It was a suggestion by Morris several months ago that we pay a visit to our friendly neighbors to the north and fish the Elk River near Fernie, British Columbia (that’s in Canada, FYI). While Morris may not generally be known for good decisions I must admit he was right-on this time.  In advance of our trip we read up on the area in general and the Elk in particular. What stood out was that the Elk is known for its big, wild, native westlope cutts on dries and a chance at even bigger bull trout. That’s all we needed to hear. Canadians are known for their welcoming hospitality—we expected that their fish would be equally as friendly and inviting. I also learned that the area is coal mining country and that the Elk and it’s tributaries face certain issues from mining pollution. We’d learn more about that the next day.

Oh, Canada!

After a 9 hour drive that found us traveling mostly at speeds ranging from 75 mph to 80 kph, a border crossing at Kingsgate (that did not result in detainment or any unsavory searches) and a stop at the Moyie General Store (for the best jerky we’d ever had) we pulled into Fernie, a small ski town nestled along the western slopes of the Canadian Rockies. The weather was overcast with intermittent drizzle so we couldn’t see the peaks that surrounded us, but we could see enough to get a good sense that on a clear day the scenery would be amazing.  The first thing we did was check in to the Red Tree Lodge, which would be our home base for the next 3 nights. Accommodations were quite respectable. In fact, the digs were a few notches nicer than where we typically stay on fishing trips.

Morris, Jimmy and Marck at the Elk River Guiding Company.

Immediately afterwards we drove right to the Elk River Guiding Company and inquired about fishing licenses licences and fees. We would be floating with a couple of their guides the next day, but wanted to ply the waters of the Elk for a few hours that afternoon to see just how welcoming these Canadian fish would be. Behind the counter at the shop was a very pleasant and helpful young lady named Leah. She wasn’t just a pretty face working the desk: as an angler herself she was very knowledgable with regard to fishing the Elk. Leah was forthcoming with information on where to go and not only generous with suggestions for several patterns that would produce fish, but more than willing to sell us several of each pattern! The shop is very well outfitted and Leah made us feel welcome—she even accepted our American currency straight across, despite that the exchange rate favored favoured Canada by 11 cents at the time of  our visit. We purchased our non-tidal fishing licenses licences and paid our $20 daily Classified Waters License Licence fees, thanked Leah for her help and bade farewell until our return the next morning. 

Beauty, eh?

After driving downstream from Fernie a few short miles kilometers we found a pullout and geared up. The Elk follows the highway, or rather vice versa, so access is readily available. This can obviously be a double-edged sword; thus our expectations were limited—if a river can be easily accessed from a road it typically means heavy fishing pressure and very educated or nonexistent fish.

I picked a likely looking spot where one might expect a fish to live and cast a #16 parachute Hare’s Ear into the vicinity. This was not a pattern that was recommended at the shop, but it was a pattern that produced many westslope cutts on the St. Joe earlier in the summer—a confidence fly, as it were. On the first pass a very respectable fish rose to and promptly rejected my fly. Well, THAT wasn’t very welcoming. Turns out I had misjudged the fish on the first pass, and on the next drift the same fish showed its true Canadian colors by being quite hospitable as it decided to indulge me—and in doing so revealed that it was, indeed, a good fish. A little too good, actually, as it slipped my poorly set hook after engaging me in a few exciting seconds of sport. I should point out oot that the Welcoming Canadian Fish was generous enough to return the fly. I moved on to another spot and pretended to appear interested in finding another fish. Actually, I was merely hoping to give Welcoming Canadian Fish a little time to cool down and forget aboot its sore lip. After 20 minutes I would go back to taunt him a second time. Meanwhile I had no luck rising other fish. Marck and Morris had crossed to the opposite bank, and Jimmy had moved upstream a ways. They’d all caught a few modest sized cutts but I wasn’t concerned with their well-being: I was targeting a fish that was more than modest-sized.

