Theo Baakelar sent along a photo of his newest fly fishing student. More of us need lovely blondes like this in our classes!

Children are always such a treat to teach and to be with when they catch fish.

It’s that time of year when the tributaries of the Great Lakes host their anadromous salmon, steelhead, and browns. Here’s a nice story from Theo Baakelar who fished with Harry Schoel and Chuck Furimsky for steelies on Elk Creek and 18 Mile Creek, tributaries to Lake Erie.

In addition to egg flies, steelhead will fall to buggers, sculpins, and other long fly imitations.

The fishing proved to be exceptional, as it usual is on the Lake Erie tribs. Theo found a good fish right away.

The big steelies fight hard, but with care they can get their picture taken with the angler.

Some of the Steelies show the colors that give them their name.

Others that have been in the river for some time show the classic colors of the rainbow.

Harry found steelies quickly, too.

Lake Erie steelhead are strong and heavy of body, and this fish that harry landed clearly shows.

There were times when both Theo and Harry were connected to steelhead—Double!

Fish like this make the day.

The one that Harry lands is equally big

The steelhead are released to fight another day.

South Africa has a robust trout population. They were introduced into both lakes and streams near the end of the 1800s. Like trout everywhere, they can be highly selective one day and pigs at the trough the next. Gerrit Redpath send me a note on a recent trouting trip he made  with his family into the Lady Grey area of South Africa. This area is east of Cape Town along the coast. The Drakensberg Mountains lie on the mother side of this region. Garrit says:

I fished the Karnemelkspruit in Lady Grey area.  (South Africa)  We stayed in Lupela lodge, it is as good as it gets.  Situated on a working farm, with all the farming sounds to go with it.  Our hosts Alf and Denise Ross where outstanding, warm and friendly people.  The lodge was actually an old milk shed that has been converted into a lodge sleeping 10 people. With a lot of adventurous activities to pleases the whole family.  (www.lupelalodge.co.za)

The Karnemelkspruit is a very pretty high mountain stream, filled with willing wild rainbow trout.  The water was crystal clear, though spotting fish was a bit difficult.  Most of the days were overcast and windy.  But we managed to see some nice specimens; even lucky enough to catch one or two!

Using your bottom bouncing nymph leader, tied with Maxima Chameleon line,  I had a ball on the small river, spending some time with the kids.  My oldest daughter caught a nice rainbow on a dry dropper rig.

I experimented with different indicators and systems.  Found that the coiled indicator worked pretty well, under the circumstances that I was faced with. When well greased it floats well enough to spot strikes and it cast easily into the wind.

Crystalline waters make fishing a true challenge, but the Angler as Predator takes the precautions necessary to surmount such circumstances.

Fishing crystalline waters is black and white–you either become the Angler as Predator or go fishless.

My good friend, John Beth, has provided jus with a great story of a big rainbow that eluded him all season, until only a few days before the end of this year’s inland fishing season.  It is a great story of the Angler as Predator–predators are persistent, and this is certainly a tale of persistence.

This story started in the early spring this year – when it was already 80+ degrees in March and continued at least once a month, all summer. It concluded on the Thursday just before the end of the inland season. It played out on a spring creek in SW Wisconsin where I, and other friends, have been catching and releasing trout for decades.

Early in the spring, my fishing buddy, Doc Zavadsky, saw a couple of very large rainbows circling a pool – it was a pool that was perhaps the largest and deepest in the creek – formed below the junction of two streams. That’s where these rainbows lived – right where big fish should be. The funniest thing was – the big trout would make several circles around the long, large pool right it the middle of the day – high noon, more or less. Then, they would suddenly disappear.

For seven months – I fished this pool at least once every month, and on almost every occasion – I’d see the two big rainbows. I even caught the “smaller” of the two, but the larger one eluded me. Like a mythical beast of days long since gone, it seemed more a “presence” than a real fish.

