Tag: Fly-Fishing (Page 2 of 4)

Blue sky, sake, and a good winch

If you’re like me, you don’t have a winch on your truck and you naturally assume that most of the folks who do, don’t use them (or know how to use them, for that matter).  It looks cool to have a stout front bumper with a winch mounted on it, attached to the front of a truck that’s all jacked up on Mountain Dew with multiple shocks, chrome differential covers and monster off-road tires: you know, the trucks that have a set of rubber testicles dangling from the tow hitch. These trucks are always spotlessly clean and likely never see any off-road use. There was a time when I was 18 that this might have appealed to me, but when I was that age I couldn’t have afforded the truck, let alone the thousands of dollars wasted on decorative custom add-ons. Actually, no — that sort of truck would never have appealed to me.  A winch?  Really? AAA is cheaper, or better yet – don’t get stuck.

Late last spring I went fishing on the Skykomish River with my friends Derek Young of Emerging Rivers Guide Services and Leland Miyawaki, fly fishing manager at Bellevue Orvis. Our intended target species was steelhead, though I for one would have been happy with anything that happened to hit a swung fly (a bull trout, or dolly varden or native char would have tickled me pink). The day started with a forgettable breakfast in Gold Bar before we arrived at our launch site at the Big Eddy.  As is always the case, there’s much excitement and anticipation to get on the water, and it was my first time to be a passenger in Derek’s new Green Drake raft by StreamTech Boats, so the eagerness level was running high, like the river.  The only thing that prevented us from quickly getting on the water was a truck.

A stuck truck, that is, at the bottom of the ramp. With its drift boat trailer completely submerged and it’s rear wheels sinking deeper into the wet sand with every attempt to get unstuck. It was not a good predicament for the owner and his buddy. Luckily, we arrived on the scene before the truck became buried up to its rear axle. Enter the cool winch on the front of Derek’s truck.  Now, in all fairness to Derek, his truck isn’t a showy piece of ridiculosity as described above.  In fact, Derek’s rig is simply a functional vehicle that serves his purposes well and is understated, if anything.  It just happens to have a hefty ARB bumper up front to hold a winch, which he actually knows how to use.  Without the winch, the stuck truck may have remained so for a good long while, which would have put a real damper on the fishing for the guys who belonged to the truck. We could have still gotten the Green Drake in the water and been on our way, but Derek’s winch made short work of the extraction and everyone got to fish that day. I doubt those two guys caught any fish, but after getting them unstuck karma was on our side, or so we assumed.

And thus ended the excitement for the day, so if you’re hoping to read about more hair-raising adventures and epic battles with hot summer steelhead, you may as well close your browser window right now. There weren’t even any harrowing encounters with savage white water. Not that I remember, anyway, because the Green Drake effortlessly carried us downstream in comfort and safety. No fish were encountered as we plied miles of fishy looking water with our Spey rods.

Fat Train by Leland Miyawaki

This was only Derek’s second time with a two-handed rod, so sitting back and watching him was not nearly as enjoyable as sitting back and watching Leland masterfully sling his favorite Fat Train pattern, which is a sparsely dressed fly that most closely resembles a bare hook with some hackle and seems to be anything but fat. In fact the Fat Train looks like something tied by someone who couldn’t afford the rest of the materials to tie a proper fly, but less is often more. Derek’s status as a neophyte Spey caster made me feel good about not being the most unaccomplished caster for once, but Derek is a quick study and by the end of the day I was clearly once again at the bottom of the Spey casting food chain.

After enduring a miserable, cold, wet Spring that seemed would never end, this day found us enjoying blue sky and plenty of sunshine.  Being philosophical in our approach to fishing, there was much to enjoy even though the catching left a bit to be desired. Being able to enjoy a fishless day is a skill that doesn’t come easily to everyone, but skill only comes after much practice.  I’m well practiced in the art of not catching fish and so highly skilled in finding ways to enjoy a day spent not catching fish. Good weather and good food are a couple ways to ensure that maximum enjoyment is achieved, and to that end we were not disappointed.

Sunning ourselves on the rocks while enjoying a traditional Japanese lunch provided by Leland was fitting reward for simply being outside on such a glorious day. Lunch included, among other things, what Leland described as “peasant sushi” which are essentially sushi without fish. Leland says it best:

“I come from a Japanese farmer family that could never afford the expensive raw fish “city sushi.” So we had vegetable “makisushi” and “agesushi.” (maki are like the futomaki you see at sushi bars, agesushi is the rice stuffed into tofu boiled in soy).”

Apparently Orvis needs to give Leland a raise so he can afford fish, or perhaps he simply felt neither Derek nor I were deserving of the city sushi. Either way, it was delicious and much better a drastic improvement from what I typically eat for lunch on the water (sparsely dressed sandwiches, stale chips, cheap beer).  In keeping with the Japanese lunch theme, Leland provided sake (酒) as a beverage.  I’d never before had sake, and found the rice beverage to be quite enjoyable and rather easy to drink. I cannot say that the sake helped with my casting any, but it helped me not care so much about my casting. I think that may be some form of Zen-like enlightenment, although I’m not sure.  Maybe not.

By the end of the most enjoyable day I found myself grateful for the company of good friends to not catch fish with, and also contemplating the need for a Green Drake and a winch for the front of the Fish Taco. And more sake.

A not fishing vacation.

Recently I, or rather we (my family) embarked on a family vacation that had absolutely nothing to do with fishing. Last year we also took a family vacation but somehow a couple of rods and reels made it into the roof pod for that trip. What was even more strange was that my son and I stole an afternoon to wet a line on the Fall River in Central Oregon. Not so this year. Yes, we were destined for a lake, but not a lake that’s fly fishing friendly, per se. So this year the fly rods were left safely at home – I didn’t want the temptation to interfere with good, clean family fun.  Read my lips: no fishing.  Not even the thought of it.  Well, OK, the thoughts can’t be turned off, but without a single piece of tackle along for the trip there would be no temptation to go fishing and I would instead turn my attention toward my family. Without the distraction of fishing or anything fishing related.

We left home and drove east on Hwy 2 over Stevens Pass, following the course of Skykomish River, with it’s run of summer steelhead, to its headwaters in the Cascade mountains.  As we crested the summit and descended the eastern slopes, our course paralleled the Wenatchee River, with it’s run of salmon and summer steelhead.  Paying no mind, we set the nose of the Unaccomplished Family Truckster north on Hwy 97, following the mighty Columbia River. I barely glanced at the river and certainly gave no thought to the impressive numbers of returning Sockeye Salmon and steelhead that were making their way upriver over the many dams.  I was focused on other things, and in the similar fashion of many fathers on vacation I like to point out interesting landmarks and explain mysterious rock formations.

As we passed one particular area the children in the back seat (ages 16, 18 and 20) took a break from their iPods and iPhones and marveled with great wonder at the vibrant red rocks alongside the road.  Breaking into my best Chevy Chase-as-Clark Griswald imitation, I explained that it was iron content in the basalt which gave it the red coloring to the rock. Immediately we noted the same red coloring spread across the highway like spilled paint, and Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler quickly pointed out that it was “flame retardant” from the recent wildfire in Swakane Canyon. The fire had been on the news recently and had luckily been extinguished.  Not one to be outdone, I reminded her that the politically correct term was for the flame extinguishing chemical was “fire discouragement”.  Ha!  How do you like me now Mrs. Smarty Pants? We rode in awkward silence for another 45 minutes before arriving at Lake Chelan.

The lake itself is a 50-mile long, deep and crystal clear mountainous beauty that does have Lake Trout for those willing to dredge, but as I said it would not be my destination with fly fishing in mind. The third deepest lake in the United States, Chelan is nearly 1500 ft at its deepest, and last I checked my sinking line was only 100 feet long, with another 70 yards of backing. Even if I could reach the bottom with a type VI full sinker, at a sink rate of six inches per second it would take 3000 seconds to do so, and who has that kind of time to spare?  Especially on a family vacation where there would be no fishing. If so inclined, as was Josh Mills recently, one can also take a boat and head north on a quest to find Cutthroat in some of the tributaries, but in order to do so you’d have to be on a fishing vacation, which I was not. We were there for a few days of sun and relaxation as a family.  No fishing.

We checked into our Lake Chelan Shores rental condo that was decorated in a manner that screamed “19-eighty something”. It was clean and plenty nice: the owners simply hadn’t put a nickel into updating anything save for the 48 inch flatscreen TV on the wall.  Priorities, I guess.  As we stowed our gear I was quick to notice a rather large bug resting on the track of the sliding glass door leading to the small deck.  It was large (the bug, not the deck), and quite alive.  Grabbing it gingerly by the upright wings, I studied it carefully, declared it to be a handsome example of a Hexagonia Mayfly, and set if free outside. I barely even made a mental note that it was a prized piece of trout food.  On this particular vacation it was just another bug as far as I was concerned.

As we stocked the cupboards with dried food and filled the fridge with beverages and perishables, I noted that in the otherwise disjointed décor of the unit, a peculiar decorative tile hung in the kitchen.  The image was clearly some sort of trout – perhaps intended to be a brown trout, although the artist had taken great liberties with color so it was more of a blue trout.  Without any other fish-related décor, I was dumfounded as to the presence of this particular example.  Perhaps the owner was a fisherman – perhaps a trout fisherman? I quickly put the notion out of my head and got back to the business of vacationing with my family.