Moving back downstream a few paces, and armed this time with a size 18 BWO, I was delighted when the Welcoming Canadian Fish welcomed me a second time by taking my fly on the first pass.  The fish ran toward the middle of the river, put its head down, pulled hard, ran toward the bank, thrashed madly and once again, in a gesture of international generosity, returned the fly to me. I got a good look at the fish this time and can confirm that it was a solid 17 meters inches long (fortunately Canadians use inches when speaking of fish length). It was bright gold with a vibrant orange underbelly—more brilliantly colored coloured than any westslope cutthroat I’d ever seen before. I tied on another fly and angled my way upstream toward Jimmy to see how he’d been making out. Turns oot he’d caught several 10-12 inch fish but nothing for the past hour or so. I tried an October Caddis dry, a white Sculpzilla streamer, and a small Purple Haze dry, all to no avail.  I decided that the third time might be the charm and worked my way slowly back downstream, encountering no willing participants along the way, toward the previously Welcoming Canadian Fish.  As I once-again approached the lair of the fish I heard Jimmy voice his enthusiasm as he played a good fish that he’d just hooked in water I had just angled not 5 minutes previously.  He proceeded to land a beautiful 18 inch fish. What an ass Good for Jimmy!

The third time proved not to be a charm as I could not get the Welcoming Canadian Fish to rise again. As our first day drew to a close, Morris and Marck returned from their cross-river jaunt and reported that they’d kept themselves rather busy catching multiple fish, including some very respectable fish in the 18 inch range. Whatever Good for them! It was encouraging to see that the fish of Canada were living up to the friendly billing of their countrymen, for at least 3 out of the 4 of us.

Not to worry, we’d only fished for about 4 hours and tomorrow would be another day. The fish would have plenty more time to show us me some of their generous hospitality, and with that in mind we headed back to Fernie for some food and libations. Beer is expensive in Canada. So is food. But that didn’t deter us from enjoying pizza and a couple pitchers jugs of pilsner as we enthusiastically pondered what lie in store for us the next day.

Stay tuned, won’t you eh?

I recently had the distinct privilege of spending a weekend with a gathering of amazing folks for the Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing (Northwest Region) 5th Annual 2 Fly event in Ellensburg, WA.

The weather was spectacular, if not a bit warm for the last Saturday of summer, as the Yakima River beckoned 24 teams to come hither in an attempt to take home honors in two categories: the biggest fish; and the most fish. Team 8 consisted of myself as the rower/judge, a volunteer from PHWFF, and a veteran. As it turns out both gentlemen in my boat were veterans.

I mounted my own recon mission the day prior to the 2 Fly event, hoping to get things dialed in so that I could display my superior knowledge of the river and put my team on many and large fish. It’s undoubtedly a good thing that they didn’t know anything about me—most notably my fishing prowess on the Yakima River—or they’d have likely requested another boat. My Friday mission revealed that the Yakima was typically finicky: only two small fish were caught all day, using a wide variety of flies in an attempt to crack the code. The next day would prove to be even more challenging as anglers are limited to just 2 flies.

Team Unaccomplished.

On point in my boat was Jeffrey Brown, US Army Lt. Colonel, Infantry, and Deputy Director of Personnel for the Oregon Army National Guard. Stationed at the stern was Jesse Scott, US Air Force Colonel (retired). We put in at around 1030 hours and would fish until the tournament closed at 1500. No pressure—we had plenty of water between Red’s and Big Pines in which to catch many and large fish. And in a less imperfect world we would have done just that.

Both Jeff and Jesse were armed with an October Caddis pupae and a size 20 Lightning Bug dropper. The rules of the game are such that if an angler loses a fly, they must fish the remainder of the day with their one remaining fly. If they lose both flies, they’re SOL. There are more intricate details which allow an angler to continue fishing, but it involves trading fish caught for additional flies. Despite some precarious tangles with stream-side brush, Jesse retained both his flies for the duration of the event. He may not have caught a single fish, but he did keep his flies so there is some victory in that.  Jeff lost his dropper during the first half of the day so he fished a solo fly until there were 20 minutes left. With only one small fish on his score card, I suggested to Jeff that he trade his fish for another dropper and fish confidently for the remaining few minutes. Since a single, 9-inch fish was likely to earn him neither the biggest nor the most fish, Jeff agreed. His score card now read “zero”, but he once again had a full set of flies and got down to business. Within 10 minutes he indicator went down and his line drew taught. “I’m snagged on a rock,” he announced.  There was no sign of life whatsoever at the far end of Jeff’s line—every indication that he was, indeed, snagged—and snagged good—on a rock. Damn. We were not going to lose both flies after all this so I pulled into the slow water near the bank, and rowed upstream to relieve the tension on the snagged fly. As soon as we came around above the “rock”, a very respectable fish jumped within just a few feet of the boat. Nearly simultaneously, Jeff’s line went slack and his flies came free. It was one of those “HUH?!” moments. The likely scenario was that he’d hooked the fish, which immediately swam under a rock. The less likely scenario is that Jeff had snagged a rock and as we drew neear, the fish jumped so it could give us a flying fin gesture.

