Please note: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 precede this drivel. It’s your option, but I recommend reading those parts first.

The Madison at Three Dollar Bridge is a deceptively welcoming place.

The Big Hole. The Firehole. And now my nemesis: The Cornhole Madison.  With one of the prettiest backdrops imaginable, the Madison lures me in each year with its beauty, then kicks me where it counts. That river never treats me with much respect excepting perhaps last year when I caught 6 fish, which exceeded my total catch rate from the previous 5 years by 2 fish. That’s right—in the years from 2009 to 2013 I caught a grand total of 4 fish on the Madison (on some of those years not a single fish, while on other years as many as 2). Last year was an exception rather than the norm, and while I thought perhaps 2014’s outing might be the great slumpbuster, it turns out to have been merely a freak occurrence. If you’re really bored you can read about my first encounter with the Madison in 2009. That was a foreshadowing of my jaded relationship with that river.

The road to the Cornhole River

Bidding farewell Saying good riddance to the Firehole, we departed West Yellowstone after a stop at Blue Ribbon Flies for some bugs and intel. Jimmy may have also bought a new hat, bringing his total to no fewer than 5. As we drove along the shores of Hebgen Lake toward Three Dollar Bridge, the weather looked iffy. Rain was forecasted for later in the afternoon but it appeared we might get an early dousing. Thusfar on the trip we’d had favorable weather for avoiding rain jackets despite that it did rain every night of our trip. As we exited the mountains and descended into the Madison Valley the skies cleared and it was evident we were in for another fair day. We arrived in the parking lot where a couple of other cars were already parked. Sometimes we have the river to ourselves, but given the lower than normal flows the Madison had allegedly been fishing quite well and it was no surprise to find other anglers with the same idea as us. We geared up before taking our traditional team photo.

Team Photo, Take One.

As the designated photographer I carefully placed my camera on the hood of Jimmy’s truck, set the self timer, and promptly tripped while hurriedly attempting to get into the photo within the allotted 10 seconds. That blunder should have been a foreshadowing of the day to come, but I got up, dusted myself off and managed to get it right the second time around. Note to self: never stand next to the giant of the group.

Team Photo, Take Two.

After the ass kicking on the Firehole, during which my lucky fishing hat was intentionally left behind in the truck, I did not want to tempt fate again and so began the day by confronting the Madison head-on with the old stand-by lid atop my noggin. Marck, followed closely by Morris, headed across the bridge to the south side of the river while Nash and Goose fished upstream on the near side. Jimmy and I set off in the opposite direction to see about finding some decent water and willing fish downstream. Usually I fish above the bridge, but we’d received reliable intel that there was good water in that direction—we just had to walk quite a ways to find it. We bypassed a fair amount of water that doesn’t look particularly enticing before dropping off the trail to the river’s edge. Angling as we went, we plied the water at a few likely spots near the bank and deliberately worked our way downstream.

Jimmy confronts the Madison temptress

Putting the double rigged Turd/SJW dropper in front of, behind, and on both sides of the large rocks yielded nada, for me anyway: Jimmy had a fish or two in the first hour. As we continued our downstream jaunt we encountered another angler, also moving in the same direction as the river’s current. Rather than following in his footsteps I decided to hold back and work through some of the water we’d already fished. The plan was to be more thorough and cover some of the water further out from the bank. The main current was ripping fast, but there were some seams that likedly held fish, if I could wade out to them (I was able to wade out and reach some of that water but no fish were found to be there). Jimmy continued downstream. Another half hour had passed when the downstream gentleman came walking past me, headed back to his truck, his head held low. A brief greeting and inquiry revealed that he’d been unable to entice any trout but had caught a couple whitefish. He seemed like a friendly sort and looked like he knew what he was doing. I’d have felt bad for him except that by this time I’d have been happy with a couple whitefish. Even just one.

Having grown weary of watching an indicator, I decided to try a streamer since I enjoy that style of fishing. I tied on an olive Conehead Zuddler and on my first swing had a grab but didn’t get a hookup. I could blame the fish for being non-committal but in all reality I was rusty from not having had much practice of setting the hook for a couple days. Knowing that the fish, having tasted the hook, wouldn’t fall for the same antics a second time, I switched to a black version of the same streamer and repeated. Nada. Despite the rather cold reception the day was beginning to heat up. My head, under the not-breathable canvas of my lucky fishing hat, was caked in sweat. Jimmy was by now well downstream out of sight—in my estimation too far to walk in my breathable waders that weren’t doing a very effective job of breathing. I wasn’t enjoying my current situation very much so I opted to head back to the parking lot for lunch and a change of hats.

Lunch befitting an unaccomplished angler.

When I arrived there were a couple of more cars parked in the lot that hadn’t been there earlier in the morning: I pitied the poor fools that had showed up late with the hope of catching fish. None of the other Rangers were back for lunch, which likely meant that they were all productively preoccupied. I traded my sweaty lucky fishing hat for a cool cotton alternative, peeled off my equally sweaty waders and enjoyed a respite from not catching fish: the pre-made sandwich was good, the Bugles exceptional, and the Vitamin R was cold on this day, unlike the day before on the Firehole. A steady w#nd had kicked up and for once I welcomed the breeze, at least for the next 30 minutes.

As I was gearing up to face the opposite bank, Goose and Nash returned for lunch. Graham was in good spirits, having caught some fish. Despite having caught a couple fish, Goose was less enthusiastic: “I hate this f#cking river.” Marck returned shortly thereafter, and like always he downplayed his success. Morris could be seen frantically working the opposite bank as though he were on a mission. He didn’t appear willing to stop and break for lunch. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen.

Trying to catch fish on the Madison is like swimming against the current.

I crossed the bridge and walked a half mile or so upstream along the opposite bank. There are a couple spots where I had caught fish in the past, but I didn’t hold out much hope for the afternoon session. I was already a defeated man before even wetting my line. My ‘can’t do’ attitude was either justified throughout the remainder of the day or it determined the remainder of the day. I tried streamers again, unsuccessfully. I went back to the Turd and SJW dropper. Zilch. I reminded myself that I was on a beautiful river, in Montana; the Rocky Mountains within spitting distance. Once things were in their proper perspective, I found myself still loathing the Cornhole Madison and sat down on a log to ponder my fate. Opposite from me were a couple of the poor fools who had arrived late in hopes of catching fish. As I gazed from across the river one of them proceeded to land a very nice fish.

Open wound, pour salt.

At the pre-arranged time of 4pm the Rangers met up at the parking lot again and compared notes. Marck caught “about 20” (whatever). Graham caught 8 and noted, “I’m damn proud of it” (I’d have been even more damn prouder). Jimmy isn’t good at recalling his fish totals and guessed that he caught about 7, though Marck maintains that Jimmy had caught more than that before lunch. In predictable fashion Goose caught his standard 2 fish, which included a whitefish. The big surprise was that Morris caught only two this year—he generally does much better. But it had nothing to do with Morris—the Madison just sucks.  I took it in the brought up the rear with 2 fewer fish than Goose and Morris.

We piled into the truck and headed off toward our next destination. My arse was so sore from rogering I endured on the Madison I could hardly stand to sit for the duration of the 4 hour drive.

Would Rock Creek play nicely or earn a new nickname?

Stay tuned.

This is, as noted in the title, Part 3. So if you haven’t already, please consider reading Part 1 and Part 2 before subjecting yourself to this.

Why go outside, when you can go inside?

While the Ruby had welcomed 4 of the Firehole Rangers to Montana it was rather rude to Jimmy and me. No worries; as I said earlier the Ruby was just a quick sideshow and not one of our keynote rivers. The Big Hole was the highlighted river of the trip and it was on that storied water that we all enjoyed a rather splendid day and good fishing. The next stop took us 2-1/2 hours to West Yellowstone and our lodging for the next three nights: the Ho Hum Motel (known for cheap rates and cats). Not surprisingly the office still took our breath away—or at least Marck’s breath; the rest of us declined to accompany him to check in. He returned with the room keys looking as if he’d just seen a ghost tasted cat piss. Some things never change.

