my uncle wrote this story
The Luring of a Large Brown Trout
by Joseph H. Evans
My father told me of a remarkable experience he once had on our favorite stream with a large brown trout on a Flatfish. It was a unique and unforgettable adventure--one of those kind that stay in a person's memory--never to be forgotten. It helped of course to have him re-tell the story every time we fished the stream and whenever the subject of fishing came up with someone else who was willing to listen. In his later years he became forgetful and couldn't remember to whom he had told it nor how many times he had repeated the story. I listened with interest to each recital, pretending to be hearing it for the first time. The thing that really helped me remember it so well, however, is the fact of it being so extraordinarily unusual. You'll see what I mean as you read on.
Back in the 1940s and 1950s my dad was the undisputed master of the fly rod Flatfish. Few people fished a Flatfish with a fly rod back then and even fewer had learned how to be successful with this relatively new lure. Dad was one of the pioneers in our area. He fished it better than anyone I knew, and his catches of large brown trout attested to his mastery of this great lure. He was a good fly fisher too and good with natural bait, but when it came to fooling big fish, the fly rod Flatfish was his favorite lure. Worked slowly on a fly rod, it was deadly on our small Utah trout streams. There was a big logjam on Stinking Springs that summer, a few hundred yards downstream of our regular campsite. Logjams are always prime targets for big browns, particularly on the smaller streams. They provide the needed depth for the bigger fish as well as protection from predators. This jam looked like a good one in the cold, pre-dawn light as Dad approached the stream. It looked "fishy," almost beckoning with the promise of success.
The logs and sticks were jam-packed tightly against an old dead spruce tree that had fallen perpendicular across the creek. The obstruction impeded the river-flow below a bend in the creek, backing up the water for a considerable distance, creating a deep hole. It looked dark and promising where the current sucked under the logs--a perfect holding lie for big fish waiting for the in-coming flow to bring food into view.
Approaching the hole with quiet steps, Dad crouched to keep his profile low. Even in those low first-light conditions he didn't want to take a chance on spooking a possible trophy fish lying there.
His old hand-wrapped, 9-foot bamboo fly rod was strung with an F6 aluminum-colored Flatfish with black spots--his favorite color-combination. Long experience on the stream had dictated a careful pre-dawn ritualism of tackle assembly under the illumination of the old Coleman lantern, before leaving camp. Proven knots were carefully tied and tested, a single 1/0 split-shot was placed on the 5-foot leader precisely 18 inches above the two-inch lure, and the sharpness of the two small tandem-mounted treble hooks was careful checked on the thumbnail to ensure easy penetration when the strike came. Few fish escaped the tenacious "bite" of those little hooks once they mouthed a genuine Flatfish. Such a rig had proven itself a fish-getter many times over the past few years.
Positioning himself slightly upstream of the jammed logs, he stripped several yards of line from the old South Bend automatic reel, readying himself for the cast. Normal fly-casting is impossible with a Flatfish and sinker on the leader. One such attempt will quickly convince even the most stubborn fly caster of the inherent dangers involved in trying to false-cast a lure of any weight over your head, especially one mounted with multiple treble hooks. The lure is really lobed rather than cast, and to be successful the rod is moved nearly parallel to the water, with the lure and weight hanging a few feet below the tip. Swinging it pendulum-style, the Flatfish is lobed to the target with a long arm-swing and a flip of the wrist. It isn't pretty but it delivers the lure effectively.
Dad's skillful cast dropped the Flatfish to the far side of the in-coming current that fed into the tangle of logs. Landing on the smooth flow with a quiet, "ker-plunk," it was quickly pulled down under the entanglement. The tension on the bellying line started the lure pulsating along the bottom. It was worked back slowly and deliberately with a steady, hand-twist retrieve, using just enough speed to make it wobble--as only a Flatfish can wobble!
The sight of the lure emerging from the depth of the hole caused Dad's pulse-rate to quicken. Following behind the quivering lure was a massive dark shape. Eyes blinked, then refocused on the shape of a large brown trout--bigger than any he had seen on this stream since the 8-pound monster he had captured several years before. The big spots on the back and flanks of the fish were clearly visible in the gathering early-morning light.