In the end, the score card for Team 8 registered “0” for the number of fish caught, and had the guys in my boat thought that I was a guide, they would have also thought that I wasn’t a very good guide. It was a tough day, but both Jeff and Jesse have done a fair amount of fishing so they understand that there’s more to fishing than catching fish.  And that’s what Project Healing Waters is all about: getting out on the water, engaged in comradery and enjoying, as Jeff put it, some “hydrotherapy”.

US Army Lt. Colonel Jeff Brown searching for trout on the Yakima River.

About Jeff Brown:

Jeff’s military career began in 1990 as a traditional National Guard Soldier. In 1995 he came on active duty in the Oregon National Guard. Jeff attended Officer Candidate School in 1998 before being commissioned as a Second Lieutenant of Infantry. While at Fort Benning, GA, he attended Infantry Officer Basic Course and Ranger School. In 2002 Jeff was deployed on a Multinational Forces & Observers mission, where he spent 6 months on the Sinai Peninsula of Egypt. While there his jobs included that of battalion assistant training officer and company executive officer. In 2003 he was promoted to Captain and in 2004 he attended Infantry Captains Career Course, once again at Fort Benning. Two years later Jeff took command of 234 Engineer Company at Camp Rilea in Warrenton, OR. In 2007 he was promoted to Major and was deployed to Iraq as commander of 234 Engineer Company for a convoy security mission where his outfit provided support to logistical convoys traveling throughout central Iraq. In 2008 Jeff returned to Oregon, working until 2010 as the executive officer for the University of Portland Army ROTC battalion. From 2010-2011 he worked as Operations and Training Officer (S3) for 2-162 Infantry Battalion in Springfield, OR, and during 2012-2013 he was Program Director for Active Guard and Reserve (AGR) Program for the Oregon Army National Guard (ORARNG). In this capacity Jeff oversaw 500+ active duty Soldiers and Officers in the ORARNG whose duty it is to maintain the readiness and the traditional force and prepare everything so that drill periods are conducted smoothly and efficiently when the traditional Guardsmen report for duty. Since then Jeff has been the Deputy Director of Personnel for the ORARNG. He is second in charge of maintaining personnel readiness of 6100+ Oregon National Guard Soldiers.

Jeff’s favorite species of fish are rainbow trout, both the anadromous version as well as resident fish. He enjoys chasing lake-dwelling rainbows in British Columbia. He lives close to the Santiam River in the Willamette Valley and enjoys fishing some of the small streams in the valley for resident rainbows and cutthroat trout. He also enjoys the Deschutes River in central Oregon, although he admits that he doesn’t fish it near as much as he’d like. Having previously lived in southern Oregon, Jeff has a special place in his heart for the Rogue River and the Fall “half pounder” steelhead.

US Air Force Colonel (ret) Jesse Scott working the waters.

About Jesse Scott:

A 30 year veteran of the United States Air Force, Jesse began his military career as a jet fighter mechanic and then progressed through a career as a pilot, staff officer, and Commander. Most of his career as an officer was spent in Special Operations which involved travel to over 35 foreign countries including several years in combat zones. After retiring from the Air Force Jesse spent 10 years with Boeing as a customer training instructor. His final working years were spent as an Associate Instructor at Everett Community College.

Jesse co-founded the wounded veterans fly tying group at Madigan Army Medical Center and is the inventor and developer of the Evergreen Hand. The Evergreen Hand is a device that allows a tier who is missing a hand or arm to use fly tying equipment—it can also be used by persons who are partially paralyzed. Jesse won the 2009 Letcher Lambuth Angling Craftsmanship Award in recognition of his contribution to handicapped tiers. Please see this article in the Everett Herald about Jesse’s amazing invention. 

He is the past president of the Evergreen Fly Fishing Club, a Stillaguamish Watershed Council member, and Youth Education Docent at the Museum of Flight. Jesse has a keen interest in tying classic Atlantic Salmon Flies and is a member of the Northwest Atlantic Salmon Fly Guild.

I had a great time spending the day on the water with guys. Thanks to Jeff and Jesse for their long service to our country, and to Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing for their support for our military men and women. 

An upcoming event at the Filson Flagship store in Seattle area looks to be a great evening to learn about and celebrateour state’s free-flowing waters. Attendees will enjoy films, photography, and presentations celebrating the wild rivers of Washington State.