Firehole Rangers 2015

Jumping ahead to the next morning, we arrived at our favorite stretch of the Firehole. As we do every year, we posed for a team photo before embarking on a long day filled with abundant catching within safe proximity to bison. Sometimes we see entire herds of cows with their young calves, other times we see small bachelor groups. Occasionally the lone bull can be seen lounging alone in a thicket of pines, enjoying the solitude away from the young bulls and the cows and their offspring. Peaceful and quiet—sort of like when a man goes fishing alone. As expected the bison were there again this year: we encountered a small group of bulls that seemed agitated, snorting and grunting as we passed by.

One had a hump on its back; the other a hump on its backside.

Whenever I see a bison I always try to have a contingency plan at the ready should one decide to come too close and get ornery. My plan, if it should ever have to be executed, never ends well for the angler. Thankfully the big woolly beasts tend to be fairly tolerant this time of year. Wide berth, avoid eye contact, no red capes. It’s all good.

Marck fishes close to the original woolly bugger of Yellowstone country.

With the bison as a sideshow, the Firehole is all about trout and each year the river offers up many trouts to the Ranger brigade: strong, healthy browns and rainbows, mostly 10-12 inchers with the occasional bigger fish that Marck alleges to have caught. There have been high water years when the fishing was a little tougher than most years, but yea in and year out I catch 25-30 fish on the Firehole while everyone else does a bit better and Marck does a lot better. Swinging soft hackles gets it done, and rarely do we deviate from that methodology because there is no need. If a hatch comes off (usually BWOs and PMDs) obviously we change our tactics. But 99% of the time it’s the soft hackle game and we catch lots of fish, so it was with that confidence that the Rangers faced our namesake river.

At least the weather was good on the Firehole.

The weather is always unpredictable at 7200 feet and while there was no rain nor snow predicted that doesn’t mean much in Yellowstone country: you go out for a full day prepared for everything. Knowing that, I left my rain jacket in the truck, which was either a risky decision to run with scissors or just the result of an unintentional bad lapse in judgment. Or perhaps I simply forgot. Whatever the case may be it didn’t prove to be an issue because the gray morning soon gave way to mostly sunny skies and amazing clouds. We immediately noted the river was low. And warm. I took a temperature reading as soon as I dropped into the first run: 70 degrees F. We could have, and perhaps should have been wet-wading, save for the fact that the Firehole is laced with naturally-occurring arsenic. It’s always warmer than other rivers in the park due to the thermal activity all around, but it’s usually several degrees cooler than it was this year. Fret not, I reminded myself, these fish are used to the warm water.

Things started slower than normal and it wasn’t until my 31st cast that I had a grab on the soft hackle. Small brown, maybe ten inches. OK, I could relax now that the first fish was to hand—sometimes it takes a while to get into the rhythm of the river. Two hours later that rhythm still evaded me and I had still only caught one fish. I’d had a couple grabs but no deals were sealed and I began to question my decision to not wear my lucky fishing hat again—what was I thinking to mess with tradition, again? It hadn’t seemed to matter what hat I was wearing on the Big Hole a day earlier—anyone can catch fish when I guide holds your hand and tells you exactly what to do, right?

It didn’t take a heightened level of deductive reasoning to realize that the low flows and increased water temps were to blame. There were thousands of caddis skittering about the Firehole; something we don’t typically see this time of year. Things were different. The season was advanced over what it might normally be. What has worked every year in the past wasn’t working, particularly for me. I did manage to catch one fish on a PMD dry, and a black woolly bugger yielded one fish from a deep pool, but that was it for me. 3 fish on the Firehole—are you serious? I suppose I could say that I caught fish using a variety of tactics but somehow that didn’t make me feel any better about my angling prowess, and by the time I broke for lunch I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I had a warm beverage in my pack that wasn’t intended to be consumed warm. I placed it in the water to cool off before I realized it would never cool to more than 70 degrees and the arsenic might eat through the aluminum can. It was probably cooler than that in my pack, so I drank it warm. It tasted strangely like cat piss.

There’s nothing like a fine Vitamin R at river temperature

When I caught up with the other Rangers later in the afternoon they had apparently read my mind: the Firehole was not worth fishing the next day as we always do. Everyone else caught a lot more fish than I did but the catching was much slower this year.

That night over supper we decided to cut our Firehole session short and visit the Madison Cornhole the next day. It had been a strange day on the Firehole. Too warm. Almost tropical. Pretty typical of the strangely warm winter and spring the entire west had experienced. Goose decided to toast the day with a drink fitting the climate.

Nothing says fishing in Yellowstone like a piña colada.

So long, Ho Hum. See ya next time, West Yellowstone. Good riddance, Firehole. We’ll be back in less than 365 days, and as much as I hate to say it I hope the weather next year is more like it was in 2012. OK, maybe that’s a bit extreme; how about 2011?

2012.

2011.

The road to The Big Hole

Like the title says, this is Part 2. Go read Part 1 before you read this. Thanks.

We awakened to a cloudy morning in Twin Bridges, the ground wet from the previous night’s storm. Thankfully no moisture fell from the sky as we consumed a greasy breakfast at the Wagon Wheel Cafe before meeting up with our guides at at 8 am. While Joe, the hobby guide, stood uselessly by like an unsure freshman on the first day of high school, Seth McLean and Chris Knott (co-owners of 4 Rivers Fishing Company) shared some good news: the flows were favorable for fishing the Big Hole. And so we loaded up the trucks and headed off on the road through the rolling hills toward our destination.

The dirt road from Twin Bridges to Melrose resembles something out of a previous century when covered wagons were pulled by beasts of burden, men didn’t even know what skinny jeans were, and women wore bonnets. Ah, the good old days, when people died from injuries that would be considered minor today. Speaking of a previous century, if you believe everything you read on the internet, apparently it’s still illegal, in Montana, for married women to go fishing alone on Sundays (and illegal for unmarried women to fish alone at all). But I digress.

The good old days?

The road looks like it would overwhelm mud-rated tires during wet weather and clog air filters during the dry season. Certainly it wasn’t anywhere near dry enough to worry about the latter; fortunately it wasn’t so wet that we had to worry about the former. It should be noted that the road looked like it would beat the hell out of boat trailers all the time. On this day it was neither too wet nor too dry: perfect conditions came to mind and I hoped that would carry over into the rest of our day on the water. As long as the boat trailers held up we should be in good shape.

Looking upstream from our launch at Maiden Rock.

We made it without incident and launched by 10:30. The Big Hole was flowing at a good clip and is naturally dark—tea-colored—but clarity was good. We brought with us waders and rain jackets but shorts and long sleeved shirts were the order of the morning, and we hoped we wouldn’t need the rain gear. Cool, overcast. Perfect. Our boat assignments were such that Marck and Nash fished with Seth; Jimmy and Goose with Chris; and Morris and I drew the short straws and fished with the desk jockey. Despite our handicap we got into fish right away. Or at least Morris did, landing 3 fish in short order. We fished double rigs under indicators but it wasn’t your typical dead-drift nymph fishing: Sparkle Minnows and other assorted bugger-like streamers were used as the top fly with small droppers (and the occasional San Juan Worm). And a piece of split shot. You know, gentleman angling stuff.

One of several that looked small in the hands of a giant hobby guide.

The first part of the float took us through Maiden Rock Canyon where the Big Hole flows fairly quickly through a beautiful semi-arid ditch in the mountains. The fishing was fast-paced and Joe continuously barked insults offered enthusiastic instructions to Morris and I: “4 feet off the bank—right there..Not so tight! Put it in there again! Slight upstream mend—I said SLIGHT upstream mend! Now mend down. Set!!! Did you want that fish?!” Several times throughout the day we also heard, “Point at it and pinch down on the line! Sorry, Morris—I gotta pull over so I can re-rig your buddy.” I may have lost a few dropper flies to the stream-side brush. In fact I had a rough patch where it seemed I was hanging up on every other cast, however it’s rumored that Marck may have lost even more flies than me.

The Hobby Guide replaces another of my lost flies.

