Things only seem to be getting worse for Yellowstone. There have been so many reports of tourist idiocy lately that it simply boggles the mind. I posted about some of the incidents here:
Screen shot of video from Backcountry Image Photography by Andrew Kane
And yet, the madness persists. This video posted on Facebook just leaves me shaking my head. In the comments for the video someone used the term “Tourons” to describe these Tourist Morons.
Tourons. Brilliant. Now what we need are t-shirts, the proceeds from which benefit Yellowstone National Park.
If these Tourons keep it up, the Park will be forced to close its gates to the public and only offer guided tours.
2016 marked the 10th anniversary of my first trip to Yellowstone as part of the Firehole Rangers brigade. Back in 2006 it wasn’t the same core group as it is today: Marck was, and still is, our ring leader; Goose was there and always has been and Nash was there and mostly always has been. Jimmy wouldn’t come along for a few more years, and Morris, still the Rookie Ranger despite having completed his 6th deployment this year, would come along even later. And ten years ago the Firehole Ranger moniker hadn’t yet been established—that’s a term that was coined sometime in the past 6 years.
Despite that a lot has changed since my first trip, much remains the same, albeit with some slight modifications. One positive change over the years has been our departure time: Back in the early days we would leave Marck’s house in North Bend, WA at 4 a.m. and drive straight through to West Yellowstone. We’ve grown smarter since then and have been stopping, and fishing, along the way. Not only does this provide an opportunity to ply some fine waters, it also reduces the saddle sores. It doesn’t matter how comfortable a vehicle is; 11 hours in the seat hurts and the thought of doing the entire drive in one day is unthinkable. We ain’t as good as we once was (queue Toby Keith).
Jimmy and I departed Wednesday afternoon and drove about 4.5 hours to Post Falls, ID, where we spent the night. Marck, Goose, Nash and Morris would leave the next morning at 3 a.m. (which means that at least two of us were smart). The Rangers met in St. Regis, MT, at about 9A.M. where we gassed up, cleaned bugs from the windshield, and had some bacon. From there we proceeded onward to Twin Bridges, MT; the plan being to repeat the first leg of our trip from last year and fish the Big Hole River. We checked in with Seth McLean, one of two owners at 4 Rivers Fishing Company, got the keys to our lodging for the evening and received instructions to report to the shop at 8 a.m. the next morning. We also got some intel on what flies might catch some fish on a nearby river. With that, Seth rode off into the mid-afternoon on his 4 wheeler, but not before drinking a couple of our beers.
@4Riversfishing Seth enjoys the blue mountains of our beer.
It was decided that the Rangers would kill some time that afternoon with a bit of angling on the upper Beaverhead, so we hit the road to do just that, making a quick stop at Anderson and Platt Outfitters in Dillon so that a couple of the fellas could pick up their licenses. The guy working at the shop suggested a certain couple of size 20 bugs, and when one or several of us groaned at the suggestion, the employee pulled out a little devise and showed how it quickly and easily it threads tippet through a diminutive hook eye. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own failing eyes, and several of the Rangers walked out of the shop with one of these 20//20 Magnetic Tippet Threaders (the guy in the shop definitely saw us coming). I didn’t use mine the entire trip, but it’s reassuring to know that I now have yet another tool—somewhere in my pack—designed to enhance my fishing enjoyment.
They really do work as well as claimed.
Once we arrived at the upper Beaverhead near the Clark Canyon dam, we spread out; half the group staying near the dam while the other group ventured off down the road a ways. One problem with a group of 6 guys is that it’s not often feasible to squeeze everyone in on the same stretch of water. So, if you were Marck, Morris or Nash, you would catch a few sizeable fish just below the dam. If you were the UA, Goose, or Jimmy, you would find yourself frustrated in the quest to find wadable water elsewhere that wasn’t chock full of other anglers. The latter group caught nothing and declared the upper Beaverhead to be a lousy fishery.
Gearing up to fish the stupid Beaverhead.
Note: We floated the upper Beaverhead back in 2010 and caught scads of big fish. But in 2010 we were floating, in rainstorm that would have made western Washington proud. To be on foot, without good water into which to cast our flies, with the sun overhead, was another matter. It was a forgettable afternoon that, if you ask me about it in a year, I will have no recollection of. I couldn’t help but reflect on how remarkably (and painfully) similar it was to last year when we fished the Ruby (Note to self: if there is a dam, fish right below it. Do not proceed downstream in quest of better water).
After our afternoon wasted time on the Beaverhead we drove to Dillon for some grub before returning to Twin Bridges for the evening. Along the way we stopped to enjoy the view of Beaverhead Rock, a landmark that proved critical to the success of the Lewis and Clark Expedition back in 1805. I’m not sure that the others enjoyed the significance of the location as much as I did, what with me being a Lewis and Clark history geek and all, but since I was driving the Ranger Carrier, I was in charge. Historical significance or not, it is a view worth taking in, which we did just as the sun was set behind clouds that would not be present the next day.
