Tag: Fly-Fishing (Page 3 of 4)

I’m pink, therefore I’m Spam.

December 1, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 4 Comments

This has nothing to do with fly fishing, really, except that it’s appearing in a blog dedicated to fly fishing. No, this is nothing more or less than a blatant rant – a chance for me to vent openly about SPAM. I am, of course, referring not to the “Specially Processed Animal Meat” product (although I’m not even sure that’s an accurate description) but rather to the incessant solicitations I receive from various sources offering me good jokes and then suggestions that I buy some pharmaceutical product that will enhance my virility. I am not interested in that anymore – I just want to fish.

Good old Wikipedia says this about SPAM:

Spam is the abuse of electronic messaging systems (including most broadcast media, digital delivery systems) to send unsolicited bulk messages indiscriminately. While the most widely recognized form of spam is e-mail spam, the term is applied to similar abuses in other media: instant messaging spam, Usenet newsgroup spam, Web search engine spam, spam in blogs,wiki spam, online classified ads spam, mobile phone messaging spam, Internet forum spam, junk fax transmissions, social networking spam, and file sharing network spam.

Now, I nearly understand the reasoning behind the SPAM that hits my email in-box – it almost makes sense to wage junk email campaigns en masse, hoping to occasionally foul hook a gullible bottom feeder: “Geepers, Mildred, Ah done seen these here offers fer Viagruh so many times Ah just figured Ah’d best check it out, so Ah ordered me some…an’ it werks, see?!” Really? Do people actually fall for that sort of crap advertising? I understand that another unsvaory byproduct of SPAM is the time wasted in dealing with it. Shortly after starting this blog I began getting comments submitted for my approval from SPAMMERS. That’s right – comments have to be approved by yours truly – the Admin General. Granted, I may not be the smartest or most tech-savvy guy out there, but am not altogether unaccomplished as a daily user of compooters and the internets. What makes these time-wasting morons think for a second that I’m going to (A) Read their comments and (B) Approve their comments for public consumption, and then (C) Buy their shit? I wouldn’t wish Spam upon the neighbor’s dog that craps in my yard every morning – why would I publish these comments for my cherished, loyal readers (all 3 of you) to be annoyed with? I am Judge, Jury and Executioner of this here blog: I am Master of my domain, and my domain is unaccomplishedangler.com. It’s all mine…do you got that, Sir Spamsalot? I deny you of your rights and sentence you a life of pain and suffering. You are a derelict of society, praying on the weak and ignorant. But hear me now: If you low-life scallywags think I would never fall victim to your cheap antics you are gravely mistaken. I would not waste a nickel on whatever it is you are selling, nor would I waste a minute of my valuable time or have my productivity compromised by dealing with your senseless campaigns. I will ignore you. I will not give you the time of…day. Crap – I already did.

I apologize for my rant, and assure you that this is not my blog post of the week. I can do better than this, and should the time come that I appear unable to post anything of even marginal worth and value, I shall pull the plug on this blog, which will give the SPAMMERS one less person to waste their freakin’ time on. SPAMMERS: Get a life. Or a hobby – maybe golf. Just don’t take up fly fishing.

By the way, I had no idea there are so many varieties of Spam available. I may have to try the bacon variety. A slow day of fishing is always better with bacon.

Year of the skunk. Almost.

November 23, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 12 Comments

The ink from last week’s blog entry was barely dry when I received a text message from Marck. Expecting criticism for having taken certain creative liberties in my post, I was surprised to see the words pop up on the screen of my phone: “Yak tomorrow?” Unlike me, Marck is a man of few words. Texting is a rather unpleasant endeavor for me because I have a hard time buying into the whole “textspeak” thing, with its baffling array of acronyms and abbreviations and lack of correct punctuation and proper grammar. It would have taken me 25 minutes to respond with the following text message: “Good day, Marck. I received your digital communication regarding the matter of fishing the Yakima and yes, that sounds like a rather grand idea and one that I would greatly enjoy partaking of. If you’ll allow me the courtesy to first check with Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler before I commit to joining you, I will get back to you just as soon as possible. Thank you for the invitation. I look forward to conversing with you in the very near future and hope all is well. Very sincerely, The one who is rather unaccomplished in the ways of fly fishing.” So rather than reply in kind I opted to actually call him.

Then I sent an email to Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler announcing that I was going to go fishing with Marck. The reply was not encouraging: “You have a chore list to do.” Oh, yeah, that: The honey-do list that was taped to my computer so I couldn’t ignore it. “Yeah, yeah – I’ll get to that when I can. By the way, what’s for dinner, woman?” should have been my response. With no further discussion, I called Marck once again and told him I wouldn’t be able to go. I stared at the list for a few minutes and it became painfully clear what my Saturday was going to consist of: Change lightbulbs, sweep driveway, take cardboard boxes to recycling bin, sweep out garage, clean fireplace glass, and my favorite: Clean your office. When she got home from work a short while later I was moping around the house like a dog that had been punished for taking a crap on the living room carpet that had just been shampooed. I was caught completely off guard when she asked what time I was leaving in the morning to go fishing. “Huh?!” As it turns out, I could go fishing as long as I was aware that my list had to be completed by the end of the weekend. My spirits were instantly lifted and I quickly fired off the following text message to Marck: “stillgotr oom in the hornet 2morrow i cango : ) LOL”

Per standard operating procedure I arrived at Marck’s house, refilled my coffee cup, and we headed east on I-90 with the Hornet in tow. It was just the two of us on this day – apparently Sir Lancelot (not his real name) wasn’t man enough to inform his wife that he would be going fishing and anything else could wait for another day. Several feet of snow had fallen in the hills recently, providing a good start to the winter ski season, but fortunately the road conditions over Snoqualmie Pass were bare and wet. We made good time, and it was 9 AM as we drove the Canyon Road to Red’s Fly Shop to arrange for a shuttle. Along the way we saw one lone soul wading a river that was otherwise strangely devoid of anglers. As we pulled into Red’s, which is usually teeming with optimistic fishing folks, the gravel parking area was empty. Surprisingly the boat salesman had apparently taken the day off, and only Leif was working the counter as we walked into the shop. From the reception we received one would have thought we were his long-lost best friends, who’d come to party and hand out cash prizes. He was obviously deprived of human interaction, which probably meant nobody had been in the shop for days, which meant the fishing had probably been slow, which meant staying home and chipping away at a honey do list might not have been such a bad idea. But here we were, so we arranged for the shuttle, plunked down a couple bucks for some token flies (purchased out of sympathy, as we didn’t really need any), and made our way back up the canyon to our launch point. We were going to float 4-1/2 river miles and planned to be off the water by 3:30 so Marck could be home by 5 PM for a party.

