Popular Tags:

Bread punch tench make up the numbers

July 21, 2017 at 9:03 am

Continued hot and humid weather had banished any thoughts of fishing, but a freshening breeze and a forecast of thunderstorms by 7 pm, saw me liquidising a few slices of bread thawed from the freezer, with another slice for the punch, ready for the 10 minute walk to my local pond. Despite travelling light with just a pole and landing net, while my tackle box was loaded on the trolley with the barest of essentials, I’d seemingly sweated buckets by the time I reached the pond. The shaded swims all have dense lily beds alongside them, safe havens for running carp, so I chose to fish into open water, although it meant sitting in the full heat of the sun.

In this shallow swim, pole length is limited to six metres by a high bank behind, just allowing the top two sections to be unshipped when landing a fish, so with a short terminal rig, seven metres is the ideal fishing distance. I had been given some 2 mm krill pellets by a friend and added a handful to my ground bait mix of liquidised bread and ground carp pellets. The friend had said the krill pellets were a good tench attractor and knowing they are present in the pond it was worth a trial.

Having fed three balls along the seven metre line, the float sank away the instant the 6 mm bread pellet reached the bottom and a colourful rudd was swinging to hand.

For the next twenty minutes it was a rudd a chuck, until a different bite saw the pole elastic extending as a small powerful tench came fighting to the net. Maybe the krill pellets were working already.

Bubbles were now surfacing from the fed area and a dithering bite brought another change of fish as a small crucian carp came to hand.

The rudd had been pushed out by now and the elastic stretching out across the pond signalled a carp run. Shipping back the pole to the top two sections, the elastic took the strain, bring the carp steadily toward the landing net.

The punched bread was working well, with more crucians and small commons taking each put in, every punch representing a fish.

Putting in another three balls kept the bites and fish coming, including another tench dashing around the swim.

Small tench were now every other fish, while the occasional better common kept me on my toes.

I’d set a cut off time of six thirty, giving me three hours fishing time and on the dot the float went down with another hard fighting carp, this time an exotic fan tail, that would have been more at home in a garden pond.

In the previous hour the sky had darkened and the wind increased, that forecast of heavy rain seemed likely to be accurate and I pulled in the keepnet, this net falling just short of ten pounds. There were eight tench in amongst this catch, so maybe the krill pellets did the trick?

Half way up the hill to my home, it began to spot with rain and only wearing a T shirt expected a soaking, but made made it with a minute to spare before the heavens opened.

CZ 452 .17 HMR Varmint evening rabbit cull

July 19, 2017 at 10:02 am

A call from one of my landowners saying that his paddock was once again full of rabbits, saw me set off after rush hour on a balmy July evening, being met at the gate by Ray, who walked me through to the paddock, apologising for the fact that there were now only a few young kits visible. This is typical of many such calls, but undeterred I unsheathed the rifle and promptly dispatched the largest in view. The crack from the HMR brought panic from the until now unseen bunnie population, that suddenly appeared from nowhere, scattering in all directions without presenting a target.

Picking up the rabbit, I walked to the far corner and settled down, amazed to see fully ripe blackberries hanging out of the fence. These must be at least a month early, usually ripening in late August and going through to the first frosts. After bagging up the rabbit, I set about collecting blackberries, while I waited for some movement from the warren sixty yards away. With about a pound picked, a young rabbit appeared at the entrance to a burrow and in slow motion, I returned to the rifle and sighted through the scope. It was still sitting and with the bipod giving perfect support, lined up the cross hairs for a head shot. Number two was down without a kick.

Glancing behind as I picked, the bag had about 3 lb of fruit in it before another small rabbit popped out of the hedge at the other end of the paddock. An eighty yard shot with the scope at maximum 12 magnification, this is point and shoot with the HMR in the prone position and another head shot did it’s work.

The first time I’d shot this paddock it was used for fattening Dexter cattle. Then it was used to house Ray’s grand daughter’s pony and now with his extended family occupying the farmhouse and an adjacent bungalow, it had become a playground sporting goal posts and a trampoline. Not a good score for me this evening, but three less to dig up the pitch.

The remaining rabbits were still lying low and decided to move on to a field the other side of the yard before the light went. In cover of a tree, I peered over the fence to see several large rabbits feeding in a clear patch and eased the rifle up to rest on a post, downing two in quick succession.