In my assessment and defense, it’s only when you’re losing flies that you’re fishing aggressively. Catching was pretty consistent, consisting of mostly browns and a few rainbows, but mostly browns: 12-20 inches. More on the larger side than the smaller. Maybe a couple of whitefish. Maybe even one foul-hooked, 20 inch whitefish.

Nash and Marck before one of their 3 doubles.

One of the other boats may have caught a brookie. We didn’t. There are also westslope cutts and bull char in the Big Hole, as well as Arctic grayling. Interesting fact: the Big Hole is the last habitat in the lower 48 for this native fluvial species. Despite the fact that I instructed Joe to put me on a grayling he was unable to hold up his end of the deal. I tried, but an angler can only do so much without support from the paid oarsman.

Officer Friendly.

In Washington an angler can go several years without seeing a game warden on the water. It was refreshing to see that Montana actually manages and enforces fish and game laws, with officers that don’t unnecessarily have a chip on their shoulder. At one point during our float we were politely instructed to pull over to make sure we all had licenses, that outfitter paperwork was in order, all safety gear was stowed appropriately onboard each boat, and that nobody was wearing any Columbia PFG gear. Check.

Morris complying with safety laws.

The catching was steady throughout the first half of the day and the weather held despite a couple fits of wind that were more annoying than troublesome. At one point after catching another nice brown, Joe made mention of an improvement in my hook setting skills over the last time we fished together, which had been for steelhead 3 years earlier on the Olympic peninsula. His praise was transparent; it was obvious he was simply trying to ensure that he received a tip at the end of the day. I kept a golf clicker in my pocket to keep track of his wisecracks and insults, and this back-handed compliment was duly noted: two clicks. The matter of a tip was still not guaranteed.  We broke for lunch with the other two boats and compared notes: everyone was catching fish. All were enjoying themselves. Seth and Chris were working their butts off. Joe talked of his dream to one day start his own guiding outfit: Shattered Dreams Guide Service, where “Fishing is easy when you stand there and a guide yells at you with exact instructions on what to do.”

Lunch regatta.

After lunch we fished on through the last stretch of the canyon before the Big Hole emerged into a wide, flat valley lined by stands of cottonwoods, working ranches and quaint little Montana vacation homes.

Slum housing of the downtrodden.

Once out of the canyon the river slows considerably from its previously hurried pace, but catching remained quite good until 5:30 pm when our float terminated at Brownes Bridge. We’d covered over 15 miles of river and there was never enough time between fish to get discouraged. I don’t consciously count fish unless I’m not doing well, and then it’s not something I can help but do because the math is easy. In Joe’s estimation our boat had 20 fish apiece to the net plus several other “missed opportunities”. Neither Marck nor Graham recall exactly how many fish they had: Marck says, “12-15. Not sure.” Nash claims that Marck caught around 20 fish. One thing they do recall with accuracy is that they had 3 doubles. That’s cute. Goose and Jimmy refused to discuss their approximate total fish counts.

It was a great day and collectively the Rangers would all agree that our guides were all awesome (including Joe). They worked hard all day long, fishing one side of the river and then immediately switching to the other side to put us on the best water. In particular, Morris and I appreciated Joe’s hard work and rewarded him with a handsome $20 tip and a used Starbucks gift card with $5 remaining on the balance. Buy yourself a nice mocha next time you’re in Butte, buddy.

That evening, as we departed Twin Bridges for West Yellowstone and the next leg of our journey, there was a swagger in our steps. The Firehole Rangers had finally met the Big Hole; we kicked ass and took names. And all this without my lucky fishing hat, which I brought on the trip but hadn’t yet worn. Given my prowess on the Big Hole, I certainly wouldn’t need to wear it the next day either.

Bring on the always-easy Firehole.

Stay tuned for Part 3.

Oh, and give Joe’s blog a visit sometime The Hobby Guide Evolution Anglers.

This year’s annual pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers was not your typical annual pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers. Many things, which are the same from year to year, were different this year. Like every year for the past several, we did in fact fish the Firehole and the Madison (the Cornhole, in my estimation, due to the manner in which it treats me year in and year out). But this year’s pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers also featured a couple of rivers new to all of us: most notably a river that we had hoped to fish 5 years ago: the Big Hole. Unfortunately on our trip to Yellowstone in 2010 we brought with us a deluge that would have made Washington’s Olympic Peninsula proud. Our chosen river, the Big Hole, was completely blown-out then, along with just about every other river in the region and every river between there and home. Fortunately the Beaverhead was in decent shape so we were able to catch fish. But it wasn’t the river we wanted to fish, and ever since then we’ve been wanting a shot at the Big Hole. A week or so ahead of our departure it looked like a sure thing as the weather forecast appeared to cooperative. But one should never take much stock in a weather forecast more than a couple days out.

Uh…this doesn’t look good.

The Rangers departed Western Washington on Thursday, May 30th at 1500 hours. The weather at home was gorgeous, and would be for several more days. But 4 hours later, as we drove through Spokane, we encountered a savage weather system that was dumping as much rain as I’ve ever seen. Lightning pounded the hills in the distance and that weather was headed east—the same direction that we were headed—toward Montana. We hoped it wouldn’t negatively impact our plans to fish the Big Hole on Saturday, but we slept uneasily that night in Post Falls, Idaho. I sent a text to my buddy, Joe Willauer (a hobby guide who would be taking a day off from his real job as a desk jockey to join the consortium of real guides we had lined up to show us the Big Hole).  Joe’s reply caused some concern: “It’s been dumping randomly all week. The Big Hole has been rising all day but it’s not supposed to rain tomorrow which is good.” Those words didn’t exactly put my mind at ease given the weather that was pummeling our current location. He also said, “The big Hole is fine volume wise. Just depends on clarity.” It was out of our control—all we could do was show up and hope for the best.

Marck, Goose, Nash, Morris and Jimmy.

The next day we arrived in Twin Bridges, Montana and made our way to check in with Seth McLean of 4 Rivers Fishing Company, the outfitter for our float the next day and our landlord for the evening. As a side note, I love this part of the country because my favorite topic of American history is the epic journey of Lewis and Clark. I fancy myself a bit of an armchair historian when it comes to matters of the Corps of Discovery and yet I learned something that I’d never read before: Lewis and Clark fished there; possibly even with the same guides we would be with in the morning. Hashtag mind blown!

You learn something new every day!

The sun shone upon us in Twin Bridges and since we had plenty of daylight remaining we decided to visit a nearby river that none of us had ever fished before: The Ruby. From the small town of Twin Bridges we drove south through the other small town of Sheridan before heading up in to the hills toward the Ruby Dam. We strung up our 6 weights and spread out as best 6 guys can spread out on a small stretch of not very big water. Marck, Morris, Nash and Goose set up camp as near the base of the dam as was legally possible. Jimmy and I worked our way downstream a bit. There seemed to be more attractive water downstream, out of sight of the dam, and as we moved with the current I felt sorry for those left behind.

The dam Ruby River

After a couple of hours and no bumps, Jimmy and I walked back to the truck. Apparently the other 4 were still at it—probably getting skunked as well—so we drove downstream about a mile to the Vigilante fishing access area. The river was much smaller down there thanks to irrigation ditches that depleted about half the volume of the river between our location and the dam. It looked rather trouty, and we tried everything in our arsenal to convince ourselves that there were trout in the water, to no avail.

The fishless, trouty-looking Ruby.

Despite the complete lack of action I wasn’t particularly discouraged: after all the Ruby was but a brief sideshow to our main event scheduled for the next day. We headed back to Twin Bridges and waited for the others to arrive.  When they finally did we were disappointed happy to learn that they’d all caught fish—some very nice fish up to 20″ or so. In fact they’d never moved from their spots below the dam. Damn bogarting bastards Good for them. But Jimmy and I got to see sections of the river that the others never did, so their loss, really. That night the sky grew black as an impressive thunderstorm rolled in, dumping heavy rains in the hills surrounding Twin Bridges—hills through which flow a certain Big Hole River. As we turned in for the night, the rain came down outside. A restless, uneasy night followed, which may or may not have had something to do with Goose’s snoring in the adjoining room.