There was one drift boat with three passengers at the put-in when we arrived. Weather report: 34 degrees under sunny skies and no wind. We layered up accordingly and dropped the Hornet into the low, 41 degree waters of the Yakima river. After having been humbled the last dozen or so times on this river, I had declared today to be a day of redemption. A bold declaration for sure, everything looked just right for a great day on the water, and it should be noted that Marck had wisely opted for his old standby Red’s fishing hat. We strung up our 6 weight rods with indicators and double fly rigs: I opted for a brown Pat’s Stone with a #20 Lightning Bug dropper; Marck tied on an olive Sculpzilla followed by a Copper John. Immediately after launching we rowed across the river a short ways and anchored up on a gravel bar. A particular side channel looked fishy and we wanted to cover every piece of promising water on this day, which would very likely be our last jaunt to the Yak before spring: It was the third weekend in November, and winter could take hold at any moment. And so on this fishy-looking side channel I made my first cast, tossed a mend into the line and watched. The strike indicator dipped, but I dismissed it as the swirling current simply up to its cruel tricks of deception. However, when I lifted the tip of my rod it became readily apparent that more than the current was to blame for submerging my bobber. I was a bit too hesitant in my attempt to set the hook, and saw the fat rainbow roll below the surface and spit my fly. Good looking fish- probably 15-16 inches. Just as well – it’s not like me to have good fortune right off the bat, or at any other time for that matter. We boarded the Hornet once again and proceeded downstream.

This wasn’t the usual stretch of river we typically fish, so the change of scenery was sure to make a slow day of fishing more interesting. Navigating this section of the river was a bit more challenging as well, so whoever was on the oars at any given time had several opportunities to yell, “Hold on!” as the other braced themselves for a bumpy ride or ducked to avoid low-hanging overhead branches. However nothing really out of the ordinary took place for the first hour or so, and it didn’t appear as though the day was going to give up much fodder worth reporting. I did manage to land a couple Whitefish, but nobody with any self-respect boasts about catching these much-maligned fish.

Whitey: The Fish of Great Disrespect

This is something I’ve never quite understood because afterall, they’re a native species and they swim where trout swim so if a whitey puts a bend in your rod, so be it. The way I figure, it simply means you got your fly where the fish are – so what if the fish you caught wasn’t what you intended, right? I mean, heck – one occasionally hears of anglers catching a steelhead when engaged in the act of fishing for trout, and that’s an example of an unintentional by-catch, isn’t it? Wait, never mind. At any rate, my second whitey was actually a fairly large specimen and I even hooked it in the mouth, of all places.

Marck was still fishless at this point, but neither of us worried about that. There was still plenty of day left and he’s a fishy dude so it was just a matter of time before he caught on. In the meantime, I managed to hook into my second biggest trout ever on the Yak: A beautiful 18-inch rainbow that fell victim to my Lightning Bug, and gave me several minutes of sporting entertainment before finally cooperating and coming to the net. It was 2-1/2 years earlier when I caught a similar sized fish on this river, and the time between had come to be known as “The Lean Years”, with few fish being caught overall, and none of those fish being more than 12-14 inches. I’d also tasted a skunk more than a couple times during this era of famine, so catching this solid fish began the healing process.The sweet smell of redemption still lingered in the air when I landed my next fish: A feisty 14-incher that I plucked from behind a log in water that looked so good there might as well have been a sign posted that read, “There’s a fish here – Guaranteed.” Landing this second trout brought me much additional pleasure, and grinning a smug grin I happily took the oars so Marck could angle. I’m not one to be greedy or spiteful, and I really did not want Marck to go fishless on this day.

We covered a lot of great looking water in our quest for Marck’s first fish of the day. While neither of us had mentioned it, we were both keenly aware of the fact that his catch record was in dire jeopardy, and as we entered the last hour of the day there rode with us an elephant in the rear seat of the boat. At one point we anchored the Hornet on an island to work some nice looking water, and Marck walked off a ways so he could be alone with his worries. It was clear that he was troubled. As Marck grew more serious I knew better than to tease him about something like this. I rowed in silence and began to ponder the headline of my next blog entry: “Marck Tastes a Skunk!”, or “Hey Marck – How Do Ya Like Them Apples?” It would to be a tough decision, but thankfully one I would never have to make because shortly thereafter he set the hook on an adorable little 9 inch rainbow and secured his skunk-free record. After releasing the fish, Marck requested another turn on the oars to warm up his hands. By now the sun was fully behind the clouds and a wind was starting to bite at us, so I humored him: The reality was that he was emotionally spent from the ordeal, and he needed some quiet time to reflect on having escaped shame and public ridicule by the narrowest of margins. This was a man who came dangerously close to epic failure…all color had drained from his face and a cold sweat beaded upon his forehead. He regained his composure and warmed his hands on the sticks.

Checking his watch he announced that it was 4:15. “Uh…Don’t you have to be home by 5?” I asked rhetorically. Marck decided that he’d just call his wife and tell her we were on our way, and that we were about an hour away from arriving home. I tried to discourage him from lying to her, but he assured me it would be okay. And truth be told it wasn’t really an all out fib because from the time we launched we were ultimately on our way home. As Marck dialed his wife’s number, he reminded me fishermen are notorious liars. He had a point. In reality we were probably 15 minutes from our take-out and another hour and a half from home, assuming it wasn’t snowing on the pass. As Marck spoke to his wife and explained that the roads were icy and the going was slow, my indicator took a nose dive and I’m pretty sure Mrs. Marck didn’t hear me yell, “Fish on!”. Enticing the 10 inch rainbow on the Pat’s Stone topped off a much better than average day, and it was good way to end the year. Let the icy grips of winter have the Yak – I’d had my day of redemption and was heading home with the smell of fish on my hands. Now, if I could have just gotten Marck home in 20 minutes he wouldn’t have had to spend the night in the doghouse.

Note: If after reading the accounts of this day you feel that the Unaccomplished Angler is becoming an accomplished braggart, fear not – winter steelhead season lies just ahead. I am bracing myself to have my posterior handed to me accordingly.

Would you like fryes with that?

November 20, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 11 Comments

Often times after a day of fishing the Yakima River we’ll stop at The Tav for a bite to eat before the hour-and-a-half drive home. The Tav is in the heart of historic downtown Ellensburg (WA), in an old building with brick walls and heavy timber beams that suggest it was built during a long-ago era when they built things using materials like brick and heavy timber beams. Every time I’ve been there it’s a typically eclectic crowd of patrons – pretty much what you’d expect from a college town in the midst of agricultureville: College students and locals of all varieties. And of course the folks, like us, who come from near and far to fish the Yakima. It’s easy to pick the fly anglers from the crowd of otherwise jocular patrons, not from their caps displaying some sort of embroidered fly-fishing-related logo, but rather from the wind-chapped faces that bear the heavy sorrow of yet another brutal day of having their arses handed to them by the fish. Those who fish with a fly rod come to The Tav to cry in their beer, and that beer is always cold and well-suited for chasing a Hungry Mother Burger, which is always greasy in the way that any burger worth eating is greasy. It’s just what the doctor ordered as a way to cap off another unforgettable day on the water. The service is always prompt, and when asked if we want fries with our burgers, the resounding answer is always “you bet.” However, that’s after a day of fishing. While actually engaged in the act of fishing, we’d prefer to keep fryes off the menu.

