Tag: Yakima River fly fishing (Page 2 of 2)

Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler

August 13, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 15 Comments

Teaching one’s wife or significant other to cast a fly line is something no doubt many a husband angler has decided to do. After all, if we anglers love the game so much why not share our passion with those we love, right? I’m not sure what the statistics are, but I hope fly fishing together has forged the bond of matrimony rather than led its demise. Relationships are complex though, and while I’m certainly no expert on teaching anyone to cast a fly line, I am even less qualified to give martial advice. After nearly 21 years of marriage to the same person, I’m still learning that I know very little.

A good article to read before deciding to teach your spouse to can be found over at Midcurrent where “Dr. Phil” Monahan offers some sage advice for those wading into the potentially perilous waters. It’s worth the read, so click here for the article.

For years I’ve pondered what it might be like to go fishing with my wife but it never got beyond the pondering stage because she never expressed an interest in learning. And honestly I never made the effort to push the issue. If I can gently transform her into even just an occasional angler, it may save me the pain of having to go on cruise ship vacations or take up lawn bowling or shuffleboard as we grow old. I doubt she’ll ever become a hardcore fly fishing frauleine, and that is not my intent. My hope is that she’ll enjoy it enough to let me get a drift boat occasionally join me during the nice summer months on gentle rivers like the Yakima. Afterall, she grew up in the town of Yakima and was a regular participant in the Yakima River “rubber hatch” that comes off each summer. Ask her about the time she and a friend had to hitch-hike in their bikinis to their car after a day of floating the Lower Canyon in their Walmart rafts – back before there was such a thing as Walmart.

A few months ago I decided to be proactive about this whole matter and booked a float trip with Derek Young of Emerging Rivers Guide Services. Our Anniversary is August 12^th, and being the hopeless romantic that I am I was hard pressed to think of a better way Mrs. UA and I could spend our anniversary than fly fishing together on the Yakima River (we were married in nearby Yakima, afterall). But forging ahead into this delicate proposition of fishing with Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler is much like intentionally going steelhead fishing equipped with a 3 wt rod, a dragless reel and 6X tippet: it’s probably not the smartest thing to do. To use another metaphor I must exercise the same caution as if wading on the slippery, slime covered rocks of summer while wearing cowboy boots. Again, not something one should probably do. I face somewhat daunting odds, and honestly the chips are stacked against me ever turning her into a hardcore angler. The reasons are many:

First, she hates bugs. I have to admit, this is perhaps the biggest obstacle. She absolutely abhors insects in a manner that strikes me as being completely irrational. To her, however, the fear is very real and I must try to honor that fear while at the same time attempting to diminish it. At the top of her fear factor list are spiders. Even though technically spiders are not insects, they do fall under the general classification of “bugs” by her definition. Luckily spiders are fairly uncommon when fly fishing. I showed her a photo in a magazine of a 3-inch salmonfly perched atop an angler’s hat. I casually inquired as to if seeing something like this in person would be a deal breaker. Turns out it would be. I assured her that we will not be seeing any salmon flies on our inaugural trip. Honestly I am not sure how she feels about grasshoppers, which we will be seeing. I’m inclined to believe hope that hoppers may be an easy bug to not be afraid of, and I’m also hoping that won’t cause a problem since we’ll be fishing the peak hopper season. She assured me that as long as nothing is present in grotesque overabundance she should be fine. I didn’t point out to her that hoppers are supposed to be thick this year all across the West. What I am a little apprehensive about is her ability to withstand the possibility of a sitting calmly amidst an evening caddis hatch. A panic reaction could result in a rod being being dropped overboard (I may have to put a tether on her gear). But caddis are benign little fliers. I’d go so far as to say they are the least “disgusting” of all bugs, and are even “cute”. Right? Please chime in with your support and agreement here, folks. Please.

Another thing she has an aversion to is the texture of slime, and trout are slimy. True that. But she may never have to get over that fear because in all likelihood she’ll be lucky if she gets the chance to even touch a fish. Odds are, if she sets the hook on a fish, she’ll experience a Long Distance Release before getting the fish anywhere near her hands. And if she does land a fish, there’s no reason she has to even touch it because that can be delegated as part of a guide’s duty. Or I’ll convince her that fish slime is a natural hand moisturizer. Personally I think the beauty of catching a wild rainbow or cutthroat trout will thrill her to the point where she’ll forget that it’s a slimy thing altogether. Yeah, riiiight.

Safety is a another big factor. She has done a remarkable job of keeping our children alive through their childhoods. We’ve encountered broken arms, cuts and scrapes and even a mild concussion, but nothing too serious. That relatively good safety record can be attributed to the fact that Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler has been somewhat of a worry wart, though to her credit she hasn’t been a Helicopter Mom prone to excessive coddling. Aside from being concerned for the welfare of her offspring, she’s also a bit cautious herself, and not one to run with scissors or color outside the lines. In fact, she was the obvious choice when the company she works for appointed her Safety Commissioner this past year (a proud moment). I just hope that she can relax and enjoy a day on the river without being fearful of falling overboard. But even if she does, she’ll probably be wearing an orange life jacket – you know the kind with the big collar?

Waders may present another problem when it comes to her fully embracing the fly fishing thing. While she is not a slave to fashion, she is at least an indentured servant. Let’s be honest here: not many women don’t care how they look. And let’s face it – waders are not the most flattering of apparel and make even the narrowest of hips appear wider than they actually are. I think we can avoid this altogether, at least on our initial outing because we’ll be fishing from a drift boat in August. It would be silly to wear anything other than shorts when it’s 90+ degrees out. We won’t have to worry about waders until I take her steelheading in January, and it gives me a good idea for a Christmas present.

Indecision plagues Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler from time to time. She is above average when it comes to coordination and athletic ability, but the only difficulty she may have when learning to cast is determining which hand to use. You see, she’s most right-handed but is nearly ambidextrous. And sometimes she forgets which hand she should throw a ball with. I’m serious. It’s actually quite an impressive ability, but because of the way her brain is wired she can be indecisive. Will she naturally take to casting with the right, but also feeling inclined toward a right hand retrieve? (Marck does it this way, and it’s really annoying when I’ve had the occasion to use his rod).

Many women like to shop. I did not say all women like to shop because I know there are those who do not. Thankfully I would not classify Mrs. UA as a hardcore shopper but she can, when she wants, flip through a wide variety of retail goods trying to decide if she likes this or that. She’s been known on occasion to go shopping and return home with something she purchased, only then to determine that she doesn’t like it. I’m a little apprehensive about what will happen when she opens a fly box, as she may have a hard time shopping for the right fly. Furthermore, the aforementioned indecision factor may serve to complicate this whole matter.

