Unaccomplished Angler

Page 16 of 45

Mother of all stickers!

Just when you thought I was done with stickers…

November 11, 2013 / / 20 Comments

Mother of all stickers!

In last week’s Weekly Drivel® I came clean and announced that I was done with stickers. If so inclined, my confession can be viewed HERE.

But a clean break is never as easy as it may sound—there are always temptations out there that can test a person’s stickery resolve. Today I received not one, but two tempting offers via email from one “James Scott, Advertising Manager/Hiring Manager for Budweiser Beer, Inc.”  The emails were both titled:

Wrap your car with Budweiser Advertisement Wrap and Get Paid…

I’m glad he sent me two emails in case I missed one or the other! In his messages Mr. Scott generously offered me the opportunity to receive $200 per week just for having the Fish Taco slathered bumper to bumper with a Budweiser vehicle wrap. His exact enticement said:

It is Very Easy and Simple with No Application fees required : Here’s how It works – The basic premise of the “paid to drive” concept Budweiser beer seeks people — regular citizens, not professional drivers — to go about their normal routine as they usually do, only with a big advert of “Budweiser” plastered on your car/truck. The adverts are typically vinyl decals, also known as “auto wraps,” that almost seem to be painted on the vehicle, and which will cover any portion of your car’s exterior surface. What does the company get out of this type of ad strategy? Lots of exposure and awareness. The auto wraps tend to be colourful and eye-catching and attract lots of attention. Plus, it’s a form of advertising with a captive audience, meaning people who are stuck in traffic and can’t avoid seeing the wrapped car alongside them.

(Editor’s note to Mr. Scott: Here in America, the word “colourful” has only one “u”)

Mr. Scott undoubtedly read last week’s Drivel and is preying on my weakness. Why, it’s the ultimate sticker AND a chance to get paid handsomely! You can imagine my inner turmoil. As Al Pacino’s character, Michael Corleone in The Godfather III,  said:

The program lasts for 3 months, although the minimum period I can participate is 1 month. If my advanced math education serves me correct, I could be paid as much as $2400 if I elect to enroll in this program—stickers and riches! There is no fine print that says I have to actually drive at all during this time period, so I could leave the Beer Batter Fish Taco in the garage, safe from public ridicule (as well as the harsh judgment of Mrs. UA) and still collect my fee. When I do need to run an errand, I can either walk, or, I’ve got my trusty Noped that can get me where I’m going at 23 mph and 100 mpg. But I digress, I’ve always wanted my own beer truck.

This could be me, or you!

This almost sounds too good to be true, Mr. Scott—but I am in, sir!

Wait, what? This is too good to be true?

Car Wrap Scams on the Rise—Beware 

Oh well, I did just receive a generous gift of $18,600,000 USD from a nice, terminally ill widow in Europe. Money should be arriving any day now, so who needs vehicle wraps?

The Fish Taco, before.

Owning up

November 6, 2013 / / 20 Comments

The Fish Taco, before even more stickers were applied.

Those who know me, and those who don’t but who have seen the Fish Taco, know that I’ve a certain penchant for stickers. Over the past 4 years the back window of the canopy became slathered with no fewer than a whole bunch of stickers: stickers representing pretty much anything to do with fly fishing, from conservation groups to product manufacturers, shops and guides. I’ve been proud to display said advertisements. Actually, advertisement may be the wrong choice of words—more accurately, by displaying said stickers, I was announcing my allegiance and proclaiming my passion for fish and fishing.

The fly fishing world is a stickery business—I wrote about it a few years ago when the Fish Taco sticker collection was still in its infancy (if so inclined you can read about it HERE). Not everyone likes stickers, and critics of said adornment use arguments such as, “I don’t like to advertise that I may have expensive fly fishing gear in my car.” Or in the case of the predictably unsupportive Mrs. UA, “Grow up.”  I’ve always dismissed said critics—I like stickers: they give cause to harken back to simpler times when a gold star or smiley face sticker was reward for having achieved relative greatness, or endured a visit to the dentist. To me, stickers have always represented the positive.

What’s not to like about this?

But slowly, it began to gnaw at me, one sticker at a time…this feeling that perhaps I wasn’t the best ambassador to represent these many entities; that I wasn’t worthy of their display. Was I merely a hack misrepresenting myself as something otherwise? The answer became painfully clear when I recently looked in the mirror, didn’t like what I saw, and asked, “If the tables were turned, would those entities want to be associated with me?”

Tools of a destructive trade.

