Fly Fishing Trip Goals: Fish New Water(s), Fish for New Species/Strains of Trout, Drink New Beer(s), Repeat. Note: Do so slowly, with great deliberation.
It’s not casting, presentation or fly selection; it’s a deliberate and slower pace that offers the best chance of success in fly fishing.
This isn’t a new or unfamiliar idea. My first appreciation of a slower approach was the pace at which I entered any water, familiar or unfamiliar. Slowing down to take the time to make a few observations. To watch the sun rise. To look for that one rising trout. To take time to fish that small seam a few feet out from the bank.
[singlepic id=1088 w=275 h=368 float=center]The decision to try my hand at tying flies required a slow, methodical approach as I learned techniques and how materials responded to the tying process. I’m not a production tyer, and probably think more what I’m doing when tying than I should. That’s okay; a lot of that thinking is about the fish I expect or hope to fool with that fly; or memories of already having done so.
Rod building again necessitates slowing down. Wrapping thread seems simple, and it is. Wrapping thread well isn’t. Five-minute epoxy is the fastest part of the process. Laying down multiple coats is not.
More experienced fly fisherman might wonder why it took so long for me to come to this conclusion. In my defense, there were trout to fool and success was measured by body count.
Two weeks ago, while setting aside the desire to get on higher-elevation trout water as soon as legally possible, it dawned on me that the fish would still be there even if my arrival was delayed a day or two. Like dominoes falling, decisions were then made to purposely plan a slower pace.
It’s a huge thing to slow down in today’s world. To take a slow, long look at that wild trout. And, when the sunlight’s too dim to fish, to slowly relish the day’s adventures, seasoned with good food and, if you’re lucky, a good beer.
It’s all worth savoring.
To be certain, we lugged along a few new brews to the cabin during our Opening Day trip, but didn’t pass up the opportunity to try something from the tap during dinner at The Rock.
Told by the waitress that customers had complained that New Belgium’s Ranger IPA was too hoppy, Sean naturally went ahead and ordered it. Apparently those customers have sensitive palates. I’m not a huge fan of too much hoppiness on the back end, but even I found the Ranger rather mild. So did Sean.
Though not an extreme beer snob, I favor trying local suds, and opted to try Snowshoe’s Grizzly Brown Ale. (And, honestly, I felt an obligation to try the Grizzly as research. The Snowshoe brewery is an hour away from the cabin and will be on the itinerary during my brother’s visit next month.) I’ve grown increasingly fond of a well-done brown ale. The Grizzly didn’t disappoint, and it seemed that Sean might have wished he’d chosen it. It’s certainly dark in color, but semi creamy and not heavy as might be expected. A nice toasty maltiness gives way to a light hop finish.
Certainly a great way to finish a day of fly fishing.
From what I hear and experienced, it might just be a good thing if you missed the Trout Opener this year. At least on the east and west slopes of the central Sierra Nevada mountains.
No one’s outright said as much, but reports from the Eastern Sierra suggest that crowds may have been there but the fish weren’t. One particularly likeable report: “Bait slingers and trollers failed miserably on Opening Day weekend and 100,000 lives were spared!”
One small bass from the shadows of a small pond.
The same seemed to be true in our neck of the woods. A California DFG hatchery worker I’ve talked with over the years told of anglers grumbling that fish were nowhere to be found, despite the usual numbers being planted. (More interesting parts of that conversation will come in a future post.)
Not all went as we planned, but arriving in the Sierra foothills in the aftermath of Opening Day put Sean and me in a good position to fish and explore in relative solitude. Months of neglecting necessary fly fishing skills were soon forgotten and muscle memory was gradually regained.
Arriving before Sean and after opening the cabin for the season (thankful that pipes hadn’t burst during the long winter) it was time work out the kinks on the convenient Lyons Canal. Just behind town, it’s more accurately Section 4 of the Main Tuolumne Canal of the Lyons Reservoir Planning Unit. Built in the mid 1850s, it’s part of a network of canals — estimated to total 60 miles — that crisscross Tuolumne County. Though peppered with flumes and concrete in some sections, parts of it have been reclaimed by Mother Nature and now resemble a small stream carved into the rolling hills.
Like many moving waters, walking a short distance away from easily accessed sections is worth the little effort required. Stocked with rainbows, the canal is also home to a now wild population of brown trout.
