The Big Yard: Notes from a Pajama Birdwatcher

Sixteen-inch Brown Trout caught on a famous Royal Coachman fly with a split bamboo rod refurbished by my friend, Rod McCloud.

October 11, 2023

I traveled this past weekend to the East Fork of the Black River near Alpine.  One last chance before the weather turns to camp among the spruce and fir, just me and the river, the golden aspen, the birds, and some of the finest trout fishing Arizona has to offer.  

 

My cozy camp under the aspens on the banks of the East Fork

          

Thunderstorms loom, but most days were in the 60s and nights in the 30s.

And the river did not disappoint.

Late-season thunderstorms had dampened the forest.  As I threaded my flyrod through the stream-side thickets, every leaf of willow and alder and wild currant dripped with expectation.  My Keen-sandaled feet searched the water’s depths for purchase, blindly slipping among algae-slick rocks for something, anything, solid while my mind connected with the river.  Trout rose.  I felt their pull.

Fly fishing a stream narrows down my world to the elk hair tied to a single dry fly.  It’s about focus more than meditation.  The action of rod and the arc of the line.  The way the tippet drifts the fly precisely to the place you set your eyes.  Time stills, and there’s only the metronome motion of the fly rod.  This is about fishing more than catching, finding solidarity with the flawless trout.  Distracted only by the birds.

A skulking Brown Creeper—always a delight to see.

Another alpine-forest favorite, the Mountain Chickadee

It wouldn’t be camping without a visit from the raucous Steller’s Jay.

This morning, sitting in front of my backyard fountain and watching the chippies and white-crowns slink in for drinks, I think about how fishing and birding are the same.  The focus.  The attention to subtleties, whether it’s a near-imperceptible swirl at the water’s surface or slight shift of color or motion among the leaves.  There’s even the rhythm—in today’s case, I notice the passing of summer warblers and grosbeaks, orioles and tanagers, each replaced by winter sparrows and juncos and hermit thrushes.

Not the steady action of the flyrod but the long metronome of bird migration.

A Dark-eyed Junco at the fountain—this one of the slate-colored race.

The Hermit Thrush of the new season.

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