Patience is not a virtue. Not of hers, but rather of mine. I am admittedly not the most patient person when it comes to sharing my infinite wisdom with my wife. Be it computer navigation and keyboard shortcuts, how to change the oil in a car, or how to cut-up a whole fryer chicken, I readily admit that I could learn to be less impatient. While I accept my share of the blame, I would be remiss if I didn’t also state that Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler doesn’t exactly “empty her cup” when it comes to accepting certain helpful instruction from me. Luckily, I’m placing her squarely in Derek’s hands when we go fishing. I’ll let him work with her while I sit quietly in the back of the boat, biting my tongue and trying to keep the laughter under my breath my mouth shut.

Snakes. Let’s not go there, as her fear of snakes may be even worse than her fear of spiders. Luckily if she’s in a drift boat and remains there, no snake will cross her path. I won’t even mention to her that snake-eye guides were used in the construction of the rod in her hand.

Hummingbirds. It’s true, Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler hates hummingbirds and I am not referring the the brand of depth finders. Actually, I think she thinks hummingbirds hate her because they often seem to seek her out and hover above her head. I’ve assured her that the innocent little critters are merely curious and mean her no harm, and I don’t think she has to worry about hummingbirds while we’re fishing, Just for good measure I’ll suggest she not wear a red hat.

While it may require some time, nurturing and a few pitfalls, it will be worth the effort to turn Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler into a fly fishing enthusiast, or at least a willing participant in an occasional fly fishing excursion. We’ve often discussed the need for a common interest once our kids leave the nest (which really isn’t that far into the future). She has suggested tennis and golf. I’ve suggested a compromise: fly fishing.

Wish us both luck.

The Unaccomplished Angler’s Hatch Guide to the Yakima River

May 21, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 0 Comments

I’m pretty sure someone has published a hatch guide for every river in America, if not the world. These can be tremendous resources for the angler, but they can also be a little misleading. Such guidelines give the impression that the angler will encounter specific insect hatches almost like clockwork, and all one has to do is show up at the river, with a pattern that matches the hatch, and fish will be caught. While that may be the case for some anglers on some rivers, in my opinion such information should be swallowed along with a couple grains of salt (followed perhaps by a shot of tequila and lemon). The Yakima allegedly boasts some tremendous seasonal hatches like other “blue ribbon” fisheries, but don’t let that lull you into thinking the hatch guide is a golden resource when it comes to catching fish. For those of few angling accomplishments, I offer a more realistic approach to the Yakima River hatch guide game:

January. Don’t go trout fishing this month. Stay home and tie some trout flies or read a good book about trout fishing. One will very likely freeze one’s posterior on the Yakima during January, and if anglers are going to subject themselves to this sort of personal misery and not catch fish, they had better at least be standing knee deep in a steelhead river. The Yakima may have some occasional midge hatches during January, but with numb fingers, good luck trying to tie on a size 22 Griffith’s Gnat to the tippet. Of course, the whitefishing can be hot when the water temps turn the real fish into troutcicles. You may even hook one in the mouth. I recommend a bare hook under a Thingamabobber, or maybe just the bare hook.

Skwala

February/March. Skwalas. The emergence of these stoneflies is the first big event that draws anglers out of hibernation. Whenever I’ve tried to time this hatch I’ve been met with disappointment and wished I’d stayed in my cave. I’ve caught a couple fish on Skwala nymphs, but I’ve never been there on a day when the bugs seem to be hatching, so I can only live vicariously through those who’ve had the good fortune to actually engage the fish on Skwala dries. I’ve heard it can be fun because up to this point it’s pretty much a subsurface game since Fall. These stoneflies may start appearing in February, but beware of reports proclaiming as much. The nymphs might be moving around toward the end of February, but the adults probably won’t really be hatching until early March, and that’s only if the water temps warm up. But when anglers hear the word “Skwala”, they start thinking irrationally and may reach for their dry flies too early. More than anything, “Skwala” is merely a marketing ploy tossed about by fly shops and guides hoping to draw some customers out of winter hibernation. And who can blame them?

March Brown

March/April. If you find yourself on the river on a day when Old Man Winter might have loosened his grip temporarily and long enough for the water temp to rise into the 40’s for a couple days, the adult Skwalas might actually make an appearance. Will you be there at the right time in the right place? If you’re like me, the answer is yes and no. Oh, I’ll be there alright – just not on the right day. I’ll have to take your word for it, but March Browns are said to begin emerging in March, which this is probably where they got their name. Just in case, I have a few patterns to match the emergence of these brown mayflies, but only once have I ever gotten the opportunity to actually use any of them. When I have stumbled upon a hatch of March Browns, the hatches came off for two hours at a time. There were bugs in the air and bugs on the water, but no fish looking up. So if you do encounter one of these hatches, prepare to be frustrated. To be completely honest, I did once stumble upon rising fish during a March Brown hatch the day before Easter. I got lucky– but only once, so it doesn’t count. Next up you have the Blue Winged Olives. Yeah, right. Whatever. BWO’s like cloudy days. The problem is whenever I fish the Yak in April, it’s under bluebird skies. That’s good for the pasty white skin of winter, but not so much for bringing out the little olive colored mayflies.

Salmonfly

Salmon Fry

May. Salmonflies. When they’re hatching on rivers across the west, these bugs attract anglers like flies to rotting meat. I’ve never actually seen a Salmonfly on the Yakima, which doesn’t mean they aren’t there – they’re just not there when I’ve been there. And honestly I don’t think they’re abundantly established yet. Occasionally an angler (usually a guide) will proclaim of having seen an actual adult Salmonfly on the Yakima. Not me, though I have caught plenty of salmon fries. That’s really annoying because one can be literally harassed by a pod of these baby Chinook and the only way to put an end to the madness is to pull up anchor and move downstream. Admittedly I don’t usually get to fish much in May because it’s a very busy month, what with Mother’s Day and all. Unfortunately my mom isn’t around any more for me to dode over, but I do have the pleasure of honoring the mother of my children. Another reason I don’t fish much this month is because I’m usually saving up my hall passes for my Memorial Day Weekend trip to Yellowstone with Marck. But the biggest hatch this month is the The Mother’s Day Caddis. It is reputed to be one of biblical proportions. It has also been the biggest disappointment for me. I hear tales of a hatch so prolific that anglers actually forget to honor their mothers on this day and go fishing instead. The problem with this hatch is that the runoff usually fouls the river and you’d never know if the hatch came or went. Marck happened to time this hatch perfectly this year, and sent me a text message that simply said: “Epic hatch.” Our followup conversation after his trip revealed that there were so many hundreds of thousands of bugs in the air and on the water that the natural competition proved too great. Fish were rising, but the water was high and dirty and hookups were few. Fishing was frustrating. If you do visit the Yakima hoping to encounter the Mother’s Day Caddis hatch, I suggest taking flowers and a card and leaving your fly rod in the car. You’ll probably catch just as many fish that way.

