Canal Perch Today

Grabbed a couple of hours on my local stretch of canal today just to do a bit of spinning. It was relatively uneventful, but still a relaxing way to spend a little time, and along with a few follows from Jack Pike, I did manage to bank this pretty Perch. Not big, but a reasonable reward for a low effort session. Roach and bream were still spawning as they had been last week when I was targeting them on the fly (see here for more!). Also I spotted a thumper of a carp lurking in some margin weed - very broad across the back and must have been well into double figures! I may return tomorrow depending on weather and time constraints... watch this space.

Perfect predator in minature.

Big mouth for a wee fella!

A Yorkshire Scorcher (In which Eric embraces the traditional North Country style... and wishes he'd brought a drink).

Wednesday was hot. Bloody hot. In fact, pottering around the house, unpacking various bits and bats from university, I was convinced I’d have been far more comfortable in a Turkish prison cell. I mean, Christ! What was the weather doing? Only a week ago it had felt more like February than May, and now all of a sudden Bradford had decided to become its own scorched little enclave of the Middle East. So far since my return from Cumbria I had managed to avoid doing very much at all, sheltering from the sun like a hermit. But evidently this heatwave wasn’t going away any time soon... and there’s only so many episodes of Loose Women you can sit through, pondering why men are (apparently) such bastards on so many levels before you realise you really ought to get some fresh air to cleanse yourself of gender-based guilt. Time to dig the gear out.

Thursday was, if anything, hotter than Wednesday, and by the time I was stood on the banks of the Wharfe at Ilkley at 8 in the morning, the temperature must have already been pushing well into the dreaded 20s. Not a cloud was in sight, no wind, and the river was very low indeed – not ideal! But hey, at least I wasn’t gawking at Jeremy Kyle for the fourth day in a row. I wandered for a while and tried to decide what could be done to produce some sport in these conditions. Very few fish were rising and there was little sign of fly activity – even if there had been, dry fly fishing on days like this is frustrating at best. Fish deep with heavy nymphs then? Well, that would probably have been a prudent move, but in all honesty it’s a technique I’ve grown rather weary of, having been my ‘go to’ tactic for rivers for a couple of years now, and it certainly wasn’t something I wanted to spend a whole day doing. Something else then, but what? I flicked through my fly box in search of inspiration, and my eyes were drawn towards a row of wisps of inconsequence in one corner – ah, spiders.

I’ve never had much confidence in spiders. Of the few I do own, only the black spider has taken trips out of the box with any level of frequency, and even then only to be fished upstream as an emerger style pattern, and never used in the ‘traditional’ way. The few times that I had done the whole North Country thing properly, the results had been poor and left me unconvinced. Nothing about it grabbed me in any way, and I would invariably find myself caving in and reverting to more familiar techniques in an all too short space of time – I suppose it never worked because I never gave it the time, and of course I never gave it the time because it never worked... something of a vicious cycle, and such things are hard to break. But today was different; today I would buck the trend of my rigid angling ways and embrace this as a new way of fishing. Somehow, it seemed the right thing to do... or perhaps I had a touch of sunstroke.

So, having tied up a two fly leader (three’s a little excessive don’t you think?... Okay so maybe I just get tangled every five casts and can’t be arsed) with a snipe and purple in point position and a partridge and orange on the dropper, I stepped into the river, sending frisky minnows skittering away in every direction. The wading was diabolical, with all the rocks being coated in a layer of green slime in these low conditions, but I just about managed to stay on my feet and make it to a reasonable position to make a start from, working my way slowly through areas of fast water and the dark, shaded areas beneath far bank trees where I felt the fish might be sheltering. After about ten minutes of this, a rather over ambitious cast towards a tight spot resulted in me losing my point fly to a low hanging branch. A sign, surely! No, thought I – plod on, give it time. And that’s exactly what I did. On went a new fly, a black pattern with a small wing this time, and I continued my slow journey downstream. Things began to happen – first a sharp pluck, then next cast a firmer pull which resulted in a small, lively fish throwing itself clear of the water before throwing the hook. Maybe there was something to this after all. A little further downstream came another pull. No mistake on my part this time, and the first pretty little brownie of the day came to hand, having confidently seized the partridge and orange on my dropper. Only around 5 inches in length, but it gave me confidence, and I slipped him back safe in the knowledge that I now had a new weapon to add to my armoury of piscatorial warfare.

A few more small fish followed (along with a brief, ill-fated altercation with a better trout) before I reached a point where the river slows down to an almost total standstill. Here I alighted from the river to walk downstream to the next suitable area. God, it was hot! When I’d been absorbed in fishing, and more importantly catching, I hadn’t noticed it as much, but now I was out on dry land I could feel my neck and arms frying and my clothes sticking to me. Ugh, and in my rush to leave the house that morning I hadn’t even thought to pack a drink. Great. The river bank was also starting to get rather busy with people enjoying the weather now – Wharfedale seems to turn into a scaled down version of Blackpool at the first hint of sunshine, so I decided another hour or so would be worthwhile, then I would make my escape before the crowds of ‘had owt mate?’ folk, well meaning as many of them are, made a safe backcast impossible.

