Meat Eating Browns are on the Prowl!

One of my favorite streamers to fish for big browns.

 This is a report I had written up from a trip to the river this week but am just getting around to posting.  It's just a small look into the excitement that is fishing big meaty streamers.  It's an indulgence I don't often partake in, but one that I always wonder why not after an outing like this.  

The river I fish often is about to blow. Rumors of a big release from the Dam starting this afternoon and then doubling again by the end of the week prompted me to take advantage yesterday of one of the few remaining days this spring I may get to fish it. Although if it goes much higher we may be able to break the Drift boat out a little early and get some of the rust off my rowing shoulders.

With the river already having bumped up from 30 cfs to 222 cfs in the last week and the water running a little off color I decided to fling some streamers and see what happened. I certainly wasn't disappointed.

I fished a bank I have come to affectionately call "The Butcher Shop." It is a great Streamer bank with a shallow gravel bar along most one side making it easy to wade along that side and throw big streamers to the protected far bank that drops off quickly into a nice trough with a lot of overhanging brush, exposed rocks, as well as other cover. And to top it off the current flows through there at just about the perfect speed.

I started in at the bottom of the run in a shorter run before it drops off into a minor riffle and then dumps into another long run that lasts about 100 yards. My first cast the Conehead Zonker I was fishing pulled across the current untouched, but as it swung below me and came into view I clearly saw the dark form of a large fish on it's tail. I gave the fly a few twitches, but the big fish was not enticed and I watched the shadow dissipate back toward the center of the run. My heart was officially beating now.  Streamer fishing is not for the faint of heart, as I have had more heart stopping moments tugging big flies than any other type of fishing. I had several on this day and this was just the first.

A few moments later I learned, or should I say, relearned, a lesson I should have known...well okay...I knew better, but I failed to heed my better judgment. Never just assume that the 4x tippet that is already attached to your fly line is an OK choice, and for the sake of convenience ignore the nagging voice in the back of your head telling you to change that or you are going to regret it. Well that's exactly what I did. Anxious to hit the river I had decided to just tie the #4 Zonker on what was left of the leader already attached to my fly line, and soon I got the wake up call I needed. Off the bank came a hard crashing fish, he grabbed the fly and turned back to his lair in a flash, and I hardly even felt it. It was that quick, the separation of fly from the leader was swift and clean. Large fish smacking a moving fly on a tight line can make quick work of too light tippets. I humbly stood in the stream and did what I should have done 15 minutes before.

Back at it after re rigging a much stouter and shorter leader, I hit the short riffle between the long banks. Casting into eddies and pockets behind boulders along the far edge I was coming up empty for the first half, as I casted, and stepped downstream, working the bank thoroughly. At the bottom of the riffle there was a bigger eddy with a nice foam line that looked like a good place for a nice trout to lay in ambush. The streamer landed perfectly at the head of the little pocket and I began the strip. The fly had just entered the faster water when the surface exploded and I clearly saw a beautiful buttery brown roll above the water and come down on top of my streamer. I have had this happen a couple times when fishing streamers, and every time I can hardly believe my eyes. I think if I had a video camera and could slow it down and zoom in on the fishes eyes, you could see they would be glowing red. Sometimes these fish just get crazy mad. He grabbed the fly on the way down and I felt the heaviness for a couple seconds, but just like the other times I have had fish attack the fly like this, it was short lived. It seemed to be an attack out of anger rather than hunger, and that happens in fishing these meaty flies, but it didn't help the thumping in my chest any.

It was only a few casts later when my fly swung across the bottom of the riffle that I felt the hard strike and the heavy weight of a nice fish that played a little too close with that fine line and managed to hook himself. One thing I will say, I have never had a fish that hit a streamer, just roll over and come to the net easily. These fish were mad before, and the sting of the hook takes that rage to a whole new level. I finally landed this fish and it was a very fat 20 inch Brown that was as healthy as I have seen this year on the river.

Big fish like this are the reason I will occasionally fish streamers even in the midst of a heavy hatch, like the BWO's that were popping on this day.

As I continued up the run several more big shadows ghost up behind my fly as I bring it across the river, but none that are willing to take the plunge and grab a bite. Finally I came to a section with a lot of old dead branches hanging over and into the water, and in amongst them was a big nose rising methodically, probably to midges as I see them congregating along the current seam that feeds his little haven. It's a tough lie, and he's sipping dries, so I wonder how willing he would be to grab a streamer. It's worth a try though. My cast hit just above the brambles, and I let my heavy fly sink and tumble with the current into the big fishes feeding lane. As it arrived in the zone I could no longer see the fish, or the fly in the murky water but I figured it was time to start stripping it out of there. As I began the strip I immediately met resistance and felt the heavy shake of a big Brown's head. I managed to sneak him out of the bramble patch he was in without him wrapping me around a branch, and slugged it out with him in the middle of the current where fewer hazards existed. Finally a few moments later I was able to raise the big head and slip another nice trout into the mesh.

The day continued with this theme and by the end of a couple hours 7 big heavy fish had found their way into my net, all on streamers, right in the midst of a massive Blue Wing Olive hatch that I simply ignored.  What a day. Nothing like the heart pounding action when the fish are mashing streamers.

This nice fish put the finishing touches on a great day on the river.

Lunch Hour Fish

Something about going fishing in the middle of a work day makes the sport that much more enjoyable. Knowing that you could still be at work, but here you are knee deep in a trout stream, brings a new appreciation for the opportunity. I am lucky to work a half hour drive from a great trout stream. It makes for a long lunch but it is possible to get out to the river, fish a little, and get back to the office in a couple hours. Yesterday as I was sitting there in the office looking out the window at a steady drizzle, 45 degree weather, with no wind I couldn't keep my mind from wandering to the fact that these were perfect conditions for a solid Blue Wing Olive hatch. I figured sometimes it is better to scratch that itch and get it over with than sit around and daydream all day, so at lunch time I jumped in the truck and headed out to the river.

As I drove along the lower stretches of river I could see that my guess was correct. The bugs were hatching and the fish were eating. Little rings dotted the surface of each slow pool where another hungry trout had picked off a helpless mayfly.

There is a spot along the river I had always wondered about but never tried as it is tucked away neatly off the main road. I pulled off the pavement onto a little dirt track that led back to a big bend in the river. As I pulled up I could see the nature of the river here was deep and slow moving, and just like downstream, there were fish feeding in small pods throughout this stretch.

I pulled out the fly box, tied on a BWO Sparkle Dun type pattern I had tied a handful of over the last weekend and cautiously waded into the slow, quiet current. I tried to approach the first pod of rising fish from down river casting up and a little across to reach them and letting the fly drift back towards me. There were no takers. Wondering if by chance, in this slow current and clear water, the fly line was tipping them off, I changed my approach a little. I waded in above a small pod of feeders further up the river and fished downstream to them. This method is a little trickier as it requires more stealth as you are in a vulnerable position directly in the trout's line of vision. Secondly it is more difficult to make the cast and get a good drift. Because the current is moving away from you it calls for a cast which will stack up as much slack line at the end of your line as possible so there is plenty of slack to allow for the longest possible drag free drift.

I made my first cast to these fish from my new position and watched the fly drift very slowly in the current. I found my self straining to pick out the tiny fly, sometimes wondering if I was still watching it or a small bit of foam drifting in the current. Then as quietly as the hush over the surrounding hills a nose broke the surface and my fly disappeared in a swirl.

The silence was now broken as the fish pulled at the sting in it's jaw. Running up and down and side to side through the narrow river, it leaped clear of the water several times, crashing back down with a cacophonous clap. I tried to steer the fish away from the rest of the pod that had been rising hoping to get another shot at a fish from this pool but it was too strong and went where it wanted, at times bringing a screech from my reel as more line was stripped out against the drag.

