Schmidt's Walkabouts

Fracking; buyer beware!

2012-02-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

WASHINGTON—Documentary filmmaker Josh Fox was cuffed by Capitol Hill police after Republicans objected to his presence at yesterday's meeting of the House Subcommittee on Energy and Environment.

Fox said he had hoped to film Wednesday's hearing as part of a follow-up to his Academy Award-nominated "Gasland"—a film that received mass critical acclaim for its revealing glimpse into the destructive practice of hydraulic fracking. Fracking has been linked to ecosystem destruction and groundwater pollution. The energy industry keeps the actual content of fracking chemicals a secret. (Likely because they turn our taps into fire-breathing monsters.)

"This is a public hearing, and within my First Amendment rights I'm being taken out," Fox said, as Chief Wiggum and his buddy showed him the door.

To Fish Good Water

2011-12-17T21:14:00.000-07:00

Preview

It seemed like a pointless exercise each cast and subsequent swing of the fly futilely drifting through the lifeless current. Those familiar with fly-fishing for steelhead know conditions can exude such pessimism. Under different situations there may have been a sense of optimism for this particular piece of water, yet there was none even though through the years it has produced fish with a level of consistency.

For much of the day and the previous it was a challenge to find water that fished or held some sense of appeal. At times the willows and young sprouts impeded any ability to make a cast the water so high ones backside was often buried in their outstretched limbs. Most runs were simply too fast, the river at its current elevated level resembling a ditch running unimpeded. Although limited, good water could be found, yet these mirrored turbid waters of polished glass held none of those qualities, at least for the way I fish.

Over the past several days my feet grope for a bottom that I can not see, often stumbling over submerged vegetation or structure hidden from view. Where they tread normally is dry and some distance from the gradual flow where the run begins except in spring when torrents purge all free flowing rivers here. With the realities of climates change the very notion of normal is being questioned and for the second year we are confronted with waters in a record state of flux, laden with debris, and opaque driven only by fishing good water and in that persistence a glimmer of hope. Some days regardless of conditions that is all a steelheader has, but if one has pursued this fish long enough one knows its an integral part of the game.

For several days we arrive at the rivers edge to launch our craft alone as if we are pioneers off to discover uncharted waters. Having roughed through a similar experience the previous year we have come to appreciate the solitude and a river corridor void of others. Should the waters improve, having to share becomes an annoyance into what has temporarily become a private sanctuary, our selfish sense of earned entitlement eroded.

In steelhead, as in life there are no guarantees. At times the pursuit is not kind. Those new to steelheading rarely comprehend the revered persistence of chasing these deceptive nomads, the worth in the reward. Most move on to other pursuits, imitators defy ethical practices shunning respect for an artificial prowess. It’s the very act of illusiveness that makes this endeavor so appealing; after all we pursue a fish that travels vast oceans before returning to home waters and to the very gravel of their birth with wisps of fur and feather.

On our last day, after going fishless for several, conditions had not changed, rain persisted, waters remained excessively high. To the west a damp darkness draped the landscape, a perfect canvas for the rainbow that greeted us as we launched. A ribbon of golden cottonwoods and poplars; perhaps an omen, illuminated the way. Over the past week the waters we would fish this day failed to yielded a single steelhead; not a yank, or pull or hint of chrome, yet we proceeded undeterred to fish good water thankful that we have enjoyed some success knowing we could have as easily had none.

Last days take on there own significance, sense of time, and level of heightened anxiety. This day was no exception. Time slip through the hour glass unconstrained. As early afternoon’s sun bathed the valleys fall foliage we fished in cold shadows, an unwelcoming wind grabbing our floating lines and sparse flies, denied the warmth and comfort that mocked us just a short distance across the river.

As we neared the end of yet another empty piece of good water that which may have distracted us was abruptly discarded. Down river a line moved towards mid river. A deep bow in my partners two hander, and the sound of his Hardy confirmed any doubt. By the time I reached him the bright fish was ready to land, yet there was no urgency knowing under these conditions this may be the only fish of the day. Eventually the buck slid atop the murky water to his outstretched hand, the barbless hook easily falling from the corner of its jaw.

We took our time to gaze into the fishes bewildered eyes, noticing the randomness of the fine spots that ran the length of its broad gray back to the tip of his elongated snout. Images could be seen through the fishes translucent fins and tail. We ran our fingers down the net scars that marred his body recognizing this fishes fortunate fate. For a brief moment it rested, gills undulating, its body adjusting to rivers swirling currents. Eventually he swam onward undeterred, disappearing among the turbid waters a phantom driven by a wayward journey.

In celebration we passed a bottle, pouring a gratuitous round of whiskey into the rivers diffused currents after each taking a pull. Had our day ended with this singe fish we would have been content. It was all either of us had hoped for given the outcome of the past few days, yet there would be more. By the time we landed our last steelhead, dark clouds were again threatening from the northwest, the sun buried behind the growing wall. We’d experienced a day like few others in steelheading even under ideal conditions. To enjoy such success on this last day made it even more noteworthy.

A last round of whiskey came towards the days end. It wasn’t prompted by the landing of another landed steelhead, but to a day of fishing good water, with people you want to share time with and to the simple acknowledgment at day’s end of how fortunate we were.

As long shadows draped the narrow canyon walls we floated out to the sound of the river. Several eagles gazed down upon us as we floated by, perched in vigilance undisturbed, settling in for a cold night. In growing silence we took solace in all that we experienced in this day, this week, with the realization it was coming to an end, yet thankful for having good water to fish and to be rewarded in doing so knowing full well it doesn’t always work out that way.

The Dean

2011-06-19T20:05:00.001-06:00

The sound of trembling poplars stirs distant memories of a river corridor that has few equals in the eyes of those who pursue steelhead. That particular afternoon the river was void of anglers, everyone choosing to enjoy a lavish lunch and nap before heading back out for the evenings fish. I packed a peanut butter sandwich and some water instead, wandering alone through dense forests, over molded stone and cobbles where the rivers bear and wolf also travel. It wasn't so much to optimize steelhead opportunities as it was to immerse myself in this river and grasp completely why those who have come before me have such reverence for these waters.

Quietly seated in natures amphitheater with a melody of rustling leaves and the rivers descending cadence lent a perspective to a watershed I'd not felt. It's legendary steelhead I'd experienced, yet this resources shear majestic qualities, scope and grand theater these threatened fish run through came to fruition on those solitary afternoon strolls. It as then I grew to understand the magnitude of this impressionable place.

The last time I cast a fly under the Dean Rivers towering canyon walls, heard the shimmer of its century old cottonwoods, felt its glacially fed currents or the chaotic nature of its powerful piscatorial travelers was over a decade ago. I still endure a vivid almost surreal recollection of those days. My departing view from the small Cesna that took me away from such grandeur was painful knowing I may never again have the opportunity to return. As time passed, those notions seem to be playing out.

During a casual conversation pertaining to the state of the industries affairs an invitation to again return to the Dean River was recently extended to me. It wold be in middle of August, a time when often river conditions support the success of a well presented dry and definitely conducive to a greased line fly. Rivers currents will be more tempered at this late juncture in the season, yet it's steelhead will be fresh and bright. I still remember. Should this opportunity have not ever come along, I'll always remember the Dean. It does that to you.

I have always felt incredibly grateful for those early opportunities to fish the Dean. However, this visit will be even more meaningful given the years that have transpired since my last trip regardless of the fishing. Being a steelheader, to have the opportunity to fish such great waters is all one should ask. That in and of itself is enough.

Third Times a Charm

2011-05-30T13:02:00.002-06:00

Unexpectedly my recent travels in Argentina began on the 8^th floor of an obscure building tucked above Florida Street in Buenos Aires lone fly shop. For those who have wandered this congested yet colorful pedestrian thoroughfare, it’s probably not what you are thinking. While waiting to check into my hotel KC Walsh, head honcho at Simms, just happened to wander into the lobby. Being on a tight schedule, which KC always seems to be, he collared me and ran me across the street to meet Marcelo; purveyor of the cities only fly shop. Like most Argentine flyfishers, his enthusiasm for his country and its diverse fly-fishing opportunities flowed from his exuberant personality. Our visit was brief, yet well worth the diversion on many levels.

Ah yes, you've got to love small world moments! For starters, finding a fly-shop in Buenos Aires given the myriad of exotic options this city offers wasn't exactly on the days radar. Drinking a few street side brews, checking out the local scenery, enjoying a nice lunch, and asado for dinner later on were more what we had in mind. Being commandeered by KC wasn’t part of the picture when we arrived, yet no visit to this busting city has ever been orchestrated with a plan of consistency. Unfortunately for KC, his stay was coming to an end. For us, our adventure was just getting underway.