It was the third weekend of September – a magical time of year to fish the Yak. The Flip-Flop was nearly complete, meaning the high summer flows (around 4000 cfs) had been cut off, and the river in the Lower Canyon was running around 1200 cfs and still dropping. For those not in the know, the headwaters of the Yakima are actually a reservoir – Lake Keechelus. The lake fills with spring melt and water is released under the careful watch of the United States Bureau of Reclamation. During the summer months the flows are kept high to provide two things: Irrigation for the Yakima valley agricultural region, and a source of good, clean outdoor recreation for a certain segment of the public. The lower Yakima canyon of summer attracts literally busloads of recreational floaters who, after stopping at Wal-Mart in Union Gap and dropping their last $30 on beer and a cheap inflatable devices, throw caution to the wind and brave the waters of the Yakima River. Anglers often compete for precious watery real estate with those who comprise the “rubber hatch”, and while the bikini-clad rafters do provide a certain degree of entertainment and a distraction from catchless fishing, when the flows are cut off and the river drops in September it is a time for the fishermen (and women) to rejoice.

At these reduced levels, rocks are exposed (so you can actually see them right before you hit them), feeding lanes are defined (so you know where to put your fly so the fish can look at and ignore it as it drifts by), and fish are gorging themselves in anticipation of the forthcoming winter. After the summer hopper game where heavy tippets are used to pound the banks with big junk, Fall marks an entirely different game: Small flies and light tippet. As if the Yak isn’t humbling enough, the Autumn season makes for technically more challenging fishing. It’s also a time of tremendous dry fly action and a chance to hone one’s skills at delicate presentation and knot tying. If you’re over 45, bring your magnifying glasses.

The week prior to our float, the “Power Hour Fishing Reports” on the website for Red’s Fly Shop had made it very clear: Fishing had been so hot for so many days in a row, it was (to quote the source) “absurd”. The reports further suggested that early was the best time of the day due to morning haze caused by controlled burns in the valley. And so it was decided that we’d meet at Marck’s house at 7 AM to be on the water by 9. When I arrived, Marck and Nash (not his real name) had The Hornet hitched up and were ready to roll. The first thing I noticed was Marck’s new hat. He’d been covering his dome with the same Red’s cap for the past few years, so I assumed it had become his lucky fishing hat. Admittedly, he always catches fish so the hat may not be a large part of the equation, but on this day he was sporting a brand new, bright yellow Simms cap. My immediate reaction was that this new hat was the same color as a banana (if you missed it the first time, check out the blog entry titled The Banana Boat). No worries, I’d long since put those superstitions behind me.

Armed with reliable intel and an ample supply of Lightning Bugs and Copper Johns, sizes 18 and 20, we hit the water right on schedule. I was a bit put off by the prospect of having to fish nymphs, but I set my attitude aside for the most part and strung up my 6 wt, which seemed the logical choice for this day as the forecast called for moderate winds. In the lower canyon, “moderate” can mean anything that doesn’t blow your boat upstream. And frankly, I’d employed my 4wt all summer, and was jonesin’ to use the Sage XP that I’d recently acquired on the used market. I also fully expected to get into at least one respectable fish on this fine day and wanted to be properly prepared for the ensuing battle. I treated myself to a new tapered 5x leader, with 6x fluorocarbon for my dropper fly. After looping in a Thingamabobber, I grimaced at the whole contraption, which was a recipe for tangles just waiting to happen.

Not 10 minutes into our float, the first fish of the day was landed. As one would expect, Marck was on the south end of the winning rod, and though the fish was perhaps only 9 inches, it was good to get the skunk off the boat early. I congratulated Marck on his trophy and got serious about fishing. Then we entered what I call the “morning lull”, which turned into the “mid-day lull” which lasted a good long while before merging seamlessly with the “late afternoon lull”. I decided that if the fishing was going to be this slow, I’d at least fish a dry fly so I had something to watch. This turned out to be a wise decision because I quickly began rising more fish to my fly than I’ve ever seen on the Yak. I just couldn’t seal the deal. The challenge was that all of the fish rising to my fly were too small for all but a size 32 Griffith’s Gnat, which I just happened to not have with me. I attached a size 10 September Caddis (because it was not yet October), thinking that a large fly would discourage small fish (and attract larger fish).

And then it happened. Without my knowing it – I crossed over to the Zen zone: The land of Mushin (mind of no mind), where instinct takes over for conscious skill. I ceased being an angler burdened by useless technique, and simply became a living being moving through space – a living being moving through space that just happened to have a fly rod in hand. The hook set was so quick that the fish had no idea what happened, and neither did I for that matter. It was one of those all-in-one motions where the hook set became the back cast which became the release, which sent the 3 inch fish sailing overhead and it became detached somewhere behind me on the river. No need to handle that fish – such is the beauty of barbless hooks and rapid acceleration. Marck had one such encounter while fishing two nymphs under a couple of foam indicators. The resulting tangle was so bad that he had to cut the entire mess off and start all over from scratch. At least he’d recovered the hardware this time, as earlier he’d snapped off everything, which, I reminded him, amounted to the equivalent of throwing about $8 in the river. At any rate, after attaining this heightened level of no mindedness, we were able to remain in this state accute awareness for the better part of an hour. These hook set-back cast-overhead releases happened a handful of other times, with none of the fish being more than 3 inches in size. We did our best to move past these pods of aggressive preschoolers, but they were everywhere. By the time the bite turned off we’d easily caught every troutlette in the river, and had transcended even the state of no mindedness. We were, in fact, approaching a state of complete brain deadness.

We saw a few “decent” fish rising sporadically throughout the day, but no looks or takes. And “decent” took on a whole new meaning: By now our standards were so low we’d have considered an 8-inch fish quite respectable. This was familiar territory for me, but this time it hurt. It hurt bad. Now I’m not one to feel entitled, nor do I ever have high expectations when I go fishing, but this time I did – and for good reason. All the reports pointed to red hot fishing. It was a beautiful day. Even the wind had behaved itself. Add to all this the fact that the Yakima hadn’t been kind to me recently, and I felt I was owed my due. The day had all the ingredients of an epic outing, except for the fish. The look on Marck’s face revealed that even he was clearly troubled. Nash had withdrawn to the point where he simply hugged himself and rocked back and forth in the rear seat of the boat, mumbling quietly. It became clear that we had one of two choices: Either we’d laugh, or we’d cry. A quick session of rock-scissors-paper determined our fate: Laughter it was. And laugh we did – hysterically: In the manner that men driven to insanity by floating down a canyon in a boat on river boiling with fish and not a rod between them might laugh. Or worse, like men driven to insanity by floating down a canyon in a boat with plenty of rods on a river with no fish over 3 inches might laugh. The echos of our deranged howling bounced off the canyon walls, stopping deer and Bighorn Sheep in their tracks. But after a few minutes the reality of our predicament found us sullen once again. We were out of beer. Insults were hurled back and forth from bow to stern, and arguments broke out over who would get to row next. Being on the sticks was, on this day, the best seat in the boat.