Lewis and Clark also encountered Beaverhead Rock on their way to Dillon from Twin Bridges.
The next morning, promptly at slightly before 8, we showed up at the 4 Rivers shop, eager to repeat the successes of the previous year. In 2015 the UA personally had one of his better days on any river and expectations were high that the successes would be equalled or even exceeded this year (if so inclined the blog entry from last year can be found HERE). Seth and his business partner, Chris Knott (a particularly fine last name for a fishing guide) greeted us, as did Joe Willauer. Joe is a buddy of mine who used to be a fishing guide before tapping out and getting a real job a couple years ago. He is a self-professed ‘hobby guide’ who now leaves his cubicle occasionally to row a few sports down rivers.
If not for his sordid past, Joe could have a promising career as a politician.
In an attempt to hold onto his fishing guide past, Joe’s truck still resembles something a real fishing guide would drive, although now it smells less like a wet dog ass and more like baby diapers. And there’s now a child’s carseat in the back seat as well as Cheerios and Goldfish scattered about the floor, errant snacks from his 3 year-old daughter. The carseat afforded me a view I’d not otherwise have had as we headed off toward our launch point at Maiden Rock. Along the way we encountered a Montana traffic jam, not unexpectedly. When we arrived at the river there was a traffic jam of other sorts, again not altogether unexpected although we’d had the river nearly to ourselves the previous year. Apparently the sun had brought out every anglerman in the vicinity. We rigged up our 6 weight rods and waited our turn to launch. The sun shone bright overhead, promise of a rather pleasant day.
Montana traffic
More Montana traffic.
Marck and I fished with Joe while Nash and Goose were in Chris’s boat; Jimmy and Morris with Seth. As noted, Joe guides only occasionally so his boat is now less a tool of the trade and more of a fashion accessory. Accordingly, his shirt matched his boat. And the color of the sky. There would be no clouds to speak of all day.
Marck and the Hobby Guide
Due to the fact that very few folks have the attention spans necessary to read blogs any more, by now I have undoubtedly lost most of you readers. I’ll to cut to some highlights and leave all remaining 11 of you with a few photos:
• Marck quickly saw his backing when the spool of his reel flew off and the boat continued downstream at quick pace. Fortunately the spool was retrieved. Most of the backing was not salvageable.
• Joe’s soft hands and cubicle-induced shoulder atrophy caused him to struggle throughout the day. Whenever we anchored up to replace lost flies, Joe could be heard cooing softly as he enjoyed the reprieve from the arduous task of rowing. To encourage him I pointed out that there were two $25 Sears Gift Cards as a tip if he could just muster up the gumption to soldier on. He perked up at the thought of being able to purchase a couple more pairs of Dockers.
• We caught some nice fish but came nowhere near equaling the catch of the previous year. We did catch more whitefish however, including some rather nice ones, so there’s that. We didn’t catch the number of big browns that we had the previous year and Joe told us that a fungus has taken its toll on the brown trout during their fall spawn the past couple years. The largest browns we caught were maybe 18″. In a couple years there should be lots of bigger fish in the river again, assuming the fungus doesn’t continue to cause a decline in the population.
• We had a great time on a great river. The hired hands worked hard and put us on fish. Seth and Chris, the actual working guides, put the other Rangers on more fish than our boat caught, but that’s to be expected. Joe is still a great guide hobby guide to fish with and I recommend him highly. If you do seek out his services, just be realistic about your expectations. Contact him at Evolution Anglers, but don’t believe the outdated “About” page. He’s now Executive Director at Headwaters RC & D in Butte. Congrats on the recent promotion, big fella.
A fine Big Hole brown, cradled gently in the soft hands of the Hobby Guide
Marck finally sees his backing.
A beauty day on the Big Hole.
Lunch regatta on the Big Hole
Goose and a fine Big Hole brown
We departed Twin Bridges and passed through Virginia City, wishing we had a few hours to stop and check out the place (we say that every year). But we pushed on, wanting to arrive in West Yellowstone before dusk—before the large, cloven-hoofed critters come out to cross the road right in front of us. We made one stop in Ennis to clean more bugs from the windshield, then sped along the Madison Valley, past Three Dollar Bridge, the Slide Inn, Quake and Hebgen lakes, before arriving at our ultimate annual destination: The Ho Hum Motel.
After scribing the headline I realized the reference to “more idiots” might be interpreted as a references to the Firehole Rangers themselves. To be very clear, that was not my intent. The Rangers may be fools, but idiots we are not. Especially when it comes to wildlife and other hazards in Yellowstone.
Since my last entry, Idiots Invade Yellowstone, the Rangers returned from their annual pilgrimage to the Park. And in that time there were at least two more reports of incidents involving stupidity on the part of Yellowstone tourists interacting with wildlife:
A woman (whose country of origin was not noted) was knocked down by a cow elk after she got way too close. Read more/see the video HERE
An Australian man (not a Canadian) was tossed into the air by a bison after he got within just a few feet of the beast. Read all aboot it HERE
Both survived, only because Darwin is being too lenient as of late.