Those fortunate to have fished with a fly in South America revel in their trout, the myriad of diverse waters, expansive and often vertical vistas, its peoples gracious hospitality, fine wines, and hearty cuisine. These are some of the extraordinary aspects of a fly-fishing journey in Patagonia. Somewhere in the discussion along with the eloquent accolades that accompany a visit to Argentina you’ll encounter various descriptive adjectives elaborating on the countries notorious wind. Well deserved I might add. Looking back as proof that first year I remember my last brown trout of the trip literally being drug up into the shallows and beached as the wind drove the full length of my fly line well up onto bank of small cobbles and stones. It was one of the most productive days of our visit, yet it had it’s frustrations for angler and guide alike. That’s what cold beers, good cigars and a good streamside nap are for! Those pondering this trip, be fore warned; in this part of the world Mother Nature’s not often kid. On the brighter side, the trout don’t seem to mind.

It is not my goal to catch all the world fishes, or to venture to a new fly-fishing destination just to say I have. That would be similar to counting fish as the sole reflection of the experience. Such sallow manifestations neglect any relationship or respect for the waters, the creatures they are linked to, or the impact as an angler you have. Instead days fly-fishing are narrowly affixed to a simple number.

I have always sensed that fishing with a fly offers much more than that. I feel the same about the destination I frequent and come to know. It’s why I enjoy traveling and sharing my experience and the places I’ve come to frequent with others. You can’t always control the fishing, that’s a simple fact, but it’s also what makes what we pursue rewarding. If you are pondering a trip to Argentina, BC or anywhere in the world for that matter and you gauge the success of the adventure on the number or the size of fish that come to hand, you’re probably going to spend a lot of money being disappointed. If you consider all the amazing attributes that you get to enjoy as a result of fishing with a fly-rod, whether it be in your backyard or abroad, you are more often than not in for many incredible fly-fishing experiences. This being just one!

Having found something special in Argentina, again I returned knowing I’ve only pawed at the surface of this vast countries waters; its fly-fishing opportunities, people, wines the endless trays of succulent meats and fine pastas. Yearning to enhance our familiarity of Argentina’s offering, we changed our trip from February to April this year; not that early February visits weren’t living up to expectations. The fact that this is my third visit to Argentina should vouch sufficiently for those first two experiences. The lure of more stable weather, consistent hatches and fewer bodies proved a strong attraction to the switch. Not that the rivers of Argentina are crowded, but given the other two considerations, throwing the third into the mix only provoked our curiosity.

Our host’s boastings held true; Mother Nature behaved her self, however she did rear her ugly head on occasions. The rivers prolific hatches generated some of the best dry fly-fishing we have yet to enjoy. The weather overall couldn’t have been more ideal or timed; little wind, spectacular sunsets, and clouds and rain when the mattered the most. And yes, and there were few if any on the water to share in our experience.

This third time was a charm. Looking to 2012 in April of 2012, I figure the forth time should be like fine wine that just keeps gets better with each passing year. Did I mention that Argentina has some pretty outstanding wine!

Chow…..

To Fish Great Water Well

2010-12-20T22:38:00.001-07:00

A light drizzle dimples the blackened tarmacs gathering puddles as we depart the twin engine turbo at “Steelhead International”. First impressions, perfect weather for encountering the provinces chrome jewels. Prior to landing pressed faces peer through aged windows catching glimpses of a glacially tainted river meandering through a valley corridor lined in golden poplar, birch, and fir. To a steelheader far from home an anxious yet welcome view. After an evening of suds, a short restless night is spent preparing for what lay ahead.

From town the Queens Highway travels south crossing the river where another glimpse affords a less desirable image of the waters below. It appears swollen by comparison, a brownish tinge permeating its depths. Perhaps the previous evenings failing light lent a more palatable quality to the rivers appearance. As we continue to the lodge I ponder the reality of that deception knowing past experiences.

A damp afternoon leaves us exiting a river on the rise. The following morning we huddle in darkness on the rivers bank its audible pitch alerting us to her unsettled violence, yet we prepare for the day with enthusiasm. Dawn greets us with a broken sky, a crimson glow highlighting the distant snow covered peaks; the first we’ve seen of them since arriving. For good reason we were the only group to launch that morning, although others gathered to stare, cups of streaming coffee held in their hands skeptically watching as we departed.

Ancient downed cottonwoods, limbs mixed with smaller debris drift by as we hopelessly swung our flies, posting guides on vigil against an unfortunate encounter. We believed there was hope, after all we’re steelheaders. The suns warming rays accentuate the waters impenetrable color while highlighting the corridors ribbon of luminous golden foliage. With rains subsiding, hope rekindled, undeterred we continued on.

Midway through the week the caramel colored waters dilute to a consistency that resembles weak coffee. Outside the lodge, the once raucous flow is audibly tempered; subtle changes that impel a steelheader on. Like vultures, others now descend, where once we fished alone. Competition now stalks this waterway sensing opportunity. They are greeted by those who believed and persevered as intruders knowing the solitude that was once enjoyed would now be interrupted.

Just rewards accompany optimism and faith. For those who pursue these fish, such truisms often are all one has. Those who fail to accept this, move on to an aspect of fly-fishing that is more predictable, and forgiving. On waters where vagabond jewels only temporarily reside, faithless casts frequently go unanswered. John Hazel one noted with experienced reflection on the nature of steelhead fishing with a fly; “good steelheading is simply fishing great water well”. As our time on this unimpeded river unfolded, this was never more true, nor fulfilling.

With three days remaining, optimism and hope blossomed in the form of a plump rose colored buck. For the first time since arriving, belief, hope and faith firmly rests in a pair of outstretched hands. Given the nature of this sport, a solitary fish is worth jubilant celebration; even more so given the hand we’d been dealt and the conditions we endured.

In the final days, conditions improved, so did the fishing. Given our expectation, moments of trepidation eventually yielded to success and celebration. In many respects we were fortunate knowing in reality there are no givens here, after all you are a guest in Mother Nature’s court, subject to her whims, playing a game that remains relatively pure, honest, and raw. Unlike other growing aspects of fly-fishing here a sense of fair play and simple appreciation still exists.

Last days always arrive too soon. Before departing reflective contemplations are calculated from the glass confines of “Steelhead Internationals” solitary gate with a certain sense of despair. At the edge of the runway the river flows out of sight, dotted with solitary figures methodically probing for an elusive quarry. You yearn to still be among them. The corridors once vibrant poplar and cottonwoods now sway rhythmically naked and exposed. Silently inventory is taken of the experience, opportunities lost, and the years of wandering this country and its waters. A good friend once said upon first arriving in this country, that I would never be the same. I scoffed at that notion. Over two decades have since passed since then, he was right.

As an infected soul, I quietly board the plane lost in my thoughts, already yearning for that which will be left behind. From the window, as I have for decades, I’ll grasp one last glimpse of a river that tugs as it does its steelhead hoping to again return to fish great water well.

The Doc Spratley

2010-12-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

One by one I’ve begun rebuilding a steelhead box that was recently stolen. Although other items were taken that box of faith and hope represented a quarter of a century of steelhead fishing; a collection of flies tied, bartered and gifted over the years. Of all that was taken, it was the most significant loss.

Several weeks passed before I sat down at my bench to begin the arduous tying process that would fill some of the voids left by the absconded box knowing that I would be unable to simply replace, or recreate that which was lost overnight. In doing so, I’ve found a renewed sense of excitement in tying those patterns that have proven their worth over the years and a renewed interest in tying a few new ones.

Greg Pearson stopped by the other day and naturally we spent a fair amount of time discussing our steelhead season; waters we had fished, successes, failures, flies and other related matters. He’d found great success in a pattern I’d heard of, but never fished or tied, the Doc Sprately. What caught my attention was the fact that it had a green butt. Those that know the patterns I prefer when steelhead fishing, know that a number of my flies quite consistently have a green butt.

Shortly after Greg left I was perusing the internet looking for samples of this fly and stumbled upon one that was of interest, the Doc Spratley Spey. It is a beautifully dressed low water fly, and one deserving of a steelhead. After a slight modification to the wing, there now lies a nice little gathering of these in my new box adjacent to those freshly tied patterns that are the foundation of my offerings. Come next season, I’ll be looking for a reason to fish this fly. It won’t take much knowing that any respectable steelhead would find it hard to resist.

The Best in Fly Fishing Media

2010-11-30T09:09:00.003-07:00

Given that print media has taken a dive over the past decade or, there have been some excellent on-line publications such as the latest issue of This is Fly. The other good internet publications and the first of it's kind was, Catch Magazine. Not only are these new internet magazines refreshing, they are free, they don't write biased and worthless product reviews, and the vivid imagery simply pops from the screen.