We headed to the pool for an hour of sunning, and since I’m too restless to sit in the sun with nothing else to do I brought with me the book my kids had given to me for Father’s Day. It was my goal for the week to completely read Backcast (by Lou Ureneck) because at home I rarely take time to read. On my nightstand at home I have a backlog of books (all fly fishing related) I keep intending to get to.  My problem is that I’m a bad reader.  To be clear, I’m actually good at reading, but I become fully engrossed in a good book and therefore my social skills take a beating.  Backcast was a great book, by the way, and I fear that I wasn’t completely engaged in our family vacation during the several hours per day I spent reading.  But I was there in body if not in mind, which is more than had it been a fishing vacation. Just as there is more to fishing than catching fish, there’s much more to Backcast than just fly fishing.

The next day we ventured to a different pool that was much closer to the lake.  I’m not a pool guy, much preferring to swim in a natural body of water.  However, I didn’t want to alienate Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler so I accompanied her to the pool to spend some quality time together, sharing some rare but meaningful conversation. I also had my book, so in retrospect I may not have been the most engaging conversationalist. After a good solid hour of reading chatting I decided to cool off in the pool.  As I slipped into the water I noticed a spent bug floating on the surface of the chlorinated pond.  What should it be other than another Hex! I scooped the waterlogged Mayfly from the waters hoping to revive it, to no avail.  I hate to see a good piece of trout food go to waste like that but there were no trout in the pool, brown trout or otherwise.  I momentarily considered carrying the spent bug to the lake to offer it up to a fish, but thought better of it.  I did, however, venture down to the lake for a very refreshing dip in the crystal clear blue waters.  The children were frolicking in the swimming area so I spent a little quality time with them before returning to my book poolside wife.  It felt good to be relaxing without anything to do. Time was on my side and I could choose to do whatever or as little as I wanted.  The only thing I couldn’t do was go fishing.

The next day Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler’s sister and husband joined us for dinner at a fancy winery and vineyard just outside the town of Chelan.  Tsillan Cellars is perched on a hillside looking north with an expansive view of the lake and the mountains to the west. For those who don’t speak the language of the Native Americans from this region, Tsillan is the native spelling of Chelan, which I think means “family destination” though I could be wrong (actually it means “deep water”). Tisllan Cellars offers quite a beautiful setting and the manicured grounds are surrounded by rows of grape vines on 3 sides. We sampled some wines as we waited for our table to be readied for our meal.  I’m not much of a wine guy, preferring low grade beer over grape juice. Having said that I do enjoy a an occasional glass of red (no particular variety – just red will do).

The dinner menu provided by Sorrento’s Ristorante was inviting, but something caught my eye: The “Atlantic King Salmon”.  The vein in my forehead began to pulsate as I announced to my dinner companions that there was no such thing: it was either Atlantic or King Salmon, but it could not be both.  My sister-in-law declared that whatever it was, she was ordering it.  When the waiter came to take our orders I inquired as to the salmon entrée.  “I don’t mean to be a wise guy,” I stated up front, “but can you tell me if the salmon is Atlantic or King? Because it cannot be both.”  The waiter was clearly not prepared for such an inquiry, so Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler stepped in and apologized. “You’ll have to excuse my husband – he’s a fisherman.”  I wanted to chime in and add, “Actually I’m an Unaccomplished Angler on a non-fishing vacation,” but the words would not come out.  The waiter stammered as he explained that the fish was probably Atlantic because that’s all they buy.  Outrageous!  Here we were within a short distance of a river teeming with record numbers of Pacific Salmon and all they offered was Atlantic Salmon?! Farm raised, no doubt.  I opted to not break into a tirade about that and instead simply ordered the Prime Bone-In Ribeye, medium rare.  It was excellent, and by the time dinner had concluded the vein in my forehead pulsed at a normal rate.

After dinner we strolled around the grounds, admiring the elaborate waterfall and circular stream that contained several fish.  Not trout, although the artificially oxygenated water would likely have provided a nice habitat for some stocked rainbows. I grabbed my waterproof Olympus Stylus 1030 SW camera and snapped a few photos of the Koi. No doubt the other guests who were watching me wondered what the strange man was doing on his hands and knees with one arm submerged in the fake stream.  For a moment I forgot where I was and fancied myself on a mountain stream in the Idaho Bitterroots (where I was this same time the last two years before), fishing for stupid Westslope Cutthroat trouts. I came to my senses and remembered I was on a family vacation, far from any fishing destination.

The remainder of the vacation was relatively without fishing-related incident, although on our second to last morning one of the children proclaimed that a vehicle had been defaced in the parking lot, and accused me of being the culprit.  I went out to investigate, and to my surprise and delight, a red Jeep Grand Cherokee bearing University of Washington plates and a dusty back window had been tagged by a dust artist.  Scribed with a finger on the rear window were the words, “Go Cougars!!”  You see, in the state of Washington there is a long-standing rivalry between the good salt-of-the-Earth folk who root for the Washington State University Cougars and the polar opposite people who root for the University of Washington Huskies.  I smiled when I saw the dust graffiti, but what really caught my eye, and thus the accusation that I was behind the defacing act, was the stick figure of an angler casting a long looping line with a dry fly attached to the opposite end.  Eager to strike the fly was a rather large trout: clearly a rainbow by the lateral stripes down its flanks. Knowing that I am an artist, a WSU card-carrying Alum and a fly angling person, any jury would have convicted me and sentenced me to a life of wine drinking and no fishing.  It took all the pleading I could muster to convince my family that I was not responsible.  Word to whomever was responsible: You deserve a pat on the back.  You’re my kind of person, and I hope you enjoyed a nice  vacation. A family vacation that did not have a single thing to do with fishing.

The Unaccomplished Wiggler?

I wasn’t aware until recently that I’m famous.  I doubt you’ll guess why, because I myself was quite surprised. No, it’s not because I’m a professional athlete (that would be Kurt Warner, or even Curt Edward Warner).  Nor is it because I’m a business tycoon – those who know me know that I am not of the Werner fame behind Werner Ladders, Werner Paddles , or even Werner Enterprises. I do own a Werner ladder, however, and I have always enjoyed the fact that I never had to put my name on it because it was already prominently displayed there. Once when I was in line to purchase a lift ticket at Stevens Pass the nice lady in the ticket booth asked if I was the Werner behind the paddles.  My reply obviously disappointed her because she wasn’t nearly so pleasant after learning that I was just a non-paddling commoner. As for Werner Enterprises, I’ve always admired their trucks but don’t even have so much as a commercial driver’s license, let alone a controlling vote on their board of directors.

If you guessed that my fame comes from being a best-selling author of fly fishing books you’d be wrong again because I haven’t quite yet reached that status (although I did have my ten minutes of fame a couple of years ago). But like the river temperatures in summer, you’re getting warmer because I am famous for something having to do with fishing: it would seem I’m famous for a line of fishing bait.  That’s right, Werner’s Wigglers.

My non-fishing friend “Big Fritter” was recently on a week-long bike ride up into Canada. No, he’s not a middle-aged over achiever so instead of pedals and 15 gears, his bike has a V-twin engine and a Harley Davidson badge on the gas tank (and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t wear neon spandex while he rides, either). After a less than welcoming stay (due to weather) north of the border, he and his biker gang cut a swath of terror as they rode south through Glacier National Park and into Northern Idaho, striking fear into innocent families on summer vacations. As Fritter and his band of rogue compadres rumbled through the vicinity of Sandpoint, Idaho, they stopped for some reason unbeknownst to me – perhaps to guzzle beer, beat up the locals and steal their women. Probably it was just to buy some gas and use the restroom.  Whatever the case may have been, Fritter snapped a photo of  simple sign in the window of a convenience store – photo that would forever change my life.

Like all kids I spent a fair amount of time dangling worms under a bobber, and even though I caught my fair share of fish I never really enjoyed that method of fish deception all that much. Even armed with the knowledge that fish would rather take a chunk of fleshy bait over a synthetic insect imitation any day, fly fishing captured my heart and soul and to this day defines who I am. Not being a bait angler suits me just fine. I mean, who besides porn seekers would read a blog titled “The Unccomplished Worm Dangler”? No porn here, other than the very occasional fish porn.

I find it highly ironic that the slogan for Werner’s Wigglers is: “Try ‘Em You’ll Like’m, The Fish Do”. In my last three outings, I’ve been skunked (and only one of those trips was for steelhead, in which case one expects to not catch fish). Clearly the fish don’t much care for me and it would appear that I am not worthy of the Wiggler name. Perhaps I should invent a really fishy looking pattern that’s a cross between a San Juan Worm and a Woolly Bugger, tied on an articulated hook, and call it the Werner Wiggler!  Nah, I don’t want to be famous for copyright infringement either.

Regardless of my fishing prowess or lack thereof, here I am – famous (if even mistakenly so) for night crawlers and red tiger worms, cured bait such as Prongs and Coontails, frozen bait (sardines, smelt and herring) and even meal worms and maggots.  Yes, maggots. Had I known all this before, the character in my books might have been Maggie the Maggot instead of Olive the Woolly Bugger. Hey now– there’s idea for another book (by Kirk Werner)!