In another unfortunate and highly avoidable incident, a man fell into an earthen caldron of boiling water after leaving the boardwalk at Porkchop Geyser in the Norris Geyser Basin (named accordingly, I believe, because the water is hot enough to boil a pork chop). Sadly, he died. He didn’t need to. Story and video HERE.
The stretch of the Firehole River where the Rangers fish in the Park is riddled with thermal features and is home to numerous bison. It’s an area far from any boardwalk, with no signage warning of the hazards. Fortunately where we fish is also far from the hoards of tourists. It would be way too easy to get into trouble out there without a little common sense, which it seems far too few people bring with them when they visit Yellowstone.
Where there’s steam, there’s heat. Where there’s heat, it’s hot. Where it’s hot, it’s dangerous.
Those are bison. They don’t want you close to them. Give bison a wide berth.
Read, and heed, the warnings. It’s not that hard.
Every park visitor entering Yellowstone receives a packet of information at the gate. Clearly not everyone is reading it because the front page is filled with cautionary advice on how not to become a statistic. And translations are also available in multiple languages, so that’s not an excuse (hear that, Canadians?). Be aware, people. Stay alert and read the warnings. Oh, and also be aware of your personal space and those around you. Standing cluelessly in the middle of a very busy isle at the grocery store, while other shoppers are trying to acquire a can of air freshener for their musty motel room, is just plain rude. 请把移到一边。
OK, I’m done now. Let’s talk about fishing next…stay tuned for a report from this year’s trip.
The annual pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers is fast approaching, and while some may disagree, the idiots I’m referring to in the headline of this blog post are not the Rangers themselves.
As is always the case this time of year, my thoughts, and those of the others in our group, are consumed by Yellowstone. This year, however, Yellowstone is not only on the minds of the Firehole Rangers, but also at the forefront of the media. Yellowstone is a splendid place, but unfortunately the past few weeks have banner bad news weeks for Yellowstone.
First it was the story aboot the bison calf that appeared “cold”, thereby compelling a man Canadian citizen to load the newborn calf into the family SUV and drive it to a park facility. Seriously. After the calf could not be reintroduced to the herd due to having been slathered with vile, human scent, the young critter had to be euthanized. Here’s one link to the full story on ABC NEWS. Thanks, Canadian person, for being directly responsible for the demise of America’s newly-declared National Mammal.
The Firehole Rangers see bison in all shapes and forms each year, and more often than not the weather is less than inviting at 7000 feet in the Rocky Mountains. The bison often look wet and cold but never once have we imagined that someone could be so unbelievably stupid as to actually put one in their car. Oh, Canada…
A bison cow with her cold calf that we did not put in our car.
The following week 4 more Canadians engaged in behavior unbecoming an intelligent mammal by leaving the boardwalk at the Grand Prismatic spring and stomping across the delicate crust to the edge of the boiling spring to take the ever-important selfie. Huffington Post reports on that incident. High Life Hosers.
The Rangers have been to Grand Prismatic spring and never once, out of respect for the delicate environment (and personal safety), did we entertain the thought of stepping off the boardwalk. The closest thing to illegal behavior we witnessed involved a group of non-Canadian foreign tourists, one of whom had dropped the lens cap to his camera onto the crust of the geyser. But rather than quickly stepping off the boardwalk and easily retrieving the lens cap, this tourist group went to great lengths to avoid breaking the law. It was worth the price of park admission just to watch that drama unfold. Butt to their credit, they followed the rules.
No pants were torn, nor were any laws broken
Lest one should think the idiocy of park tourists stops with the two aforementioned events, there’s more! In April a visitor was caught on film doing something that’s hard to fathom. Apparently the woman (possibly Canadian, but as of yet unconfirmed) decided that Yellowstone is a giant, free range petting zoo as she not only violated the rule that clearly says to not approach wildlife, but she actually touched the animal. And not just once. Watch the video here. Note that the bull shakes off her touch several times (I counted 6). That was one patient bison. Not sure what she was smoking, but Darwin was watching closely and for whatever reason chose not to induct this moron on that day. The commentary in the video is spot-on.
The Rangers fish amongst bison every year that we visit the park. The massive older bulls, seemingly the size of black delivery vans, are often seen peacefully lounging by themselves while the younger bulls galavant in small bachelor groups. The cows with their newborn calves are grouped into larger herds. Without fail we see them while fishing the Firehole, and we always give them a wide berth. While bison appear docile this time of year, it doesn’t take a Canadian rocket scientist to acknowledge that these huge creatures could quickly dispatch of a comparatively small, slow, weak and often overweight, upright-walking mammal with opposable thumbs and what is more and more in question—a highly developed brain. Sometimes while we’re fishing the bison will approach our general direction, seemingly unconcerned by our presence, and certainly less impressed by our my fishing prowess. On a few occasions the beasts have been close enough to reach out and touch with a good cast. Even that is too close for me.
