The Twilight Angler
By Neil M. Travis, Montana
It was late as I pulled into the drive leading to the
middle section at DePuy's Spring Creek. Over the western
mountains the ominous black clouds of an approaching
summer thunder shower were building. No matter, I had
come to fish and fish I would. Much of my fishing during
this time of my life is confined to that narrow window
between twilight and dark. It was not always thus, but
the demands imposed by a career, the tax man and bills
- well, you get the idea.
Fishing during the final moments of the day does have its
advantages, along with its shortcomings. The crowds of the
day have faded with the daylight. The daytime heat has been
replaced with the coolness of the evening. However, time is
of the essence. The twilight angler has little time for
indecision, scant opportunity for procrastination. If there
are no fluttering caddisflies, no dancing spinners, the
twilight angler is reduced to trying to guess what nymph
pattern may induce the trout, which likely fed heavily all
day, to strike. The fading light makes the subtle take of
a reluctant trout sipping in a size #18 Pheasant Tail nymph
a difficult task to detect. If the pattern is wrong, the
presentation not quite right, the twilight angler has no
time to make the necessary corrections.
Despite the obvious disadvantages of fishing in the twilight
hours, I have come to cherish them as some of my finest
angling opportunities. I have long since past the stage
in my angling career when I had the need to prove my skill
and prowess to anyone, even myself. Any contest that may
exist is strictly between me and the trout, which is the
way it should be. If my casting is less than perfect, which
it often is, there is no one to see except me, and generally
I don't care. It doesn't matter if I am wearing my oldest
fishing vest, if my rod is a 25 year old model; they suit
me, they please my sensibilities, and I am at peace with
that. Once again, as when I first began fly fishing, I find
that I am fishing to please myself and that, I feel, is as
it should be.
Twilight angling adds an urgency to the moment yet, in the
same instance, a quieting influence on the spirit. On this
evening a white-tailed doe and fawn ran up the trail before
me, then turned to watch me as I stop to study the water.
My sudden appearance on the stream bank startled a Great
Blue Heron who gave a disgusted squawk and flapped off
upstream. Tree swallows dipped and wheeled over the stream
and surrounding meadows, swooping through the swarms of
dancing spinners that held the promise of some exciting
angling opportunities in the next few moments. The smell
of fresh cut alfalfa sweetened the breeze that occasionally
wafted down the valley. The distant thunder shower gave voice
to a low primeval rumble, interspersed with sporadic flashes
of lighting.
Spring creek trout are notorious for their selectivity,
their studied indifference to the most carefully crafted
imitation, the smoothest presentation and the finest
gossamer tippets. However, given the correct set of
circumstances they can be as easy to fool, as easy to con,
as a country bumpkin being duped by a fast talking city
slicker. Over time, two sets of circumstances have proven
to be just such occasions: heavy spinner falls and wind
blown hoppers. On this evening the spinners were abundant,
and as the evening shadows deepened they came down en masse,
turning the once unmarked surface of the stream into a mass
of concentric rings.
This is no big fish tale, no story of keen wit or great
feats of casting; the trout were easy, and I took advantage
of their naivete. A simple hackle-winged spinner lobbed to
the nearest feeding trout brought the first of several
satisfying responses. The battles were spirited, but brief,
and the fish were all golden-hued browns, none longer than 16
inches. Had I searched through the risers I am certain I
could have found larger fish to challenge my abilities, but
to what end? Would one 20 inch brown be anymore satisfying
than several 14 inchers? If so, more satisfying for whom?
My revelry was suddenly broken by a flash of lighting and
an instantaneous crash of ear splitting thunder, that was
much to close for my feeling of well being. The soft breeze
suddenly became a gale, whipping the willows and cottonwoods
like blades of grass. It was time for a hasty retreat.
Safe in my vehicle, I watched the storm spend itself in
blinding flashes of lighting and sheets of wind driven rain.
Then, as quickly as it came, it exited over the Absarokas,
dragging its ragged tails behind it to spend its fury over
the Beartooth Plateau.
Such is the lot of the twilight angler, a short interlude
between sunset and dark, a brief window of opportunity to
ply his trade. Standing outside my vehicle listening to
the sounds of the gathering night, I would not trade my
twilight adventures for greater angling opportunities,
for in them is the quintessential essence of the sport. ~ Neil M. Travis, Montana
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