Reflections

First Light on a Perfect Steelhead Morning!

With winter knocking on Utahs door step the significance of the years passage hits home. The season has transpired as if life's time table had no relevance. This year in particular.

BC at its Best

Fresh from the Ocean

November in my world brings closure to the season regardless of its success or failures. Although, in fishing with a fly their are no failures. Over the years I have relived many of my journeys through my photographs and journal entries.Novembers quite cold tempers shop life creating windows of opportunities where years past travels with fly rod and reel can be relived and recorded. It will be a while before my journal entries can focus on British Columbia. Although it seems a distant memory, the accompanying photographs keep those memories fresh. I’m grateful for that.

The Arsenal

Cheeks of Crimson

For the first time since arriving in British Columbia the sun found the western hillside poplars and cottonwoods illuminating falls shifting foliage. Having been pissed on the previous days, suns radiance was a welcome salutation. There are sayings when chasing these fish about the character of a day; some revitalize the soul others can inflict harsh punishment, especially at the end of a fishless day. All is not easy in this game, for either man or beast, yet such elements make those successes even more revered.

The Mind Sweeper


Poachers Prints

"Q"

As falls last leaves cascade haplessly to the ground, ocean travelers continue to trickle into the great watersheds of the Northwest until only the bare branches remain, signifying that the end to another year is near. Each year, the silent season arrives more quickly, and no more so than this one. Although some images and experiences linger, like tracks in wet sand they gradually disappear only to live on through photographs, diminished memories and abbreviated writings. But at least I have these, which like worlds waters that I am fortunate to wander I remain truly grateful.

The Way Home

The Journey Continues

Steelhead Paradise

Steelheaders Ills

Cradling the wild fish in the rivers glacial currents stung my hands. Her prominent reflective scales flashed silver in the late afternoon sun. A hint of pink flecked from the rhythmical movement of her gills continuing down here lateral line. River bottom was visible through the distal tips of her pectoral fins, now steady and flared at her side. I still remember upon first bringing her to hand the milky white appearance of her plumb belly and the scar that lingered at her wrist. With the powerful flick of her broad tail she vanished; a phenomenon I’ve witnessed hundreds of times that lends a hint of doubt that she or others were even there.

As arduous as her life passage is, it pales by comparison to those steelhead that travel in my home waters in search of those rivulets of their birth; she passes no dams nor through the toxic waters that lie behind them. Upon her return and those of her smolt they will not know the burden and the toll such ill conceived atrocities take on their kind. They will not now the indignity of being loaded into a barge and boated through stagnant obstacles; a distance they could easily manage themselves, yet such navigation often become fatal. The fact that many steelhead survive such a journey is testament to their kind. Instead this beautiful hen and those of this pristine drainage migrate through flowing waters unimpeded by man; a luxury that few other races of steelhead encounter these days.

Slowly I stood, mentally reliving the brief encounter taking stock of the scale of the experience. Before me a free flowing river that dwarfs those waters that make her whole. Her arteries fed from a resilient yet threatened labyrinth of glacial basins each sustaining their own unique species of steelhead. For the most part these stocks remain relatively healthy, yet some stocks swim these currents no more victims of commercial netting that could have easily been prevented. Given the world’s climates and other encroachments, these remaining stocks also seem to be following a similar fate. Each passing year I seem to ponder such notions more, yet marvel in wonderment at the grandness of this country resilient fish and the totality of what draws me here.

A formidable wall of ancient cottonwoods resplendent in fall color stand guard over this emerald corridor. Recent snows dust the granite peaks that tower overhead in all directions. Wisps of vapor dance around their formidable summits. October’s sun radiates upward from the expansive field of neatly strewn boulders where I ponder the plight of these fish, this vulnerable landscape and its rivers knowing the greed of man can change all with the stroke of a pen. The native peoples of this land whose lives for centuries lived in harmony with these resources know of such fates.

For decades I have wandered liquid highways a driven soul where steelhead have migrated since ancient times; an event so purposeful and eminent it lends a humble perspective. Each year the urge to return knowing life’s journey comes to and end becomes much stronger, the sorrow in leaving more painful. Wilderness, their rivers and their mysterious travelers evoke such thoughts and emotion.

Content I again enter the river my pace now tempered finding solace in each cast, and the gentle arc of the line as it slides across the water. Periodically I lean back taking stock knowing my travels here are coming to an end, yet in the same thought recognize my fortunes in having such opportunities. Upon returning home, I know I’ll ponder with detail these days and count the time between until I return. These are the ills of those who wander these landscapes in pursuit of such a noble fish.