I found an enticing looking vein of dark, swift water overshadowed by ash trees and began to work my way gradually through it on a short line. Suddenly this method was becoming rather appealing. It had a relaxed, leisurely air about it, but it was not dull. It was somehow focused, yet not rushed. And sharp rapping tug of the takes was electrifying. Speaking of which, halfway down this deep channel my line slammed tight and I lifted a bucking, thumping rod into a fish which I immediately and very happily realised was not one of the eager five inchers I’d been catching all morning. In such fast water, a stiffly contested scrap followed, in which I was sure the hook would pull at any given moment. Thankfully it did not, and soon I was holding up a lovely trout of around twelve inches, much to the appreciation of a rather tipsy looking bloke perched clutching a can of lager on the bank behind me. I slipped him back and was rather chuffed – having the faith to persevere with a new method had brought me sport on a day that had started with my hopes at rock bottom. And with that I packed up and headed for the station, spurred on by the prospect of a cold can of coke and a glorious air conditioned train ride. Hey, maybe I’d even be home in time for Jeremy Kyle...

A golden reward on a scorching Yorkshire day.

One of those days..

Crammed in another few hours on the Wharfe this afternoon before heading back up to Penrith. Had a bit of a stinker really. Plenty of offers from the trout but for one reason or another I just couldn't make them stick... we all have days like that now and then I guess. Also popped a knot on lifting into a fish yet again today. Bloody annoying! Time to buy some new leader material methinks. The only fish I managed to hold on to was an decent sized out of season grayling - beautiful creature, gave an admirable account for itself and would have been most welcome in the winter, but during the spring I can't help but feel a tad guilty when I hook into them. Cold wind killed any chance of a grannom hatch but good numbers of large dark olives were out making the most of the chilly spell.
Anyway, here's a quick video I shot of the grayling being returned...

Tight lines,
Eric

One session, four seasons.

Home-tied Pheasant Tail Nymph... messy but it caught fish, which I'm rather chuffed about!

Back on the Wharfe yesterday in conditions which were originally relatively favourable - a little much water in the river perhaps, but that's all. How that changed! The wind blew up, the rain closed in, the river rose and coloured and the hailstones tore my face off. Still, I managed a couple of fish during settled spells - better than nothing! A picture paints a thousand words, so in this instance I shall leave it to a short video to give you an idea of the conditions I faced on the day. Back on the river tomorrow I think... hopefully it's all calmed down a bit!

Tight lines,
Eric

Exploring...

Ever walk past a tiny stream and find yourself wondering 'are there any trout in that'? As something of a repressed small stream nut, I do it regularly, and there's a particular bit of water near my girlfriend's house which I've been meaning to have a nosy around for quite a while now. I say 'a' bit of water, when in reality it's several - a whole network of little becks poppling along, criss crossing their way through a little village before eventually meeting the River Wharfe. They truly are tiny in a real sense. There's barely a point on any of them where I couldn't step comfortably across, and certainly no areas where the opposite bank is more than a little hop away.
Anyway, over the weekend I allowed myself some time to have a proper nosy at one of the streams to see what I could see. Here's a few photos..

I believe the poetic term for this kind of casting situation would be 'intimate'..

Deep water below this minature weir looked enticing.

Looking downstream.

A slow, deep bend - good place to fish spot once hatches kick up a notch?

A minute bottleneck at the head of a much deeper pool - probably 10 inches across at most!

The stream deepens as it flows under a bridge..

Findings? Yes, there's fish there, that's for sure. I saw one or two little dark shapes darting away from me as I walked. I'm sure a stealthy approach would reveal far more. I only saw fingerlings - not surprising in what is probably a nursery stream, but I'm sure there'll be some 6 inch levithians lurking in there somewhere!
I'd prefer to keep the location a secret - too much disturbance could affect the delicate balance in such a small ecosystem. That said, I'm sure any locals of the area would be able to place it in a heartbeat. I don't plan to fish it (I doubt I'd get permission even if I wanted to) - it's just cool to know of another place where old spotty chops is thriving!

My first Wharfe trout session of 2012: Massive fluke saves the day!

The Wharfe in spring - it's the bridge that's wonky, not the photo!

So, after a long wait, finally I was back on the good old Wharfe yesterday for my first crack of the season! I was unsure what to expect really with the weather having been up and down to the extent that it has, and when I arrived at around 1 o’clock (look, I slept in okay? We student-types don’t have the best of body clocks) to bright conditions and a very low river despite recent rain, I suspected things could be rather tricky.

I elected to fish a much heavier than usual #7 outfit and use streamer patterns. It’s something I’ve grown quite fond of doing over the last couple of seasons both in the early weeks when pickings are slim, and later on in the year if the water is high or everything seems a tad lifeless. It can be a very exciting way to fish. Given the right day, trout of all sizes swirl and snap at your fly as you jerk it back across the current – when you see a decent sized wild brownie flash and boil sometimes only a rod length away from you, it certainly focuses the mind. The takes themselves when they come are heart stoppers - violent, explosive, often followed by line being torn from the reel. In short, streamer fishing stirs things up.