Avoiding the initial temptation to speed up the retrieve, he maintained the slow steady pace that had enticed the fish from its lair. The big trout maintained it's distance, following two feet behind the Flatfish, as if to test the genuineness of this strange wiggling object.
Following for several yards, the big trout kept its distance, making no attempt to catch-up with the Flatfish. Realizing he would soon run out of stream if the trout didn't strike soon, Dad pondered what to do. Should he speed up the retrieve and hope the sudden sprint would excite the fish and induce it into striking? The technique had worked before on other fish, but it had also turned some away. Deciding to play it safe he opted to maintain his present speed. "After all," he reasoned, "that's what brought this fish out into the open in the first place. I'll keep it coming slowly. Hopefully, it will strike any second now."
Attention was quickly centered back on the big fish, which was still in pursuit of the wiggling lure. Less than a rod's length of distance remained for the retrieve. The hand-twist motions continued, gathering in the fly line, inch by inch. The trout maintained it's steady pace.
Now, nearly out of retrieving-room, concern mounted rapidly. In a moment the Flatfish would run into the submerged bed of aquatic weeds that lined the bottom of the stream's edge, and the contest would likely end in a stalemate. It was too late to speed up the artificial now, even if he wanted to. With no other options available he was forced to continue the slow retrieve, hoping the trout would soon make up its mind. "It had better hurry!" he hoped to himself. "Time and space are running out quickly!"
Another growing concern was his close proximity to this wild creature that was inching closer by the second. It was startlingly close. His presence there in the fast-gathering light might be detected any moment by the fish. He remained crouched and motionless, except for the slight movement of his fingers, hand-twisting the incoming fly line. The fish, still unaware of the impending danger, concentrated its full attention on the tempting quarry as the cautious pursuit continued.
Time after time, he had witnessed brown trout follow a Flatfish under similar conditions, and with few exceptions the lure would be taken long before it reached this point. This big fish had obviously decided not to hurry; the authenticity of this strange food source had apparently not yet been confirmed. It maintained its distance, as the lure made it's final few inches of approach to the edge of the stream.
Conjecture now became stark reality. The lure reached the weed-bed, running aground near his feet. He had literally run out of water and was forced to stop the retrieve in disappointment. The rod tip lowered and the line went slack, leaving the final inch-or-two of leader tippet to rest on the weed bed. The Flatfish wiggled to a halt, dead in the water.
As the motion of the artificial ceased, so did the movement of the trout. The scene seemed momentarily frozen in time--the fish, the lure, and the angler, all motionless, each awaiting the other's next move. It, indeed, appeared to be a stalemate. There seemed nothing left to do but lift the lure from the water and watch the startled fish dart back to it's sanctuary.
But something caused him to hesitate. The fish was inching closer--its attention still riveted on the marooned lure hanging on the edge of the moss. Peering intently at the resting Flatfish, now less than six feet away, Dad realized why it still held the trout's interest. The near-imperceptible current at the stream's edge was imparting a subtle, but enticing animation to the lure causing it to sway provocatively to the rhythms of the quiet flow. The small tandem hooks dangling below the body looked almost like tiny slender legs of some sort, surprisingly life-like, moving seductively to every whim of the quiet current.
The big trout then did something extraordinary. As if in slow motion, it eased forward, opened it's mouth and carefully picked up the Flatfish in its lips. Holding the lure by the smooth tail end, the fish turned around and slowly started swimming back toward the logjam. The tandem hook harness was clearly visible, hanging outside the mouth of the fish, and the two small treble hooks dangled on each side of the big jaw. Clearly, the fish thought it was carrying live food of some sort over which it had complete control. Breakfast for the trout would apparently take place under the protective canopy of the logs.
There was one big problem, of course; Dad couldn't hook the fish with both hooks hanging outside its mouth. Surely he would frighten the animal if he pulled the lure away, yet he could think of nothing else to do.
Waiting until the fish was about to disappear under the entanglement, he gently pulled back on the rod tip. The line tightened, there was a brief tug, and the lure flipped from the big maw, wiggling as it went. Expecting a frightened reaction from the fish, there was surprise as the big brown--apparently convinced this thing it had taken into its mouth was live food attempting a fruitless escape--reversed its direction and started trailing the lure!
