Tag: Sage Z- Axis

Sage ONE: a review

I’d been wanting to test cast the new Sage ONE ever since hearing about it a few months ago, but due to high demand in the world of rod reviewers I had to wait my turn. Recently on a particular Wednesday I learned that it was my time. Two days later it showed up via my favorite brown parcel delivery van. That’s the kind of power and influence the Unaccomplished Angler has. Or it could just be that Bainbridge Island-based Sage manufacturing is only a short ferry ride from Seattle, and Seattle is only 25 miles from the testing facilities of the Unaccomplished Angler. Whatever the case may be, I wasn’t expecting the rod to arrive so quickly. After opening the box I took a few moments to stare at the pieces that I held in my hands. To clarify, the rod was not broken into pieces during shipping; all was as it should be. I just wanted to take it all in for a bit before piecing the rod together. The ONE is aesthetically easy on the eyes; understated, but with a certain cool factor. The blank is “black ice”with bronze-toned wraps. A walnut and bronze-colored, aluminum anodized up-locking reel seat. Chrome plated guides.

What? Another Review?

There are many reviews out there for this rod, with more likely being added daily. So how is another review beneficial to you, the reader? Many reviews will regurgitate the same information, and regardless of what the reviews say, all are subjective and may mean nothing to you. Casting any rod is the only way for the individual to know if it’s the right one for you.  In this review I will draw comparisons between the ONE and my Z-Axis that I’ve had since the Z was first introduced. Since the ONE is replacing the Z-Axis the comparison makes sense in that regard. For me personally, it makes even more sense because I absolutely love my Z-Axis. It’s my go-to trout rod that I begrudgingly set aside only when conditions call for a 6 weight. For a 4 wt rod, the Z has a lot of backbone so I use it most of the time. If I were going to be replacing it, the ONE would be a natural rod to consider.

Kicking Tires

Anyone who has ever grabbed a rod knows that the old “wiggle test” really tells you nothing meaningful about the rod’s casting characteristics. It’s akin to kicking tires when you go to look at a new car. But it’s something most of us do, so once I assembled the ONE of course I gave it the old wiggle test. The rod I wiggled was a 486-4, meaning it’s a 4wt, 8’6″ 4 section rod. At 2-7/16 ounces it felt not-surprisingly light in the hand. My Z Axis 490-4 (9 foot, 4 piece), at 3-1/6 ounces, is a little heavier than the ONE but the difference could not be noticed from my perspective. The Z-Axis  has a reversed half wells grip that I am very accustomed to, so obviously the ONE, with its full wells grip, felt different (not a bad thing). The full wells grip will make the rod more comfortable in large hands (not a problem for me). The side-by-side wiggle test did reveal that the ONE is stiffer than the Z-Axis–there is noticeably more flex down the shaft of the rod with the Z. But both are considered fast action rods.

Out on the Lawn

I’d read about the incredible tracking and accuracy of the ONE and was eager to get it out on the lawn. There’s been a lot of talk about Konnetic™ technology, whatever that is. And Sage uses the tagline, “Accuracy Redefined” to describe the ONE, which is said to have virtually no lateral or torsional movement. I was curious to see if I would notice, or better yet–if I could defy those claims. I decided I would grip the rod incorrectly with my thumb to the inside, and break my wrist (not literally, mind you) to see if I could thrown some line off course. Then I gripped the rod properly, with my thumb aligned down the spine of the rod, locked my wrist and employed proper technique. I noticed two things: First, casting poorly comes easily to me; secondly, the ONE does a very good job of maintaining a true course. In other words, I noticed that it does have very little lateral movement and the energy seems to flow in a straight line, as is intended. But if you use improper technique you will not get the casting results you want, even with the ONE.

While not an apples comparison due to the additional 6 inches of length with the Z-Axis, I was able to cast equal amounts of line with the ONE. The lawn casting session revealed that in my unaccomplished hands, the ONE felt very similar and yet different than the old Z-Axis. I definitely felt more flex down the blank with the Z, but that’s not to suggest that the ONE is anything resembling a broomstick. On the contrary, due to it’s slim profile you can definitely feel it load, and it does so quickly. But lawn casting isn’t the ultimate test for a fly rod–getting it out on the water, actually fishing it was what needed to happen next. For the record and much to my dismay, while lawn casting I did not hook up with a single Lawn Trout.

One fishy rod

Fortunately within a week I had an opportunity to test the rod on the water and off to the Yakima River I went, with the ONE cradled safely within the rod tube for my Z-Axis (the demo rod didn’t come with a tube). I will say that while no rod will make you a better caster, the ONE may make you a better angler. At least this ONE might because I caught a nice rainbow within 5 minutes of the put-in. Believe me, that doesn’t happen very often (if ever) on the Yakima. I landed half a dozen fish on this day: enough to discover that quick hook sets are a snap due to the tip flex of the ONE. And when the fish put their noses down in some heavy current, the rod flexed enough that I enjoyed playing the fish. The tip is quite sensitive such that the 5X tippet was well protected. Casting my weight forward line with a large single dry fly or a large single dry fly with a dropper was a easy. One thing I’ve always really liked about my Z-Axis is the rod’s ability to pick up a lot of line off the water and get it moving in the air quickly.  The ONE did not disappoint in this regard. The wind blows often on the Yakima and thankfully it wasn’t much of an issue on this particular day. Still, it blew for a while and the ONE punched through the gusts in fine form. The rod put my fly where I wanted it to go and did so very efficiently. By the end of the day I felt that while perhaps not quite an extension of my arm (as Sage says), the ONE felt like an old friend: very similar to my Z-Axis, but different. A bit more nimble perhaps? Casts that really were right on track? I don’t want to say too much for fear of pissing off my Z-Axis, which has been very good to me and I need to continue being good to me for years to come. It was bad enough that I left the Z at home and borrowed it’s rod tube for this day on the water with the ONE. If I say anything else flattering about the ONE, I’m likely to regret it.

Premium rod

With a retail price of $715, the rod as tested is going to cause many to roll their eyes and make snide remarks. Others will openly admit they wish they could afford it and will hold out for the time when they either win the lottery or the ONE can be found on the used market. And then there will be those who will buy the rod without blinking an eye. Me? I’m not parting with my Z-Axis any time soon, but after my kids are both done with college in a few years I may have some disposable income once again. Then I’ll go shopping for a ONE.

