Blue-winged Olives
Baetis
Tiny Baetis mayflies are perhaps the most commonly encountered and imitated by anglers on all American trout streams due to their great abundance, widespread distribution, and trout-friendly emergence habits.
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This specimen keys pretty easily to Onocosmoecus, and it closely resembles a specimen from Alaska which caddis expert Dave Ruiter recognized as this genus. As with that specimen, the only species in the genus documented in this area is Onocosmoecus unicolor, but Dave suggested for that specimen that there might be multiple not-yet-distinguished species under the unicolor umbrella and it would be best to stick with the genus-level ID. I'm doing the same for this one.
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Jack_forum on Apr 20, 2015April 20th, 2015, 7:07 pm EDT
It’s 4:30 in the morning and I feel like my eyes are glued open. I’ve been waiting for this weekend for over two months, and it’s finally here. I know my father will be down in just a few minutes to wake me up, but it’s all I can do to keep laying here pretending to be asleep. Finally I give in to the urge and jump out of bed. My father is standing in my doorway, the hint of a smile appearing on his lips before he gives me a slight nod and turns away.
Hastily I grab the clothes I laid out the night before and throw them on, rushing down the hall and pulling on my shoes at the same time. I launch myself into the kitchen to find two brown paper bags, each containing two ham biscuits, which I grab on the way through. I find my father again, gathering up tackle and inspecting the fishing rods and reels. As I watch, he grabs the two Piscifun baitcasting fishing reels that are his favorites and adds them to the others we will take with us.
After what seems like an eternity, we are finally ready to go. We reach our favorite fishing spot just in time to watch the sun rise over the distant horizon, and the first rays pierce the light fog dancing just above the water. We walk down a short trail to the water’s edge where there are two large rocks perfect for sitting and fishing.
My father inspects fishing the poles one last time, then equips each one with a shiny, new fishing hook. From there he takes out a tub of night crawlers, opens it, and sets it between us. I watch him take out one of the plump worms and work it around on his hook, and I try to do the same with mine. It doesn’t turn out as good, but I am proud the worm doesn’t go flying off when I cast my line into the water, and out of the corner of my eye I can see my father nod in approval. I puff out my chest just a little and reach for my other pole when I see the bobber on my first line briefly dip below the water.
Dropping the other pole, I ever so gently pick up the pole I have in the water, being careful I don’t send any tremors down my line to warn the fish away. A minute passes. I am focusing so intently on the bobber I notice every detail down to the single drop of water clinging to my line, the sun reflecting tiny prismatic lights through it. It dips again, quickly and lightly; just a nibble. I restrain my mounting excitement and hold my rod steady. Another minute passes. Then two. Just as I’m thinking the fish decided against taking my bait, the bobber disappears completely under the water!
I jerk my rod up and feel it snag the fish. At the same time, my arms are jerked out in front of me as the fish fights back. Before I know it, I’m standing shin deep in one of the oxbows of the mighty Mississippi, along the border of Tennessee, having the most ferocious fight with a fish in my life, and it’s all being witnessed by my father. I see him out of the corner of my eye start to get up to come help me, but I spare a quick second to wave him away. I got this.
After another fifteen or twenty minutes my arms feel like gelatin, water is up to my knees, and I’m sweating profusely. I know this is a big fish on my line, but the reel I’m using isn’t the best and I don’t know if it can get the job done. My father has grabbed the fishing net and is standing patiently beside me. With one final heave I bring the fish closer, it’s now within five feet or so of where we are standing. My father lunges forward and scoops it up in the net. Relieved I can finally release the tension in my arms, I glance into the net and see the biggest bigmouth bass I’ve ever seen!
Back on the shore, my father untangles the bass from the net and holds it out to me. I hold it up while he takes a picture. “You did well, son,” he says, “I think you earned this.” In his hand he is holding out one of his Piscifun baitcasting reels. My father is a man of few words, but in this instance, none were needed. I took the offered reel, baited it, and continued fishing, occasionally glancing at the huge bass in our wire fishing trap, then back to my new fishing reel. I had never felt so proud.
Hastily I grab the clothes I laid out the night before and throw them on, rushing down the hall and pulling on my shoes at the same time. I launch myself into the kitchen to find two brown paper bags, each containing two ham biscuits, which I grab on the way through. I find my father again, gathering up tackle and inspecting the fishing rods and reels. As I watch, he grabs the two Piscifun baitcasting fishing reels that are his favorites and adds them to the others we will take with us.
After what seems like an eternity, we are finally ready to go. We reach our favorite fishing spot just in time to watch the sun rise over the distant horizon, and the first rays pierce the light fog dancing just above the water. We walk down a short trail to the water’s edge where there are two large rocks perfect for sitting and fishing.
My father inspects fishing the poles one last time, then equips each one with a shiny, new fishing hook. From there he takes out a tub of night crawlers, opens it, and sets it between us. I watch him take out one of the plump worms and work it around on his hook, and I try to do the same with mine. It doesn’t turn out as good, but I am proud the worm doesn’t go flying off when I cast my line into the water, and out of the corner of my eye I can see my father nod in approval. I puff out my chest just a little and reach for my other pole when I see the bobber on my first line briefly dip below the water.
Dropping the other pole, I ever so gently pick up the pole I have in the water, being careful I don’t send any tremors down my line to warn the fish away. A minute passes. I am focusing so intently on the bobber I notice every detail down to the single drop of water clinging to my line, the sun reflecting tiny prismatic lights through it. It dips again, quickly and lightly; just a nibble. I restrain my mounting excitement and hold my rod steady. Another minute passes. Then two. Just as I’m thinking the fish decided against taking my bait, the bobber disappears completely under the water!