Pale Morning Dun

Golden Stone

June. Runoff is usually done with, but the flows are kept artificially high as the irrigation in the Yakima Valley begins. Pale Morning Duns and Golden Stones are hatching. OK, I must confess I witnessed a PMD hatch once. I was eating my lunch on the riverbank, sulking over how slow fishing had been all morning. Then I heard trout rising. Then I saw trout rising not 20 feet from where I sulked. I tossed out a cast and caught a small fish. Then it happened again. Then as quickly as the feeding had begun, it ended. Woo-hoo! Two fish! Golden Stones? They must only exist at the end of a rainbow, and I must always be at the wrong end. They are said to be present this month – I’ve read as much on the fishing reports posted by the fly shops in the area.

Chernobyl Hopper

Rubber Hatch Emerger

Dome Light Caddis

July. Hopper time. OK, it’s not a hatch, per se. Throw something big and ugly that resembles a foam mutant from a nuclear waste site and you might catch a couple fish before you succomb to heat stroke. Hopper fishing is not exactly technical fishing, and builds sloppy presentation skills which make me feel right at home. Slap that big ugly bug up against the bank- as in hit the bank because the fish are so fat and lazy from eating well that they won’t move two inches out of their way to take your fly. Keep a watchful eye out for the rubber hatch, which is epic in proportions this month. You’ll see things that you won’t soon forget as well as many things you wish you could. If you’ve made it through the day and find yourself on the water toward dusk the evening caddis hatch can be great. I’ve watched Marck slay the trout on Elk Hair Caddis when the light grows dim. What I’ve found most of the time is that the fish don’t really start rising until it’s way too dark to see the fly on the water, which makes setting the hook difficult. And God forbid you should lose a fly and have to tie on another under the cloak of increasing darkness – especially the typical Elk Hair Caddis. The way the hackle is swept forward over the eye of the hook makes it difficult to thread one’s tippet even in good light with good eyesight. Remove both of those from the equation and you’ll see what I’m talking about. To fully appreciate just how many caddisflies come out at night, perform this little experiment: As you are breaking down your rods and stowing your gear, leave the car door open so the dome light illuminates the dark summer night. Caddis are attracted to light.

Rubber Hatch Spinners

August. Copy and paste the month of July here, then add the following: Toward the end of the month when the river starts to drop, hoppers become less effective and it’s time to key in on Short Wing Stoneflies. I can’t say I’ve ever seen one, although I can say that I’ve fished with a stonefly pattern late in the month and been skunked. As the month begins the rubber hatch is still in full swing and the general rule is that quality does not increase as the summer drones on. By now the fish have seen every pattern drift overhead way and anglers have seen everything imaginable float past them on the river as well. At least as the river drops the rubber hatch tapers off and anglers don’t have to halt their back casts so often to avoid hooking a non-game species. While casting gets easier the fishing, however, does not. The last time I fished the Yakima in late August we didn’t rise a fish to a dry fly all day. One should not have to nymph this time of year, but we did. I don’t want to talk about it.

Blue Winged Olive

October Caddis in September

September. The great flip-flop of the Yak is well underway, meaning the irrigation flows are cut off and the river drops to more natural late summer flows. Again, the Shortwing Stones are said to abound, but I don’t know that I would recognize one if it landed on my nose. The fishing gets more challenging as tippets and flies get smaller. Gee, I didn’t realize the fishing prior to this had been easy? Well, it just gets damn tough in September, and those sloppy presentations that worked for hopper fishing will come back to haunt you now. Water clarity increases, feeding lanes are defined in the lowering flows, and the fish lurking therein are watching to make sure your presentation is perfect. Baetis is the name, and loathing is the game: Get it right, or go home. This is not the time of year to go searching for an ego boost from the fish. You might start to see some October Caddis, but being September it would seem wrong to refer to them as October Caddis. They’re big and orange, from what I’m told. I’ve only ever caught one fish on a September Caddis pattern, and it was the only fish I caught after a very long day. And the fish wasn’t much bigger than the fly I was using.

October Caddis

October. The September Caddis become October Caddis this month, and some anglers love the Yakima in October. Myself, I’m so emotionally bruised and battered by this time of year that take a timeout from the Yakima to heal my wounds. I’m usually chasing some sort of game with a firearm in October, or seeking some inland steelhead on rivers elsewhere, so I really don’t have a clue what Oktoberfest is like on the Yak. Go for it if you want.

Thingamabobbers

November. Winter can hit hard at any moment during this month, but if you want to nymph for increasingly more catatonic trout before the Yak turns into a literal Ice Princess, give it a go. Take nymphs. Lots of them. Conveniently December is just around the corner and you can ask Santa for a bunch of flies to replace those you sacrificed to the river gods. Ask for some tippet spools, tapered leaders and strike indicators while you’re at it.

Coal

December. Never fished the Yak during December, so I can’t be of much help to you there. If you like getting coal in your stocking on Christmas morning, you may like fishing the Yakima in December.

Now that you have an alternative perspective to the hatches of the Yakima River, who you gonna believe- me, or them?

Troutwater Guide Service & Fly Shop

The Evening Hatch

The Worley Bugger

Red’s Fly Shop

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

May 14, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 3 Comments

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 3^rd 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…”

A Tale of Turkeys, Titans and Twenty-inch Trout

April 30, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 4 Comments

Most fish outings aren’t filled with a lot of pomp and circumstance – they’re just a prearranged event, often with very little lead-time, initiated by a simple phone call or an email. But that’s not always the case, as I recently partook of a fish outing that had rather complex origins.

It all started innocently enough some months ago at the request of my buddy Large Albacore. He’d seen a photo of a turkey I’d harvested a few years ago, and mentioned to me when (if) I shoot another one, he’d like some feathers for fly tying. Not one to take casual requests lightly, when Spring turkey season opened on April 15^ththis year I made sure I was on the road the day before. Another of my buddies, Jimmy, owns a vast spread of property in Eastern Washington that has a fair number of turkeys running around on it. I’ve hunted with Jimmy for several years, and three years ago I bagged a nice gobbler (the one in the photo seen by Albacore).