This field is only used for hay and with it yet to be cut, it provided perfect cover for other rabbits to slink back to the far edge, brief glimpses of brown bodies not enough for a shot.

Climbing the fence I retrieved this pair, bagged them up, then returned to my vantage point, but a twenty minute wait brought nothing but a spectacular sunset.

Trout stream under pressure

July 14, 2017 at 9:36 pm

Six weeks have passed since my last visit to the syndicate trout stream near my home, hot drought conditions and weak river flows, due to arable farmers extracting their full quotas from the head waters, have kept me away, but heavy rains early in the week raised my expectations.

Many of the syndicate members join only to take advantage of the excellent mayfly hatches on this little river and I too would have been happy to make this season’s memories last until next year, but with my wife keen to get me from under her feet, while she sorted out bric a brac for an upcoming car boot sale, a couple of hours fly fishing was the easiest option.

The full flush of spring was long gone, as I trudged across a field of freshly mown hay, stopping at a favourite pool, where the Himalayan Balsam was now over six feet tall, crowding out the opposite bank. Floods in recent years have worn away the gravel tail of this once deep holding area, but it is always worth a few casts, often bringing a few surprises in the shape of a big chub, or trout.

I started out with an unweighted Hares Ear nymph, standing on the shallow gravels casting up and across along the bank, but the nymph was untouched as it drifted at the pace of the current, only when it sped up toward the shallows did it attract attention, short tugs and swirls each time causing me to strike into thin air. Stripping back the last few feet answered my curiosity, not a small trout, but a six inch perch had clamped onto the nymph, dropping off as I swung it in. Bumps and swirls continued each time, until the shoal of stripeys got bored and swum back to the pool.

Further up on the bend, there was a rise close to the bank, then another. Small black flies were hatching and drifting down, being casually sipped down, or attacked by minnows. The smallest fly I had in my box was a size 18 sedge, which I struggled to tie on, realising late in the operation, that there was varnish in the tiny eye. Greasing the leader, my first cast brought a swirl to the loop on the tippet, while the sedge sat up proud, but ignored. A longer second cast brought an immediate boil and a small dace tumbling across the surface, again to drop off in front of me. The other fish was still there and I made several false casts to dry the sedge, watching it sink into the surface film before it too was engulfed by a fish. A rapid side strike brought better resistance, that rolling fight being another dace of about 3 oz, which again released itself from the barbless hook. On a slow day anything is worth catching.

I moved back up above the road bridge to another old favourite pool, where I felt confident that the sedge would bring success, the low level allowing me to wade deep into the pool to present the fly into the flow, where it crosses to the right hand bank. Trout lie up under the bushes waiting for their food pass over their noses. Not today though. I considered putting on a big bushy Humpy in the hope of shocking a trout to rise, but decided to push on upstream.

Looking down from the bank into the pool I had just been fishing, my wader crunched on a bright plastic container. Picking up the box, I turned it over to see what it contained. Heavy duty swivels and shot. A poacher’s tool kit.

This answered a few questions. Close to the road, with no regular bailiffing it is too easy for gorge lines to be set to catch whatever takes the bait. It doesn’t take long to empty a river this small.

This discovery took the wind out of my sails. What is the point of fishing an artificial fly, when you are up against the sort of mentality, that want fish for the pot at any cost to the local environment. There are enough natural predators in the river, pike, mink and herons without the human kind.

Braybrooke river passes the bread test after pollution

July 1, 2017 at 4:42 pm

My local community Braybrooke Nature and Fishing Club suffered a blow early this year, when no sooner had they taken over control of the fishing rights on the river that runs through the town, it was heavily polluted, killing thousands of prime fish. Since then the little river has been polluted a further four times, when various oil based liquids have been fly dumped down rain water surface drains, which feed into the stream.

With no more events over the past months, the river appears to have recovered and during a working party to remove snags from the bottom, fish were topping all over the surface and resolved to come back for a fishing session. Arriving after lunch on a sunny afternoon, I chose to fish a swim, which had yielded a shopping trolley, two cycles, a metal chair, part of a BBQ and a building site bucket full of breeze blocks.

On getting down to the swim, my heart sank, when I saw the state of the river. It was covered a white scum with large pieces of flotsam drifting downstream.