A simple streamer pattern. Scruffy but effective.

My recipe for fishing a streamer is a simple one (probably not the right one, but simple!). Roll out a nice long line out just ahead of any likely looking ambush spot you might see – dark holes, eddies, overhanging trees etc. Throw in a mend or mends as required and allow the fly to drift down into the desired area, then jerkily twitch the fly back towards you and hold on tight. Recast and repeat the process, moving along covering any likely areas. Like I have said, it can be a very effective and exciting method of catching trout, but it can also become a trifle repetitive after a while. Cast, mend, drift, strip. Cast, mend, drift, strip. Cast, mend... well you get the idea. In fact given an hour or two without any success, it can become downright tiresome! Yesterday it was just that. I covered the water thoroughly, but it seemed that I was faced with a total lack of interest on the part of the fish. I did have one good pull from a fish which judging by the flash it made under the surface was around the pound mark, along with another little jag in an area of slow, dark water. Other than this though, the most intense things got was when I managed to lose a fly in a bush after casting just a tad too tight to the opposite bank.

Searching for a trout between the rocks.

Plenty of 'tree-trout' to be had on the far bank, as I found out..

I soldiered on, but it has to be said that after a time I started to lose faith – and interest. It’s the same with the slow start to every season. You start to second guess yourself – do I even remember how to catch a fish? Can I recreate the magic? I was never very good at it anyway, maybe I imagined all those days last May... These thoughts never stop nagging at me until that first little miracle lies in the net, and it wasn’t giving itself up easily!

I was startled by the amount of flies, particularly Grannom, which were hatching all over the river. Last year they didn’t show up for at least another week or two, but I suppose the hot weather at the back end of march brought everything forward a bit. Not a great deal of fish were being drawn to the surface, but the number steadily increased up to the point when by the evening it would have probably been worth fishing the dry fly, and I began to curse myself for my choice of gear. I did have a small selection of dries, but presenting them to these spooky fish in slow water with a #7 line wasn’t much good.

Spot the Bullhead...

Eventually I began messing around with nymphs to no avail, and soon resigned myself to the thought that my first of the season would have to wait until another day. Then, as I trudged my way up the path back upstream, I noticed a rise almost below my feet, tight to the margin at the bottom of a steep bank. What followed was perhaps one of the most outrageous strokes of luck I’ve had in my entire fly fishing life. I couldn’t see the fish from my vantage point but I was confident that I hadn’t spooked it since I hadn’t seen a swirl or anything else to suggest it had made a swift exit, so with only my leader and braided loop out of the tip ring, I carefully swung my fly into the water below me. Sure enough, a shadow loomed into view and the fly vanished. Immediately I realised that it was a reasonable fish, and also that I was now in a rather awkward predicament – stood atop a steep bank about 8 feet up from the water with a serious scrap on my hands! Quickly I decided that direct action was the only option, and I half fell, half skidded on my arse down the bank to the water’s edge whilst somehow managing to keep in touch with the trout as it tore around angrily. Once in position I soon began to gain a semblance of control over proceedings, and thanks to my stepped up streamer outfit, the fish was shepherded away from the danger of a jungle of sunken roots and towards me. A beautiful brownie of 1lb 14oz – not a fish to be sniffed at! So, with very little skill and a generous amount of jammy-as-hell, the first fish of the year is in the bag... not sure if a purist would count it, but I’m too young for all that!

Today, success is brown and spotty.

Sunset on the Wharfe. Who'd be anywhere else, eh.

A last note, before I sign off - specifically for the attention of any staunch C&R fanatics (I'm sure one or two may stumble across this post and recoil in horror at the above photo of my catch). Yes, that trout is dead. Gone. Shuffled of this mortal coil. Off to join the choir bleedin' invisible. It was a naturalised stock fish. Judging by the looks of it it had been at liberty for a year or two and a lovely fish but not a wildie. As such I had no qualms about taking it for the pot.
Happiness and harmony!

Tight lines,
Eric.

River Eamont, March 21st - photos.

Being stationed mainly in Cumbria at the moment, I decided to take advantage of the slightly earlier opening to the river trout season (March 15th as opposed to the 25th in Yorkshire) and ventured out for an exploratory trip on the River Eamont, an Eden tributary where I had watched salmon frantically charging about on the redds last November, near where it leaves Ullswater. The water was achingly cold and i didn't get so much as a tweak all day! Still, it was lovely to be out.

The Eamont near Pooley Bridge

Lower reaches of Dacre Beck, an Eamont tributary stream.

 

Dacre Beck again.

The Eamont here is run by Penrith Anglers, who also have water on the Eden, Lowther, and a bunch of small streams to boot. Day tickets for visitors are available at £15 a pop, which is good value considering the amount of water you get to choose from.
More info can be found on their website: www.penrithanglers.co.uk