Bear with me here as I’m breaking with standard protocol for a moment. Rather than posting about a fishing misadventure of some sort, or a gear review (which I don’t do, by the way) I’m going to wander off course and talk about something that might initially seem a little out of place on this blog: Kilts.
No, I’m not of Scottish descent, though my maternal grandfather did describe himself as being “Irish, Scotch and Dutch.” My father’s side of my family is fairly well German, and so to claim any Scottish heritage would be blasphemous and wishful. But there’s a lot I like about the Scottish people:
•Their accent is the best (and particularly Robin William’s imitation of it)
•Scotch. While I’m not a huge fan of their whisky, preferring a Canadian blend, I have done some extensive taste testing of several breeds of Scotch at my brother-in-law’s house (he is Scottish, by the way), and a couple weren’t too bad. Recently I had a chance to sample some Glenlivet, and if forced I could probably become a fancier of the stuff.
•Golf. I loathe the game of golf, and if the Scots did in fact invent the game, I won’t hold it against them.The Highland Games more than make up for the shortcomings of golf anyway.
•Bagpipes. They rock, literally – AC/DC, while from Australia, made sure of that. And Angus Young was born in Glascow.
•Lassie. She saved Timmy countless times.
Furthermore it’s been said, and Wikipedia (the internet authority on all things everything) supports the assertion, that modern fly fishing is “normally said to have originated on the fast, rocky rivers of Scotland and England.” That’s good enough for me. Then of course there’s the matter of a certain river in the northeast of Scotland, which happens to be the second longest and the fastest flowing river in that country: The River Spey. There is no refuting where Spey casting originated. Suffice it to say there’s plenty to like about the offerings of the Scottish people. Now, add the kilt to the mix. I’m comfortable enough in my own heterosexual skin to admit that I think they’re cool.
The traditional kilt is, as I understand it, part of a formal Scottish dress uniform. Maybe they’re also worn for casual occasions, but like I said, I don’t really know much about them other than I think they’re cool. I will, however, admit a bit of practical skepticism, as the traditional wool would seem a bit uncomfortable on hot days, and certainly there is the itch factor which cannot be dismissed. But the kilt has evolved over time, as the American made Utilikilt is a testament to. Men are free to embrace their inner Scot by wearing a garment that would make Carhartt proud.
For those who poke fun at the kilt as being somehow feminine, I would ask you to reconsider your position. Mel Gibson’s character in Braveheart, William Wallace – was he somehow a limp-wristed cross dresser? What about Liam Neeson’s portrayal of Scottish folk hero Rob Roy MacGregor – just another girly man in a skirt? I think not. I’ve never been one to think of a kilt as a “dress” as a few of my less secure friends on Facebook referred to them in a recent and lively “wall discussion”. I had simply posted mention of the fact that if I were of Scottish descent I would get me a wading kilt: One made of breathable Goretex-like material, similar to our waders. My statement was met with less enthusiasm than I had imagined. In fact, I’m fairly certain that at least a couple people have dismissed me as being completely daft. Frankly I’m a little surprised at the less than warm reception of my idea. Anyone who thinks a wading kilt would look ridiculous needs to take a good long look in the mirror the next time you’re wearing your chest waders – at least the kilt wouldn’t make your butt look big, and it would be perfect for the wet wading months. A wee tad chilly for winter steelheading, perhaps, especially since nothing is supposed to be worn underneath a kilt (or so I’ve only been told). But if you’re man enough to wear a kilt you won’t be bothered by a little cold weather, and a fleece-lined model could be designed for certain applications.
And the functionality doesn’t stop there. Anglers are constantly searching for the perfect gear-carrying device, be it a vest, lumbar (fanny) pack, chest pack, lanyard (for the minimalist), shoulder sling, etc. So, why not a wading kilt? It could have waterproof zippered pockets for fly boxes and flasks of single malt, retractors for things that go on retractors, a fly patch, loops for spools of tippets, etc. And it could even boast an integrated feature found on fish fighting belts: One of those reinforced slots for the butt of your rod when you’re playing that really hot fish. Like a big tuna.
Laugh all you want – I think I’m on to something big here. And in a year when Orvis announces their new breathable River Kilt, who’ll be laughing then, eh laddie?
In the meantime I’ll be digging deep into the roots of my family tree to see if I can’t unearth just enough Scottish blood to warrant my wearing of a wading kilt.
Gird your loins, and stay tuned.