Featuring Emcee, Dr. David Montgomery, renowned river systems expert and author of King of Fish, Dirt: The Erosion of Civilizations, Mountainman Crafts and Skills: A Fully Illustrated Guide to Wilderness Living and Survival and more.

There will also be a silent auction of outdoor equipment, books, and art to support conservation efforts in Washington State.

Admission is free! Doors will open at 6:30 for a social hour, and the program begins at 7:30.

Appetizers from Blueacre Seafood will be served; and beer from Sierra Nevada and wine from Troon Vineyard and Waterbrook Winery is provided with your pint cup from your favorite river conservation organization that you can acquire for $10 at the event.

Wild Rivers Night is hosted by American Rivers, American Whitewater, Filson,Northwest Rafting Company, Save Our Wild Salmon, Sierra Club, Washington Wild,Wild Washington Rivers and Wildwater River Guides.

I’ve been a supporter of the online magazine, Kype, for a several years now, having contributed to content and always posting their current issue in the sidebar of my blog.  Kype is now under new publishership, with my friend Aileen Lane, of MKFlies at the helm. Aileen has great enthusiasm for the whole fly fishing thing and I’m sure her energy will take Kype to new heights, despite my contribution to the current issue.

There are some great articles to be found as well as some marginal writing on page 22. So enjoy, and please support Kype. You can visit their website and subscribe so that you never miss a new issue, or you can come back here to the UA and always find the latest issue in the sidebar (look to the right and scroll down—there it is).

And if you’re looking for some expertly tied custom flies, give Aileen’s website a look.

On a recent Friday while I was someplace where I was unable to answer my phone, and in fact had it on silent mode, I received a text from my son, Schpanky:

By the time I saw the message he had, of course, left for his weekend to chase salmon on the Kalama River with a buddy. Honestly I didn’t give it much thought as I assumed he knew full well which rod to take—his 8 weight. Coupled with the fact that I didn’t have my reading glasses and couldn’t see the photo on my phone very well, I gave the matter very little thought. However, when I got home later that evening I looked more closely at the photo and realized Schpanky had taken the wrong rod. He had grabbed one of my Spey rods: the Sage Z-Axis 8134. An 8 weight for sure, but it probably wasn’t going to serve him too well.

It’s not that the 8134 isn’t the right tool for the job—it would do just fine with the right reel and line.  However, when paired with the wrong line, no Spey rod is going to perform properly—especially if the line isn’t even for a Spey rod.  So unless he had grabbed the right reel, containing the right line, things weren’t going to go so good for the lad.

The reason for my doubt is that there was no way he’d have known which reel to take, as my drawer full of angling tackle contains a confusing assortment of different reels, spools and such. And they’re not labeled in a manner that anyone other than myself would be able to decipher (heck, sometimes even I get confused, and rather than taking the wrong reel I just forget to take a reel, period). Had I known he intended to take a Spey rod I would have set the proper combination of tools out for him ahead of time. It was my assumption that he’d be taking his own gear. And he did, partially: he took his own reel, spooled with an 8 weight line.

For a single-handed rod.

I’d introduced Schpanky to Spey casting briefly a few years ago, and he did quite well because he’s a natural when it comes to things like that (and tetherball). But he hasn’t done much two-handed casting since then, and what I didn’t explain, apparently, was that Spey rods require specialized shooting head lines. I should have made it very clear that just because a Spey rod has the same weight designation as a single-hander, that does not mean they are the same thing or even capable of interchanging reels and lines. I chuckled at the thought of him trying to cast the combination of rod and line he had taken with him. I may have chuckled repeatedly.

The next day, after he’d been on the river with the wrong combination of tools, I checked in with him to see how it had gone.

Somehow, according to him, he managed to get about 50 feet of line out, which is probably better than I’d have been able to manage. No fish were hooked, or landed.

I may have failed as a father, but I’ve succeeded in creating another generation of unaccomplished angler.

A 20 inch trout is a nice fish, no matter where you fish. Sure, a 20 inch trout on many rivers may not be all that unusual; there are many rivers—some I’ve fished, more that I’ve not—where trouts that size abound and are caught with regularity. But on the Yakima River a 20 inch fish is all that unusual. For me the last Yakima fish approaching that size was caught on July 17, 2007 (but who’s counting). That was seven summers ago, and the fish may not have been quite 20 inches, but it was close. And over time fish tend to get even bigger, so what the heck: it was 20 inches. A lot has happened since then, but no fish have come close to that size since then. Not on the Yakima River. Not for me. And so losing a 20 inch Yakima fish is something to write about.

