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Manual de Lanzado
Sección de Carlos
The Downloads

Falsecast

Monday: Paul Arden
Tuesday: Harps
Wednesday: Bernd Ziesche
Thursday: Mr T.
Friday: Ray
Saturday: Viking Lars
Sunday: Bruce Richards

Ronan's report

I remember when I first came to this land. It wasn't that long ago, 7 years depending on how you count. The journey didn't seem so long for how foreign the surrounds had suddenly turned. The first step to get on the way was the hardest, the rest were blind or driven by mystery and consuming curiosity. Vague clue to direction and little else to go by, but suddenly there I was. And there were others moving on the way as well, helpful kind and fun who were always willing to reach a hand back to pull me along or at least knock me off the bad course. Gotta give them a little thanks for the help! Thanks! to you all

Day two was over to the mighty C in the Z. Unlike the other short creeks, this one denied the moniker and had some drainage which over the years had cut through the earth to form a 5-10 mile long 500’ deep canyon that was shockingly steep after the soft rolling hills of the surrounding area. The other creeks had a little depth and occasional walls at a bend, but C took it to dramatic proportions and turned out to be more than a little sketchy. A bit of a drive in light rain and we were at the bottom of the canyon. Still some 15 miles to the lake, it was certainly bigger water and more freestoney. Last year, we’d been stumped and not been able to find our way down into the canyon so we fished the lower water. Deeper, gravelly and slow, it didn’t even look like the same place. Armed with better maps and a GPS and an iphone pulling data the whole way off satellite, we went up the ridge and found the way down into the canyon. A place that pretty much looked to be make-out point and was aptly named on a small kiosk near the trailhead. A couple fishy looking vehicles were already there. Looking at small deer paths and occasionally peeking over the cliff edges, a small trail lead to an overlook and kicked over to the right. From the topo, the even traverse must have been cut once upon a time to get to the river valley below. Chris and I made our way down what surely was the way. Rich went off the opposite. We were certain he’d catch up shortly having been turned back by the cliffs. Getting to the bottom through a grove of trees, the bulk of their leaves were fallen and brown at our feet. We waited.... still no Rich. I marked the map for the way back up, left a message on Rich’s phone, and we headed across the little valley to the river. What we found was gorgeous. Not the little carved slate creek but scaled up to a river sweeping sheering across broad cracked and stepped shelves of slate with broken edges and carved trenches, some of them sudden, swift, unfathomable and sinister. A pool above dropping from a rapid. A run below went down down and further to somewhere that Rich must be, the river hammered into then turned off the jutting blade of a cliff. No one in sight.

Chris had a quick eye on the pool above and was quick to take my encouragement. I fished the run straight out as I think I should have not knowing for sure but at least getting my casting together. We both spent our time, finally reeled up and figured we should move down instead of up. No sign of Mr. Knoles. As we walked down, a shelf near invisible from our previous vantage dropped away and fed into a beautiful run. With two of us, I crossed testing the grip of my new cleated boots. They held across a swift but shallow current. Just getting started from my side, Chris already a ways down, hooked up. I dropped my rod and pack, jogged down camera in hand. Chris had swung one! He landed the nice buck, and I snapped pics from the other side of the river. The grin needed no zoom. Glancing downstream from my side, still no Rich. Back at it, I worked down my bank following opposite Chris. Chris hooked up again! As I watched, from the corner of my eye walking like Jesus on the water, Rich appears around the point of the blade and seemed to be strutting across the surface. I waved to him, pointed to the man with fish on. Rich jogged as much as Rich jogs up the bank to snap a pic of a silvery hen.

Chris is all smiles, and I make my way back across to hear Rich’s tale which is being carried away by the rushing water. We all crack a beer. Rich found another way down, a fast way down. Creeping down a thin trail he got to point of no return peering down a steep slope. He slips bouncing twice off his ass some 30 feet before he can stop and manages not to break his rod in the trees. His demeanor is sedate but the tale has notes of lucky fortune even a failed attempt to clamber back up. We’re glad to have him intact. Chris fishes through his run again; we're lucky to have pulled him away. We move down and see Rich's trick. A shelf under just a few inches of water surrounds the cliff point providing a nice path around. We fish down through a few bends, curves and pools. Rich had hooked a fish in a deep but difficult trench. We work back up as dark closes in, and we’re a little keen to ensure we can find the way out. I’m behind and decide to fish one of my slots again. About half way down I feel a bump and my line stops hard. I give a tug and suddenly a huge boil at the end. It runs back and forth but I hold it backing away from the edge I was standing on, getting it to shore. Thick silver and gorgeous. I’ve swung a steelhead on my 2hander, my fly. A glow enough to carry me through the rest of the trip. It's all I can think about even now. I snap a couple self shots and jog back up to meet the guys. How had I even got there!? It was a myriad blur of steps.

Eric

Pic Of Day

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