Verdigre Creek Journal

Over the last few days, the sunlight, what little could peer through clouds, melted the shroud of snow that surrounded Highway 275.  Corpses of deer litter the ditches.  Frozen in contorted and disfigured poses, giving us a clue as to their ultimate and untimely demise, the sunlight thaws their gruesome poses as the crows begin to scavenge.  I don’t know if the snow or frigid cold led them into the path of an oncoming car, it was, most certainly though, a contributing factor.

Winter has been gruesome this year in Nebraska.  Frigid cold in December, January, and February.  Blizzards in December,  constant snow for most of January and February.  While the Creek never freezes, despite the fact that nymph fishing is my bread and butter, I grew weary of chucking indy rigs.  This was probably more psychological than anything else, fishing nymphs under indicators became symbolic for the winter of our discontent (which was made inglorious by the fact that the sun did not shine at all).  We all suffered from seasonal affective disorder.

The temperature, however, had taken a turn.  We were on the tail end of a warming trend.  The snow, while still piled high in spots, was starting to melt.

And the first week of March on the Creek usually means the first dry fly fishing of the year.

Midges, mayflies, and caddis were boiling from the water.  The trout were eager to sip at the bounty.

The first brown of the day came on the first cast.   I saw the fish laying next to some cover, working in and out, taking flies near the surface.  I cast the fly, quartering upstream into a short drift.  The fish reared back, rose, and took the fly with a definitive gulp.  It is hard to say if I reacted to the sound or the sight.  Whatever the case may be, I raised the rod tip gently and drew the line tight.

After the first brown, I started catching rainbows.  It was as if the browns had all left the building.  Many of the ‘bows were sporting some nice spring colors.  I landed one that was big, I could speculate on the size, however, the adjective big will have to suffice.  As I set the fish up for the picture, he escaped.  This was, perhaps, the only depressing moment of the day, it was, indeed, a really big fish.

I recovered and reminded myself that I was well into double digits, there was no sense crying over spilled milk.

Then, it was back to browns.

And more browns.

And then some more rainbows.

Monday had been unseasonably warm.  The temperature was 58 degrees.  Fetching items that I’d forgotten, I’d managed to make it to the truck and back in my stocking feet several times.

Today, the temperature was ten degrees just outside of Neligh. Going outside in stocking feet was out of the question.

There was slush on the Elkhorn River and some sheet ice.  Many of the smaller ponds had frozen.

By the time I parked at the Bridge Pool, the thermometer read a balmy 21 degrees.  The water temperature, though, was 43.2 degrees.  Certainly, the water was warmer than the air; it was, none-the-less, cold.

The browns would be holding tight to cover, I’d have to put the fly right on the their noses to get a response.  The ‘bows would be a little more inquisitive, but not too much.  It would be a slow day.

It was still a little early in the season to fish scuds, they would be active in January.  It would, though, be possible to entice a trout with baetis imitations.  I tied on a Copper John Copper, size 16 to act as a stimulator, and dropped a size 20, beadhead Barr’s Emerger to the rear.  With the cold weather, fishing an indy rig would be standard procedure.

I tried several pools where the spring water kept the pool a little warmer than the surrounding creek.  I saw one ‘bow chase the Barr’s Emerger but he made his way quickly back to cover.  True to form, the browns were nowhere to be seen.

I made my way over to the bigger water.  It is usually a little more productive when the weather gets cold.  On the first cast, I saw a small twitch on the indicator.  I set the hook quickly.  The rainbow made his way toward the deeper water but I coaxed him up toward the shallows.  He made several nice runs before I brought him into the net.

I managed to catch several more rainbows.

Upstream, I was getting strikes, they were gentle and hard to set.  The Little Western Weedy Water Sedges were hanging about the heavier vegitation; a few baetis nymphs swam about here and there.  Despite the fact that the calendar still said fall, winter had come to the creek.

Sunrise reflecting in the Monolith Pool

Traces of Snow at Brown Alley

Sunrise on the Bridge

Ice on the Guides

Ice on the Top Top

Nice 'bow from the Big Water

Another Nice 'bow from the Big Water

Little Western Weedy Water Sedges (Amiocentrus aspilus)

Ice at the Weir

In Book VI of the The Brothers Karamzov, we learn how Father Zossima is transformed and is placed on the path to salvation.  In, perhaps, one of the greatest passages from literature (chapter 41), we see the mystical side of Zossima that stands in stark contrast to his days in the army.

It is a poignant sentiment to remember at a time when we give thanks.