If you’d like one of two free Sage ONE hats, quickly head over to my Unaccomplished Angler Facebook page and leave a comment where indicated.

 

The ONE

Neo? Is that you?

The internet has been all abuzz with the announcement of Sage’s new stick, “The ONE”.

I first heard about it on Midcurrent and Angling Trade, which is not surprising because I often find out breaking news at these two sites. Then I saw a lengthy discussion about it on Washington Fly Fishing. It was also discussed in a LinkedIn group, and elsewhere. Surprisingly it even popped up in the webstats for this blog: to date, 30 people used the search phrase, “Sage One Rod” and ended up landing at The Unaccomplished Angler. I found that to be rather interesting since I hadn’t posted any mention of it here. I’m sure that whomever landed on the UA, expecting to find some inside scoop on The ONE, was disappointed. And so the reason for this post is simply to address that matter: if anyone else lands here after searching for “Sage One Rod”, I’d like to be able to provide them with something of value. Of course, I can’t do that because I know nothing about The ONE other than what I’ve read elsewhere, so consider this a redirect. Here is the Press Release.

God speed, dear adorable friend

I will say that since The ONE will replace the love of my life, the Z-Axis, it must be a REALLY great rod. I absolutely adore my Z-Axis rods, and that’s a pretty bold statement since I never use the term “adore” (because it’s not very manly). I have a Z-Axis 4 weight which is my go-to rod in every possible situation. I love casting that thing. When the wind is howling and I’m chucking big junk to big fish, then I employ my 6 weight Z-Axis. I also have a 7136 Spey rod which needs no introduction as it is a ridiculously popular two-hander. I’m a terrible hack when it comes to Spey casting, but the Z-Axis 7136 makes me be all that I can possibly be, barring any talent and ability. According to the press release from Sage, The ONE will only be available in single-handed models: “The ONE rod will be available at Sage authorized retail locations in August / September 2011 with a selection of 22 single hand models. ONE rods range from 3-10-weights and will be priced from $715 to $740.” Makes one wonder what will become of the Z-Axis Spey rod models- will they remain as such?  Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps we should ask the Oracle, for she is a wise old sage. *NOTE: within minutes of this entry hitting the feeds, The Oracle chimed in with insight: The Z-Axis line of two-handed rods will indeed remain for the time being.

So, what of The ONE?  Well, it’s built using modern Konnetic technology: it’s light and strong. It’s said to be an extension of your casting arm, and deadly accurate. It’s ominously cool with it’s black blank. It has a name that is a bold declaration of it’s impending status. If you believe what Sage tells you, it will be the real deal. When first hearing of the name of this new rod, one cannot help but reflect upon the Matrix movies, in which the main character, Neo, was also known as The One. He was a pretty incredible dude with amazing abilities that made him the last hope for saving reality from virtual domination. If The ONE can give me even close to the powers of The One, then I’m definitely going to want to test this rod out some day.


Morpheus: I’m trying to free your mind, Neo. But I can only show you the door. You’re the one that has to walk through it.

 

It could have been worse.

Last year I participated in a multi-boat flotilla as part of a Children’s Hospital benefit auction orchestrated by my friend Sir Lancelot (yes, the Sir Lancelot who provided a guest post not too long ago). Last year I was just along for the ride, and to clean the grill after lunch. This year I was along to provide all-day labor by rowing one of the boats. Last year the Yakima River was running unseasonably low and water conditions were excellent. This year that was not the case. The plan had originally been to float the river down around Ellensburg. Marck was unable to participate this year and while it would have been nice to have him along for his good-natured companionship, what we we really needed was his boat. However, as the date approached and the Yakima River became swollen with runoff, there was a change of plans: we’d be floating an upper section of the river where hard boats are not recommended. Rafts were the order of the day so the Hornet sat idle while 3 inflatable craft were launched for the trip.

The inflatable flotilla.

Bear in mind that names have been changed to protect the innocent avoid slander lawsuits. To run down the list of those in attendance, in one raft were Lancelot and two of his friends, FFred & NNick. The raft being rowed by yours truly provided downstream transportation for The Rev & The Father. The third boat was rowed by CJ Emerson (who guides for The Evening Hatch) and his two guests, Ben & Jerry. It was appropriate that Ben & Jerry be in CJ’s raft as Ben had purchased the trip at the auction and so thus deserved a real guide. Except for Lancelot’s boat, the experience level was mostly non-existent. Ben & Jerry’s fresh-out-of-the-box Cabela’s breathable waders may have still had the tags on them and the Z-Axis rod that Ben also received in the auction had not previously seen active duty. In my boat, The Rev & The Father were wearing neoprene waders they had just gotten, paired with over-sized, used tennis shoes they’d just purchased in lieu of wading boots. They were each employing a brand new Redington Crosswater rod and reel. Nobody teased The Rev for wearing pink shoes, except for Lancelot.

For first time fly anglers, it was an almost unthinkably cruel joke to tie on a Thingamabobber, a tandem nymph rig and a couple pieces of split shot and expect them to enjoy the casting experience, especially from a seated position (the rafts are not set up for fly fishing like, say, a StreamTech Boat).

StreamTech. I want one.

Chucking awkward hardware from a seated position was, however, the order of the day. In defense of my anglers, they managed to avoid too many bird’s nests and lost no more flies than I would have had I had a line in the water. My only complaint is that I had to sit on a cooler lid instead of a proper rowing seat (as offered in a StreamTech boat). I’d really appreciate it, Lancelot, if you would acquire a couple of these boats before next year’s trip.

Springtime and birds are building nests.

I’m not sure how beginner’s Ben & Jerry fared throughout the day, although occasionally I did hear the distance sound of CJ’s voice patiently yelling offering encouragement.