In the meantime I wonder if I can get a pro form deal on some Werner’s Wigglers?

Big Sky. Big Burgers.

Disclaimer:  THIS IS A FOOD REVIEW. Initially my intent was to roll this food review into a blog entry chronicling the next phase of our Montana trout trip, but the dining experience and food was so good that I realized it deserved a blog entry of its own. You may consider it either a bonus offering or a disappointing, second-rate bit bloggage, but no matter the what the case may be please note this does not replace the standard issue weekly drivel due at the end of the week.

As we departed Twin Bridges with the smell of fish still on our hands and sh#t eating grins on our faces, we acknowledged that we were going to require some nutrition before we got to West Yellowstone (a 2+ hour drive). We’d been told that there was a good place to eat in Virginia City, but as we pulled into town and slowly scanned both sides of the road, we didn’t see what we were looking for.  The fact that none of us could remember the name of the eatery may have lead to our inability to find it.   There wasn’t a lot happening in Virginia City, and for all intents and purposes the place appeared to be a ghost town. It is, in fact, just a step up from that with a population of around 132. Cool little old mining town- I’d actually like to stop and walk around the place someday. But not on this night – we were on a serious quest for food. Ennis was only a few clicks down the road and we knew we could a few options there.

The Roadmaster Grille: 305 Main Street, Ennis MT 59729

We rolled into Ennis just as it was just getting dark. Quickly scanning the storefronts, we parked in front of The Roadmaster Grille.  We were all getting light-headed from a lack of food so it took exactly no time to agree that this joint would suffice nicely. We swaggered staggered through the door and looked around.  The bar up front was packed with a diverse crowd of people: fly fishing folks and those who weren’t fly fishing folks.  I’m sure we weren’t the first weary fishermen to stumble through the doors in desperate need of nourishment, so we drew no strange glares from the other patrons. The eating area toward the back was decorated in a style reminiscent of a diner from the 1950’s and the booths were fashioned to resemble the tuck and roll upholstery of, I suppose, a ’57 Chev Belaire Coupe or some other iconic car from that era.  We squeezed into the booth and hoped that an angel masquerading as a waitress would show up soon. And she did, bringing with her a set of menus and a willingness to fetch us a cold beer while we took a few moments to look over the impressive list of food offerings.

Collectively our eyes locked on the burger selection.  It didn’t matter that we’d had bacon cheeseburgers the night before – after the day of fishing the Beaverhead we could all die happy,  and if that day came sooner because of another bacon cheeseburger, so be it.  Jimmy and I opted for the light entrees:  A standard bacon cheese with a single ½ lb patty of certified Black Angus chuck steak and fries.  Oh, and a salad. Stan and Marck were feeling a bit more confident so they ordered the “Kong Burger”, which included bacon, cheese, and TWO ½ lb patties of certified Black Angus chuck steak.  And fries and a salad. Now if you think ordering the Kong Burgers was an aggressive move, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The Great Trout Slayers of the Beaverhead.

We ordered our food, hoisted our frosty long-neck bottles in a toast and recalled the day’s events.  Just then a large, gregarious man named Brad (the proprietor) stopped by our table and greeted us.  He held our order in his hand and read it back to us with a booming voice that carried with it much enthusiasm. Treating us like VIPs, Brad insisted that we move to the large table on the other side of the dining area.  We were the only ones seated for food, and he apparently wanted us to have the best seats in the house. Maybe he’d heard of us – perhaps our reputations as The Great Trout Slayers of The Beaverhead preceded us? I think he simply knew that we’d need the extra room once our food arrived and our abdomens began swelling accordingly.

Brad.

What followed next was akin to a sermon.  Brad is, as I said, a large man.  He made no attempt to hide that fact (not that he could have had he wanted to). He also told us that he’d recently lost over 100 pounds by cutting out a lot of unnecessary bad stuff from his diet and going on human growth hormone therapy. I’m pretty sure that he just eats meat now– there was some mention of the Atkins Diet. He flexed his biceps said he feels great and his wife likes the new Brad (I won’t go into the same details as he did). His enthusiasm reached a crescendo as he went on to talk about the one burger on the menu that he’s most proud of:  “The Mountain”. He described this as the “Man vs. Food” burger that’s going to get him on the TV show by the same name. “The Mountain” is described in the menu as follows (yes, I wrote it down though my notes were not perfect so I am paraphrasing here):

“The Mountain“ Man vs. Food Burger

Bottom layer of bun and ½ lb. patty cheeseburger; 2nd layer of bun and ½ lb. burger with bacon, Swiss cheese, avocado; another bun and 3rd ½ lb. burger, onions, jalapeño straws and pepperjack. Comes with a t-shirt, all for $21.95.  Eat it all and get your photo taken.

Brad added that if one were to eat it all, their photo would not only be taken but also posted in the Ladies restroom.  This gave us a good laugh, but he was as serious as a heart attack – which might well be the result of actually consuming The Mountain.

When our orders arrived, Jimmy and I were immediately glad to have just ordered the single burger, while Marck and Stan welcomed their Kong Burgers with wide eyes.  As we dug into our food we agreed that it was excellent.  The Black Angus burger was top notch, and being flame-broiled there was plenty of flavor.  I said it at the time and I stand by my proclamation:  It was the best burger I’ve ever had.  Marck impressively made short work of his Kong Burger, but Stan’s progress stalled with about 5 bites to go.  You could see in his eyes that he wanted to tap out, but we wouldn’t allow it.  We urged him on by stating that it was “just” a Kong Burger, and he needed to man-up and finish strong.  It’s not like he’d ordered the Mountain or anything.  “Come on, dude,” we encouraged him. “Grow a pair.” I snapped a photo of Stan as he fought his way through the last few bites.  I told him if he didn’t finish it, I was going to post the photo in the Mens room.  In one last act of defiance he hoarked it down and managed to keep it down.

The Goosemaster meets The Kong Burger.

Walking was difficult but we managed to waddle out the door and resume our journey.  Erique was waiting for us at the Ho Hum Motel in West Yellowstone and we had a date with the plentiful trout of the Firehole in the morning.  Speaking of Firehole – nah, never mind.  Suffice it to say the food was excellent and stuck with us. If you’re anywhere near Ennis, you owe it to yourself to stop by the Roadhouse Grille at 305 Main Street. Order a burger, and ask to speak to Brad. You’ll be glad you did.

Wrestling the Narcoleptic Goose, Part I

(Unlike yesterday’s April Fools fishtale, today’s offering is absolutely honest and truthful. Only names have been changed to protect the innocent)

Each Memorial Day weekend Marck leads the charge to fish the Firehole River in Yellowstone National Park. The list of participants changes somewhat from year to year, but no matter who is in attendance the event always begins with the 4 A.M. departure from Marck’s house on Friday. This means that I have to get up at 3 AM in order to make coffee and drive the 25 miles upstream from my home. Not surprisingly there’s little traffic at that God-forsaken time of day, and I feel bad for anyone else on the road that’s not headed to Montana for some fishing. The annual jaunt from the North Bend, WA to West Yellowstone, MT (a distance of 575 miles or 925.18 Kilometers) is not something one typically looks forward to: it is simply a means to an end. The drive had been far less than enjoyable two years prior as four of us were shoe-horned uncomfortably into my Jeep Cherokee, which lacked both cruise control and ample leg room for anyone other than myself. The next year I missed out on the trip because my daughter’s 4×400 relay team was competing in the state track meet, so Marck made the drive alone and had one of his best fishing days ever. So on this year it felt good to be heading back to Yellowstone: the Jeep was left behind and The Soccer Mom Express pulled out of Marck’s driveway right on schedule with Nash behind the wheel, Marck riding shotgun, and myself and Stan (not his real name) in the second row of seats. While Nash’s wife’s mini van might not be the vehicle a fisherman prefers to be seen in passing through Idaho and Montana, I have to admit that it was like traveling in first class, complete with beverage and snack service and movies on DVD. We made our typical stops in Coeur d’Alene, ID for gas and breakfast (which resulted in more gas), and then at the Rock Creek Lodge in Clinton, MT for a bathroom break and a Testicle Festival t-shirt. During the course of the long road trip we took turns behind the wheel, which allowed us to kill two birds with one stone: First, it offered everyone an opportunity to grab a nap; secondly it ensured that no one would be denied the pleasure of being seen driving a mini van through Idaho and Montana. I’m being sarcastic of course – but truth be told after the first hour I stopped hiding my face whenever we were passed by a 4×4 diesel pickup.

Not the actual van we were seen in.Yeah, that's right.

Even though the drive was as pleasant as this drive can possibly be, one tends to be a bit road weary after 12 hours in a car (okay, a mini van). A good night’s sleep would still be important because the next day would be a long one, spent walking several miles of river and fishing hard. Opening day of the fishing season on the Firehole can be epic so one wants to bring their A game, knowing that the water will be worked hard and a lot of it will be covered in a vain attempt to keep up with Marck’s catch rate. As we pulled into the parking lot of the Ho-Hum Motel in West Yellowstone straws were drawn to determine who would bunk with Stan. You see, there’s the little matter of Stan’s reputation as “one who snores” which mandates the annual drawing. I had successfully dodged that bullet on a previous trip, so I had no firsthand experience in dealing with his reputed snoring. However, one cannot tempt fate forever, and I was left holding the short straw this time. Not to worry, I was also reassured that Stan’s snoring used to be a lot worse before the surgery to repair whatever it was that was causing the snoring to have been so notorious.