But all is not lost when it comes to good fly-fishing print media. I must give a shout out to one of the few good newsstand fly-fishing rags, The Drake; still the best magazine in print and worth the paper it's printed on. There are others trying to carve out a niche in fly-fishing, but to date none match the creativity or whit in writing or material that The Drake brings us. I just wish they'd put it out more than a few times a year.

Check them out! Good stuff when you can't chase your favorite species with fur and feather, or need a good fish fix at the office! Enjoy.....

Old Man

2010-11-24T22:45:00.002-07:00

My kids made me music CD’s when they still cohabitated the house. They were affectionately labeled “Old Man Mix”;at least I believe they were. It was good stuff: Neil, Hendrix, Allman Brothers, Peal Jam, John Butler, Ben Harper, Dylan, Marley, blending musical transitions of the years we shared. Those mixes accompanied and still do many a road trip resonating most harmoniously with windows down, a waft of fresh cool air swirling about the interior, with the smell of fresh cut fields permeating the senses.

Coincidentally, about the time these musical medleys emerged I encountered a mortal reconciliation. Seated quietly among the flowing grasses and wildflowers on the banks of the Henry’s Fork waxing in the afterglow of a memorable morning, fully absorbed in the rivers encompassing beauty this disturbing contemplation eroded the tranquil moment; how many more years do I have left to fish these waters? The thought set me upright, fractured any sense of contentment I was experiencing, left me perplexed, distracted and contemplating a timetable of life past and present. I still vividly recall that moment.

Not long after that, the reality of that intrusive thought sat before me; flesh and blood. He was a rather distinguished gentleman with graying hair, full mustache with a shouldered slouch creeping into his once erect posture. There was a hint of brightness to his eyes, but the realization of life’s mortality had eroded some of that. His presence and our ensuing conversation affixed emotions of my own fresh ponderings. As we talked, a mounting sadness permeated the room.

My friend had come to the end of his fly-fishing life, a life once filled with vivid anticipation and adventure on the worlds waterways. In his hands were his tools of the trade; rods, and reels of an era gone by, each with their own narrative, the test of time worn well into each unique piece. A vest tattered lay limp across his nimble legs. With sadness he handed these items over to me to sell, knowing that family nor friends would give them the considerations he felt they deserved. Quietly I watched him leave, those encroaching thoughts resurfacing from that reflective morning.

Shortly after this, my father passed away. It was expected, yet the suddenness of his demise challenged any preparedness for his departure. Just before his passing, seated upon the bleached remains of a once towering cottonwood in a steady British Columbia rain, writing phone numbers in the mud in an effort to try and reach my father after he was hospitalized, made the distance between us infinitely long, yet I was thankful for the brief solace this country afforded me knowing what ultimately lay ahead. What more fitting of a place to prepare for such matters, to garner life’s realizations, reflect upon a man you’d only come to truly know not all too long ago and in between ones own destiny.

Much has changed in my life since that moment several years ago bathed in sunshine while contemplating life. Fly-fishing now lends occasions to wander the world’s waterways with a more contemplative outlook, where the catching of fish is no less celebratory, but overall yields to a smaller gesture of fulfilling circumstance. Given the fortunes of my time, each outing bears an enhanced significance, each wandering however brief more poignant, each fish appreciably unique more noteworthy. Similar to the older gentleman who I had shared that introspective moment, there is a growing appreciation for time in general, especially time on the water, and to fish for the simple pleasure and solace it affords the just reward.

Anglers Sue for Stream Access

2010-11-17T21:19:00.042-07:00

It was bound to happen sooner than later, a law suit in dealing with Utah stream access. On November 13th, the Utah Stream Access Coalition filed suit challenging the merits of HB141; a recently passed bill that took away the public rights to access Utah's public waters. Check out this story by the Salt Lake Tribune for additional details.

For all anglers this creates an opportunity to put in place stream access laws that were supported by the Utah Supreme Court in July of 2008, however it's not a time to sit on the side lines and wait to see how this all works out. The Coalition is going to need participants and it must raise significant monies to support these actions. Visit their website or follow them on Facebook to see how you can be apart of this historical action.

The Big Guy

2010-09-05T08:20:00.050-06:00

Its not everyday one gets to fish with their mentor whose skills and generosity have made him one of the unsung figures in flyfishing. Through the years Emmett Heath and I have revolved through a variety of doors before coming full circle and again find ourselves entwined in business once again and more importantly even fishing together now and then. For both of us, at this juncture in our lives, our recent hook-up only seems fitting.

Emmett infused his talents and sense of ethics over twenty years ago into our guide service. That sense of ethics and stewardship drifted away during his absence. It’s nice to have him mentoring a new generation of guides with his soulful philosophy and sense of right. Given the way most guides operate these day, most could all use a dose of his wisdom and tutelage.

For the first time since rejoining Western Rivers, I and several of my staff had the privilege of fishing with the “Big Guy”. This seasons summer seemed has passed much too quickly for anyone’s liking. Knowing that opportunities to fish the Green River and spend some time with our guides was slipping away had several pulling the Red Eye on what would end up being a spectacular day.

It is amazing how easy it is to take a resource as spectacular as the Green and those that are in your backyard for granted. That is something Emmett has never done nor lost sight of. He’s rarely left this panoramic country, simply recognizing that this prolific fishery suits him just fine. Each time I and others have the opportunity to be on his river, I’m reminded of this. This day, like those in the past was no different.

keen eye and perspective on his place in the history of the Green River and what a precious gem this uniquely clear river is. We got a sense of that before we reluctantly parted company late that day, and in leaving a sense of regret that we hadn't taken the time to do this more often. Such surreptitious journeys have become a rarity over these past years. Such seems to be casualty of life as of late. All of us hoped that will change one day.

Argentina Revisited

2010-03-28T20:52:00.011-06:00

Comfortable seated, tired and stuffed, I leaned back to gaze upon a foreign sky consumed. In my hand the embers from a dying cigar glowed warmly, a hint of smoke drifting aimlessly in to the abyss of the Argentine night. Overhead the Southern Cross slowly crept from beneath a cirrus sliver; the Milky Way intensely reaching from horizon to horizon off to its side. It was the first clear night since arriving in Argentina and the first opportunity to partake in a ritual my first evening the Nuequen Province; a therapeutic conclusion to each eventful day.

Earlier the day began cold and unwelcome; winds ripped the meniscus from the rivers black reflective surface. Sheets of horizontal rain added to the mix of challenging weather, yet we found more than a few trout willing to take our small offerings. As the day progressed unrelenting winds tore at our efforts disheveling our casts grossly off target as if discarded bits of paper.

These elements seemed to suit this vast countries character, its lush valleys and raw mountainous landscape. Such days at home are cherished, knowing all but the fairest of flyfishers will venture out. Here, where 53 kilometers of private water at your personal disposal one doesn’t have to subject themselves to such exigent elements to enjoy relative solitude; a luxury that does not go unappreciated.

Last year the enamored waters of the Rio Malleo left me skeptical of its rich history and legendary reputation. First impressions of this storied fishery were vicariously morphed from the impressionable and imaginative writings of the prolific Ernest Schweibert. Prior to leaving San Huberto, home of the Rio Malleo, the discovery of a timeless journal lavishly anointed with the musing of past guests expressively depicting their memorable experiences on these storied waters left me with images tempering my departing skepticism. Its last entry in 1999 was the final year Mr. Schweibert would fish this river with his beautiful flies and leave his gracious impression and artistic renderings in the torn pages of this eloquent find.

From its upper meandering and lush meadows to the Rio Malleo’s lower reaches there is significant contrast to its character. Shallow riffles yield to elegant pools that flow through one of trout fishing most impressionable valleys. At its head stands the valleys omnipresent guardian, Lanin, a discernable landmark that lies in dormant vigil at Chile’s rugged border. Further downriver the lower valleys more confined river corridor finds turbulent waters sheltered by dense thickets of willow; refuge to some of the rivers more notable resident that so far have eluded my gifts of fur and feather.

Towards evening fragmented columns of light magically found their way through the Andes raw granite stonework; picturesque light illuminating the valley walls and yellowing tall grasses evidence of the days belated hour. After a lengthy walkabout in search of more enticing waters I emerged from a dense copse of willow to find the most alluring of waters. Evening’s first caddis frantically take to the air; their pupal sucks abandon and lifelessly adrift. Those that lurked in wait briefly exposed themselves not wasting the opportunity to dine on Mother Nature’s bounty. For now, the trout superior in the food chain, fed uninterrupted, but in an instant as in all of life that can change.