Fishing amongst giants
The warnings are clearly posted throughout the park in plain English. If by chance park visitors can’t read English, illustrations make the warnings pretty clear: “Don’t be an idiot”. I can think of a lot of more pleasant ways to die than by being gored mercilessly by an American bison.
Breaking through the delicate crust of a boiling geyser and quickly turning to human stew isn’t high on my list of ways to go, either.
Sign says: Don’t be an idiot
Note: Lest one should think this is an anti-Canada rant, rest assured I like Canada and have said as much, publicly, HERE.
If not for Jimmy being asleep at the oars (likely daydreaming of cotton clothing alternatives), I’d never have known there was such a thing as skivvies made from anything but good, old-fashioned cotton.
It went something like this:
Me, Jimmy and my much older brother, Hal, floated a section of the Yakima River that I had floated the week before with the Brothers Albacore. On that previous outing, on a beautiful day, we caught no trouts. In fact, not a single bump was had by any of us, unless you count Junior Albacore’s whitefish. Nothing wrong with that, particularly on a day when nothing else was happening, but a whitefish always seems like salt in the wound. Especially when it’s ass-hooked. For whatever reason, anglers seem to get their undies in a knot when they catch whitefish.
A week later and here I was on the same stretch of river, and things, which included beautiful weather, were shaping up to be pretty much the same as they had been the week before, save for the lack of a whitefish, ass-hooked or otherwise. Suddenly things turned on as Jimmy landed two smallish rainbows in the 10 inch range, followed by Hal’s 5 year fish (defined by my experience on the Yakima as a fish you can only expect to catch every 5 years). It was a solid, thick, 14 inch fish that, by the end of the day, was closer to 16 inches. A great fish that put up a very good fight. Being that we were in my boat and I was on the oars when all three fish were caught, I’ll take credit for that.
A 5 Year Yakima Fish
Then Hal and Jimmy took turns on the oars and things got quiet again, and remained so until the end of the day.
But the excitement wasn’t quite over just yet.
As we approached the Thorp takeout, I was fishing out of the front seat while Jimmy was on the sticks. I noted that the approaching bridge marked the location of our termination point. Right under the bridge. By the time we approached, it was clear that Jimmy wasn’t going to get us there, and we drifted quickly past. Fortunately the river is neither terribly deep nor fast here, but by the time the anchor was deployed we were 50 feet downstream of our intended goal. We hopped out of the boat into knee deep water and began to push and pull the boat upstream. The water was cold, and seemed to grow colder as it neared—and then passed— the inseam of my nylon convertible pants. Shrinkage ensued as we continued to trudge through hip deep water, not unlike Lewis and Clark as they pulled their keelboat up the Missouri, toward the ramp. When we reached our destination I acknowledged the sogginess of my cotton skivvies and mentioned that I was going to be going commando for the drive home. That opened up a conversation about synthetic underwear, the likes of which I had no idea existed. Jimmy, as it turns out, is a quite the afficionado of fast-drying, moisture wicking synthetic fabrics. And apparently one can purchase underwear constructed of these space-age materials!—who knew?! About that time Hal chimed in and between the two of them the discussion about high tech clothing reached feverish levels. As they jubilantly touted the merits of lightweight smartwool shirts I glanced down at my wet cotton t-shirt and slogged off toward the truck and trailer parked a short ways away.
Back at the truck I wrung out the bottom of my t-shirt and stripped down to my birthday suit, peeled off my waterlogged, cotton, tighty whities, and slipped back into my cold, wet, nylon trousers. By the time we had the boat loaded onto the trailer, gear stowed and were ready to hit the road, my pants were dry. The bottom of my cotton t-shirt, while no longer dripping, was still wet, and would remain damp when we got home a few hours later. My cotton skivvies were tossed into the back of the truck. They would be dry by the next morning, at which point I could put them back on and get another day out of them. Logically at that point I would turn them inside out so they could server another 24 hour period.
And so there you have it—tighty whities aren’t just made from cotton anymore. I suppose if Jimmy hadn’t overshot the takeout I wouldn’t have ever pondered the need for such a thing as synthetic skivvies. And while I don’t plan to go out and replace all my cotton, I can see they have a place in a world of wet wading.
It should be noted that Jimmy’s wife bought me my last 6 pack of cotton underpants. Maybe she’ll buy me the quick-drying variety next time.
Either that, or Jimmy is never rowing my boat again.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on the UA.
That could be due to any number of factors: lack of fishing and therefore fodder for scribing, lack of inspiration, too busy to take the time to post anything, etc. Whatever the case may be, I figured I better post something new, exciting and different.
Let’s talk about logos. Fly fishing logos, to be precise. I have designed a good number of logos for all manner of businesses over the past many years, and every once in a great while I get a chance to design a logo that pertains to fly fishing. When that happens it’s like getting paid to play.