The following year we were dealt a skunking, and last year I didn’t get out for turkey season, which was OK because it wasn’t much of one. But this year things worked in our favor: the weather was mild, the birds were social, and we filled our tags in the first hour of opening day. If you’ve ever turkey hunted, you know it doesn’t always, and rarely does, happen so easily. It’s a lot like fishing in that regard, and I’ve come home empty-handed enough times to consider myself an unaccomplished turkey hunter. But as I drove the 4 hours home this year I called Albacore to gloat let him know I had feathers. It would have been too easy expensive to just mail the feathers to him, so we opted instead to schedule a fish outing so I could deliver them in person. We set a date for a trip down the Yakima River and planned to float in our inflatables; he in his pontoon boat and myself in my Watermaster.

The week before our planned trip, a series of Spring storms dumped rain in the mountains, signaling the official start of the Spring runoff. The Teanaway River, a tributary of the Yakima, is a notorious spewer of filthy, chalky water, and it lived up to it’s Native American name, which I believe translates to “Notorious spewer of filthy, chalky water”. The runoff, combined with the unfortunate coincidence of water being released from reservoirs to push the Chinook salmon smolts downstream, had caused the Yakima to rise threefold in volume, and she officially became blown-out. High water and inflatables aren’t the optimal combination: what we needed was a drift boat. Enter Marck. As you know, he is the captain of The Hornet.

Prior to this float Marck and Albacore had not met. I was eager to introduce them, knowing they would enjoy each other’s company (I have good taste in friends, although they probably cannot return the compliment). I was also eager to pose for a photo of the three of us, as the combined height of the Two Titans is 13 feet, maybe a hair more (pun intended). And as Marck quickly added, “and you make it 14.” Touchet, mon ami.

We met at the South Cle Elum “launch” (loose interpretation), lowered The Hornet down the steep embankment, and assumed positions for our float. Contrary to standard operating procedures, I was perched in the bow of the boat this time, forced to give up my coveted stern position to Albacore (something to do with keeping the bow of the boat from floating too low in the water). The day was a dandy as far as the weather was concerned, with broken clouds, plenty of sunshine to warm the air comfortably, and not a stitch of wind (nice for a change). Water temp was 44 degrees at 11 AM as we pointed the bow of The Hornet into the current and made our way downstream. Each of us had 2 rods rigged and at the ready: one for dries and one for catching fish (although Albacore opted instead to rig a streamer rod in lieu of a dry fly). But it was our nymphing rigs that were employed from the get-go and for most of the day. Not surprisingly it was a busy day on the river, and we played hop-scotch with several boats throughout the afternoon, including a certain Clackacraft containing celebrities such as Derek Young of Emerging Rivers Guide Services and Leland Miyawaki of the Bellevue Orvis Shop. Famed local guide Johnny Boitano had his clients on fish every time we saw them. He’s good at getting his clients on fish, and in fact put me on my best Yakima trout several years earlier (apparently I should fish with him more often). By the way, Johnny and Ted Truglio are now operating their own guide business (Troutwater Guide Services).

Surprisingly for the rest of us fishing was not red hot, and it was a while before Albacore hooked the first of 3 whitefish. He scowled with each catch, but to his credit the third was a pretty nice specimen, and I noted as much. My kudos, however, fell on deaf ears. A couple of hours into the day we pulled The Hornet onto a gravel bar so we could work the water with some diligence. Marck fished downstream and then crossed to the opposite side. From there he was able to get his fly into some dark, slow water flanked by some daunting structure. I would have followed except for the fact that I’d have never made it across the current without being swept off my size 8 feet (I actually wear a size 9 wading boot). Albacore fished the head of the run, and I moved farther below Marck. My fishless solitude was interrupted by the sound of Marck’s voice above the roar of the river: “Hey!” he nodded toward the sharply bent rod in his hands, “This is a nice fish!” Apparently so, and Albacore and I met on the gravel bar adjacent to Marck’s location to watch the drama unfold. It did appear to be a decent fish, but the current was strong and likely made the fish appear bigger and stronger than it really was. From his current locale Marck could not very well play the fish because it was too close to a logjam, so he began inching his way across the river toward us. The water was deeper and the current stronger here than where he’d crossed earlier, and each step was a precarious balancing act: it would take a lot to dislodge Marck’s footing, but the river here was up to the task of trying. Luckily, Marck escaped disaster and was able to make it across with his dignity still in tact and the fish still bending his rod. “I think this is going to require the net,” he announced. Tuna and I agreed: this was a strong fish that didn’t appear to tire even after several minutes of playing tug-o-war with Marck’s 6 weight. Albacore made no move to fetch the net, which I took as a signal that it was my duty privilege. I glanced upstream to where The Hornet was secured. It was farther than I remembered. In fact it was probably 70 yards farther than I remembered, and urgency dictated that there would be no time to stretch or trade out my wading boots for running shoes. I took off at a full sprint, trying to maintain my running form – but bouncing over large and small river rocks in my boots and waders certainly did away with that, coupled with the fact that I have no running form to begin with.

Now I’ve run high speed errands for Marck before, but this one was performed in record time. I reached The Hornet, grabbed the net and managed to return to the scene of the crime still in progress, but not before pulling a hamstring and nearly recycling the maple bar and PBR that had seemed like such a good idea a short while earlier. As I waded into the shallows with the net carefully extended toward the fish, the vein in my forehead was engorged to twice its normal size and my lungs screamed for more air than was readily available to them. I thumped my chest with one fist to reset my heart, then somehow steadied my grip on the handle of the net. The fish came close enough for us to all agree that it was a dandy: big, strong and beautiful. It was one of those rainbows that probably should have opted for a life of anadromosity and become a steelhead, but for whatever reason decided to remain a lifelong river dweller. And apparently it was not tired, as the sight of the net caused the fish to dash instantly back to deeper water, taking line from Marck’s reel at will. Eventually he turned the fish one final time and the net was deployed with impressive accuracy and swiftness. The gorgeous rainbow was a lifetime fish for the Yakima, and taped out at an honest 20 inches. If anything it was a tad over 20, but certainly no less. After the fished was digitally documented and released, fist bumps were exchanged all around. We celebrated Marck’s epic fish and I quietly celebrated the fact that I’d avoided cardiac arrest.

Marck’s declaration that “I better quit while I’m ahead”, meant he would row for the remainder of the day so Albacore and I could have an opportunity to try to catch a trout even half the size Marck’s behemoth. And that’s about what happened: Albacore ended up catching a couple rainbows and I managed one. And they were each about half the size of Marck’s twenty incher. To cap off the day, Marck also caught a 15 inch cutthroat.