Cracking thunder and another crack.

Would we get to finally fish the fabled Big Hole River in the morning, or would the evening’s storm blow the Big Hole’s clarity to smithereens?  We wouldn’t find out until we checked in with our guides in the morning.

And you won’t find out until you read Part II.

Stay tuned.

Each year around this time the Firehole Rangers assemble for the annual pilgrimage to Yellowstone National Park. At the core of the trip each year is our ultimate destination: West Yellowstone. The Ho Hum Hotel. The Firehole River. The trip has evolved over the years and some years we throw an audible of one sort or another into the itinerary, just to spice things up a bit (and break up the monotony of the 710.3 mile drive).

With rare exception the Firehole always fishes extremely well for us. However for most other rivers, this time of year can make for tough fishing. Spring runoff is usually in full swing but we’ve managed to scratch out some memorable days on some Montana rivers (not including the Firehole, which is actually in Wyoming). One year we stopped at Rock Creek on the way home and fished a river that was high and dirty, and produced fish all day long. Last year we hit the Missouri River on our return journey and got to see what all the fuss is about with regard to this gigantic spring creek-like river. This year’s annual pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers will feature a stop to fish a river that we had hoped to fish 5 years ago: The Big Hole. Unfortunately on our trip to Yellowstone in 2010 we brought with us a deluge that would have made Washington’s Olympic Peninsula proud. Our chosen river, the Big Hole, was completely blown-out, along with just about every other river in the region, not to mention every river between there and home. Fortunately the Beaverhead was in decent shape so we were able to catch fish. But it wasn’t the river we sought, and ever since then we’ve been wanting a shot at the Big Hole. And so we as we prepare to set out on our annual adventure it is with greater-than-normal enthusiasm that we embark on the journey that will take us first to Twin Bridges, Montana. With the mild winter and low snowpack across the west, it’s looking like we will get to fish the Big Hole this year, barring an unpredicted monsoon.

After that it’ll be off to the Firehole for a couple of days where we’ll catch a lot of fish, then to the Madison where the fish will kick my ass (with the lower-than-normal flows things could be very different this year, but I’m not banking on it). On the way home we’re going to fish Rock Creek again. We should hit the salmonflies. Fingers crossed.

I’ll probably write about the trip after we’ve returned.

This is a continuation of last week’s post, Washington: the Everbrown State. Don’t read this until you’ve read that.

Incidental brown hunters.

On the last Friday of summer in 2014 (so, about 7 months ago) I headed east to the Yakima River hoping to find some trouts willing to ease the transition from my favorite season into my second favorite season. Morris joined me because he’s one of the few people who can—and will—take a day off work at a moment’s notice and go fishing. We opted to float a popular section of the river that has plenty of slow water for pulling streamers. Typically that time of year is ripe for size 20 mayfly patterns, but I wanted to discourage the small fish that can easily fit a fly that small into their diminutive mouths.  Not surprisingly, I wasn’t seeing any action. Morris caught a small handful of 10-12 inch rainbows while fishing a lightning bug dropper under an October Caddis dry (he’s not much for the streamer fishing thing, despite my attempts at encouraging him to do so). The fish Morris caught were nothing to write home about, but a trout’s a trout when you want to catch a trout, right?

Not necessarily.

While stripping a black Sculpzilla through a deep trough just below a very broad, shallow riffle I had a grab. It was a solid take, as streamer fishing tends to produce, but the assumed rainbow did not run or jump as one would have expected a rainbow to do. Instead, the fish put its nose down, issued forth a couple of violent head shakes and then just held strong. I didn’t have to worry about keeping the line tight—the bulldog fish made sure that happened. Just in case I kept gentle but steady pressure applied, trusting in the integrity of my 3X fluorocarbon tippet and the backbone of my 6 weight Sage XP. I finally got the fish to move from its lair and when, at a fair distance, it rolled and flashed yellow-gold flanks I did a double take. My first thought was that it was a westslope cutthroat; not common but not entirely unheard of in this section of the river. Cutts are found in reasonable abundance in parts of the river but even there the westlopes aren’t typically as vibrantly gold colored as are the westslope cutts of, say, Canada’s Elk River. Especially not in the late summer or early fall, months after they’ve spawned.

Typical Yakima westslope cutthroat.

Crap Carp? No, golden bonefish would never be found here. Brown trout?  Ridiculous. There are no browns in the Yakima. It may have been the ever-diminishing eyesight that comes with having been 51 at the time, or the 2 PBRs consumed previously, that had created an illusion. But when I got the fish closer to the boat I about shat my waders—I’m sure I would have had I been wearing any. I very calmly yelled to Morris, who was seated 3 feet behind me on the oars, BROWN!!!” Not surprisingly his response was something along the lines of, “You, sir, are brimming with fecal matter!” I assured him I was speaking in truthful ways and gently demanded he get the boat to the bank and drop anchor STAT!

Morris obliged as I nervously expertly did everything possible to keep the fish from slipping the hook. If ever I did not want to lose a fish—a brown trout on a river that does not have brown trouts—now was that time. Morris managed to catch a quick glance of the fish as he put the boat into the shallows. “Holy mother of Jah,” he muttered half under his breath. With all the agility of a slack-jawed village idiot I leapt from the boat to finish the job of playing the fish from solid ground. The pressure intensified. We had to capture this on film. Nobody would take my word for it. Had I been alone the chances of taking a decent evidence photo would have been impossible at best, and without photographic proof I would be ridiculed moreso than usual to no end. In fact without visual evidence I’d be better off never speaking of it, ever. Fortunately Morris was quick with the net, and while I placed my rod behind my neck he snapped a couple shots with his cell phone camera. The fish was no 24 inch Hawg Brown, but it put up the stubborn fight one would expect from a healthy 19″ fish.

Yakima River brown trout in an undisclosed location.

After snapping the photo and releasing the fish, I knelt there in the shallows; trembling and soaked in a cold sweat under the heat of the late summer sun. Neither Morris nor I could hardly believe what had just transpired and there ensued much rejoicement: a couple of high-fives followed by a riverside toast and a Riverdance jig that would have made Michael Flatley proud. A purist would have tossed the non-native fish in the bushes for the coyotes to eat, and a half second after the fish swam off I wondered if perhaps I shouldn’t have done just that. By not tossing the fish was I no better than the miscreant who released the fish in the first place? All that, however, is water under the bridge, as it were.

Aside from Morris the only other guys I told at the time were Derek Young and Joe Willauer. When Derek heard the news he obviously didn’t believe me. Derek guides on the Yakima, and while he believes in Bigfoot and the reincarnation of Jerry Garcia, what he does not believe in are Yakima River brown trout. Or at least he didn’t until he saw the photographic proof. As a native fish aficionado who fancies his upper Yakima westslope cutthroat trouts, Derek’s response to the photo was short, “Well, that sucks.”

This is what has kept Derek Young in Washington, for now.

As a former guide on the Yakima River I figured Joe would have a keen interest in hearing of my discovery. Joe began his downward spiral into guiding on the Yakima while earning his undergrad degree at Central Washington University in nearby Ellensburg. After later completing his master’s degree in Spokane, Willauer moved permanently to Twin Bridges, MT and continued his guiding ways. “I’ll always love the Yakima,” admits Willauer, “I cut my teeth there. But what the Yakima was missing—and what drew me to Montana—was browns.” 

This is what beckoned Joe Willauer to Montana.

Guiding has since taken a back seat to a real job—one that makes better use of his education (although Joe remains a ‘hobby guide’ from time to time). The steady paycheck also comes in handy now that Joe and his wife have started a family. Upon texting Joe of my discovery, his response came without great surprise: “Not only are you a midget, but now you’ve lost your f#cking mind.” Then I sent him the photo. Silence ensued for a period of time. His reply came slowly, cautiously, “No. Way.”

Yes. Way.