And now, the season’s end was at hand–autumn came early this year—and the hillsides were brilliant. The fishing, however, had been slow. I walked to the pool around 10:30 am, just about the time Doc was leaving.  “Any sign of the big one”? I asked. “Nope, I didn’t see anything,” he replied. Doc had decided to head upstream, while I went down. Since the day had been so very slow, I decided, if nothing else, I’d finish out the season fishing the way I wanted to. I tied on a size 8, baby Bunyan Bug, my connection to the past. Perhaps, it might pass for a hopper, or at least something the fish hadn’t seen all year.

The morning wore on, and nothing much looked at the Bunyan Bug. It was approaching high noon, and I knew what that meant–maybe.

I worked back to the big pool. From the fast, plunging riffle at the top to the long slow flat at the end, I cast and drifted the Bug, over and over.  Then, I noticed it was 12:00.

Suddenly, at the end of a long drift, when the fly had become almost motionless, I saw a long shadow a few feet down and below my Bug. The shadowy form never moved. My bug sat there, and so did the shadow. A couple more drifts and still the shadow never moved. On the next cast, the shadow was gone.

I let the little Bunyan Bug slowly drift to the end of the pool. “Okay, so that was a fish” I reasoned. “Was it the big one?” On the next long cast across the pool, the fly again eased to the lazy end of the drift where the current barely moved. This time, I saw the big rainbow, now just 8″ under the surface and downstream from my fly; the overhead sun erased all doubt about what that shadow had been.

Then came the slowest “take” in my fly fishing memory. The fish would move forward and up about 1 inch at a time. The fly would ease downstream about an inch. Then it was the fish’s turn to move up and forward another inch. This went on for several more “increments”; certainly this took at least an hour—or so it seemed.  The big rainbow and the Bunyan Bug were closing in on each other; the fish was 1 inch under the surface, and now only 6 inches down stream from the fly. When the fly almost stopped the fish was only 2″ from it. I “ticked” my line and sent one tiny “kick” out to the bug. From 35 feet away I watched the huge rainbow lifted it’s head, and without so much as making a ripple or a ring, “eased” the fly into her lips.

It was a rare occasion for me because I didn’t “rip” the fly away–as my heart rate would have suggested I should. I lifted the rod tip and felt the dead weigh, but only for a second. She ran the length of the pool, prompting my century old reel to rasp hoarsely, and my silk line to flash dance through the guides of the old 6′ cane rod. The rainbow jumped her way to the deep end of the upstream plunge pool. After about 3 minutes (and 7 months) I worked her to the shallows. She was 25″ long. After a couple of quick photos, followed by a little revival time, she swam briskly back to the depths of the pool.

The day ended with me washing and drying my silk line, while setting atop a favorite log. The sound of the stream blocked out everything else in the world as I sat thinking about the day’s events, and the many years and memories before it.  The little stream had provided many memorably trips for me, but perhaps this was the best hunting trip ever.

The big bow sipped the baby Bunyan Bug so delicately it didn’t even leave a ring on the water.

The big bow as 1/3 the length of the o;d cane rod.

The log of contemplation where I relive many memories of rivers past.

Yesterday, I hooked thirteen fish but only landed five; five is not a good number. Today, I again hooked thirteen fish, but I landed 11 of them. Eleven is a good number.

The day started with the decision to hike over the hill into a section of water that I particularly enjoy, and where I infrequently see others fishing. It was a good decision. Another front had ripped through, and the morning opened cold and crisp, but with a promise from the bright sun that it would get warmer—not a lot warmer, but at least warm enough that I’d be able to take off my gloves by mid-morning.

I decided to use a purple, Hot Head Leech as the “tractor,” ahead of a tangerine Otter’s egg “trailer.” Very few fish were moving to the long flies that we had been using, and I reasoned that the highly visible leech would help me position and drift the egg better. It was a good choice.