When you’re fishing with good friends, every fish outing is a good one. But this was one of those special days on the water that would never have materialized had it not been for a photo of a turkey I shot a few years earlier. Thanks to that photo I got my turkey this year, Albacore got his feathers, and we were all tickled to witness an epic Yakima trout. Mission accomplished.

New pants and an old friend: The Foam Line

April 16, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 7 Comments

Several years ago when I fished the Yakima River for the first time, she gave up a 15 inch rainbow trout in a manner that seemed almost too easy. I naively assumed this was the norm rather than the exception, but have since become painfully aware that catching a Yakima River trout is rarely so effortless. Back in those days I was a wade fisherman: a shore hugging bank walker. My best friends hadn’t yet acquired the drift boats they currently own, nor were they at that time my best friends (though that would change when said boats were purchased). It was March, I believe, when Jimmy and I paid that initial visit to the lower Yakima Canyon. We didn’t really know what we were doing other than driving up and down the canyon looking for water that might hold a trout or two. Honestly I have no recollection of the day beyond a few magical moments that will forever remain etched in my mind…

Jimmy and I pulled into the parking lot of the Umtanum Creek recreation site. This wasn’t a completely foreign place to us, as we’d been here once before many years prior. We carried shotguns instead of fly rods, and chased chukars on the steep ridges above the river rather than trout in the river. That day was one for the memory books as we encountered more wildlife in an afternoon than one might encounter in a lifetime. The winter had been particularly harsh, and on any south-facing slope where the snow had melted, the mule deer and Big Horn sheep were grouped into large herds. We saw several dozen sheep and three times as many deer that day, as well as a bobcat and yes – even some chukar. The number of wild critters was an awesome sight to behold, and the fact that nobody in our group had a camera is something that will haunt me forever. But enough reminiscing about that day, let’s jump ahead to reminisce about the day when Jimmy and I grabbed our fly rods and set out across the suspension foot bridge…

We dropped in below the bridge and spied some fishy looking water. Dave, er Jimmy, started upstream where Umtanum Creek dumps into the river, while I walked a few yards in the opposite direction. I set up on a point of grass-lined bank and tossed my Skwala dry fly into the current. It was fairly deep right off the bank, and the current moves at a good clip, though the surface is mostly flat. Directly below my grassy perch the river fanned out into a calm, shallow side channel. Where the current met this slack water there was a foam line. When my fly hit the foam line, a healthy 15 inch rainbow rose aggressively and hammered my artificial offering. I think Jimmy heard my hootin’ and hollerin because just like a Les Schwab tire jockey, he came runnin’. After landing and releasing the fish, and proclaiming the Yakima River to be an awesome fishery, I suggested to Jimmy that he put his fly right into the foam line. He did just that, and instantly hooked and landed another beautiful 15 inch rainbow. It all seemed too easy, but rather than acknowledge the truth we concluded that we were actually anglers of considerable accomplishment. Again, there was not a camera between us. For some reason, back in those pre-digital days a camera was much less of a fishing staple.

Jump ahead many years to the present: since that fateful day at the foam line, countless float trips in drift boats and my Watermaster Kodiak have proven the Yakima to be anything but a river brimming with easily-fooled trout. If you’ve been following the adventures of the Unaccomplished Angler, you know of my love/hate relationship with the Yak, and the fact that I keep going back for more punishment. And so it was on the Saturday before Easter of this year that I went back. Way back, in a figurative sense. You see, Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler hails from the town of Yakima and that morning we had driven to her parents’ home for the Easter weekend. It should be noted that a few days earlier I had been forced to purchase a new pair of dress pants to replace the pair that has been hanging in my closet since 1999 (and here I thought that pleated corduroy was still all the rage). Like any good son-in-law, after we arrived I graciously accepted a sandwich before dashing out the door, leaving my brother-in-law to tend to the list of chores. If I was going to wear my newly-acquired dress pants and sit through a long Easter Mass the next day, I needed to fish for a few hours. It was better this way, for all concerned.

And so it was that I found myself on the road to the Yakima Canyon seeking therapy – just the sight of the river had a calming affect and I knew I’d made the right decision. I stopped at one point above the Lmuma launch and worked a piece of water that looked promising. The wind was blowing, but not to the point that it negatively affected my casting for the most part. Swallows buzzed the surface of the water along the opposite bank, and I took that as an indication that something was hatching over there. But it was too far to reach with even a Herculean cast (which is not in my arsenal anyway). After 45 minutes I concluded that I was wasting my time here, and since I was on foot I wouldn’t be able to cover a lot of water so I moved on up the road a few miles.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the Umtanum Creek recreation site I grew immediately disheartened – the lot was full. What should I have expected on a busy Saturday before Easter? I parked in an undesignated spot, grabbed my rod and set out across the suspension foot bridge. I assumed I would have to walk a mile upstream in order to find unoccupied water, but to my surprise and delight not an angler could be seen in any direction. Apparently the dozens of cars in the parking lot belonged to people out for an afternoon hike atop the ridge. This pleased me greatly, and I dropped in below the bridge on took up position on a familiar grassy point and listened to the river. There was no great hurry – it was 2:15, and I didn’t have to be back to my in-laws’ until 5. As I stood there quietly, a few Swallows swooped in and began picking bugs off the surface of the water. They were soon joined by more birds and I watched intently as the flock moved up and down the river right in front of me, working the water like group of fat kids gettin’ after a buffet line. It quickly became apparent that the birds were feasting on small brown mayflies so I reached into my fly box and extracted a March Brown dry, which I tied to the end of my 5X.

Before I could make my first cast, I heard slurping and splashing in all directions as the fish began rising enthusiastically to the hatching bugs. As I laid out my first cast the hair on the back of my neck stood up – it doesn’t take much to get me all worked up into a trout tizzy, but I hadn’t been this excited in a long time. My first drift yielded no hits so I recast the fly and gave it a couple of good mends. The fly drifted drag free right over the top of a greedy trout – BAM! Fish on, baby! There was nobody to share the moment with, so I remained uncharacteristically calm as I played the fish to the bank. It was only 10-11 inches, but it felt much bigger in the current, even on my 6 weight rod. A quick release sent the fish on it’s way as the feeding frenzy by both birds and fish increased in intensity. I had many missed takes as well as several hookups that resulted in Long Distance Releases (LDRs). Suddenly the wind whipped up something fierce and the sky darkened as a squall blew in, bringing with it a combination of snow and hail. It seemed the March Brown lost its appeal so I swapped it out for a Blue Winged Olive (parachute variety for better visibility). That immediately drew some interest from the fish but I missed several hook sets because the tiny fly with the upright white tuft became all but invisible on the surface of the hail-pummeled water, what with hail being white an all. Typical of Spring weather, the squall didn’t last long and as soon as the sky cleared the March Browns began emerging once again.