Between the three of us we’d run the gamut of end tackle offerings. We fished double nymph rigs under an indicator (I did so against my will), a dropper under a hopper, a hopper with a small trailing dry. And of course we also fished single dries: September Caddis, Light Cahills, Caddis emergers, Caddis parachutes, Caddis run-of-the-mill elk hair variety, X-Y-and-Z Caddis. Figuratively we threw the fly box at them, and literally at one point I’d almost done just that before self-imposing a time-out on the oars. Right before we took out around 6:30 PM, Nash – who had been staring a skunk in the eyes – landed the biggest fish of the day: A broad-shouldered 10-inch hog that had Marck and I marveling at the beauty of the fish and awestruck by Nash’s fishing prowess. This was cause for celebration, and we were suddenly transformed once again from bitter and defeated fishermen into a boisterous boat load of high-fivin’ white guys. That fish had sealed the deal, ensuring that not a single one of us would be skunked by the Yakima on this day. We had saved collective face by the thinnest of margins. The Hornet was pulled from the water, and as we broke down our rods our moods flip-flopped once again. With disbelief at the day’s events, we headed west, passing by Ellensburg without a stop at The Tav. We wanted to avoid the temptation of crying in our beer, and even though we were hungry, the thought of more fryes was more than anyone could bear.

Waders and leaking.

November 13, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 29 Comments

Anyone who has taken the time to read the Welcome page of the Unaccomplished Angler knows that I don’t do gear reviews, per se. Well, like so many fishermen are prone to do, I lied. That being said, bar none the single best gear acquisition I’ve made in recent years would have to be my Dan Bailey waders (the Monomaster being a close second). I’d purchased another brand of breathable waders less than a year before seeing these modern marvels in one of the multiple magazines I prescribe to (‘prescribe’ is not a typo), and I knew right away I had to have a pair. Now one might think it a foolish waste of money to buy an expensive pair of waders when a perfectly good and much less expensive pair of waders hangs in the garage. But before you judge me too harshly, let me remind you that behaviors regarding anything related to fly fishing do not fall under the category of “rational.” No, I did not need them. But I wanted them. That’s all the justification I required as I waxed and polished my credit card and marched confidently into All About the Fly to make pa2807741 the purchase.

At this point I ran into an unexpected logjam: After 42 years I was shocked to find that most men are taller than me. There were size L and XL to choose from, but they didn’t have my size (apparently they don’t keep children’s waders in stock). Luckily they could order me a pair, and within a week I had a pair of size medium Dan Bailey EZ Zip Guide Waders that fit like a loose-fitting glove. Reminiscent of a little kid with a brand new pair of Ked’s sneakers, I was so enthused that I wore them home from the shop. On the way I stopped at the local grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner, and the cashier apparently really liked my new waders too, because she kept staring at them. Who could blame her – they’re really quite something to behold. But don’t take my word for it – read what the manufacturer has this to say about the merits of the EZ-Zips:

“…a front access RIRI waterproof zipper for exceptional ease on and off, plus the convenience of the zipper for adjusting to vent air for your maximum comfort…Many fishermen roll down the upper portion of traditionally designed waders to cool off or for shallow water wading. Just zip down the zipper and your upper body will cool off.”

This all sounds quite impressive, but I bought them not for the ease of getting them on or off, or for the ability to quickly cool my upper body. No, I bought them for the matter of liquid.

Fishing is all about liquid: From the water in which we stand when wading, which is the same water that floats our boat, to the great amounts of water that falls from the sky in the form of cold rain upon the hoods of insane anglers who find themselves fishing during the winter months when sane anglers are huddled around a crackling fire reading books about summer trout fishing. But fishing is also about other liquids – the liquids that float our kidneys: The coffee we drink in the morning as we’re driving to the lake, or for those unenlightened souls who never acquired the taste for grown-up caffeine, the Coke they have with breakfast in camp before hitting the river. During the cold months we may take a break from not catching fish to sit in the cab of a truck with the engine running to thaw our toes and pour a hot cup of something from our thermos. When it’s hot, we may drink water or some variety of other bottled/canned beverages to keep ourselves properly hydrated, or to perhaps drown our sorrows when the fish repeatedly refuse our offerings.

Suffice it to say, beverages factor prominently into the lives of anglers, and what goes in, must come out. And unless you’re body is not functioning properly, sooner or later anglers must relieve themselves. If an angler is of the female gender, the act of relieving oneself is not a simple endeavor and that’s all I’m going to say about that. But if you’re a guy, the task at hand (no pun intended) can be as easy as standing up and letting things flow. However, much of the time we anglers find ourselves swathed in layers of clothing that make the simple act of relieving ourselves a bit more labor intensive. Let’s assume, for the sake of this example, that the fisherman (and it’s OK in this case to say fisherman because I’m referring of course to the men in the listening audience) is wearing the following gear/clothing: Long johns, fleece pants, a fleece jacket and a few other cumbersome layers to restrict upper body movement, waders, and a gore-tex jacket. Maybe some gloves, too. With this laundry list it’s safe to conclude that it’s a cold day. It’s probably raining or perhaps even snowing, and if it isn’t, there’s likely a cold winter breeze blowing. You’re standing thigh-deep in a frigid river, and suddenly your bladder reminds you of the 3 cups of coffee you ingested 2 hours ago. Now, barring a catheter or Adult Depends (which I have considered, mind you), you’ve got two choices: Ignore it or deal with it. If you choose to the former, that’s your decision and you must pay the consequences. But if you’re like me you must deal with the situation, so let’s assume that to be the course of action.

pa280777 Now most guys don’t relieve themselves at the first hint of a full bladder–we file the urge away for as long as we can (it’s the same instinct that prevents us from stopping and asking for directions). Afterall, if you don’t maximize the amount of time that your fly is in the water, your chances of catching a fish are greatly diminished, and the odds of catching fish are stacked against you in the first place. So, by the time you admit to yourself that you must do something about the growing discomfort low in your abdomen, you realize you have a problem. Glancing over your shoulder towards shore, you become painfully aware of just how long it’s going to take before you can actually do something about it. You’re 30 feet from the river’s edge. Beyond that it’s another 15 yards of gravel bar before the privacy of some bushes. The current is strong enough that you must choose your steps carefully so as not to loose your footing: A tumble in the icy water would quickly put an end to your day of not catching fish and leave you soaked, which is exactly what you are trying to avoid by getting to shore as quickly as possible. The going is slow, but you make it to water’s edge. Your bladder is barking at you to hurry it up, so you quicken your steps over the gravel bar. You don’t dare break into a run because each step is a careful orchestration of muscle control: Using the right ones while not relaxing certain others. Finally you reach the safety of the bushes, locate a suitable branch on which to lean your fly rod, and commence to disrobe.