I recently was privileged with the task of creating a new logo for John Hicks, a good man who is the shop keeper at Sea Run Pursuits, a guiding outfit here in the great state of Washington. John is a passionate angler of sea run (anadromous) rainbow trouts, also known as steelhead. Here is his new logo:
That got me to thinking so I decided to dig up all (or at least most) of the fly fishing related logos I’ve done and showcase them here. Many are on my portfolio (Itchy Dog Productions) website but I’ve not been diligent about updating that page. I also post project examples on my Itchy Dog Productions Facebook page from time to time.
Here are a few others.
Old Guys Flies. Tiny, High visibility (normally that would be mutually exclusive but not in this case) flies for those with challenged eyesight. These flies are a division of MK Flies, for whom I also did a logo, which makes for a good segue…
MK Flies is the home of the very talented tier of flies, Aileen Lane. Stop by and give her site a look.
Emerging Rivers Guide Services is owned by 2011 Orvis guide of the Year, Derek Young. Derek’s home water is the Yakima River, in central Washington. In addition to being a great guide, Derek is a passionate conservationist. He started and is currently president of the Yakima Headwaters chapter of Trout Unlimited.
Evolution Anglers is the website for Joe Willauer, longtime trout and steelhead guide with whom I’ve fished many times. He’s now a self-professed “hobby guide” because he traded in his waders for a suit and tie (or at least business casual). But Joe can still be found on the oars in rivers around Twin Bridges, Montana.
Exterus Outdoor Development is the soft goods brand of Allen Fly Fishing. I used to know a guy who worked there but he doesn’t work there any more. I still know another guy who works there, though.
Mystic Waters Fly Fishing is a Kenai River (that’s in Alaska) outfitting company owned by Fred Telleen and Stacy Corbin. Salmon and ginormous Alaskan rainbow trout are the game when they’re not in Montana during the off season. They also have a Facebook Page.
The Open Fly Podcast. If you read my last UA blog post you know that the Open Fly is now closed. But don’t let that deter you from listening to the archived shows.
Ah yes, the Outdooress. Remember her? At one time it was a very popular blog kept my the Outdooress herself, Rebecca Garlock. Don’t know where exactly she ran off to, but she is missed. She must be paying her hosting fees, however, because the site is still up and running.
Up the Poudre is another blog whose shopkeeper continues to pay the bills but hasn’t been seen in years. Too bad, too. Sanders was a splendid scriber of words and his thoughts were always engaging. I hope Sanders, and his bulldogs, are well.
ROAM Outfitters is a Bozeman based guide and outfitter owned by Brett Seng. I don’t see a ROAM Outfitters website where you can book a trip, but you can find Brett elsewhere, such as through ShuttleSnap or Brett Seng Photography.
The Sandy River Spey Clave takes place every year in Oregon. In 2014 I designed the logo for the annual event.
Scandalous Sticks is (or was?) a custom rod building business owned by Stephen Vance of Idaho. For some odd reason, the website is in Japanese, which makes me think that Mr. Vance no longer owns the url so I’m not posting a link to it here. I don’t even know if he’s still building custom rods, which would be too bad if he isn’t.
Steelhead Fly Anglers was a guide business owned by Brian Paige of western Washington. Brian still fishes, but he has a full time job that keeps him from guiding any more. He’s a great angler and teacher, and I’ll forever be indebted to him for learning me how to Spey cast and putting me on my first wild steelhead on the Sauk River years ago, when you could still fish the Sauk during the early spring season.
Tumbleweed Fly and Tackle is a retail shop in Prewitt, New Mexico owned and operated by David Goodrich. He didn’t always live in NM and fish for Muskies in Bluewater Lake, but he does now. Next time you’re in Prewitt, look him up. Where the hell is Prewitt, anway?
OK, time to get serious about fishing. The Rangers set out for their annual Yellowstone trip in about a month. I better start packing.
Maybe you didn’t even know about the Open Fly Podcast, or maybe you didn’t care. Either way, this is to let you know that our final show was posted in February.
When we recorded Episode 31 we had no idea it would be our last. Yes, we knew some changes were coming, since Derek had already uprooted his family and moved east of the mountains to be closer to his home waters on the Yakima River. But we didn’t realize that the physical studios of the Open Fly Podcast would be placed on the real estate market shortly thereafter. You see, Evan is also leaving town. That leaves only me, the official Third Chair of the Open Fly podcast, who remains here in the Snoqualmie Valley. I’m like the resident trout that never ventures far and chooses to live out his life in the local river, whereas Derek and Evan are like salmon, who were here for a while and then spawned and died. OK, maybe that’s not quite the appropriate analogy. Maybe they’re like steelhead, who were here for a while, spawned, and then left to venture back out to sea again. Whatever. I’m still here.
They are not.
I feel so alone.