Eventually the powerful fish was brought to hand, and as I rocked it back and forth in the current, reviving the big brown, I noticed the small ring of a gentle rise develop where the pod had been. Already the fish where back to the business at hand, sipping mayflies, and apparently not missing their comrade very much. Suddenly, the Brown made a powerful surge and bolted from my hands and I took a moment to let things settle even more. As I reconditioned my fly, working it into a buoyant condition again, more and more fish began to rise.

I ended up catching a couple more fish from this group in a mere half hour of fishing. Each one put on a aerial display similar to that first fish and tested the drag on my reel. After bringing the third fish to hand on the tiny BWO imitation the fly was already getting a little tattered. As I pulled it from the jaws of that last fish I noticed the hook was beginning to straighten out. There is nothing quite like a fly that has been so abused by fish it has been rendered useless. I then realized that if I didn't take this opportunity and leave now, I wasn't likely to make it back to the office at all that day so I reluctantly headed back to the truck. So now you know both the good and the bad of fishing on your lunch break. Sometimes the fishing is too good and you just don't want to leave.

An O Report

On Tuesday evening we arrived on the river at about 3:30 and pulled into a spot I figured would be good for this time of year as it has a lot of slower deep water where the browns would be feeding instead of spawning. I was not overly optimistic though about our chances as the wind was howling at 15-20 mph straight back up the river and the temps before wind chill where in the low 40’s. For some reason little mayflies do not like to hatch in these conditions so I did not expect to find fish feeding on the surface.

As luck would have it though, this stretch we were fishing happened to be a nice bend in the river that was just slightly sheltered from the wind. The wind was still blowing harder than I would have liked, but it was more manageable here. In this single length of river there was actually a decent hatch of midges and a smattering of Mahogany’s coming off and quite a few fish noses up peppering the surface. The midges were tiny, a pattern somewhere around size 26 would have probably done a fair imitation, and the Mahogany’s where sparse enough I was fairly certain that wasn’t what all the risers were after. I decided to go with a nymph rig with a bead head pheasant tail as my top fly to try to catch those fish looking for the Mahogany nymphs and a small Zebra Midge pattern for my bottom fly. Sure enough this was the ticket. It took one cast to hook into a nice 18 inch brown that took the Zebra Midge. It was just the beginning of one of my better days on this river.

The First fish of the day through a dirty camera phone lense

The Mahogany hatch did not last long as the wind was still a factor but while it was on I did catch two fish on the pheasant tail nymph. After about a half hour I did not see another mayfly and the rest of the fish I caught all took the midge pupa imitation.

The air temps where chilly and the wind didn’t help take the chill off, but with the fish eating constantly it helped take the edge off the weather. With 11 fish on the day I was determined to make it an even dozen and with the action as steady as it had been I figured I wouldn’t have to wait long. Sure enough, as the sun dipped quietly over the horizon, so dipped my indicator slowly under the rivers surface and another big trout took the tiny zebra midge. The chill was reaching bone deep and I knew this was going to be the capper on the day. I brought in a perfectly proportioned 20 inch brown much quicker than I would normally try and horse it in, and released it swiftly back into the frigid water. As we walked back to the truck my lower legs felt like lifeless blocks of ice but the smile on my face made up for that. It was another fine day on the water.

NERD ALERT! (Part 1)

Here is a short synopsis of my journey in fly fishing. I have always fished but I was usually content throwing spinners (and although some of them where rusty I am not talking about a spent mayfly laying flush in the film, see Exhibit A) for trout and plugs for bass with a spinning rod.

Exhibit A, the Rusty Spinner

I always wanted to try fly fishing but didn't want to fork over the cash necessary for my conversion. Then 5 years ago I got a fly rod for my birthday and it has been downhill ever since.

It started innocently. I was content fishing easy waters where you didn't even have to think about what was hatching. Just tie on a big foam hopper and throw it around the river and catch fish. It was fun and believe me it still is. I enjoy this type of fishing to this day. Then I started using nymphs but had little idea why they worked, I just knew they did. Then it was streamers which seemed a little like a reversion to my spin fishing days. Fishing streamers still is one of my favorite methods though because of some of the epic takes.

Then about a year ago I slipped deeper into the black hole. I bought my first set up for tying my own flies. This led to some exhaustive research on the bugs fish eat and how to imitate them with feathers and fur. It was not until I started tying my own flies that I truly started to get a grasp of what fly fishing was about. There are so many aspects to it, it is not just tying on whatever is in your fly box and hoping that is what fish are eating. Fish will tip their hand more often than not, but it is always a cat and mouse game. You CAN get lucky but you elevate your chances of success by having a little knowledge on your side.

So I guess it is time to face the facts. I must accept what I have become. A fly flinger that turns over rocks and examines strands of algae searching for signs of bug life. It's been a rather rapid journey but 5 fly rods later and with a fly box full of over 200 mayfly emerger patterns alone I can admit it, I am a fly fishing nerd. Mind you not as big a nerd as some, but I will get there someday, you will see.

Ever Had to Improvise?

My last fishing trip did not go as planned. Five minutes before I got off work I recieved a call about going fishing. No problem but I had none of my gear and my house is a good 25 minutes in one direction from the office, and the river is another 50 minutes from my house back past the office. Still I was game, but was in a hurry when I burst into the garage around 5:30pm and gathered up my gear. I set some gear down to run in to tell the wife and kids hello and goodbye, then with an arm load of gear I headed for the truck. All was well and on schedule.

I arrived at the river around 6:20pm and hopped out of the truck eager to rig up and hit the water. I put the waders on and went to grab my rod when I discovered it was not present. Somehow when I went inside to say my goodbyes I had to set down something and that thing was my rod. Then in my hurry to get out I had forgotten to get it on my way out the door. Not only that but I soon discovered that my vest was stripped of supplies as well so all that I had was my waders, fly box, and a spool of 4lb test mono. To make matters worse fish were rising all over in the pool I was parked at. It was pure torture.

Finally I decided to make a go of it with what I had. I headed down to the river and found the longest and straightest willow I could. I cut it off and stripped off all the extra branches. Then I tied about 25 feet of mono to the end and tied on a mayfly emerger. I quickly found out the purpose of fly line though as it was impossible to cast without the extra weight. So I worked on my fish stalking skills. I would work my way up to a rising fish trying to get within my 25-30 foot range. It was not easy because I needed to be upstream from the fish so that the current would carry my fly down to them. Being upstream I was directly in the fish's field of vision. I was spooking more fish than I was presenting too but finally got within range of one. Then my second problem emerged.

As I dropped the fly in the water and let it drift down to a rising fish it all looked good. When the fly passed over the feeding fish I was ready as it came up and sipped the fly. Perfect. Except for one thing. I had misjudged the distance by a few feet, and I had about 5 feet of slack that was impossible to take up before the fish spit the hook. So problem number two was line management. This made things even tougher as I not only had to stalk to within 30 feet of fish while in their line of vision, I had to be pretty precise in my judgement of distance so that the fly was entering the fishes feeding zone with very little slack still in the line.

Darkness set in before I had a chance to perfect my technique but I got a couple more strikes that I couldn't set the hook on because of slack in the line. It was tough but I feel in some way I was able to salvage a fishing trip as I worked through ways to hook a fish without a rod and reel.

Does anyone else have any improvisation stories about ways you have salvaged a trip into the outdoors?

Floating the South Fork of the Boise River

You would think we would have done this float about a hundred times by now. Since we live within two hours of a great trout stream with summer flows that are great for floating a drift boat. However yesterday we took the drift boat down the South Fork of the Boise River below Anderson Ranch Dam for the first time ever. It was a bit of a learning experience that went something like this.