Before departing to reconnect with my companions, I would experience one of those rare yet euphoric epiphanies that leaves one with the realization that anything other than appreciating the moment would detract from scale of what just happened. It would come to it’s conclusion as the final piscatorial canvas, burnt orange and peppered in spots of the blackest ink, slipped quietly from the cradle of my outstretched hands again to seek solace within these sheltered waters; its girth impressionable, the struggle filled with emotional swings, ending admirably in awe.

Before stepping from the river I paused to removed my hat, swept my hand across my midsection and bowed in a familiar gesture of gratitude and recognition. Heading back evenings darkness had begun to blacken the western sky; distant peaks now absent of any illuminating light. A cascading river and the ubiquitous chatter of parrots lent a sense of place to my surmising thoughts. Momentarily among tall grasses I took stock of that which surrounded me and pondered the experience of fishing in an unspoiled setting where riparian corridors exist neither uninterrupted nor compromised by the presence of man. Such is getting harder to find.

Upon leaving the Rio Malleo, I have a new found respect for the river that eluded me upon my first visit. Looking back it troubles me that such considerations effected my perceptions; there should have been simple consolation in the eloquence of the resource, but as in life that which is obvious is not always easily observed. I remind myself, the same can be true in fishing.

Quiet Observation

2010-03-24T09:17:00.002-06:00

In the growing twilight a lone trout rose uninterrupted from the placid mercurial waters quietly sipping dying mayflies haplessly adrift. With each audible rise and residual tranquil dissipating ring of death the urge grew, yet I cast not a fly nor moved to do so. I simply grasp the moment to relished the simple yet poetic act of life; an act that only over time I’ve come to appreciate in simple observation content to not disturb that which was playing our before me.

Harrmian State Park Threatened

2010-01-17T10:05:00.068-07:00

There is movement afoot in Idaho to eliminate funding for the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation (IDPR) by Governor Otter in an effort to trip the 2010 state budget. In doing so he would move the state part system into the Department of Lands, saving the state and estimated $10 million dollars.

For those who fish, this could and most likely will result in the elimination of Harriman State Park, home to the fabled fishery known affectionately as "The Ranch". This particular section of the North Fork of the Snake River, the Henry's Fork, was donated to the state of Idaho by the Harriman Family. Under their aggreement, should the state default on any aspect of the agreement, the park would revert back to the family. Should the governor get his wishes, that is exactly what would happen.

Given the current economic climate, the move by Governor Otter are a threat to this national treasure and other valualbe resources in the state that are protected by their Idaho State Park Status. For Harriman State Park and it's globally recognized waters, this resoucre is vital to those fragil communities that depend on this resource for their livelihood.

To read more about the Governor Otters proposal read:
Keep Idaho Department of Parks & Recreation. At the end of the article there are additional links to express your concerns to the Idaho Legislature and the Governor. There is also an active petition:
http://www.thepetitionsite.com/tell-a-friend/6381547.

Make your voice heard. Even if you have never fished these incredibly unique waters, it is imperative as an angler, conservationist, naturalist or user of this park to insure that the stay within the current system and remain protected for all to enjoy. There are options, and far better ones than what is currently being sought by Governor Otter.

Intruder

2009-12-27T10:04:00.007-07:00

A female river otter was recently transplanted to Utah’s Provo River. She arrived amongst great controversy from the fly-fishing community; a population that for the most part extols the virtues of wildlife. As more are released and they establish themselves within the fisheries riparian corridor, their impact will be closely monitored by all interested parties: biologists, anglers and other recreational users of the Provo River system. Only time will tell of their place and impact.

Across this country otters have been in a state of decline for a century. When the fur trade was at its peak in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s their desirable pelts led to the decimation of their population, as did any mammal with marketable qualities. Since then loss of habitat and pollution have continued to impact their numbers. In the 1970’s wildlife management agencies across the country implemented strategies to protect and mitigate habitats that were critical to these mammals. Reintroducing otters into healthy habitats where population had become critical or absent became an integral part of this process; a strategy that has been successful and well documented here in Utah.

In 1989 otters were relocated to Utah’s Green River. When anglers, guides, outfitters and local businesses learned of this, much criticism and concern followed. It was felt that the impact these animals would have on the trout population would detrimentally affect the fishery and in turn those whose livelihoods were dependent on this fishery. Two decades have passed since the first otters were introduced and their presence has benefited these waters in a number of ways, yet many in the angling community remain concerned and vocal about their presence. As long as they are free to cohabitate here and on other waters with similar attributes a certain level of narrow minded apprehension will exist.

At the root of the controversy lies an otter’s diet. On average an adult otter consumes 2-3 pounds of fish a day. With the Green and Provo River being several of the countries more prolific fisheries, anglers have thoughtlessly taken notice. Otters do eat trout, but given the option they prefer other more palatable species: carp, chubs or whitefish. They also have a liking for crawfish, a crustacean that is prolific in Deer Creek Reservoir, as are carp.

It is known that a predator based ecosystem leads to a more vigorous and stable ecosystem. In referencing this in a recent conversation, an acquaintance raised concerns about otters not having a predator base. On the Provo River, this is what I came up with: dogs, coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions, and eagles. I’d say that’s a fair number. Add one more noxious predator, two-leggeds.

While putting the finishing touches to this piece, I learned that the otter mentioned in the opening paragraph has already died. An errant surgical complication led to her death. To those dedicated to this project and others who see the value in it, the news was devastating, especially since she was pregnant. To many in the angling community, they couldn’t be more delighted.

I fish because it puts me in places of beauty; liquid corridors resplendent in life, removed from the pandemonium of city life. Although fishing often is the vehicle that transports me amongst such panoramic splendor, it’s the entire range of the experience that makes the activity so rewarding.

To fish a watershed void of wildlife would be nothing short of a sterile experience. I’m more than willing to catch fewer fish, to accommodate these otters and other species whose existence and ensuing impacts may result in more resilient habitats. Playing court jester to suit our own avaricious motivations, since we fish for sport and not necessity, seems rather maligned although not surprising.

Several years removed, in the predawn hours, a friend and I walked the banks of a river long before anyone else had yet to arrive. Our early jaunt had nothing to do with fishing, but to experience a river as it awoke, hoping to find its corridor yet undisturbed.

For a mile we traveled a path long worn by others before entering the rivers current to cross. Downstream, in the distance a placid pools stillness suddenly erupted into life. Perplexed we stood vigil until we identified the cause of the disturbance, otters. Having fished these waters for over 30 years, it was the first time I had seen them. In our still act of vigilance, they frolicked close enough for us to here their barks, elevated in protest at our presence before silently slipping beneath the rivers waters, deceptively disappearing.

The significance of this encounter erased all else that took place that day. We probably caught a fish or two, but that isn't what either of us remembered.

To fish waters where habitats provide the opportunity to witness a spectrum of wildlife heightens the overall experience. Although, trout play a vital role in the affair they are only part of the ecological equation. All others play an equally vital role in the ecological balance of those resources we derive sport from. In the grand scheme of things it is us who are the intruders, and not those who now seek refuge within this biologically diverse resource; a resource where the otters will have an impact, as do we as well.

Reflections

2009-11-09T19:56:00.010-07:00

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

2009-10-22T22:26:00.016-06:00

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

2009-08-05T11:51:00.025-06:00

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

2009-08-02T18:51:00.000-06:00

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

2009-07-24T13:03:00.001-06:00

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

2009-06-29T12:08:00.000-06:00

“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

2009-05-26T16:01:00.000-06:00

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

2009-04-13T09:47:00.000-06:00

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

2009-04-10T11:59:00.000-06:00

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

2009-03-29T15:16:00.000-06:00

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

2009-03-09T10:58:00.000-06:00

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

2009-03-08T16:22:00.000-06:00

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.

Resurrected from the Dead!

2009-03-04T19:18:00.000-07:00

This morning I was feeling pretty good about the world, all things considered. Then about noon the e-mails began arriving. Rep. Ferry was attempting to resurrect his HB 187 from the depth of yesterdays defeat. Since he heads the House Rules Committee, I was pretty confident that he would be successful with his efforts.

There were several of us already at the Capitol when I arrived. Some had been there since the morning session. Just before 4pm after speaking with those we had the opportunity to reach, I looked out across the Capitols floor now growing silent, gazing across the sprawling rotunda cambers when a song from Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young began resonating through my head, “We are helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless…” If you’re in your 50’s, you know the song.

At four we scrambled to the balcony to watch Rep. Ferry bring his Bill back to life. Last I looked; he had 40” yas”, plenty to keep HB 187 alive. As the session came to a close, his Bill sits circled to later again be voted upon.