Hopeful that the most important tool in my fly fishing arsenal — confidence — wasn’t lacking, I tested likely cut banks, boulders and shaded water.
Despite the lack of wildness of the surroundings — homes and a roadway are a short distance away — these brown trout are wild enough to scatter at the shadow of a rod or a less-than-light footfall. This requires casts well upstream of your position, with the best casts placing the fly no more than a few inches from the bank.
My first fish darted out from a surprisingly deep undercut four feet in front of me; eating a standard red Copper John nymph and barreling downstream into faster water. Nicer still, this was probably one of the biggest browns I’ve pulled out of the canal. It looked healthy, even happy.
Another brown from the canal…they do like hugging those banks.
Six browns of various sizes came to the net that afternoon, all seeming to eye me with what might be described as familiarity bred by a near certainty that we’ve met before. Thankfully, most are small enough to be released by freezer-stocking folks hunting the bigger, stocked rainbows.
Perhaps it’s a reflection of the intervening off-season troutless months, but the brown trout this year seemed feistier and their spots brighter than I remember.
I finished up the day, with long shadows creeping between shafts of the setting sun, tossing streamers into a pond on long-fallow golf course. Decent sized bass cruised the banks, but in such small water quickly disappeared into the weeds. A few of their offspring were fooled with streamers and trailing nymphs; the biggest was about eleven inches.
As the sun fell behind the tips of the pines, it felt good to have worked the rustiness out of my cast and rediscover the confidence that had been in hibernation.
The Opening Day rush should be over by now, which means I’m heading out the door.
On the way will be obligatory stops for supplies and fast food. I’ll warm up with wild browns just outside town. Sean will join me later this evening. The next three days will be focused on fishing, with high water and lingering snow dictating where.
Fly fishing, friendly competition, man food and beer. The stuff vacations are made of.
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Hoping to say hello again to a few of these wild guys...
It was the ride to the office yesterday that finally triggered that physical feeling that Opening Day is upon us. Despite the early hour — 0600 or so — the ride was comfortable, not too cold and not too warm. The sun was already burning away the coastal overcast, leaving behind clear skies.
Then it hit. Smack dab in the middle of my face shield. The first bug of the season. If I were to guess, I’d say something in the family Chironomidae. Trout food, particularly as pupae.
Until last year, it was imperative to depart Opening Day Saturday, immediately after assisting with a fly fishing class that I’ve been involved with for quite a while.
What changed? I’m certainly not self employed like the Unaccomplished Angler or retired like Mark (@Northern California Trout) and able to traipse off to fish whenever I’d like. I do, however, accrue a healthy number of vacation days at work and now consider it impolite to not use them.
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Stream X
What’s truly changed is my attitude about the start of trout season. Perhaps a modicum of maturity can now be ascribed to my fly fishing. Rather than stand shoulder to shoulder with anglers from “the dark side,” there’s a certain challenge in arriving on the few fishable waters in the western slopes of the Sierra the Monday after the Saturday opener. (According to Mark, this year more anglers may be crowded on less available water due to snow and ice at higher elevations.)
The more accessible waters have been flogged and the fish traumatized by flashy spinners and DayGlo baits, making it all the more challenging and satisfying to hook and land the fish too smart for not caught by these other anglers.
I hope to also visit Stream X, where unmolested wild rainbows likely will attack anything that remotely looks like food. It’s a bonus that this is the time of year when much of the fishing crowd won’t be out during the work week.
So, Opening Day I’ll be helping folks learn how to play and land fish on a fly rod. Sunday I’ll spend time with The Wife. Monday through Friday I’ll be fishing.
The thought last weekend was to get away for a rare five-day retreat, spending some time at the family cabin, entertaining ourselves with visits to wineries in nearby Murphys, squeezing in a bit of fly fishing on one of the few open rivers in the Sierra foothills and generally stepping away — far away — from the everyday.
We had enjoyed three weeks of spring-like weather prior to our departure, but the moment we publicly announced our plans, Mother Nature decided she knew better.
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A better use of snow.
The drive that got us up to Hwy 108 was easy enough, with stops along the way for lunch and gwaking at Bass Pro. It was after the last stop at Covers Apple Ranch that Mrs. Nature gave us fair warning with steady snowfall as we wound the seven miles to the eastern (and higher) edge of Twain Harte. By the time we reached town, the inches of snow that frosted the familiar with a fresh coat of newness also dictated extreme caution.