Due to some other obligations we did not even put in until 4:00pm. We arrived right in the middle of a great Pink Cahill hatch but floating from a drift boat is not the optimal way to present small dry patterns to pockets of feeding fish. You only get one shot as you drift by and being as this was our first time floating this river we didn't want to do too much stopping, not knowing how long our float was going to be. After having a few flashes and a strike and a miss but relatively little action we were a little discouraged. Then the sun dipped behind the hills and almost all surface feeding activity halted on the river. With a still fishless boat of three frustrated anglers Kelly suggested I tie on one of my streamers. Fishing streamers from a boat is a blast as often from your elevated perch you will witness some of the most violent takes as a fish comes flying out of nowhere to attack the fly. I tied on a Zonker and we continued down the river. Action continued to be slow for a while until we drifted into a small side channel and I threw the fly up against an undercut bank and watched a torpedo blast it. Finally the skunk was off.

The Skunk Buster

It turned out we were very near our takeout and when we took the boat out with an hour and a half of daylight remaining we decided we could fit in an abbreviated float and give the streamers another go.

Reshuffling vehicles and the boat upstream about two and a half miles we shoved off into the current again focused on streamers. It didn't take long for this to prove a very wise move. As I was on the oars I noticed the opposite bank looked very promising and I didn't remember hitting it on the first float down. So I pulled a couple times to cross the narrow channel and Kelly and my brother Todd began working the bank with searching casts. It only took a couple seconds for the action to start and it came quick. Bang, Kelly got a strike, but it was gone, then wham...Todd had a hookup with a good fish. As we shuffled the net back to him Kelly set the hook on a healthy fish. After fishing for 4 hours for one fish we suddenly had a double. With all the action and the net passing back and forth we didn't get a picture of either fish as we wanted to get them both back in the water healthy, but both fish were pushing 20 inches without a doubt. It wasn't long and Kelly hooked up with another fish of similar size.

One of Kelly's bows

Then darkness settled in on us fast and by the time we pulled into the takeout again fishing was tough but it had been an action packed final hour that made for three happy faces on the drive home.

Everything Started Out All Wrong

So we went fishing today, and it was one of those days you just wonder when anything is going to go right. As I was getting ready to hit the water and stringing up my rod I kept having massive knot failures. I am usually not too bad at tying the knots I need to get out on the water but this was one of those days where every knot you pull on unravels or breaks off.

After what seemed like an hour of just trying to get everything tied together right I was finally ready to hit the water. I waded in and tried to throw a cast into a likely pocket of water but as my line piled up 10 feet in front of me I knew something was really wrong. I looked at my rod and discovered I had missed an eye when stringing the line along my rod. I had a two fly hopper/dropper type rig on but both flies were small enough I thought I could just pull them with the line back through the eyes and restring them back through. About half way through this poor decision I discovered it was not the easy way to do this, as the hooks would catch on just about everything they possibly could, making the task a little tedious. Finally I got them all back through and I looked down to make sure everything was truly in working order and discovered I had missed another eye in my restringing efforts. Now I was feeling like I was in one of those old fashioned silent comedy movies at this point. The term, running around like a chicken with it's head cut off, seemed to describe how I felt about my actions so far. Nothing I did was working out well. This time I wisely decided to just cut the flies off and restrung the line and retied the flies on. Finally this all went off without a hitch and after what seemed like a couple hours after arriving at the river I was ready to fish. Sheesh!

It turns out Kelly wasn't fairing much better around the bend. When we met up later I found out he had fallen in the drink once and then, while trying to portage around an inconsiderate fisherman that had plopped himself right below Kelly in the run he was fishing, stepped on a stick that punctured his waders with a thumb sized hole. This made for a wet day for him. Luckily the weather was warm this evening so he avoided hypothermia anyway.

Once the comedy of errors was over there were actually some fish caught.

Fish numero uno felt so good after the way this day started.

Same fish different pose

Here are a few pictures of Kelly caught in action fighting a fish.

ZZZZZING..........Still smiling despite the leaky waders!

Finally, the day ended much better than it started with this nice fish taking one of the Caddis Emerger patterns I have spent the last two evenings tying up. It was not the biggest fish I have caught but this guy gave me a run for my money. I would have to say it was the hardest fighting fish I have caught on this river yet. It pulled like a freight train and seemed to never get tired. A great way to end a day on the river.

Tying Zone, Step One is a Go!

As I looked around at everything I would need to get started on fly tying from scratch it became abundantly clear that my new hobby was going to get expensive quick if I wasn't careful. There is just so much you need when you start a new endeavor and have nothing. A good vise is about the only single item that will actually cost you very much itself. The rest is a whole lot of little things that can add up quickly. I decided to start with the big item, the vise, and work around that. After doing research and going into a fly shop and handling several vises I came to the conclusion that I had to have a Regal vise. Now this is probably one of the more expensive vises on the market but after seeing their simplistic and functional design, coupled with the ease of use it made it a no brainer. But buying a new Regal was not going to leave much room in the budget for the abundance of materials I was going to need so I started looking on eBay for deals.

There are people on eBay selling their life's worth collection of fly tying supplies all bundled together for prices that are very reasonable. Now I am no eBay whiz, this is for sure, in fact the only time I have ever used it, I used the "buy it now" feature so there was no bidding or anything involved. Just click and pay and I was done.

Being a rookie I learned a few things along the way, and had some fun. I started searching the site and found a whole set up, with a very good vise and a whole lot of materials, that at the time was very reasonable and well within my budget. There were 4 days left in the bidding for this set and in my exuberance I placed a bid right then and there. I was in the lead...for exactly 12 hours. Soon the item that had started out looking like a good deal was spiraling out of control in a price range that made me feel queasy. I bowed out. Then I found a great deal on a Regal vise. There were no materials with it, just the vise, but I figured I could always get the materials later. The deal on the vise was just too good to pass up. I started bidding early again and had the item won for a price so low I could hardly believe my luck. Then while I was at work the bid ended, and five minutes before it ended some one swooped in and outbid me, by $1. Oh the agony of defeat. Now this was getting my competitive juices flowing. Just the emotion that I am sure eBay thrives off of.

Determined to not be out done again I found another great deal on a whole package. There were enough skinned animals, and full bird capes in it to make any small fur bearing, or feathered animal very nervous, and a very nondescript picture of a vise with very little information on it. Now one thing I know through all this is I have done my homework when it comes to vises, and I was pretty sure by the shape of what I could see in the picture that this was an older Regal vise. Just what I wanted, a Regal vise with enough material to get me going and keep me going for a while. Time was running out on the item and the price was still right. I emailed the seller about getting more pictures of the vise to confirm my suspicions regarding it's maker, but it was the night before the items bidding was to end so I was not sure he would even get my email in time to respond. I withheld the urge to bid and simply noted the ending time when I planned to come back and make my move.

Time was winding down this morning when I jumped into the bidding. With 3 minutes left I placed a bid that put me in the driver seat with $21 to spare. Then I watched as the time ticked off. At two minutes all was well, no more bids. One minute, all's quiet...good. Then my cell phone rings and it is my lovely wife.

"OK I can talk and do this no problem."

Thirty seconds left, "yes, sweetie I will pick up some milk on the way home."

Twenty seconds left, 19...18...UH OH we have another player in the game. I was bid up. By now I was not sure what my wife was saying on the other end of the line, I was focused on the task at hand. I upped my max by 10 dollars with 5 seconds to go in the bidding and by the time the screen refreshed it had confirmed I was a winner! I felt like a champion. I had been beaten down by those veteran eBayer's for the last time. I went back in to check the bid history and sure enough, my bid had beat my wily opponents by 3 seconds...for the exact same amount. If he had entered one more penny or 4 seconds earlier I would be mourning my 3rd defeat in as many days.