As remote as the possibility had seemed moments earlier, the fish was coming his way again--this time following even closer than before. It was, decidedly, bent on eating that Flatfish. Excitement and emotion was now aroused to a fever pitch. It was so intense; Dad could feel his own heartbeat, resonating through the fly box in the chest-pocket of his fishing vest. It pounded like a jackhammer!
Energized thoughts raced with speculation and anticipation, wondering if this magnificent predator would strike with authority this time, ending this nerve-shattering ordeal. There was even the question as to whether or not the fish was just toying with the Flatfish, not really sure what to do with this strangely animated object of curiosity. It appeared the answers would soon be coming as the final few feet of retrieve inched away.
With less than eight feet of distance remaining, Dad's instincts were near the edge of panic. The sight of big trout often do that to an angler. It's sort of what happens to a deer hunter waiting for a big buck to come within shooting range. "Buck fever," we used to call it. But, the many years of seasoned experience and acquired skills maintained control of the tense situation. Holding his cool, he maintained the steady pace of the retrieve. "Don't blow it now!" he cautioned himself.
As before, the big trout kept its distance as the lure came to rest again on the weed bed. With the front lip of the Flatfish clinging precariously to the edge of the weeds, it balanced delicately over the edge. Again, the tandem hooks moved with a tantalizing motion in the near-imperceptible current, as if teasing the unsuspecting fish.
The trout hovered, motionless, only a foot away, ready to pounce. Dad waited in stealthful readiness, afraid to move a muscle. His taut reflexes were poised--ready to react if the fish made the decision to strike with authority.
"Take it," he whispered audibly to the fish. "Take it!"
In an obedient-like gesture, as if it heard and understood his quiet command, the fish moved slowly forward until it's nose appeared to be touching the tail of the lure. It was the moment of truth. Whatever was finally going to happen would happen in the next few seconds. Neither the trout nor the angler moved.
Then, with an unsuspected suddenness, the hefty jaws opened wide and the Flatfish disappeared down the big gullet! With an almost-invisible sucking motion, the big fish literally engulfed the entire F6 Flatfish in its mouth, hooks and all! Then, apparently unaware of the fraudulent nature of it's catch and seemingly unaffected by the feel of the hardware and the attached leader protruding from the side of it's mouth, the big fish turned again toward it's protective lair and slowly swam back toward the log jam.
The stealthful waiting was over--speculation was past--it was time to do battle. There was no question what to do next nor was there any hesitation on the part of the angler. With a smooth, firm lift of the rod the cane bowed sharply, tightening the line and driving the small treble hooks deep into the hard jaw of the trout!
The quiet water surged heavily, then exploded in a tremendous burst of spray and foam! The fish jumped wildly and came down hard, throwing water in all directions! Diving deep under the tangle of logs, it fought desperately, trying to dislodge the painful object in its mouth that had suddenly bitten back! The trout pulled strongly against the line, moving forcefully back and forth under the logjam.
Dad's greatest fear now was the possibility of the fish wrapping the leader around the submerged sticks and logs of the entanglement and breaking off. He knew the leader connection was a good one and he knew the new tippet had ample strength, if he could keep the fish fighting in open water. The leverage of the long rod was a great help in controlling the battle and exerting directional pressure on the fish.
After several agonizing minutes the great trout showed signs of weakening. The steady, unrelenting pressure of the long rod was taking its toll. The fish tired rapidly now with each effort to escape the nagging pull of the merciless line.
The long, touch-and-go battle finally came to an end, as the big fish was subdued and slowly drawn headfirst into the large net. The mesh sagged heavily from the weight of the lunker trout. Only then did the beat of Dad's heart begin to slow and his breath come in more normal rhythms. Although the great scenario had lasted only several harrowing minutes, it had seemed like a daylong ordeal.
I still remember the excitement in my dad's voice and the tingle in his eyes as he retold this fascinating story to me, time after time. It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience with a very unusual fish. My dad mentioned several times how he wished a photographer had been present to permanently record the event. "It would have been one of the greatest fishing sequences ever filmed," he repeated.
After hearing my father's story so many times over the years, I felt as though I had actually witnessed the event first-hand. One thing is for sure--I will never forget it! The real strange part of the intriguing account is, I don't remember how big the fish was. Somehow that fact was over-shadowed by the bizarre behavior of this remarkably unique fish, and the unusual way it was lured and finally taken.