The day was very pleasant with mostly clear skies and warm temperatures. Certainly sunscreen and shirt sleeves weather (The Rev & The Father soon came to realize the error of their ways in selecting neoprene waders). The river was running high and deep green, but there was decent visibility. However, the fish were blind for the most part with the exception of one 8 inch rainbow that The Father hooked and played momentarily before executing a Long Distance Release. Even with the split shot, it was difficult to get the flies down to where there may have been fish holding in the heavy water. Granted, had the person rowing my raft been an actual guide, the anglers on board may have landed a whitefish and a slightly bigger rainbow, as had CJ’s boat. But you get what you pay for, and The Rev & The Father paid nothing for their trip.  Even with the most collective experience aboard, Lancelot’s boat finished that day with the unmistakable odor of skunk. That says a lot about the man on the oars.

Obstacle #1

As lousy of an oarsman and angler as Lancelot may be, he does know his way around food and grilled up a delicious meal of King salmon. Not much to complain about there. The monotony of the day was broken up by two river hazards that forced us to take evasive maneuvers. The first was a sweeper lying across the channel in a woody stretch of tricky water.  Not to worry, as roping the boats around the obstacle was no problem.

Obstacle #2

The second obstacle consisted of a very large cottonwood tree that had recently laid itself down across the entire river. Getting around this blockage required a 40 yard portage, made easy by the simple fact that we had plenty of manpower to carry each boat. A single boat with 3 people would have had their work cut out for them.

Portage made easy.

The real excitement of the day came within the last couple of hours of the trip. My boat was first through a particular stretch of water that had a brushy bank and ample structure for any fish that might have chosen to lie there (none did, by the way). From his perch in the front of the boat, The Rev sent out a respectable 20 yard cast into the waiting branches of a tree 10 yards away.  The hook on the size 8 Pat’s Stone grabbed hold firmly as the boat continued downstream. I would have attempted to row against the current to retrieve the fly, but I wasn’t man enough the high flows would have nothing to do with it. As the distance between ourselves and the snagged fly increased, so did the uneasiness on the part of The Rev.  I calmly counseled him to point the rod directly at the fly, pinch down on the fly line with his finger, and hold on. “The leader is going to snap,” I said. “It may ricochet back so turn your face away from it,” I added (as I ducked).  As the tension in the line increased and the 2X tippet strained under the load, The Rev allowed the fly line to slide between the cork and his forefinger. I detected the smell of burning flesh, and the resulting sensation was more than The Rev could tolerate.  At the exact same time he yelled, “Owch!!!” he let go of the rod. The tension of the stretched line served to slingshot the rod from his hand and Across the Water (the Crosswater aptly named by Redington) where it landed 10 feet upstream of the raft. There was no need for panic as the rod was still tethered to the tree and rescue was on the way—Lancelot’s raft was just approaching the tree and saw the line snagged. I waved to indicate we could use a little help, and pulled the boat over to a gravel bar a short ways downstream to wait. And watch. Because I was busy on the oars there were no photos to document the drama. However, I have provided this detailed illustration to illustrate the situation:

It appeared, from our distance of 80+ yards, that Lancelot’s boat was able to free the snagged fly from the branch. Then they tossed the fly into the water for us to reel in. At that point Lancelot acknowledged the great distance between us and them, and realized we were not holding the other end of the line.  They scrambled to retrieve the fly again, which luckily became snagged a second time on a branch in the water.  They succeeded in retrieving the fly a second time and pulled in several yards of fly line and eventually the rod and reel. I’m not sure if they were into the backing by the time they had the entire setup in hand, but The Rev was lucky to get the rod back.

The Rev with his rescued Redington Crosswater rod and reel.

Even though the catching was slow to non-existent, it could have been a lot worse. It could have been raining. The food could have been bad. The guests could have had a horrible time. And had there not been another boat behind us, the river would have claimed a brand new rod, reel and line. That wouldn’t have been a good way for The Rev to begin his fly fishing career.

Swingin’ the Chubby Cousin.

The text message from Derek Young indicated that the upper Yakima was fishing well, and suggested that perhaps we should pay a visit.  “Fishing well.”  I’ve heard that before. Derek guides for a living so he’s on the river a lot. He fishes it with great frequency so the recollection of a slow day can easily be lost amidst the hustle and bustle of productive fishing days. I fish it much less often – certainly not often enough for the rare, exceptional days to shroud out the other kinds of days. In other words, I get my arse handed to me by the Yakima more often than not. And so I hesitated to commit to Derek’s invitation. As much as I enjoy fishing with him, to be honest I was starting to have steelhead on the brain this time of year. When I reminded myself that a day of steelheading would be a guaranteed skunking, I opted to float the Yakima instead.

Yet another weather system was parked over Western Washington, causing moderate to heavy precipitation to fall from the skies all the way over Snoqualmie pass and even a few miles to the East of the summit.  I hoped that the gloomy weather wouldn’t translate into a dark cloud of despair. As I crested the summit I passed a semi bearing the name WERNER, and thought to myself, “Could this be a good omen? Could this be MY day?” I put the silly notion out of my head and proceeded East.

The sky lightened and the rain tapered off just before I pulled into the town of Cle Elum where I met Derek at 11:00 AM. We dropped the Green Drake into the low, clear waters and floated perhaps 5 minutes before pulling over to work both sides of an island.  Rocks were teeming with small green caddis larvae, so a size 16 olive Caddis (standard Elk Hair variety) was selected for initial duty.  Good choice. Armed with my 4 wt. Sage Z-Axis (yes, I will shamelessly throw the brand out there in hopes that Sage will see it and choose to sponsor my blog), the fish played nicely from the get-go. I landed a small handful of 10 inch rainbows in the first half hour before pinching myself to see if I was dreaming.  Except for when I visit the Firehole River in Yellowstone each year, it’s never this easy for me. I didn’t question my good fortune, however, and continued drifting the olive-colored magic through trouty looking water. At one point I was hooked up and playing a fish as another jumped within 6 feet of the action.  I’ll admit that as the frenzy continued I could be heard carrying on a conversation with myself that went something like this: “With angling skills to make all others envious, you sir, are a fish-catching machine!”  It doesn’t take much for me to become dilusional. For those of you who regularly catch many and impressive fish, this may not sound like anything extraordinary.  Fish a mile in my wading boots and you’ll come to appreciate my glee in the moment.