While I don’t mind clearing the white stuff to pull into the driveway or the nearly two feet of snow that that muffled and covered the world outside the next morning; I didn’t like the resulting power outage, the excavation of that 60-foot driveway a second and third time, and the increased release of water in the only nearby and fishable tailwater. Though we were thankful for the propane-fired heater, stove and water heater, the lack of power for 48-plus hours wasn’t fun. It was dark by 6:00 p.m. and it’s difficult to read, much less tie flies, by candlelight. Fishing was out of the question the next day as flows on the Stanislaus rose in 40 hours from less than 250 cfs to nearly 1,100 cfs.
We surrendered about 42 hours after our arrival. In that time I learned the value of a snow blower after shoveling the driveway three times, clearing an estimated accumulation of four feet of snow. (My arms agreed with rusty mathematics that suggested I moved over 1,900 cubic feet of the stuff.) Proving that Mother Nature maintains a healthy sense of irony, we were greeted by blue skies just as that last of the gear was packed into the car.
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Mother Nature, The Joker. The skies cleared after nearly four feet of snow snuffed out the power and we went about departure preparations. (More photos below.)
However, we both enjoyed being in a winter wonderland for a while, spending one afternoon tucked into The Rock resaurant with a good draught of Smithwicks ale, a few appetizers and a cozy view of dime-sized flakes floating to earth. I personally enjoyed introducing The Wife, for the first time in her life, to real, heavy snowfall. We also learned that the Prius can do well enough in the snow.
I don’t begrudge Mother Nature for cutting our trip short with piles of snow; it’s the resulting runoff that’ll keep the trout happy and make for excellent Sierra fishing in the late summer and fall.
I responded to Mr. Rosenbauer’s podcast of a week ago, “Gear Maintenance in the Off-Season and Ten Tips for the Aging Angler,” with a personal anecdote that there are indeed exercises that could help the aging angler. Though I have yet to be officially recognized for my longevity, a gym membership put to good use during the last year or so seems to have improved my balance during wading, something I attribute to core exercises, namely crunches, bridge, planks and rotational movements.
Admittedly, as a generally lazy meditative lot, exercise may be foreign to most fly fishermen, and the most widely practiced workout is casting, which coincidently builds up muscles used to also hoist a beer or scotch.
More of what we saw during our shortened stay at The Cabin last weekend:
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To the chagrin of some folks I’m not retiring like other bloggers we know, but I am “dropping the ball” this week to spend a little time in the Sierra foothills. It comes down to simple logistics. The family cabin is truly that; a few rooms insulated only by a couple of inches of siding, a simple affair with no connection to the Internet.
That’s not to say it’ll be time away from the everyday without sacrifice. There is a plan afoot to fit in some fly fishing — regardless of weather forecasts that include snow at elevations not too far from where we’ll be chasing wild trout.
I won’t jinx this unusual winter trip with any details, except to say that even The Wife has taken notice of my itch to fish and freely volunteered that I might visit one of the few open western Sierra foothill rivers. Maybe the feverish tying of flies and a continuous parade of fly fishing television shows gave me away.
It’s been more than a year since I’ve tested this tailwater. For the most part, I’ll be going subsurface, mainly through riffles and tailouts. Though this time of year it’s the more imaginative fly fishing technique nymphing that’s more effective bringing up the fish, with some luck late afternoon might include a decent blue-winged olive mayfly hatch.
To anticipate one question; no, I won’t be taking the new rod. Even it were fished, there be steelhead in this river and the one fish that broke me off in 2009 suggests that it’s better to carry a rod with a little more backbone.
Hopefully, I’ll be back with more than a tale of a riverside hike.
The reality of fishing is that more often it’s about people, the adventure that comes with it and what we’re taught than about the fishing. Sure, without the fishing you probably wouldn’t have made the trip at all, and the timing and location naturally center on when you think the fishing will be best, but regardless of the amount of planning every fishing trip is shadowed by uncertainty.
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Funky Fall Photo
Last weekend fall was in full force and winter’s influence was yet to be felt, but in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and foothills the name of the season regularly has little to do with the weather. Weather is never limited by the season there, or anywhere else, as I’m sure all five of my readers can attest.