And so a couple of weeks ago I grabbed my flat razor blade and alcohol-soaked rag and began to wipe the slate clean. Many of the stickers were slightly oxidized from the damaging UV rays of the sun—some were even beginning to peel around the edges. Others of higher quality had stood the test of time and it was those in particular that were harder to remove. Not physically harder, mind you, but emotionally—such a waste of such a fine product. I held back a tear as I peeled, scraped and wiped away the collection of adhesive-backed goodness.

The result is a large area of glass through which I hadn’t been able to fully see in a long time. Only one sticker remains.

A nearly blank slate.

As hard as my decision was, it was the right thing to do.  I am, if nothing else, an Unaccomplished Angler and it’s time I quit pretending to be anything else. In my defense I’ve never declared to be anything other than unaccomplished, but the assembly of stickers may have been confusing to others. It’s time I eliminated that confusion and owned up to my fate, fully.

I am what I am: nothing more and nothing less.

What would Andy Rooney Think?

60 Minutes: April Vokey and Andy Rooney?

November 1, 2013 / / 6 Comments

What would Andy Rooney think?

I didn’t even know there was a 60 Minutes of the sporting world until I heard of an upcoming episode featuring April Vokey. I promise you I am not posting this for the sole purpose of boosting my Google Stats. I honestly feel that this episode of 60 Minutes Sports is something the readers of the Unaccomplished Angler may enjoy seeing. If you’re like me, however, you won’t get to see it because you don’t subscribe to Showtime. If anyone out there does get Showtime, could you please record it on your VHS and send me a copy of the tape? I’d appreciate it. But please, no Betamax—that technology is so 1975.

Episode airs November 6th at 10PM Eastern/Pacific

Fishing with Jerry’s Kid(s)

October 28, 2013 / / 14 Comments

On a recent Sunday morning I received a last minute invitation to join a friend, Jerry, on an excursion to chase Coho (silver) salmon on a local river. Jerry didn’t call me directly, but rather his wife called my wife to ask if I wanted to go.  It felt a bit like I was a kid again, with our mothers setting up a play date for us. As the day progressed I would feel like a kid in more ways than one.

A busy day at the boat ramp.

A good day to take a kid fishing.

Without a Seahawk game on television to keep folks inside on the couch drinking beer and eating chips, it appeared everyone and their uncle was doing the same thing we were doing. Parking was tight at the launch but I was able to wedge my child-sized Fish Taco between the Big Boy trucks and walked to the boat ramp. Under clouds and a fading light drizzle Jerry arrived and we launched his sled. Actually Jerry did all the work— I just stood on the bank and held the bow line, taking great pride in my responsibility.

Where the Sky meets the Snoqualmie

We proceeded down the Snoqualmie River to its confluence with the Skykomish River; the union of which forms the Snohomish River. Down the Snohomish we went, dodging scores of sleds filled with other anglermen. The sky was beginning to clear and it was a crisp day defined by the yellow leaves of Autumn which dropped gently in a light breeze. With leaves in the water, Fall was definitely in the air and that included the stench of millions of rotting Pink salmon carcasses, which served as a reminder that I’d tried, unsuccessfully, to catch some of them earlier in the season.

We picked a spot between other boats and anchored up within a stone’s throw of the river bank. Armed with spinning rods rigged with weighted clumps of Jerry’s home made roe, we cast toward fish that were rolling and splashing just off the bank. As the weight tapped along the bottom, the clumps of roe drifted in the gentle current. When the tapping of the weight ceased, it was an indication that a fish had inhaled the eggs. That’s when you set the hook.

Or at least that’s when Jerry would set the hook, which he did successfully three times, filling his limit of 3 Coho in fairly short order. Other anglers in surrounding boats seemed to be doing the same thing. I managed to hook snags in the water and broke off my end tackle 5 times (yes, I was counting).  Fortunately Jerry had come prepared with an ample supply of pre-rigged leaders, and each time I snapped off and tied on a new leader, I could see the vein in his forehead pulse more rapidly. Had I not at least been baiting my own hook I’m sure Jerry would have made me sit in the front of the boat eating animal crackers.

To my credit I did offer a small measure of value by netting Jerry’s fish, although I was accused of handling the net “like a fly fisherman, afraid of hurting the fish.”  In my defense I was actually less concerned with hurting fish than I was with knocking his fish off the hook with poor netsmanship. Had that happened I’m certain I’d have been picked up by the back of my pants and dropped over the side of the boat.

There was no obvious explanation for my comparative lack of fish harvesting: we were fishing the same setups, the same water. The only difference being the pheromone that I apparently give off that repels fish. I’m sure Jerry had never seen anything quite like it. It wasn’t exactly like shooting fish in a barrel, but it shouldn’t have been this hard for anyone with half a reflex to catch one of these fish. And so went the afternoon.