It would not be prudent to divulge the exact location where I caught The Yakima River Brown or the entire Yakima—which is already crowded much of the time—would soon be overrun with anglers eager to make personal history. The million dollar question remains unanswered: How the hell did this brown get into the Yakima River? Speculation suggests that some bucket biologist (not a term of endearment, by the way) may have caught the fish in an un-named eastern Washington creek that is known to hold browns, and transplanted it in the Yakima. Or perhaps someone from the west side thought it would be a good idea to catch a brown from Pass Lake and cart it over the mountains. Who knows? The next burning question is: did whomever released this brown into the Yakima also release others?

Browns vs. No Browns

I’m sure that there will be two camps when it comes to the presence of brown trout in the Yakima River. There are those who will be outraged at this discovery while others will be thrilled. Derek speaks of some day moving to Montana, and now that his native fishery may become threatened by a voracious, non-native predator I imagine he can’t move soon enough: he doesn’t want browns to harsh his westslope mellow. Derek is also president of the newly-formed Yakima Headwaters chapter of Trout Unlimited. How this discovery will impact the work he and the new chapter are doing to protect native fish stocks is yet to determined. As for Joe, despite having planted roots in Montana, when he heard of The Yakima Brown his response came without hesitation: “This is a game changer. I’ve already talked to the wife about moving the family back to Ellensburg. I want to see how this plays out over the next year, but I may take up full-time guiding again, on the Yakima.”

Joe’s decision to possibly come home is based on the assumption that there is more than just this one brown in the Yakima. All it takes is two to tango (of opposite sexes, obviously) and if that’s the case I’m confident there will be an ample supply of Yakima browns, up and down the river, soon enough. Let the propagation begin!

My hunch is that given the time of year the Yakima brown was making its way upstream toward a suitable spawning trib, to enjoy the life of a river resident. But once a resident population establishes itself my money is on the notion that it’s only a matter of time before the Yakima River browns makes their way downstream, through several dams, to the Pacific. And why not? It’s pretty easy to imagine a few meat eating browns chasing juvenile salmon and steelhead along their  downstream journey, as if following a trail of  high calorie breadcrumbs. If they do, things could get very interesting (reference last week’s blog post). 

Washington could become the Patagonia of the north. ¿Comprende? They’ll be in the Puget Sound Rivers before long, and by then they’ll be silvery, salty, heavily-muscled predators like their South American brethren. And if there was just one brown trout, or if there are more than one but they fail to establish a breeding population there’s always hope for the Methow River browns. Yes, there have been reports of brown trout in the Methow following mudslides following the Carlton Complex fire last summer. Apparently some browns from an area lake were redeposited into the river. The Methow is a Columbia river trib as well. Things could get interesting, indeed.

Welcome to the new Washington.

A sea-run brown in Argentina

In the past I’ve half-jokingly asserted that what our Pacific Northwest rivers need are brown trouts: sea-run brown trouts (also known as sea trout in Europe). You know, the kind that were introduced in the southern parts of South America such as Chile and Argentina, in the region commonly known as Patagonia, where they also make some pretty swanky fly fishing gear.

Sadly, our Northwest native steelhead runs are greatly depleted, and while the fish are clinging to existence, it seems we may never get all groups concerned to the table to agree to make all the changes needed to restore the runs to their historic greatness (or at least to give the fish a chance). Gear fishermen and fly fishermen are often at odds over the issue. Tribes continue their gill netting ways, and the government seems to still think hatcheries are a good thing. The divide over wild steelhead is maddening.

Perhaps it’s time to move on, close the hatcheries that are a drain on the natural and financial resources, and quit holding onto the past. Rather than wasting seemingly endless time, resources and money in an attempt to bring back the steelhead, I’d like to pose the question:

“What can Brown do for you?”

First, a strain of sea-going browns would go a long way toward ridding the rivers of hatchery steelhead by eating their way up and down the watersheds (wild steelhead would survive because, well, that’s what they do, given half a chance). Secondly, an established population of sea-going Salmo trutta would also provide a worthy recreational replacement for the lost runs of anadromous rainbow trouts by offering all anglers a quarry that’s big, strong, and nasty. Browns are also amazingly resilient to warmer water temps, which we’ll see as the climate continues to change. This winter, for example, has been very mild in the Pacific Northwest. Our snowpack was bleak. It’s easy to see that this summer could get very interesting with regard to dramatically lower than normal flows due to a greatly diminished spring runoff. Rainbows and cutthroat trout are not going to be pleased with the results. Browns are never happy, but they wouldn’t be quite as unhappy as the other trout species who prefer very cold water.

Mucho gusto, or not?

For anglers of both camps Operation Brown would be a win-win: catch and release anglers could continue to catch and release these fish, while meat harvesters could catch and kill their fair share because, being a non-native species, there would certainly be a harvestable limit. It wouldn’t take long before former steelhead anglers would be saying, “Steel what?”

From green to brown.

Washington might eventually change the state fish from Oncorhynchus mykiss to Salmo trutta, and become known as the Everbrown State (which is really a better description of the central and eastern parts of our state, anyway). I’ve always imagined what first time visitors to WA must think when they approach the state from the east. Once west of Spokane they undoubtedly experience shock and disbelief: “Holy criminy—I thought Washington was supposed to be the Evergreen State?!” Classic bait and switch…

Eastern WA: 50 shades of brown

Obviously Operation Brown is just a maniacal pipe dream as it would never happen in this day and age where the introduction of non-native anything is severely frowned upon. And honestly I don’t seriously want to give up on the recovery chances for wild steelhead, a Northwest icon. The vast majority of anglers are passionate about the plight of the wild steelhead: for example, Shane Anderson of Wild Reverence fame wouldn’t likely support the introduction of browns into our Washington rivers.

But what if browns found their way into our rivers by some means other than a formal, federal or state-sanctioned program?

Things could then get very interesting.

Stay tuned.

Disclaimer: This entry contains absolutely no references to fly fishing. It is intended for the one person who may happen to stumble upon the article while looking for such information as contained herein.

Math and science were not my strong suits with the exception perhaps of Marine Biology—I rather enjoyed that class in high school. But scientist or mathmetician I am definitely not. Because of this I’m no engineer, either. I am, however, somewhat of a tinkerer and do enjoy a bit of MacGyvering—you know, using baling wire and duct tape as a solution to a problem. As long as it doesn’t involve great skill with power tools or fine attention to detail, I’ll take a crack at jury rigging most things.

Some would also accuse me of having too much free time.

I recently acquired a longboard as part of my midlife crisis. Shortly thereafter I discovered land paddling (also known as street paddling) and as soon as my Kahuna Big Stick arrived I took it for a quick spin up and down the asphalt at the end of my driveway. Despite being a neophyte in the ways of the street paddle I immediately noticed that the rubber blade had a tendency to slip and lose traction at the end of the stroke, particularly when attempting to paddle up even a mild incline. In my vast wisdom I surmised that the vulcanized rubber blade was too hard to adequately grip asphalt in a most effective manner. I concluded that the material needed to be of a softer compound—more like a tire.

Kahuna Big Stick OEM blade.

At the same time I understood the rationale behind the manufacturer’s decision to use the material they did: anything softer would wear out even faster. After putting a couple miles on the stick I did notice that it had already begun showing obvious signs of wear on the ends, where one plants the blade at the beginning of the stroke, and where one pushes off at the end of the stroke.

In my desire to improve upon the OEM traction and durability I purchased a 20-inch mountain bike tire for $20. Simple math might suggest to us that this works out to be $1 per inch of tire but that would be incorrect; the cost is actually considerably less than that. You see, the 20″ designation refers to the diameter of the tire. As a fabricator I’m more concerned with linear dimension. It’s the tire circumference that interests me much more so than diameter. Thus, a 20″ tire has a good deal more material than 20″ due to the circumference of the tire being considerably longer than 20″. Something about multiplying 20 by pi. Like I said, math is hard. The bottom line is that I didn’t want to spend much on a speculative project that may provide no benefit as far as increased traction, and for $20 I got roughly 63″ of material with which to work.

My First Generation Performance Enhancement Prototype (Exhibits A and B below) covered the bottom of the blade and was attached using cable ties threaded through holes I drilled in the tire material. It worked pretty well, especially if I was real careful when planting the stick for the stroke. There was a notable improvement in traction over the bare OEM bade, but because the ends of the blade were still exposed, traction remained compromised and the OEM blade would continue to wear on the ends. I was not satisfied.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B.