Expecting not to even get a bite, I decided not to waste time setting up a stick float and running line, getting out my pole and quickly attaching a rig, before punching out a 5 mm pellet of bread for the size 16 hook. Without feeding, the rig was plonked into the middle of the scum. The float settled and went under. Surprise, surprise, a rudd bounced on the end of the line.

With only half a pint of liquidised bread, this was not going to be a long visit, but encouraged I fed a couple of small balls to the edge of the flow and followed through with the float. More rudd were soon swinging to hand, plus the occasional netter.

Setting the float deeper found the first roach of the afternoon, a couple more balls of bread keeping them on station.

The float dived away upstream and lifted into a small chub, that stormed round the swim.

So it went on, silver fish coming every cast, the bread punch once again proving it’s worth, each pellet accounting for a fish.

Then the gudgeon moved in, pushing out the roach. At least these fat little bottom feeders had also survived the period of pollution, when it had been impossible to get a bite on any bait.

A nice roach managed to get through the mass of gudgeon, but it was a one off, finding them where ever I place the float after that.

A couple of hours had been enough to prove that the river still holds enough fish to keep an angler busy.

Throwing the remains of my punched bread slices into the river as I packed up, I was entertained by the sight of a 3 lb carp demolishing the remnants as they drifted downstream.

New host for The Urban Fieldsportsman

June 20, 2017 at 11:31 am

Regular visitors to The Urban Fieldsportsman will have, over recent months, often found this site unavailable, due to a suspension by the previous hosting package, caused by an unresolved software problem, too techi to go into on this page.

Upgrading to a more expensive hosting with that hosting company was a promised fix, but have now changed to a different, WordPress friendly host, who assure reliable availability of the Blog.

While only a minor annoyance to those unable to log onto The Urban Fieldsportsman, this has been a stressful time for myself, finding the site suspended at random periods, unable to post fresh blogs each time, while watching the worldwide viewing figures decline.

For all those loyal viewers out there, thanks for your support.

Ken

 

Trout rise to last of the Mayfly

June 6, 2017 at 11:28 am

A day spent cutting back hedges in the garden, bagging up the off cuts and a couple of trips to the recycling centre, had just about worn me out. Relaxing in the sun with a well earned cup of tea, my wife commented that she was surprised, that I did not want to go fly fishing, as it was going be a lovely evening. I had been sitting there considering the most diplomatic way to broach the subject, when the words had fluttered from her lips like poetry. Realising I was on a winner, I shrugged my shoulders saying that the mayfly would be finished by now and the chances of a trout would be low, but I could go after dinner if she didn’t mind. It was true, the mayfly would be over, but it was still worth a visit.

Arriving after 7 pm the sun was still warm, the air still and a variety of flies were lifting off, even a few mayfly were about, flying low across the river. The only thing missing was the sight and sound of rising trout as I walked downstream, casting my mayfly into runs that held fish last week. The trout were still there, ignoring my artificial, making a mental note for my return upstream.

I tied on a GR Hares Ear nymph with the leader greased to the last 18 inches and began to work my way back. One observed fish sat on a corner out of the flow and the nymph induced it to move out for an inspection, but no more. Working my way back upstream, the sinking sun began to blind me, blocking out my sight of the leader on the surface. It was time to go. Nothing was rising. The trout were full of mayfly and were no longer interested. I should have stayed at home.

Close to the road bridge a fish rose under trees. Greasing up the nymph to float, I tried casting up to the rise, but caught the fly in a branch on the back cast. Pulling it free, the 4 lb tippet broke. Mayfly were now lifting off in numbers and I tied on a Mayfly to the new tippet. Giving up on this fish, I walked up to another in open water. A messy cast put the fish down.  Ten yards on another splashy rise was covered. Success a fish, but a small one.

This wild brown was a welcome sight, but not what I had hoped for. At least I had caught a trout. Reaching the van, I decided to walk to the bridge for a look upstream, the sun was now below the trees, but the light was good and mayfly were still filling the air.

A fish rose below the bend, then again as I watched. I climbed the stile into the field, then got into the river. It was still rising, lying in a deep run between shallows and I moved as slowly as possible to get in range. There was no wind and my first cast was ignored, despite what I considered to be a perfect cast. Another rise and I cast further up. Wop, it took. All hell let loose as the trout flapped on the surface, before dashing round the corner beneath a tree. Grabbing my landing net I followed it, putting on pressure to drag it out into the open. This was a good fish, that I did not want to lose, letting it run down the channel past me, netting it on the return.

