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.