To insure that which follows does not appear as an attack on his character, let me make it clear that Stan is the type of guy you know you’re going to like the first time you meet him. He’s unpretentious, easy-going, speaks his mind and has a great sense of humor. However, if you happen to draw the short straw a good portion of that appeal goes quickly by the wayside once the lights go out.

DSCN1613

Stan and Nash celebrate our arrival at the Ho Hum.

It should be noted that I am not one to fall asleep right away. My brain is just wired such that when I assume the horizontal position I begin to process typically useless information. While I may not be sound asleep, as long as it’s dark and quiet I’m still relaxing and recharging.  While this is my way, it is not Stan’s way. When Stan’s head hit the pillow that first night, his eyes immediately rolled back in his head, his jaw dropped open, and he was asleep. Not sort-of-asleep as in that magical happy place when you’re just slipping out of consciousness, but OUT as if having just been dropped to the canvas by a thundering blow to the chin and then placed into a rear naked choke. For a few glorious minutes all was quiet on the West Yellowstone Front. And then the storm began brewing.

Slow at first, and not snoring per se – just heavy breathing. After about 31 seconds of this the pace increased and simultaneous inhalation through both the nose and mouth commenced. With such a large volume of air being sucked through both orifices, things started to rattle inside Stan’s sinuses like the shutters on a house during a gale. As the force  of the storm increased, it sounded like something was going to tear loose at any minute and I lay there in shear amazement at what was happening in the bed 4 feet away. At this point I wasn’t yet annoyed – afterall we were only a couple of minutes into it. I was, rather, quite simply impressed. Then it subsided and became quiet again.  That wasn’t so bad, and I naively assumed I could probably fall asleep before another storm system rolled in. However, the next front blew in with unthinkable ferocity and apparently carried with it a flock of geese that landed on Stan’s bed and began a terrible ruckus; fighting, squawking and honking their honkers. It amazed me that Stan could sleep through the violence, so I did what any friend would do when their buddy is under attack: I threw a pillow at him. This didn’t wake him up, but it did seem to silence the geese. Temporarily.

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Within 10 minutes they were at it again, and in an act of self preservation I put the remaining pillow over my face and attempted to suffocate myself. I tried not to struggle, but the survival instinct kicked in and I tossed and turned and became hopelessly twisted in the bedsheets. Exhausted, at some point very late that night I managed to lose consciousness and catch a couple hours’ of oxygen-deprived shut-eye. I was just entering that period of deep REM sleep when the alarm went off at 5 AM and rudely jolted me back to conscious reality. Stan was bright-eyed and ready for the day: “Mornin’ Sunshine– how’d ya sleep?” he asked. I was feeling a little less than chipper as I sat on the edge of the bed trying to pry my eyes open so I could survey the damage. I suffer from a mild allergy to goose down, which causes me to get all congested and puffy in the face, and so I squinted through bloodshot eyes, fully expecting to find feathers and goose droppings–maybe even a carcass or two. To my surprise there was no sign of the carnage I had witnessed just a few short hours before. We dressed in warm clothes (there was a fresh skiff of snow on the ground), loaded our fishing gear into the Soccer Mom Express and headed to breakfast. Marck, Nash, Stan and I sat down to a hearty meal at a cafe known as the Three Bears. It seemed a cruel bit of irony that this place would be named after the fairytale in which Goldilocks sleeps peacefully through the night, and I couldn’t help but think that the place should have been called The Mother Goose Cafe. Three of the four of us were apparently well-rested and eager to chat about the day ahead, and somehow I managed to keep my eyes open between visits from our waitress, who saw my desperate need for a steady supply of coffee. Marck noticed that I wasn’t my normal chipper self, and in a tone that suggested great concern for my well being he asked, “What the hell happened to you?” I couldn’t give him an accurate answer because I myself wasn’t sure what had taken place in our motel room during the night. All I knew was that we had two full days of fishing the Firehole ahead of us, and I had one more night of fending off geese. I was looking forward to the fishing.

Tune in next week for Part II: Will the Unaccomplished Angler catch some quality shut-eye, and maybe a fish…?

Today I saw my backing.

First, a quick vocabulary lesson for non anglers: “backing” is the term for the high strength “string” that is the first attached to the spool of one’s fly reel. Anywhere from 100 to 200 yards of this usually Dacron-based material is typically used, P3210460and to that backing is tied the actual fly line. Think of backing as insurance in the event that the angler hooks into a big solid fish that runs long and pulls hard. Fly line is usually 90 to 100 feet long, and a strong fish in a strong current can easily strip that amount of line from the reel. Once that length of line is gone, then what?  It’s an unthinkable scenario that would surely involve a broken leader and a lost fish, because when a fish makes a run often one’s only recourse is to give it more line.  When that line runs out, chances are something is going to break. And so backing is affixed to the reel to give the angler additional yardage to play a big fish.  On lighter setups for fish such as modest sized trout, the backing may not be necessary but it fills up the reel and helps to eliminate fly line “memory”, which can occur when the line is coiled too tightly and retains less-than-perfectly straight form when laid out on the water. Backing can  be used, in this case, simply take up space on the reel, and that’s typically the reason why I use backing on my trout reels. With my keen angling skills, I certainly don’t need even the full length of fly line to play the 8 inch trout I typically catch. But to witness one’s backing emerge from the reel because of a large, hot fish should be considered a good thing, and anglers long for the occasion to proclaim, “That fish took me into my backing!” Lesson complete.

Until recently I’d never had the good fortune of seeing enough line stripped from one of my trout reels to see the backing.  By “see”, I mean to have the entire fly line taken out to the point where the backing presents itself as the last bastion of safety. That all changed recently when I was fishing the Yakima River with Marck and Jimmy, out of the vessel known as The Hornet (sifting through the archives will reveal this as Marck’s Clackacraft 16 LP). We had just commenced a float that would take us from Mile Marker 20 to Squaw Creek (for the more PC inclined, this is Lmuma Creek).  It was a stellar day toward the end of the 3rd week of March: skies were blue, the large yellow orb in the sky shone brightly, and water temps were headed toward the mid 40’s.  The Skwala stoneflies had been showing themselves sporadically for a couple of weeks, and we anticipated a hatch later in the day.  We were, however, seasoned enough to know that subsurface fishing early in the day would be the name of the game, until a specified time when the Skwalas would start coming off. At 1:30 PM, according to reports from The Evening Hatch in Ellensburg, we should start to encounter Skwalas and fish feeding on the big bugs. The day held much promise, and I strung up my 4 weight Sage Z-Axis with a dry fly combination of a Skwala pattern with a small mayfly emerger as my dropper.  My 6 weight Sage XP was designated for streamer duty, and I selected a particularly delightful looking fly that resembled a small sculpin and affixed it to the end of my sink tip line.  Marck would be nymphing and Jimmy would try the dry fly thing right off the bat, but I wanted to fish down in the slower deep pools and invoke the strike of a large meat eating trout. It seemed like a good game plan to cover all our bases and determine which method of angling would work most effectively. I love fishing a streamer because it involves active participation on the part of the angler, unlike nymphing which is, well, never mind…how easily I relapse into bashing the way of the nymph (call  it a growing pain).

Fifteen minutes into our float I was stripping my streamer through a moderately fast/relatively slow current. Ahead of my fly I noted a large rock protruding above the water, but felt confident my fly would evade the rock, so there was no cause for alarm or evasive maneuvering.  Suddenly my line went tight, and held fast.  It appeared to be anchored on the rock, and as we drifted steadily onward, more and more distance was placed between the rock and reel.  Darn it. As would any angler, I pointed the tip of my rod directly at the source of the stuck fly, and increased the pressure of my index finger on the fly line.  When nothing happened and my finger began to overheat, I increased the drag on my reel.  Surely now the leader would snap, and the worst that would happen would be that I’d lose a $2.50 fly.  But when nothing broke, I applied more pressure to the line. Crap. Still no breakage – damn the heavy 2X tapered leader I’d selected, and why did my usually questionable knots have to hold now? Soon the yellow fly line played out and my backing appeared. I applied more pressure. Nothing. Shit. “Hey, uh– Marck?  I said with a waivering tone to my voice, “Can you pull over and drop anchor?” I was worried now, because 40 yards of backing had fled from my spool, and I didn’t want to risk smoking the drag on my reel trying to put the breaks on a drift boat carrying 3 guys in a steady current (although had that worked it would have been worthy of a product testimonial for Ross Reels, manufacturer of the Vexsis model I had mounted on my rod). Marck steered The Hornet toward the bank and dropped anchor.