I removed the First Generation Performance Enhancement Prototype and went back to the drawing board. This time I accounted for the exposed ends of the OEM blade and cut my next tire section accordingly. The Second Generation Performance Enhancement Prototype (Exhibits C and D below) shows a marked improvement in the design and functionality. The entire OEM blade footprint is covered, resulting in vastly improved traction through the full spectrum of the stroke. It also completely protects the factory blade from wear and tear. If I keep steady pressure on the Kahuna Stick throughout the entire stroke, I get no loss of traction unless I am attempting a significant incline. That’s when I get off the board and walk. A little cross training never hurt anyway.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit D.

I’m quite pleased with the Second Generation Performance Enhancement Prototype, but like any designer/fabricator, I fully admit there remains room for improvement. Once I’ve worn out the current prototype I plan to experiment further with a different type of bike tire. Admittedly the tire I purchased was rather inexpensive, and cheap. Being an off-road mountain bike tire it features fairly pronounced tread lugs separated by considerable areas of non-tread. I can see how this particular tire design might wear more quickly on pavement than a tighter tread pattern intended for road surfaces. Perhaps something along the lines of a hybrid tire is in order.

Perhaps something like this:

Future possibility #1

Or perhaps like this:

Future possibility #2

Whatever you do—even if it involves no aftermarket modifications at all—don’t use your land paddle as a braking device. It’s not at all effective, in my opinion, and will only wear down your blade prematurely. Stay off hills (I do) or have a good exit strategy (I dont’) for when your speed exceeds your comfort level.

Now, what was that about me having too much free time?

Perhaps it’s time to go fishing (oops, I lied about this article having no reference to fly fishing).

NOTE: Since first publishing this article I have made the decision to remove the Kahuna blade altogether and affix an XL Kong Extreme. The grip is vastly improved over even my previous modifications, with the added bonus that I can put peanut butter in the Kong and stop occasionally for a quick hit of protein. The hole in the XL Kong was just a tad too large for the Bamboo Kahuna Stick to fit snugly so I drilled one hole in the Kong and inserted a lag bolt, lining it up with one of the pre-existing holes in the stick. If you have one of the adjustable Kahuna sticks, use the next smaller sized Kong (Large) and it will fit nice and snug-like with no need for additional hardware. No matter what stick you have, if you opt for the Kong, go with the black ones—Extreme Kongs. They’re made of the most durable material. Check the hole size to see which one fits your stick best. And pass the peanut butter.

(top) Kong XL on Kahuna Bamboo stick; (bottom) Kong L on adjustable Kahuna stick.

PS: Some SSUP-ers like the Kong ball option. However, the hole in the those is way too small for a stick without drilling, which requires the need for a drill press. Unfortunately not many have a drill press sitting around.

Update: Since this was updated, I have gone the way of the Kong Extreme Ball. The black one, size Medium/Large. I managed to bore out the hole in the ball  just enough (without the aid of a drill press) to barely insert the end of my paddle stick and seat it firmly and deeply into the ball. No retainer bolt needed. The ball is lighter than the Kong non-ball mentioned above, and appears to be made of higher density rubber. Should last a long time.

It wasn’t quite a month after losing our Chocolate Lab, Edward Brown, that I was surfing Adopt-a-Pet and Petfinder for the thousands of dogs in need of homes. We hadn’t planned on getting another dog so soon after Eddie passed and I suppose I had convinced myself that I was just ‘window shopping’ to get a sense for what kind of dogs were out there. You know, for when the time was right.

Anyone who has had to say goodbye to their canine companion knows the huge void they leave in our hearts and in our homes, and in the weeks following Eddie’s passing our house had grown far too silent. He was always a very quiet dog—most of the time you hardly even knew he was there. But Eddie’s quiet presence was bigger than he was, and he was big. It was always reassuring to know that he was there. He was good company. The best.

We 2-legged types get rather used to having a dog around and the things that were once daily routine don’t go away quickly: we catch ourselves off guard during certain moments because we expect our dog to be right there. Of course, they’re not right there. It takes time to heal and for those certain routines to fade. In our case those routines were deeply-rooted after many years of uninterrupted canine company.

It had been almost 20 consecutive years that we’d had a dog in our family because Kate the Dog, our first Chocolate Lab, overlapped with Eddie: Kate had just turned 11 when Eddie came home with us as a 6 week old pup. Those dog years were busy years spent raising kids; there wasn’t much down time. But now that our kids are grown (though still living at home), life has a slower pace. When you remove a dog from that equation you have a recipe for, well, loneliness. I work from home and Eddie was my office assistant, my constant companion. I speak for my entire family when I say it had been far too quiet recently.

Just window shopping, I told myself.

Online listings of dogs display photos and even videos, but you never know until you meet the dog in person what they’re actually going to be like. All rescue dogs have baggage: for some, that baggage is the reason they’re up for adoption; for others it’s hard to imagine why they lost their homes in the first place. Whatever the case may be there is always an unknown, and when you agree to adopt a rescue dog you roll the dice to a certain extent. Wish for the best and hope that the dog will meet the majority of your expectations. Our wish list in a dog is pretty simple because Kate and Eddie both exemplified the qualities we loved and would want again: a sweet, calm disposition; gentle and submissive, a dog that plays well with others (both 2- and 4-legged).

One needn’t look far to discover that there are countless dogs in need of a new home. I checked the listings several times, seeing many of the same dogs time and time again. Most, if not all, have stories that tug at your heart strings and while many listings intrigued me none jumped off the page at me.

Until I came upon a listing for a dog I’d not previously seen.

The first photo of “Happy” caught my attention: it was those soulful eyes. Her listing said she’s a Lab/Boxer mix. I supposed that might be accurate, although breed(s) were not of the foremost consideration:

Then there was this one—there was no hiding the sweet disposition behind this face:

I thought she looked rather sad in the first two photos, and who could blame her after all she’d been through in her short life? And then in the third photo her namesake personality shone through via her expression and blurry tail:

In a video posted on her adoption listing, Happy can be seen playing gently with other dogs; relaxed, her tail wagging happily the entire time. She was clearly very sweet, with a calm disposition and a gentle, submissive nature. Happy’s YouYube video won’t be available indefinitely so I captured a couple of screen shots in which her personality is evident:

As mentioned nearly all rescue dogs come with a backstory that will melt your heart and Happy is no exception to that. She and her sister were found as 10-12 week old puppies along the side of the road in the desert of southern California where they’d been dumped. Emaciated and covered with ticks, a kind-hearted Guardian Angel rescued them and nursed them back to health. This compassionate woman had children and dogs of her own so she was unable to keep Happy and her sister indefinitely. She fostered them until permanent homes were found for the little black and white sisters.

Little Happy & her sis. Happy is on the right, with The Ears.

As a pup, Happy had already been through a lot.

In November of 2013, when Happy and her sister were 6 months old, they were adopted out to separate families. Every indication suggested that Happy’s adoptive family would be perfect and her Guardian Angel was confident that Happy had found her happily-ever-after home.

Such would not be the case.

It was a few days before Christmas 2014 that Happy’s Guardian Angel noticed a photo on the local shelter page. The photo showed a dog cowering in the corner of its pen; the caption listed the dog as having been abandoned on rental property. The Guardian Angel couldn’t see the dog’s face, but a mother’s intuition told her it was her baby. She contacted the shelter and requested a better photo, which upon seeing she immediately knew it was Happy (she was wearing the same collar she’d been wearing when she was adopted  out over a year before).