The Drive

After midnight we would finish packing. Little dialog was exchanged between us after along day and knowing what lie ahead. Before departing we would stick a pair of twenties in the ash tray to cover food and gas during our travels. Such was life back then.

My partner invariably began the drive behind the wheel. His stints were always short lived. An hour or two would pass before he would be humped over the steering column, eyes a gaze barely pushing 40 in a 65. I’d put in a dip, pour a cup of coffee and take over. Sometime during the day he would comment on his state of refreshment. I never quite had that same sense, finding a mid day nap my only option for eluding the numbness that grew as the day lingered.

An hour into it our journey took us north, leaving the blue highway behind for two lanes our headlights the only luminance penetrating the sudden blackness. Through some of the west’s heartland we slowly progressed; agricultural lands dotted with cattle and neatly rowed crops lay juxtaposed yet hidden in the night. Periodically a lone light would signify an approaching farm. On nights it would rain, our travels became treacherously slow.

Sometime in the early hours of morning dawns first light would expose the Teton’s rising majestically on the horizon signifying that our drive was nearing its end. The fertile valleys were lined with rows of neatly sown crops interrupted by a smattering of small towns. Climbing from the valley floor to the caldera the landscape changed from fields to one pitted with sage, pine, aspen and varieties of wildflowers.

After camp was set, and fresh coffee was made before heading out to fish. By the time we’d reached the worn turn out, morning’s sun had removed any chill from the air. Methodically we would change; donning waders and assembling rods, attaching reels, carefully stringing the line, each lost in our own sequence of readiness. Spinners gather overhead; an orgy that plays out daily on rivers during the season. Eventually we would make the long hike through dense fields of Sage, Lupine, Larkspur and Mules Ear. For the first time since leaving there’s a sense of alertness knowing we’d soon be soothed by flowing waters and casting to rising trout.

Several decades ago “The Drive” lingered for seven laborious hours. Today, it takes a little over four, if one is motivated. Like this drive much has changed in our world. In some respects our chaotic and shortened world leaves me yearning for that period in time when life passed at a much more leisurely pace, yet one now can leave this polluted and burgeoning city behind to fly fish on some of the worlds most prolific waters all that much quicker. A trade off that I struggle to find consolation in knowing the affects continued growth will have on the west and those waters and landscapes were I seek solace. Unfortunately those who pursue such rabid development as sung by Jerry Jeff Walker "…have never seen the northern lights, never seen the hawk on the wing, and never seen the spring in the Great Divide…".

Part of the Picture

Fly-fishing’s allure draws us from a myriad of directions. From the exhilaration one demonstrates upon landing their first fish, to the emptiness that's remains after the fish of a life time eludes the net, to the visual beauty in the surrounding landscapes where we pursue our obsessions. Amongst those who cast wisps of fur and feather there are many similarities in what we find appealing, yet the sport is such that it allows us to mold it to ones personal needs.

Over time, I’ve been fortunate to fish many of the world’s fisheries. In doing so, I’ve come to appreciate the array of physical and emotional experiences that are generated when fishing with a fly. Looking back to my early beginnings my ventures where more singular in focus. Now there are a variety of reasons that create the urge to cast a fly. In the grand scheme of things, the beauty in the sport is how it caters to each at so many different levels rendering a profusion of life experiences.

Waiting for the evening rise....

Hoping for one more...

Over the years I’ve always enjoyed trying to capture the beauty in fly-fishing through the lens of a camera. Although not a photographer, the rewards and challenges of preserving images have become as satisfying as the moment when a fish takes a fly. On a recent trip I spent as much time filming my days on the water as I did fishing. Reflecting back on a life of fishing with a fly rod I remember few if any such ventures that were as visually stimulating. It was a rare moment when one could focus on the task at hand without being distracted by the dynamic weather and visual spectacles that Mother Nature continually displayed. Although the fishing was quite good, it became only a piece of that which was impressionable.

One that Got Away......

One that didn't.....

Ducking for cover....

In a thousand words, I couldn’t describe that which daily unfolds when fly-fishing. Yet lost in such images as these are Mother’s Natures music; the sound of Sandhill Cranes off in the distance, the wind as it rustles a pine, rain as it lands upon water, the cry of a Redtail hawk, or lightning that sends you to your knees knowing such a posture still leaves you exposed. Yet they suffice to elude a mood leaving one to reflect on the beauty we are confronted with when we venture out to cast a fly upon waters that leave us with images, begging us to return.