The first possible task at hand may be that of removing your gloves. Admittedly, gloves worn while fishing are cumbersome so let’s assume you’re not wearing any, which expedites your mission. Next, you must embark on the adventure of unzipping your rain jacket. With numb fingers (because you weren’t wearing any gloves) this sort of simple dexterity becomes considerably more difficult and the unthinkable happens: The storm flap gets caught in the teeth of the zipper. Now you’ve nearly got a crisis on your hands. To avoid me rambling on unnecessarily, let’s jump ahead to the point at which the train has been backed off the tracks: You successfully remove the jacket and drop it to the ground with careless regard for the exact location. You are now without a waterproof barrier and instantly become aware of this as the driving rain begins to soak your undergarments. The waders must now be lowered to at least waist level (preferably slightly below). Like a stonefly nymph struggling to shed it’s shuck you wriggle and writhe as you attempt to get a hold of the farmer john straps, wasting yet more precious time. Finally the waders are down, followed, hopefully of course, by the fleece pants, long johns and perhaps your favorite Spiderman boxers.This is the point at which you realize just how cold your hands are, and you give forth an audible, high-pitched gasp. The wind reveals its Arctic origins as it bites at your exposed nether regions with a ferocity that takes your breath away. The old bladder is way past panic mode when you finally relax certain muscles and let things flow. “Aaahhhhh….SH#T—!!!“ In your frenzied scramble to remove all layers of clothing, you failed to acknowledge the one Cardinal Rule that all men learn as boys: Don’t pee into the wind. You remember this an instant too late, and in an attempt to minimize the damage you pivot abruptly, sending a stream of heavily pressurized bodily fluid in a wide arch which partially misses your rain jacket that was haphazardly dropped on the ground without regard for certain logistics. With the wind now pounding your backside and the rain drenching you from above, you must wait impatiently for the flow to subside. Those three cups of coffee seem to have transformed into a 3 quarts, and by the time you’ve drained the holding tank, Mother Nature has done a pretty good job of beating the crap out of you.

Now, had you been sporting a pair of the Dan Bailey EZ Zip Guide Waders, all that would’ve been required would have been for you to unzip your jacket, (calmly, I might add because of the confidence that comes from knowing you have plenty of time), then lower the zipper on your waders and, well…you get the idea.

Cooling? Ease of ingress and egress? Riiiiight. If I were in charge of marketing for Dan Bailey I’d have named these the EZ Pee Guy Waders. I suppose there’s a reason I’m not in charge of marketing for them, or any other company.

At any rate, I give these waders two thumbs up. I’ve had them for 4 years (which means I am no longer 42) and they’ve never leaked.

But I have.

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If you don’t Spey, don’t start.

November 6, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 28 Comments

I saw a bumper sticker once that read, “If you don’t surf, don’t start.” Clearly the tone of the message was that of a territorial surf bum, verbally peeing in the sand to mark his territory because he didn’t want me to take up his sport and crowd his waves. Hang loose, dude–the thought never crossed my mind. The bumper sticker did, however, give me an idea to create a variation of my own, the intent of which is purely noble. If you are thinking of taking up the way of the Spey rod, I have several single words of advice: Stop; Don’t; Flee.

I assure you, I am not being territorial. Like every other fly angler I’ve met, I love to share my passion with others. Just ask my wife and kids–they’ll tell you I rarely talk about anything without relating it to fly fishing (they are continually impressed with just how deeply the thread of fly fishing can be woven into the fabric of daily life). So even as many good fly-fishing waters have a tendency to get a bit crowded from time to time, I think everyone should partake of this wonderful sport. At least then we’d all have something we can agree on. That is, until arguments broke out about nymphing versus swinging, 4-piece versus 2-piece rods, and felt versus rubber-soled wading boots. No matter their differing opinions, those who are bitten by the fly bug tend to also become stewards of the resource, pumping time and money into much-needed conservation organizations (please see those listed in the sidebar) and projects, so the more the merrier (just don’t low-hole me on my favorite run, please). That being said, why would I want to discourage folks from taking up the way of the two-handed rod? The answer is simple: To spare you the suffering I’ve endured, or rather, am enduring. It may be too late for me, but the lessons I’ve learned could save you a lot of financial and emotional pain.

It all started innocently enough: I was perfectly happy, or at least not horribly dissatisfied with the 8 weight single-hander I’d had for a few years. It had been used rather sparingly on a few steelhead outings, but to be honest I never really hankered to get out more than that. I was becoming convinced that I didn’t enjoy standing in a river in January during a cold, steady rain, fishing in vain for a fish that only existed in the history books. What I didn’t realize at the time was that the thing I didn’t enjoy was standing in a river in January during a cold, steady rain, repeatedly casting a heavy single-handed rod in vain for a fish that only existed in the history books. Question my manhood if you will, but the sporadic tendonitis in my shoulder can be aggravated by repetitive motion such as repeatedly casting a heavy single-handed rod. When the weather is cold and damp, as it is guaranteed to be in January where I live, it only worsens the situation. As they say, ‘ignorance is bliss’ and I was rather content during those innocent years of yore. I wasn’t catching any steelhead, nor was I much bothered by not catching steelhead. I’d heard others speak of the Spey rod, but I could not imagine why I would want to venture into a new relm until I had actually hooked into a fish on my single-hander. I buried my head in the riverbank sand and stubbornly denounced the Spey thing as a foolish frivolity. But as time and steelhead seasons passed, I heard increasingly more folks talking up the merits of casting with a two-handed rod, and I began to ponder what it would be like to take a walk on the dark side of fly-fishing.

My pondering resulted in the realization that first off, one would need another credit card pa280439 designated solely for this new endeavor. While your shopping list might be more or less damaging, mine looked something like this: A Sage Z-Axis 7136-4 Spey rod (and apparently they charge by the foot, so the longer the rod, well- you get it); pa280782 a Ross Momentum LT reel to hold a half mile of backing, 90 feet of Airflo Ridge .030’ running line, and an Airflo Compact Skagit head, to which is attached any number of various rate sink tips (so that one can search various depths before concluding that there are no fish anywhere in the water column); a spare spool for another half mile of backing, 90 feet of Airflo Ridge .020” running line attached to an Airflo Compact Scandi head (for fishing smaller flies during summer flows when the water is so clear that any fish in the river can see your fly approaching well in advance and make an early decision to avoid it). All said and done it wasn’t so bad, since I was able to sell my very lightly-used 8 weight single-handed setup for about 20% of what I paid for it. That just about covered the sales tax on my new spey outfit. (Note to Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler: I’m grossly over-exaggerating this for the sake of artistic drama).

creditcards The unmistakable smell of burning plastic would be your super-heated credit card in the process of a meltdown. With annual interest rates approaching 20%, well, let’s not even go there. There’s more to fly fishing with a Spey rod than catching fish – it’s also about spending a boatload of money, so the financial suffering is just the beginning. Next comes the psychological damage. Now I’ve never professed to be anything but unaccomplished when it comes to fly fishing, but my casting doesn’t totally suck. In fact, there are times when I actually think I can lay out some pretty respectable casts (until one too many double hauls is used trying to push that last few feet of line just a little too hard and it all comes horribly undone). But I digress. When I first wrapped my hands around the double cork of the two-handed rod, everything I thought I knew about fly casting became pretty much worthless information, and any perceived ability I might have had with a single-hander was quickly forgotten. While Spey casting may have it’s origins in Scotland, it was all Greek to me: The language contains daunting terms such as “Bloody L” and “Dangerous Cast”. There are odd techniques that have no place in the vocabulary of the gentleman fly angler such as the “Perry Poke” and the “Snake Roll” (not to mention the “Flying Butt”). There is the “Anchor Point”, which is apparently the point at which one’s heavy “shooting head”, laying in a heap of slack at one’s feet, becomes incapable of being cast because it weighs as much as a drift boat anchor. Then you have the “Kiss” which I believe is when a heavily weighted fly brushes your cheek at 90 miles per hour (this is closely related to the “Dangerous Cast”). My favorite is the “D-Loop” which describes the shape of the arc that the line forms behind the caster and is key in loading the rod for a successful forward stroke. In my case, “D” stands for “Deformed” or “Droopy”. Or “Dork.” The whole thing is quite foreign and intimidating.