It was a late August day (August 22nd to be exact). As it should be this time of year in Central Washington, the sun was out. But at a comfortable 80-something degrees it wasn’t cooking the river and its inhabitants like it had been doing and most often does this time of year. The river was a bit lower than is typical for this time of year, but at 3600 CFS it was still moving a lot of water. The Yakima flows around 4000 CFS during the summer months, artificially inflated to meet the demands of irrigation in the Yakima valley. In early September the  irrigation flows are cut off and the Yakima drops at least a couple thousand CFS. This is known as the “flip flop” and when it happens, everything changes. This day would be the last of the high flows and hopper season for us.

Yakima River: misery loves company.

We (meaning those with whom I fish the Yakima) always approach the river with a healthy dose of skepticism and we set our standards quite low. We are realists, and this way we’re seldom disappointed.  As far as overall catching goes, this day proved to be better than many as Marck and Morris each caught several fish in the 8-10 inch range. There may have been one or two slightly bigger fish, and a handful of much smaller fish, but at least fish were being caught—by my two compadres, that is. Despite going through at least a dozen of Morris’ elk hair caddis patterns, Marck caught fewer fish than one would expect him to catch. It was Morris who put on a catching clinic and the only way to get him to stop was to make him row for a while. Actually we all took turns on the oars as I am learning to share the rower’s seat of my boat with others. When I rowed, both Morris and Marck caught fish. When Marck rowed, Morris caught fish.  When Morris rowed, Marck caught fish. See a pattern developing here?  Clearly I am the inferior angler superior oarsman.

It was well into the second half of our float and I hadn’t risen a single fish to my offerings yet. While Morris and Marck bantered in a lively manner it was pointed out that I’d grown a tad bit sullen in the front of the boat. It wasn’t that I wasn’t’ having fun—I was—but I was a bit troubled by the lack of activity: I’d not set the hook (effectively or otherwise) on a single fish all day. When I wasn’t rowing, and subsequently putting my anglers on fish, I’d fished hoppers and ants in both foam and naturally-tied fibers. Nada.  I decided to try what I’ll call a ‘stone hopper’ (a fly which could be considered a very loose imitation of either a stonefly or a hopper). I’m sure it has a real name, though one that escapes me. It had a tan body, rubber legs, and some hackle. Maybe some  swept-back wings. It looked pretty buggy. Maybe it would catch a fish and save me from a skunking.

We were fishing the bank on river left, just a short ways downstream of Red’s Fly Shop. As per standard procedure, the fly was cast tight to the bank. Maybe right on the bank. When the fly settled on the water the take came almost casually.  Small fish attack the offering, often chasing it and making quite a ruckus. In my unaccomplished experience, big fish don’t move to the fly when the flows are heavy. If the fly drifts over their nose, and they deem it worthy (which often they do not), they may nonchalantly roll on the fly. And that’s what happened.

I played the fish downstream for 1/4 mile before Morris could find slow water in which to pull over and drop anchor. I kept the tip of my sharply-bent 4 weight Z-Axis up, the line tight. I gave the fish line when it wanted it and it wanted plenty. Fortunately I was connected to the fish with 3X so I didn’t have to worry too much about that. I had pinched the barb, however, so I had that to worry about. With the boat safely at anchor Marck leapt into the river with net in hand. He made his way down stream 10 yards or so and waited patiently for me to hold up my end of the bargain so that he might reciprocate.  I was able to turn the trout’s head toward shore. Marck was closer to the fish than I had been at any given time, so he got a good look. I knew it was a good fish from the moment I hooked it, and Marck confirmed. He may have blurted out that it was more than 20 inches. Had he done so I’m sure it wouldn’t have distracted me from the task at hand.  Stay calm. Focus. Breath. Keep the line tight.  Turn the fish toward Marck. Don’t screw this up. All I had to do was do everything right and the fish would be in the net. Marck is a competent net man.

Marck got even closer to the fish—never quite close enough to get the fish in the net, but close enough to be confident in his assessment that it was at least 20 inches. Probably more. It should be noted that as much as I wish I could have blamed him, Marck had nothing to do with the fish having not been landed.

Seven years is a long time. A lot can happen in that amount of time. You can bet that during the summer of 2021 I plan to be on the Yakima, throwing big bugs. Until then there will be other fish caught. Smaller fish.