The thing with eBay is, after you get that little thrill of victory feeling a screen pops up to burst your bubble.

"Payment options."

"Shoot, I knew there was a catch."

I never did hear back from the seller on what type of vise I just bought but I am not overly concerned as the tying materials alone in this lot where worth more than what I paid, and if my suspicions are true that this is a Regal Vise you will hear another round of celebration once I receive my item. Now I just wish I could buy that milk my wife asked me to pick up on eBay. That was kind of fun.

Another Fishing Report, This Time in the Form of a Poem

We had a good fishing trip to the South Fork of the Snake, but the sun may have fried my brain, along with the lack of sleep that comes from a fly by night trip like this. Obviously something has affected me. I am usually not quite this "good" at poetry:).

All told we boated somewhere around 20 fish and had numerous strikes and fish on that got away. Kelly caught the biggest fish of the day, a big brown pushing 20 inches, and I landed one of the bigger cutthroat, 19-20 inches, I have ever caught out of that river. Interestingly enough it was out of the exact same hole, and I mean exact, that I caught my biggest trout to date, a 25" Brown last September. What was really neat was that I saw him come up and take a fly off the surface just before we got there so I knew he was there when I casted into the hole but wasn't sure he would be coming back up for another bite. It is always fun when you have things come together so nicely.

Another somewhat interesting happening came when we went down one good looking side channels in the river. I was casting into perfect looking pockets and in the span of about 75 yards of river had five consecutive fish smash my big stimulator fly but no hookups. After taking some ribbing from the other yahoo's (my father-in-law and my little brother) in the boat I thought, "you know, I have been known to miss a few fish but that was just weird, I better check my fly to make sure it still has a hook." Really I had no expectation that there would be any such discovery but sure enough when I pulled the line in and looked at the fly there was a perfectly good looking #6 stimi with no hook. It had broken off mid shank. Not sure when that happened but I have a good idea that it could have been the result of one of my hookups with the thick brush along the bank and trying to yank the hook out of there. Anyway, it was another fun trip. Looking forward to the next one already. Pictures are soon to come, for now you are stuck with a goofy poem:

T’was the Night of the Hatch
By Benji

T’was a cool night in July, and all over the river
Not a creature was stirring, not even the beaver
The 5 weight was rigged, and leaned against the wall
Ready to go, for that expected call

Then it was Friday, and work was, well…work
And my casting arm, was developing a jerk
I clicked on a website, with remedies for this
The fishing report, said “’The Canyon’…can’t miss”
“The Salmon Fly’s, are hatching their way”
“Up, up the river, at a mile a day”
“By Monday” they said, “you can be expecting to see”
“Fish piling up, under each bush and each tree”
“Gulping huge bugs, as they slipped from the twigs”
“Fish with good size, some call them pigs”

In a flash it was on, I threw the gear in the truck
Said good bye to the family, as they wished me good luck
Barreling down, the freeway we went
One image in my mind, a rod that is bent
In the shape of a taco, and on the end with the hook
A big German Brown Trout, worth a second look

At Spring Creek we launch, with our heads in the clouds
Expectations are high; the call of the river is loud
The ramp is alive, with boaters bustling about
Here we are putting in, while they are all taking out

As we float under the highway the bridge fades from view
Leaving civilization behind, to see “The Canyon” anew
The sounds of the road die slowly away
Displaced by the sound, of the oars and soft sway
Of the drift boat, as it bobs gently along
In the current, that’s in tune, to nature’s sweet song

Casting in time, to an inaudible beat
To fish that we hope, are ready to eat
I get my first strike, yet it’s gone in a flash
But fish fever has set in, (minus the rash)

Finally a hookup, the brown puts on a show
Splashing and jumping, not ready to go
Into the net, and a quick, painless release
It swims back to its hole, with grace, and with ease
Ah, this is the cure, for the twitch in my arm
The river soft rush, has rung its silent alarm

The rest of the float, is more of the same
Big bushy flies are the pawn in this game
Under each grassy bank, there are trout eager to eat
Where the rivers swift current, and the canyon walls meet

As my mind, and the river sync up in their pace
I am glad for one day, I am out of the race
They say is for rats, but we do it each day
Hustle and bustle, to each make our hay
No matter how short, we make the best of these times
Even when they result, in these ridiculous rhymes

The Swan Lake Swan Dive

Well here we go with another story, telling on myself again. I really wish I could get out and get some pictures as that is what I like to do rather than bore you with semi humorous tales of outdoor adventure, but alas this is what happens when I haven't been out much over the last few weeks.

Often the funniest stories from our experiences come from incidents that at the time they are happening do not seem funny at all. In fact they can seem downright frightening, or just plain embarrassing at the time. Only later can we look back and have a good laugh once our adrenal gland has stopped pumping us full of juice or the sting to our pride has worn off. Take for instance a time I was on a solo backpacking trip in the Hells Canyon Wilderness to a little lake 11 miles from the nearest trailhead in, thank goodness, complete solitude.

My mission was to catch some vibrant cutthroat trout in the pristine waters of one of the more off the beaten track lakes in the area. After arriving at the lake, and setting down my backpack the first thing I did was, not set up camp, but grab my fishing rod and head for the nearest log jutting out into the lake to make a few casts.

In these lakes it can seem quite important to the exuberant fisherman to fling his or her lure to the very middle of the lake, even though a majority of the fish probably live somewhere much nearer the shore. In order to accomplish this feat a downed log that juts out in to the water can seem like the perfect casting platform in order to get you just that much closer to the middle of the lake. Of course, the biggest fish in the lake, unquestionably, live in those dark foreboding waters that nary a fisherman before has been able to reach. I found my perfect log near where I planned to camp and made my way out.

As I carefully balanced on the half submerged log out to the point it completely went under the crystal clear water I felt it wobble under my feet and wondered then if maybe this in fact was not the best log to be standing on. It would have to do though as I had one thing on my mind and that was getting my line wet and to turn back now would cost me a whole two minutes of valuable fishing time. I casted as far as my arms could fling the lure (no where near the middle of the lake), let it sink a few seconds, and began the erratic retrieve. Almost instantly I was rewarded with the strike of a nice fish. Everything was going just to plan to this point but things would change in an instant.

It all started with a harmless little bug, ok it was ferocious killer wasp, that decided my leg would be a good place to stop and rest until he felt up to continuing his journey across the lake. Feeling his creepy crawly legs as he shuffled around amongst the hairs on my legs my natural reaction was to lift up the leg, while simultaneously bringing down my hand to swat away the annoyance. This leaves me in the following precarious situation: standing on a semi submerged, and not so steady log, 20 feet from shore, on one leg, fighting a scrappy trout with one hand, swatting a pesky wasp with the other.

Now I am no balance beam gymnast, however I am not exactly uncoordinated either, but everyone has their limits. When I slapped the wasp he only did what comes natural to wasps, just as I had only done what comes natural when one feels something crawling around on your leg. He stung me. Several times. It felt like he just wasn’t going to stop. Well it was all too much and my precious state of balance had been sufficiently compromised and I took a sudden plunge into some very frigid alpine lake water. The water was just deep enough where I fell in that I couldn’t touch. For those wondering, yes, I did still hold on to the fishing rod and yes the fish was still on the other end probably thinking, “Wow, I actually might be winning this tug of war.” I can only imagine the stories he is telling his buddies right now about the time he, a little 12 inch trout, pulled a gigantic 6 foot man into the lake. The incident alone probably became legendary in the lake and he likely became very famous, possibly even gaining instant membership into the very exclusive “Middle of the Lake Lunker Club” usually reserved for the much older, wiser, and bigger trout. The deep dark waters there are a place often feared by small fish like him but he has free reign there now and the larger fish give him a wide swath remembering the legend.