There is still hope that HB 187 will be defeated at this level. If not it goes to the Senate. We again need to circle the wagons, make phone calls and pound out emails. In doing so, it’s imperative that you be respectful to all parties regardless of your personal feeling. This isn’t about personal emotion, its about issues. Defamatory e-mails and phone calls do nothing but hurt our cause. Each day this stays alive, we need all the friends we can get, just sick with the facts:

1. Public input into the Bill has been very limited and not all parties have been involved.

2. The list of waters currently included have been arbitrarily derived. We need a reasonable list of waters based upon a specific criteria to quantify waters, not personal opinions.

3. At present, the board is an advisory board only, it has no power. Rumor has it that will change before it goes to its final vote in the House. So pay attention.

4. This Bill impacts 400,000 anglers, anglers that contribute 700 mil to the state’s economy annually. This Bill will erode these revenues and in doing so effect retailers, guide services, restaurants, hotels/motels, make no mistake. This just doesn’t effect anglers and those who derive there livelihoods from angling. .

5. The ability to post private property based upon the 150 yds and 150’ is confusing and will create an enforcement nightmare. When we lost the original clause after the 2^nd substitution, we lost the provision that allowed us to wade through such areas.

6. The fact that this Bill has been substituted twice, amended numerous times, and being amended once again shows how flawed it is. We need to take a year, sentd this Bill to interim study and be apart of a piece of legislation that works for those parties that have a vested interest.

There is still a lot at stake here and we aren’t out of the woods yet. Rally the troupes. Contact your representative, your senator. There’s only 8 remaining days left to have an impact.

AT and Impasse

2009-02-23T07:56:00.000-07:00

You could see the turmoil and anxiety as we filed from cambers after two and a half hours before Rep. Ferry and his constituents late Friday. We assembled at this late hour upon his request after he’d circled HB-187 earlier in the day. As the Bill lingers, it appears to be loosing support, but there is no confidence on either side as to the strength of their position. All we know is our grassroots efforts have eroded the support he so arrogantly displayed when the process began months ago.

Rep. Ferry was hoping to be able to sway the angling and recreational community into enough concessions that he could move his Bill forward, an attempt to seek some middle ground. Both sides for the first time met, and discussed their concerns. It was good to hear comments from the other side and be able to address them, for they are valid, but so are those who spoke that day regarding angling and recreational concerns. By meetings end, there arguments did nothing to sway our position.

As discussion continues the key points have not changed. These issues are sensitive to all, including the Division of Wildlife Resources: No recreating within a 150’ radius of a home, a clause that deals with historical usage, the paltry list of 17 waters, and the advisory board. On a broader perspective, the entire bill, after being amended 7 times, with 5 more listed for further discussion is so convoluted it’s difficult for anyone to truly understand. A perfect example of its confusing nature occurred on Friday, when a Representative struck the Price River from the list thinking she was preserving access for the public.

Of the hot points, the list is of the most concern. There shouldn’t be a list. As of Friday 6:30pm only 17 waters included. Rep. Ferry hinted that he’d consider several more, but such additions would still leave us far short of what’s reasonable. At best it’s a paltry list and still denies recreational users access to numerous waters many that they’ve had access to in the past.

There are vast problems with the list, the most obvious, the omissions. The second and more significant aspect of it pertains to the way the list was comprised. Rather than all waters in the state that are affected by the Supreme Court ruling being subjected to a valid criteria waters were randomly selected. Although Rep. Ferry vocalizes that the inclusion of these waters were subject to a definition of navigability, not one of the 17 waters was ever tested. To complicate matters more, his definition of navigability at sometime was removed from the Bill and only recently was a more obscure one included.

At this juncture the list includes waters that were selected for various reasons, and in reality none of those reasons truly dealt with navigability. Simply, they were selected based upon someone’s opinion. Now is when you should ask, in whose opinion. In discussions with the DWR, in many instances they weren’t involved, nor of those in the recreational community. No one in the recreational community was asked to particpate, yet a number of private property owners were.

As of this writing we have out foot in the door. Monday it is slated 7^th, after debate if it passes it will move to the Senate. There we will have our last opportunity. Should this Bill not be tabled for interim study, it most likely will be settled in the courts. Neither side would like to see that.

During our final comments Friday, we again asked that this Bill be sent to interim so that a reasonable more reasonable Bill can be created. We also asked to be given the opportunity to prove to landowners that our constituents would conduct themselves with respect towards rights of private property owners. We offered a more compromising list that would not include all waters that the July ruling impacts. Those waters would be determined based upon a reasonable definition of navigability. In frustration, understandably at this late hour on Friday, no concessions were made.

We have our hands full as HB 187 moves forward. Although we have gained ground, it’s far from over. Anglers and all interested parties are going to have to put a great deal of effort into defeating this Bill should it make it out of Committee and move into the Senate. That said, we need your help. Call your senators. Ask your friends to do the same. Contact the governor; let your voices be heard. If you have the time, meet us at the Capitol. We’ve been there everyday, working with representatives and our senators. If you can’t get there, call them on the phone. If you care about your opportunities to recreate on Utah’s waters, you need to get involved. It’s as simple as that.

Vote No HB 187

2009-02-22T08:38:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to the Utah angling community, you showed up this past Wednesday. For as long as I can remember, it’s a first in my lifetime here in Utah. If you not familiar with HB 187, it’s a piece of legislation in response to last years Supreme Court ruling that gave anglers access to virtually all bodies of moving water in the state. This Bill, in its current state, will negate the ruling and more critically remove waters that generations have had the opportunity to fish.

Wednesdays rally on the steps of the Capitol was just the beginning. There is still a tremendous amount of work ahead for anglers, floaters, and non-consumptive users of our waterways if we are to have an impact on HB 187 and the waters we will be able to fish in the future.

For those who don’t reside in Utah, HB 187 will limit the waters you will be able to fish as well, waters that you’ve had the opportunity to fish when you visited our beautiful state. For some, those rare and unique waters are the reason you visit Utah. If you are one of these anglers, your voice needs to be heard as well; write our Governor and Ben Ferry the sponsor of this Bill. In reality, this piece of legislation will have an impact on all water users across the nation, due to the fact that it and other like it set precedence.

So where are we? On Friday HB 187 went to committee for its first reading. The throngs of concerned citizens overflowed chambers. Another room had to be set up to accommodate the growing numbers. It was awesome! The Natural Resources Committee was obviously taken back by the numbers that were in attendance. After long deliberation and a number of amendments were added the Bill passed 10-4, a distinct party line vote. Several bodies of water that had been left off the list were added: Blacksmith Fork and the Logan most notably, but there are still numerous bodies of water that you won’t be able to fish. Left Fork of the Huntington, Cottonwood Creek, Thistle, Creek, East Fork of the Sevier, just to name a few of those most known.

The Bill passed and now moves to the House, the fact that concessions were made shows that our efforts are having an impact but, there are still significant flaws with the Bill. Of these the most egregious pertains to definition of navigability and its relationship to the list; the list being a limited number of waters, 16 at this juncture that we’ll have access to. Rather than applying an acceptable definition of navigability. First off, HB 187’s definition is not reasonable. Second, an arbitrary list of waters was selected to which the definition was applied. Instead, all waters of the state should have been considered and tested for navigability, not just those where the minimal private property conflicts occurred. Blacksmith Fork and the Logan are examples of the erroneous of the process. Regardless, on no waters have they actually tested the current definition, they’ve just assumed.

With luck we’ll be able to get the Bill into interim. In talking with members of senate this past week, they would like to see this happen. One way or another, we’re going to have to deal with the oversights of the Supreme Court. Since were engaged, we might as well finish the process, it just needs to take a year to effectively draft a Bill that will address such a critical issue.

As we move forward, if you haven’t contacted your representative, it’s imperative that you do. You also need to contact the Natural Resources Committee. HB 187 has been assigned to this committee. Some of its members are very influential legislators and can have a significant impact on the Bill’s future.

To read a copy of the Bill or to find contact information on the committee and representatives, visit “Utah Water Guardians” website. You’ll find their link in my links section. It’s important to note that any e-mails you send put “Vote No on HB 187” in the subject header. They have received so many e-mails, that they don’t have time to read nor respond to them all, so putting this in the subject header is very important.

Regardless of where you are, if you care about fishing, this is your fishing future. What happens here is important to the rest of the nation. They aren’t building any more trout streams, steelhead or salmon rivers, or oceans. You can either sit by and watch those who have the resources continue to take away your access or you can get involved and be apart of preserving those fishing opportunities you, your children and future generations have the right to enjoy.