With only 5 minutes remaining before we had to pull anchor and get back to the ramp, Jerry hooked another fish. And then the unthinkable followed: he handed me the rod. “Here you go, ” he said.

Blushing, I felt like the awkward kid as I played the fish to the boat where Jerry wielded the net like a man. We headed back to the boat ramp in silence.

Jerry’s fish.

At least I had my participant’s ribbon for the day—a charitable handout that is now in the smoker—my very man-sized Little Chief.

Not Jerry’s Kid.

Kid-sized smoker.

The Henry’s Fork Buffet

October 1, 2013 / / 3 Comments

This is Part II of a 3-part series. However this is also the final entry, as Part III and  Part I were previously published. Yes, it’s rather confusing…(Editor’s Note: this completes the 3-part series. There ain’t no more)

It’s really quite shocking to me that it took this long to visit the fabled Henry’s Fork because it’s been there all along, beckoning: so close, and yet…just beyond reach. Each year that the Firehole Rangers visit Yellowstone, we find ourselves less than an hour away from the legendary waters of what is also known as the North Fork of the Snake. Quite often the Salmonflies are hatching on the Henry’s while we seek small trout in the Park, or nymph for uncooperative, catatonic fish on the Madison at Three Dollar Bridge. Suffice it to say for several years the Henry’s Fork has been near the top of the list I keep in a bucket. And for good reason—any river named for a buffet has to be good, right? It was time to empty the bucket just a tad.

The Royal Fork: Miles of Food.

As a kid I always enjoyed the occasional family visit to the Royal Fork Buffet. I mean, who wouldn’t? What with seemingly endless miles of food set out for easy pickin’s and all. And so it was with similar anticipation that we drove north from Victor thru Ashton to Island Park and Last Chance, Idaho. Certainly the Henry’s Fork was aptly named because it’s a similar buffet with miles of tasty trout water—a veritable smorgasboard for the traveling angler; undoubtedly a bountiful feast of bugs for the many trouts in its hallowed waters.

Firehole Ranger reunion.

But first things first: a stop at the Trouthunter Fly Shop for a few artifical bugs and perhaps a bit of intel. While browsing the vast fly bins we had the good fortune of bumping into some old friends—the gals from Boise with whom we’d fished on the Firehole earlier in the year (Aileen and Rachel comprise 2/3 of Fly Fishing Ventures and Aileen is the headmistress of MKFlies). The girls were in Island Park with a plethora of other ladies as part of a multi-day Trout Chicks gathering and video shoot of some sort. I also had the pleasure of meeting the River Damsel herself—another long-time blogging friend whom I’d never met in person until this day. It was sort of like a family reunion, where I was the “little brother.” But enough socializing, we were there to fish so off to Box Canyon we went.

The Henry’s Fork: Miles of Trout.

Despite the fact that we’d just stuffed our faces with a fine breakfast (albeit not a buffet), I was salivating as we geared up. Gazing upstream into the Box Canyon section of the Henry’s was akin to staring down the long line of food at the Royal Fork, without a line to wait  in: the parking lot was empty so we’d have the banks of the river to ourselves.

The Firehole Rangers of the Henry’s Fork.

The Box didn’t look like much of a canyon as we followed the trail upstream. There were sections of 15 foot cliffs that prevented descent to the river, but “canyon” seemed like a bit of a stretch, if not a complete exaggeration. Maybe further upriver it gets steeper, but where we fished it was pretty easy going.  Jimmy and Morris dropped in and began fishing while Marck and I hiked further up the trail.  When we got to where we thought looked to be a good spot, we commenced our angling ways.  The first thing I noticed was that the relatively shallow riverbed was covered with weeds. That would have made streamer fishing a bit challenging had we opted for streamer fishing, which we did not.  Marck was rigged up with a double nymph/bobber setup. I decided that since I was so close to Yellowstone, I’d try the tactics we use there.  I quickly hooked up with my first fish: a game little rainbow of about 5 inches.

The pride of the Henry’s Fork

A fluke, I assumed—not only because of the early hookup, but because certainly the fabled Henry’s Fork would serve up some much bigger fish than that.  And if a 10 inch trout is “much” bigger, then I was not disappointed. Over the course of 3 hours, I landed several more “much” bigger trout and had hookups and LDR’s with even more. Lots of fish. Lots of small fish. That seemed to be the consensus amongst the ranks of the Rangers, although Marck did get into one spot where he was finally served larger portions which was a good thing because he’s a big guy.

