“Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening.” – Norman Maclean, “A River Runs Through It”
When I was a boy I loved going fishing with my Dad. We lived in the city, so fishing was part of a longer, more elaborate process involving weekend camping trips. Those are some of my favorite memories, though Dad wasn’t the world’s best angler and we rarely caught many fish.
The one part I disliked was the timing of it all. Fishing with Dad meant waking up well before dawn as he insisted on being on the water early. It was a tradition passed down from his father, but it’s a tradition that ends here. I’m with Maclean on this one: fishing in the wee hours of the morning is for the birds. I prefer to be on the water as it’s getting dark, not light.
Dad was a lake fisherman and a bait guy, so being on the water early, before the trout retreated to the depths, made sense. But it’s a thing about fly fishing — especially river fly fishing — that trout work off a different clock. One of my old newspaper mentors put it best one day while we were fishing on the Owens River in the eastern Sierra.
It was an early spring trip, which was a popular time to be in that country both for the great fishing as well as the late season skiing on nearby Mammoth Mountain. We hit the water just after lunch as we were prone to do that time of year, and as we stood on the bank of the river, the Old Scribe muttered: “What I love about fly fishing is that we always fish the nicest part of the day. In the spring and fall we’re on the water at midday when its warmest. In the summer, we wait until it cools off and fish the evenings.”
And that’s pretty much how it goes. In the spring you’ll find fish in water they avoid most of the summer. That’s partly a result of the lower flows of midsummer, but it also has something to do with the angle of the light. The sun is lower on the horizon in April, even midday.
Dad was right about the fish going deep in summer, as trout don’t like the harsh overhead light of June and July. In lakes they often brood in deep water where they can be especially hard to catch. In rivers, they move out of feeding lanes in shallower water where we’re accustomed to fishing for them. You either have to change tactics or resign yourself to just enjoying the scenery.
It’s the lower angle of the sun that makes country come alive. In the winter it’s the light on the Arizona desert where I hunt quail. Even at midday the cactus cast long shadows. In the northern Rockies the light is like that in the spring and fall, but it’s a bit harsh in summer, at least until evening.
In July I am content fishing just those few hours before dark. A river that seemed dead at 5 p.m. can suddenly burst to life at 7. There will be a rise here or there while the sun’s still on the water, but you know they’re dinks. Then, as shadows finally reach across the river, the bigger fish return and you see rises that suggests these are trout of substance.
Maclean continued: “Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.”
The hope that a fish will rise. It’s all we really need.