What Kind of Flies Can I Tie with Crow Feathers?

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What Kind of Flies Can I Tie with Crow Feathers?

It's been a rough week. Back to work after a couple of weeks vacation, I've had to cut back to fishing only one or two times a week, and even then only after work. Went fishing on Sunday, but tried to cover too many miles of river and spent the whole day rowing while my pal Vern caught most of the fish. I tried to fish with my son on Tuesday, but the boat was in the river for no more than 5 minutes when a storm blew over the canyon walls, bringing 80+ mph winds, torrential rain and lightening that was too close for comfort. With no place to take shelter, and the boat launch 4 miles downstream, I found myself rowing downstream like a madman, figuring that if I couldn't take shelter, I could at least minimize my time out in the open. I ferried back and forth across the river, searching out the fast current, since the wind would blow me back upstream whenever we hit a slow stretch of river. Didn't get any fishing done, but did get a heckuva workout on the oars, rowing full speed more or less nonstop for the full 4 miles.

It wasn't quite the quality fishing experience I'd hoped for. In fact, we barely wet a line.

So now it's been nearly a week since I've hooked a trout and I'm starting to go a little stir crazy as a result.

Which brings us to tonight. I'm standing in the kitchen after Karate practice, tossing bits of ground beef to Shadow, my German Shepherd, while I cook myself a late dinner. I've been noticing that the arc she makes as she leaps up to catch the flying bits of burger bears a striking resemblance to the path that a trout follows when it rises to a dry fly. It's not the first time I've noticed this, but I find myself transfixed as I toss piece after piece of hamburger to the eager canine. With a little experimentation, I find that by tossing the meat on higher or lower trajectories, I can even change the type of "rise-form" she makes. Toss it on a low, flat arc, and she makes the same sort of subtle, smutting rise that a trout will make while eating midges in the surface film. Toss it high, and she leaps in the air like a rainbow chasing a caddis. I convince myself that if I can just watch carefully enough, I'll discover something that I can use on the river. Perhaps I'll finally solve that problematic late evening hatch I've been fishing to no avail for the past three weeks. I've invested about a half-pound of prime ground beef into this "hamburger hatch" when the smoke from my own burning dinner shifts my attention back to the here and now. And I realize I'm crazy.

It's true. We're all a little crazy around here. We're haunted by water, riveted by riseforms. Our cars veer across the fog line as we drive past a juicy looking riffle. We slow as we drive past fresh roadkill, wondering just how depraved it would really be if we stopped and "harvested" a tail or a skin for the tying bench. Mention "Mother's Day" and the first thing that comes to mind are thick, pulsing clouds of caddis flies, swarming up the river.

Admit it. You know you do these things.

And I'm no different than the rest of you.

This board is group therapy for most of us. And for the most part, we each need it far more than it needs any one of us.

I've gotten some very nice e-mails since I abandoned this board a week ago, along with a few taunts from those who were glad to see me go. But half-assed psychoanalysis of my motivations notwithstanding, the bottom line is this:

I've got some good friends on this board, and I enjoy their company too much to let a few hateful remarks drive me away. It's a little like the storm that chased me off the river the other night. It blew through the canyon, made some noise and caused some real damage -- Red's Fly Shop lost a dozen or so trees, one of which crunched a camper's car. The tubular frame tents that the local guides use for their sports was twisted beyond repair, heavy furniture tossed 50 feet out into the river. It was certainly not what I'd come to the river for.

But in the end, it was mostly just a lot of hot air. The storm passed, and we all knew it would.

While I was on the river, I flirted with the idea of sitting out the storm on the bank -- that's what I've always been taught to do. It's certainly the safe thing to do when the thunder is echoing off the canyon walls a few ticks behind the flash.

But in the end, I trusted the river to get me where I was going, which it did. It always does.

Sorry I left. Glad to be back.