser erupts from pool as the feathered bullet slams through the surface. Sharp talons bite into the soft flesh of a trout’s back, and the big bird rises instantly from the cool water with the captured, writhing fish.  It is not until then that the Osprey sees the man crouching under the umbrella of streamside alders, a fly rod in his hand and an astonished look on his face.

            As often is the case, one predator's gain, is another’s loss.  The surviving trout are instantly gone deep into the pool, hiding for their lives.

Even though the intervention of an interloper had thwarted my careful observation and stalking of the quarry, the show had been worth the price of admission.  I had been rewarded with a small window into nature.  It is good to know that wild Ospreys still feed on wild trout as they have done for thousands of years. 

* * * * * * * * *
Feeling light and airy a broad grin parts my lips and laughter flows from my soul.  It is time to continue the hunt on another piece of water.

                From edge of the back eddy and the shade of streamside alders I survey the river. Upstream there is a short riffle. Here the river slows over rough cobble. Ten feet from the near shore there is a slick where the currents are broken by a large barely submerged flat boulder. Over hanging brush and tall canary grass protrude from a high bank, providing afternoon shade for a trout and a handicap for any right-handed fly caster, such as myself.

**********

The big "Redside" is six pounds, twenty-three and a half inches long, and seven years old. He is in perfect physical condition and is the dominant fish in this riffle. His home was taken in combat, by driving out all previous occupants and succeeding interlopers.

The big trout rests in his lair.....in the slick behind the boulder. This is the prime hold in many acres of water. Even though his living room is only three feet deep the trout is nearly invisible from above. There are perfect escape routes to either side, into rushing water that will instantly hurtle him away from danger.

The Deschutes rushes by. The trout's home is a calm tunnel amid the raging torrents. Long filaments of blue green algae wave with the flow, further concealing the trout in his home. The boulder is a chunk of basalt, recently discharged from the rim-rocks. It anchors the algae. The surface flow breaks into a cascade, which plunges a thousand oxygen-laden, silvery-green bubbles deep into the river. They mix with the long trailing algae and bounce off the gravel bed like an endless procession of transparent rubber balls. In the suction behind the boulder is a tiny eddy, which traps food and pulls it deep into the water.

Food, oxygen and safety is a hard combination to beat.

There is a narrow weed bed along the shore. It forms caves and funnels and tunnels. Several small trout flit about in the caves under the weeds, capturing many of the hapless dwellers as they are washed from the foliage.

The big trout needs not waste energy by flitting among the foliage in search of prey. The river brings him an endless smorgasbord and deposits it in the tiny eddy inches in front of his pointed snout.

I quietly peek over the streamside vegetation. Several small trout are visible along the edge of the weed bed. One is directly below me. It rises splashing to the surface and dispatches a small yellow stone fly.

My binoculars disclose other stone flies upon the riffle but no other trout rising to them. The rest of the riffle seems barren of fish. My view rests momentarily on the slick behind the boulder. The visibility is unusually good but the seamy, boiling surface is hard to penetrate. Yet there is a grayish-red cast to the streambed in the far edge of the slick. At first I think it is a fish. Then I am not so sure as the image seems too immobile and too large.

A tiny yellow stone nymph leaves the gravel upstream from the boulder. It struggles to the surface and the pressure within its body splits the exoskeleton from the top of its head to the center of its back. A viscous, bleached version of the adult insect emerges through the rend in the skin. First the crumpled wings appear and then the back of the head and finally the thorax, feelers, and legs. Last to leave the nymphal shuck is the abdomen. Finally, the stone fly rides the choppy, undulating meniscus as a fully developed air-breathing adult. It rides the surface only a short distance and is pulled under by the spill behind the boulder. It pauses struggling briefly near the bottom. There is a short, swift movement as the trout lunges forward and the stone fly disappears into the giant maw.

Standing crouched on the bank, I see the movement and for an instant the trout is fully visible. A shot of adrenaline shoots up my spine and lodges in the base of my skull. The primal hunter is aroused. The quarry has been detected. Briefly his camouflage has failed.

Brush and tall weeds surround me. The alders, which shaded me earlier, are now an obstruction to my back-cast. My eyes trace out the only possible trajectory for my fly line, which must be high over my left shoulder and between two of the trees. The forward cast must change direction in the air to align itself with the target. Since the line and the fly will land in water travelling at drastically different speeds, there will have to be a lot of slack in the leader. As I trace and retrace the path that the line must follow, my confidence falters. There is a brief search for alternatives. There are none.