one of the first things I learned to do was get a fly un-stuck from the many rocks I encountered. There’s an art to it that I haven’t fully mastered, but it’s safe to say that my fly un-snagging is better than my Spey casting. On a recent steelheading trip I was working a run below a tailout, swinging a streamer at the end of my Type III sink tip, and hanging up on rocks with amazing regularity. Now before you take pity on me, let me state that I felt pretty good about this because at least my fly was getting down where it needed to be. Having covered the run with no bumps from fish, I decided it was time to run with rusty scissors, and reached for nymphing rod–the “
Signs posted along access trails to the river make it clear: “There’s a mandatory retention of adipose fin-clipped hatchery origin steelhead”. As if they needed to remind us to kill hatchery fish, it would be good to take a fish home for the grill: Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler would be pleased with my offering since 95% of the time I come home empty handed (due in part to the fact that the majority of my fishing takes me to catch & release waters, and also because I rarely catch anything). So after the fish was quickly dispatched of, I took my turn at sitting on a rock. I removed my lucky fishing hat and scratched my head, trying to make sense of the whole thing. It evaded me then, and I still have no rational idea as to what was going through the fish’s head during the entire 2 minutes that I assumed I was hung up on a rock. I had stood there in the river waving yards of slack line–in essence trying desperately to remove the hook from it’s mouth–but it never moved during the whole ordeal. I gave that fish every opportunity to simply open it’s mouth and slip the hook–a virtual green light to freedom–and it did nothing. Maybe the fish itself was stuck–wedged between two rocks? No way–not possible. Maybe I was hung up on a rock or stick intitially, and then unstuck the hook and as it popped free it landed right in front of the fish, which casually opened it’s mouth and slurped the hook. Not likely. Steelhead anglers acknowledge that hatchery fish don’t fight like wild fish to, but this fish was exceptional even in that regard–it was a veritable sloth. My current theory is that perhaps the fish was just too tired to move, because that theory also maintains that this fish was the same fish I had nearly landed 5 minutes prior–you know, the fish that Albacore allowed to get free? Yeah, that fish was this fish.









So maligned is nymphing for steelhead that a recent thread on the very popular Washington Fly Fishing online forum saw 24 pages of 



hitting a long stretch of perfect dry fly water just prior to our take out. With each cast of my size 16 tan elk hair Caddis toward the brush on the river bank (where it would proceed to hang up on a branch) several dozen caddisflies would be shaken free of their perch and land on the water’s surface, where the trout would methodically sip the bugs while I fought to free my hook. When I did manage to avoid the vegetation and get my fly directly upon the water, it would be met with a rather lackluster reception from the feeding fish (read: Refusal). I won’t even tell you what Marck was doing – by now you’ve probably assumed that he was getting into fish, and your assumption would not be incorrect. I caught one fish that day, for which I was grateful. I’m not one to feel entitled, and I know that just because you’re fishing that’s never a guarantee that you’ll be catching. Still, one would expect more than one fish on a blue ribbon trout stream at the peak of hopper season.


















special little surprises cause our stockings to swell as they hang by the chimney with care. And even if it’s not what we had hoped for or thought it might be, it’s a surprise nonetheless. As kids, I’m sure we all faced a certain disappointment on Christmas morning at least once because what we had asked Santa for had apparently fallen on deaf ears, like the time a young boy asked for a Billy Blastoff and instead received a new pair of Sears dress slacks (hypothetical scenario only). As we get older, we realize that it’s not what’s inside that counts so much as the thought that goes into it – that’s part of being an adult. And it’s that same sort of rational maturity that allows us to actually believe in sayings such as, “It’s not the destination, but the journey that counts.” Another one comes to mind as well: “There’s more to fishing than just catching fish.”