Back to my end of the line, I gasped and sputtered to the surface. These alpine lakes are cold even in the heat of the summer and the surprise of it all added to the shock I was experiencing. I think there was a time where my brain just said “this is too much sensory overload, I am shutting down for a bit” as I really remember very little between this time and when I was safely wringing out my clothes on the shore. I had held on to the pole this whole time but the fish came unpinned somewhere in all my flailing around.

I have always been very glad that the access to this lake was a grueling, rocky 11 mile trail thus assuring me of solitude as I did my version of “Swan Lake” there on that log. Now had there been witnesses present they may have been able to see this as it was, a very funny incident right from the start, but I admit it took me a few sputtering moments to see the humor in what had just happened.

Mr. Bleep the Lonely Muskie

The following true story is actually only about one percent true, just enough to make you wonder what is real and what is not. The names have all been changed including the name of Mr. Bleep to protect the innocent, the guilty, and my own sorry self. Any similarities between subjects of this story and real live people should be considered a coincidence and a personal problem and should be dealt with in an appropriate manner. Preferably with professional help.

Mr. Bleep has always lived a fairly normal life by Muskie’s standards. He is just a regular old muskellunge fighting for his piece of territory in a cruel world where often, to Mr. Bleep, it seems that only the most devious and conniving Muskie’s get ahead. As a Muskie Mr. Bleep was used to all the stereotypes he had endured and the solitary lifestyle he was forced to lead due to a couple slanderous articles written about his fellow Muskie’s gone bad. “Muskie bites child, 100 stitches needed,” “Rouge Muskie on loose in Lake Winnebashabalarama, causes panic in townsfolk,” “Small deer swallowed by Muskie while attempting to cross Lake Muskellunge,” on and on they went, stories that struck undue fear in the hearts of fishermen, swimmers, ducks, and kittens. Mr. Bleep tried to not let these tall tales affect his attitude towards people in general, knowing that two wrongs would never make a Muskie loveable, but he found himself becoming more and more elusive and withdrawn as each story came to print. He would usually only come out of his hiding when driven by the severe hunger pains that would come upon him in a flash. He had discovered that a simple duckling or five would tide him over and he could go back to his humble lair to sulk again and wonder why he was so misunderstood. Meanwhile a little puff of yellow duckling down would float softly from his lips to the glassy surface of the lake. It was certainly a tough life, being a Muskie.

On one relentlessly humid afternoon in August on the porch of the cabin of the Muskie fisherman a visiting young, know-it-all, college kid named, uh…um well let’s just call him Joe, was sitting around waiting for the next mosquito to land on his arm so he could continue some ongoing testing of his longstanding theory in entomology, the theory of the exploding mosquito. The basis of this theory was really founded on some dedicated research done in third grade standing in the middle of a flood irrigated pasture teaming with the little pests, so its results were a little up in the air and unofficial but Joe persisted. The Muskie fisherman and his loving family could only stare in awe at the sight of actual, highly regarded research being done, right before their very eyes by a genuine student, of a very illustrious American university. The testing method used was to allow mosquitoes to bite Joe and when they got their pointy schnozzer down deep in his muscle fibers, he would flex as hard as he could, thus “trapping the mosquito” as the pressure on his sucker wouldn’t allow him to pull it back out. Joes unproven theory, then, was that mosquitoes do not have a shut off valve thus meaning the trapped pest would keep on taking blood but be unable to fly away until finally, BOOM, it finally exploded. Interesting theory, but all Joe ever got from it was a bunch of big itchy mosquito bites. After a couple hours of fruitless testing Joe got up to try to find some Benadryl ointment. As he ambled past the coffee table on the way to the first aid kit he noticed a book lying on the beat up old end table. It was a book that would have made Mr. Bleep cringe.

“When Muskie’s Attack.” A book by Joe P. Muskie Hater. A book filled with gruesome tales of Muskie’s and their apparent disregard for human life. However, Joe noticed that even with all the terrible, yet fascinating stories in the book there was a disclaimer inside the cover stating that most of the stories could not be confirmed as actual Muskie attacks and could have simply been the result of general human stupidity and/or drunkenness. So, Joe concluded, what they were saying was that the guy with the jagged missing finger he tells the ER he got while simply washing his hands in the lake, where a misguided Muskie mistook his wedding ring for the flash of a bait fish, could actually have been the result of some poor choreography in a ceremonial “fat, drunk, and stupid guy, pretend knife fight, with real, rusty knives” around the camp fire. Despite Joe’s previous behavior in this story with the mosquitoes you will have to trust me now, Joe, himself, denies having ever participated in such a ridiculous ceremony in his life. Joe, though, liked the thought that animals as ferocious as the mighty Muskie did in fact live in the waters surrounding the weathered cabin he found himself in.

Catching Joe reading his high class literature the Muskie fisherman saw an opportunity to really mess with the snooty kids mind and offered his boat and expert guide services for a Muskie fishing experience he would never forget. The plan? Get up at o’dark thirty, eat a breakfast fit for a grease fire, and slap the water with lures the size of baby gators. Joe could never say no.

Joe had several dreams that night, and they all ended the same way. With an elongated fish with huge fangs slashing at his lily white toes, which he had been instructed to dangled in the water over the side of the boat, as the now decidedly deranged Muskie Fisherman’s idea of chumming.

“Is this really why he wants me a long,” Joe began to question? “Am I just bait?”

After one especially vivid and terrifying nightmare Joe sat bolt upright eyes wide just as the Muskie fisherman stood over him holding a five foot long musky mount that had been hanging over the dusty black fireplace. Really, all he had wanted to do was wake the kid up in the proper frame of mind, ready to tackle the task of the day, but the timing became too perfect. Suddenly arising from a terrible dream only to open his eyes and see the gapping mouth of the mounted Muskie staring back at him with two inch incisors at the ready was a supreme catalyst for Joes fight or flight instincts. His choice it turns out was flight. Later, when Joe’s sobs had slowed to a reasonable interval the Musky fisherman went up on the roof to assess the damage done, and to consider the possibility of simply adding that skylight he had always wanted in the hole Joe made in his vertical escape. Then in his kindest voice he began to attempt to coax Joe out of the top of a nearby giant pine. What Joe decided he really would need to calm his nerves was a double latte, foo foo, mocha, frapacoacoa, whatever coffee drink that all the college kids were drinking in those days. Preferably in a double insulated Styrofoam cup with a prefitted lid to prevent spills, and one of those little plastic stirrers that Joe sometimes liked to see if he could use for a straw. Just another bit of research Joe liked to do in his spare time and why some said he had a narrow head. Sucking an entire Wendy’s Frosty through that small of a hole, while possible, does have long term affects. What he got instead was a cup of black, oozing, semi- liquid, more grit than not camp coffee in a metal cup with no handles prestirred by the Muskie fisherman’s mustache. And so began the day Mr. Bleep was named.

On the water the day began to slip into a monotonous rhythm. You see, Muskie’s also have another, far more reasonable, and accurate reputation. “The fish of 10,000 casts.” So the best way for Joe to improve his chances for success was to keep casting. Cast, retrieve (9,999 to go), cast, retrieve (9,998), cast, retrieve (9,997), soon the lack of sleep was catching up with Joe. The problem was the camp coffee was playing another game on the young fisherman’s nervous system. On one hand he wanted curl up on the floor of the boat and just sleep, on the other he wanted to climb out of his skin and with his legs churning in a blur like some hyperactive cartoon character zoom out across the water and see how far he could make it before he sunk. It was funny what a half gallon of black coffee could do for you.