We had a good run, had us some fun and along the way we met some great folks and talked about some worthy conservation issues. Maybe we even brought some issues to your attention, which means we did our small part for the betterment of fisheries all around the country and even into Canada (sorry for the Canadian jokes, Canada).
While there will be no new shows (unless one day we can schedule a reunion tour) the shows we did record will last as long as Evan keeps paying the web hosting bills. So go on back through the archives, pour yourself a soothing International Coffee, and listen to what’s there. Chances are the issues we discussed are still relevant: The Open Fly Podcast
I’ll be doing the same, and crying into my bowl of soup as I do. Rest assured it’ll be chunky soup—something that requires a fork.
After sitting out last year’s trip to chase unicorns steelhead in Forks with the Albacore clan (brothers Large and Junior Albacore, and their Pappy), I looked forward to joining them this year, if for no other reason than to enjoy their fine company.
Winter steelhead fishing is a dicey proposition in the very wet, very upper left-most corner of the continental United States. Forks, WA is located near the Hoh Rain Forest which is in the Olympic National Park. It’s called a rain forest for good reason: it rains a lot—like, 150 inches per year (that’s 12 FEET or rain). During the winter steelhead season it can be very challenging to plan a trip that doesn’t coincide with coastal rivers being blown out due to copious amounts of precipitation. The times I’ve gone in the past I’ve gotten pretty lucky—not to have avoided rain altogether, mind you, or even to have caught a fish–but to have at least encountered fishable rivers. When headed to this part of the country, to fish for steelhead this time of year, all one can do is hope that the heavy rains will be less heavy. Forge ahead with cautious hope. If the weather cooperates, that’s a victory. If a fish is caught, that’s a huge bonus. If a fish is caught while swinging a fly on a Spey rod, well, you best go buy yourself a lottery ticket.
The Snoqualmie River floods. Again.
The winter of 2015-16 has been very wet in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle proper (actually one of the drier locations in the region) has had “the wettest rainy period on record” according to local news sources. Officially, the rainy season is from October 1st through March 31st. As of March 13th, Seattle, which has an annual average rainfall of 36.15 inches, has racked up nearly 42 inches of rain (the average rainfall for that period is 25.97 inches). Rivers have been blown out on many occasions, and I’m not referring to just the rivers of the Olympic Peninsula. The local Snoqualmie River, which runs through the down in which I live, has flooded 5 times this winter, and winter isn’t technically over yet. But I digress, back to Forks. With an average annual rainfall of 99.5 inches, Forks is way wetter than the Seattle area. And remember, this has been a record wet year.
A bad omen.
We knew a storm front was coming in late on Wednesday, the day of our departure. It was going to be wet but we held out hope. Ironically I bought a couple bottles of Olympic Rain Natural Spring Water for the drive. I probably shouldn’t have. It wasn’t raining when we boarded our ferry crossing. By the time we docked on the other side 30 minutes later we could no longer say that it wasn’t raining. 2-12 hours later, when we arrived at our destination (The Forks Motel), the bottled Olympic Rain was gone, but the rain was coming down in buckets. And the wind was starting to blow pretty good, or pretty bad, depending on how one chooses to see it. We hunkered down for the evening, passing the time by enjoying a beverage or several and watching Big 12 Basketball. Well, at least some of us the others enjoyed the basketball part of the equation.
We had planned to fish with guides on Thursday. When we awoke the next morning a quick call confirmed we had already feared: there would be no fishing that day. It had rained 2 inches overnight and the rivers were all blown to smithereens. It was a rather dreary morning in Forks.
The bleak view from our deck.
It continued to rain steadily for most of the day, but at least the rain was also accompanied by a strong wind. And fortunately there was more basketball to watch. All day. A basketball game may only last an hour or so, but there were multiple games to be watched. It was one of the longest days of my life. During one brief reprieve from the basketball and rain, Large Albacore and I took a stroll around the block and contemplated engaging in some tourist activities. But even those businesses were closed. Soon the rain resumed so we made a hasty retreat back to basketball central.
Fortunately the tour buses were not operating.
The day did improve, however, and by afternoon a double rainbow emerged, giving us a small glimmer of hope that tomorrow would bring better things–that we’d be fishing. I also hoped that if we weren’t fishing the next day, at least basketball wouldn’t be on television the next day. One can always hope, right?
Would our luck improve?
The next day, Friday, we had planned to fish by ourselves. We did bring two boats with us, after all, so it would be nice to use them. Upon waking that moring we checked flows and it was determined that floating would not be an option. While the rivers were coming down, they were still way high, and the boats would remain on their trailers. To ward off cabin fever we hopped into Large Albacore’s truck and drive around looking at rivers, much to our disappointment. Everything was gray, from the sky to the rivers and everything in between. One might go so far as to say that there were as many as 50 shades of gray but I won’t go there. We decided to drive into the Olympic National Park and check out the upper Hoh, hoping that the farther upriver we went, the better conditions might be. We did not find much to give us hope, although we did wader-up and ply the gray waters of one run for about an hour and a half. Despite a solid 3-4 inches of visibility, fishing was an act of futility as there was just too much water. After losing my second fly to unseen rocks I was done. Large and Junior Albacore had no better success than me, although I believe they kept all their flies. Papa Albacore was the only one smart enough not to have donned his waders and strung up a rod. With age comes wisdom.
