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.

Never Again

The snow blew vertically across the landscape as we made our way to the river; ideal conditions for spring mayflies and not necessarily so for those who fish. Entering the canyon a patch of blue sky lay visibly obscured above us. At first glance the winds ferocity disheveled the trees and tugged at the surface of the water, but the snow had begun to dissipate. Further upriver an impoundment showed little change in the winds temperament. To our amazement the canyons turnouts were void of any vehicles, the river undisturbed by the presence of any anglers; an anomaly for this fishery even under such challenging conditions.

By the time we arrived in the canyons upper reaches the wind had begun to disperse. Still no signs of legged’s, leaving us with unbridled choices. In the three decades I’ve fished here, I’ve only fished in solitude in dawns first light, but never at this late hour. I ponder the likelihood of ever witnessing such an unprecedented act of emptiness again.

I expect another vehicle or two to join us as we get dress and rig our rods, yet to our dismay none do. The steep bank that we must navigate to reach the river is covered in snow. Cautiously we descend. Once we reach the river bottom, we spread out, knowing there’s no one here. The suns rays maybe warm, but the canyon breeze adds a slight bit of discomfort to the air, yet it’s far more pleasant than the other days I’ve fished here this season.

Upstream a break of mature conifers shelters our casts and waters from the wind. Midges scurry about, and a blue wing or two drifts uninterrupted on the rivers placid currents. On the far bank, the afternoon’s first rise grabs my attention. Lazily I ponder the situation, soaking in the sun, patiently waiting for the hatch to mature before committing. Like magic the delicate insects appear, their numbers increasing, drifting haplessly like toy sailboats waiting for their wings to dry anticipating flight. It’s an amazing struggle given their size and the environment they must navigate to reach adulthood.

Eventually several of the rivers larger trout are attracted to the waters surface. From where I sit I watch a nice brown track a single blue wing olive, drifting back several feet before leisurely opening it’s mouth; water and mayfly cascading into its gullet. Before I leave it will take one of my flies in the same confident fashion, settling back in its lie before feeling the pressure of the line that now connects us coming tight. Twice the brown clears the water, its plumb body shimmering in the late afternoon sun before reluctantly sliding into my net.

These fish have wintered well, evidence of last year’s good flows. I admire this final trout’s large black spots and those prisms of color that are unique to Salmo trutta. It’s a far larger brown than I anticipated, although it felt heavy on the line. It’s broad pectoral fins flare, stabilizing its body in the cool current. With a gentle thrust of its tail it slides from my outstretched hand.

I secure my fly to the rod and reel in the slack eventually retaking my position on the bank in the sun content with the day. As the pool mends, its trout settle again feeding confidently on the carpet of blue wings. Quietly I sit and watch. For the first time since I started casting I hear the wind whistle through the adjacent hillside of protective pines. For the moment time slows as only it can on a river so unfettered.

After a while I gathered my reluctant companions. The rivers trout continued to rise, tempting our retreat. We pause periodically taking in a river bathed in afternoons soft light, its currents still void of anglers, its trout feeding undisturbed, an image and a day we all store in the memory banks knowing it my never happen again.

The Nipple Rise

Couldn’t resist! Rise forms often lend insight into what a trout may be taking. Here, there’s know doubt, yet the residue of pure bliss from another blue wing unsuspectingly engulfed the remaining lingering residual, the nipple rise form.

Argentina

When traveling distances without signs of human habitation, you’re wandering in destinations that are becoming increasing rare to experience. A thirteen hour traverse south from Atlanta will put you in such a place. In the dark of night we flew over fertile forests so vast they control much of the world’s climate. To date such mysterious habitats have only been viewed from the comforts of my couch. Tracking the trajectory of the plane, I began to surmise the expansiveness of this rich continent. I vividly recall the graphic animation as the plane entered the northern tip of South America. Hours later it appeared to have barely moved.

The sky outside the aircrafts windows were beginning to pale as we prepared to land in Argentina’s capitol, Buenos Aires. Its size was as impressionable as the country it resides within. After the lengthy journey it was a welcome change, but generally such masses of humanity aren’t much of a welcome reprieve for me, after flying packed like cattle on their way to the slaughter house. Guess I’m not very cultural, preferring landscapes were evening skies aren’t diffused by light or pollutants that are byproducts of the worlds densely populated metropolises.