I was tempted to continue upstream, but I was now satisfied with my good fortune. The mayfly had switched on for me for the last time this year and I had been there to take advantage of the feeding frenzy. Duffers fortnight had lasted five weeks this year.

Shin Sung Career 707 shooting gallery in the park

June 3, 2017 at 10:02 am

Regular pest control visits to clear rabbits from beneath a cricket pavilion are beginning to show results, with fewer signs of fresh digging on the cricket pitch. Impressed, the park’s area manager asked me to check out two more pavilions this week. Arriving in daylight, the first pavilion sits on a concrete base, but air gaps in the wooden structure showed little evidence of rabbit droppings and I moved onto the second pavilion, which is supported on pillars above the ground. Like the original, this is infested with rabbits, runs and scrapes showing on both sides, while the area around it has that rabbit hutch aroma.

Surrounded by trees looking out over the pitch, I settled down to wait for the sun to go down and the rabbits to come out. The Walther scope on the Career gathers light better than my eyes and a sudden movement from the back of the building showed two small rabbits had emerged, the crosshairs standing out against the grey fur. The first shot tumbled the rabbit, which kicked it’s way back under the building, the other diving for cover. Five minutes later a large rabbit come out. Tracking the crosshairs along its body for a head shot, it moved, then stopped. Crosshairs on again, I squeezed the trigger just as it moved again. Missed. As the light faded it became more difficult to see, some rabbits came out and faded away like ghosts. I’d left my lamp at home, but I’d knocked down enough for a refill of the magazine, which takes eight Bisley Magnum .22 pellets.

Looking to my right I could now see activity on the cricket pitch and circled back to lie out under a tree only feet away from the front of the building. This was enough movement to scatter the rabbits back under the pavilion. I waited. First out was a young kit, the pellet passing straight through and hitting the wood work. An adult came out and froze. Sighting for a head shot, it dived back. At this range of ten yards, a chest shot would have done the trick, but old habits die hard. After a further twenty minutes it was too dark to see again and by the light of my phone, gathered up those rabbits that I could find.

At times it had been fast and furious work, much like a shooting gallery, many of the bunnies too small even for a burger, but pest control is pest control. I refilled the magazine and walked down toward the other pavilion, which is back lit by the nearby car park. As I approached a head popped up and I fired. Rabbits scattered from unseen places. I’d hit my target.

There was no close cover and I settled down alongside a tree with a view of the front and one end. These would be longer shots up to 35 yards, but illuminated by the sodium lights of the car park. It was the shadow of the first rabbit that I saw, almost invisible to the eye. A good size, it was sitting up, a perfect target for a rested shot at 30 yards. It went down kicking and I put in another head shot to make sure. Ten minutes later another movement 25 yards away potted another small one.

A bus pulled into the car park and sat with the engine running. Time to go home after a busy evening. This park was hit hard last year by myxomatosis, but it has soon recovered with a baby boom.

Mayfly keep trout interested

May 29, 2017 at 5:38 pm

A week had passed since my last visit to the syndicate trout stream, once again only having the time for a couple of hours on the fishery. The rains had been light in previous days, reflected by the clear chalk stream running at normal pace and a mayfly alighting on my hand as I pulled on my waders, mean’t that the trout would still be ready to rise to the artificial.

From the road bridge I walked up toward the first pool seeing that the mayfly were passing by unmolested and thought that maybe the fun was over for another year, the trout having grown fat on these winged beauties, were finally sick of them. A ripple coming from beneath a bush said otherwise, getting down into the river and worked my way up into a position that gave clearance for a back cast. Trying a few casts into open water to get the distance, I waited for another rise, a mayfly being gently sucked beneath the surface suggesting a small fish, possibly a chub. Another rise confirmed it was lying close to the bank protected by an overhanging branch and third cast the Mayfly dropped into the pocket above it. Drifting next to the branch, the fly disappeared in a casual swirl, that exploded as the hook took hold. The 2 lb cartwheeling trout took me by surprise, far stronger than I expected, it raced deep into the pool taking line, then turned back to the shallows, skimming from side to side, before diving back into the depths. One second it was in my net, then it was out again leaving only stones from the riverbed. Following it into the pool allowed me to finally get the net under a fat trout.