Times Like These

2009-01-14T20:17:00.000-07:00

This past week a number of us spent a good portion of the afternoon with one of our state representatives. He’s championing a bill in this legislative session that intends to impair a recent Utah Supreme Court ruling that gives public access to the majority of the state’s moving rivers and streams. There was some discussion that parties would possibly seek to overturn the ruling all together. At the conclusion of our dialog, there were no surprises, other than he was very gracious with his time.

Related to that, the previous day I attended a Blue Ribbon Fisheries Council meeting where a portion of the meeting was allocated to the issue. At one juncture the Division of Wildlife Resources revealed the number of streams being considered for inclusion within the bills language, yet would not disclose names. Their unwillingness to divulge the specifics left many with an aurora of suspicion and frustration. The following day as we left the State Capitol, our sentiments had not be satisfied.

At weeks end, I sat down to watch “Red Gold”, a documentary on Alaska’s proposed Pebble Mine; nothing like immersing ones self. If you haven’t seen it, do so. Buy, rent, borrow or download a copy. Even if you don’t fish, you’ll appreciate the mines implication. Should this mine be permitted, it threatens the world’s largest sustainable sockeye run; an annual phenomenon that feeds nations, and sustains every living fiber within the Bristol Bay watershed and beyond.

Distraught over current events and the prevailing administration 11^th hour initiatives, I took my old dog for a stroll. Her slow lethargic pace was good therapy. Halfway through our walk I paused, leaning back in search of the Big Dipper. Anymore you can’t always see all its components. To the east, the full moon showed a sliver of light as it crept up the back side of the valley’s snowcapped peaks. Rather than being close to home, momentarily I wished to be camping, far removed from the light, air and noise pollution that increasingly permeate the valley.

Toward the end of the jaunt, I pondered much. I’ll never truly know the extent our native people suffered as we took their lands from them, although I’ve a mind having read more than most. There is no doubt there are significant differences between then and now, yet I can’t help but ponder the underlying similarities to those struggling today to preserve those lands and resources that add such an immeasurable quality to our lives.

From the planets standpoint, we are at a crossroads. Never has so much been on the table. In our lifetime, the stakes never have been so high. On a grand scale, this bill we’re attentive to doesn’t matter much, yet it’s an integral piece of a complex puzzle. Given the global financial crisis, much of what we’ve fought to preserve, protect and nurture seems vulnerable as short term gains are prioritized neglecting long term implication and responsibilities. Our kids futures face incredible challenges and burdens because of the way we’ve behaved, yet I hope one day looking back when all is said and done, we do some things right. I hope we continue to protect and preserve those magical places so they to can benefit from what we often times take for granted. We owe that to them. At times like these, I ponder the reality of such.

Staying in Touch

2008-12-21T14:57:00.002-07:00

I've received a number of comments, e-mails,fly shop buddies and phone calls, on ways to get involved with various issues that revolve around our treasured resources. The Provo River development prompting the most recent inquiries. Over the years, I've written about issues here, but never have really tried to communicate or manage any actions through my Blog. After giving it some thought, I'm going to post issues and actions here, starting with our most recent endeavor to see if that is of help and allows those who are concerned to participate.

Starting with this years upcoming legislature, we have a significant issue that we are already involved in. I wrote earlier about the state Supreme Courts ruling on stream access. Several representative are drafting a bill that potentially will eliminate this recent ruling and possibly block off access to streams we already have. I warned of this in an earlier Blog, "Just Because we have the Right", August 26, 2008.
At the moment, there is no language written on this piece of legislation, but from meetings held over the past weeks, we have little support at a state level. Several concerned lobbyist have joined our efforts. At the first of the year Rep. Ferry, who will champion this bill should it go forward, has granted us a meeting. We are hopeful that we can make some inroads at this early juncture to avoid any confrontations and help draft a bill that is agreeable to anglers. For now we are encouraged by his offer.

In the infancy of this endeavor, we are looking for anyone who may know a friendly legislator. Once we get a feel for the language, or ideally, have a copy of the bill, we're going to need all the friends we can get. This won't be an easy battle, should the bill be drafted with the language we are anticipating.

If you know any one on the hill who can lend their support, this would be a big step. Our issues here are not so much the right to fish or access as much as the potential economic impact reduced access will have on the states angling revenues, revenues that have declined steadily over the years. If you would like to reach me and not share your comments with others who read my Blog, please feel free to contact me at: schmidt@xmission.com.

We have another meeting before the year ends. I'll post updates or any new developments as they occur. Thanks to those who have gotten involved and those expressing and those wanting to help preserve those few precious resources we rely upon to cast a fly with hopes of catching a trout or two. As theyears pass, and with the current economy we are going to have our hands full.

Provo River Avoids Development

2008-12-07T20:20:00.001-07:00

The Provo River is arguably one of the nation’s best fisheries. With recent work completed between Jordanelle and Deer Creek reservoirs it’s even better. This past week a decision to continue to put these resources recreational and wildlife values before those who would develop it was an significant.

Unbeknownst to many an application to rezone private lands on the Lower Provo River was put before Wasatch County Council (WCC). Should this request have been approved it would permit twenty residential units to be built. Four of those units would lie within the rivers riparian corridor. Even more critical, the rezoning change would open the door for other landowners in the canyon to develop additional properties.

Obviously given the sensitive nature of this resource, there was a lot at stake. As an angler, the trout fishing and those recreational values associated with it are significant. The wildlife values that this canyon supports are critical. Such a development, given its scope, would definitely impact these. Then there is water quality. Simply, it’s the lifeblood of all that is living.

After the first of two public hearings, the request was denied, but only due to the fact that the Wasatch County Planning Commission didn’t have enough members present. Those in attendance voted in favor of the rezoning request 3/2. A 4th favorable vote was needed to make the motion.

A second hearing for public comment was held before the Wasatch County Council, who would make the final decision. I entered this meeting with not much optimism given the Planning Commissions lean. I was even less optimistic given the lack of opposition that spoke before the Council; three of us all totaled. Given what was at stake it was disheartening to see a virtual no-show from the public and those who derive their livelihoods from this resource. Granted there were a number of apposing e-mails received by the Council and a few more in attendance at the first public meeting, but warm bodies in front of this Council would have carried much more weight.

I was relieved and surprised to learn, given the circumstances, of the Wasatch County Council’s judgment to deny the landowners request this past week. Their decision showed great vision. Anglers owe this group a debt of gratitude for efforts and judgment regarding this incredible resource. Their pronouncement will have a positive impact on the continued health of this valuable resource. Should it have gone the other way few would have noticed until the backhoes and bulldozers arrived.

The Last Grab

2008-11-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

I've fished Idaho waters when you were lucky to see a steelhead. For years the only fish we'd see had been caught by methods other than fly. Didn't matter, at that juncture you were just glad to see one. Such an occasion lent hope to the next run. A few years would pass before a tug brought me that much closer to holding a steelhead that had traveled over 800 miles to take my fly. That in and of itself is amazing!

Those early years in the Lower 48 were bleak. On many byways they still are. Were once the worlds largest run of sea run fish ran free, they now hang in the balance infused with fish of hatchery origins that only make their existence more tenuous.

Yet, in all of this, as an angler, I have great respect for these fish. They travel the same arduous journey and migrate through the same challenging gauntlet as their dwindling wild relatives. Although they don't quite measure up to a wild fish, they do command a certain respect and admiration, for they to are survivors.
My last outing of the year was one of my best. Sub freezing temperatures that historically freezes ones hands, guides and feet, were gratefully absent. It's been that way for several years now. And although the fishing has been good for the past several years, this year was more than generous.

My friend, caught his first steelhead. It came on the last day. He was already headed down the addictive road after our first trip. Once he landed his first steelie, he was history. I'm waiting to have to explain his delusional state to his wife, especially come next season.

On that last day, I drummed up a ghost in a new piece of water. Several head shakes later and a few clicks from the reel the fish was gone. It was rewarding confirmation that will serve me well on another day. Towards days end I briefly felt another fish. It was a solid grab that ended as quickly as it occurred. Know it was my last I thought the encounter was fitting. Looking back to those early years, an unmistakable grab would have been reason alone for joyous celebration. On this trip it was more than just.

Shortly afterwords I chewed the fly from its leader, carefully placed it in it's box, and reeled in the line. Before leaving I took a moment to take in the canyon, it sounds and breath the damp smell of a river corridor that holds onto a certain rawness. It'll be another years before I fish these waters again. I remembered the grab and the years where a physical presence was only a figment of an imagination. Heading home, the rain darkens the desolate two lane road. We are fortunate to have fish in these waters now. We don't talk about it, but we wonder for how long.