I assure you, there was a boot attached to the bottom of my waders.
Junior Albacore on the Hopeless Hoh.
A hopeless dreamer, Large Albacore practices his Spey casting.
Lest one should think things were miserably without hope, there were many good things about the day: the rain fell only lightly, the wind was fairly nonexistent, and there was more basketball to watch back at our motel room. We checked flows (again) and remained desperately hopeful that we would be able to get our boats on the water the next day. An unexpected call from the guide both surprised and delighted us: they had moved some trips around (meaning they had cancellations) and could accommodate us on Saturday, if we were so inclined. We were. And so we slumbered that night, dreaming of low rivers and plentiful wild steelhead.
We awoke the next morning hoping for the best, and while the best may not have been what we encountered, we noted that it didn’t look like it had rained all that much overnight. We checked the flows (one final time), and ate breakfast. When we met with the guides they were honest in their assessment: we could certainly fish, but it didn’t look very promising. We mulled it over for a few minutes and even went so far as to drive down the road to take a first hand look at the Sol Duc River. It was then that we opted to cut our losses and called fishing time of death at 7:20 AM. I honestly felt bad, and not for ourselves but for the guides. It had been a rough year—no doubt cancellations had been all too common. Top Ramen would continue to be their meals of choice for some time to come.
Rather than spend the rest of another day watching basketball, we decided to pack up and head home a day early. Being the eternal optimist that I am—able to always see things in their brightest light—it’s actually a good thing we came home a day early. Had we stayed until the next day we’d have driven home during another, even bigger, storm; one that brought with it very strong, damaging winds. The Hood Canal floating bridge was closed for several hours, which would have added at least 3 hours to our return trip. And 2 of the 3 Albacores had to then proceed east over the Cascades, where a winter storm was dumping a foot of snow. So, at least we didn’t have to deal with all that.
Put a fork in me.
I’ll leave you with a little Creedence Clearwater Revival.
For several years the UA has been pleased to offer a direct link to the latest edition Kype magazine, an online publication now under the jurisdiction of Aileen Lane, who is also the owner of MKFlies and a partner in The Old Guy’s Flies. She’s a rather busy person with a passion for all things fly fishing.
There may be an article by the UA featured in the latest issue, but don’t let that deter you. Show Aileen some love—click on over and check out the latest edition of Kype.
Look in the right sidebar. In technical-speak those images are called ‘widgets’. Click on the Kype widget. I’ve included a technical schematic below to help you navigate the confusing interface.
When first approached by one of the authors of a new book, The Confluence: Fly Fishing and Friendship in the Dartmouth College Grant, I was slightly confused. The first point of my confusion was, why would anyone select the Unaccomplished Angler to scribe a review of a book? Secondly, I wondered, what the hell is the Darmouth Grant?
I knew that Dartmouth is an ivy league college somewhere in New England, and I know what a grant is. But I was perplexed as to how one gets to go fly fishing in a grant? Likely a typo, I thought—perhaps the authors meant to title the book, “Fly Fishing and Friendship on the Dartmouth Grant”? If that were the case, how cool would it be to receive a college grant to pay for one’s fly fishing?! I wanted in on the secret, and so I agreed to review the book.
The (second) Dartmouth Grant
I soon learned, however, that it was I, and not the book’s title, that was in error. The Dartmouth Grant is not an allotment of funds that some group of guys received to cover their fly fishing expenses, but rather a ~27,000 acre woodland in the Northern forest region of New Hampshire. The area is actually known as the Second Grant, as there was a previous grant called the First Grant. The land was granted to Dartmouth College by the state of New Hampshire in 1807 and it has a long history of being used for timber harvest, but it’s not land to be lived on and thus the Grant has a permanent population of zero. It’s remote and rugged. A wild place. With rivers and trout. The Dartmouth website says this of the Grant, but I urge you to also read details given in the chapter of The Confluence titled, An Eddy in Time. It’s really quite an interesting subject—there’s nothing like the Grant out west that I’m aware of. We have land grant universities—in fact I attended, and graduated from, one (Go WSU COUGS!)—however that’s not quite the same thing. But I digress, let’s move on.
Tweed and fly fishing: England or New England?