Summer goes by quickly here in the Pacific Northwet. It seems as though once July is behind us, August passes in half the time. Here it is already the 20th of the month, which means August is nearly gone. That also means September is almost here.

Ever since I quit having to go to back school, I’ve come to rather like September in this neck of the woods. It’s a peaceful month with neither the frantic pace of summer nor the doldrums of winter. Weather-wise, September is a transition month. During the heat of July (and we had many days into the 90’s this past July) our PNW lawns begin to dry out, and by the end of July and into August the lawns have assumed a nice shade of mostly tan. The lawn isn’t dead: it’s dormant. That’s what grass is supposed to do. Not a lot of growth taking place by this time, unless you irrigate, which we don’t because we don’t have an irrigation system.

From most perspectives this reprieve from lawn maintenance is a welcome thing for sure—after all, who has time for yard work during the summer, right? There’s fishing to be done. But back to September. Typically the weather during our 9th month of the year is exceptional, if not quite summer-like: nights are cool, mornings can be foggy, and dew forms on the lawn overnight. With regard to trout fishing, September is also a splendid month:  Many rivers are low and clear by this time, and diminutive mayflies are on the menu. Fish are feeding because they know Fall is upon them, and they know what proceeds Fall. 

As the lawns of September begin to take on a hint of green, unfortunately that also means the return of lawn maintenance. But the flip side of that is the crane fly hatch, which will be in full swing.

And that means Lawn Trout.

Gold Pass: Where Montana gravel meets Idaho pavement

The St. Joe River flows from deep within, or perhaps high in, the Bitterroot mountains that divide Montana from Idaho’s Panhandle. To get there we traveled from St. Regis, MT over the Little Joe Road (a well-maintained gravel road) 14.5 miles to the top of Gold Pass, where Idaho takes over. From here the road changes in both name (becomes Gold Pass Road) and surface material (becomes pavement). We descended another 12.5 miles before turning onto the St. Joe River Road toward Red Ives Ranger Station. From this junction the St. Joe River can be accessed fairly easily from the road for the next 12 miles until the vehicle access ends at Spruce Tree Campground. If you’re willing to walk a ways beyond this point you can find some drop-dead gorgeous water. The farther you hike the better your chances of having the river to yourself. If you want to go one step further, you can ride a horse upriver and leave civilization behind in the dust.

Will Judge packs the essentials onto Schpanky’s horse, Pancho.

Near the end of the St. Joe River Road is the Base Camp for the St. Joe Outfitters, owned and operated by Barbara and Will Judge. I won’t go into a detailed, nuts and bolts description of their business here, but if you’re inclined to read more about it I’ve posted a copy of an article I wrote for Fly Rod & Reel, Spring 2010. “Cutthroat Commandos” wouldn’t have been my choice for the title, but I had no say in the matter; apparently the editor thought it fitting.  For the record I have never fished commando style for any fish, cutthroat or otherwise.

When you book a trip with the St. Joe Outfitters you will travel 5 miles by horseback on the main trail that follows the river the entire way; sometimes right along the banks, other times high above the river. If you prefer not to ride you can hike the high trail on foot, as did Hal. He has no opposition to horses, he’s just a hiker type. Schpanky and I were happy to be paired with Pancho and Chett for the journey upriver. During your 2 hours in the saddle you will cross the St. Joe six times before arriving at your destination: The St. Joe Lodge.

Almost there: Atop my trusty steed, Chett.

The Lodge lies at the edge of a sprawling meadow, tucked amongst the tall spruce trees. It’s really something that words cannot describe, and while photos do a better job, visiting firsthand is really the only way of gaining a true appreciation for the place. The Lodge itself is a log structure built in the 1940’s that has retained much of its original rustic charm. Guests stay in cabins situated a few feet away from the Lodge, where meals are taken. Accommodations are far from fancy, but they are comfortable in a rustic, authentic manner. The Lodge has a lot of character, and as you might imagine there are stories to be told about its history.

The St. Joe Lodge

Inside the Lodge, where food happens.

Guest cabins, where sleep happens.

I’ve fished the Joe a mere 4 times, and until recently had been to the St. Joe Lodge twice before. Upon returning from a third visit I must say that it was a very special trip thanks in no small part to the company I kept: I was joined once again by my brother, Hal, and my son, Schpanky. Hal and I went together the first time in 2008, and Schpanky has heard me talk about it ever since. I promised him that one day, when he became a big boy, I would take him. Well, he’s now bigger than I am so I finally made good on my promise. In 2009 I visited the Lodge with Marck and Jimmy. There followed a couple years that I didn’t get back to fish the Joe, proceeded by another year that Marck, Jimmy, Morris and I did the trip on a budget and camped at Spruce Tree. Last summer I was not able to make the trip so this year it felt great to be back on the Joe; even sweeter to be back at the Lodge.

