4 minute read
FOR THE BIRDS
A GUIDE’S LIFE • BY HAYDEN MELLSOP
For the Birds
So said an angling mentor to me riverside one cold, blustery afternoon a long time ago. It’s a piece of advice I try to take to heart every time I hit a river or lake. Sometimes that ten minutes of sitting is the most rewarding, and most productive, part of the day.
It was just such another afternoon recently that saw me descend a narrow trail toward a section of river upstream of town where a busy, turbulent run fanned wide, then slowed to a meander of eddy creases and bubble lines. Dark cloud shrouded the mountains, and a downstream breeze that nipped at the skin brought with it flurries of snow that settled softly on my clothing.
My arrival at the river was heralded by a pair of geese who immediately announced their displeasure at my presence, swimming to the far bank then shadowing my progress, honking to wake the dead, as I walked downstream toward a boulder in whose lee I intended to sit while rigging my rod. Many things geese may be, but songbirds they aren’t. After several minutes of constant, one-sided conversation, I politely suggested they take their complaint elsewhere, a suggestion they mulled over for a few minutes more before agreeing and, taking to wing, headed upstream again.
Precious silence. I located the boulder then proceeded to piece my rod together as I watched the iron grey water. Given the clouds and cold, I hoped to see some rise forms in the slower water. These were, according to the textbook, prime conditions for a hatch of blue-winged olive mayflies, yet as I watched, no tell-tale signs marred the river’s surface.
Just then a barn swallow appeared, working a beat to windward, low over the river, swooping occasionally to skim something off the water; whether feeding or merely drinking I couldn’t tell. It continued on upstream to the base of the turbulent water then wheeled back downstream before turning again opposite me and working back up again. My prospects of catching a fish lifted. Swallows don’t fly for fun. They need to consume an average of sixty insects an hour to survive, hence are harbingers of a hatch to a hopeful angler.
Soon several more swallows joined the first, working in unison upstream and down, skimming the surface. Still I watched, scanning the bubble lines for any insects trapped in the foam, but couldn’t see what the swallows did. Nevertheless, encouraged, I tied on a small dry and a smaller nymph to spread my offering deeper in the water column. I watched the swallows and the river for a few minutes more. No rise forms, but who knew what lurked beneath the surface?
I cast up into the run. Once in a while a swallow would dip down to inspect my dry fly, thankfully rejecting it at the last second. Several times I’d delay my cast to avoid placing my line right in their flight
About The Author
Hayden Mellsop is an expat New Zealander living in the mountain town of Salida, Colorado, on the banks of the Arkansas River. As well as being a semi-retired fly fishing guide, he juggles helping his wife raise two teenage daughters, along with a career in real estate.
path. I had once hooked a swallow on my backcast when it took my nymph mid-air. Fortunately, I was able to reel it in and quickly release it, but it was a traumatic experience for both of us. I still recall how impossibly light and fragile it felt in my grasp.
Still no rise forms, still no takers for the nymph, and after a few more minutes, the swallows departed. Snow flurries continued. An osprey arrived, perching high in a tree up the embankment away from the river, with its high pitched, mournful call. I continued to fish, and the osprey continued to call before itself moving on upstream. Upon reflection, it may well have been trying to save me the trouble. “Mate, it’s no use. I’ve looked. There’s no fish there.”
By now the cold was beginning to take its toll, with my toes numb, fingers pinched and clumsy, metabolism demanding sugar. I packed up and headed to a local fast food joint for a guilty pleasure. As she handed me the strawberry shake, the bright-eyed, frecklefaced young lady smiled at me.
“Happy National Bird Watching Day” she said. I agreed. It had been a great day for watching the birds.
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