Travel these days has a certain level of anxiety. Add time zones, customs, and language barriers and it’s often escalated to a much higher level. All was going smoothly, until we confronted a check in agent who wouldn’t let us carry our rods on as we began the next leg of our travels after our cultural awakening in BA. She must have been having a ruff day. Our best “Spanglish” didn’t win us any consolations. Somehow, we diverted the discussion sufficiently to move forward, taking fate in our own hands. Had we not, a number of rods would have been splintered into carbon fiber toothpicks, that is if they showed up at all; fortunately only a minor blip, considering other potential mishaps.

By the time we met Ron, Chocolate Labs Expedition proprietor and his guides Diego and Eduardo we were ready to see a familiar face. Even in such a remote city as Bariloche, they easily stood out. On a grander scale, in Buenos Aires, street peddlers and merchants of various sensual pleasures annoyingly picked us out just as easily. I’ve found it pays to walk slowly in such situations. Wherever you travel, anglers are easily recognizable by those with similar pursuits, even without rods in their hands. Whether it’s the baseball caps, the ventilated shirts, or the raccoon eyes, regardless there is an aspect of herd mentality that’s noticeable.

Just outside of Bariloche, we traveled juxtaposed to the Rio Limay. Its invitingly clear currents immediately conjured preconceived images of Argentinean trout. From the main road, we detoured along one of its tributaries, steadily climbing. At the summit, we peered upon the Continental Divide, something none of us expected to encounter. The view was breathtaking, the road fittingly dirt, spiraling down through an uninhabited valley birthing yet another stream. They seemed to be endless.

Other than on the Limay we saw no anglers working the pristine waters we crossed that day. Entering San Martin and on into Junin sculptures and signs bearing silhouettes of trout was the first evidence of the areas summer bread lines. Just outside of Junin we crossed the Chimy Huin, another one of the more famous Argentinean waters, yet only one of a vast number we would cross this day. It was apparent that our brief stay would barely touch what Argentina offered in scenic vistas and waters to cast a fly within. Considering Chile’s snow capped Andes rose just a stones throw to the west where waters of a similar scale and prolificness flowed, a perspective grew that was somewhat inconceivable.

At the end of the long drive we entered San Humberto, home to the Rio Malleo, at least 30 some odd miles. The surrounding Lombardi Poplars exposed the properties whereabouts, as they did almost all estancias in the region. Behind its gated fence lay a well manicured lawn, meticulously landscaped with varieties of ornamental vegetation. Long legged Ibis patrolled the grounds for an unsuspecting meal, while the cackle of parrots filled the air. At the end of the driveway, the lodge looked richly inviting.

Being late we briefly met the proprietors before being escorted to the first of many epicurean delights and our first of many fine Malbecs. Although it was a snack to tide us until the evening meal, it could have easily sufficed until morning. It was readily apparent the eating in Argentina was an event, at least when it came to lunches and dinner. Dress was hurried as we prepared to sample the waters for the first time. It was what we had come for and anxiously anticipated from the time we left several days past.

The Rio Malleo was the perfect beginning to the trip. It’s a small piece of water when compared to many numerous liquid ribbons that dissect this fertile region. Ernest Schwiebert fished here on numerous occasions and wrote of its character often. The stream and the valley it meanders through is as picturesque a trout stream as you’ll find, especially with the towering presence of the Lanin volcano looming in the background. That first evening, those early apprehensions concerning distances traveled eroded as we stepped into the water.

The diversity of flyfishing options in the Neuquen Province is mesmerizing; from tiny spring creeks to waters equaling North America’s “Mother Rivers” presenting infinite opportunities. In our travels we caught many memorable fish, each of us left with our own fond recollections. For me, it was one fish that was more a testament to the Argentina’s elements than the fish itself.

This last day, winds blew from the put in, picking up where the left off from the previous day. If’ve your familiar with this country from a fishing perspective, you’re privy to it’s infamous winds. This day, they pummeled our backsides. Casting from the boat was tolerable, but they created persistent hardships on all the guides. With growing layers of dense clouds gathering to the west, the winds notched it up in afternoons waning light. The last fish of the day was a plump brown that exceeded most browns encounter when fishing home waters. As Ron tried to set the anchor, the brown propelled itself in the opposite directions of our drift quickly removing the fly line from the old Hardy. As the distance between us lengthened, the wind drove the belly of the exposed line far over the exposed stones of the river bank. In amazement we gawked as the growing tension from the driving wind eventually beached the sizeable brown. By they time we got to it, the fish was almost completely out of the water.

At the take out, we gathered. Mate’s, and beers were exchanged while boats and vehicles were loaded for the last time. Randomly one of us would scurry across the rocky shore for articles that the wind had carried off. We paused for a final photo before departing. A certain gratification permeated the group as we assembled, leaning into the wind one last time.