After Hours Tugs

Mid summer’s late evening light and July’s caddis hatches created the seasons first after hour’s Shop Rats night out at a local watering hole. After a long hot day of trolling behind the counter the thought of cool air and water is sufficient motivation alone to expeditiously flip the closed sign and head for the nearest productive water. Add some cold brews, a chew, the potential for an evening rise with your compadres, and closing time just can’t arrive too soon.

Prior to our hasty departure discussions as to choice of waters given we have several good fisheries within an hour of the shop occupied the quite times. Matt, a shop manager and one never of a mind to waste coveted fishing time settled the conversation; what’s the closest river that allows us the most amount of time on the water to fish? With that pragmatic approach we settled on the Weber River. The fact that this river also has some of the states most prolific evening caddis hatches and a fair number of sizeable browns only bolstered the beleaguered resolution. In the end it mattered little, yet generated much more than an idle thought.

We arrived from a variety of directions. Nick and Bryce rendezvoused at the Side Track Café, a favorite shop eatery in Heber City, for Pasta Night and a few cold ones before joining those of us who worked. Sometime around 11pm when we’d reeled in for the night their diversion proved a wise diversion.

Shortly after our arrival and rapid exodus from Matt’s Element, the local residents quickly amassed for a gathering in hopes of a quick easy meal. Several dove for the Deet when one paused long enough to intravenously take a blood sample before joining their mates.

.

Bodies and gear were quickly sprawled about the ground in preparation for the evening hatch. Momentary confusion struck before the cluster of Patagonia Pack Vests were personally identified, given that’s what most of us fish with. If there was ever such a thing as chaotic organization, we resembled that conception. From a distance to the unsuspecting observer we may have more closely resembled a well armored swat team versus anglers preparing for an evening on the water.

Like ants we anxiously followed each other across the lush field to the rivers edge. From there we broke off into various directions in search of caddis and a seductive rise. By now suns heat had settled below the western horizon, the air now chilled. The tall streamside grasses yielded a few caddis as we moved about. Several worked their way over the waters mirrored surface, yet no trout rose to take the fleeting insects.

From the tailout, the footprint of a subtle rise grabbed the evening’s first attention. Shortly after that another rise appeared, the ring quickly melting with the ruffled surface of the riffle. Eventually several browns broke the waters rippled surface as caddis began to rise. A quick flip of a fly into the seam where several trout had risen didn’t drift long before dissappearing in the dying light. It wasn’t the largest of browns, yet its strength left an impression of a trout much larger. We hooked into several more spunky trout before the trout and the brief hatch ended among the growing darkness.

Succumbing to the inevitable we made our way under a star filled sky back. Several headlamps disappeared in and out of the dense vegetation, highlighting the others. On the frontage road, the dome lights from a vehicle showed others had given up earlier. They greeted our arrival with a welcome and cold beer.

It was after 11pm when we departed for home. Above us the Milky Way stretched across the horizon and drew considerable attention as we discussed the evenings mixed experiences. Anymore such sights are a rarity. One of the kids pointed it out. It was encouraging to see given most kids these days couldn’t recognize the

Big Dipper.

This will be one of several such forays now that the caddis have begun to pop. We talked of the fortunes we have here in Utah and the west before departing. Although such forays surrender moments of pandemonium, these evenings always make for a rejuvenating conclusions to a long day. This evenings experience was no exceptions.

Early Season

“A picture is worth a thousand words”. Through the windshield on a recent foray into trout country attempting to find fishable water makes one ponder the sanity behind such actions. At times during the early season journeys to western rivers and streams simply were a bust; reservoirs filled to beyond their thresholds regurgitating torrents downstream, monsoonal rains taking stream levels even further beyond their natural limits. Yet, the adventure of the unknown that early season fishing yields is often justification alone; seldom predictable, occasionally successful, always intriguing.

Given the patience of those who pursue trout with fur and feather this wet season has been trying. For others willing to roll the dice, there are rewards and discoveries that only the wrath of Mother Nature’s violence can conjure up.

If you are serious about finding good water to fish when seasonal conditions are so unpredictable better leave home with a full tank, a thermos of coffee or two, pack a lunch and don’t plan on heading pack anytime soon. You should also have a plan if you are hoping to have any opportunity at success. That said, even the best laid plans this spring have failed to deliver.