Marck’s man-sized Henry’s Fork fish.

It was a beautiful day in the Box, with little to no w#nd and mostly sunny skies. It threatened rain early on but never made good on the threat—not until much later in the day. It was a rather pleasant midday outing for those (Morris) who would be wet-wading because of a lack of waders.  As warm as the day was, I never regretted for an instant that I was clad in a breathable membrane from the chest down. Mid September in the high country means water temps that beg for waders. Morris—remember that for next time, hey what?

A beautiful day in The Box.

Throughout the day we saw several drift boats in the canyon: most were anchored up mid-river, nymphing much more productive water than we reached from the shore. The river wasn’t particularly deep and in many places looked to be wadable across its entire width. However, due to an abbreviated inseam I tend toward not being a real aggressive wader and opted to stay within 30 feet of the bank. That decision kept me dry but also kept me from reaching the multitude of fish that seemed to be laying further out. It was not unlike the buffet line food that, due to the sneeze guard, is just beyond reach.  I didn’t see any large fish being caught by the boat anglers, but they definitely had rights to better water.  After a few hours we all met back up at the limo and made plans to drive downstream to the next destination. We’d heard so much about The Ranch that we expected hoped to improve on our catching.

Welcome to The Ranch.

Harriman State Park is a vast expanse of former private ranch land through which the Henry’s Fork gently meanders. Although strange and new waters to us, there are places where it reminded me very much of the Firehole, albeit with cattle along its banks rather than bison. Beautiful country for sure, and how fortunate that the land became public domain so that anglers like us could enjoy it’s generous fishing get our asses handed to us in short order.

Those are cattle, not bison.

No sooner had we rigged up when the sky turned dark and ominous clouds moved in quickly from the south. No worries—the fishing was sure to be so bountiful that a little thunderstorm wouldn’t deter us. We spread out and began to fish.  Immediately what stood out was just how shallow the water was—no more than shin deep—and just how many weeds there were. Each cast and retrieve was followed by weed-removal. I believe if you measured carefully the ratio was 4:1 weeds to water. One does not go to a buffet for salad.

Fishing for salad on the leading edge of a storm.

We weren’t on the water more than 20 minutes when it began to rain: a heavy, soaking downpour that had us drenched within 2 minutes of the initial cloudburst.  We dug in our heels, fought through the storm like mountain men and caught many large fish quickly retreated to the car without a single one of us hooking a fish. We acknowledged that we’d hit the wrong part of the river through The Ranch. It had to be much better elsewhere, and had we not fished all day already we’d have sought out other sections of The Ranch in which to angle.  However, we wanted to get back to Victor in time to watch the Seahawks put the hurt on the 49ers, so we pointed the Ranger Limo south.

Seattle Fish Hawks.

Put a Henry’s Fork in us, we were done—for now, anyway. We’ll return to explore further stretches of this beautiful river. After all, buffets always have a way of getting you to come back for more.

 

This is not a jet.

A lack of integrity on the South Fork.

September 24, 2013 / / 3 Comments

This is Part I of III. At the time of this writing Part II has not yet been written, but Part III has been, in case you dismissed it last week. (Editor’s Note: Since this article was first published, Part II has also been published)

This is not a jet.

We departed Seattle on a DeHavilland Bombardier. I only mention the type of plane because a UA reader by the name of “Wade” commented on a recent post, proclaiming surprise that we were not flying on a Horizon/Alaska jet from Sea-Tac to Boise. No, Wade—it was indeed a turbo prop as evidenced by the photo above. The pleasant, one-hour flight sure beat what would otherwise have been an 8-9 hour drive. Our limo picked us up at the airport and whisked us away on the next leg of our journey: A 6 hour drive to Victor, ID.

Air travel, limousines…livin’ large! Actually it wasn’t quite a limo that greeted us at the airport—it was one of Marck’s daughters who attends Boise State, and we commandeered her car for the rest of our trip. It was amazing that we got 4 guys and all their gear into the 1999 Nissan Maxima for the uneventful drive across Idaho. There’s not a lot between Boise and Victor worth mentioning anyway, except for Silver Creek—which we would visit on the last leg of our fishing journey (Part III). But I’m getting ahead of myself by mentioning Silver Creek. Or am I getting behind? It’s so confusing to write outside of chronological order…George Lucas did so with his Star Wars trilogy and it worked for him, so why not? Sorry, where were we?