Anyway, it was just after the first snow showers of the season that my son and I were enjoying an ‘end of trout season’ fishing trip on moving waters in the foothills in and around Twain Harte. It was the uncertainty that comes with fall weather that kept us to the west slope of the Sierras. This same weather was enough to keep a good many of the less hardy fishermen away, but that didn’t mean we’d be alone. These rivers and streams are within an easy two-hour drive of a few Central Valley cities and less than four hours away from the San Francisco area.
Regardless of a great summer, spring and early fall of fishing, there’s always a sense of urgency to land that one last fish of the season. As a father who readily allows his inner child to emerge there’s always a friendly competition between me and Sean. There’s little doubt that he can beat his old man at arm wrestling but, at least so far, he hasn’t when it comes to catching trout.
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One of the last trout of the season.
Fall on a few of the small rivers feeding into one of the reservoirs offers the thrill of hunting wild browns on the spawn. The last few years I’ve been lucky enough to land one of these browns, including a well-developed 14-inch male with a nice kype. That day, of course, the camera was not-so-handily still at the cabin.
Friday found Sean and me warming up at the small canal where nymphing generally means hooking more wild browns than stocked rainbows. The afternoon was cool and comfortable and overgrown sections of the canal could pass for a small stream elsewhere in the foothills on either side of the Sierras. During the summer, families equipped with spinning rods and bait casting rigs in every bright color imaginable usually line the banks, but this day our company was mostly limited to dogs and their owners out for a walk. We rigged up our rods, picked up a few fish as we walked upstream and called it a day when the growling of our stomachs was louder than the babbling water.
In the usual fashion, it was easier to wake up early knowing that we’d be hunting for browns, so we were out the door before the vaguest light of sunrise. The darkness gave way to the grayness that lends everything a ghostly appearance. We pulled on waders by flashlight and soon ambled down to the creek. The downside and upside to this creek is the abundance of easily fooled hatchery rainbows which we’d have to sort through as we sought Salmo trutta coming up from the lake.
The fish would be hunkered down and absolutely not looking up until midday, dictating an AP Nymph and a red chironomid pupae for me, two of my ‘confidence flies.’ Sean was similarly equipped as he headed downstream. I waded upstream to a deeper run. The rainbows didn’t disappoint, though most seemed to short strike the flies.
Eventually Sean moved downstream, confident in the stability, flexibility and healing ability that come with youth. Many of the downstream pools, pockets and runs are ignored by others, dismissed as to overrun by blackberry bushes and overhanging trees or deemed too small to harbor many, if any, fish. That meant more for us. Sean found the fish, hooking a few, though landing them seemed to be another matter.
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Sean and a nice rainbow.
I eventually joined Sean and we spent the late morning and noontime hoping to get into a brown between catching rainbow trout. A few of the fish that we didn’t land acted and looked suspiciously like brown trout; these un-netted fish appeared better proportioned, more of a torpedo than a football, like fish that, living in the wild, had to work for their food, unlike the stocked rainbow that tended to put on more gut.
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Me and a nice rainbow out of the run in the background.
The next few hours we returned upstream to pools and deep runs where the cookie cutter rainbows stacked up but offered a challenge through the fact that shortly after midday they developed a severe case of lockjaw. We met this challenge by changing over to small green midges and scuds. We did well enough, though Sean was remained a bit displeased that I was out-catching him. Despite my son’s complaint that I landed more fish than he, a gentlemen fishing just downstream offered perspective.
This older gentleman and a younger guy, wearing waders that were too clean and waving barely used rods patiently waited for hookups that never came. Chipping away at that patience, every ten to fifteen minutes, were the fish hooked and landed by Sean and I. Apparently it became too much. The older of these two gentlemen quietly waded to within a rod’s length of me. Tentatively and allowing that it was okay to refuse to answer, he asked, “Could you tell me why you guys are catching all these fish and we got nothing?” With a baffled look that turned into a grin, I think Sean learned that even without keeping pace with dad, he does quite well.
As for how I answered the gentleman from downstream, that’s something for next week.
Every time I load up to chase trout with a fly rod, it’s struggle to not read every possible fishing report. Anticipation is part of fishing. Anglers also dread hearing “You should have been here yesterday.” But reports the day before I would head into Sierra Nevada hinted that the timing of this trip couldn’t be better.