The shoreline was steep and rocky, and footing was precarious as I made my way upstream toward the rock which held my fly.  I reeled in slack line as I proceeded, and that was when I realized just how much line had been removed from my reel. The highway was but a very short distance above me and as I picked my way along the rocks I hoped that a speeding vehicle wouldn’t crash through the guardrail, or toss some sort of refuse from an open window.  Standing on the shoreline adjacent to the rock, I carefully surveyed the situation: the rock was about 30 feet from the bank, occupying heavy water that was 3 feet deep and moving with some degree of force.  Large rocks lay strewn upon the bottom of the river, and they all bore a coating of slippery slime.  It was going to require some careful wading, and the last thing I wanted was to take a swim in the cold water – that would surely put a damper on the rest of the day. As I inched my way toward the rock, I noticed a peculiar stench in the air.  No, I was not smelling another skunk, but rather an odor that is similarly unpleasant. Decomposing flesh has an unmistakable odor which I recognized immediately, and with each carefully placed step toward the rock that stench grew thicker until I realized there was more to the rock than just basalt. The partially decayed carcass of a deer lay pinned against the rock, held fast by the strong current of the river. My fly was not stuck on the rock, per se, but rather it was buried under the hide of the rotting carcass that was stuck to the rock.  As I stood next to the rotting corpse, hip deep in a heavy current that was making every attempt to knock me off my feet, I pause for a moment to reflect on the situation. It was so ridiculous that I smiled and laughed at the fact that this sort of thing could only happen to me. In many ways it was a perfect moment.

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How the carcass got to be where it was isn’t such a hard thing to imagine.  The Yakima Canyon teems with wildlife, and undoubtedly the deer was headed to the river for a drink, crossing the highway as darkness fell.  A car rounding the bend very likely made high speed contact with the animal, which would have been wearing the old “deer in the headlights” expression right before the impact sent it cascading over the guardrail into the river.  From there the current would have swept the deceased critter downstream until it became hung up on the rock, where my fly found it.

Thankful for having flattened the barb on the hook, I quickly removed the fly from the hide of the dead deer and made my way back toward the shoreline. Marck was watching from nearby, and although he claims to have been standing at the ready to rescue me had I required assistance, no doubt he was greatly amused by the whole thing. I made it to the shoreline without incident, and once there I inspected the hook for damage. Other than the bend of the hook having become slightly less bent during my tug-of war with the rock carcass, all seemed to be in good order. I removed a bit of flesh that had become lodged in the hook during the ordeal, as I did not want to be accused of fishing illegally with bait. Then I used my pliers to put the bend back in the hook and we were on our way downstream once again.

Had the whole rock carcass incident not taken place, the day would have yielded very little to write about.  The weather was great and we all added a bit of color to the pasty skin of winter.

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Winds were light and made for an enjoyable day of casting.  Jimmy managed a beautiful 3 inch Chinook fry on the dry and Marck added an 8 inch rainbow to his catch record. The honor of being skunked was reserved for me, although I did have one nice trout take a shot at my dry fly late in the day. Surprisingly I missed the hook set.

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We saw no fish rising all day, but kept our hopes up that with each bend in the river our fotrunes would change.  At one point we anchored up in a particularly fishy section of water to enjoy the sun and some sandwiches. While we ate our lunch the fish seemed disinterested in doing the same, completely ignoring the Caddis and March Browns that were hatching all around us. It was quite an insect buffet, and why the fish never showed up for the feast remains a mystery.

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We saw a total of 4 adult Skwalas all day long, and on one occasion actually observed a fish rise and miss a shot at one of the big stoneflies, proving that fish don’t just miss the take synthetic imitations. Seeing this play out in real life drama caused me to feel a little better about my angling skills.

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Overall it was a stellar day spent fishing, although the catching left much to be desired, and we were dumfounded as to the lack of Skwalas hatching and fishing rising.  But that’s fishing, and the scars left by a lackluster day will soon heal themselves.  The scar left by a large rock on the hull of The Hornet, however, will not heal itself and some fiberglass repair is in order.  Sorry, Marck– it was Jimmy’s fault.

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Jet setting on a quest for unicorns, bigfoot, and steelhead.

Not being much of a world traveler, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been on a commercial flight: In other words, about eight times. I’ve only flown first class once and it was purely by accident that we were offered a free upgrade due to an overbooked flight. And once seated in the hoity toity section, I felt more than a little out of place being surrounded by people who were there intentionally. But anyone who has ever flown first class knows that you don’t pass up a free opportunity like that, and so it was when I was invited to go fishing aboard the Alumaweld Express – a river sled belonging to the man who, to protect his true identity, I shall refer to as “The Reel McCoy”.  P2070430

What constitutes the first class luxury of this craft is not Barcalounger seating or top-cabin beverage service, but rather the efficient manner in which the craft takes the angler on their quest. Now I acknowledge that many who fish the rivers consider jet sleds to be noisy, raucous beasts, and that drifting under the power of the current itself is part of the serenity and appeal of fly fishing. But when you’re aboard a sled, it’s easy to forget all that, at least temporarily. It was a privilege to be on board, and like flying first class I felt a bit out of my element: McCoy is the genuine article – an accomplished angler – and I really had no business being on the same water as him.

On a few occasions McCoy and I had previously talked about the need to get out and fish together, but good intentions are not always met with resolve. Fortunately a recent chance encounter gave us the opportunity to actually do more than talk, and we laid down plans to fish the Skykomish for a few hours on a particular day which happened to be the morning of a particular pro football championship game where advertising costs over $2.5 million for a 30 second spot and is often better than the game itself (although that would turn out to not be the case this year). We decided to just fish for a few hours – I had to be back for a Sensational Bowl party, and every indication was that fishing would be slow anyway – afterall, it had been a rather bleak winter steelhead season on all Puget Sound rivers. So bleak, in fact, that two other rivers would be closing the following weekend and the Skykomish would be closing shortly thereafter. Like nearly every other Puget Sound area steelhead fishing folk, we were fish-deprived and running out of time, and even though expectations were nonexistent it would still be good to get out and do a little practice casting.

We hadn’t planned an early start, so I figured Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler wouldn’t mind fixing me a hearty breakfast, filling my thermos and sending me out the door with a kiss on the top of my head.  I was, of course, misguided in my assumption so I fixed a bowl of oatmeal, forgot to fill my thermos, and headed out the door with my lucky fishing hat on top of my head. I would be meeting McCoy at 8:30 just a few miles up the road from where I live, so I didn’t have but a 10 minute drive. Admittedly it was a little later than seasoned anglers like to hit the water, but remember – this was just a very casual outing and really just an excuse to get out and exercise the Spey rods, perhaps one last time, before the river closed for the season. I didn’t even pack a lunch, as we planned to be back at the boat launch by 1 PM.

I’d fished the river the weekend prior and save for Junior Albacore’s skunk-eliminating bull trout, not a fish was seen or touched as we floated peacefully downstream in a beautiful wood drift boat. Today was a little different because the vessel in which we would be navigating the waters had the ability to go both downstream and upstream. Quickly. This was not my first time in a boat powered by jet-propulsion, but it was still a treat because we were able to make the most out of just a few brief hours: It allowed us to quickly get to the run we wanted to fish, which would have otherwise required a long downstream float. We launched at the Lewis Street bridge in Monroe, and headed upstream for 15 minutes before arriving at the hole named for the government agency known to cause anxiety around the 15th of April. Along the way we zipped past the Ben Howard launch where a few folks were just beginning to congregate for the Sunday Spey Services. I thought I recognized the Reverend Kinney, but at such blinding speeds it was all a blur. I made the sign of the cross and acknowledged that I probably should have been attending those services to cleanse myself of casting impurities. But alas I was where I was, with my hat pulled low and my hands buried in the pockets of my jacket. It was a mild February morning, but when you’re scooting along a river at 25 knots on a damp February morning, mild is a relative term. As we continued our ascent, it was through watering eyes that I noted the trees were strangely devoid of eagles, whereas the week before there had been large laughing raptors occupying nearly every other tree along the river. I assumed they’d all flown the coop for waters that actually held fish – where ever that might be. Or maybe they were enjoying a buffet breakfast at a landfill somewhere nearby. Whatever the case may be, I took the lack of eagles as a bad sign.

As we rounded the bend below our destination I was relieved to see the run vacant. It’s a popular spot for some reason, even though I hadn’t heard of it (or any other run for that matter) producing any fish recently. There was one angler fishing the opposite bank, but we had the desired run to ourselves. After securing the vessel, we strung up our rods and hit the water: McCoy fished down while I walked to the head of the run.  I was using my type 8 sink tip, (which sinks at an estimated 8 inches per second), and that seemed to be working well in the slightly faster-than-ideal water.  I was ticking a few rocks but not hanging up. Amazingly, my casting felt pretty good too:  maybe I was finally getting the hang of it, although one missed anchor sent my pink and orange marabou streamer buzzing dangerously close by the side of my face, causing me to flinch and return to reality. After about an hour, I noticed that McCoy had a strange bend in his rod.  Assuming he’d dredged up a rock, I stripped in my line and was preparing to make another cast when the rock suddenly splashed on the surface of the river.  Assuming a bull trout, I reeled my line and made my way toward McCoy’s position to lend a hand if need be. As I approached, it was clear that whatever was causing the bend in his rod was big.  And when it broke the surface again it was clearly neither bull trout nor Dolly Varden. Chrome flashed under the dull gray skies and line peeled from McCoy’s reel as the fish made a downstream run. McCoy carefully picked his way along the rocky bank while I stumbled behind him. We followed the fish, which jumped a couple more times. This was a nice fish, and McCoy slowly but steadily gained advantage, eventually turning the fish to shore where I tailed the big native buck.