The Ranger Limo…

Victor served as our base camp from which we would fish the South and Henry’s Forks of the Snake River over the next two days. Actually “base camp” may be a bit misleading because we were hardly camping. In fact, we stayed in the lavish accommodations at Teton Springs Lodge. Now, before you start judging us harshly for being high-brow traveling anglers, take note: Morris had won a couple nights’ free stay at the Lodge in a raffle a year before at the Casting 4 A Cure event held in the same location. So while we were poshly pampered, we did so for less than what we typically pay at the Ho Hum in West Yellowstone.  Anyway, we were here to fish—not marvel at our accommodations. A bed is merely a place to sleep. If there’s a shower, that’s a bonus but not necessarily a requirement.

I think this means “UA is Number Four!”

We met with our guides, Hope Strong and Zach Barrett, at the Worldcast Anglers shop at 8 am. It was determined that we’d be fishing section 4 (Byington to Lorenzo), so off we went. I presented Hope with an Unaccomplished Angler hat and the request that if he didn’t want to wear it, would he at least pose for a photo? Off came his other hat and on went the UA Trucker, where it remained all day long except for twice when it blew off in the w#nd. Hope retrieved it both times with an urgency that suggested he had developed a strong fondness for the hat. That, or he just wanted the protection from the sun.

The OJ Simpson guide mobile.

After a 45 minute drive in Hope’s road-weary early 90’s era Ford Bronco, we were on the water by 9 AM. Mostly clear skies and calm air welcomed us as we commenced our float. It wouldn’t rain, but the w#nd would become problematic during the afternoon. I’d fished two other sections of the South Fork two years prior so this wasn’t completely new water to me, and our angling antics were pretty much what I expected: nymphing a variety of droppers under a “turd” (Pat’s rubber legs). Sometimes a 3-nymph setup, AKA “tangles.” Other times we hopelessly fished streamers in water that begged for it but seemed devoid of fish. We hoped hoppers would rise a fish and yet they yielded nothing. Lest you should think that we got skunked, we did catch fish, though catching was far from red-hot. To make things more interesting we had an inter-boat contest going for the categories of first fish, biggest fish, smallest fish and most fish. Morris and Marck comprised Team Dishonesty; Jimmy and I represented Team Integrity (yes, Jimmy drew the short stick and was paired with the short angler).

Team Dishonesty.

It’s a given that Marck always catches the most fish, and while there is no way to know for sure how many he caught, it’s a safe assumption that he won that category. However, Jimmy was first on the board with a beautiful, heavily-spotted and respectable brown. There’s no refuting that because I was there to confirm it.

Jimmy’s first fish.

Morris probably won the biggest fish with his heavily spotted beauty of a rainbow, the proof being in the pudding (or, rather, the photo):

Morris and the big fish.

Throughout the day our boat had a handful of 16-18 inch browns. Had there been a category for doubles we’d have won that, too. Or at least Jimmy would have, as I offered very little when it came to categorized catching. I know with extreme certainty that Team Dishonesty did not have any doubles:

Jimmy’s double: brown on brown

My best trout was a monster brown until it was brought to the net to reveal its much smaller size. I’d been deceived: A belly-hooked fish will do that to an angler. I’d hoped for a photo but it was tossed back into the river before I could ready my camera. I’m pretty sure it would have still won biggest fish.

My Trophy Brown

Barring a photo as evidence of the would-be winning brown, my next best fish was a fine Snake River Whitefish. It should count for something—certainly largest native species, right?

Whitefish on the worm.

As indicated earlier, the contest results could never be accurately tallied due to dishonest accounting from the other boat. All that is known for certain is that both boats landed fish—not an overabundance, if there is such a thing, and certainly less than we’d hoped—but it was a fine day of angling under mostly sunny, warm skies. It threatened, but we managed to avoid thunderstorms which was particularly good fortune for Morris, who’d accidentally knowingly left his waders back home. And nobody enjoys waving a 9 foot graphite stick in the air when electricity abounds.

W#nd blows.

The one thing we could have done without was the w#nd, which blew. It always blows, but it really blows when it blows when you’re fly fishing. Nothing much you can do about that but angle on, which we did.  A still photo cannot  properly capture the drama of bending cottonwoods, billowing shirts, and fly lines blown off course, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. You can trust me: I was a member of Team Integrity, remember?

We got off the water at 6 and made our way back to Victor for some exceptional BBQ at Scratch. After a good soak in the hot tub (another nicety missing at the Ho Hum) we hit the hay at a respectable hour. We contemplated hitting the golf course ponds with some mouse patterns under the 3/4 moon, but decided we’d save our energy for the next day. After all, we’d need to bring our angling A games to the Henry’s Fork, so a good night’s rest was in order.

At least Team Integrity slept well that night. A clear conscience will allow for that.