Unfortunately Happy’s Guardian Angel was at her limit with dogs at home and pleaded with everyone she knew to rescue Happy—to no avail. On the day before Christmas the shelter director sent an email, agreeing to ‘turn the other cheek and wave all fees’. And so, on Christmas Eve, Happy’s Guardian Angel rushed to the shelter and pulled her. As it turns out Happy had been turned in to the shelter by her owner’s landlord, who had discovered her abandoned in her home. I don’t know the circumstances surrounding her abandonment, but whatever the case may be her owner had moved out and left her behind. In an act of semi-humane(?) decency the owner had left a couple of 50-lb bags of garbage-quality Ol’Roy dog food (if so inclined, check out the number of complaints and recalls) and a few 5 gallon buckets of water for her. This was her fate for TWO MONTHS—no contact with anyone, human or otherwise. Following this horrible ordeal Happy once again received the love and company of her Guardian Angel’s family, including her sister (whose forever home sadly hadn’t worked out, either).

This was Happy’s life when I stumbled upon her adoption listing.

I contacted Rompin’ Paws (a Pacific Northwest rescue group) and submitted an adoption application—I couldn’t imagine that this sweet dog would be available for very long, and luckily my application was first in line. Our application was approved and the wheels were set in motion. During the week and a half that followed we prepared for Happy’s arrival with eager anticipation and an ounce of hesitation, hoping that roll of the dice would pay off. On March 1st Happy arrived in Seattle from southern California via Paws Without Borders transport. She was accompanied by several other dogs that were also being adopted thanks to a joint effort of two rescue organizations. Happy wasn’t so sure but we instantly knew we’d made the right decision.

Hesitant to leave the safety of her transit crate.

From one crate to another, this time headed home.

She has white socks. Like me.

She’s still timid and unsure—her tail has wagged a few of times but remains mostly tucked between her legs. She sticks to us like glue, not letting us out of her sight. Who could blame her? She can’t grasp that ours is her forever home—she doesn’t know that she just won the lottery.

A rough day at the office.

We anticipate that over the next few weeks—or even months—as routine sets in and washes away her fears, Happy’s inner happiness will shine through and that tail will be wagging with reckless abandon. We have plenty of time. We’ll wait for her.

Couch potato.

Happy will never replace our beloved Eddie, nor would we want her to. What she will do is honor his legacy by being a loving member of our family and carve out her own place in our hearts. She’s already begun to do that.

Thanks to Rompin’ Paws Rescue of WA and the Ridgecrest, CA chapter of Almost Eden Rescue for helping Happy to find us. And a huge debt of gratitude goes out to Happy’s two-time Guardian Angel.

Disclaimer: This story has nothing to do with fly fishing.

Most of the time this blog features something obviously related to fly-fishing, although admittedly The Unaccomplished Angler does occasionally veer ever so slightly off course. With today’s content those reading (all 13 of you) may think that I am officially and completely off my rocker, but I ask for your patience. If you wait for it I promise that you’ll see how it relates to fly-fishing as I drone on about my latest endeavor.

I’m hooked on Longboard.

I turned 52 this year and my mid-life crisis appears to be skateboarding: longboarding, to be exact. For those not in the know, Longboard is both a brand of beer that I rather enjoy, as well as a style of skateboard whereby the wheelbase and deck are considerably longer than the skateboards that we currently-middle-aged-types grew up on. Starting typically at 40 inches in length and extending farther, today’s longboards dwarf the 20-something inchers of 40 years ago. The manner of riding a longboard is also vastly different from what was considered ‘rad’ back in the day. The way of the longboard involves ‘campus cruising’ and downhill racing at breakneck speeds, as opposed to what we did as kids. No doubt there are still those who do tricks and ride skateboards at contoured skate parks around the globe, but it’s the longboard that intrigues me at this point in life.

Look, Ma—no helmet!

As a youth/teenager in the mid to late 70’s—when Saturday Night Live was in its infancy, disco threatened to musically ruin the world, Pet Rocks were all the rage, and every adolescent boy had a certain Farrah Fawcett poster on the wall of their bedroom—skateboards came on the scene with all the intensity of a raging storm off the north shore of Oahu. My first recollection of the skateboard craze was when 7-Eleven stores began selling cheap, plastic-decked boards with ‘rubber’ wheels: One could walk into a convenience store, grab a Slurpee, a pack of Bubble Yum and a skateboard for less than what a week’s worth of Starbucks Caffè Frappamacaccino drinks cost today. Overnight it seemed as though all the cool kids were getting skateboards, and in my ill-fated attempt at being cool I awkwardly jumped on that bandwagon. I distinctly remember my first board: a Makaha. It had a kicktail which were all the rage at the time. It was orange. I thought it was pretty boss.

A blast from the past.

I don’t recall how much my first skateboard cost but I can safely assume that it was not a high-end offering. My older brother, Hal, got in on the craze as well. I vividly remember his board for its unique translucent blue deck which apparently allowed one to view the road underfoot, like a glass bottom boat. His board was made by Nash Skateboards, which I only know from having found the information on the internets: a veritable treasure trove of information designed to jog a fleeting middle-aged memory.

With the advent of the polyurethane wheel in the early 1970’s, gone were the dangerously slippery clay wheels of yore (and the steel wheels that preceded even clay). The modern rubbery wheels gripped the pavement with an added measure of efficiency—and safety, which was a undoubtedly a good thing because back then helmets hadn’t yet been invented. I was never overly accomplished as a skateboarder, but I did a fair amount of riding. While empty swimming pools may have been a much sought-after pursuit for concrete surfers back in the day, that wasn’t my scene. Aside from an inherent lack of swimming pools (empty or otherwise) I was in a much lower class of skateboarder. I spent my time after school pushing around the junior high school grounds, tick-tacking and trying a variety of other slow-speed tricks, nearly all without success.

I had an orange shirt like the awkward kid in the background.

I seem to recall hand stands on a slow moving board being rather difficult, which should not have come as any great surprise given that hand stands on solid ground weren’t something I was very good at either.  No, I definitely wasn’t one of the cool skater kids, like Steve Johnson. Steve was a junior high classmate who I believe may have been imported to the Pacific Northwest from Southern California. If Steve wasn’t from SoCal, he gave off that vibe. Steve was surf-cool; a veritable skateboard god and many, including myself, worshipped the board he rode on. I think I remember that he’d gone on to at least a brief career as a professional skateboarder. I wonder what he’s doing today? If he’s a fly fisherman I’ve no doubt that he’s a very accomplished angler.

Farrah, and a woody.

In an attempt to break out of my rather unaccomplished skateboarder status I figured the first thing I needed was an upgrade from my plastic cookie-cutter board. And so, in junior high wood shop, I made a board from a thick slab of oak much like the one featured in the photo above (and yes, I even had the same iconic Nike Cortez shoes). Being a teenage boy, wood figured prominently in my adolescent life and as one might imagine it (the skateboard) was very stiff. I scraped together my babysitting earnings and purchased a new set of trucks and wheels to adorn the new woody. These were obviously not the highest quality components because the open wheel bearings were prone to losing their marbles, as it were, the results of which were never good.

Life before sealed bearings.

Fortunately there was a skateboard shop at the local strip mall near the south Mercer Island QFC and Lakeside Drugs. The shop proprietor kept me in a steady supply of extra bearings, all the while encouraging me to upgrade: there were far better wheel systems that wouldn’t spew their bearings while riding. I salivated over the good stuff every time I was in the shop to buy bearings; always longing after the cool gear that my budget didn’t allow for. Much to my dismay I would remain quagmired in a state of economic repression for the remainder of my skateboarding youth. I have no particularly fond recollection of the homemade oak board whatsoever. I may have begun to lose interest in skateboards shortly thereafter, although more than likely the board was simply so horrible to ride that I banished it from my memory—there’s nothing like a thick, unyielding plank of hardwood to make one lose all sense of touch with the ground underneath. As 9th grade rolled around it marked the end of my skateboarding career and after that I never gave it much thought.

Until, that is, I began snowboarding when I was in my late 30’s.

Not an Olympic Gold Medalist.

