I was unfortunately overtaken by events and just couldn't pull off the NorCal trip. I pivoted and instead, threw together a short excursion just to Flagstaff. I kept the 9-weight cannon I'd already planned to bring, but the 10-foot, 5-weight half-pounder rig was swapped for a delicate, 7.5-foot, 3-weight, small-stream outfit.
The first full day involved a couple of hours of double-hauling big streamers and bunny leeches on a wire tippet. There were a couple of duck hunters around, but I think I was the only angler on the water. I stripped and twitched my flies repeatedly through what looked (to me) like some fishy water, but couldn't get a grab. Oh, and my never-before-worn waders leaked water right out of the gate. Despite the cold (I crunched through a veneer of ice in the shallows when I waded in), the utter skunking, and one wet foot, I had a wonderful time. Even the wind - my climatic nemesis as both an angler and a bicyclist - was kind enough to kick up only after I'd waded back to shore.
I drove down to Oak Creek on day two. The fall colors were just staring to hit, and check out that twisty highway leading into the canyon.
The reach I fished was mostly pocket water. Given the boulders piled about and my general lack of surefootedness, I spooked many trout from their feeding stations before I could get off a cast.
There was a single, large pool in the reach, and it was full of rainbows. There were two or three size classes of hatchery clones, and I ended up taking three on nymphs drifted under either a foam hopper or an indicator. The first one seemed to be the largest of the group, and it put a decent bend in the little 3-weight. After the second fish, I considered moving on to something more challenging (such as one of the wild brown trout Oak Creek is known to hold), but I decided to keep casting to this pod a while longer.
I should have obeyed my instincts because a few moments of inattention allowed the third fish to take the fly so deeply that I mortally injured him trying (and failing) to disgorge the fly. This troubled me deeply. I gave up on bait fishing many years ago, as gut-hooking was frustrating my catch-and-release ethos. Yeah, sure, this is a put-and-take fishery, and these trout are more or less bred for the frying pan, but it was still a major eff-up on my part. I took a little bit of consolation in the fact that some raccoon or skunk was going to dine on trout later that day.
I must also have angered the Fish Gods because, after moving on from the pool, I couldn't manage another take. I saw a cloud of Trico spinners, but the fish wouldn't even look at the CDC dry I drifted past them. I also lost a baggie of Thingamabobber indicators - my entire cache of the things - after having left a vest pocket unzipped. Later, while looking for them, I slipped on a muddy bank, banged my knee on a cobble, and fell hands-first into a blackberry bush. It was time to call it a day. I wiped off the mud, pulled the thorns out of my palms, and left El Cañon con Truchas for the Old Pueblo.
Despite the setbacks and missteps, I was gratifying to finally get out there and catch some fish on a fly. I intend to have more adventures (and fewer misadventures) in the months and years to come.