In the first few minutes, I was tight to a big female king. And so the morning went. I found an enormous female, well into the 40-inch range, and carefully placed the flies for the best drift. On the third pass, the big fish picked up the egg, and I quickly tightened. The fight was basically all one sided. The big fish wallowed and twisted with great strength, while I held fast, flexing the 10-weight out to the side to keep as much pressure against the fish as the 10-pound Maxima Chameleon tippet would allow. Suddenly the hook pulled free, and the fish slid into its hold. It was not in the least bit interested in the egg, again, even after an hour’s waiting period.

But plenty of other fish were interested, and the morning sped by, mostly in the midst of fighting salmon. A big male took the leech, but shook the barbless hook with ease, as it tore first this way and then that. Another male leapt onto the leech, and this one stayed pinned. In addition, several more big females took the egg fly. I looked at my watch. It was noon-thirty, and I had to head back to the motorhome. There were a number of house keeping chores that had to be attended to after lunch, before I headed home.

Rain was coming on the morrow, and if it was as much as predicted, the river would be a torrent of dirty water for a week to come—and so it was. But the fishing had been good, and I left with a vow to return a bit later in the fall when the cohos and browns drift in.

The day on my favorite stretch started cold but sunny.

The big boys were out and they were most decidedly playing.

Very quickly, there was much rod flexing going on. The kings were most cooperative.

The big hens were hot for the tangerine Otters egg.

Though most of the fish took the egg fly, several of the big males really jumped on the purple Hot Head Leech. 

This day,day three of my trip,  my friends John Beth and Dale Thompson, were to meet me. John is the one who introduced me to costal water kings many years back, and I always love spending a day fishing with him. I was excited because it looked like it was going to be a hay-day for us. I arrived an hour before John and Dale were scheduled to arrive, to scope out the water and maybe get a fish or two up on them. I couldn’t believe it. The water looked empty. Barely a fish moving. The night had seen a powerful front roar in, as attested by the howling wind and warmer temperatures, and the fish were feeling it. I walked and looked. The kings were there, but they were sitting on their thrones and not getting involved with common folk, like anglers, for instance. Still, a few pursued their nuptial rights, and before John and Dale arrived, I took two hens that ate the egg—very softly.

I heard John call my name, and turned to see he and Dale headed my way. After our greetings, John showed me his rod for the trip—a boron pool cue that Lefty Kreh had sold him. “I promised Lefty that I’d catch a big one on it,” he told me, “and send him a photo.”

I explained that the hens seemed to want the egg fly, and to go find one that was active, rather that simply fishing to everything that was available. “Yell,” I told John, ‘and I’ll come and shoot the photo to send to Lefty.”

You need to understand, right here, that John knows how to catch kings. No coaching necessary. Within five minutes he yelled from about 50 yards downstream, and I grabbed my camera and ran down. It was indeed a big hen, and very fresh, too. “It’s the perfect first fish for Left’s rod,” I told John, and we shot photos of John hoisting the big fish on high.

The rest of day inched along, and we took a fish here, a fish there. Finally we hiked over the hill to the spot Lew and I had fished the day before. The fish suddenly got willing and we took several in a row. My hooking rate was superb, but my retention rate lacked, shall we say, much to be desired. The big kings just managed to wallow and thrash their way free before I could get their pics—as if they thought the camera would steal their souls.

John and Dale left in the later afternoon and I headed to the section of the river where I had opened my dialog with the salmon two days earlier. Sure enough, there were kings there, and they were active. The flies plopped in, and swung lazily toward the biggest male in the group, and he grabbed the scarlet-head olive leech that Dale had given me earlier. When the line tightened, the big fish rolled up, mouth open and I could clearly see the fly pinned neatly in it jaw. Easily in the 20-pound club, the big male rolled and slammed into the other male of equal size that had been courting the hen fish between them. Suddenly it was “Fight, Fight.” The two had at it as if one fish being hooked had no impact on their primitive behavior.

The line jumped and thumped, and then the fish separated, I was no longer attached to fish number one by its jaw, the fly was now snagged in the tail of king number two. In their dust up, the second fish had hit the leader and dislodged the hook, which then caught in its tail. Very bizarre, indeed. I managed to pull the fly free without losing it. Now for the rest of the story.