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The fish was an impressive specimen: Long and thick, and I could barely grab around the base of its tail (insert small hand jokes here). While I held the beautiful chrome anadromous rainbow trout, McCoy quickly ran a tape measure down its length: An honest 38-39 inches!  The Big Buck would be a dandy on any river, anywhere.  I felt honored and unworthy to have been in the presence of such a creature, and it was rewarding to get the smell of fish on my hands, even if it wasn’t a fish of my own doing.

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After the fish was released to go about his upstream migration, McCoy and I walked back toward the boat. It was decided that I’d work the lower run that had just produced the Big Buck, so I set up in position and began thrashing the water with my line (but not before switching out my fly for a special black and blue marabou tied by Large Albacore).  On my first swing – and I kid you not – a banana peel drifted downstream and across my line. We all know what they say about bananas and fishing, and I am not making this up for the make of journalistic grandeur. It did, however, prove to be a bad joo-joo, as things quickly began going south on me. In this softer water my sink tip was finding a rock to get hung up on with each cast, and my rhythm was interrupted: My D loops crumpled and my anchors were missed as I began peppering the back of my head and shoulders with my misguided fly. I’m sure McCoy was enjoying the show, but being a gentleman he kept his laughter concealed. At one point I wondered if the banana peel had come from him, but he’s a lifelong fisherman and I’m certain he wouldn’t allow a banana on his boat. I clearly needed a timeout, so I headed to the boat to sharpen the hook on my rock-dulled fly and switch out my type 8 tip for a type 3, which would sink less rapidly and be better suited for the slow water that I was plying.  This was a wise decision and I got back into the swing of things quickly.  Casting, swinging, stripping and taking two steps, I approached the very water that had yielded the Big Buck 20 minutes earlier.

Suddenly I felt a tug on my line, saw a disturbance on the surface of the water, and promptly stopped breathing.  Then, nothing. I reeled in line until my rod tip bent P2070447sharply, and waited. Still nothing. Certain that I was hung up on a rock again, it felt safe to exhale.  But how could I be – I’d seen something splash…hadn’t I?  I paused, dumfounded.  Then I held the tip of my rod upstream just a little bit to see if the rock was really a rock.  Yep, clearly a rock.  But then the rock abruptly started to take line from the reel. I held on as what appeared to be a fish took off at a run. Bull trout?  Big bull trout, perhaps?  Then she lept out of the water and showed herself completely – the bright chrome sidewalls did away with any notions of a bull trout, and she peeled line so fast my loose drag almost allowed for a bird’s nest in my reel. After tightening down the drag it took several minutes to turn her to shore, by which time McCoy was ready with a steady hand to tail the beautiful 28” wild hen.  This was my first steelhead on this river, and my second wild fish ever (the first coming from the Sauk river a year earlier). She immediately earned a special place in my book of the coolest things I’ve experienced, so we honored her with a quick photo and sent her on her way.  Maybe she’d meet up with the Big Buck and they’d tell stories to their offspring someday. OK, that’s admittedly ridiculous, but being a children’s book author my mind works that way. Furthermore, catching a beautiful bright fish, out of the same spot and within minutes of one’s fishing buddy catching a beautiful bright fish, on a day when expectations were nonexistent, in a year when the overall situation was gloomy, will make a man say stupid things.

Giddy to each take a chrome deduction on our steelhead tax forms, we toasted the day with a cold beer before boarding the Alumaweld Express for our return trip. We pondered stopping to quickly fish some lesser-quality water, but decided to quit while we were on top. The Alumaweld Express made a rapid descent, and by 2:00 I was hanging my waders in the garage. Upon entering the house, and announcing my presence by beating my chest with both fists, I proclaimed of our good fortunes. Busily preparing a salad for the party, Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler gave me a sideways glance and asked, “So, does this make you accomplished?”

Not hardly, as I was once again bested by the better man. But being out-fished felt pretty damn good on this particular day.

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On a Serious Note: On February 12th the Washington Dept of Fish & Wildlife announced that in addition to previously announced closures for the Skagit and Sauk rivers, more Puget Sound rivers would be closing effective February 18th (the date on which I am publishing this post) to protect low fish returns.  This closure includes the Nooksack, Stillaguamish, Snoqualmie, and the Skykomish, which produced these beautiful fish. By the time you read this, winter steelhead fishing for this year will be a thing of the past on Puget Sound rivers. What makes this a tough pill to swallow for sport anglers is the fact that closing the rivers early to catch and release fishing is like putting a bandaid on a gushing artery. It’s easy and politically acceptable for the Department of Fish and Wildlife to shut down sport angling, whereas doing something that would actually make a huge difference (like reducing commercial and tribal netting) would ruffle some big feathers. Until something is done on a much larger scale, the state of affairs for our wild steelhead is only going to worsen. I fear that one day, sooner than later, these treasured icons of the Pacific Northwest truly will become nothing more than mythological creatures.

All hail the Meat Stick (but don’t tell anyone).

I am not a snob, but I am stubborn. When I go trout fishing I tend to like throwing dry flies, not because I’m some sort of snooty highbrow angler of considerable cultural refinement, but rather because of my German heritage. And it’s that Kraut stubbornness that finds me staring obvious fact straight in the face and refusing to comply. It’s a commonly known fact that fish take 99.999% of their meals under the surface. The other .001% of the time they will take a surface fly – not out of hunger, but to mess with the heads of anglers like me (seeing a fish take a swipe at my fly gives me a false sense of confidence in myself as a fisherman). It makes obvious sense to put one’s fly where fish do the majority of their shopping, and armed with this knowledge  most any angler will either adapt, or face a skunking. That’s where my stubborn nature comes into play: I know I could catch more fish if I would change my ways, but I derive great pleasure in seeing a fish rise and take the fly. Though not out of snobbery, but because chances are I will miss the hook set, fail to keep a tight line, or violate some other Cardinal Rule for fighting a fish. At least with dry fly fishing I get to see the fish before I lose it. And I believe the fish enjoy the sport of it as well.

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A moderately nasty case of the tangles. It can and does get much worse than this.

Due to the fact that I’m a very visual person, I’ve never much enjoyed fishing nymph rigs under a strike indicator. When one signs over their life to fly fishing, one of the first things they seek is to throw beautiful tight loops. Sexy loops, if you will. When chucking nymph rigs, it involves intentionally sloppy, open loop upstream casts. Instead of gentle fluidity, nymphing mandates that one aggressively throw stack mends into the line. And then you sit back and watch the indicator as it bobs downstream, all the while trying to detect a subtle change in the indicator’s “action” (a blatant oxymoron if there ever was one). This has always held the same appeal for me as watching paint dry or being a roadside flagger on a deserted highway. Nymphing is called “dead-drifting” or a reason, and frankly I prefer to feel somewhat alive when I fish. Because of that I have always held the position that no matter how effective others say nymph fishing is, there’s more to fishing than catching fish. I don’t mind stripping a streamer from time to time, particularly if it’s an olive woolly bugger, because at least one is engaged in the action of actually working the fly. But there’s something about a dead-drifting nymph dangling under a strike indicator that reminds me too much of childhood excursions spent passively sitting in a boat on a lake with an actual bobber, waiting impatiently for a trout to take the worm hanging deep below the surface. Out of sight.  Another part of the equation is that casting an indicator and two flies joined together by a length of tippet is a good recipe for a nasty case of the tangles. And I have enough trouble as it is with a single fly. At any rate, I want to make it very clear that I’m no snob. I’m merely quagmired in a status of quo – unwilling to adapt to fishing a method that catches fish. Besides, if I started catching a lot of fish, I’d have nothing to write about.

Now, nymphing for steelhead is something I’d never done before prior to a recent trip. I’ve begrudgingly fished nymphs for trout several times, but the only steelheading I’d done (admittedly not much) involved swinging streamers. And so on this trip with my college buddy, Large Albacore (not his real nickname), we were doing just that: Swinging streamers with our Spey rods on a river in north central Washington. Weeks leading up to the trip were spent salivating over widespread reports of record steelhead numbers (something like 475,000 fish) returning over the many dams on the Columbia River. These fish were headed into the many tributary rivers along the way, and unfortunately I misinterpreted this as meaning that catching would be pretty good. It’s not often that I anticipate plentiful catching when I go after fish, but this time was an exception.

Admittedly most of these returning fish were of hatchery origins, but for those of us who are unfortunate enough to call western Washington home (where the dismal numbers of steelhead returning to our Puget Sound rivers are a troubling reality) these bloated figures were more than a good enough reason to travel across the mountains to visit the welcoming anglers from the dry side of our state. A river ripe with prospective steelhead attracts angling folks in a similar way that opossums attracts vehicle tires, and while I felt a little guilty to be part of the problem, I quickly got over it. With so many fish in this river, surely none of the locals would mind if I came over and caught a few of their surplus hatchery brats. As a gift to these parched folks I brought with me some much-needed rain, arriving with my Spey rod, an assortment of colorful streamers and a tent that would prove to leak horribly. I was ready to get it on.