Every day and every hour, every minute, walk round yourself and watch yourself, and see that your image is a seemly one. You pass by a little child, you pass by, spiteful, with ugly words, with wrathful heart; you may not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and your image, unseemly and ignoble, may remain in his defenceless heart. You don’t know it, but you may have sown an evil seed in him and it may grow, and all because you were not careful before the child, because you did not foster in yourself a careful, actively benevolent love. Brothers, love is a teacher; but one must know how to acquire it, for it is hard to acquire, it is dearly bought, it is won slowly by long labour. For we must love not only occasionally, for a moment, but for ever. Everyone can love occasionally, even the wicked can.

My brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds senseless, but it is right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch in one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but birds would be happier at your side — a little happier, anyway — and children and all animals, if you were nobler than you are now. It’s all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love, in a sort of transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men.

I found out the hard way that this unit was not waterproof.  I dropped it in the water.  The creek torched the two LR44, 1.5v cells.   The unit was worthless for the remainder of the day.

Sooner or later, if it is in your vest, it is going to get wet. Water is pretty much a constant with regard to fishing.

According to the flyer that accompanies the unit, the WJIT will give the most accurate readings when the unit is held as close to the water as possible.  I noted that, if the unit is held within a foot, the WJIT measured, on average, a degree, or more, below the the actual temperature of the water’s surface (as measured using a Fluke 53II Thermometer with an Omega .005 Gauge, Teflon Thermocouple).  The WJIT’s accompanying flyer indicates that for every foot away from the target, the unit will lose about 2 degrees of accuracy.  I found that the WJIT tended to lose about a degree, toward freezing, for every foot it is moved away from the target.  However, the ambient temperature seems to affect the accuracy of the unit.  For water that is near freezing, 32.3 degrees, with an ambient temperature of 55.2 degrees, the WJIT measures about 10 to 16 degrees warmer as you move the unit away from the target.

Ironically, when measuring hot liquids, the unit failed miserably.  I took several readings of a cup of coffee.  The Fluke indicated that the coffee was 144.7 degrees, the WJIT consistently indicated that the coffee was 132.9 degrees.  Since I spend little time fishing in coffee, I’m not really too concerned about the discrepancy.

To get the most accurate readings, as I’ve noted, the unit must be as close to the water as possible.  In practice, I found that when I did hold it as close to the surface as possible, water tended to splash into the unit (the unit complained by displaying the undecipherable error message “Err_25.” In all fairness, though, the unit continued to work).

William Joseph Thermometer - Front View

Is this unit worth $39.00?  I don’t think so.  It provides moderately accurate, but not “dead-on, balls accurate, ” readings.  When used in accordance with William Joseph’s directions, it can get pretty close.  Fly fishing, though, is a sport that doesn’t really reward “pretty close.”

The WJIT just not sturdy enough to use.  Sooner or later it will go under, or I’ll go under, with the unit attached.  After that, it’s unusable.

Save your money.

It was on my mind.

Conway Bowman had recommended bringing along medication for seasickness.  It was on my list, but higher priority items had pushed it to the bottom.  I didn’t pick any up.  My mind was trying to trick me into thinking that I was getting sick as we cruised out of the Harbor at Mission Bay out to the blue water.

I had nothing to fear but fear itself.  Nothing ever happened, but it was in the back of my mind all day.

Mission Bay is a no wake zone.  We cruised to the breakwater passing several large, almost gargantuan, cranes and barges.  They were reinforcing the breakwater with large boulders.  A barge, holding a heavy crane, listed lazily in the Santa Ana breeze.  The neighboring barge was laden with boulders, herculean in dimension.  Dave Trimble didn’t know where the came from.  Had they been granite, I mused, they probably would have come from the Sierras.  “But at tremendous expense,” I thought to myself.

Wherever they came from, they were massive.

My reverie was broken by the sound of the motor.  Trimble accelerated as we exited the Bay.

Right outside Mission Bay are the kelp beds.  Famous for harboring many species of fish.  We motor on, our destination is the continental shelf.

The sea life is spectacular.  We pass several mammalians.  Blue whales, bottlenose dolphins, common dolphins, and California sea lions (also know as dawgs or furballs).   We see several mola mola cruising the surface….

California Sea Lions

A Blue Whale in the Distance

On to Part V – The Chum Slick

Dave stopped the boat.  The water was 100 fathoms deep.  He attached the chum bucket to the side of the boat, scored the tuna only after cutting the fish’s belly off, and dumped it in the bucket.  He set a course to return to the continental shelf and cruised along at a couple of knots, steering the boat while simultaneously smashing the chum with a PVC pipe.

Tuna for the Chum Bucket

Chummin'

The oils from the tuna were visible on the surface of the water.   Bits of tuna floating behind the boat attracted flying rats, seagulls, in search of a free meal.

Flying Rat

Watching the sonar, we could see the bottom rise steeply to 300′.  We were back at the continental shelf.  Dave shut off the motor and we began to drift.

Trimble said that fishing with a Santa Ana wind would be tough.

Our chum slick, though, would draw the makos to the boat.