It was nearing high noon when the boat pulled up to waters surrounding the island claimed as Mr. Bleep’s royal kingdom, and fate was set in motion. A bleary eyed college kid, a grim determined Muskie fisherman, and a misunderstood down on his luck Muskie all converging on this one point in time.

There was one word of advice the cranky Muskie fisherman had told Joe that soon would stick in his head, and for time to come cause him to ask, “how do you do that again?”

“If you see a Muskie following your lure” he had said, “when you pull it in close to the boat jab the tip of your rod in the water and splash it around, this will make the Muskie think its prey is getting away and could incite a vicious and fatal attack.” Then remembering the kid’s nerves were a little shot he had tempered his words. “I mean bite…on the lure...not you…I promise.”

Simple enough Joe had thought at the time. But Joe is a trout fisherman from a land where one doesn’t worry about dangling your feet in the water. He was not wise to the way a five foot long fish with a head shaped strangely like a gators, looks as it cruises up to within inches of the boat, especially when one is under the frayed nerve influence of dank camp coffee.

Joe threw his chunk of painted wood with wobbly plastic eyes and ominous treble hooks, which could double as an anchor in a pinch, out into a promising protected bay by the little island. Just like every other cast before this one, he retrieved it (9,322 casts to go). But this time as the lure approached the boat there was an odd presence ghosting along in its wake. In the ripples of the lakes surface it was hard to make out and comprehend just what this slow moving thing was. Then it clicked and Joe did what every self respecting person would do in this situation. He let out an almost inaudible “son-of-a-b#$%&” that had about as much life as the last words of a dying man in an old western movie. Before he could tell himself it was okay, “listen to the words of the wise Muskie Fisherman, rod tip down, splash around,” he instinctly yanked the rod UP pulling the lure safely away from any undue harm it may have been subject to in the mouth of such a beast. Sudden realization came upon Joe that he had failed at the one word of Muskie fishing advice he had received, Joe glanced over at his Muskie mentor and saw a big toothy grin had enveloped his face. He hadn’t seen it happen but by the sputters and coughs, the pale complexion, and the sudden cursing habit the usually mild mannered Joe had taken on the cagey Muskie Fisherman knew exactly what had transpired. “Mr. Bleep” he chuckled. “That’s his new name. We’ll remember he is here and come try him again later.” And Joe? Suddenly he wasn’t tired, and he felt surprisingly immune to the effects of the camp coffee. “So this is what keeps a guy casting” he thought. Cast, retrieve (9,321), cast, retrieve (9,320), cast, retrieve (9,319)…

Mr. Bleep slunk quietly back under his log and pouted. He had seen the fear in the kids face. The way he had reacted to seeing a Muskie up close and personal, and it just hurt too much. When were people going to understand? The harsh realities of Muskie life were upon him again. Suddenly he caught the movement of a young Loon’s frantically paddling feet out of the corner of his eye and he felt that little twinge of hunger. The Loon was at least as big as five ducklings. Being a Muskie was tough business for sure. But, he decided, when you are hungry it pays to have sharp teeth. He slowly moved off in the direction of the panicked Loon.

“It never hurts to check things out” he thought.

Becoming a Regular

**On these short evening trips to the river I have been focused on fishing since I am limited on time so I have not gotten the camera out at all. My apologies for the long pictureless post.

The fishing options around here have been quite limited lately with the rivers running high and muddy, the reservoirs in a volatile state of flux, rising so rapidly the shoreline changes everyday, and most of the lakes high enough in elevation that getting to them is pretty much impossible. In this area we are lucky to have a couple great tail water fisheries in the South Fork of the Boise River and the Owyhee River that are usually fishable even when everything else gets blown out. The South Fork has been closed, however, since April 1st for the spawn helping establish the next generation of fat wild rainbows on that river. Once you catch one of the brilliantly colored hogs that live there you never want to catch a hatchery pellet head again. They are one of the hardest fighting fish I have seen. This has left the Owyhee River as the main option around here for rivers and so I have taken the opportunity to get to know that river.

Last night I made my third trip up there in the last two weeks and although my first trip was the most successful the last couple have been exciting as well. Lucky for me I happen to work 25 minutes from my favorite run on the river so an after work jaunt is not out of the question and I have taken advantage of that fact on my last two trips. I can leave work at five, and be on the river fishing by 5:30. This gives me about three hours of fishing before it is time to head on home.

My first evening jaunt last week was not overly successful. In fact with three people fishing we caught exactly zero fish. I had a couple strikes on a Caddis emerger pattern and my father in law left a mark on a couple lips with a Zonker streamer but it was one of those nights I got caught up in the moment and was simply off my game. I can tell by the number of times I have changed my fly how well or in this case not so well I was fishing. Sometimes the hatches going on are almost too good and they get me out thinking myself. This was the case here. About 6:30 a fairly decent caddis hatch began and by then I had already tried my nymph set up that did so well the Saturday before and a couple different streamers trying to find the secret pattern. Well once the caddis hatch started coming off I began my quest to capture a bug to match the pattern as far as size and color. The caddis looked smaller than anything I had and being color blind it was easy for me to doubt myself on the color of the patterns I picked out. I think I tried three different caddis patterns over the next half hour with only one small bite on an emerger pattern I tied on as a dropper off my dry fly. The fish were quite aggressive in their pursuit of the natural bugs though and it was quite a thing to witness. I observed one young caddis attempting to stretch his wings but not able to get more than a couple inches off the water at a time. He kept frantically flapping, flying low for a foot or too then touching lightly on the surface of the river headed downstream. Suddenly from under the brush hanging over the bank I saw a dark form lurch out and grab the little fly as he skittered across the water. It was as aggressive as I have seen a fish for a while. In spite of this I was striking out in my attempts to imitate the skittering caddis. At about 7:30 the caddis' disappeared and a thick hatch of midges got underway. Again the fish didn't want what I had to offer and I continued switching it up every 10 minutes. I can't help but think that if I had stuck with one pattern during each hatch I could have had some success.

Last night I had slightly better success and again witnessed more interesting fish behavior in the process. The wind was howling down the canyon last night and there was no sign of fish feeding on top so again I started out with my nymph rig and vowed to not get caught up in the fly switch mode. I had no luck for the first half hour with the nymphs so switched to a streamer pattern. I had a couple follows but nothing seemed interested. Finally wading a narrow channel I actually had no intention of really fishing since it didn't look too promising to me I threw my streamer out and immediately had a big fish follow it. Then in subsequent casts I did not see him again. I figured the streamer was something that intrigued them but was obviously not what they wanted to eat. I switched back to my nymphs and immediately it was FISH ON! The first was a smaller 15 inch fish definitely not the one I had seen follow my streamer so I gave it another cast. Second cast, FISH ON! The channel I was fishing was so narrow I had practically been standing on these fish where they ate my fly. This one did not feel big to me when I first lifted my rod and felt it tug. But as I put some pressure on it I knew this was a nice fish. After he took a couple short runs I was able to grab him standing chest deep in the skinny run. As I went to take the hook out it simply fell out of the Browns mouth. With a flip of the tail he squirted out of my hands and back to his hole. I would guess he was a 20 inch fish but didn't have him in hand long enough to really be sure. He was alot fatter than the other fish I had been catching on the river as well, a real hefty fish. When I looked at my fly I saw exactly why it had fallen out of the big fishes mouth. It was as straight as a pin.