The Green River Looses a Friend

2008-11-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

When one thinks of the great waters of the world where we cast a fly, we often associate those waters with keepers whose long association endures them to the waters their lives revolve around. On Utah’s Green River one of those individuals would be, Denny Breer. Since he and his wife, Gracie, established Trout Creek Flies in the remote corner of northeastern Utah, he’s been one of the Green’s unheralded champions. There’s not another person who’s watched over this prolific fishery with more vigilance than Denny. This past weekend a tragic accident ended his life. In his death the river and the fishing community lost a great friend.

Although others may carry on where he left off, you can’t replace the personality and the character he brought to the community of Dutch John and the river he’s associated with. The river, his shop, the meetings he so faithfully attended will all seem unfamiliar in his absence.

Those familiar to the Green River, his shop and guide service know that he offered a welcome matt to anglers from all corners of the globe. He was most at home on his beloved river or those waters he enjoyed when time permitted or with his pigeons. If you were fortunate to share a ride in his dory, count yourself as blessed. Over the past few years, such days were shared by only a few, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t where his heart lied.

We all owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Breer for his relentless persistence. Few know the extent he went to be a voice for this precious resource. The Green River, the health of this fishery, those who love and fish this river are all beneficiaries of his tireless efforts. His authority and knowledge commanded respect in the arenas he wandered on behalf of the river. As an outfitter and angler, he commanded respect as well. He wasn’t shy about letting you know that. I liked that in him, that frankness he often exuded.

Denny’s legacy will live on, his efforts, passion, and character forever recognized in the history of Green River fly fishing. In his passing our hearts go out to his family and those he left behind. I hope you’ll find comfort in knowing that Denny will always be warmly remembered. He will be greatly missed.

The Gift

2008-10-30T06:37:00.001-06:00

Before me flows a river bathed in sunshine. Its size dwarfs any I’ve cast a fly in. Swollen currents toil a tainted brown from days of relentless rain. A condition that occurs with more frequency from years of clear cutting that now jeopardizes the heath of all waters in this province. A slim buffer of vibrant cottonwood, birch and popular radiate in fall color; accentuating the virile condition of the river. The immense landscapes towering snow capped peaks and unimpeded waters are impressionable.

Hidden amongst these murky waters migrates the majority of this regions wild steelhead, the names of their home waters legendary in steelhead lore. Given its current state it’s difficult to imagine these piscatorial travelers are present, yet these conditions will do little to deter a primordial instinct. Little does.

Two decades of fishing in British Columbia has yet to afford me time on this intimidating river since I first stood on her banks. Many of its famed tributaries have seen my foot prints, but never the Mother River. The last time I saw her was over a decade ago where several of her tributaries open to accept her offerings. Not far from that point of observation stands a row of native long houses and totems, a tribute to the Gitxsan People, and the spiritual powers this confluence holds.

After lodge life this year, an old friend invited me to poach some of the British Columbia’s other waters. After goodbyes were exchanged with our hosts and my fellow companions, Collin Schadrech and I headed north on Yellowhead Highway.

Gray skies clouded the landscape dropping a steady drizzle on the windshield and surrounding countryside. A perfect day for steelheading accompanied us to our new digs. Our base for the next few evenings was a stark contrast from that which I had enjoyed over the past week; cinderblock walls, well worn shag carpets, moldy towels and meals prepared over the tailgate of Collin’s Chevy. No plates, no dishes. From our front door, Stekeotin loomed ominously overhead. Steelhead paradise never looked so good.

That afternoon we spent the bulk a wet day slogging through marshes, deadfall and the provinces dense brush in search of legends and myths. Maps were of some help, but much had changed since they were drafted. We often paid for their inaccuracies.

Before darkness ended we pioneered a handful dirt roads, this time along the Mother River. In the waning light we searched for a descriptive boulder with a single cairn perched upon its top. We were unsuccessful. By the time we left the valley’s river bottom it was raining and dark, a darkness that’s difficult to find these days. In remote corners of the world removed from global sprawl you’ll witness such blackness. On this evening a low ceiling hid heavens light show intensifying the abyss.

The following day we arose early, beginning our day in darkness. By the time we headed out, morning’s sun still had yet to crest the snowcapped peaks that kissed a thin layer of residual vapor. Eventually we located the road that eluded us the evening before. The old track wound through long abandon fields, dull in dying weeds and tall grasses.
We parked a short distance from the river. Its banks lined in ancient popular, cottonwood, birch, and balsam fir. Below us the waters strolled leisurely for hundreds of yards among sizeable boulders. It shimmered, as only a steelhead run can. Towards the head of the run stood the rock with an unobtrusive cairn perched nonchalantly upon its surface. Our eyes lay fixed on the water, making mental notes as to where each fish may lie. As we drifted apart, the old man chose the head of the run, while I stepped in midway.

The rivers size yearned for long casts. I thought the same to hold true for the fly; big river, big fish, big fly. Yet I refrained, at least in first passing knowing that this was our water to fish alone. Dec Hogan’s words resonated through my fly box as I selected a pattern. Eventually I chose a preferred spey fly in hopes of taking my first fish on one worthy of these fish and the occasion.

About a quarter of the way into the run I had to calm myself. I had plenty of coffee this morning. I usually do, but that wasn’t the reason for my anxiousness. I started thinking of the famous tributaries that feed this big body of water, their names rolled through my mind along with the significance of their steelhead. A broad grin crossed my face as I scanned the snowcapped peaks that overshadowed the valley. Finally stepping back into the river, I knew they were there.

Each swing of the fly I expect a tug. In disbelief the governors removed from my cast. I tack on another ten feet or more. Several casts later a fish boils below me. A second passes before realizing it had moved to my fly. The additional length of line momentarily skewed my judgment. I focused, waiting for the line to come tight, which never did. Sliding further into the river not taking my eyes from where the fish showed, I cast again in hopes that a slower drift would entice a grab. My breaths held as the fly entered the zone. The line simply stops. All is motionless until the surface erupts below me as the hook solidly finds its mark.

Behind me the fish breaks the surface, as fly line exits the rod in the opposite direction. There’s a power and weight there that I’ve yet to experience in days past. A second and third jump shows it’s a sizable buck. A hint of rose can be seen along his gill plate and flank. After the aerial assault he surges upstream as if unencumbered. By the time I’m ready to land him, Collin’s beside me, cradle in hand. We share in the special moment together as the buck slides into the net. The barbless fly easily comes from the corner of the buck’s mouth. I’d hoped to hold onto the steelhead for a moment before it continued on the journey, but our reunion would be brief. He had other things on his mind. I tried to visualize his character; color, spots, scars, bulk and the power of the creature that rested in my hands, before he disappeared into the depths knowing this could be my last fish. Even though this one bears special significance, I treat them all in this manner. With one power beat of its broad tail he slides away.

Content with my fortunes I settled on the bank to watch Collin wander slowly up to finish his piece of water. It didn’t take him long to hook up. I amble up the bank to return the favor. It’s another broad fish, but this time a hen still bright with sea lice clinging to her. As Collin prepared to send her on her way you could see his hand through the hen’s translucent tail. With the flick it, she too vanishes.
This perfect pair would be the only steelhead we’d encounter during our brief time together. As their habitats erode and these fish continue to decline you wonder at what point you’ll embrace your last wild steelhead. I recently heard Russell Chatham say that steelhead anglers have become complacent by equating the success of a day, a week or a year with as little as a single fish. By doing so we’ve accepted the doomed blight of this great fish. For those passionate about steelhead, I don’t think he could be further from the truth. With each fish, there is confirmation that they still travel the great liquid highways of their origins and avowal hope that future migrations will continue to exist. Without that connectivity, regardless of its frequency, all hope would be lost.

Steelheaders Remorse

2008-10-20T16:16:00.001-06:00

Having just gotten back from my annual trip to British Columbia, I'm struggling getting back into work, home life, and just about everything else that isn't related to fishing for these mysterious fish. But, in reality such angst is something all of us who fish with a fly go through. I'm not alone, I know that.

Most of my companions on this trip are suffering equally. Since returning they've spent a fair amount of time manipulating their lives to accommodate one last opportunity to hook up with one more steelhead. Should it be just a tug, a sign that they are still there, that would be enough. Just to fish their rivers would be sufficient.

Since I'm having trouble writing anything worth reading, here's a few photo's from BC. It was a good year, better than usual.