When a fish is so eager for the fly, I typically rest it for a half hour or so, and then try again. When I eased into position, they were back on station and acting like, “Fly? What fly?” So I heaved the leech back out for them to look at. Danged if that big male didn’t take it a second time. Again it rolled up, mouth open, and I could see the fly secure in its jaw. “This time, I got you,” I mumbled under my breath.

Never mumble under your breath at a king. Bad things can happen. It spun and slammed into the second male once again, as if somehow the second fish were the cause of it all. Again they leapt into the fish-fight ring and duked it out. Yup, you guessed it. The second fish managed to free the first one, but this time avoided getting the hook in its tail. I quit. No telling what they might have done if I had hooked that first king for a third time.

My count for the day—5 landed out of 13 hooked. It just goes that way some days—especially when they assist one another in getting free.

I seemed like a it was going to be a great day–but the fish had other plans for us.

The females took the egg fly, though very softly and somewhat reluctantly.

John found a big and willing female to be his first fish on the rod he’d bought from lefty.

The boys were there, but they weren’t playing as usual.

The last salmon of the day proved to be a female that took the egg. The males just kept unhooking each other.

This day dawned clear and bright, but the cold of last evening was not gone, and even the sun, pouring through the nearly barren branches of streamside trees could not persuade the temperature to get much above the mid 40s F. It was a different day for the kings, too. Like all fish, they get a mite touchy under such brilliant skies. The casts were necessarily longer, the drifts more difficult, and the fish a whole lot more picky. Still, I found a few that remembered the last evening and took the fly, maybe not with zeal, but certainly decisively.

A car on the dirt road opposite my fishing position stopped, and my good friend, Lou Jirikowic, stepped out and called to me. We had agreed to meet sometime, somewhere on the stream, and now we would fish together for the day.

Hiking over the hill to a back-country stretch of the stream brought us to a lovely section of water alive with kings. Some were aged already, their white tails showing the wear and tear of redd building. Others were fresh and brash, plowing up the riffles with the determined ease of a sumo wrestler. And they took the fly. We found them, perhaps not as willing as the night before, but still pleasantly interested in the flies we were fishing, especially the egg patterns.

I found a pod of three big fish, a female and two contesting suitors. It was certainly a potential setup. On the first cast, the two big males spun as if to dash away, but then one turned and grabbed the egg fly as if it had been an unwanted invader.  The hook went in, and the battle was on. A king in the 20-pound class is a whole different creature. Not only does it have the weight, but its spade sized tail pushes water with enormous force. It spun and jerked line off the reel with deliberate ease. I could feel the powerful head shakes. and sense the immense strength of the fish as it sped unimpeded fist this way and then that.

Suddenly, the fish felt enormously heavy, as if it had somehow managed to double its weight. Pulling as hard as I dared against the 10 pound Maxima Chameleon tippet, I saw the big king roll on its side, a fly hooked securely in its dorsal. I couldn’t believe it. The fish had taken the egg, and in its twisting, wallowing fight, had managed to snag itself on the top fly—a big sculpin design. Trying to land a fish this size by towing it in dorsal fin first is a bit like dragging a bus off the freeway sideways. Not to be done. I could only hold on and wait for the fish to run out of gas, and that promised to be hundreds of miles down the road.

Suddenly I felt the head shakes again, as the fish surged down the pool. The snagged fly had come loose and I was back in touch with the front end of the beast once again. Now able to steer its head and force it to fight on my terms, I eventually got the fish to the net, the egg fly still secure in its jaw.

The day ended without any other strange incidents, and my final count was 7 kings, five on the egg, and two on the sculpin.

The kings fight hard and strong and certainly know how to stir the water.

The kings run while the leaves are falling, and they provide a great background against which to photograph these magnificent fish.

The hooked and snagged king.