In a recent trek, the undertaking revolved around a reliable rumor involving Salmon Flies. Upon arriving at our destination, Salmon Flies may have been around, but the evenings down pour had negated any such opportunities. We moved finding the next piece of water in better shape, but also suffering from the previous nights deluge. Hours later we climbed to 9660’ the road eventually vanishing into a gray wet abyss before dropping into the canyon. Gnarled aspens still void of leaves eerily rose obscured by the summits dense blanket. This image fueled a growing skepticism. Descending the sun navigated through the ashen vapors illuminating a distant hillside lending hope to our dwindling spirits, the brilliant display only temporary.

Pulling over the rain continued to follow us, yet below the streams currents ran clear, a stark contrast from those waters we viewed earlier in the day. Rain drops dimpled the surface. Downstream a trout rose, its residual ring dissipating in the streams quiet currents. Those miles and swollen rivers we had left behind quickly transcended into distant memories.

PMD’s, Drakes, and Blue Wing Olives struggled to rid them selves of the stream. Those that struggled quickly disappeared, the streams piscatorial predators taking advantage of the easy meal. They showed the same eagerness for our flies, as long as the drift was true. At times that didn’t even matter.

At days end we gathered in a brief interlude of sun, riding ourselves of a damp chill. The valleys Aspens and Willows glowed, their newly emerged foliage shimmering in various shades of luminous green. Just before departing we witnessed a Golden Eagle’s rage as it fell from the sky in an attempt to red an unsuspecting Redtail from its turf both perilously plunging earthward. The hawk pulled up, the less agile Golden continued to descent before recovering to continue its ill time pursuit. This alone was worth the journey.

Living on a Dream

In the predawn hours of semi-darkness we idle north to the calm waters enveloping Key West. It’s May, the commencement of peak tarpon season. The islands tourists that flock here have departed the culturally mixed tropical destination for their more mundane domiciles, leaving it relatively mundane for those who pursue a mythical fish that has captured mans imagination since the early 1900’s.

Outside the no wake zone our guide seamlessly puts the small skiff on plane, navigating the juggernaut of invisible channels and the myriad of moored boats tethered randomly like abandon dogs within the islands sheltered basins. Startled cormorants emerge interrupted from the oceans oiled reflections as we pass. The morning’s cool air tugs at ones flesh vitalizing senses that aren’t accustomed to functioning at such an early hour.

John slows the skiff some to accommodate the smooth emerald rollers that separate us from Tower Flat, the deep channels blue waters vibrant even at this dull hour. Pulling up to the flat, its dimensions are easily defined by the mornings soft ruffling breeze. With the turn of a key, the motor dies lending an anxious calm to the atmosphere as we glide silently to the flats distal edge. All eyes methodically affix upon the shimmering waters, a rods quietly extracted from the hull, while John deftly attains the poling platform. To the east, the horizon turns various shades of crimson.

Having the pleasure of fishing with John for a number of years, we’ve learned some of his subtleties. Idle conversations slips between us in hushed tones in anticipation as he deftly works the shallow waters. In our first years we wouldn’t have noticed the alteration in the skiffs movement, but now we understand. Following the alteration peripheries locate the tarpons dissipating footprint, the only visual evidence that there are tarpon here. John quietly maneuvers the Dolphin knowing from experience that should the fish again show we’ll be in position to have a shot. Somewhere submerged the fish slips by silently undetected, “we’ll find another”.

From a thousand miles removed, I can smell the sweet scent of the ocean, hear and feel the breeze as it ruffles the ocean waters, the tousle of flags perched atop the marinas tall ships, they’re all vivid recollections. Once you’ve experienced the roll of a giant tarpon, felt its immeasurable power, heard and witnessed its manic gyrations timelessly suspended above shattered oceans the impressions remain eternally etched.

Just before the tarpon takes the fly, there’s a moment of brief hesitation as the prehistoric fish sizes up that which it pursues, their giant eyes unwavering. With a flick of a powerful tail, the tarpon accelerates, lifting simultaneously opening its cavernous mouth, the abyss, sucking in its prey. In the briefest of moments the fly disappears, almost imperceptibly, yet there is no mistaking the act. Moments later the line comes tight, the giant fish clearing the water, shaking its body violently before crashing into the emerald waters of the flat. In an instant the entire length of fly line disappears from the oversized reel, like a runaway kite severed from its string.

For the first time since being introduced to the waters off Key West and hooking my first tarpon, I’ll not make the annual migration in pursuit of this revered fish, yet realize the wealth achieved in past experiences. Like the addict I’ve become I yearn for that which I can not have. Fly-fishing is like that; casting allusions of hope for that which is often not so easily attainable.