We continued downstream under partly cloudy skies and mild temperatures.  Clouds threatened rain, but none fell and for a short time I felt overdressed in my waders and long-sleeved shirt.  When a hatch of Blue Winged Olives came off for a bit, there was no point in switching patterns because the olive caddis was still drawing numerous strikes. The action did taper off after a while though, proving that nothing good lasts forever. When the fish seemed less willing (though not entirely unwilling, mind you) to take surface offerings, we fished below.  Derek grabbed his nymph rod and ran his bobber through fishy slots.  I wanted to avoid nymphing, per se, so I decided to try something a little different.  Reaching into my fly box, I grabbed a pattern that I usually only fish when in Yellowstone each Spring: a small soft hackle bead head nymph by the name of the Chubby Cousin.

When we fish the Firehole, we forego dead drifting double nymph rigs and bobbers, and instead cast downstream at a quarter angle and swing the small bugs through the current. Strikes usually come when the fly begins to settle into the seam where the faster water meets the slower holding water. It’s like swinging streamers for steelhead only on a miniature scale. I enjoy this type of nymph fishing but had never employed the tactics on the Yakima.  Why not?  Well, to be honest I just never seem to think of it at the time. This time I thought of it and I’m glad I did.  There was plenty of good swinging water and the fish took a liking to the Chubby Cousin. With it’s swept-back hackles and rubber legs, there’s plenty of movement in the water.  A few 10 inch rainbows were fond enough of the soft hackle to commit with solid takes at mid swing. Many more came unbuttoned during the course of regretting that they’d fallen for the Chubby. It was rare to not get at least a bump for every couple swings of the fly.

Rain began to fall intermittently in the late afternoon, but it dampened neither our spirits nor the enthusiastic appetite of the fish.  Switching to an October Caddis proved to be a reasonably wise decision, but it wasn’t as effective as had been the olive Caddis, so I tied on another of those. The only downside to fishing the small dry was that it invoked many a strike from tiny troutlets. For a while the number of greedy little gamers grew aggravating but eventually the fry left me alone and I was able to hook and land a beautifully colored 12 inch rainbow. At that point I offered to row so Derek could fish as we drifted.  I enjoy time on the oars, and to be honest I had wanted to try my hand at the helm of the Green Drake since fishing out of it earlier in the year.

The Green Drake is a 13 foot Maravia raft custom outfitted for fly fishing by Stream Tech Boats out of Boise.  It’s nice to fish out of and as I found, a pleasure to row.  I’ve rowed a drift boat many times but I’d never been on the oars of a raft before. I instantly liked the high perch of the rower’s seat which offers even a wee feller such as myself a commanding view of the river ahead. I was easily able to see approaching rocks before bouncing off of them, as opposed to banging and scraping as I’ve done in The Hornet a hard boat is prone to do. The hard inflatable floor is nice for standing on as one leans into the casting brace, and that same floor creates very little drag, making the boat very responsive and easy to hold against the current. For the first time I started to think that if I were to one day acquire a boat of my own I would have to give such a raft some serious consideration. I could see one of these boats providing a great deal of enjoyment and opportunity to spend quality time together on the water for Mrs. UA and myself.  If it weren’t for those damn college tuition payments that we’ve only just begun to make…

While I rowed and Derek fished we marveled at what a tremendous day it had been in all regards. As the sun grew low in the sky it provided for some dramatic scenery, casting a glow upon the trees and causing them to stand out vibrantly against an ominous looking sky. Fall was definitely here: salmon were spawning in their redds and the trout were eating like there was no tomorrow. It was one of those days where if the water looked like it should hold a fish, it nearly always held a fish. It’s so rare that I have a day like this that for a fleeting moment I almost forgot the multiple sub-par days I’d had on the Yakima during the preceding months. I’m not one to openly declare that the Fish Gods owe me anything, but every itchy dog has his day and I was long overdue to be scratched.  It’s not just the scratching catching that made the day great, but the opportunities that presented themselves: There were several fish landed, many more hooked and released prematurely, and countless strikes.  It was those strikes that made the day particularly rewarding because it showed just how many fish were in the system and eager to take a swipe at the fly. The largest fish caught were no more than 12 inchers, but I was a happy angler. In fact, so good was my mood that I even let Derek pose for a photo with my nicest fish of the day.

We were just minutes from the termination point of our float and about to pack it in save for a particularly fishy piece of water that begged for one more cast.  “I’m gonna run my little Chubby through that sweet spot one last time,” I announced.  Derek looked at me and very matter-of-factly said, “Fly fishing is the one activity where you can say that and not get in trouble.”  I had a couple tugs but didn’t set the hook fast enough.  It didn’t matter – my day was compleat.

As we neared our take-out, the unmistakable odor of skunk filled the air.  We laughed at the irony of that. It was too late for a skunking. Way too late. But it did remind me that had I not gone fishing with Derek I would have probably gone steelheading.

Yellowstone Trout Trippin’ Part I.

With bellies swollen from our recent burger encounter in Ennis, we rolled into West Yellowstone under the cloak of darkness for a reunion with an old familiar friend, the Ho Hum Motel. Oh, and Erique too.  He had flown to Bozeman to conduct a bit of business earlier in the week, and his rental car was parked out front – he had arrived 6 hours earlier and was eagerly awaiting our arrival.  I’ve known Erique for years, and exactly what he does for a job is still shrouded in mystery. It involves prosthetic devices and he has at least one client who makes, among other things, clown shoes (I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that). Jimmy and I moved our gear into room #8 while Marck and Stan settled into the Big Room (#7) with Erique. Turns out the arrangement worked nicely because Erique can saw logs with the best of them (although I’m sure Stan’s reign as “Goosemaster” is in no danger of ending anytime soon). The Ho Hum had undergone some upgrades since the previous year, and the new bathroom tile in both rooms was a welcome upgrade. With the addition of new carpet in The Big Room, the accommodations bordered on lavish (our room still had the same red carpet and slightly-curious-though-not-necessarily-unpleasant smell leftover from 1958). But this isn’t a motel review, and the Ho Hum is always perfectly suited to our needs. We spend just enough time in our rooms to get a little shut-eye each night, nothing more. The day the Ho Hum gets all fancy on us is the day we search for a new dive, and I don’t think we’ll have to ever worry about that.