A great place to position an Otter’s egg for a secure hold and assurance of landing a big male king.

Day One of my fall king salmon fishing opened late. It was a bit after four by the time I got on the water. I could see fish crashing about up the full length of the riffle, and I knew it was going to be a good evening. The sky was leaden, and the wind had picked up, but as yet no rain fell onto the glare-roofed water. I picked a pod of fish and dropped the tractor-trailer, Silver Leech and 8 mm, Tangerine Otter’s egg combo in front of the first fish. I got the usual response—complete indifference. But only a few casts later, and I was fast to a big hen..

Kings fight in what is known as the wallow and thrash style. They just use their weight and enormous strength to battle it out with you. This one was no different. My plan for the fight was a bit different than theirs. I just kept and deep bend in the 10-weight, and held it parallel to the water’s surface. Soon enough, the big fish lay in the net, and I grabbed a couple of quick shots of its head, egg fly firmly in place in it jaw.

As I released this first king of the evening, the rain crept in quietly. At first, it was just a moist whisper on the wind, but as I inched the zipper on my Simms jacket a bit higher, the drops became larger and more frequent. As the second king ate the egg fly, the rain was pelting down in earnest. It would be a wet evening, but the fish gave the cold and rain not a second thought. They took the fly with zeal and fought with equal zest, forcing me many times to hold the fighting butt against my waist as I leaned hard on the rod to hold them as close and tight as I could. They wrestled with great skill, but the unyielding flex of the rod ground them to submission.

The evening ended with six beautiful kings landed and released. They loved the cold and rain—and so did I.

Day One had my fly rod in constant action as the kings took the tangerine Otter’s Egg with true zeal in the cold and rain.

The female kings (queens?) took the egg readily, and moire often than the males.

The big males took the egg, too. The tangerine color is a great match for king salmon eggs.

My friend, Henry Kanemoto, sent me a photo of 3 size 16 hooks laid out on a scale with 1/16 inch hash marks. It is most revealing. I was reminded again about the importance of knowing the hooks that one ties on.

When we were shooting “Nymphing” in the summer of 1982, I noticed that the size 16 fly I had tied to match the PMD nymphs on Armstrong Spring Creek looked a size to big. Measuring the nymphs put them squarely at size 16, based on the length of the hook shank from eye to start of the bend. Again, I looked. It was the hook eye that gave the imitation its oversized appearance. So I dressed some on 18s and they looked just right. Guess which one the fish took most readily? That’s right, the size 18. Many anglers had noted over the years that if the fish doesn’t take the fly that seems to be the right size, then try one a size smaller. However, what I had not understood, and what everyone else had not understood it seems, is that the eye is a very important component of the overall imitation, especially in smaller sizes. Because of the hook eye, a fly dressed on a size 18 looks the same size as a natural that measures a size 16.  So, I no longer measure the hook in the traditional manner, from back of the eye to bend. I now measure them from the front of the eye to the bend.

In addition, a size 16 is not necessarily a size 16. By that I mean that different manufacturers produce hooks that can vary a full size from the “standard” size. One manufacturer’s 16 may be a 17 and another’s a 15. In addition, there are hooks produced that do not specify relative shank length to gap size. For example, what is a “wide gap” hook, exactly? It may have a shank length that is 1X, 2X, even up to 5X short. Then there’s the issue of eye size. A tapered wire eye is smaller than one made without the tapered. So, have a close look at the hooks you are using. Measure them from the front of the eye to the beginning of the bend and make a chart specifying all those dimensions so that you can build your flies on the most effective sized hooks.

A selection of three size 16 hooks, Note variations in gap width and the prominence of the eye. {Photo by Henry Kanemoto

Montauk Point is alive with fish as reported by our friend, Capt’n Jake Jordan. He and friends found stripers up to 25 pounds and albies up to 10 pounds in numbers. If you’re in the area and get there, have at ‘em.

Are these enough fish to cast to?

Nice stripe ya got there, jake!

Plenty of albies in the mix, too.