I had never been more than a very average snow skier (at best), but I was ultimately forced to give up skiing altogether due to foot problems that were exacerbated by the confines of cruel ski boots. The pain while cautiously snow-plowing down green runs had become unbearable and I resigned to never setting foot on the slopes again—until one fateful day. While sitting pathetically around the ski lodge while my family was out enjoying the slopes, I decided on a whim to rent a snowboard. I’d never been on one and had no idea what I was doing, but after a couple hours on a bunny slope I knew I had found enlightenment in the comfy footwear associated with snowboarding. After a private lesson during which I learned to link turns, I once again took to the slopes with a newfound enthusiasm. At the time, the overwhelming majority of snowboarders were half my age or younger: Punk kids. Young cool dudes. Shredders and slackers. I didn’t fit the mold but I did enjoy snowboarding immensely; content to cruise and carve sweeping turns while giving terrain parks a very wide berth. I’d never been a surfer, but riding the snowboard caused me to harken back to my youth—back to my skateboarding days. I dug the snowboard thing, a lot. Still do, although I rarely get up to the slopes because I’m too cheap to spend the money on a lift ticket: another sign of advancing age.

It costs too damn much!

Riding a snowboard is very much like riding a longboard, but the latter, once past the initial investment of a board and protective gear (a helmet, at the very least), is comparatively inexpensive. Even a decent quality longboard won’t set you back more than a couple hundred bucks. And there’s a lot of appeal in an activity of which I can partake beginning at the end of my driveway: there’s no travel time required and riding is free—sort of. We do pay property taxes which help to maintain road surfaces, but there’s no shelling out an exorbitant user fee each time you set foot on the asphalt. Look at it this way: you pay for the roads so you may as well get as much use out of them as possible. But I digress…

Lest one should think I rushed into this latest endeavor blindly, I assure you I did my homework. I knew exactly what I was up against: decaying reflexes and increased healing time following injuries. Not to mention disapproving naysayers. It comes as little surprise that a lot of middle-aged people roll their eyes when another middle-aged guy declares that he wants to get a skateboard. Common are the off-handed remarks about asphalt’s unyielding hardness, emergency room visits and how skateboards are “an orthopedist’s dream,” so quoteth a friend who is an orthopedist.

Quit harshin’ on my mellow, man.

(Sorry, I’ve been told by my daughter NOT to try to sound like a skater dude)

Others dismiss it as juvenile and unbecoming of someone of my age. One’s wife may even encourage said skateboarder to leave the neighborhood and ride elsewhere—someplace where nobody knows your identity. Friends turn on you:  Morris, in a Firehole Rangers group message, was even threatening when he said, “I know winter is hard on us anglers, but if Kirk misses even one fishing trip for his new longboard addiction…”

H8ers gonna H8, brah.

Can’t we all just get along?

I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit to wondering if getting on a longboard was perhaps not the best idea I’d ever had, and I honestly tried to talk myself out of (or perhaps into) it. To that end I delved into the dark recesses of the internet for articles on ‘longboarding for old people‘ (yes, I used those exact search terms). That’s when I came upon a series of blog articles written by a youthful guy from Oregon who took up longboarding at age 63. My first thought was, ‘Sixty three?! Good hell, man, I won’t be that old for another 11 years!’

If this 63 year old dude could do it, I could do it.

At this point I realized age was no longer a valid excuse to not get one and I rationalized my final decision to acquire a longboard by taking stock of my physical condition: I’m in good shape, reasonably athletic, and I’ve been practicing martial arts since 1993 so my sense of balance is probably better than average. Add to this the fact that I’m vertically challenged and I had a number of things in my favor: standing 5’7″ on a good day means it isn’t far to the ground in the unfortunate event of a tumble.

So much for talking myself out of it.

Through these series of articles on Brian Hines’ blog (hinessight.blogs.com), I also discovered an aspect of longboarding I hadn’t previously been aware of: Street Paddling. Yes, you read that correctly. It’s just like stand up paddle boarding (SUP) on the water, with obvious differences. First and foremost, street paddling, or land paddling, is done on terra firma, on a long skateboard, with a long pole outfitted with a rubber foot instead of an aquatic paddle blade. And while the weather may not be always conducive to street paddling, the asphalt tide is always in.

What’s not to like about this?

Did you know that some anglers fish from SUP boards?

Fly fishing from a SUP.

This land paddling discovery added an altogether unexpected and intriguing dimension to owning a longboard: an upper body workout. If I could benefit from increased fitness, this longboarding thing would take on a whole new level of significance beyond just being fun. I surmised that it could be excellent cross-training activity to stay in shape for rowing my boat down rivers (yet another fly-fishing reference).

I was, like, all in, dude.

Wood is good. Bigger is better.

I carefully selected the style of longboard I wanted: something for flatland cruising and very (emphasis on very) gentle slope carving. A classic pintail design appealed to me, and aesthetics were important. I came dangerously close to purchasing a 39-inch Arbor Fish (for the obvious reason that I like fishing) but in the end I decided I wanted a longer longboard so I opted instead for an Arbor Timeless Pintail. I always admired Arbor snowboards but never owned one, and now was my chance. The Timeless is 46″ of shapely sleekness capped with a top deck featuring beautiful Hawaiian koa wood. With a recent trip to Hawaii still fresh in my mind, anything from Hawaii is cool by me. The deck has a gentle flex to it which allows that surfing vibe to shine through. Needless to say my new board is nothing like the oak plank of my youth.

Not your father’s skateboard (unless you’re my kid).

I could have ordered a complete board directly from Arbor but I opted to have the board built with slightly upgraded components by Nordboards of Chico, CA. The deck is outfitted with Paris V2 180mm 50-degree trucks (with 1/4″ riser pads), Arbor Sucrose Initiative Summit 71mm Blue wheels, and NordiK Abec 9 bearings with spacers. All geek to you?  Yeah me too, pretty much. The Arbor pintail set me back $223 and change, with free shipping (I like free). That’s roughly equivalent to 3 lift passes at a local ski area (not including lunch and a beer, and gas to get there an back), or about 2 months’ worth of Starbucks Caffè Frappamacaccinos. This is certainly far cheaper than my investment in fly fishing gear, but let’s not go there—Mrs. UA may be reading and she doesn’t need to know how many rods and reels I have hidden in the closet.

The Kahuna Big Stick

I also purchased a street paddle from Kahuna Creations. I selected the bamboo model because wood has soul, man, and it’s all about that flexy mellow groove when you’re out paddling the asphalt, hangin’ ten with the wind in your thinning hair. I also bought a helmet and elbow/knee pads just in case. Nobody ever expects bad things to happen so I can’t say with certainty that I won’t collide with the asphalt eventually (knock on koa). However, I’ve no need for speed whatsoever.

It’s that slo stoke I’m after, man.

(apologies once again to my daughter)

Gear that I didn’t have as a kid.

Admittedly I am just getting started but I can say confidently, after logging more than 20 miles on my board, that this street paddling thing is a great workout. I have a 2.5 to 3 mile course marked out and by the time I’ve completed the loop my heart rate is up and the feedback from my legs and upper body lets me know that I’ve gotten a good workout. As I seek out longer rides all that will increase as well. And I’ve also got a grin on my face the entire time. In my enthusiasm for this new discovery I even managed to recruit a few buddies to join in the fun. My wee lad, Schpanky, has also applied for membership in the club, bringing the average age down significantly.

Playdates are more fun on longboards.

Soon we’ll be paddle surfing the streets en force like a rogue band of mostly gray-haired, mostly middle-aged adolescents; ripping through cul-de-sacs adorned with children’s sidewalk chalk art at speeds often exceeding a brisk walk. People won’t be able to help but take notice. Why, just the other day a considerably younger gentleman, out walking his dog, gave me an approving ‘thumbs up’ as I paddled past.

Street paddling in Duvall will be #trending soon.

In my assessment a mid-life crisis is the act of a 50-something year-old (usually men) as they embrace something from their youth. Like, for instance, skateboarding. Well, I also fancied the 70’s era Plymouth Hemi Cuda when I was a kid. A good one, if you can find it, will set you back considerably more than a skateboard. Mrs. UA should consider herself lucky that, while perhaps a bit immature, at least I am fiscally reasonable.

It was either a longboard, or this.

In closing, I offer you this timely quote from a NY Times article:

“My kids grew old, so I got a dog. My dog grew old, so I got a skateboard.”

The article is from 2012 so apparently I’m not quite a trend setter when it comes to Skateboarding Past a Middle Age Crisis.