Fly Fishing the Lower Illinois
I have never been one to wake up before the sun. In fact, I’ve spent a great deal of energy curating a life where such discipline is unnecessary. So when I hear my alarm go off at 5am, there can only be a handful of reasons. One of them is fishing.
This particular morning I’m on a mission. My friend Mark is in town and I am taking him fly fishing on the Lower Illinois River which is about an hour South East of Tulsa. I say taking him fly fishing like I’m the guide but the reality is he resides in Denver amid an abundance of cold water streams and their bounty of trout. In fact, if you think of fly fishing you probably think Colorado or perhaps Montana. Usually, I’m Mark’s guest on the river and I rely on his experience. I’ve spent many days with him in Colorado, fishing the South Platte, the Arkansas, or even some small stream behind a J Crew outlet.
Which brings me to my mission. I’m not just getting up at 5am to cast artificial flies into a river in hopes of catching trout; I’m here to show Mark that Oklahoma has some waters worth fishing should he ever need a reason to choose living near friends over living near mountains.
“Now, all you have to do is catch a fish. If you want to do this the easy way, you wouldn’t pick up a fly rod. But that’s alright. We’re aiming for something higher here, a certain ideal, an artfulness, though we rarely meet that lofty standard. ”
The alarm goes off and my mind starts in on the to-do list that I didn’t bother to write down. I dislike to-do lists. Occasionally I hand write done lists to remind myself that I did in fact accomplish something. Most often I keep my lists in my mind, going over them over and over again like a child carrying a full glass of water across the room in hopes of not losing any. Today’s list is simple, but essential: pack a few cans of beer, some water, and snacks in the cooler and fill with ice (we’ll stop for breakfast burritos and coffee en route), put the gear in the back of the 4runner, don’t forget the sunglasses or the old sneakers for wet wading on the rocks. I complete my tasks with the stealth of a sleep-deprived 40 year old in a house full of sleeping kids and a wife. Soon I’m on the road and pulling into the driveway of Mark’s parents house where he’s staying for the weekend.
Once we stop for coffee and breakfast–alas, no breakfast burritos, so a biscuit will have to do–we’re on the nearly empty road and the clock is ticking. Every minute we’re on the road the sky gets lighter and more anglers get on the best spots in the river. We pull into the Simp and Helen Watts Area well after sunrise to a parking lot full of trucks and SUVs. Did I forget to mention it’s Labor Day? It’s Labor Day and the river will be crowded. We hop out and ready our gear for the river.
I say we, but in reality my 9 foot, 5 weight 4 piece rod is already put together. A green Wooly Bugger is already tied onto the tippet from the last time I fished these waters which happened to be 2 days earlier. I was given this fly in a gesture of good will from another angler mid river. I caught my first ever Oklahoma trout on a fly rod with this fly. Some anglers are pickier with their flies than the trout are, going through every fly in their arsenal before they leave the river. I’m more like a new father trying a familiar tactic to get his newborn to sleep. If it worked last time, I’m going to give it a shot. I know you’re supposed to match the hatch. I have never been able to even see the hatch, much less name it and find its match in my flybox.
I’m ready to fish and growing more impatient as I watch multiple anglers arrive, put on waders, and head down stream. I look over at Mark who is patiently tying his tippet and fly. I raise an eyebrow as if to say, “Hurry up, the fish are waiting.” He shoots back a glare that says, “Don’t rush me.” I follow by sternly saying, “Hurry up, the fish are waiting,” which prompts his stern, “Don’t rush me.” I contemplate a more sarcastic, abrasive addendum but quickly remember my mission–I’m trying to get him to at least consider the idea that he could give up on Colorado and move back to Tulsa without having to give up fly fishing. It’s better not to start off on the wrong foot.
Eventually we are hiking downstream to a place where the river splits and then rejoins itself; a place with pools just off the current that are sure to be hospitable to rainbows waiting on the foam line to bring breakfast right to them. I slide a pouch of wintergreen Copenhagen between my bottom lip and gums and take a look around at the woods that surround our path. We are doing it. We are fishing. Nevermind that the line isn’t even wet yet. It’s all fishing–the ice chest and the beer, the early morning drive, the hike to the river. It’s all part of this thing we call “fishing,” and its appeal is in far more than what strikes the end of the line. There are worse places to be on a Monday morning at 7am than hiking your rods through the forest beside the Lower Illinois River.
We step down off the trail onto the river bank. A fish is gently hovering right off the bank. It’s a carp or buffalo, but it at least lures us down to the river’s edge. On the opposite bank we see current with some ripples and foam lines. It looks like a promising place to put a fly but as we walk in, the water is deeper than we think. Soon we are in cold water up to our armpits with our packs and rods held high. Mark retreats back to knee deep water and starts casting. I head upstream to fish off a downed tree that is half submerged in the current.
I get into my position and cast a few times before I get it where I want it. I look down the river and see Mark caught up in a tree limb, then watch as he takes out his flybox in defeat. I look over my shoulder and see a half dozen anglers up the river and another half dozen teenagers with saltwater reels and live bait crashing into the river. It’s getting crowded.
At that moment I feel a knock on my line. I raise the tip of my rod upstream and set the hook. I feel a tug down into deeper water but I can tell that it’s not a hefty fish. Still, it’s a rainbow trout and I’m the first to get a bite. I’ve got a lot of line out so I strip reel it in. Beyond the initial run, there’s not much fight. I scoop it up in my net, satisfied that no matter what happens today, we did not get skunked. We could fish all day and come up with nothing, we could traipse through the swampy banks in vain looking for access to better water, we could drink our beer on the tailgate and return home empty handed and still have some sense of victory.
In fact, all those things are exactly what happened. That one ten inch fish had to carry a lot. Did we return with a stringer full of fish for a Labor Day cookout? No. Did we feel the excitement of getting into a honey hole and catching trout after trout? Also no. But did we spend a holiday in a cold river, rife with beauty and the chance to feel alive, as two creatures of God enjoying his good gifts? Yes, yes we did. Mission accomplished.