Those two fish on consecutive casts where the end of my success this evening. However later in the evening I witnessed something that made me question all my attempt to match the hatch so precisely in my last visit to the river. I still had my nymph rig on with a bright yellow and orange oval shaped foam indicator. I was drifting it through a run that had been good for me a week and a half ago. There had been no hatches going on and no fish rising all evening. Suddenly a fish attacked my indicator of all things. If I had a hook on that thing I would have caught a fish on an orange and yellow oval that looked like no bug you will ever see, on the surface. I don't know what that fish's problem was with orange and yellow ovals but it definitely had issues. Like I say it made me question how much thought I had been putting into getting the exact size and color of those caddis' that had hatched on my last trip to the river. I could have tied on something orange and yellow and caught more fish.

Relearning and Rediscovering the Owyhee River

Oregon’s Owyhee River has been in my backyard for most of my life. I grew up in Vale, Oregon within an easy 45 minute drive of the river and now live about an hour away in Caldwell, Idaho. I used to fish this river back in the days when it was an unknown commodity to the rest of the world, and I had the entire 12 mile stretch of river along the road below the Owyhee Dam to myself. I could show up on the river at any time of day and be assured I could fish my favorite spot, and even if I didn’t show up until the evening I could be sure that I was still the first one to fish that stretch that day. Those days are long over on the Owyhee River. It is now jammed with RV’s and campsite at every possible turnout along the river. Big sweeping bends in the river often have 4 or 5 campsites, all filled. Not many runs go a day without getting fished. And if you go, get used to the idea that you will probably be fishing to trout that very recently have seen another fisherman’s offerings. I lament the loss of solitude but I must confess the quality of fish has improved greatly from my first trips there. I used to be happy to catch 13-15 inch brown trout, now those numbers would be considerably below average on this river.

Now just because I live close to this Blue Ribbon gem does not mean I have made many trips out there. In fact I had not been back since my high school days until I made a trip last September. In that outing I remember getting frustrated by finicky, feeding fish I could see in nearly every pool slowly waving their body from side to side, then with no real sense of urgency they would rise up and gently sip a small bug from just below the surface, and just as deliberately descend again. They appeared to be the happiest fish one could possibly imagine, like there was no real stress in their life. Their slow deliberate dance seemed to say that if they didn’t want to, they wouldn’t need to be here gulping bugs down right now, because here in their river there will always be another epic hatch right around the corner on which they could gorge themselves. Meanwhile no matter what I threw their way that day they simply ignored it. Possibly laughing to themselves, “this guy thinks that with all these bugs in the water I am going to be the dumb fish that bites the one with a hook in it, FAT CHANCE!” It was exciting to see so many fish feeding all day long and yet very frustrating to have every offering ignored. When I fished the river back in the days when these fish never saw a fisherman, you could have probably caught them with a hook through a stick. Now these fish see so many artificial enticements that they have become quite adept at ignoring anything that looks “fishy.” So just last Saturday I decided it was time for me to put my skills to the test again and attempt to relearn how to fish the Owyhee River.

I hit the river at about 8:00am and took a quick scan of what was happening on the water. No visible fish and no bug action near the surface. This quickly narrowed the choices of flies down for me to streamers or nymphs. I started out with streamers. I had one take a nip at a big brown bunny leach pattern but it was obviously not that serious. That was the only thing even remotely resembling a strike for my first few hours on the water. I worked the run again with a different streamer pattern with no luck, and then tried a double nymph rig only to again be shut out. All this time the area I really wanted to fish in this run was not accessible due to what appeared to be a channel much too deep for wading that I would need to cross to get to it. So I decided it was time to move on and try another spot. As I climbed the bank to head to the truck I looked down and got a bird’s eye perspective of the run. From there I saw an area that I could see the bottom of the river all the way across meaning it was probably not really that deep. From water level I had not seen it, so I decided it would be worth it again to go down and wade across. As I fished my newly accessible area I again started by throwing a streamer up under the willows hanging over the deep slow moving channel. Again nothing. Frustrated I decided I would give the stretch one more try with my nymph set up and see what materialized.

At this point I was almost going through the motions. When one goes fishless for their first few hours on the water a discouragement can set in, which can make you feel it is hopeless and you probably won’t catch a fish all day. You tell yourself that it is ok, you are just glad to be out here breathing the fresh air, and hearing the slurps and gurgles of the rivers current but deep down you are disappointed at the prospect of being skunked. I was almost there, resigned to the thought that I was just here to enjoy nature and not really to catch fish. But a part of me knew what these fish where hungry for. They had to be eating something and there weren’t any bugs to be found on the surface and my streamers weren’t getting any action. Nymphs had to be the answer so I rigged up with the double nymph rig again and made my first cast slightly upstream. As the indicator drifted past me and came near the end of the line it slowly disappeared below the surface. I lifted the rod and instantly felt it, FISH ON! After landing a nice 18 inch brown I again cast into the same area. At almost the same exact spot the indicator went under again. Hardly believing that there could be another fish in that spot that hadn’t been scared out of there by the struggle the previous fish had put up, I lifted the rod tip, expecting that the fly had snagged on the bottom pulling the indicator down. Nope, it was another fish. It was a slightly smaller fish but even more feisty. In the span of five minutes my outlook had went from “Oh well, it’s just nice to be out on the river”, to “Wow, this is unbelievable!” After lunch I came back and figured what could it hurt to throw another cast into that same spot, and wouldn’t you know it I caught a solid 20 inch fish. I have always had a hard time believing that you could catch multiple fish on consecutive casts on a small river like this because I figured the fish fighting on the end of the line would scare any others in the area into hiding. Later in the day my lesson learned was proved again when I landed four more fish and hooked and lost another three fish in another short run.

From this trip I took a new appreciation for a river rediscovered. The Owyhee is a far different river than the one I fished as a teenager but this weekend it taught me a couple valuable lessons I hope will make me a better fisherman down the road. One, keep at it even when you don’t have early success and two; always, always, always make a few honest casts into a hole you just pulled a fish out of. In the end it will pay off. I look forward to many more lessons on the river.

This was a good 20+ inch fish

This silvery Brown was one of the smaller of the day but was a very scrapy fighter

Fish Number One of the Day

Episode One, The Persuit of Steel

As I stood there in the cold water, casting across a perfect run, I could just feel the anticipation building. This was it. This water had to yield something. It looked to good not too. As my fly swung in a perfect arc, it flowed across a slightly submerged boulder and suddenly I felt the subtle tap then the heavy pull as the large steelhead tried to make its escape. Setting the hook, I noticed the intensity of the fish increase as it felt the sting of the fly in its jaw. The silver bullet made a big run peeling line from my reel, exposing my backing, and making several leaps from the river, crashing back to the water each time angrier and more determined to get free. The whole scene was playing over and over in my head in slow motion, as I casted my fly into the crystal clear water of the aptly named South Fork of the Clearwater River in North Central Idaho. Yes that’s right. It was all in my head. None of it happened, but with every cast there was the chance that it could and that alone was enough to keep me enthused. My brother Tom, along on the trip to film footage for a possible episode for his website, was also keeping a positive outlook for our chances at hooking into a big steelhead. As we drove up and down the river in search of that perfect looking run he remarked often just how fishy the river looked. The river did indeed look perfect. But this would be my first time trying to fish for steelhead and to make things a little more challenging I was choosing to go at it with a fly rod.

In preparing for this trip I talked to a lot of people and the words I heard most often were “be patient” followed by “once you hook one you will never forget it.” I have heard rumors that steelhead fisherman, especially those who choose to pursue the fish with a fly rod are a different breed. These are people who under the best of conditions expect to catch one or two fish per 12 hours spent on the water. Now I should define the “best of conditions” for steelhead fishing. The season for these large, magnificent sea run rainbow trout runs from the fall through the spring, spanning the time of year most likely to bring in weather that would send the average person scurrying for the shelter of a structure, preferably with four solid walls, a good roof, and some form of heat. Steelhead fishermen however are undeterred by weather and in fact often find the best fishing coincides with the worst weather, thus apparently making them above average persons. Of course that too could depend upon your perspective. In my research I learned that experienced fly fishermen go long stretches, and even whole seasons without catching a fish and yet they keep coming back for more. I had to wonder what it was that kept them going and decided the best way to find out was to try it out myself.