Team Integrity.

The secret to catching fish at Silver Creek Preserve

September 18, 2013 / / 12 Comments

This is Part III of III, although Parts I and II have not yet at this time been written. (Editor’s note: Since this article was first published Part I and Part II have also been published)

The last stop on our whirlwind trip to Idaho was the World Famous Silver Creek Preserve. Even if you’ve never fished there you’ve likely heard about it— either from reading or from firsthand horror stories accounts. The Nature Conservancy has done a wonderful job of preserving this delicate jewel of a spring creek located in the desert of central Idaho, about 30 miles from Sun Valley. As most spring creeks do, Silver Creek runs cold and clear and boasts an abundance of aquatic vegetation and insect habitat. And a ridiculous number of fish: something along the lines of 6000 trout per mile. Oof.

And like many spring creeks, fishing is um…challenging, at Silver Creek Preserve, where the fish can get very large: Trophy fish, allegedly. And when fish get very large they tend to get rather smart. Trophy fish tend to get smarter than the anglers that pursue them and this is perhaps amplified at Silver Creek, where even the smaller fish have seen just about every imitation fly known to mankind. “Tightlipped” doesn’t due the trout justice here. No, I’d say downright disrespectful is more accurate.

The Firehole Rangers at Silver Creek.

Jimmy, Marck, Morris and I arrived after a 3 hour drive from Victor. One doesn’t expect to encounter complete vacancy at a place like the Preserve and to that end we were not disappointed as the parking area was full. It wasn’t all that surprising given that this place is legendary. I mean, it’s not everywhere that an angler can walk in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway, who wrote in a 1939 letter to his son, Jack:

“You’ll love it here, Schatz…There’s a stream called Silver Creek where we shoot ducks from canoe…Saw more big trout rising than have ever seen…Just like English chalk streams…We’ll fish it together next year.”

With only 3 hours at our disposal we didn’t have time to visit the Hemingway Monument. Dictating our schedule was our return flight to Seattle that evening. This is a place that definitely requires a return visit simply to take it all in—there’s more to just fishing at the Preserve, but we were there to do just that on this particular day.

An older gentleman was just preparing to depart his vehicle for the creek so we chatted briefly with him, noting that we’d never been here before and had only a narrow window of opportunity in which to angle. He was kind enough to share some information with us that would surely hopefully aid us in the quest of catching fish, “Small dries, size 22, ” he offered. “Cast downstream to rising fish.”  Sage words from someone who was clearly a seasoned Silver Creek angler. He looked the part: Patient. Wise. And, patient. With the shared wisdom we quickly geared up, signed in, and left a small cash contribution in the donation box at the Cabin.

Silver Creek Preserve Visitor’s Center

As we found our way down the trail to the creek we passed by a half dozen others standing in the creek looking very serious. Their grave expressions suggested that this was not a place one comes to enjoy a light-hearted trout outing. A short walk further upstream afforded several entry points to the creek. It should be noted that many access points are closed for stream-side vegetation restoration and we honored those signs, walking until we found suitable access.

Once we dropped into the water it became immediately obvious that the numbers of fish are not exaggerations. Hundreds of browns and rainbows could be seen cruising the clear lanes of gravel bottomed stream-bed. The vast weed-beds hid even more fish.

Count the fish.

We spread out, tied on tiny baetis patterns to the end of 6x tippet and began to experience Silver Creek Preserve. There are too many micro-currents to allow for a drag-free drift so one must cast straight down to the fish as was imparted upon us by the Wise and Patient Angler. Suffice it to say most of us began immediately having a certain amount of success catching very small fish. I, however, did not. It was a while before I managed to land my first, though not on a size 22 baetis. After a half hour of no luck I switched over to a size 18 cinnamon ant and managed to land a beautiful, legendary Silver Creek brown. Perhaps not the trophy brown that anglers come here to seek out, but a Silver Creek brown is a Silver Creek brown is a Silver Creek brown. Riiight.

Silver Creek hog brown.

Downstream, Marck, Jimmy and Morris seemed to be enjoying a bit more success. Dumb luck, I presumed, and continued to switch patterns and add a couple more feet of 6x. The fish cruising the gravel lanes didn’t even bother to look up and instead scattered when my artificial offering drifted overhead. I eventually managed a small rainbow on a size 18 Adams, and had several other takes but no hookups. Nothing larger than 5 inches, however. A gentle breeze carried with it a haunting sound—Hemingway was laughing.

Morris is welcomed by the trout of Silver Creek.

