I am the King of the “fishless” fishing trip, even as a raw youth I had the knack. It’s a title coveted, but not by many. While the bulk of the angling community has the good sense to go to work and be productive, I burn calories and daylight tromping through brush watching my breath precede me.

Ma’s Christmas fruitcake was burned off earlier this week, and that last indulgence of holiday See’s candy vanished today, but I have little else to show for my ardor other than muddy boot tracks and startled wildlife.

Vacation is drawing to a close and none too soon, as the number of experimental flies created and queued for testing is on the increase, with no fish to confirm whether merit is part of any design.

Today I fiddled with glass beads, attempting to determine whether they’d be too fragile for fly usage. These are the small “seed beads” – about $1.99 /thousand at the craft store.

I assembled a “leech-like substance” by stringing 4 of them on a hook and adding a tuft of marabou; without protective hackle I figured they would take the brunt of casting, the false cast  dropped too low, and any in-stream collisions, enough of a workout to determine if the glass would survive.

They did, and even unweighted the combination of slim profile and bead weight allowed them to sink about a foot per second.

The river has returned to it’s historic flows and the color has morphed from brown murk to cloudy green, with about 30″ of visibility. That’s enough to get my hopes up, but not enough to make the fish receptive.

I hiked upriver about 2.5 miles to see what changes had occurred and found plenty. Gravel isn’t a stable bottom and some areas had lost  multiple tons of it, other stretches gained those tons. Fresh deposits would allow your feet to sink 3-4 inches, so it was easy to feel where the missing river bottom had come to rest. It was fairly treacherous as all the river crossings of the past had to be discovered again.

I’ve got a new deep stretch created nearby, nearly 100 yards long and suddenly 3 feet deep – compared to the 6″ depth of two weeks ago. That’s an awful lot of shifting rock streambed, who would’ve thought it would behave like sediment?

I did chance on a fellow fly fisherman walking his dog, he didn’t run screaming at the sight of me, so the “brownliner” angle isn’t as off-putting as once thought. He confessed to fishing for smallmouth on occasion, so I may have found a kindred spirit.

I’ve been watching the gauge all week waiting for the worst of the water to pass, cabin fever got the better of common sense, so I hit the river armed with tackle, instead of a cup of coffee.

I had lots of experimental flies to test and was badly in need of exercise, a wintertime phenomenon that coincides with cold temperatures and driving rain.

Water visibility was 18″ – which is similar enough to normal to make me figure with some colorful flies and blind luck I may be able to set hook on something other than a chocolate Old Fashioned.

The Little Stinking was running at 254 CFS, which is about double it’s normal flow, enough water that I’d have to pick crossings carefully, yet not enough to wear something other than hip boots.

The Bridge Pool has new holding water, a pair of recliners that were heavy enough to find purchase in the gravel beneath, they replaced the sectional sofa that spawned the cursed “fly eating eddy” – so I was pleased at the prospect of new substrate. No fish were visible anywhere but the Merganser Squadron was on high alert, so something must’ve been available.

That was the high point of the adventure, birds, scads of them – and the fishing took it’s cue from the feathered menace, it was “for the birds” as well. I tested some of the new flies checking both visibility and sink rate, wandered upstream to Old Nondescript’s lair, noting the beaver dam had been blown out – but the beaver were intact. They eyeballed me warily while I flung assorted flies at stuff and disappeared quickly when I got too close.

Nondescript was nowhere to be seen and the watermark on the bank suggested he’d had an additional 3 foot of water through his favorite lie in the last week, likely he was nursing some resentment at his living room suddenly transforming itself into an aquatic interstate, so he left my offerings untouched.

I’ll try it again next week as the flow should have returned to normal. No evidence of any salmon – but with the water off color it’s not likely they’d be visible.