I should also warn you that casting with a two-handed rod is a whole heck of a lot of fun. There are even get togethers where people venturing (and those who have long-since ventured) into the dark world of two-handed rods actually gather on a weekly basis to do just one thing: Practice (and I assume, commiserate). Check out All About the Fly and River Run Anglers if you’re in the greater Seattle area looking for a local support group. It’s truly a sickness. So far I have avoided these congregations out of respect for the safety of others in attendance. When I feel that I am no longer a threat to anyone other than myself, I will foray into the mix. Until then, I prefer isolation.

Certainly I have always enjoyed casting with a single-handed rod, but rarely do I do so just for practice (although it often feels that way when I’m fishing). What I’ve found with the Spey thing is that I actually enjoy casting for the sake of casting, and I’ll happily hit a stretch of water with nothing on the end of my line but a piece of yarn, running through my repertoire of fine casts. The yarn can be either a measure of safety or compliance: Safety, because without a hook it’s hard to hurt myself (see recent post titled “The hat is lucky…“); compliance, because if I’m practicing on the water out of season it would be illegal to have a hook on the end of my line. Not that I have to worry about catching fish anyway, but it would be just my luck to accidentally tie into a fish out of season while a game agent watches through his binoculars. But the bottom line is that I enjoy Spey casting. As they say, practice makes perfect, or in my case, practice will eventually reduce the level of shame.

So, heed my words of advice:

Yes, you can actually get one by clicking here.

And now a question(s) intended at get some comments from you, the reader…

With regard to the way of the Spey:

Do you or don’t you?

Will you or won’t you?

Let’s hear from you.

Coloring isn’t just for kids.

November 2, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 2 Comments

Here’s something you won’t be able to say after reading this: “I’ve never heard of Fishy Kid.”

FishyKid.org is the brainchild of two dads who, like so many other responsible, tax-paying adults, share a common obsession: Fly fishing. While that obsession can, if left unchecked, be detrimental to a productive life, much good can come from it as well. Enter Fishy Kid, which takes aim at introducing kids to all that the great outdoors have to offer through the art of fly fishing.

In this day and age of virtual activities and video games, getting kids off the couch and outside is more important now than ever before. Too many kids (and adults for that matter) suffer from “Nature Deficit Disorder” but all hope is not lost. According to a recent study conducted by the Outdoor Foundation, fishing is listed as the Number One “Gateway Activity” to getting kids involved in other outdoor recreation. That means if you take a kid fishing, chances are high that they’ll enjoy the experience so much they’ll want to partake of other outdoor activities as well. The science is in: Unstructured outdoor play improves social skills, performance in math and sciences, and leads to a more well-rounded appreciation of not just nature, but life in general.

The guys over at Fishy Kid have done a very impressive job of lining up sponsors to donate quality fly fishing gear as prize giveaways for their ongoing coloring contests. Check out the rules– it costs you nothing and is a great way to get your little ones excited about fishing and the outdoor world.

But wait–just when you thought coloring was only for kids, think again.

November is a time for you big kids to show your long-dormant talents over at Fishy Kid. Dust off those Crayolas, test your artistic skills and enter the adult coloring contest right now. You might just win a cool stack of DVD’s such as Nervous Waters, Soulfish, Rivers of a Lost Coast, The Drift, No Sports Allowed, Once in a Blue Moon, and other gear from Mountain Khaki, Moffitt Angling, Buff Wear, and Cliff Outdoors.

Don’t let my coloring sample (below) intimidate you. I’m one of the contributing artists and therefore exempt from participating in the contest.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got crops to harvest over on Farmville.

The Hat is Lucky. Me? Not so much.

October 29, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 9 Comments

“Lucky hat.” Now there’s a term we’re all familiar with. Many of us have a hat we consider lucky, due to one fortunate thing or another that came our way while wearing that particular hat. Some folks have a particular hat they wear on game day to ensure their team wins. I met a guy who had a crusty black Stetson he wore whenever he played poker (my bet is that he was a lousy card player and couldn’t afford a new hat). When it comes to lucky fishing hats, obviously it means a particular hat has brought us prosperity in our pursuit of fish. I used to think it was a load of bunk and would grab whatever baseball style cap was my current favorite. There was no sentimental attachment as I jumped from one hat to the next without loyalty–whatever hat I wore on the water on a particular day seemed equally capable of insuring that I wouldn’t catch fish. Since those days I have changed my tune, and now whistle Stevie Ray Vaughan’s version of “Superstition” when it comes time to choose my hat (Stevie Wonder’s original version just doesn’t cut it for me).

My hat of choice is a semi wide-brimmed model described in marketing literature as the style worn by “River Guides”, although I have never seen any guide on any river wearing a hat exactly like mine, which leads me to be suspicious of the claim. While I fully acknowledge that beauty is a subjective term, in the eye of this beholder my hat is both a thing of beauty and supreme functionality. p9220741 I looks like it’s been run over by a truck, rolled in the mud, used for filtering coffee, soaked in the river, rode hard and put up wet (and it just gets better with age).

Obvious aesthetics aside, it also keeps the sun and rain off my face and protects my ears from being flossed–a term coined by an angler who was obviously a dentist (it seems a likely origin since I’m sure many dentists are fly fishermen, just like most attorneys are also fly fishermen). I assert that dentists must have been the first fly anglers, because an attorney would have likely coined the term, “cross-examined by a hostile hook”. At any rate, flossing is a kinder, gentler term to describe an otherwise horrific occurrence that happens when the wind destroys an otherwise perfect forward cast, sending the fly (with it’s sharp hook) on a collision course with one’s ear. This can be either self-inflicted or caused by a dentist fishing upwind. In the event of doing this to oneself, there’s not much recourse other than feel a certain degree of humility. In the case of the latter I recommend calling an attorney and pressing charges of negligent bodily injury. Flossing can also happen when engaged in the act of Spey casting. If you have an incorrectly placed anchor, abandon the cast immediately. If you don’t, you had better hope to be wearing a full coverage lucky fishing helmet.

While I’ve never had either of my ears flossed, I have heard of it happening to others, and I’ve seen the evidence. I was, in fact, fortunate enough to have some folks allow me the use their photos (thanks to Jarrod, Josh, Matt, and Moldy Chum), which I offer here into evidence as Exhibits A , B, C and D.

(Legal disclaimer: The images you are about to see would make Van Gogh cringe– consider yourself fairly warned)

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Exhibit C

Exhibit D

It certainly looks painful, but I’m guessing it mainly hurts when one tries to remove the hook, especially when/if they realize they forgot to pinch the barb. Fishing with a barbless hook is required on many waters, though it is a common misconception that barbless hooks are intended to protect the fish. The reality is that these regulations are in place to protect the angler, however I’m sure the fish benefit to some degree as well. At any rate, I always pinch my barbs because if there’s one thing that scares me more than a visit to the dental chair for a root canal, it’s a visit to one of those places that administer body piercings.