As I slowly fished downstream toward my compadres, I could see that Morris was connecting with several fish of respectable size. What he was not doing was casting tiny dries downstream. Instead, he was casting directly to the opposite bank, where larger browns lurked. He was regularly hooking up, so I inquired from a distance, “Say, old sport—you seem to be enjoying a good bit of angling success.” His rod bent sharply as a good fish splashed at the end of his line. “Pray tell, what’s your secret?” Morris’ reply came riddled with colorful expletives that would have made even Hemingway cringe. Not only that, but his methods and choice of fly went against everything this place of genteel angling tradition stood for.

In a fit of disgust I hollered back, “Sir, you are an outrage! Your inferior breeding, foul language and dirty angling techniques will not be tolerated here at The Preserve!” I marched off upstream to put greater distance between myself and the atrocities. Reaching into my bag I realized I’d left my box of “other” flies back at the car. Gosh darn it!

I’d gone through just about every reasonable dry fly pattern in my possession so I decided to revisit the cinnamon ant. Looking toward the far bank I observed what appeared to be a good-sized fish quietly rising. As most large fish are known to do, it ate quietly; gently sipping and making just the slightest riseforms in the glassy surface. An atypically decent cast placed the fly right where it needed to be and then it vanished in a small ripple. Fish on!

Well, for a split second anyway. I set the hook and my line came hurtling back toward me: Missing was the fly, and a couple feet of 6x. I’ve never felt so alone as I did at this point. As I was retying, I saw a disturbance on the water’s surface that caught my attention. Something very large dashed out from under the cut bank—from exactly where my fly had last been seen—and swam downstream very quickly for a distance of perhaps 20 feet, leaving a wake behind. My first thought was some sort of large aquatic mammal—like a seal or small whale. I then rationalized that it was one of those legendary world-class browns, chasing down a grebe for lunch. I commenced to break into a cold sweat.

Lonely is the Unaccomplished Angler on Silver Creek.

Downstream I could hear the splashing of large fish attached to the end of Morris’ line. My catching, however, had ended for the day. I desperately wished for more time to target the fish who’d stolen my fly, tippet and pride. I’ll be back some day, and I’ll go armed with flies that catch fish on Silver Creek Preserve. In case you happen to visit this wonderful place make sure you have plenty size 22 baetis patterns. But keep them in your fly box and tie on one of these: The Morris Silver Creek Special.

The Morris Silver Creek Special.

This was the last leg of our whirlwind journey through Idaho. We’d caught fish on every river we visited, but Silver Creek was the least welcoming, unless your name is Morris. Mine is not.

A report of findings.

Leavin’ on a jet plane…

September 11, 2013 / / 12 Comments

Soon I’ll embark on my first flight to a fishing destination.  Alaska? Kamchatka? Patagonia? South Andros?

Uh, not quite.  Does Boise count?

And it won’t even be a jet, so the headline above is misleading.

I must say that I’m rather excited to finally have a chance to use my Sage Travel Rod Tube that I got several months ago. The one that’s been sitting in my closet collecting dust, wondering when it will ever be employed for duty. I’ve filled it with two rods for the trip that will take us first to Boise, where we’ll hopefully land safely on day one.  From there we’ll embark on the drive to Victor, ID where we’ll fish the South Fork of the Snake on day two, followed by the Henry’s Fork on day three, and lastly to Silver Creek on our way back to Boise on day four.

A whirlwind trip for sure. I’ll be back here selling UA hats before you know it—what, you didn’t get yours yet?

In addition to Rangers Morris and Jimmy, Marck will also be along on the trip. So at least someone will catch fish.

I’ll report back with our findings.

The World’s Most Unaccomplished Angler?

There were never cute girls on our shearing crews.

Christmas trees and pond monkeys

September 3, 2013 / / 6 Comments

A lifelong friend of mine is a rural land baron and holds title to several thousand acres in the backwoods of the southern Hood Canal region. My family has owned a cabin in this area since I was 3 years old, and when my brother and I were in high school and college we spent summers getting to know many of these acres when much of the land was used primarily to grow Christmas trees. The summer months marked the shearing season during which we would walk countless rows of cultivated Douglas, Grand and Noble Fir trees, armed with lightweight, razor-sharp shearing knives. It was our job to shape each tree with great care: Great care to not remove too much new growth; great care to properly cut the top of the tree to the correct bud; great care to hopefully avoid slicing a finger or other body part in the process. I was successful in all accounts all most of the time.

Let the record reflect that there were never cute girls on our shearing crews.