The situation is not unlike chumming for bear.  Makos and bears share the fact that humans are their only predators.  From their beginnings as cute and cuddly cubs, a bear belies its true nature as it ambles along in search of berries.

Makos, on the other hand, look like killers.  They are born as killers.  Developing embryos feed on unfertilized eggs produced by the mother in the uterus during the gestation period and, indeed, there is evidence of sibling cannibalism in the short-fin mako.  They live as killers.  The mako has a heat exchange circulatory system that allows the shark to be seven to ten degrees warmer than the surrounding water. This system enables the mako to maintain a high level of activity. They die as killers.  In Italy, makos are often found with amputated swordfish bills impaled in the mako’s head.  If they are going down, they are going down with a fight.

That is what sets the mako apart from any other quarry.  Makos could have you for lunch.

We watched intently.  We’d look to spy the short fin of the mako on the surface or to glimpse the torpedo-shaped body in the depths.

After an hour of watching, the two large cups of coffee that I had had earlier were beginning to take their toll.

My bladder was ready to burst.

I learned that urinating in a 3 foot swell was no small task.  My legs, well acclimated to movement on terra firma, struggled to make my way to the stern.  I balanced myself precariously against the 250 horsepower outboard by pressing my knee against the hood.  I was about to unzip when I looked down.  There he was.

“You might want to be careful,”  Captain Dave Trimble said.

I saw his point.  A mako circled below the boat.

On to Part VI – The Teaser, The Catch, The Release

Quickly, any thoughts of heeding nature’s call disappeared.  I was back in the bow drawing line off my fly rod as Dave prepared the teaser.  I felt the 30 lb, wire leader between my fingers as I grasped the hook that was attached to the red marlin tube fly.  The eye of the fly looked at me excitedly through a thick strand of red super hair.

The shark circled below the boat, surfaced, and attacked a seagull.  The seagull escaped but set down, rather nonchalantly, a few feet away.

He hooked the tuna’s belly underneath a long, red and purple, squid teaser.  He tossed it out about 80 feet.

“When I give you the word, cast your fly out right by the teaser,” he said and began to retrieve the teaser in rapidly.

The shark, feeling no embarrassment for having whiffed on the seagull, followed the teaser, his nose right on the tuna’s belly.

“Now,” Dave barked as he accelerated his retrieve.

I tossed my fly out about 50.’ It landed right next to the teaser.  Dave put his reel into overdrive and pulled the teaser out of the shark’s line of vision.  The shark circled.  He looked at my fly and rose but missed it by several feet.

Dave pulled the teaser all the way in, I retrieved my fly.

Dave tossed the teaser out again.  The shark gave chase a second time.

“Now!”

I cast my fly out in the path of  the teaser.  Dave put the teaser into high retrieving it away from the shark.

Confused, but not shaken, the shark looked left and right wondering where the teaser had gone.  He circled, spotted my fly, rose, and took it violently in the right side of his mouth.

I paused and returned the violence hitting him with a hard strip strike.

In order to keep tension on the line, I rushed to the stern as the shark ran away from the bow.  I had not developed any sense of sea legs.  Indeed, I had to hold on to something as I crawled from one end of the boat to other.  In making my way to the stern, though, I surprised myself. I maneuvered around the deck like an old sea hand.

I came to the realization that I had driven the hook home when I looked at my reel and the shark already had me into the backing.  He had made a run past the bow, dived down, and was now well past the stern.  He was still taking line.  It all happened quickly.  I’ve had deja vu’s that have taken longer.

He took a deep dive and then shot up out of the water and jumped.

Twelve, thirteen feet?  It was hard to measure. but magnificent in effect.

He made another run and another jump.  Then, down to the depths.  He was still taking line.

Dave, in the meantime, had started the engine and was motoring along at several knots.

The mako finally gave me some line.  I took what I could but he made another run putting me well into arrears.

I worked him back and forth.  My muscles trembled as I reeled him in.

As I got him close to the boat, Dave noticed that the line had wrapped around his tail.  Dave grabbed the line as I give him some from the reel.  He asked me to let some line out and let the shark take the slack when the fish was free. This would keep the shark from jumping into the boat.

I reminded myself of the safety procedures to follow in case a shark did jump into the boat.

Jump on the center console and get the fuck out of the way.

Dave quickly unwrapped the line from the tail.   The shark  took whatever slack remained and made another run.

As I drew the fish closer, Dave explained that a mako will run left, right, and down which is why one uses an eleven or twelve weight to battle them. Indeed, Jeff Patterson of the Abel Reel Company had caught a great white on a fifteen weight earlier in the summer.

I had finally pulled the shark up to the boat.

This shark was angry.  He was downright pissed. He shook his head left and right violently.  Had he been given the chance, he would have gladly taken a significant bite out of me or Dave.