What a lump. There has been a steady hatch of mayfly this month and this stockie has taken full advantage of the extra protein. The artificial was sodden, but still in good shape despite the struggle and a wash in the river, followed by rub in with floatant soon had it ready for action.

Short on time, I decided to trek across the fields to reach a spot, where last week, four fish had been feeding on a deep bend, only to find another syndicate member in the river complaining of a lost fish. After swapping fishing stories, I continued upstream toward another favourite pool, but stopped short, when a fish rose close to the bank ahead of me. Retracing my steps, I slid down into the river again, keeping my eye on the rises. With a high bank and an overhanging tree, it was not an easy cast, but closing the gap allowed an angled cast that put the fly in the perfect spot for an interception. Plop! The fish took and I was soon playing a smaller, but equally plump brownie, that was promptly netted.

Released without the need for recovery it swam off, leaving me unable to climb back out, due to the steep bankside. Wading round the bend another fish rose in a riffle, then stood on it’s tail to chase an escaping mayfly. Once again shielded by trees, this was another difficult cast, but within a few yards of the rough water, several flick casts were needed to put the fly above the feeding trout. Darting from cover it hooked itself, lifting the rod bringing the 12 oz wildie tumbling back toward me and to my feet. The big red spots of its flanks flashed as the brownie spun round and came off. A picture would have been nice, but maybe next time. At this point I was able to climb out of the river again, just managing to crawl under the electrified fence without a buzz. The farmer does not make it easy for us fishermen.

From a hundred yards away, I saw a rise at the mouth of a wooded pool and walked up the left bank before getting back into the river. In that time the fish had not risen again, but waded up to be as close as possible. This a hard fished pool and decided to make long casts into the area. As the fly drifted back a fish nosed and sank it. A couple of false casts dried it and a shorter drop put it on the top of the rise. A swirl and a miss. Dace? Next cast a lightning strike answered my question and a small dace launched skyward, then dropped off.

The larger fish rose again in the left hand corner as I rubbed in more floatant, then a noisy boil. A long cast dropped at the base of the left hand tree, the deep water creating little flow and drift of the fly. Splosh! I was in again, the trout running deep into the pool, before turning to run down the deep channel on my left, fighting below me for a second, then powering back up. About a pound, the game was soon up for this trout and with its head out of the water, the net was waiting.

The fly was well down inside the jaws of this deep sided brown trout, the forceps pushing the barbless hook free.

Three fish landed and one lost in under two hours was good enough for me and I headed back. By next week the mayfly hatch will be over for another year and each trout will hard earned from then on.

Trout between the showers part 3

May 23, 2017 at 7:03 pm

Working in the garden between downpours had earned me a two hour fishing pass from my wife and I headed off toward the syndicate trout stream, hoping to find the mayfly in full hatch mode. Strewn around my kitchen were various fishing jackets drying over chairs, retrieved from the washing line too late to save them from another soaking. An old moth eaten gardening jacket had been pressed into service, pockets filled with a few essential accessories, along with the all important box of mayflies, before setting off, but whether it was still shower proof was soon to be tested.

Crossing the river in the van, the road was still running with water, but once parked up the worst of the shower was past. The sun was out and somewhere there would be a radiant rainbow, but with chest waders to wriggle into my mind was on the mayfly. Joining the river at the bridge, the jacket was doing an acceptable job of warding off the rain and I made my way upstream under the trees to where a feeder stream comes in, seeing that it was carrying at least 6 inches more flow, the gravel run on the main river, now a speeding glide. No mayfly were visible and and certainly no fish rising.

Carrying on upstream, gulls were sweeping low over the river at what I guessed were mayfly awakened by the sunshine, but the trout were not taking. With no time to waste, I pushed on until rounding a bend the tell tale ring of a rising fish was spreading across the surface. Here mayfly were landing and taking off, being harassed by at least two trout, getting down into the river well below to wade up toward them. The wind was sweeping in gusts across the river making long casts difficult, the only option was to keep low and cast a short line. Yesterday’s successful Bodied Mayfly was routinely ignored, while the real thing were slurped down with abandon. My next choice was also snubbed, and plumbed for a traditional Winged Mayfly.

The trout at the head of the pool broached a couple of times as if determined not to let any mayfly pass to the fish below. It was a broad fish and I edged closer to present the fly, the wind controlling the last foot of descent. Close to the bank it took, leaping clear when it felt the hook, then rushing upstream to the bend. Without giving line, I let the rod take the strain, walking five yards down to where I had left my landing net in the reeds, the trout swimming straight out again at my first attempt, regaining strength for another run.