It was a quiet ride back to motel each lost in their own tired reflections of trout, rivers, shared friendships and a time that transpired much too fast. Back on the main road, the sky burned red in the western horizon before giving way to evening’s darkness; that blackness that’s only seen in such corners of the world anymore. Places where one can take stock of life with few if any. We’re fortunate to experience such solace, especially in such distant lands; a luxury none of us take for granted.

It's Over

Finally, it's over. HB 187 was defeated this morning shortly after 10am. The process works. There were a lot of people involved in this process and everyone role was integral to our successful efforts. No need to pour salt on any wounds remembering that we'll need to deal with this legislative issue in the future. To pull it off, it's going to need a collective effort from all sides. Given what will be at stake, it won't be easy.

We owe many people thanks, especially those representatives that voted to table the Bill, took the time to talk with us and consider what we had to say. We're going to need their support again in the future to get a Bill sponsored and supported. This is not going away, as much as we'd like to think it will.

Behind the scenes, there was a ground swelling grassroots effort. It was beautiful to see. As I wrote earlier, we came together as a community and worked tirelessly on a cause that effects us all. Lets not loose the cohesiveness that's come from this effort.

For now we can all go back to what binds us, fishing. Although we have the opportunity to fish waters we've never fished before, I urge all anglers to go out of their way to create relationships with those whose waters we now may fish. These relationships will be imperative to our success as we move forward. How we behave will go a long way towards passing a Bill that serves affected parties.

Finally, I've got some new friends out of this ordeal. This effort brought a diverse group to the table and tha now realize we're all on the same side regardless of how you fish or what you fish with. Even if we had not won, the camaraderie from this endeavor won't diminish anytime soon. It's even more solidified given the series of events that occurred this morning. To all, thank you! Collectively we couldn't have done it without all who contributed. Now the real work begins.

Third Times a Charm

The saga of HB 187 lives on. Friday Rep. Ferry played a strategy that’s become common during this process, bringing his patchwork piece of legislation to the floor just prior to its adjournment. This was the 3^rd substitution. What’s new is language by Rep. Draxler. His injections changed the board from having one that had advisory capacity to a board with rule making authority, something we’ve been asking for since before the Bill was made public. There’s just one hitch; a simple little word that sets up the criteria for listing a river, the word and. Since the word and was used, in order for a body of water to qualify for addition to the list it must meet all listed criteria. Had the word been or, a said water would just have to meet one of the listed criteria. Bottom line, there few if any waters that will be acceptable. Rep. Draxler tried to amend this recognizine the implication of the language, but his amendment was not accepted.

Ten more pieces of water were added as part of the 3rd substitution. This is good, and now takes the list up to 40, 41 listed but one is listed twice (yet more confusion). We’re still far short of a reasonable list of waters, especially in the central and southern part of the state. Given the inclusion of and versus or, virtually this is all we’re going to get. If the Bill passes the House, which we’ll know by Monday, there may be some opportunity to add waters in the Senate.

Rep. Draxlers efforts weren’t all for not however, he was able to get the Board changed. It’s members would now be mostly comprised of those who recreate on our public waters. But, unless we’re able to get the language changed, this board will have little to do. Todd Bingham of the Farm Bureau was chomping at the bit to get this recent revision through the House and onto the Senate, now we know why. He lobbied hard all day Thursday and Friday to get this to the floor for a vote, but as we speak, Rep. Ferry late submission cost him, and again HB187 sits circled.

Having some time to read the Bill over the weekend has brought some other things to light. This is still a poorly crafted piece of legislation, even after Draxlers amendments, which are an improvement. However, the crux of the matter still falls upon the list; it’s arbitrary and capricious nature. It’s a list of random waters chosen based upon opinion, yet is far from inclusive. Regardless of how this Bill will affect the parties involved, its uncertainty creates inequality for all. Maybe that’s what good legislation is supposed to be.

With luck and hopefully wisdom, those in the Legislature will recognize the Bill’s shortcomings, piecemeal content and legal susceptibility. The House of tired of dealing with this given other very significant legislation that’s still to be dealt with. It seems obvious that interim study would at least give us something to work with. At this late juncture, that’s not likely to occur.

I look back at our first meeting with Rep. Ferry in January, and in frustration ponder the time we’ve collectively spent on this Bill. In that first meeting if he’d included us in the process as we asked, I can’t help but think we’d have been more constructive with our time. A number of the issues we brought up and questioned several months ago have been changed through conflict and divisiveness. It didn’t have to be that way, but unfortunately we weren’t the ones pulling the strings.