I’ve heard it said that you can never go home again, which is a nice way of saying that things change in your absence, only the pictures in your mind don’t.

The brown trout in Stream Y remain gorgeous (if a little uncooperative)

That’s why – when older (less handsome) bro called – I thought we could go back to Stream Y, even though I hadn’t fished it since spring.

Between then and now, the great circle of life had rotated some, which is a really nice way of saying too goddamned many cattle were allowed to graze the place, and parts were barely recognizable.

The lush, green shores of Stream Y had been chewed down to dirt, and the gnarled remnants of young cottonwoods and aspens dotted the banks. In places the bank had been trampled into the water.

And yes, a couple bazillion metric tons of cow flop decorated the place, which meant we were visited by a lot of flies, and I was properly thankful the buggers didn’t bite (unlike the mosquitoes from my earlier trip to Stream Y).

What’s sobering is this: Stream Y suffers less damage than a lot of little streams. In fact, this is probably a model of conservative management.

That, my friends, is an unpretty thought.

Tricky. You had to be tricky.

Spooky Little Trout Like You

The cattle damage was irritating, but the real impediment to catching brown trout wasn’t the flies or cow flop or cows – it was the low flows of August.

The trout – whose existence was laid bare to the skies by trickles of crystal clear water – were spooky to the point of insanity. (Which is to say they made me insane. I’m sure they were fine.)

I once crawled up to a stump, poked a couple inches of human head around it (the sun was in front of me, so no shadow), and watched a half-dozen brown trout turn and swim away.

Mortifyingly, they didn’t even flee in terror; they casually swam away, probably because they didn’t consider anything so clumsy a legitimate predatory threat (over the course of my life, many women seem to have agreed with them).

To his credit, Older Bro – a relative newcomer to the sport of fly fishing – adapted quickly to trout so spooky you had to basically not be there in order to catch them:

Older Bro learns fast (Mom will be so proud)

Fortunately, every population has its bell curve, and over the course of the trip, I found a dozen brown trout that clearly existed on the “dumb” or “incautious” shoulder of the curve.

Older bro hooked up with several, and landed two – real trophies in a situation where even a real small stream expert could find himself fishless for long stretches of time.

The Fishy Details

Like my earlier trips, the fly fishing didn’t turn on until mid-day; until noon, we’d get an eat here and there, but also experience long stretches where really, really pretty water didn’t produce so much as a refusal.

Small streams are like that, and the portions of humanity that expects things to happen on their schedule doesn’t always cope with those moments with what you’d call grace.

Fortunately, I’ve weeded out the partners that fish with a sense of entitlement instead of a goofy sense of wonder.

When the fish aren’t eating, you either keep fishing, or bank sit for a while.

Normally, I also invest that time taking photographis, but in truth, I just didn’t shoot too many images this trip. Some days you’ve got it, and some you don’t.

The Fly Fishing Stuff

We chose to change flies and keep fishing, though in truth, we found little difference between a parachute Adams, a small stimulator, a Humpy – or any of the other flies we tried.

Later in the day, I tied on a Ak’s Hopper pattern on the off chance it would attract bigger fish, and for a time, it seemed to. Overall, my big winner for the day was the Underground Fave Beetle Bug, though I caught plenty of fish on a horrifying, tinselly Red, White & Blue version of a Royal Wulff.

The Brown trout were pretty, but weren't sporting their spawing colors yet...

Stream Y’s brown trout may be spooky, but they lack a well-developed aesthetic sense.

Older Bro – who owns a typical 9′ 5wt graphite rod – fished my 8.5′ 4wt Diamondglass for the first time, and yes, those “aha!” moments you read about actually occur in the wild; he took to the slower taper like an Osprey takes to a fish hatchery.

This isn’t a knock on graphite, just another observation of that bell curve thing; some of us were made to fish slower rods, and some of us weren’t.

I fished an 8′ 5wt Diamondglass – a rod so slow, so even-tempered that it brings great joy every time I cast it. It’s the less-likely-to-make-me-cry-when-I-break-it-in-the-brush version of my 8′ 5wt Phillipson bamboo fly rod, which I was kinda sorry I hadn’t fished.

Regret, it seems, isn’t solely the province of politicians and televangelists who get caught.

People love flower pics (right?)

So maybe you can go home again, though if someone runs cattle in your house while you’re gone, better get ready to return to a wreck.

I was tempted to drive over to Stream X, but realized there wasn’t any percentage in doing so; it wasn’t going to look any better than it did when I fished it in the spring, and it was probably going to look a lot worse.

Still, the Underground’s Small Stream jag seems set to continue; I simply can’t get enough of the trickles.

See you on the small water, Tom Chandler

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