From way out here in my upper left corner of the continental US, the term “Ivy League” conjures up somewhat negative images of elitist preppies destined for undergrad degrees in English before pursuing masters degrees and beyond, soon thereafter rising to the top of the economic pay grade and living large. So, when faced with the prospect of reading about ivy league fly fishermen, I envisioned high-brow anglers wearing tweed and gently casting delicate dry flies on silk lines with their fine bamboo rods. You see, New England may as well be Jolly Olde England as far as I’m concerned, and don’t the British wear tweed while fishing? To be fair, I did some research into the perceived stereotypes of Ivy League schools and as it turns out, my perception was not far off the mark for Princeton and Harvard and Yale. But Dartmouth is perceived as being quite different: “Really small, isolated, outdoorsy, rural, party and drinking a lot, conservative, etc.” OK, that works for me. And so, armed with my new insight, I gladly waded into The Confluence.
The book is about seven friends with two common denominators: First, they all attended Dartmouth (a long time ago, mind you); second, they all fly fish. With an average age of 58.79 years (at the time of this writing) they’ve been around the block a time or two and have stories to tell from their experiences. Their stories reflect back on 20 years of tradition in which they’ve converged annually upon the Dartmouth Grant to do what fishing buddies do: fish. But we all know the popular cliche, “there’s more to fishing than catching fish” and that is certainly true with this group of guys who call themselves “The Boys”. Those of us lucky enough to have a group of buddies we fish with regularly know that traditions are life’s prized possessions, and for that reason alone this book will resonate with you. My own group of compadres, The Firehole Rangers, is a lot like the collective authors of this book, only the Firehole Rangers are undoubtedly a lot less intelligent (due to inferior breeding) than the Dartmouth contingent.
The Boys of the Confluence.
I soon learned that The Boys of The Confluence are guys most any of us regular Joes can identify with. They like beer (despite that as they’ve aged and mellowed they tend to drink more wine now), and they like to fish. For most of us, that’s all one needs to know. One of them prefers wet wading over his antiquated pair of leaky Red Ball waders (nothing high brow about that), while another makes mention of having used an empty Crown Royal bag to hold fishing doo-dads (who hasn’t done that?). These are guys that lead everyday lives, and once a year they head out into the woods, stay in rustic cabins that they share with mice and snakes, eat Veg-All® and engage in the sort of thing most of us reading this review engage in: fishing and good friendship, not necessarily in that order. There may be sophomoric indulgences from time to time as well, such as fishing naked (see the chapter, Standing in a River, for more on that).
Each chapter is the unique reflection on time spent fishing in the Grant and it feels as though each chapter were written by a different person. That’s because that is exactly what it is: a compilation of stories by each member of the group. It’s a rather interesting means of approaching a book , although divvying up royalties may get a little messy. I’d love to see stories written in a similar fashion about our Firehole Ranger trips, but with the exception of perhaps Morris (and maybe Nash), the Rangers are barely capable of writing their own names, let alone composing intelligible words than anyone would want to read. Granted, that’s not the case with The Boys in the book—they all write good.
The first chapter sets the stage for the annual trip, detailing how each of them arrives at the Grant from their prospective and mostly-distant homes. It’s aptly titled, Coming Together, and you begin to get a sense of who they are—and what this annual trip means to them—right from the start.
In chapter 2, titled, The Origin, the author, new to fly fishing at the time, writes of his first time fishing the Grant, during which they encountered epic hatches and numerous and cooperative trout:
“We had discovered fly fishing. It was going to be like this every time. Bugs galore, rises everywhere, catching fish, and drinking beer. With respect to the beer at least, we were pretty accurate. But in twenty-plus years, The Boys and I have yet to see another hatch anything like that first evening on the Grant.”
A beautiful Dartmouth Grant brook trout photo by Doug Van Wie
The rivers featured in the book are wild and free-flowing, inhabited by fully wild, native brook trout. Stocking hasn’t occurred in the Grant for decades, so this isn’t some domesticated put and take fishery (which may be a prior misperception I had of rivers in the eastern US). I fully admit my naivete when it comes to any trout fishing east of Montana so it was quite refreshing to discover that there are un-dammed rivers in the eastern part of the country that hold wild populations of brook trout. Brook trout are highly regarded as a native char in New England, whereas they’re largely considered an invasive, non-native scourge of the rivers out West. In the chapter, Of Wild Rivers and Wild Trout, the author writes words that hold true where ever one is:
“The most important thing about chasing wild trout in wild rivers is to enjoy every minute of it.”
That’s something we can all wrap our heads around.
At the end of the book we finally ‘meet’ The Boys, with photos and short bios of each contributing author. Of course, by the time you happen upon this section of the book you already feel like you know them.
The book is 190 pages with several pages dedicated to color photos and images displaying art and handiwork created by the authors.
Pick up a copy of The Confluence—I’m confident you’ll be glad you did, and I know The Boys will be glad you did. It launches, officially, on May 3rd (2016), but for those who cannot fathom to wait until then, you can sign up for a signed, pre-release edition on the website.
Also, I recommend you visit their website, which has a great deal of good information not only about the book, but about the Grant, and fly fishing in New England. Plus a lot more, including some enticing recipes that do not include Veg-All®.