Aside from keeping my ears safe from negligent anglers (dentists and attorneys alike) and wayward Spey casts (in my experience those are the only kind), the hat is also lucky in the sense that I’ve almost never had a skunking while wearing it (steelheading, doesn’t count). I’ve been skunked on the Yakima River a couple times, but that’s not the fault of the hat–I blame the lack of fish. I shudder to imagine how badly my catch record might smell if not for my lucky hat, so I am content to not mess with the status quo. As Stevie Ray sang, “Very superstitious, nothin more to say…”

Except that my lucky fishing hat also makes me look taller.

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I rest my case.

My 10 minutes of fame.

October 22, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 7 Comments

One of the best things that has happened to me as the author of a series of children’s books is that almost exactly a year ago today I had the opportunity to visit a grade school in Kansas City, MO. I was invited to give a series of presentations by Mr. Bob Dever, the PE teacher and a fly fisherman who had come to find out about my books the year before. Actually it was I who first contacted Bob after reading about a program he was teaching with grant money received as part of the Physh Ed program offered by The Future Fisherman Foundation. With this funding he had taught basic elements of spin and fly fishing as an after school activity at Gracemor Elementary. Kids who participated in the program also learned basic fly tying, and I thought my books might be something Bob would be interested in. Luckily I was right, and after sharing regular email correspondence over the months, we worked out an arrangement to have me come to his school. Airline reservations were booked and Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler began prepping me for the trip: Buying me new clothes and reminding me of proper social etiquette. For some strange reason she seemed to have little confidence in my abilities, and reminded me to say “please” and “thank you”, and not to run in the halls.

In advance of my visit, the kids had read the stories of Olive the Woolly Bugger, and some of the younger students had even gracemor4 “tied” their own versions of the woolly bugger using clothes pins and feathers. The weekend prior to my arrival marked the school’s trip to Bennett Spring State Park, which gave these budding young anglers an opportunity to put their recent training to use. With all this fishing-related excitement still fresh in their minds, it’s safe to say that these kids were eager for my visit, and their enthusiasm was surpassed only by my own. I’d never done anything like this, so getting on a plane and flying halfway across the country, masquerading as some sort of hot-shot author was a big deal to me. Admittedly I was also a bit nervous, and as I sat on the plane sandwiched between two red-headed, cornfed brothers returning home to Wichita, I worried about the normal things anyone in my position would worry about: Would my PowerPoint work? What if I woke up in the morning with a case of laryngitis? What if the kids are mean to me? I wonder what’s on the school lunch menu? Maybe pigs in a blanket–those were my favorite when I was in elementary school. And chocolate milk.

I was relieved when my plane touched down safely, and I was greeted at the security gate by Bob. I would be staying with he and his wife at their home, so I didn’t have to deal with English-challenged cab drivers, bad directions, or non-smoking hotel rooms that weren’t quite what they were advertised to be. It was a nice relief to know that all I had to do was be ready to leave for school at 7 o-clock the next morning, and after a decent night’s sleep I managed to do just that. And so began my big day.

gracemore1 During the course of the day I talked to over 700 students (Kindergarten through 5^th grade) about being an author and illustrator. Most of my young audience seemed more interested in the drawing aspect of my endeavors, which seems appropriate since writing is something kids are forced to do, while coloring is fun. I shared information about the adventures to be had while fly-fishing, being careful to point out that there’s more to fishing than catching fish (which was met with blank stares). I showed slides of beautiful mountain lakes and streams, broad rivers lined with magnificent fall colors, and a wide array of wildlife. These were inner-city kids and most, if any, had never seen anything like the images in my presentation. Kids that age rarely appreciate scenic photographs, no matter how stunning, and while they enjoyed seeing photos of deer, moose, beavers and bears, their eyes really lit up when I started showing slides of fish: Big and small, salmonids and rough fish, warmwater species and Arctic char. Hands shot up in the air and I was peppered with questions about the many different fish:

“Did you catch that huge fish?” Uh, no.

“How much did that fish weigh?” Don’t know. I didn’t catch that one, either.

“Do you catch lots of fish?” Next question…

But my favorite question was asked by a cute little girl who was about 7 or 8 years old: “How long have you been famous?” I smiled, looked at my watch, and replied, “About ten minutes.”

gracemor05 Their curiosity and enthusiasm was infectious (as were the germs they sent me home with which resulted in the worst sinus infection I’ve ever had). Most every one of the kids seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, and except for when the lunch bell rang I had a captive audience (and they truly were captive, because they couldn’t go anywhere). To these kids, I was something special: A real live author and seemingly accomplished fisherman that lived in a far-away place called Washington (no, not where the President lives), where there were high mountains and lots of evergreen trees and water and fish called salmon and steelhead that swim from the rivers to the ocean and back again. Luckily for me my visit was brief. Had I spent much more time with these kids they’d have figured out that I’m just a regular guy who just happens to have written a couple books about a woolly bugger named Olive. And I don’t catch many fish.

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The Banana Boat.

October 2, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 7 Comments

Google (or perhaps Bing, as I’ve heard it’s pretty decent) “bananas and fishing” and you’ll find countless explanations supporting the assertion that bananas and fishing don’t mix. While I’m superstitious to a degree (with regard to hats), I don’t necessarily buy into this particular load of discriminatory bunk. I like bananas and eat one nearly every day. The potassium is supposed to be good for preventing p9230741 muscle cramps, and if you’ve ever suffered a muscle cramp, you know how intensely uncomfortable they can be. When the cramp hits, you drop everything you’re doing and give full and involuntary attention to the pain. Aside from the obvious discomfort, the second worst thing about cramps is that they occur at any time they want–most often when you least expect, or want it. Like, when rowing a drift boat. That’s just a hypothetical scenario, though, as I don’t suffer from cramps because I eat bananas.

So I came to the recent conclusion that bananas, as a particular foodstuff, have nothing to do with bad fishing (unless you don’t eat them and develop a cramp while fishing). I assert that the issue is not the bananas themselves, rather the color: Yellow. Yellow is bad. And yellow is the color of The Hornet.

