Fall Fly Fishing In Oregon, Feed The Body...Feed The Soul.
	Many fishermen miss one of the best and most beautiful times of year to catch trophy sized fish. Plus it's usually the least crowded and noisy.

Fly fishing to me is what static meditation is to some others.
	With a break in the weather, and our preparations for heading south, I took the day off and went looking for big fish in my favorite stream. I’d gone the week before without much success. My objective isn’t to fill the freezer with fish that get thrown out later because of freezer burn.

During the entire fifteen mile drive, I saw only one other fisherman.
	The trees had begun to change color and the hillsides were splashed in fading greens, brilliant yellows and vibrant reds. I drove the fifteen miles of creek stopping often to take photos. In the accompanying photo the only other fisherman is barely discernible, a small blue dot standing in the stream.

My usual flies were of no interest to the fish.

After hand over hand climbing down to the creek, I tied on one of the flies that had been productive in the past, except for the week before. Previous to my last week’s fishing trip, we’d had a hard rain for two days and nights and the creek had been high and murky. This time it was back to normal for the fall time of year, but the fly still wasn’t working. Fish were feeding and active but I had no success. The sun was warm and, sitting on a rock jutting out from a cliff of solid rock that had been polished by eons of water, I could see without being seen or casting a shadow on the water. Fish came up and looked at the fly, then retreated to their hiding places behind rocks and under tree limbs that hung over the creek. I changed flies. Again, fish came to look but I had no takers. After six or seven changes I still hadn’t made the right choice(s). I’d tried all the usual and, as a last resort, tied on a fly I’d had for years but never used. There’s a saying, “Most flies are tied for the fisherman and not the fish” and I’d considered the fly in that category. As soon as the fly hit the water, three or four fish fought over who was going to grab it first. After over an hour, I’d finally hit upon what they wanted.

Unfortunately, I didn't have enough hands for the fly rod and the camera. Besides, wading back and forth across the stream in knee deep water, I didn't want to take the chance of ruining the camera if I slipped.

The fish were big, fat and full of fight. It was the fall spawning season and not difficult to tell the difference between the bucks and the females. The females were fat with roe, much thicker and deeper in their body, but just as full of fight as the more torpedo shaped males. The fly originally had a red tail but it wasn’t long before that was gone. It didn’t seem to matter to the fish, they just kept coming. I never take more than one fish out of a spot and I’d walked quite a distance before the fly was so dilapidated that it began to unravel, and I had no others like it. This was to be my last fishing trip on my favorite creek for the season, and even though the sun was already behind the hills that lined the creek, I tied on the closest match I had. It didn’t have a red tail and was tied more like an emerging nymph, which the other wasn’t, but at least the body was the same size and color. The fish didn’t seem to know I’d made a change, they were on the fly as soon as it hit the water.

Releasing fish back unharmed is part of the reward and satisfaction of barbless fly fishing.

As an experiment, I changed back to one of my usual good producers and...nothing was the result. Not wanting to waste any of the precious time I had left, I quickly changed back. Fish were leaping out of the water and landing, mouth open, on the fly from above. Others hit the fly from all directions so quickly I didn’t have time to set the hook. I lost count of how hit the fly but managed to bring eight over 14” to shore. With barbless hooks, you can release them tired, but unharmed, to fight again another day.

Don't take more than you can eat. You catch it, you clean it and cook it or don't keep it.
	One fish is all I can eat and that’s all I keep. With just enough time left to get home before dark, I kept what would be my last fish...a nice 17 incher. As soon as he’d taken the fly, he headed for the closest sticks and debris on the bottom. When I brought him to shore, I not only had a fish, he’d brought a large and rotten branch along as a bonus.

My last fishing trip to my favorite stream in 2009.
	After wading back across the creek in ice cold, knee deep water, on feet too numb to feel the sharp rocks,I sat on a large rock and expressed my gratitude to nature, the stream and the fish. They’d made the day on the creek a wonderful and rewarding time. The photo was taken from our front door.