My ultimate destination would be Tom’s Place, a bump on Hwy 395 where I and 10 club members, when not fishing, would eat, drink copious amounts of homemade beer and sleep. When I scheduled this trip more than eight months ago, the date was adjusted so that I could commit to helping out with the club’s novice seminar. Which is why this year’s trip was a bit later than usual. Turns out that was a very good thing.
Hoping to avoid the throngs of early afternoon commuters, I was on the road by noon Thursday. It was unusually nice to travel quickly at my own pace down the highway with plenty of time to stop for lunch and visit Bass Pro Shops. So it was that I arrived at The Family Cabin with time for a preemptive attempt to prevent a skunking from even starting. Not too far away is Lyons Canal, really an irrigation ditch, where one can cast at suspicious water. It didn’t take long before I landed both wild browns and stocked rainbows. Trusting this was a small indication of what to expect during the next four days, I made tracks for a Mexican eatery in town. I couldn’t help but smile. I do like Twain Harte between the winter and summer, when the skiers and the tourists are long gone and the fish seem a tad more hungry.
The official plan was for club members to meet up early Friday afternoon at the rustic Tom’s Place Resort, but my intention was to beat the sun over Sonora Pass and arrive at Hot Creek by 8:00 a.m. My strategy was a hopeful one — beat the crowds that might force me on to less-than-prime water at this immensely popular fly fishing only/barbless hook/zero limit creek. I crested the final turn and neared my destination to glimpse a beautiful sight: an empty parking lot. I’d end up having the upper half of Hot Creek to myself for three hours under an deep and endless blue sky. I highly recommend it.
In the weeks prior I’d poured over past fishing reports, including my own, and tied flies I thought I’d need. Thanks to recent reports from a few DVFF club members, I knew that small would be the name of the game. However, with the creek still in the shade of the canyon and no visible insects hatching, it took a size 22 tiger midge nymph to dredge up my first fish; a fish that promptly reminded me that one does not trifle with Hot Creek trout. I lost it after only one jump. With that warning, I coaxed the next fish, a Loch Leven brown, to the net. I took it as a sign that this was going to be a good day.
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Hot Creek Brownie
Before continuing, let me describe Hot Creek to the uninitiated. It’s been called by many a fly fisher the most exciting and frustrating water they’ve ever fished. It’s relatively shallow and much of the year may be heavy with weeds. Sometimes it can be an accomplishment to get a drag-free drift of more than two feet. In between those weeds are the fish. Good-sized fish, and a lot of them. You can see them and they you. If you hook one, it’s not uncommon for it to be longer than 14 inches.
It didn’t take long after the sun touched the water for the hatches began. After ten o’clock, blanket hatches of caddis came in waves. They were many in number but thin little things. Not being the best dry fly fisherman, I trailed a size 22 blue winged olive dry (I later used a pale morning dun dry) behind a size 20 caddis, and used the caddis as a reference point as the smaller fly was often lost in bubbles on the surface. It worked well. Four hours later and after nine trout hooked and five guided to the net, I grudgingly headed back to the car. The crisp morning had given way to a beautiful afternoon, with the kiss of cool breeze to keep the heat from the sun at bay. It was fall in the Sierra Nevadas and the aspen leaves were becoming a brilliant yellow.
After stowing gear in the cabins and getting reports about good fishing on waters such as Rock Creek and the West Walker and Carson rivers, small groups headed out to various waters, some with the gift of size 22 dries for Hot Creek. Others headed up Rock Creek, while a few folks simply enjoyed the great weather and adult beverages back at the cabins. (One consistent lure for this trip is one member’s home-brewed beer.) While I played with the brook trout in Rock Creek, one of my gift flies was lost to a hot Hot Creek fish by the recipient. As the sun set, we sat down for man food: barbecue beef sandwiches and potato salad, washing it down with that first-rate homemade beer, and sprinkling our meal with tales of the day’s fishing.
Saturday dawned cold and sunny, with myself and an unsuspecting companion arriving at Crowley Lake marina to find the guide boat coated with ice. One of our group headed to Hot Creek for redemption after a scoreless visit the day before, to be joined by two other club cohorts. Five of our troupe were off to the Upper Owens River. Redemption was found on Hot Creek with a few of those 16” trout. The Upper Owens crew would later estimate walking 10 or more miles, but found fish along the way.