together a box of highly technical flies especially for this trip: Stimulators, Royal Coachmans/Wulffs, Humpies, and some big Chernobyl stuff. Mostly red, as red was said to be the ticket on the St. Joe. Having only driven through Idaho’s panhandle at 75 mph on previous occasions, I was greatly looking forward to visiting a new area, and enjoying a couple days of easy catching. After recent butt kickings on the Yakima, and another trip to Yellowstone with Marck, my self-confidence needed some coddling. The stupid Westslopes would be just what the doctor ordered.
I won’t bore you with the rest of the directions, but suffice it to say it was a beautiful drive the entire way and we saw only one other vehicle, and that was some dude on a dual sport bike who was pulled over to the side of the dirt road wishing he hadn’t because what followed us was a plume of thick Montana dust which quickly engulfed him. Right on schedule, we arrived at the base camp at 10 AM and were greeted by Will Judge. I don’t meet many guys who I can look straight in the eye, but when I shook Will’s hand I did just that. With a welcoming manner about him, Will is a great front man for the operation and I liked him instantly (us vertically challenged guys have a common bond). After introductions had concluded, I made it clear that under no uncertain terms were Hal and I “partners”. One never knows what folks from Idaho think when they meet two dangerously handsome young men from Seattle, and I wanted to set things straight (pun intended) right away. It should also be noted that neither of us are dangerous, handsome or young, and only Hal is from Seattle. With a sigh of relief, Will introduced us to our horses and we set off up the trail. Barbara (Will’s wife and boss) would be expecting us for lunch by 1 pm, and Will was adamant about arriving on time, as if he’d made the mistake of being late for a meal once – and only once – before. He wouldn’t seem fully relaxed until we’d pulled up to the hitching post, right on schedule.

Plus, my brother is no spring chicken so I didn’t want to wear him out by leading him on a forced march up the trail unnecessarily (I’m gonna catch Hell for that statement). The Joe was running higher than average for this time of year due to a heavy winter snowpack and a long, cool spring, so some of the best water was difficult or not possible to reach. But I like a challenge, which is a good thing, because there is never a shortage of challenges whenever I fish. While struggling to entice a fish with my Stimulator, I had noticed the occasional hatch of small, tan-colored mayflies, and dug through my fly box to find a match, which I didn’t have. I tried close approximations, but the PMD’s and Light Cahills were too light; the Adams too dark. These hatches were not epic events, but when they came off, the fish wanted nothing else, and it had to be perfect. I was not prepared for this sort of encounter. This was an outrage – the St. Joe fish were supposed to be stupid! I thought about running back to the Lodge and demanding my money back, but Hal, always the voice of reason, talked me out of it. I think his exact words may have been, “Shut up and fish.”
couple respectable fish that afternoon, but there was also some carnage. Luckily I’d been gifted with 3 of these magical flies, because I lost two of them on a couple of very nice, fat 15 inch fish. The third and last fly nearly landed my best fish of the trip- an honest 17 incher that finally accepted my offering after an hour of ineffective presentations.








m a logo in exchange for some time on the water slinging a two-hander. Good trade for both of us, although I’m reasonably sure I got the better end of the deal: Brian was easy to work with, while conversely I think I tested his patience. The month was January when Brian first got me out on the Skykomish River for a day of casting instruction (and the distant hope of a hookup with a winter fish). I’d fished for steelhead enough times with my 8 weight single hander to know that catching was the exception to the rule, and to that end I was not disappointed on this first day out with Brian. The chance encounter with a fish didn’t happen, but l learned more in a day about steelhead, fly presentation and Spey casting than I could have learned in a lifetime of reading books and articles or watching DVDs. I feel compelled to note that I did purchase a copy of
And so a few weeks later I found myself on the banks of the Sauk River with still very little idea as to what I was doing with this long rod gripped tightly with both hands (and therein lies part of the problem – I need to learn to relax and loosen my grip a bit). I was properly rigged with a red and black marabou streamer provided courtesy of Brian (when you fish with Brian, black and red is the go-to combination, with the exception of course being red and black).