The Hornet is Marck’s yellow and black Clackacraft 16LP. I’ve known Marck for years, but when he acquired The Hornet a couple years ago, he was immediately promoted to the position of “best friend”. The Hornet quickly attained an exhalted status as well, as Mrs. Marck was forced to park her expensive German SUV in the driveway to make room in the garage for the boat. This makes perfect sense to me, and I’d do the same thing if I had a drift boat and Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler had an expensive German SUV. p9250745

I’m trying to remember the first time I fished out of The Hornet. It was on the Yakima River, I know that for certain. I’m pretty sure I got skunked. But there’s more to fishing than catching, and I do recall feeling fortunate to have the opportunity to be a passenger in Marck’s new boat. Since then, I’ve fished out of The Hornet countless times. I’d be exaggerating for the sake of literary grandeur if I said I got skunked every time I set foot in The Hornet, but I’d be lying if I said I caught fish every time. What I can say with all honesty is that the last several trips on the Yakima have all been aboard Marck’s boat, and the last several trips have been frustrating, humbling excursions with skunkings and more small fish than before I was stung by The Hornet. I’m beginning to think I’m allergic.

p8230204 Oddly, Marck seems to be less ill-affected by the color of his boat than I am. I’ve never fished with him when he’s been skunked, and I’m reasonably certain that he’s never actually been skunked. Now, one might point to the seemingly obvious explanation: Marck is a fishy dude (whereas I am not) . Okay, I’ll buy that. But I think there’s more to it. When I’m on the oars, Marck is catching fish. When he’s on the oars, I’m not catching fish. See where I’m going with this? Perhaps the Unaccomplished Angler is simply a superior oarsman. Yeah, riiight. At least I’ve never suffered a cramp when rowing.

Lest one should think that I resent The Hornet, let me go on record as saying that this is not the case. She’s actually quite a beauty to behold and a pleasure to row. Clackacraft boats “Fear No Rocks”, which is a good thing, because I do. Luckily The Hornet is responsive and easy to maneuver, and when I’m on the sticks, most rocks are avoided. With her bold combination of colors, we regularly get comments from other anglers–most of them questioning Marck’s NFL allegiance (we live in Seahawk country, and we’re still seething over the loss to the Steelers in Superbowl XL: Roethlisberger did not cross the goal line and the ruling on the field should have been upheld). So rest assured, the color of the boat is merely an unfortunate coincidence in that regard. Pittsburgh fan or not, she’s a stunning vessel, and I’ve yet to see another one like it. Maybe there’s a good reason for that.

I’m submitting a request to change the name of the boat to The Banana. Fear No Cramps.

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Some folks are fishy. I however, am not: Part II

September 27, 2009 / Kirk Werner / 6 Comments

Last year after fishing the Firehole for two days, Marck and I decided to hit the Madison below Quake Lake. Having never before fished this locale, I was excited about the prospects of seeing someplace new. Also, being weary from not catching many of the relatively small fish in the Firehole, I was eager swap the 4 weight for the 6. We knew what we were getting into: High water, little-to-no visibility; streamers fished under indicators, tight to the bank. While I’ve never really enjoyed fishing under a bobber, I was giddy with anticipation to see the heralded waters of Montana’s great Madison River. We arrived at Three Dollar Bridge around 9 AM under mostly clear skies and a steady, but tolerable, breeze. rockies It was beautiful, I’ll grant you that. The mountains rose immediately to the east and the broad valley spread to the west: The kind of scenery you’d expect to see in a Western, as opposed to The Bridges of Madison County (sorry, I’m sure that’s an overused reference). There were only a couple of other rigs in the parking lot, which, given the fact that it was Memorial Day Monday, both surprised and pleased us. As we geared up, we engaged in pleasant conversation with four folks from Bozeman who were planning to fish the opposite bank. The other group was already fishing a short distance upriver of the bridge on the near bank, so we set off upstream in search of some unoccupied water. We didn’t have to go far, and were quickly dangling strange, rubber-legged variations of the woolly bugger into water that resembled glacial runoff.

As one would come to expect when fishing with Marck, he quickly got into fish. Luckily for him, I was always within earshot when he hooked a fish, and dutifully joined him for a quick photo of his catch before returning to my own stretch of dirty water where I proceeded to enjoy the scenery while not catching fish. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did manage to land a fairly large rainbow that had obviously been turning away after balking at my offering. Yes, I’d foul hooked it— which made for a much less satisfying fight. When I reached for the fish, I realized that the foul hooking was only part of the explanation for the lackluster struggle: The bow had p5250360 large wounds on either side of it’s dorsal fin, likely from the talons of the Osprey that called these waters home. The wounds had allowed for the onset of a fungal infection of some sort, and the fish was faded and lethargic. I felt bad for the old trout, aware that he wasn’t going to make it to see the clear waters of summer. I pondered the idea of putting him out of his misery, and while perhaps the moral thing to do, it would have been technically illegal so I returned him to the water to let nature run its course. Too bad, too, because he was a solid 18 inch fish and given perfect health would have provided future anglers a run for their money…like the fish Marck was catching. Back to that. It p5250331 seemed that every 12 minutes the wind would carry the familiar sound of pure, unadulterated laughter toward me, and I would again set my rod down, grab my camera and dash to the altogether too familiar scene. It became apparent that the Madison held scores of beautiful, strong, healthy fish, and they were all eager to grab whatever Marck drifted in front of their noses. I felt privileged to be witness to such angling mastery, and happily snapped photo after photo, my memory card filling with images of Marck holding a plethora of dandy trout: Browns and rainbows varying in size from 12- 20 inches. This continued until it was unanimously decided that we’d return to the rig and grab some lunch. Also, the day was heating up and we both wanted to shed some layers. Afterall, we’d been working hard all morning: Marck fighting fish; me running wind sprints. After some beef jerky, power bars and Bud Lite we opted to fish downstream of the bridge. By now the parking lot was empty. Obviously the other anglers had grown weary of not catching fish, and cutting their losses, left the river to me and Marck. Properly nourished and rehydrated, we set off into the warmth of the afternoon, leaving fleece behind. I also left behind my lucky fishing hat, opting instead for a baseball cap. Why I did this I do not know, but it would reveal itself to have been a bad idea. Not that the hat had brought me any great amount of luck earlier in the day, but I had caught a fish (albeit a foul-hooked, fungus-riddled one). It was better than a skunking, and afterall–fishing is about more than just catching.

I’ll spare the details of the afternoon, but suffice it to say I could cut and paste what I’ve already written (without the part about me catching a fish), and that’s how the afternoon p5250327 played out. I didn’t land a fish for the next 2 hours. Didn’t lose a fish, either. I simply didn’t have as much as a bump. As the afternoon wore on we decided to fish above the bridge on the opposite bank. I stopped briefly to exchange the baseball cap for my lucky fishing hat–it couldn’t hurt. It couldn’t get any worse, and besides–my lucky fishing hat makes me look taller. Immediately above the bridge, Marck pointed to a well worn spot where the earth had been trampled free of vegetation by the millions of anglers who’d been here before. As he prepared to make a short cast, I advised him against it. “Don’t waste your tim—” but my advice was cut short by the bending of his rod. On the other end was a 12 inch brown, picked from behind a rock not 8 feet off the bank. I tried to make myself feel better by commenting on the very modest size of the fish, but it was pointless. I’d have been thrilled to have caught that fish. A short while later I did manage to catch my second fish of the day–this time a 7 inch brown trophy. YES! I had my mojo back! That would be the end of the catching for me on this day, though I seem to recall Marck being fairly preoccupied with a tight line until we called it a day and headed down the road to eat dinner in Ennis. Along the drive I marveled at the beauty of the area and all the photos on my camera’s memory card: Marck with a brown, Marck with a rainbow, yadda yadda yadda.

One might ask, “Hey, Unaccomplished Angler–if it’s so demoralizing to fish with this Marck character, why do you continually subject yourself to such punishment?” Easy: He owns a drift boat.

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