Normally we’re up at the crack of dawn and enter the park by 6:30 AM. However, we’d arrived too late the night before to purchase our National Park fishing permits so we slept in the next morning. We ate breakfast out of habit more than hunger (again, reference the burgers consumed for dinner the previous evening), and when the doors at Aarick’s Fly Shop opened at 7 AM we were first in line to purchase our permits and a handful of Secret Weapon flies. Erique fancied himself a sweet Dora The Explorer rod, but showed impressive restraint by leaving the shop with only a handful of flies (this was the second time in 6 months that I’ve had to convince a fishing buddy to not give in to impulse buying). We were layered up for the worst weather possible, which is always a likely scenario as West Yellowstone sits at an elevation of 6667 feet. The skies threatened rain/snow as we drove through the gates to the Park, received our information packet and proceeded quickly into Wyoming.  The information packet is essentially the same every year, but that doesn’t keep me from reading it front to back. I always heed the warnings about bison and make a mental note not to become a statistic. I figure as long as I’m quicker than at least one of my fishing buddies, I’ll be OK. I was shocked to learn this year that the Park was founded not in 1872 as I had always thought, but rather much more recently in 1972. Always the voice of reason, Marck quickly pointed out that it was simply a typographical error.  He should know, afterall–he’s been fishing the Firehole since the Park first opened.

Because of our later-than-normal start we were fortunate not to get stuck in rush hour traffic as we drove the 20 or so miles to our favorite spot on the Firehole River.  Apparently the herd of bison that usually take their sweet time sauntering down the middle of the road had already completed their morning commute, so we made excellent time. We dropped Erique’s car off at Fountain Flats, where we would finish out the day, and everyone piled into Mrs. Jimmy’s Suburban for the last leg of our drive.  As we arrived at Midway Geyser Basin (elevation 7251 feet) we noted that the parking lot was nearly empty. Usually the place is filled with tourists and other fishermen, and it’s not unusual for there to be a waiting line at the restroom. Save for 4 or 5 other vehicles, we were the only ones there. Perhaps the colder/wetter than normal spring weather had discouraged all but the most desperate hardiest of folks. The rain increased in volume and the outdoor temperature was a balmy 35 degrees as we strung up our rods, posed for a quick team photo, and mounted our assault on the ignorant trout of the Firehole. The river was running at ideal flows – almost 200 CFS lower than the previous year, and even then it fished pretty well. Anyone who knows the Firehole knows that it gives up trout willingly, and that’s exactly what draws us there each year. Sometimes an angler just wants some easy catching- good for the self esteem. Opening day of fishing in the Park was underway.

Another result of our later-than-normal start to the day was that more anglers were already stretched out along the water where we usually start fishing.  While there weren’t many cars in the parking lot, apparently every one of them belonged to fishermen and there must have been 6 or 7 other fishing folks plying the waters of the Firehole. Our posse of 5 pressed onward a bit farther.  The good thing about the brisk walk is that it warms the body. The bad thing about the brisk walk is that it gets the previous night’s supper moving. The dampness ensured that it felt much colder than it actually was and any bare skin not protected by a layer of fleece and Gore-tex felt the chill.  I hate fishing with gloves, but I hate fishing with cold hands even more so out came the Pro Angler Glacier Gloves.

In typical Firehole fashion, the first cast yielded a first fish, followed by several more casts and several more fish.  These fish hadn’t been harassed in probably 9-10 months, and they were as gullible as they come (though they do wise up quickly). In the first 20 minutes I managed to hook up with 10 or so fish (but who’s counting, right?).  All were rainbows save for one brown, and most were in the 8-11 inch range. Scrappy fighters, too – thrashing, jumping and head-shaking right up to the point of release and sometimes before then. Because of the geyser activity along many stretches of the river, the water temperature was almost 60 degrees. This speeds up the metabolism of the fish and gets them feeding actively and fighting like champs.

A cookie-cutter Firehole fish on a 4 wt can be a lot of fun, and if you’re fishing a 3 wt trout stick like Marck’s brand new Sage ZXL 376-4, every fish is a dandy.  I made the mistake of trying out the ZXL and instantly fell in love with it. It was smooth and soft casting without being a noodle, and paired with a Sage Click III reel the outfit weighed exactly nothing. By comparison my Sage Z-Axis 490-4 felt like a club, and I never thought I’d say that. To be very clear, my Z-Axis is anything but a club and it’s my favorite rod to fish with.  Still, just sayin’ – the ZXL was like holding a feather. Damn you, Marck.  The next time I ask to try out your new rod, deny me the privilege. You’ll be doing me a favor. (Note to Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler: I have not ordered another new rod. Yet)

While we’re on the subject of gear, I am inclined to mention my Sage Typhoon Waist Pack again.  Prior to this day I’d only used it once, and then it only sat in the bottom of Joe Willauer’s boat, getting rained on and fending off standing water.  Well, on this day I finally got to strap it on for 8 hours.  It was comfortable to the point where I forgot it was even there, except obviously for when I needed something from inside one of its many compartments and pockets.  The bag is a great design and very comfortable. Cinching it tight around my waist also provided the lower back support that a middle aged guy like me appreciates during a long day of wading. The cargo straps on the bottom of the bag are nice for when you want to roll up and stow a wading jacket or another bulky article of clothing. I didn’t do that on this day, as the weather dictated that every article of clothing was readily employed- it got neither warm nor dry enough to remove any layers. Two cold thumbs up for the Typhoon pack.

Back to the fishing. The five of us were spread out along the river as another group of 4 anglers passed behind us, hiking in search of some unoccupied water. I overheard one of them mutter something along the lines of, “I’ve never seen it this crowded on opening day before.”  I was thinking the same thing myself. Just then another trout tightened my line.