I observed some seriously large fish jumping below me, but they were too far out – in water unaccessible to a lonely shore hugger like myself – so I concentrated on water I could reach. Eyeing the foam line directly downstream, I put my fly on the water and then gave several feet of slack so the fly could drift slowly into the seam where the foam accumulated. Slowly…slowly…right…THERE! A fish slammed my fly and the hook was set instinctively in a manner uncharacteristic of my true angling skills. The fish immediately ran toward the fast current and would have taken as much line as I would have given it. I hoped my clinch knot had been properly seated as I steered the fish back toward the bank. The heavy current worked to the fish’s advantage and put a serious bend in the Sage XP. Silver flashed in the clear water as I established visual contact with the fish. It looked much bigger than it would prove to be, but as they say, it’s not the size of the fish in the fight, it’s how giddy the angler gets. This fish had plenty of gumption, and I was plenty giddy. I carefully played the 13” rainbow to shore where I admired how healthy and well fed it was. After releasing the fish and apologizing for having made it late for another go at the buffet line, I high-fived myself. I may have also muttered an audible, “You da man!” but with nobody around to hear me I can’t be sure of that. I glanced at my watch: 4:20 PM. I’d been at this for 2 hours and there hadn’t been a break in the action – time’s fun when you’re fish’ flies.

Fish were still rising to bugs as I reeled up and looked across the river. I pondered the ramifications of staying just a little longer but figured I better quit while I was ahead: I dared not press my luck here on the river, nor at my in-laws’ home. As I skipped across the bridge it dawned on me that had I been fishing from a boat on this day, save for perhaps a couple casts I’d have likely drifted right past the old foam line and missed out on all this fun. It seemed as though I would be able to tolerate new dress pants and a long Mass in the morning – happy Easter to me.

Spring Break, or rather Spring is Broken

April 8, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 14 Comments

I’d made plans a couple months earlier to get my son, Schpanky (The kid who never listens), out fishing with me during his Spring break. The boy started driving recently, and with a license comes ample opportunity to partake of a wide variety of endeavors – most of which do not involve the old man. He has long since gotten past that age where kids still think their dad’s are cool, but we have a good relationship and he’ll still humor me by going fishing with me from time to time. My plan is to not let him stray too far from the fly rod as he enters the next phase of his life, in hopes that when he comes back to his senses as a young adult he’ll actually embrace the fly angling obsession fully of his own accord. That should guarantee that I’ll always have someone to row the drift boat I plan to buy once I’ve paid for his and his sister’s college educations.

To insure that my son wouldn’t have to put up with me correcting his casting strokes or telling him what to do in general, I booked the trip with Derek Young of Emerging Rivers Guide Services. Derek is a great teacher and a fun guy – I knew Schpanky would have a great time fishing under Derek’s tutelage while I quietly occupied the rear of the boat. As the date grew nearer, visions of mild sunny days danced in my head: El Niño had done a stellar job of keeping our weather warmer and drier than normal throughout the winter and into early Spring. Surely April 8^th would reward us with a beautiful day on which to engage in some quality father-son bonding. Who knows – fishing should even be pretty good by then, too.

Jump ahead to the start of Spring break: the weather began on a sour note and grew more unsavory as the week droned on. It was colder than it should have been, and rain and wind incessantly beat down upon Western Washington. Snow accumulated in the mountains, making up for a relative lack of the white stuff earlier in the winter. While I acknowledged that this would be good for rivers come summer, selfishly I was pissed off. Early in the week the meteorologists were telling me that Thursday looked to be the worst day of the week, and of course Thursday was the day we had our fishing trip scheduled. Knowing that meteorologists are notorious for being 80% right 20% of the time, I felt confident that Thursday wouldn’t be as bad as they predicted. On Wednesday night I checked the weather forecast online. Then I watched all 3 local TV networks, hoping to find one that would tell me what I wanted to hear. No matter the source, Thursday’s forecast didn’t bode well for shirt sleeves and dry fly fishing. Our destination was the town of Cle Elum, which lies on the eastern slopes of the Cascade range. The daytime high was predicted to be 38 degrees. A Winter Storm Warning was issued for the mountains, with 1-2 feet of snow expected and the snow level dropping to below 1000 feet by the end of the day. A High Wind Warning was posted for the east slopes of the Cascades, with winds of 35-45 mph and gusts above 50. Cle Elum lies smack dab in the heart of the east slope of the Cascades. Apparently, for once, the meteorologists were right. Damn them. I was in denial as I dutifully loaded our gear into the truck under the cloak of Wednesday night’s darkness.

The idea was to enjoy a day of fishing with my son. He’s fished enough to know that there’s more to fishing than catching fish, but the thought of sitting all day in a drift boat as a cold rain tests the limits of even the best foul weather gear, with a wind so fierce that casting becomes nearly impossible, pretty much left little opportunity for what I would call “fun”. And so like any real man would do, I called Derek and cancelled our plans. And like any real man would also do, I’m passing the buck and blaming the meteorologists.

Note to Schpanky:

I’m sorry that Mother Nature was such a bitch and forced the cancellation of our trip – we’ll get it rescheduled as soon as possible. If there was even a remote chance that you still thought I had an ounce of cool left in me, I realize that’s surely gone now. While I hope you don’t regard me with contempt, I wouldn’t blame you if you lumped me into the same category as Ryan Seacrest wearing a kitty cat t-shirt.

I love you,

Dad

Today I saw my backing.

March 26, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 16 Comments

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, and 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 3^rd 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Blues Ribbon Fishery

March 12, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 11 Comments

According to Wikipedia, a “Blue Ribbon Fishery” is a designation made in the United States by government and other authorities to identify recreational fisheries of extremely high quality. Official Blue Ribbon status is generally based on a set of established criteria which typically addresses the following elements:

Water quality and quantity: A body of water, warm or cold, flowing or flat, will be considered for Blue Ribbon status if it has sufficient water quality and quantity to sustain a viable fishery.
Water accessibility: The water must be accessible to the public.
Natural reproduction capacity: The body of water should possess a natural capacity to produce and maintain a sustainable recreational fishery. There must be management strategies that will consistently produce fish of significant size and/or numbers to provide a quality angling experience.
Angling pressure: The water must be able to withstand angling pressure.
Specific species: Selection may be based on a specific species.