But back to the point about nymphing, or more specifically, fishing “dirty” as Large Albacore refers to it. It’s bad enough to be fishing with a nymph setup, but unthinkably shameful when using a plastic bead egg as a dropper “fly”. PA280780So maligned is nymphing for steelhead that a recent thread on the very popular Washington Fly Fishing online forum saw 24 pages of heated discussion about nymphing. You see, Albacore is a man of some refinement: He enjoys a fine cigar, a good glass of wine, a quality beer, and an appropriately aged single malt. As far as the single malt goes, he enjoys it as both a beverage and as a wader deodorant (a story for another time perhaps). I, on the other hand, never evolved past the cheap cigars and union-made swill we enjoyed in college (some 25 years earlier). We do share a common viewpoint of nymphing, however, and agree that swinging streamers with a Spey rod is the preferred method of steelhead angling.

You can see that I forgot to Photoshop the dirty bead from this photo.

You can see that I forgot to Photoshop the dirty bead from this photo.

I’ve been told that it is not an uncommon practice for an angler to catch a steelhead on a dirty nymph rig, only to remove the unsightly tackle from the fish’s mouth before snapping a photo.  At least I’ve heard of this taking place.

Over the course of 2 1/2 days we fished hard: Up at 5:15, on the water from sun-up until mid-day, with a quick break for a bite to eat and a cold beverage of one’s choosing. During this brief fishing reprieve I would also take the opportunity to soak up as much water from inside my tent as possible (praise be to the Sham-Wow I’d packed in my duffel bag). Then we were back at it until it was time for the evening meal and fireside chat to talk about how swinging streamers was a preferred method of fishing for steelhead. We also grumbled about how crowded the river was and bemoaned the slow fishing. Steelhead fishermen know that steelhead are the fish of 1000 casts, but it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Not on this trip.

As it turns out, according to intelligence provided to us by a state fisheries employee logging catch rates on this river, only about 25% of the returning fish had entered this particular section of the river. The other 75% were stacked-up in the closed lower section of the river, waiting, I assumed, for me to return home before heading upstream en masse. Because of this, the hookups were few and far between, and the number of fish landed even fewer. Given the number of anglers who had descended upon this river on this particular weekend (the nerve of them to do so anyway), we felt lucky just to find a spot to fish. When we were fortunate to find a roadside pullout not occupied by another vehicle, we skidded to a halt and rejoiced at our good fortune­. Every run we approached gave us new hope, even if it had just been pounded by other fishermen moments before our arrival. And each time we would start out by swinging flies with our Spey rods, working every run twice through. When that yielded no interest from fish, out would come the “Meat Pole” (Albacore’s Sage XP 896 rigged with a Thingamabobber looped above a stonefly nymph residing above a bead egg with trailing hook).  It resembled the hardware that a Icehouse-guzzling gear fisherman might be chucking from his lawn chair on the bank of the river (by the way, there’s nothing wrong with Icehouse or gear fishing). The only difference was that we were presenting our offering with a fly rod, and we weren’t sitting in a lawn chair (and the cheap beer was back at camp in my cooler).

PA170785

Albacore brandishing the Meat Stick.

Upon hearing the first declaration that it was time to “get dirty” I  balked. I was here to swing – not fish with a bobber. Being the visual angler than I am, I just couldn’t see fishing a nymph rig so I politely declined and went about swinging. At least by fishing in this manner I got ample opportunity to work on my Spey casting, which is always in need of more practice. As I threw unsightly casts that emanated from disfigured D-loops, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Albacore with a bend in the Meat Pole. I reeled in my line and dashed upstream to watch him land the fish. Albacore has never been one to speak in a manner that is anything other than direct and honest, and so he was blunt in his admission that it pissed him off to have to fish this way, because he’d never had to resort to this manner of angling on this river before. He was equally honest in stating that he would be even more pissed off if he didn’t catch a fish. With size 15 wading boots, Albacore is not a guy that you want stomping around in a foul mood.  Catching this first fish insured the safety of everyone back at camp that evening, and I breathed a long sigh of relief.

After pulling that first fish out of the same run we’d just covered diligently with our Spey rods, Albacore handed me the Meat Pole and told me to have a go at it. I looked over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, and within a few minutes proceeded to catch my first steelhead of the trip. And so began a pattern that persisted for the remainder of the trip: Work a run twice with our Spey rods before grabbing the Meat Pole, going dirty, and catching a fish. Did we catch a fish nymphing each run?  No–but it was the only method that produced hookups, and our Spey rods gently wept in silence from the riverbank.

Gettin' dirty.

Gettin' dirty.

Prior to this trip I had only caught one steelhead before, so simply catching another was a thrill for me. Would I rather have caught the fish on my Spey rod? Absolutely.  However, employing this dirty method of fishing I felt very fortunate to have hooked 2 fish and landed one. I would have landed two, but someone’s left-handed reflexes proved too slow for even a hatchery slug, and the fish, lying at my feet in 2 inches of water, got away before someone (who shall remain anonymous) could tail it. The established trend is that everyone I fish with out-catches me, so it should come as no surprise that Large Albacore faired better. Besides, he’s a much better fisherman than I am. Collectively, the total number of fish caught swinging with the Spey rods: 0.  Total fish caught fishing dirty: 4, or maybe 5. What I came to accept on this trip is that nymphing catches fish, even though swinging flies is still the preferred method of preserving our dignity: Swing first; fish dirty as a last resort to save face completely. And if both methods result in a skunk, fall back on the comfort of knowing that there’s more to fishing than catching fish.

By the way, I recently picked up a used Sage XP 8 weight. Now what am I going to do with that?

While I’ve got your attention, I wanted to publicly express gratitude to Bob White for some recent kind words posted in his weekly “Thursday Morning Art Review” newsletter.  Bob is a very accomplished fine artist whose work is well known in the fly fishing world. His beautiful paintings accompany the writing of John Gierach (an accomplished angler and author) in each issue of Fly Rod & Reel. Among other beautiful offerings, they have a line of “Small Fry” cards that are really nice. I picked up a couple sets this year which prompted me to actually grab a pen and write notes to people. Please take a moment to visit Bob’s website:  Whitefish Studios. Thanks for the support, Bob and Lisa!

WhitefishLogo

Dude, where’s the car?

It had been another forgettable day aboard The Hornet, fishing the Yakima with Marck. Like so many other days on Washington’s finest “blue ribbon” trout stream, it began with hope, which faded into frustration, and ended in disbelief. Actually, I may exaggerating things just a bit because at least one of us caught more than one fish that day. It was late summer, and we’d floated Big Horn to The Slab, covering several miles of grass-lined banks which we pounded with hoppers. As the sun set behind the canyon walls, the magical hour of the Caddis was suddenly upon us. We’d timed our float just right,P8230204 hitting a long stretch of perfect dry fly water just prior to our take out. With each cast of my size 16 tan elk hair Caddis toward the brush on the river bank (where it would proceed to hang up on a branch) several dozen caddisflies would be shaken free of their perch and land on the water’s surface, where the trout would methodically sip the bugs while I fought to free my hook. When I did manage to avoid the vegetation and get my fly directly upon the water, it would be met with a rather lackluster reception from the feeding fish (read: Refusal). I won’t even tell you what Marck was doing – by now you’ve probably assumed that he was getting into fish, and your assumption would not be incorrect. I caught one fish that day, for which I was grateful. I’m not one to feel entitled, and I know that just because you’re fishing that’s never a guarantee that you’ll be catching. Still, one would expect more than one fish on a blue ribbon trout stream at the peak of hopper season.P8230205

We continued this madness until it was nearly dark, and while I have both the keen eyesight and cat-like reflexes necessary for setting the hook in complete darkness, Marck was struggling. I suggested that we call it a day: We were both hungry and The Tav in Ellensburg was calling our names. Marck got on the oars and we made our way downstream to The Slab. The high summer flows on the Yakima River can call for some frantic maneuvering at the termination point of a day’s float, but The Hornet was beached without incident. The Bureau of Reclamation had given this area a major facelift a year earlier, and it’s actually quite plush now. The campground glowed with the light of many bonfires, a couple of which could be seen from outer space. Everywhere, youthful outdoor enthusiasts were frolicking and laughing, preparing s’mores and singing campfire songs. I marveled at the good, clean summertime fun as I began breaking down the rods. I took me back to the simpler days before expensive fishing gear and fancy driftboats – back to a time when all I needed for a weekend of fun was a styrofoam cooler and a sleeping bag. Ah, good times. Marck was also feeling nostalgic and he sang “Kumbaya” as he walked off toward the parking lot to retrieve his truck and trailer, which had been dropped off by the shuttle service per our instructions. We’d be sipping a cold beer and enjoying a burger within a half hour.