Lest one should think that catching a Firehole fish on every cast is the rule rather than the exception, it doesn’t happen quite so easily all the time. Yes, catching can be almost silly, particularly on the first day, but even then the angler is not immune to the occasional lull in the action. At around 1pm, just when the guys at Blue Ribbon Flies said it would happen, a small hatch of PMDs started popping.  However, the fish didn’t really turn on, and in a half hour I only managed one fish on an emerger pattern before switching back to a subsurface game. Same for Jimmy. The others had moved on and decided not to waste their time with this sorry excuse for a hatch. As we worked our way downstream I hit a big void in the catching game. To make matters worse, Jimmy kept himself rather busy with hookups.  I grew weary of witnessing his good fortune so I decided to pout retrace my steps and work the last stretch of water a second time. I was sure I’d missed a few fish on the last run, and my tattered fly was replaced with a brand new one in hopes of enticing a few holdouts.

As I walked upstream I noticed a lone bison walking slowly toward me about 50 yards away. I didn’t want to force the huge bull to back down out of intimidation so I decided this would be a good place to jump back in the river, wade to mid-channel, and give him a wide berth (for his own peace of mind). Then the wind kicked up suddenly, which is always a sign of another high country squall moving in.  The temperature dropped noticeably and the rain turned to snow.  Where I was fishing the river is flanked by stands of timber on both sides, which kept me mostly protected from the gale force winds that I would later learn were blowing my compadres off the river just a ½ mile downstream. In my state of heightened focus and determination to dig myself out of the trout deficit into which I’d fallen, I’d completely lost sight of the others. I turned my back to the driving snow and dug in. The big bull decided to wait out the storm and had bedded down in the trees a ways upstream. Every few minutes I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was still afraid of me.

The storm lasted about a half hour before the wind suddenly – and almost strangely – just stopped.  It grew very quiet as remnants of the snowstorm drifted down softly at this point. It was then that I heard the unmistakable sound of rising fish. I saw nothing and figured they must be sipping emergers, again.  Then the snow stopped completely, the temperature warmed up, and I began to see adult baetis drifting like tiny sailboats in the current, drying their wings as they went. They didn’t stand a chance against the hungry trout. A glance at my watch indicated it was just past 3pm.  I was about to wage battle, so off came the gloves both literally and figuratively. For the next two and a half hours I forgot about the bison and feverishly tossed a #18 parachute PMD to rising trout.  While I wouldn’t call it an “epic” hatch, it was significant and the fish were eager to take my fly as long as the drift was drag free (which it was not always).  I was completely self-absorbed in the good times and lost all track of the time. Call it a serious case of P.M.D. A.D.D.  When my arm finally got tired I checked my watch again: 5:30pm – time flies when you’re having a freakin’ blast.  The others were probably worried sick about me ready to head to the car by now so I decided I’d better reel up and beat a fast track downstream.

As I rounded the downstream bend in the river I saw a couple of anglers, but no sign of those familiar to me. I was puzzled by their absence – surely they’d encountered at least a residual hint of the hatch I’d been selfishly wallowing in, and I figured I’d see them tossing dries in the riffles. When I finally caught up with them after another 1/4 mile I learned that the snow storm had been much more ferocious where they’d been fishing, and the hatch was something only I’d encountered.  I did my best not to gloat because truth be told, I still caught fewer fish overall than anyone else. I’ve determined that it’s my lot in life to bring up the rear when it comes to catch quotas. So be it – I proudly and ocurageously embrace my privileged role as the least accomplished of anglers.

By the time we got back to the car it was 6:30. Day One on the Firehole had drawn to a close, and it had been another good one.  We celebrated by enjoying West Yellowstone’s best pizza at Wild West Pizzeria. A few pitchers of beer went down easily as we listened to a great live band (Tessie Lou and The Shotgun Stars) while watching UFC 114 on Pay-Per-View (cage fighting and Bluegrass – a match made in Heaven West Yellowstone).  The food was delicious and there’s something about a young lady with a Copenhagen can in her back pocket that made the Bluegrass sound all the more authentic. All fights on the UFC card, including the title bout between Rashad Evans and Rampage Jackson, were rather lackluster, but nobody forced us to watch and it was free. So were a couple pitchers of beer (an oversight on the part of our waitress). We tipped well and headed back to The Ho Hum by 11 pm.  Call us old and boring, but we had another date with the Firehole River in the morning, so we opted not to paint the town, just as we opted not to paint the town two nights earlier in Twin Bridges. And like Twin Bridges, West Yellowstone also has a statue of a painted trout in the heart of town. At first I thought it must just be a random Montana thing, but I poked around on the internet and found out that these “Fish Out of Water” sculptures were done as part of a fund raising project. During the summer of 2009, 12 of these painted trouts were sold at a live auction and raised over $60,000 for area charities and the Madison County Economic Development Council.

I want one.

Sage advice: Get caught up in fishing, not traffic.

I’ve decided that my unofficial title should be that of Rear Admiral (stop before you even start with the sophomoric humor) as it attests to my usual seat in stern whenever I’m in a drift boat. There are many reasons for this, and it’s always a voluntary choice I make – a self imposed exile of sorts that keeps me out of sight and out of the way. In all honesty I’m comfortable back there, and it gives people who can actually catch fish a better position for doing so up front. So when Marck emailed me recently to ask if I wanted to occupy the rear seat of The Hornet for an upcoming trip down the Yakima I was curious as to why he very specifically stated that I would bringing up the rear. Apparently we would be part of a three boat flotilla that would include Sir Lancelot’s NRS raft (Lancelot is a friend with whom we occasionally angle) and a boat belonging to fishy dude CJ Emerson, who guides for The Evening Hatch in Ellensburg.

The reason 3 boats were needed was relatively simple:  there were a lot of bodies to haul. Beyond that it got a little more complex. Lancelot had orchestrated the donation of a fly fishing package for a fundraising auction hosted by the Seattle Children’s Hospital Guild Association. In addition to a guided trip on the Yakima River, the outfit included an overnight stay at a Rosehill Farm Bed & Breakfast in Thorp and a fly rod gnerously donated by Sage manufacturing. The lucky holder of the winning raffle ticket would be bringing along a couple of buddies and Sage would send a dignitary along to make sure the Z-Axis 5 weight was put to proper use. By my count that was four people. I did the math several times and concluded that only two boats were needed: (1) The guide boat and (2) Sir Lancelot’s raft, “The Chuck Wagon” (named for the fact that it would carry the grub). It should be noted that Lancelot worked for over 25 years in the food service industry and would be providing a gourmet stream side lunch and accoutrements. The need for the 3rd boat is that The Chuck Wagon isn’t set up specifically for fly fishing, so Marck and The Hornet were commandeered to provide a proper fishing perch for one of the angling guests. What I couldn’t understand, however, was why I was invited along for the trip…to fill an empty seat (ballast)? As a confidence booster for the other anglers? Or perhaps during story time I’d be reading aloud from Olive the Little Woolly Bugger? The real reason for my presence would reveal itself midway through the day.

