Big river. Big flies. All dries.

Cormac McCarthy is the finest prose stylist of his generation. His novel The Road, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, is the finest book of any generation. McCarthy's writing is tight as a coiled Brassie. Just as effective and understated. In deference to the great American master, pale imitation ...

I've never seen the Columbia River as good as it is right now. Hoppers and October Caddis. That's it. We haven't used a fly smaller than size 8 in two weeks. We've used three patterns. Clients with gunslinger hooksets and the ability to manage 30 feet of line are netting the biggest 'bows of their lives.

Tom is one such client. So is Jim. Tom was told at a local flyshop that he would have to fish the Slocan right now to fish dries. The local flyshop clerk should consider another line of work. The new generation of anglers travel in packs and miss the point entirely. Streamcraft is lost on them. They don't know that at certain times of the year trout will look for orange bodies when no orange bodies are evident. The trout look but the anglers don't. They spend their lives looking down while the trout look up. They look down and peck at iPhones, immersed in nothing.



Jim with hopper-eating rainbow




Pumpkin Caddis

 












Tom hooked a great trout last evening. The rise was an optical illusion. The fly was on the water's surface and then it wasn't, a hole in the river, no visible disturbance. Tom struck. The great fish jumped two feet above the water, the pink yarn on top of the fly glowing like a comet. The fish broke off. It jumped once more and the fly came off, floating down the river. Attached to nothing.

Did you see that?
Yes.
The fly in its mouth?
Yes.
What are the odds?
Nothing and nothing.



Flex-Wing Caddis - Hot October



Jim with October-eating rainbow
















My Lab Rio will be put down soon. His organs are failing. He's spent 13 years in boats and stubble and campers and curled up in front of fires. He's lived a fuller life than most because he's always looking up. He will be buried beneath a fir tree in the forest outside our cabin. Squirrels often take up in the tree, chattering and spewing shells onto the peat below. Rio would like that. The irony of the damned squirrels. A simple plaque on the tree will conclude with the words My Best Friend. My great dog has taught me much over 13 years. Most importantly, how to see what others miss. How to look up.




Unknown angler with Lab on Columbia River


There are several weeks of guiding left, but this will be my final blog of the season. When Rio's gone I am heading to the South Island for five months. The noise of silence without Rio would be too much for a long Kootenays winter. Alone with a backpack and a flyrod and a one-man tent and the notion to stalk big browns in remote New Zealand rivers with dry flies. Foursomes are for golf courses, not streamsides. Fly-fishing is not a herd mentality.




Tom with October-eating rainbow

  


Orange fly, big 'bow

 











Jim with Slocan River rainbow

Thank you for another great season. Great people on great rivers and streams. You fed Rio your excess apples and cookies and sandwiches, and you fed me your company and companionship. I hope that I was able to impart something in return. This blog entry is dedicated to Rio. I love you, old fella ... Chris






Rio Grande