Plenty of clear, cold water.

This past winter the Bitterroots saw an abundant snowpack and the runoff was slow to subside thanks to some cool, wet weather in June. During this 3rd week in July the flows in the upper Joe were higher than the seasonal average, but the river was very fishable. Only a few spots, where one might normally wade with ease this time of year, were a bit dicey. However it was no problem for those who are quick on their feet (and I only lost my footing once). Deep holes held plenty of westslope cutthroats, but they were pickier than I seem to recall them having been in the past and we had to work awfully hard for most of the fish we caught. Whomever said the Idaho cutthroat are stupid fish that will take any reasonably well-presented didn’t formulate their opinion this year, on this river.

We fished 2-1/2 days and on the first afternoon we were not met with a very warm reception on the part of the fish. We hiked about a mile upriver from the Lodge to a run known as Whitefish Hole, and though we didn’t see any whitefish we did see scores of cutthroat rising to midges—size 12 chernobyl ants didn’t even get a look. Hal and Schpanky each managed to catch a fish but I was denied such accomplishment. Only after hiking back down toward the lodge was I able to land a fish on a size 20 Griffith’s Gnat in what is referred to by the locals as Wyatt’s Hole. Despite a slow few hours of catching we didn’t think too much of it because we were just getting started. Back at the Lodge, a fine feast of fresh-baked pizza made everything OK, followed by fireside comradery and a good night’s sleep.

First day fish for Schpanky.

The next day we hiked upstream about 3-1/2 miles before dropping into the river to fish our way back down. The first stop was along a gorgeous stretch of river where the Joe was braided into several channels. Logs and woody debris formed some of the tastiest-looking trout water one could imagine, but this first spot yielded no fish. Throwing a streamer next to the logjams should have, and likely would have, produced at least several nice fish, if not for the presence of vermin.  Once I saw that I reeled up and moved well downstream. No sense wasting time where the otter had been fishing.

Never try to compete with an accomplished angler.

Downstream a half mile Schpanky and I observed what may have been the largest trout either of us had ever seen. The leviathan was every bit of 24 inches as it cruised slowly through the crystal clear water. Big fish don’t get big by being stupid, and once it saw us it made a U-turn and swam rapidly off through a shallow riffle, headed downstream before we could get our hopes up.  It may have been a bull trout as they were known to inhabit the upper river this time of year, or it may have been a monster cutthroat—we’ll never know. Had it been a bull trout we definitely would not have targeted it because targeting bull trout is legally frowned upon in the upper Joe. Another big fish, though not quite as big as the first, was observed moving under the logjam, but nothing we tried could entice it to come out and play. While fishing was outstanding, catching remained a bit slower than we’d have preferred the rest of the day. Hal and Schpanky could blame their choice of headwear for the slow catching, but I had no such excuse.

Team Unaccomplished.

Schpanky hooks up with one of few fish on day two.

We fished dries in a variety of sizes and patterns but the most success I had was fishing white conehead streamers. I hooked and mostly landed (read: broke off at my feet) a couple very respectable 16-17 inch fish, but only a small handful of smaller fish were caught the rest of the day. We didn’t see another angler during our entire day on the river, but we did see plenty of gorgeous country. We also caught a fleeting glimpse of a moose crossing the river a couple of hundred yards away. Those are the best kind of moose—the ones at a distance.

Yeah, it’s pretty country.

A streamer eater.

Schpanky with another Idaho cutty.

Cadaver feet.

That evening back at the Lodge we were glad to get out of our waterlogged boots and have a cold beverage or two. Come supper time we were treated to an exceptional fried chicken and mashed potato meal thanks to Barbara’s amazing culinary talents. After dinner we moved to the campfire to stare into the flames, discuss the likelihood of Bigfoot’s existence, and share bad jokes. By 10 pm we retired to the bunk cabin for a solid night’s sleep. We needed to be well rested for the next day’s activity: more fishing.

Chow time in the chow hall.