Whatever the reason, I was honored to be invited and told Marck I would drive since I had a Sage sticker on the back of my truck and wanted to suck up show allegiance to the dignitary from Sage. Besides, it was my turn to burn some gas since he’d driven the past couple times. To my surprise he insisted on driving and announced that he’d just placed a Sage sticker on his rig. His exact words were, “And mine’s bigger.”

Marck’s blatant attempt to brown-nose a representative of the company that makes the fine rods (one of which he desperately wants) was, I thought, unthinkably shameful. I mean, really – did he actually think that the good folks at 8500 Northeast Day Road on Bainbridge Island would just give him a Z-Axis simply because he had a Sage sticker on the window of his car, or because it happened to be his birthday?  I was hoping for a ZXL 376-4 myself, but that clearly wouldn’t happen since my truck, with it’s tastefully-sized Sage sticker, got left behind. With my tail woefully tucked between my legs the next order of business was to stop by Lancelot’s home and load up his plentiful supply of culinary gear. Loaded to the gills, we strapped The Chuck Wagon to the top of The Hornet and were off to meet the Ambassador of Sage at the Burger King in North Bend.

Pulling in to the parking lot we no doubt looked a bit like a modern version of the Clampetts as they moved to Beverly; Hills, that is. I wouldn’t have blamed our Bainbridge Island guest if she’d have fled the scene, but our dignitary proved to be undaunted by what she saw. A native of Alaska, a tomboy at heart, and a former college athlete at the University of Montana, Karen Wilken confidently shook our hands before assuming the shotgun position in Marck’s sticker-laden 4-runner. That left Lancelot and I to verbally joust like 12 year-olds in the back seat as we drove the next leg of our journey to our scheduled 9:15 am rendezvous point at the Thorp Fruit Stand.

The Produce Posse

It seemed somehow fitting that we would meet at a fruit stand, as the raffle winner and his gang all worked in the produce supply industry. Naturally with his 25 years in the food service biz Lancelot was able to quickly establish a common bond. He’s usually shy and soft spoken, so it was a relief to see him come out of his shell and strike up a conversation with The Produce Posse. An accomplished angler (who shall remain anonymous out of respect for his unfortunate association with Lancelot) joined us as well. He was actually headed further east to fish the Clark Fork and had apparently been convinced that a little shadow casting on the Yak before fishing a real trout stream would be a good idea. I asked him if he fished the Yakima often and his reply denoted his status as a serious fisherman: “Not often,” said this King of anglers in a confident tone, “When I’m serious about trout fishing I go to Montana.” The experience level of our group ran the gamut from first-timers to old pros, but everyone seemed easy-going and everything appeared to be in good order for a fun day on the water.

The day held much promise and spirits were high as we moved onward to our launch point at the KOA in Ellensburg. Sun dominated the sky, and the few puffy clouds looked to be dissipating. It had been a beautiful morning on the West side of the mountains with a forecast calling for mid 60’s and clear blue skies.  A forecast like that nearly always means even better weather east of the mountains, which is exactly where we were. Sunscreen was appropriately slathered in anticipation.

Just as we were backing the boats down the launch I caught a brief glimpse of Johnny Boitano’s Hyde rounding a downstream bend with a couple of lucky clients on board. That could have been seen as a bad omen because as CJ pointed out, “Johnny is not a guy you want to fish behind.” While that’s certainly true, I’m not the superstitious type except when it comes to hats, and the Lucky Fishing Hat was securely perched atop my noggin.  I had debated wearing my Sage baseball cap as a show of my respect for our dignitary, but knew better than to let emotion interfere with sound judgment. Besides, nobody likes a suck-up, Marck.

Boat assignments were issued, and apparently The Sage Chick drew the short straw as she was directed to the bow of the Hornet. CJ had two members of the Produce Posse in his Clackacraft, and the 3rd Posse member and the King of anglers were stuck aboard the Chuck Wagon. The water temperature was an encouraging 46 degrees when we pushed off at 10:30 AM and began a long day’s float. The Ringer launch is approximately 8 miles downstream and would serve as our termination point, so we had some water to cover and fish to catch. With Mother’s Day less than 48 hours away, we were all hoping for the mythical caddis hatch that bears the name of the day on which we all honor our family matrons. I’ve tried hitting the Mother’s Day caddis hatch for years and have always missed it. Something felt right about this day.

It began in typical Yakima fashion, with tandem nymph rigs and slow fishing. Sage Chick actually had a couple strikes, but she was admittedly adjusting to the art of double nymph bobber fishing and missed a couple subtle bumps. After a while she developed the cat-like reflexes required for setting the hook whenever the indicator took a dive. On one occasion she did so with such authority that the hook was pulled out of the fish’s mouth and the fly smacked her square in the forehead. The ensuing welt was only moderately visible, and I assured her that it resembled nothing more than a small zit. The only thing that kept her from kicking my arse was the large fellow sitting between us: seated in the rower’s seat, Marck thankfully provided a safety barrier.  He also put us on every bit of fishy looking water available, but it was a couple hours into the float before Karen yarded in the first fish of the day: a nice 12 inch rainbow that cooperated nicely until it was time for a photo, at which point the fish decided to make a desperate leap back to the water.

With the skunk off the boat and the smell of fishy hands in the air, we could finally relax. There’s more to fishing than catching fish, but eliminating a skunk always makes for a better day. After this brief moment of victory we settled into a comfortable rhythm of not catching any fish for a while. Suddenly that peace and quiet was rudely interrupted by a sharp bend in the Sage Chick’s rod.  After a few minutes of her playing the fish, my keen net handling skills (reminiscent of a recent trip) ensured that Karen would get to pose for a photo with the Catch of the Day: a beautiful rainbow that, in all the excitement appeared to be a 16” dandy. A closer inspection of the photos would later reveal it to have been a more modest 15.5”, though it would still defend its title as the largest fish of the day. No day of nymphing is ever complete without a whitefish, and the honor of doing so was bestowed upon Karen as well. Sage Chick was on fire!