Dave carefully slid the release tool down the line and popped the hook free.  The mako swam away.

I collapsed on the seat, exhausted.  Dave gave me a high five.

One Angry Shark

At 5:00 a.m., the temperature hovered in the mid-thirties.

The forecast was for a brisk wind out of the south, temperatures in the high fifties.  The official temperature didn’t, but at the creek, it just broke sixty.

Days like this, in early November, are gifts from Heaven.

The temperature of the water at the Bridge Pool was 47.5(o) F.  Two rainbows worked back and forth taking BWO nymphs and caddis larvae.  The little, weedy, water sedges had been migrating downstream; these rainbows were having them for breakfast.

I passed on the rainbows.  I was hunting for browns.

I worked my way past the Monolith Pool to Brown Alley.  I saw fish but getting them to take anything was proving to be a challenge.  Several fish had expressed interest, they were moving to get food which was encouraging, none, however, were committing.

Then, the first hit of the day, a nice brown, maybe twelve inches (a good size for the Verdigre). She took a size 22, extended-body, BWO dry.  She fought like a mad woman running from upstream of my position to downstream.  She fought hard and went underneath a snag.  I finally brought her to within a foot of my hand. She shook her head brusquely and was gone.

Undeterred, I worked my way up the alley.  I got the skunk out of the boat by landing a few nice browns.  They weren’t defending their redds; I assumed that they had already spawned.

A nice brown from the Creek

I tried several spots on the creek.  As the sun would trickle though the woods, the ambient temperature broke 60(0) F and the rays warmed the creek to over 50(o).  The wind, though, was stiff and was blowing the line well off target.  I need to squeeze every ounce of power out of my quad; I overweighted by one line size with a weight forward taper.

I moved to a new location, the Blue Winged Olives returned to the creek to lay their eggs, the trout would roll to capture the spinners.  The caddis returned to the water sporadically to lay their eggs.

With the heavier line, my casts were cutting the wind.  It was dry fly heaven.  A size twelve, olive, elk-hair caddis with a size 22 BWO dropper was working well.  I switched over to a size 14 parachute Adams for the indicator and dropped a Barr’s Caddis and BWO off of that.  The creek was clear, I could see the rise before the tell-tale gulp.

Magnificent.

The Top Ride leaves a tell-tale Mark

Another nice Brown

As the sun began to set, the fish settled down.  They had had their fill.  They knew, perhaps, that harder times were coming.  For now, their bellies were full; the fishing slowed.

Then, there he was.  A nice brown, defending his redd.  I passed on him. Better to let him do his work, I thought.

I tried a section of the creek that I hadn’t fished in a while.  A few holdovers were still eating.  I released the last one as the light transitioned to gray.  I made my way back to the truck.  I didn’t want the day to end.  I sat by the banks of the creek and ate my sandwich.  I lingered and remembered.  It had been a day that had been filled with gifts from heaven.

The Late Day Fall Light on the Verdigre

My bladder was ready to burst.

I learned that urinating in a 3 foot swell was no small task.  My legs, well acclimated to movement on terra firma, struggled to make my way to the stern.  I balanced myself precariously against the 250 horsepower outboard by pressing my knee against the hood.  I was about to unzip when I looked down.  There he was.

“You might want to be careful,”  Captain Dave Trimble said.

I saw his point.  A mako circled below the boat.

Sharks have always fascinated and inspired us.  The Discovery Channel’s knew this when they began running “Shark Week” every summer.   Clair Chenault’s shark-faced Curtis P-40 intimidated the foes of the American Volunteer Groups.

Sharks have also inspired inventors.  The hull of the Stars and Stripes utilized a fabric that was patterned after a shark’s skin.  Speedo and Scientific Anglers have included shark skin like coverings on their competition swim suits and fly lines.

When I told people that I would be fishing for sharks, most people said “you’ve got to be kidding me!”

When I told them that I would be fly fishing for Makos most respondents modified the word kidding with the present participle of a verb that begins with the letter f.

On to Part II

Captain Dave Trimble met me outside the Dana Landing Market.  I had been applying sun screen; my hands were covered with SPF 50.  Rather than shaking hands, we bumped knuckles.  He asked me if I had gotten a sandwich yet for lunch and directed me to the Market.  He had some things to load on the boat.

I picked up my sandwich and made my way down to the boat.

Dave allowed that the boat was somewhat smelly.  He had cleaned the bilge out with bleach and green solution but the smell of day old chum still lingered.  He pointed me to the boat.

“Dry storage in the bow, port side.  Cooler’s in the stern, port.  Watch your nose,”  he said as he loaded chum into the wheel barrow.

I struggled to remember that the bow was the front and that the port was the left.  I thought that it would be too presumptuous to say “Ay, Cap’n.”

The Chum was caught the day before on the Impulse.

On to Part III