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Fish On @ Crowley Lake
As for myself and my fishing buddy, the powerful trout in Crowley Lake provided steady action throughout the day. (My friend Jay was quite surprised at the strength of even the smaller Crowley trout. Sore arms are common after a hote bite.) Highlights of the day for me were a 20-inch cutthroat and 20-inch rainbow among the many trout brought to the net. Another highlight was my first experience being taken into my backing.
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Big Crowley Cutthroat
Big Crowley trout tend to simply suck a fly into their mouth and keep moving. The ‘take’ can be deceptively gentle. Once the hook was set, however, this fish was off to the races. In short order it was at least 120 feet away. It jumped, and so did I and the guide when we got a look at a fish that we could only estimate to be ‘huge.’ But big fish don’t get big by being stupid. There was a lot of give and take during our battle. It seemed like 15 minutes but more likely 10 before the fight was again near the boat. To give the fish more credit than it’s probably due, that’s when it seemed to make a beeline for the anchor lines. During my effort to convince this fish to turnaround, I lost it. But what a day…
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20-inch Crowley Rainbow
Our evening was again a time for swapping tales, enjoying an awesome meat sauce and spaghetti, laying plans for fishing during our return home the next day, and trying to make sure our brewer would take only empties home. Morning seems to come early, but reluctance to leave stalled our departure. In my three years acting as ‘fishmaster’ for this outing (and yes, it’s only an act), this was the best. A perfect storm of great weather and great fishing (and catching).
Sunday, with an invite to join the Mom-in-Law for an excellent pizza margherita, I would have to head over Sonora Pass by two o’clock. That left plenty of time to fish. Loving the Tioga Pass area as I do, it was time to try my hand on Saddlebag Creek. Near 10,000 feet, it’s a small creek that emerges from a rock-filled dam that holds back Saddlebag Lake. The creek ambles through a small canyon before meandering into open meadows. Most folks fish it downstream near the highway. A short drive up a dirt road, however, gets one away from the crowds and into small brook trout country. Again it took small flies, dry midges this time, to entice these beautiful little trout.
Wanting to be closer to the pass when the time came to leave, I drove north with the intention of visiting the West Walker River. I’d heard it was fishing well.
But it seems that it’s difficult for me to drive past the East Walker River. Most spots on the upper section (above the bridge) were occupied. One, which I had fished before, was available. I’d have about two hours to fish. I ‘wadered up’ and wandered down to the river. Bugs were hatching. Fish were rising. Hopes were high. After observing rising fish for a few minutes, I quietly entered the water. Casts were made. An hour and forty minutes later, I could take credit for only two strikes. It wasn’t looking good for my unskunked record at the East Walker.
I subscribe to the idea that when in doubt move to new water. I edged downstream to find a nice if somewhat fast pool with a promising run above it and nice boulders below it. With nymphs set relatively deep, I began exploring the nearest seem. It took only three casts before a very nice brown volunteered to keep my record intact. In the next 10 to 15 minutes, I landed my first East Walker rainbow and two more browns.
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The East Walker Brown, aka Skunk Remover
The previous days’ fishing made the two-hour drive west over Sonora Pass a not-so-unpleasant affair. The Mom-in-Law, two family friends and I enjoyed an excellent dinner (and dessert) that evening.
Having a full day to make the drive home, there was no reason not to squeeze in a bit more fishing. After chasing wild fish for three days it’s somewhat of a guilty pleasure to drop by Moccasin Creek, but it’s sort of on the way home, and this time of year wild browns from the lake downstream mingle with the stocked rainbows. Best of all, on a week day you can have the entire creek, more of a small river, to yourself.
Indeed, I was the only one fishing. Yes, hatchery rainbows were stacked up where you’d expect them. There’d be no browns today. Nevertheless, this visit would be unique.
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Moccasin Rainbow
The first rainbow I hooked, not a big fish, maybe 11”, jumped at least five times before settling down. Most of the others did much of the same. Others screamed toward the weeds. These fish were crazy. It was silly fishing. Then they went insane. I’ve not experienced prolific hatches on Moccasin Creek. Today was different. Watch the video below, and you’ll see what I mean. They were going nuts.
That, my friends, sums up one heck of a long fly fishing weekend.
Oh, if you want evidence, here’s the pictures… (Use “Compatibility View” in Internet Explorer if pictures overlap.)
fishing for words 