King of the Flat

I love this shit.  One fish, two days, countless flies, endless rejection, labor of love.  I had a similar experience on Depuy's a couple years ago, but this one is my reason for loving Livingston.

It started yesterday morning, on "the flat" at Armstrong's, with me getting my ass handed to me by every trout in the run on both sides.  Damn midges anyway.  A size 20 floating out there looks huge, and the fish were actually moving out of the way of most of 'em.  The sunny and calm conditions are mighty comforting, melting the morning frost and warming the soul. But the fish are super wary, to say the least.  I fished the near shore, then made my way across the weeds to the flat as the sun made visibility bright and clear to both me and the trout.

After a couple of refusals on a #24 Griffith's Gnat, the only #24 I had in any of my boxes, I began to go through the stages of every midge and spring creek fly I had.  As I stood gazing onto the flat, there was this one fish.  He was a little longer than all the rest, and a real bully.  He'd rise, and then again, and again. Then he'd chase off any other trout that got near his turf.  He'd then drift around his 15 square-foot zone and eat some invisible morsels a few times, sometimes taking them moving down current or across, then speed up and chase away more of the other fish around him.

I cast to this fish, and watched his antics, for the rest of the morning and whole damn afternoon.  He was indeed the King of the Flat, knew it, and pushed the pawns out of the way all day.  None of the fish seemed to be bothered by me standing there casting up and down the flat all day.  Wasn't their first rodeo.  I did cast to a few other fish, fairly respectable ones for just pawns. I hooked up a few times, had a few more eats, and broke off a couple in the weeds.

At the end of the day, the King never ate anything I had, and most of the others didn't either.  I left haunted, defeated, but a little determined.  To hell with Depuy's, I knew where I'd be standing when the sun came over the mountain this morning.  And there was work to do.  Thousands of flies in dozens of boxes in the vest and in the trailer, and I didn't have one damn bug he and his pawns would eat?  I found a stash of a dozen size 24 big-eye dry fly hooks from who-knows-when, and thought "sparse, dry, kick, and visible."  They seemed to be oliveish, or black.

I had to downsize my game, at the risk of failure from missed takes and broken leaders.  I didn't have anything to lose!

Maybe the nine feet of 7x tippet attached to my leader helped, or maybe it was just a different morning, but I got a bunch of takes on the entry side early on a #22ish Griffith with a little peacock body.  Store-bought one.  Missed all but one, and that one came unbuttoned, but there was a little confidence before making my way across to the flat, and I hadn't even gone to the new ties yet.

He didn't show up right away, as the pawns started to move up and rise.  There were a few pretty nice ones at the head of the flat, and one took the Griffith well, but I missed.  These tiny hooks are just a game of chance.  After further rejection, I switched to one of the CDC soft hackle thingys, and on the first cast, a large pawn ate it and took off.  The damn fly line caught on my fucking wading belt, and that was all there was to that.  I better pay more attention I guess. (Belt gets pulled around so no buckle or tag end is anywhere in front of me!)

As I pulled out another 8 feet of 7x and retied, the King showed up.  There was no doubt it was him.  And soon, the bullying began.  Same zone, same fish.  The pawns were the same fish, many with the same coloring and unique markings, in the same smaller zones as yesterday.  They stayed away from the King, or were soon ran away.  I tied on the other soft hackle I tied last night, put it over and around him repeatedly, and never even got a glance or break in stride.  

This is how the last day and a half has gone.  Either cast the same fly at a bunch of different fish until one tries to eat it, or change flies repeatedly on the same fish until it eats or becomes hopeless.  I wanted the King, and he was the reason I was again standing where I stood for 10 hours yesterday.

Some of his eats are clearly underneath, so a hanger seems the likely second choice.  The King makes his rounds running off the pawns and rises in between.  I put the hanger above him like its supposed to be done, and then time stands still.  He moves toward me a good six inches, and even though I am watching the fly, all I see is that big mouth.  I haven't seen it from that angle, and that far out of the water, in two days.  Holy shit.  The fly is gone, and the King's nose and lower jaw are out of the water.  I had been telling myself since yesterday, "wait, wait, wait."   I miraculously manage to wait and see if the hook is going to make any contact, but the fish turns back away and helps me out.  Sure as shit, the rod is bent!

In an instant, a million thoughts flow all at once.  Shock, he actually ate it.  And he ate the shit out of it, not some sipping thing.

Panic.  I've got him.  He's got me.  How much do I have him?  Will the little #24 find enough meat? Where's the hook?  Will he stay out of the deep weeds on both sides? What about the sticks lining the whole shoreline?  Will the 7x hold even if he doesn't go into the weeds or sticks?  I tell myself what I've been telling clients for 4 decades.  "Tight and smooth.  Smoooth!  Smooooth!"

He's making his way down stream, and the smooth drag of the Colorado LT is singing to only me and the ducks at the bottom of the pool.  I don't care about putting down the flat, so I move downstream behind him.  I don't want to see backing on this one.  As I follow behind him, all the pawns go scurrying.  The flat that held 15 or so fish is now empty.

There's give and take, a couple of oh shit moments when he goes toward the bank, a couple of down and dirty pulls, a couple more give and takes, and I'm able to swoop my smaller "spring creek" net under him.  He fits!

Finally! Victory.  But it feels as much like relief, or maybe just some selfish gratification, than a win.  More like completion.  Satisfaction.  I'm giggling and fist pumping, though nobody is around.  This is the most enjoyable fish I've caught in recent memory.  The true meaning of Happy Ending!

This is where we ended up.  About 90 feet below the eat.

The tiny hook was well-imbeded in that little red spot inside his right corner.

Hook didn't fare too well on removal.  It shall enjoy retirement on a patch, where I can see it often.

The King.  "Only" 19 inches, but still The King, of this flat anyway.

The flat was barren for 15-20 minutes.  The pawns did slowly return.  And later, before I turned in for the afternoon, so did The King.  He was a little more subdued in his behavior, but he still returned to his castle.

EPILOGUE

These two days were dotted with casts to other fish of course.  I had to rest The King after all, to have any chance.  And a lot of the pawns were pretty fair fish themselves, and served well to try and stay tuned in for The King.  I didn't hurt a flea the first morning.  The only fly that got ate, which I went to after several hours of perfectly presenting every midge in my vest, was the #24 Griffiths.  It was, over the two days, the fly of choice, but only because of its size.  I never did solve the puszzle.  Not even close.  The fish on the flat rose constantly both days, and on the entry bank as well.

 Most of these got eats in recent days.  None were really wanted.

Thread body

Peacock body

Tomorrow I'm going to Depuy's.  Maybe with some heavy 6x, or even 5.  Try some big-ass #20's.  Catch some more pawns.  Or find another King.