In the 25-30 years since then market for Christmas trees has become saturated and there’s little money in that endeavor. Consequently nearly all of the land has been turned into timber property, the former Christmas trees now thinned and allowed to grow toward maturity. To visit most of the property nowadays paints a starkly different picture of the vast, formerly open fields of trees that were once 4-10 feet tall. The trees of my youth are now 40-60 feet in height and I suppose they wouldn’t recognize me, either, though not because I’m any taller. Those years provided good memories of long days spent toiling in the hot sun, running from enraged swarms of bald-faced hornets and developing forearms that would’ve made Popeye proud.

Since the demise of the Christmas tree market, one nugget of this former Christmas tree property has been turned into a recreational endeavor. It’s still working property, mind you—very much so in fact. In addition to ample timberland, several thousand Noble Firs are still maintained—no longer for harvest as Christmas trees, per se, but instead as trees for Christmas bows. Bear with me for a moment as this is where the English language gets confusing: “Bows” (as in the type of bow that rhymes with ‘now’)—not “bows” (the red ribbons that rhyme with ‘nose’).

But I digress. Amidst this beautiful, remote location there are also a series of ponds created many years ago as a means of providing entertainment for my friend and his family.

Natural ground springs in this very precipitous corner of the region make for a rather damp area so it took just a little bit of imagination (and an excavator) to create a series of ponds with a steady supply of cold water. Outflows from the ponds allow for water to flush when the heavy rains of the Pacific Northwest winters ensue. What was merely an experiment (and some down-time in a depressed timber market) decades ago has turned into a very healthy environment for rainbow and coastal cutthroat trout that were released into the ponds. Not only have the fish survived, they’ve thrived: There are nautrally reproducing fish from fingerlings to 3 ponders . A few native cutthroat also make their way naturally into the ponds via small waterways leading to a nearby river.  It’s a really neat environment that was created over the past 20 or so years.

Certainly the water gets a bit warm during August, but my friend monitors the temperature and has found that the fish survive quite well, as evidenced by the big fish that can be seen hanging out at the mouth of the springs where they enjoy the cold water and ample natural food supply, chasing off the smaller fish. I’ve visited these ponds several times over the years, always hoping to hook up with one of the big players, or even a respectable 15 inch fish like Schpanky caught years ago. I’ve yet to do so.

If a kid can do it…

It shouldn’t be so hard, right?  After all, these fish don’t see any sort of regular fishing pressure. The public has no access to the property and only a handful of people ever fish here, and then only sporadically. And never with a fly line, expect for on a very rare occasion. I suppose I should point out that the fish in these ponds are welfare recipients: they do receive their regular rations of feed pellets. And during these feeding sessions the ponds erupt with fish. Knowing their favorite food, I reckon an angler could simply tie on a pellet imitation and it would be akin to shooting fish in a barrel.  But I’m a proper angler and would never stoop so low barring a pellet fly one tries other patterns in their fly box.

On Labor Day weekend I paid a visit to the ponds—my first visit in a couple of years. Enough time to heal old wounds, right? My buddy told me the fish hadn’t been fed in a couple days so they should be hungry—perhaps even careless, I assumed.  Stupid, fat, greedy pond monkeys.

My kinda fish.

When I arrived it was clear that the neglected freeloaders had resorted to foraging for themselves as there were rise forms from one end of the pond to the other: Small fish eagerly leaping out of the water; mid-sized fish splashing raucously; big fish sipping softly as big fish are known to do. Small mayflies were hatching and the fish appeared to be picking off emergers.

Child’s play.

Confident that there was no need to get all technical, I tied on a big, bushy hopper.  There were hoppers in the grass surrounding the ponds, after all. My first cast yielded an 8 inch rainbow that shouldn’t have been able to get its mouth around the fly.  A few more casts resulted in nothing.  “OK,” I thought, “so you ingrates wanna play THAT game…”  I tied on a size 18 Adams—again, no need to match the hatch exactly. Besides, the Adams is my confidence fly.  Rather, it used to be my confidence fly. I was shunned by all but one 10 inch rainbow that made a hasty decision.  During the course of a 2 hour period I switched flies and flanked the pond from nearly all sides, casting to different fish. The hatching mayflies were very light in color but even a size 18 PMD was merely nosed by several very respectable fish. None would take my offering. Various streamers including small black and olive woolly buggers were followed by curious fish from 8-18 inches, but none were willing to play. After a couple hours I called it quits. I had places to go and people to see, so broke my rod over my knee down and packed my pride.

As I drove off I shook my head. Even I was more than a bit surprised at my angling unaccomplishments at the hands of these stupid, gullible pond monkeys.

Next time I go back to these ponds in the woods, I’ll be properly armed:

 

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