Ten minutes had passed before Marck returned, but there was one thing missing. Well, actually two things were missing: His truck, and the trailer. After we stood around for a few minutes in the dark scratching our heads (during which time Marck apparently scratched off all the hair on his head), we concluded that the rig was not here. We didn’t have a cell number to reach the shuttle service after hours, and besides that, cell coverage is spotty at best in this location. Fortunately there was another fisherman who’d just pulled his boat out of the water. He kindly offered to take Marck with him as he drove the Canyon Road back to Ellensburg to drop off his boat at a storage facility. The plan was that after doing so they would head back down the Canyon Road. Along the way they would engage in a reconnaissance mission, checking each of the possible launch points where the truck and trailer might have mistakenly been left. Certainly it had to be at one of the obvious points along the river. The overwhelming majority of fly fishing folks are people of solid character, and The Good Samaritan Flyfisherman appeared to have all his teeth so I figured Marck was safe getting in the truck with this guy. An hour passed without word. Having seen Deliverance many times, I feared the worst and did what any concerned fishing buddy would do:  I drank the last beer in the cooler. I walked 37 feet to the southeast, where there was a small patch of cell coverage, and sent a text message to my wife to let her know I’d be home much later than anticipated.  Struggling with the “word” mode which my kids had recently programmed on my phone to make it easier for me to be an active participant in the 21st century, I managed to get off a message that read, “canv fiinde mARcks trckk wilbee hmme laabte. LOL : )”

The backlit screen on my phone was like a magnet to the thousands of caddisflies that were now fluttering about, and I actually thought about stringing up my rod and doing a little night fishing from the bank. I didn’t get much beyond thinking about it when a set of headlights pulled into the parking area. There were no trailer lights in tow, so I knew it wasn’t Marck’s rig. It was, however, Marck and The Good Samaritan Flyfisherman. They came bearing bad news:  No sign of the rig. Our biggest concern now was that The Hornet was in the water with no means to extract it.  We knew could get a ride home by calling one of our wives. I quickly pointed out that Mrs. Marck would have to be the one to drive 2 hours to come get us. Of the two wives, she was our only hope when it came to an act of sympathy: Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler would simply laugh at such a request before hanging up the phone and returning to her previously scheduled programming: The 14th viewing of Sleepless in Seattle. Or was it You’ve Got Mail?

Before we were faced with making that unpopular phone call, The Good Samaritan Flyfisherman offered to take Marck a couple of miles down the road in the other direction – there were two more potential launch points where the rig might be parked. If that yielded goose eggs, he said we could lift The Hornet onto his truck and he’d be glad to take it to his house in Yakima until we could make plans to retrieve it. A generous offer, but the idea of getting a 16 ft driftboat loaded onto a pickup truck with an 8 foot bed sounded like an act of dumb redneck desperation and conjured up images like the ones (below) found on the interweb.

overloaded caroverloaded-car

But first things first, so once again Marck and The Good Samaritan Flyfisherman headed into the night on a continued mission to find the missing rig.

Within 10 minutes, Marck’s white truck with trailer in tow pulled into the parking lot.  They’d found it parked a couple miles down the road, right where the shuttle driver left it – at the last takeout before the Roza Dam. It was an easy mistake given that “Slab” and “Roza” both contain 4 letters.  Speaking of which, 4 letter words were what comprised Marck’s vocabulary as he climbed out of the truck (leaving the door open and consequently the dome light illuminated, by the way) and we loaded The Hornet onto the trailer. It was 10:30 PM–way too late for a burger and beer at The Tav tonight. We were just glad to put this one behind us, so we jumped in the truck and headed toward home, along with a thousand (give or take a couple hundred) caddisflies.CabbisHatch

It should be noted, in all fairness to the shuttle service, that shuttle drivers are only human, and to err is an unfortunate trait of the species. When Marck called them the next day, they apologized profusely and offered us compensatory damages in the form of a few free shuttles in the future. Can’t ask for much more than that. The worst thing was that it meant we’d have to face the Yak again.

This year, my Stocking is half full.

I’m going to go out on a limb and make the general assumption that we all like opening presents on Christmas morning. It’s the kid in all of us that enjoys the surprise of discovering what’s inside that gift wrapped box under the tree, or revealing what PC210434special little surprises cause our stockings to swell as they hang by the chimney with care. And even if it’s not what we had hoped for or thought it might be, it’s a surprise nonetheless. As kids, I’m sure we all faced a certain disappointment on Christmas morning at least once because what we had asked Santa for had apparently fallen on deaf ears, like the time a young boy asked for a Billy Blastoff and instead received a new pair of Sears dress slacks (hypothetical scenario only). As we get older, we realize that it’s not what’s inside that counts so much as the thought that goes into it – that’s part of being an adult. And it’s that same sort of rational maturity that allows us to actually believe in sayings such as, “It’s not the destination, but the journey that counts.” Another one comes to mind as well: “There’s more to fishing than just catching fish.”

Fishing is a lot like opening presents because fishing is all about surprises as well. Sure, you might head to a lake known to have just been stocked with trout, but you’re never guaranteed success so catching a fish is a gift. That first cast into a river may or may not result in a hookup (it seldom does in my case), but you keep at it, hoping that the next cast will produce some action. Catching is one thing, but what you catch is another surprise in and of itself. Unless you’re at a fishery that is known to produce one and only one species of fish, what that gift will be simply adds to the surprise factor. You may be fishing for bluegill, but hook up with a fat bass. Rainbow trout might be the intended goal, but you may find an unexpected steelhead on the end of your line (and if you do, good luck with that). Or maybe you’re fishing for cutthroat trout on a mountain stream, but wind up dealing with a bull trout instead (make sure it’s not a Dolly Varden, by the way).  There are many possible surprises when you’re fishing, and sometimes that surprise is so glorious that you can’t believe your good fortune. But as it is with material gifts, mature and rational adults are thankful for the gift no matter what it is.

For the most part.

Sometimes, try as we might, that surprise on the end of the line is beyond (or below) our abilities to keep it in proper perspective and appreciate it for what it is:  A wild creature perfectly suited for it’s natural environment that, in a moment of poor judgment, actually fell for the imitation food item that we placed in the water for the sole purpose of fooling the fish into accepting our false advertising and engaging us in a bit of sport. It’s called success. A bend in the rod is better than the alternative, right? What could possibly prevent anyone from being pleased with about that?

Well, self-righteousness, for one thing.

It seems that all too often we focus too narrowly on our goal and become blind to the possibility that the fish we catch, while perhaps not what we intended to catch, is worthy of our admiration, respect, and maybe even a hero photo. OK maybe that’s a stretch, but shouldn’t we at least pat ourselves on the back for any successful catch, even if it wasn’t our targeted species? Specifically, you ask, what are we talking about here?  Oh, you know – “garbage fish”:  Whitefish, suckers, carp, squawfish and the like.  If you fish the salt, the list grows to include a whole bunch of maligned by-catch species (dogfish, just to name one).

Whitefish

Whitefish

Who determined that these poor, disrespected species were somehow beneath our approval? Yes, some species are known to feed on juvenile salmonids and others compete for food with the popular fishes on the block, but isn’t that what they’re supposed to do in order to survive? Anglers are like politicians in this regard: Special interests and partisan opinions keep us from being able to objectively see the big picture:  Fish are, in the end, fish.  The Great Creator of Fish made them all equal, and it was only we high-browed upright walking mammals, with our large brains and opposeable thumbs, who applied a status to the different species (which started by giving them names that sound bad to begin with). Certainly some fish may not make for the best table fare, but if we’re out to practice catch and release, as most fly anglers do, then why not be pleased with an unintended catch? I recall once fishing a section of an Idaho river  known as the “Whitefish Hole”. Imagine my surprise (and disappointment) when I actually caught a whitefish there! Looking back, what a snob I was. Sheesh, I’m just sure.

Sucker

Sucker

I’ve caught my fair share of whitefish, and a couple squawfish. I’ll readily admit that I’ve been disappointed when I’ve incidentally caught these bottom-shelf species, because I was out to catch a noble gamefish at the time. I thumbed my nose at these disgusting creatures rather than admiring them for what they were: Fish.  I even tried, intentionally mind you, to catch some crap- I mean carp, once, but they would have none of it. When those oversized pond guppies wouldn’t show me the love, I judged them immediately for being stupid, worthless, trash fish.  As I walked away, I hollared back over my shoulder to the fish, “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to catch you anyway cause you’re…stupid. And ugly!” Reflecting back, as I look forward, I see that this sort of negative attitude puts me into the same camp of doubting Thomases that in other walks of life always see the glass as being half empty: Dwellers of negativity. I strive to be more positive as an angler in the future: To be thankful when I catch something, even if it wasn’t what I was targeting.  I mean, with my catch record, who am I to be selective?  My new motto is going to be, “There’s more to fishing than just catching what you intended to catch.”

Carp

Carp

I need the odds in my favor, and if I embrace anything that will hit my fly I’m going to be a lot better off. So no more “garabage fish” for me – from this point forward they will be described as “unexpected treasures”. By embracing this new,  positive philosophy I am reducing the amount of inevitable disappointment I’ll encounter as I fish the future.

Squawfish (Northern Pikeminnow)

Squawfish (Northern Pikeminnow)

So, what are you fishing for this Christmas? I hope it’s a good surprise. And if upon initial inspection it appears to be a lump of coal, maybe you can make a diamond out of it.

Merry Fishmuch to you and yourn.

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