I jerk my rod up and feel it snag the fish. At the same time, my arms are jerked out in front of me as the fish fights back. Before I know it, I’m standing shin deep in one of the oxbows of the mighty Mississippi, along the border of Tennessee, having the most ferocious fight with a fish in my life, and it’s all being witnessed by my father. I see him out of the corner of my eye start to get up to come help me, but I spare a quick second to wave him away. I got this.
After another fifteen or twenty minutes my arms feel like gelatin, water is up to my knees, and I’m sweating profusely. I know this is a big fish on my line, but the reel I’m using isn’t the best and I don’t know if it can get the job done. My father has grabbed the fishing net and is standing patiently beside me. With one final heave I bring the fish closer, it’s now within five feet or so of where we are standing. My father lunges forward and scoops it up in the net. Relieved I can finally release the tension in my arms, I glance into the net and see the biggest bigmouth bass I’ve ever seen!
Back on the shore, my father untangles the bass from the net and holds it out to me. I hold it up while he takes a picture. “You did well, son,” he says, “I think you earned this.” In his hand he is holding out one of his Piscifun baitcasting reels. My father is a man of few words, but in this instance, none were needed. I took the offered reel, baited it, and continued fishing, occasionally glancing at the huge bass in our wire fishing trap, then back to my new fishing reel. I had never felt so proud.
Wbranch on Apr 20, 2015April 20th, 2015, 8:45 pm EDT
Hello Jack,
Nice story about you and Dad but you might find many more kindred spirits if you placed your stories in a non fly fishing forum. Are you aware (think Troutnut) that this web site is primarily about aquatic insects that trout like to consume and a forum with a bunch of fly fishers who like to talk about fly rods, fly reels, lines, leaders, and flies.
Nice story about you and Dad but you might find many more kindred spirits if you placed your stories in a non fly fishing forum. Are you aware (think Troutnut) that this web site is primarily about aquatic insects that trout like to consume and a forum with a bunch of fly fishers who like to talk about fly rods, fly reels, lines, leaders, and flies.
Catskill fly fisher for fifty-five years.
Taxon on Apr 20, 2015April 20th, 2015, 11:46 pm EDT
Hi Jack,
On the other hand, many of us started out as worm fishers, and a well written fishing story such as yours certainly strikes a chord with me. Welcome to the Troutnut forum.
Best regards,
On the other hand, many of us started out as worm fishers, and a well written fishing story such as yours certainly strikes a chord with me. Welcome to the Troutnut forum.
Best regards,
Kschaefer3 on Apr 21, 2015April 21st, 2015, 11:48 am EDT
Jack,
I can relate. I used to lay awake, too excited to sleep, the night before fishing with my Dad growing up. The approval when I waited long enough for the walleye to take my bait, set the hook properly and didn't horse the fish, made me so proud. Those days on Lake Mille Lacs formed my fishing obsession that has carried through for 20 years. While my preferred method and species changed several times, the appreciation I learned for the fishing, and the outdoors in general, is something I can't thank my dad enough for.
Welcome to the forum!
I can relate. I used to lay awake, too excited to sleep, the night before fishing with my Dad growing up. The approval when I waited long enough for the walleye to take my bait, set the hook properly and didn't horse the fish, made me so proud. Those days on Lake Mille Lacs formed my fishing obsession that has carried through for 20 years. While my preferred method and species changed several times, the appreciation I learned for the fishing, and the outdoors in general, is something I can't thank my dad enough for.
Welcome to the forum!
Feathers5
Posts: 287
Posts: 287
Feathers5 on Apr 22, 2015April 22nd, 2015, 5:33 am EDT
It was a big deal, almost like a holiday in my house.The breakfast my dad cooked for us was almost as anticipated as was the trout fishing. I don't fish with worms anymore. Now, I fish with my friends.
CaseyP on Apr 22, 2015April 22nd, 2015, 10:55 am EDT
Jack, i had no idea there was any technique to fishing with a "garden hackle". you've taught me something!
lately we've had a small crisis regarding keeping fish: the folks who lend us their pond for our cancer survivor's retreats have forbidden catch and release. all their regular customers complained that the fish were getting too hard to catch...so, we'll have our folks keep the fish, unless, of course, they get away. funny what happens when you carefully crimp the barb, point the rod at the fish, and hold tight...
lately we've had a small crisis regarding keeping fish: the folks who lend us their pond for our cancer survivor's retreats have forbidden catch and release. all their regular customers complained that the fish were getting too hard to catch...so, we'll have our folks keep the fish, unless, of course, they get away. funny what happens when you carefully crimp the barb, point the rod at the fish, and hold tight...
"You can observe a lot by watching." Yogi Berra
Roguerat on Apr 22, 2015April 22nd, 2015, 12:01 pm EDT
Jack,
I think this is pretty much how all of us started...now I'm starting over with my grandsons, and it is humbling to see the wonder in their eyes when they feel the tug on the line, reel in a fish, and look at me with the deepest pride I can't describe.
Keep on fishing, make it a way of life if you can, and pass it on. That's what its all about, after all.
Roguerat
I think this is pretty much how all of us started...now I'm starting over with my grandsons, and it is humbling to see the wonder in their eyes when they feel the tug on the line, reel in a fish, and look at me with the deepest pride I can't describe.
Keep on fishing, make it a way of life if you can, and pass it on. That's what its all about, after all.
Roguerat
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