This 16 inch stockie full of high protein mayfly needed no reviving, swimming off upstream the moment it was released. The fly was a bit bedraggled after the fight, but squeezing floatant grease into the wings and body, followed by a few false casts, had it ready for action again. There were now rises further up round the bend and I waded up spooking the other trout, that bow-waved into the upper pool. The fly dropped to the surface, drifted a foot, then disappeared with a wallop as it was engulfed by another good trout, that powered away round the bend. Keeping the rod high, I waded after the trout, leaving the landing net again, my hands too full to carry it. The line went solid and I rounded the bend to find the fly lodged in a clump of reeds. To get the fly back meant wading through the middle of the pool, so that was the end of that little pocket of feeding trout.

Time was now marching on, I’d been rewarded with some fish, but now it was time to go and I headed back to the van, stopping at the feeder stream to see a trout rising mid river in what would normally be an couple of inches of water over the gravel. Wading out to it, I kept the line tight again due to overhead trees. He was missing many of the mayfly probably due to the shallow water reducing it’s cone of vision, but for me it took after half a dozen offers for the take and I was soon playing a very silver wild brown trout.

The colouring of this trout is unique as far I am concerned, the pound fish an added bonus on such a brief visit.

Trout between the showers part 2

May 20, 2017 at 12:25 pm

A week after my last outing on the syndicate river, saw me checking the forecast and waiting for a prolonged downpour to finish before heading west into the promised three hours of sunshine. The black clouds were in retreat when I arrived, although the hoped for mayfly were absent. After a week of showers I had expected the river to be heavily coloured, but true to it’s chalkstream origins, it was pushing, but clear.

The unweighted Hares Ear nymph of last week was still attached to my made up rod, as I entered my first pool, managing to roll a nice trout casting along the edge. Moving downstream mayfly were suddenly breaking free of the surface and it wasn’t long before the sound of rising trout could be heard. Upstream I saw a nice fish rise and retraced my steps to the pool, getting down on my knees to approach the high bank. As if by magic the floating nymph sank into a ripple and I was playing a hard fighting trout that rushed round the pool. I had already extended my landing net, which was waiting for the fight to finish.

!8 inches of solid power, this overwintered stockie showed a few battle scars, but this river is fished from October on by coarse fishermen for chub, who complain about the trout getting in the way.

The mayfly were now coming thick and fast, encouraged by the warming sun on the river and the trout were mopping them up, seeing my next target rising under trees in fast water above a clump of roots. After a couple of sideways flicks of the line, the nymph dropped above it and vanished in a swirl. The shallows erupted with another good fish, that darted into the hole under the roots, then out again down into a run throwing up more spray. It was soon on it’s side in my net. Two good trout in ten minutes.

There were rises everywhere and a few measured casts to a fish rising at the tail of a pool saw a wild brownie in the net.

The wild trout in this river tend to be silvery on their flanks, this one of about ten inches was a welcome sight.

Continuing downstream a large trout was rising like clockwork and I circled round away from the bank to come up behind it. It was not interested in my floating nymph, chasing mayfly as they tried to take off. I tied on a tatty old Bodied Mayfly and cast it in with a plop. Gone. It went straight away. A zigzagging boil and the fish ran upstream, rolled and came off. Not to worry, I could hear more splashy rises behind me, seeing ripples spreading out among trees. Getting down behind a tree, the trout was just upstream of me and a short cast saw a vicious attack that hooked itself on the tight line. Boiling on the surface, the pound plus trout churned round in a circle and came off, my fly springing up into the tree. Using the landing net, I reached up and retrieved my old faithful mayfly.

It had started raining and looking back upstream, the sky was black with falling rain. Fish were still rising and on my way back to the van was tempted to try again for the fish that I had rolled at the start. Splashy rises were still coming up along the brambles and the old fly did it’s work, hooking, not the stockie that I’d lost earlier, but another silvery wild trout, netting it as the heavens opened.

Water on the lens blurred this pic, but it is good to see that the river is still capable of supporting these fish. With my top half soaked through, the van was waiting to give refuge from the storm, while I extracted myself from clinging chest waders. The session had lasted not much more than an hour. Must try to get out again before the mayfly finish.