Catch of the Day

Ytfeesh!

If that wasn’t enough excitement for the day, shortly thereafter Karen’s rod bent nearly in half and quivered in a manner indicative of something big and alive (a fish as opposed to a log).  Then as quickly as it started it was over.  We chalked it up to a Yakima River steelhead, Chinook salmon or possibly a halibut. Whatever it was, it was big. And another fly was lost to the river.  Out of self respect I don’t keep track of such things, but at the end of the day the golf tally clicker that Marck kept hidden in his pocket indicated that 30+/- flies were offered up to the river gods on this day: at least 10 Pat’s Stones and twice again as many Lightning Bugs.

The other two boats were well ahead of us as we anchored up and worked the inside seam of a particularly nice looking slot that lived up to it’s outward appearance.  For a few fleeting moments even I felt like an accomplished angler as I managed to catch 3 fish in short order. We got so caught up in the frenzy that we forgot all about the time. Marck glanced at his watch and noted that we were late for our scheduled lunch rendezvous, so we pulled anchor and moved on. It was probably best because had we continued to catch more fish I wouldn’t have had anything to write about – that would’ve been too much of a good thing, or in Unaccomplished Algebraic terms: too many positives = a negative).

As we neared our lunch location the smell of fresh salmon grilling wafted our way. It was a pompous luxury to stride into “camp”, apologizing for our lateness because we were slaying fish, and be handed a plate of gourmet food. Lancelot knows how to serve up the grub thanks to two and a half decades of working in the food service industry, and the vittles were delicious. The wine and beer was plentiful and the mood festive as we shared stories from the first half of the day.  Catching had not been great, but the fishing had been excellent. CJ’s boat had landed a 20” whitefish, and no matter what your opinion of whitefish a 20 incher is nothing to feel ashamed about. Especially when it’s hooked in the mouth. Every boat had caught some fish and everyone seemed to be really enjoying the day. After the meal had been consumed, any doubt as to my role in the day’s events became crystal clear when Lancelot handed me the grill and utensils and pointed me to the river. No doubt he derived great pleasure in putting me on Kitchen Patrol, but I have to admit – it felt good to have a purpose.

Pushing on into the afternoon the weather we had enjoyed earlier in the day yielded to the winds of change. As it began to blow, chaos began to rear its ugly head with some degree of frequency. I experienced a couple tangles that made me scratch my head and ask, “How is that even possible?”

Karen fell victim to the wind as the back of her head put an abrupt stop to the forward progress of a bead head Lightning Bug. It did more than just leave a welt this time, but Marck showed great promise as a field surgeon by extracting the hook without much bloodshed. His bedside manner was to be commended, too:  “Do you want me to push or pull? Either way it’s going to hurt.”  His skills as a photographer lack by comparison, however, and the surgical procedure was not well-documented in pixels. During post op we discussed the need for Sage to produce a line of Lucky Fishing Helmets (we’ll see if they actually hit the market).

Late in the afternoon clouds thickened and the air temperature dropped significantly. The fish clearly felt the pressure change as well, and got all tight-lipped on us. But hope prevailed as we angled onward.  I’d been jonesin’ to get my hands on the Sage 99 4 weight that Karen had been using all day, and as the it grew colder and she lost feeling in her fingers I was able to finally pry her hands free of the cork and take the rod for a brief test drive. Lined with a Rio Indicator line, this stick was sweet casting. The 9’9” length came in handy for throwing mends and I liked it a great deal. Conversely I wish I had never fondled the evil temptress (the rod, to be very clear) because what I do NOT need is another fly rod. Well, maybe just one more. Rain began to fall first as large sporadic droplets and then it turned to a steady deluge reminiscent of the other side of the mountains (where ironically it had been a beautiful day).  I longed for my Simms G3 wading jacket that I knew darn good and well was in the backseat of my son’s car because he’d been wearing it to golf in the week before. This gave me cause to reflect on what I already knew:  even if you don’t think you’ll need it, always take your rain gear.

The rain may have permeated my outer layers, but it couldn’t dampen our spirits.  We even broke out the dry fly rods amidst the rainstorm, but no players could be enticed. Still, we had a great time not catching fish and we worked the water diligently until we pulled out at 7:45 pm.  As we stowed the gear and and offered farewell handshakes to everyone in our flotilla, the rain stopped.  I might’ve seen a fish rise at that moment as well, but like the sighting of  5 white pelicans earlier in the day nobody would have believed me.

The Sage Chick had a ferry to catch and a longer drive than the rest of us, so we opted to forgo a stop at The Tav for a Hungry Mother Burger in Ellensburg. We’d be back to North Bend in an hour anyway…except for the matter of lane closures on I-90 which brought traffic to a standstill.  As we dead-drifted westward at a snail’s pace, our collective blood sugar dropped and we began hallucinating.  Karen mistook the red and blue flashing lights on a state patrol car for cherries and blueberries, and tried to climb out of the sunroof in order to harvest the fruit. I began fantasizing that at any minute a golf cart selling hot dogs would pull up alongside of us. I mumbled incoherently about the revenue such a venture could generate on a night like this.  Lancelot suddenly became lucid and abruptly shot down my hypoglycemic dreams by stating, “With my 25 years of experience in the food service industry, let me just make it very clear that a roadside hot dog cart is a notoriously bad idea.”  Thankfully that same food service experience also produced 4 leftover cookies from lunch, which is the only thing that kept us from lapsing into comas. When we arrived back at the Burger King in North Bend 3 hours later, Karen grabbed her gear from the back of Marck’s rig, tossed a couple Sage t-shirts and hats our way and said “See ya, suckas!” As she sped off toward the ferry docks in Seattle, Marck stood there with a forlorn expression on his face and an armload of Sage swag. Behind him the over-sized Sage decal on the rear window of his car shone brightly under the lights of the parking lot as he mumbled softly, “But it’s my birthday, and I was hoping for a Z-Axis…”

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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