While the fishing on day two had proved slow and challenging, on the third day things picked up. A father knows his son, and I could tell that, despite enjoying himself in the backcountry, Schpanky was a bit frustrated by the lack of ample catching—especially since I had told him he would have the best trout fishing experience of his life (he may have misinterpreted that to mean the best catching experience of his life). He quickly got over that as he caught fire on the third day. Armed with a yellow conehead version of a Woolly Bugger, the lad was catching fish left and right, pulling fish from runs that Hal and I had already fished through. It wasn’t until he broke off the magic streamer that his catch rate slowed to that of his uncle and his old man. I reminded him that he owed me $3.25 for the lost fly.

One of Schpanky’s many fish on day three.

Hal was fishing his 3 weight Redington 7′ Butterstick for the first time and had very favorable things to say about it. I grabbed it for a few casts and will say that it’s a smooth casting stick worthy of its name, and 12-14 inch fish are an awful lot of fun on a rod that bends like a noodle. Surprisingly it can also throw a fair amount of line for such a soft stick.

Hal’s Butter bent but did not melt.

We fished below the Lodge for a mile and a half or so, encountering some fish willing to eat dry flies without being too finicky, although presentations still had to be spot-on. I managed to fool a particularly nice fish that had been rising in a mid-river seam. It took several drifts but I finally got the fat 15 incher on a black caddis. It was a dark, beautifully colored fish—as pretty as they come, and an awful lot of fun on my Sage Circa 3 weight.  I’ve always fished a 4 weight on the Joe, and while the 3 weight isn’t particularly well-suited to chucking streamers, it makes fighting even 10 inch fish fun.

A gorgeous St. Joe cutt on a black caddis.

It had a real purty mouth.

Hal enjoys the evening rush hour traffic on the Joe.

St. Joe cookie cutter cutt.

Each of us enjoyed good catching on this third day and we were mindful to appreciate the day because it was our last: in the morning we would have to pack out and return to civilization. I hesitate to mention food again, but the last supper consisted of short ribs and potatoes, cooked in the Dutch Oven, that were over-the-top. It was a meal fitting of a birthday feast—Barbara’s birthday, as it were. On a day when she should have been waited on hand and foot while sipping lemonade in the hammock outside the Lodge, Barbara was busy making sure her guests were well-fed, again. Every meal is excellent and you will not go hungry while you’re a guest at the Lodge. I’ve always teased Schpanky because he tends to have a light appetite, but on this trip he ate food like a big boy—even went for thirds on the ribs. Made is Pappy proud, he did. As per protocol, after stuffing our faces we waddled outside to the fire for the usual antics, and something a good bit less usual.

Heard but not seen.

No matter your personal feelings about the reintroduction of wolves in western states, you’d be hard-pressed to convince me that hearing a wolf howling in the back country isn’t pretty awesome. The first howl caught us off-guard: a long, low and mournful call—nothing like the high-pitched call of a coyote, in case you thought us mistaken. We ceased the bad joke telling and sat in silence trying to determine if what we’d heard was our imagination. It was 9:30pm as the fire crackled and the generator powering lights in the St. Joe Lodge hummed in the background. Normally by this hour the generator would have been turned off, but Barbara was celebrating her birthday by playing a game of Scrabble with one of the other guests: If she wanted the lights left on, by golly they were going to be left on. We waited for another howl, which came shortly after the first.  It was neither our imagination, nor was it someone engaging in a bit of backcountry hijinks. I mean, who other than Lone Wolf McQuade would go to the trouble of hiking up to a ridge at night and imitating a wolf?  The lone animal called out 5 or 6 times with no response. There was a ten minute break before we heard another howl, this time downriver but still high on the ridge across the river. After speculating whether it was an answering call or perhaps the same wolf that had moved rather quickly along a game trail, we concluded that it was more than likely the latter. On this third night, on my third trip to the St. Joe Lodge, it was my first time hearing a wolf in the wild. After crawling into the fart sack a short while  later, I will admit that I hoped I wouldn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to go outside and relieve myself mark my territory.

While riding out on the final day of our trip, Will noted some oversized canine tracks on the trail. Unless someone had been hiking the area with a St. Bernard, the tracks very likely belonged to the wolf we’d heard the night before. Chett and Pancho seemed to agree, and had a skip in their steps that was missing on the ride in 3 days earlier.

Mission accomplished.

If you’re looking for a very unique backcountry fly fishing adventure—something the likes of which you’ve probably never experienced before—I highly recommend you contact Barbara and Will Judge at St. Joe Outfitters. Their calendar fills fast, so you’ll not want to wait too long. And when you go I recommend you bring Chuck Norris along for protection. You never know what you may run into in the Idaho wilderness.