Carefully, the leader is inspected and the 6X tippet is replaced with three feet of 5X. To its end is knotted a size #14 low floating Yellow Stone Fly - which was constructed complete with feelers, tails and flat Fly-Film wings. The colors, size, and shape matches the real ones hatching from the river. The fly is not dressed so that it will sink quickly as it enters the spill below the rock.

The leader and twenty feet of fly line are carefully coiled in my left hand. I raise the rod quickly with my right hand and "cross body" my back cast over my left shoulder. The coils feed out of my left hand as I shoot line into a high back cast which beyond all odds slices through the open space between the trees and hangs momentarily over the tall grass. The rod tip is then brought forward in a shallow arc and the forward loop sails out high over the water. The loop changes from vertical to horizontal with an upward the swing of the rod tip. An instant before the loop flows into the leader, I push a tiny amount of slack into the line and the cast dies in the air. The fly line lands on the water upstream form the fish, with the leader pointed downstream and the fly on a direct course to the center of the boil below the rock. There is a quick rush of air from my lungs, and the incredible tension from executing this impossible cast is suddenly gone.

The fly drifts a foot and then disappears in the spill. There is sudden movement in the slick below the rock; I raise the rod more by instinct rather than observation. The line comes instantly tight, and there is an explosion of water meeting the air as the giant caudal fin hurtles the fish into the raging current. The trout and my fly line are a blur as the white Dacron backing leaves my shrieking reel.

The huge trout launches himself into the air near the far shore and then races downstream into the eddy. Still he takes line, and the black felt marker stripe signals that fifty yards of backing have left the reel. Incredibly the fine leader holds against the pressure of the light rod and smooth drag.

The trout pauses, and then runs toward me and I reel frantically to maintain tension on the line so that the tiny barbless hook will stay embedded in the flesh. The trout shakes his head in angry violence and I ease off on the pressure slightly. He reverses his course and the reel spool, which is now small in diameter from loss of line, turns with unbelievable speed. The shiny black handle disappears in a blur. A red felt marker stripe signals that the reel is almost empty.

Again the trout pauses. There is no accounting for the luck. A few more yards and I will be out of line and he will break the light tippet. I must follow him. Immediately downstream, alders over-hanging the deep eddy block my path. The river bottom is mud and sticks. Off comes my vest and binoculars, which are tossed in the grass. I can barely feel the trout as I slide down the bank into the cool water. I am in the river over my shirt pockets, fighting my way through a raft of flotsam and midge shucks, which adhere readily to the fabric of my clothing and the hair on my chest. I reel myself down to the fish and gain some line. The alder branches hang nearly in the water. I fight my way through them as quickly as possible. My feet sink into the bottom and I finally emerge downstream of the alders in a muddy plume. I crawl up the bank, still maintaining pressure and gaining line back on to the reel. The fish is still far below me as the red marker stripe comes back onto the reel.

For a while the fish gives ground and I reel continuously until the black stripe is also on the reel. I am down stream fifty yards below the riffle.

I see my fish next as the backing knot comes into the rod guides. He is only a silvery-green blur deep in the clear water of the eddy. My heart jumps.... he is larger than I had thought.

For a long time the fish stays deep and edges slowly upstream along the far shore. He bullies my light tackle with the force of the main current at mid-stream. The backing knot seesaws back and forth through the guides. There is a tremendous down-stream bow in my line, as the fish stays straight across the wide green river. Finally after many minutes the constant pressure takes its toll and the big trout starts to give ground. A few minutes more brings him to my hand.  

He is a wondrous creature, subdued but still full of life. His body is deeper than my hand is long. I can barely close my fingers around the waist of his tail as I slide him into the shallow water. His black-spotted, olive colored back blends with the skimpy aquatic vegetation and sand. The rose colored gill plates pump rhythmically. His nose is long and pointed, but the lower jaw lacks the kipe of sexual maturity. All of his fins are in virgin condition. He has never spawned. The predominant male red stripe from whence his species got its name is but a faint glow of the ruby it will become. The pectoral fins contain this same red tinge. The ventral and anal fins are tipped with milky white. His lower sides are silver-amber. Every scale contains a sparkling mirror crescent. His muscles are hard to the touch.

Energy returns to this body and he starts to struggle, at first feebly...then with vigor. Compete equilibrium returns slowly. He is tired. I am tired, but relaxed as I turn him toward the river and he struggles free from my hand. His form dissolves into the green depths of the eddy. He is free again. And so am I.