A trait of fly fishermen I am finding happens to be the need for a different rod and reel for different conditions and types of fish. My decision to chase steelhead also meant I was going to have to buy my third different fly rod and reel. These fish will destroy a regular five-weight set up that you would use for trout so the first stop in my pursuit of steel was the fly shop at Cabela’s to get outfitted. Preferable rod weight for the Clearwater is an eight-weight rod with a good reel with an above average drag system. The guy who helped me out in my decisions just happened to be an avid steelhead fisherman himself and I found out just how serious he took it when he told me his own personal experience with the sport. “Steelhead fishing” he explained “helped me get through a divorce from my first wife, and was the direct cause of my second divorce.” Okay, maybe you can take this thing way too far, just like anything else. I explained to him I wanted a good setup that would hold up to the pounding a big steelhead could put on a rod, but was not ready to break the bank. I was still not too sure how much steelhead fishing I would end up doing. I finally got connected with a very good yet economical setup and joined the ranks of the three fly-rod owners. The fly shop salesman assured me that this rod could handle a Clearwater Steely as well as a Caribbean Bonefish and maybe even a Dorado in Baja. You would think owning three rod and reel combos I would have the whole spectrum covered but I am sure by next year I will have discovered a fish or a condition which will require a different set up than what I own.

The next few days were spent talking to those in the know, and doing a lot of research on the internet trying to figure out what my plan of attack would be. The biggest unknown in all of this turned out to be the river itself and how big the run actually was on the South Fork this time of year. The people I talked to said, yes there would be plenty of fish in the water, but often times I wondered if they really knew which area I was talking about fishing. Everything I saw on the internet looked like the run does not get real good up where I would be fishing until March. These conflicting reports had my outlook bouncing from high to low throughout the week. Finally I just set my mind to the fact that I was going to go up there and use all the techniques and info I had collected as best I could and let the chips fall where they may. If steelhead can be elusive when they are running strong in a river well, if nothing else, this would be good practice in the patience everyone advised me was necessary of a steelhead fisherman.

Finally, it was time to get on the water and find out just what steelhead fishing was all about. It turned out that the advice to be patient was the message that would ring true. I did not catch or even have a steelhead strike the whole trip, but I plan to take the advice to be patient and put in my time because even without catching a fish I managed to learn something new about why it is that I like to fly fish so much.

There is a rhythm to fly fishing that seems to wash out every distracting thought or concern. It is casting and stepping, to the melodious soundtrack of the river tumbling over smooth round stones and crashing around car sized boulders. The concentration and the attention to small details like the slightest changes in current or the perfect cast with the perfect drift keep you in a zone. Your mind becomes focused on the task, but free at the same time. I think sometimes we get too caught up in the need that for a fishing or hunting trip to be a success we have to have tangible results. I think this is why I enjoy fly fishing so much. Because I enjoy the rhythm and it seems to be all I need to feel free from any distractions. As my mind drifted easily with each cast I realized why, standing there in a steady drizzle, waist deep in 40 degree water, with air temperatures nearing the freezing point, and not catching a thing I could say with a straight face that this was a successful trip. I was here in one of the most beautiful places in the world, right in the middle of it. Not staring longingly at pictures on the web, or seeing it zip by at 70 miles an hour from my windshield. Nope, I was smack in the middle of the river soaking up every moment. Maybe Episode Two will produce the hookup they claim will have me addicted to steelhead fishing for life but for now I am enjoying mastering the art of patience. Don’t get me wrong I do enjoy catching fish but chasing steelhead has proven to me again that it is never all about the catching. The true reward is in the getting out and experiencing nature as it is, unpredictable.

I Fish When I Can

Even good plans can go bad but sometimes it doesn't take long to salvage those plans and forget all about the disappointments. On a recent trip to Montana for a family reunion I was looking forward to doing some fly fishing in one of the most heralded streams in the West. I am talking about Rock Creek in the Missoula area. The area is no secret but I could hardly think of being in the area and not fishing there. I dutifully bought all my licenses ahead of time and was all set to go when a terrible thing struck Montana. Wildfire season. And it struck Rock Creek hard. The road was closed down to all non local traffic by the time our vacation came along thus ruining those plans. Most of the other rivers in the state where also shut down at least in the afternoons due to high water temps from the scorching, hot summer. With no backup plan in sight and a limited time to plan alternate trips due to the real nature of our trip (the reunion) I ended up making a fine donation to the Montana Fish and Game for my unused 10 day license and conservation permit. I wonder if that can be considered a tax write off. It was, for sure, a disappointment.

On the way home there was some talk with Kyla about a possible stop along the Lochsa River in Idaho and, having missed out on my Montana plans, that became even more important to me. We made plans to spend the night in Grangeville so there would be no rush to get home. When we left Missoula Keaton was sleeping in his car seat just the way we like to travel but the plan was that when he woke up from his nap he would probably need a break so we would then stop. We figured this would take place while we were traveling along the Lochsa river so it would be a perfect opportunity for me to get out and wet a line. Well I was getting nervous when he was still snoozing and the miles were slipping away along with some great looking water. 60 miles to Lowell (where the Lochsa and the Selway join to form the Clearwater River), 40 miles, We gotta be getting close to that 20 miles to Lowell sign and he is still out. Finally I hear a rustle. Ah yes, just in time, he woke up and I started looking for the first good turn out.

We stopped at a promising little bend where some rough water tumbled down into a clear, deep pool with truck sized overhanging granite boulders. The water then moved out of the pool in the form of some wide, deep, moderately fast flowing water that looked like the perfect spot for a hungry cutthroat to lay in ambush for a half drowned grasshopper. I had never fished this river but in these summer months if there is grass by the river I like to throw out a big old nasty looking foam hopper. It's easy to see and fish will almost always go for that big juicy morsel. I told Kyla to give me a half hour. Then I realized it took me at least 10 minutes to get my rod all assembled and that hopper tied on. With the time crunch I didn't know what to expect but I was happy to get to stretch my legs and throw some line.

I settled in at the top of the water I had deemed likely cutty territory and stripped out some line. Casting proved quite awkward as I still was working out some kinks from the past couple hours at the wheel. I flubbed through a couple attempts, pulled my hopper out of some grass on the bank a couple times from some poor back casts and then finally got the rhythm. I got a perfect cast to the top of the run and let it drift through the slot. A couple perfect mends and suddenly, SPLASH! The native cutthroat didn't just sip the hopper he attacked it like it had wronged him in some personal way. FISH ON! It was no trophy but it fought a good fight, using the deceptively strong current to it's advantage. I brought the brightly colored fish to hand swiftly and a wave of satisfaction came over me. I love this sport. As it swam away back to it's ambush spot I wondered if it might have had a similar experience with another foam hopper and he had lost that battle too, but remembered it and thought "maybe this time I can win." Maybe that is why he attacked the fly with such gusto. Well the next time he sees one float overhead he may think twice. Or maybe he will be even more adamant about it. Maybe he is stubborn like that.

In the end I caught another brilliantly colored fish in some riffles below this run before I had to pack it up and get back on the road. It felt good to not get completely shut out on the trip, even if I only got 30 minutes of actual fishing in. It's the sort of thing that puts a bounce in my step and a smile on my face. Vibrant native cutthroats on a big old nasty foam grasshopper. Rock Creek? I didn't even know they had fish in that little stream.