When translated from the native tongue of the Yakama people, I’m reasonably sure that “Blue Ribbon Fishery” means “over-hyped, over-fished river 2 hours from Seattle.” Now don’t get me wrong – I am grateful for a river with a relatively decent population of trout so close to home, and I know folks who do pretty well on the Yakima (in fact, as you read this I am fishing with one such person and you can bet he’s out-catching me). However, as you may have extracted from previous writings, the Yakima River has never shown me much love. I fished it once with a guide, and on that day the river offered forth the biggest trout I’ve ever caught. But guides fish the water every day and develop a special and intimate relationship with the river. They know where every bit of subsurface structure is, and exactly which fish lurk there. So if you ask a guide, or someone who regularly fishes with a guide, or someone who lives close by and fishes the river a LOT, or someone who is simply a good fisherman, you’ll likely hear a different tune. But for the fish-challenged, unaccomplished angler like me, the Yakima has me singing the blues rather than proclaiming any Blue Ribbon status.

But let’s not focus on what the Yakima is lacking and instead take a look at what she does offer: For one it has wind. Count on it. Where the west-side (or, wet-side) of the Cascades has its seemingly ever-present precipitation, central Washington has its seemingly ever-moving air. Sometimes the wind is just a little annoying as your line piles up and flies off-course. Usually when it’s like this one can wait a few seconds and cast reasonably well between gusts. Other times the air moves upstream with the force equal to a gale, pushing a craft against the current. Rowing downstream and making little progress is not an altogether uncommon experience on the Yak, and pity the poor angler who finds himself on a flat stretch of water at one of these times. I’ve seen many a drift boat with their bows pointed upstream, while the oarsman pulls hard against the wind, making arduous progress, even with the current in their favor. About the only time the wind isn’t present is in the dead of winter and during the height of summer when it’s 147 degrees and you find yourself quagmired in the long, flat section of the Lower Canyon known as Frustration Flats. Suffice it to say that when planning a day to visit the Yak, I always check the weather and pick a day when the forecast calls for “light winds”. I used to argue about wind and rain with my brother-in-law, who lives in Moses Lake (where the wind also blows). My position was that the incessant rains where I live are worse than the unrelenting winds where he lives. His argument was, as you might have guessed, just the opposite. Over the years I’ve changed my tune. While I would prefer to not stand in a drenching rain while fishing, I would much rather not stand in the face of a howling wind while fishing. Rain blows, but wind blows more. But back to the merits of the Yakima River.

The Yakima is very likely better than any other trout rivers within reasonable distance of my home. I’m not sure what the accurate fish count per mile is on each section of the Yakima (or if there is even such a thing as an accurate fish count per mile) but it’s got more sub-six inch fish than any other river I’ve fished in Washington. I’ve caught more 3-4 inch fish than fish of any other size, so one thing is for certain: if even a small percentage of those trout tots make it to adulthood, there are going to be a lot of nice trout in the river some day. That provides hope, but no guarantees. Now I am not suggesting that I want a guarantee each time I fish – afterall, if it was that easy two things would happen: first, everyone would be out fishing and the rivers would be overcrowded (and at times they seem that way as it is); and secondly, anglers would lose interest because if it were that easy where would be the challenge? Challenge is what keeps us going back. It’s what keeps me going back to the Yak, where I am constantly catch-challenged.

Another huge advantage the Yakima has is that it’s a year-round fishery. So when cabin fever hits in the deep chill of January or February, one can stand knee deep in the frigid waters of the Yakima, shortline nymphing for whitefish and the occasional lethargic trout, while your guides ice-up and you lose feeling in your toes and fingers. Now, depending on the mood of Old Man Winter it might not be so unbearable to fish during the dead of winter because some years, like the one we’re currently enjoying up here in the Pacific Northwest, can be relatively mild and therefore the fishing discomfort minimal. So, yes – you can get our trout fix 12 months of the year on the Yakima. Oh, and in the dead of winter the wind rarely blows. And the fish rarely bite.

The Yakima is also a beautiful river, with entirely different personalities as she runs through the 70 some odd miles along her course. No two sections of the river are the same, but they all hold a certain beauty. While some of the upper sections will take the angler far from any road, overall the Yakima is not a remote river. It certainly has a rural flavor, but isolated she is not. Through the Lower Canyon, the river follows the highway, or vice versa. One is never far from the buzzing sound of tires on the rumble strip, which can serve to keep the angler, as well as the driver of the vehicle, from falling asleep. And there’s nothing quite like floating the Lower Canyon when the streamside railroad track comes alive with the deafening roar of the freight cars that make a daily migration. But even with the trains and steady vehicle traffic, the Lower Canyon offers up a chance to enjoy sightings of deer and Bighorn Sheep, and during the summer months when the recreational floaters comprise what is known as the “rubber hatch”, the river offers an altogether different type of wild life viewing opportunity. There’s never a shortage of astonishing sights.

My relationship with the Yakima is one of the love/hate nature. Hate may be the wrong choice of words, but there are times when the love, along with the fish, is in great shortage. You may be thinking to yourself that I am unduly critical of the Yakima, and that I beat her up unfairly in my writings. Truth be told, it is I who is on the receiving end of the beatings, so throw a little sympathy my way, won’t you? Go fish the Yakima for yourself and draw your own conclusions. Maybe I’ll see you on the river.

YAKIMA RIVER

Map courtesy of Amato Books, from the book,

Yakima River (River Journal Series, Steve Probasco, 1994)

The Mother of all skunks.

February 25, 2010 / Kirk Werner / 13 Comments

It seems as though perhaps last week’s entry was not well-received (or at least it was largely overlooked, possibly because I broke with protocol and posted a day early). Maybe I’m just being an insecure creative type – I fully admit that I always hope that my offerings will be met with at least mild acceptance. I looked inward to find out where I may have gone astray when it dawned on me: I had reported on an unusually good day of fishing. I acknowledge that what draws my readers (all 5 of them) to my blog is hearing of my fishing misfortunes. I am wrought with guilt and remorse, for I have seen the error in having lost my way. With renewed focus I can, and hopefully will, remedy that with my most recent fishing exploit:

A week had passed since I went looking for unicorns and bigfoot and found instead a wild Skykomish steelhead. Unless I wanted to join the many other thousands of anglers headed to the Olympic Penninsula rivers, which were still open for winter steelhead fishing, I was apparently done swinging flies with my Spey rod for the season. As I saw it I could either sit inside and write letters to the Washington Department of Fish & Wildlife demanding a change in their policies, sulk and wait for the weather to warm a bit and for trout fishing to turn on, or I could accept the invitation to join Marck on the Yakima. A wise man would have saved the gas money and stayed home.

After grabbing a sandwich at the Ellensburg Subway, I turned left on Umtanum Road and headed toward the launch at Irene Rinehart Riverfront Park to meet up with Marck and his neighbor Steave (not his real name). Not wanting to risk a shuttle service snafu, we had opted to take matters into our own hands and run our own shuttle – thus the fact that we had driven separate vehicles. As I tried to get my mind off steelhead, I performed a series of mental stretches in preparation for the first day of trout fishing of the year. By the time it hit me it was too late to do anything about it – the unmistakable aroma of skunk infiltrated the cab of my truck. Thick and heavy, skunk gets on you fast: in your nose and on the back of your tongue. And unlike an odor that originates inside the vehicle, you can’t just roll down the window – you have no choice but to deal with it until you’ve put sufficient distance between yourself and the source. But skunk lingers for a great distance and will test the lung capacity of even a pearl diver. Only once you’ve put a solid quarter mile between yourself and the source can you roll down the window and exhale. God forbid one should actually run over the mess with their tire (which luckily I did not). I cannot begin to imagine the suffering endured by those who have either been sprayed themselves, or had to deal with a dog that became bathed in skunk juice. Anyway, as I pulled into the launch, I had put odor behind me and thought nothing more of it. We dropped the Hornet into the river, did the shuttle thing (which took us again past the dead skunk), and were ready to shove off by 11:30. It was a mild day in early February. The winter had not been hard and there was no snow visible for many miles in any direction, including Vancouver BC where the Olympics were suffering from an equally mild winter.

Recent rains had caused the Yak to come up a few inches over the past few days, but she still ran low. And cold. Figuratively she’s nearly always a bit of an ice princess toward me, but on this day she was literally cold: The handy dandy Fishpond stream thermometer registered 39 degrees. No matter how I tried, I could not get it to budge above 40. At this point I pondered the value of the thermometer I carried with me. What good is it, really, to know that the water temperature is below the ideal mark? I suppose it serves as an excuse more than anything – a justification for slow fishing, and so it is that I continue to carry mine. I was, however, optimistic: 39 degrees is, afterall, only one degree below 40, and 40 seems to be a magical number with regard to trout feeding activity, though 42 or 44 are even better. We strung up the rods, pointed the bow of the Hornet downstream and away we went. The initial offering of the day was a brown Pat’s Stone above a bead head San Juan Worm dropper, with a Thingamabobber as icing on the cake. If you’ve read any of my drivel up to this point you know how I feel about nymphing. Steave had never fished a double nymph setup before, and as we rigged up I bitched about the whole nymphing thing, explained to him the potential for tangles that this method of fly fishing offered. Marck glared sideways at me and mumbled under his breath, “Not this again…”

The air temperature was probably in the mid 30’s, but it felt warmer than that. In addition to never having fished using a double nymph rig, Steave had never fished out of a drift boat either. But he was well prepared for a winter day on the river with neoprene chest waders and a heavy goretex hunting jacket. Clad from head to toe in camouflage, the flock of geese that flew overhead saw everyone but Steave. I must say that the camo was so effective that I myself could hardly see him standing in the bow of the boat from my standard perch at the tail end of the Hornet. Now before you go accusing me of sounding like some sort of snob for poking fun at his attire, please note that I’m no fly fishing fashionista, and being also an unaccomplished hunter I have plenty of camo gear myself. What one wears when fishing doesn’t make a bit of difference to me, and the only reason I’m even mentioning Steave’s attire is because I need filler material.

The day started slowly, without so much as a subtle take from a single trout (even the Whitefish gave us the cold shoulder). After about an hour the lack of action allowed for outside influences to distract us from our keen focus, and the air began to feel chillier. I broke out a pair of hand warmers and stuffed them in the pockets of my Simms G3 wading jacket, which being a pleasant shade of loden goes splendidly with my tan waders. My brown lucky fishing hat and boots compliment the ensemble nicely. Warming the fingers was a nice luxury and improved much-needed dexterity. Keeping the fingers functioning proved necessary throughout the day, as tying on new flies and replacing sections of tippet was a steady ritual. Steave proved to be a quick study in the art of nymphing and had no trouble in mastering the tangling/break-off skills displayed by Marck and I. Nobody could fault us for not getting our flies where the fish were (or should have been), because we were snagging every bit of structure imaginable. At one point in the afternoon after losing my second set of flies in 10 minutes, I sensed my attitude plummeting and self imposed a timeout. I took the oars so Marck could fish, and soon was having more fun than I’d had all day: being on the oars meant I was making good use of my time and actually doing something productive. As I employed my superior oarsmanship and put the Hornet into some particularly fishy looking water, I suddenly realized that there was not a line in the water. Marck and Steave were both frantically working to reattach lost flies and broken tippet. Luckily Marck was quick to get back into action and made a beautiful cast right into a current seam that immediately took his dropper fly right into the grips of a submerged log. SNAP! So much for that set of new flies that had lasted just exactly 12 seconds. I heard Steave speaking in muffled tongues and decided not to attempt any words of false encouragement. The overwhelming sense of desperation was becoming comical, almost. Marck asked if he could row again, to which I replied “No.” I wasn’t about to give up the best seat in the house.

Marck ponders a particular fishy section of the Yak that yielded exactly no fish. Steave is somewhere in the photo but is well-concealed in his camo attire.

We threw everything at the fish: Pat’s Stones in brown and green/yellow (hoping to match a Skwala, just in case there were Skwalas starting to move about in the river, which apparently they were not); San Juan Worms, Copper Johns, Lightning Bugs, Beadhead Olive Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ears (say THAT 3 times fast). Nada, zip, zero, zilch. While I didn’t keep a running tally, it would be safe to say that I lost 6 or 8 flies over the course of the day, and Marck and Steave were in the same boat. I made a mental note to myself: “When you get home, order more flies.” (which I did, by the way- from Big Y Fly Company)

It wasn’t until right before we reached the termination point of our float that it hit me: Although the day was rather lackluster, there was one noteworthy occurrence – Marck had not caught a fish! This was the first time I’d ever fished with him that he’d gone catchless, and while I won’t go so far as to suggest that it was something to celebrate, it did make an otherwise forgettable day one for the memory books. We called the time of death at 5:16 and pulled the Hornet out of the water, stowed our gear and headed toward downtown Ellensburg for a Hungry Mother Burger and a beer. The only thing between us and The Tav was the stretch of road that still lay shrouded in the heavy odor of skunk.