Impressions

2008-09-12T12:23:00.000-06:00

For the first time in recent memory a cool rain greeted the morning. Its arrival punctuated yet another long dry season in the west. Layers of white vapors shrouded the foothills, the valleys towering peaks looming above lost among gray layers of moisture laden clouds; a stark contrast from summers heat, haze and dull blue sky that’s beat upon us for the past months. Before me the Bitterroot River flowed, a ribbon of black viscous through a valley of dying grasses, dull cottonwood, willow and river birch. I looked to the currents for signs of life. None were immediately visible.

Exiting my vehicle, I walked down the steep bank to the rivers edge. The Bitterroot is a big river. Expansive reaches of bleached rock lay exposed on inside corners, evidence of immeasurable power and more turbulent event. An eagle cried in defiance of the weather lost somewhere among the corridors damp cottonwoods. Before me a broad river flowed; riffles drained into smooth long runs resembling those waters of the great Northwest where the oceans anadramous travelers have begun to arrive home to their native rivers. A small group of geese restlessly took to the air in preparation for a journey that would take them to warmer climates.
At the head of the run before me, I envisioned where to begin working a short length of line, eventually extending the cast to sufficient cover the water; lessons drummed into my skull from those initial days of steelheading with Collin Schadrach and Greg Smith. Years of trout habits initially muddled a view that was far different for a fish that often wanders thousands of miles before returning home. With no wind the rhythmic cadence of a single spey would adequately cover the broad rivers currents. A greased line fly led by the pull of a soft line sufficient to entice any willing taker.

Rain continued to drive the illusion. The valley’s damp ceiling and chill fed the impression. The air smelled of dried and decaying vegetation. For the first time since summers PMD’s appeared there was a presence that wasn’t there before. The change symbolizes a reluctant end to summer’s aquatic emergences and an anticipated shift for me to the great waters of the northwest. For the first time there was pause for reflection of a season coming to its end and one just commencing.

Just Because We Have the Right?

2008-08-26T15:35:00.000-06:00

Recently the Utah Supreme Court ruled to allow anglers access to any river or stream where there is public access. This decision received a mix of emotions. On one side you have anglers, who couldn’t be more elated about the opportunities this created. Yet, on the other hand you have developers, land owners, and businesses who aren’t too excited about the prospects of having unwelcome visitors on their property. In many respects I can’t say that I blame them.

Back in the day, before the big western land grab, it was common as an angler to walk a dirt driveway to a farmers or ranchers home and asked permission to access waters that may wind through their fenced properties. Most times consent was granted given that a certain respect was extended in exchange for the privilege. Over time on occasions these impromptu and casual introduction spawned lasting friendships. Such instances are rare occurrences these days.

There were a lot of individuals who were involved in this recent ruling. In this age of information, news spread rapidly regarding this landmark decision and anglers rapidly began exploring those waters that had been closed and with that an imminent collision of apposing parties.

As anglers enjoy their new found freedom, those who adamantly oppose the current ruling are working on legislation that will negate this privileged opportunity. A Bill drafted for the upcoming Utah Legislative session has already been introduced. This bill single purpose will be to minimize our access opportunities. I’m sure they are looking at other ways to impact and negate the courts ruling. Only a well orchestrated front by those serving anglers interest will possibly defeat it.

As an angler, I’m very concerned how we have conducted ourselves in this short period of time. Where we may be within the law, we have shown in many instances total disregard and respect towards landowners who are disgruntled by the unwelcome visitors into their backyards: Property lines have been crossed, fences cut, verbal abuses exchanged. Such confrontations will only fuel their animosities, one that definitely does not need stimulation.

We have an abundance of water to fish without pissing people off. As many of us continue to work with landowners to gain access and improve the states fishing opportunities our ill mannered behavior will make future negotiations more prohibitive. Having been involved in such efforts for over twenty years, these efforts are already challenging enough.

I’ve always felt that as an angler we should become worthy stewards of the water ways we fish. If you are out there taking advantage of the new Trespass Laws be overly grateful to those who grant you access without resistance. For those who are agitated with your presence, be respectful enough to take their angst into consideration. And Let’s work on mending fences, not building bigger barriers, it will go along way towards keeping our waters open in the future and to ensure we have miles of available water for the public to fish.

The Game:

2008-08-24T21:28:00.000-06:00

At the tip of the island, I paused to scan reflective waters before moving; a habit ingrained from decades of stalking trout on this river. Scanning the stream, morning’s clouds cast illusions before me. Gently stepping from the lush grasses I tentatively entered the river. Fine gravel afforded easy wading permitting some degree of vigilance, still I almost failed to notice the imperceptibly break of the surface meniscus, the residual bulge nearly blending with the waters disheveled surface. In that brief instant “The Game” had begun.

Understanding the consequences of haphazard wading, I froze. The trout arbitrarily rose taking in mornings profusion of dying mayflies. Looking to the current for clues, PMD, Drake and Flav spinners floated haplessly upon the waters calm current adding to the complexity of the situation. The frequency of the trout’s rises lent some insight into the rainbows partiality causing a change in flies.

Cautiously wading into position I knelt in ankle deep water waiting for the trout to again show before making the first of what would be numerous casts. Visibility hindered by morning’s reflective glare added to the challenge. Another fly change lent renewed optimism. The trout rose near the artificial, bouncing the fly in the undulating residual ring.

For what seemed to be a long moment the large rainbow failed to rise. Dejection from an opportunity concluded crept in. Motionless, I waited sometime. Downstream the rainbow rose again. Either a lack of stealth, the presentation or the trout’s own indecisiveness had it invisibly slide out of casting range. Such antics occur with some frequency on these waters, “dog on a lease”.

Chris, who I’d joined that morning, had settled among the tall grasses to watch the antics. He too had been playing a similar game. I turned to acknowledge his presence. He smiled knowing all to well my predicament, offering some encouragement before I returned my attention to the task at hand.

Eventually the trout settled near a grassy bank, pinning it in some regards. On a rare drift, I could see my fly. The rainbow rose, the imitation disappearing below the residual ring. As the line came tight, the trout cart wheeled across the shattered waters. As it settled the fly came free, my line went slack, my heart raced. It was a trout worthy of such an effort and emotion, but how worthy I’ll never truly know.

Its unfinished endings that drives foolish passions, this “Game” we play on rivers between man and fish with wisps of feather and fur. I derived some contentment knowing that I’d fooled the trout into taking an impostor, yet under the circumstances the results felt incomplete. Had I landed that fish or stayed connected just long enough to affirm its size and power, “The Game” would have been over and with that a certain satisfaction.

A week later I returned in hopes of finishing “The Game”. I found the crushed blades of grass where I stood before entering the water and sat among the lush vegetation and waited. An eagle cried, shattering the early morning silence somewhere off in the forest. The sound of the river lent a soothing quality as I sat in anxious vigilance. Like clockwork spinners gathered overhead, sunlight shimmering from their translucent wings.

I walked out that morning having not made a cast. Other trout rose to morning’s offerings, but the trout I sought never rose. “The Game” was over. There will be another, but for now it had come to an end.

Stocking Fish

2008-08-04T22:18:00.000-06:00

I’ve fished the Henry’s Fork for over thirty years. It’s a long time, yet I know of many who have fished it longer and with more frequency. Over that time I’ve been witness to its many mood swings. They run the gamut. But, never has it disappointed, even in the most meager of times. I remember several years back where I failed to land a trout and if truth be told only momentarily hooked one. Sitting on the banks among the tall grasses surrounded by a cornucopia of wildflowers in anticipation of what this river reluctantly yields reaches out to a hundred emotions. One should ask nothing more of a river and especially this one.

Upon leaving the famous Ranch section of the North Fork, a Henry’s Fork Foundation intern conducted a survey regarding whether these waters lived up to anglers expectations. Numbers of fish are down and have been for some time. For a growing number of anglers, they’d like to see something done about that. I told the intern that I felt there were just as many trout per angler now as in the glory days given that numbers of both had declined. Due the current state of the fishery, which is a matter of opinion, there are rumors regarding the possibilities of supplementing the existing wild population of rainbows. I ponder this recent impetus uncomfortably.

The Henry’s Fork, in particular the Ranch section, has such unique qualities that separates it from many of the other western waters. For one, they’re the rainbows: big, powerful, scarce and mostly hyper-selective. Laid before them is a daily profusion of insects, which only complicates the complexity of the game one must play to fool them. Then there’s the water; deceptively placid in appearance, but wrought with disorder and misdirection. The fact that there is solace in its beauty and the surrounding scenery only adds to its qualities.

For those not familiar with this river, being successful takes on a whole new meaning. On some occasions, just hooking a fish can be considered a favorable outcome, on others a fish or two. It’s not a game of numbers here; the challenge this river presents is more personal than that. However, a short distance from these waters there are plenty of other rivers where you can get your fix should your time on the Henry’s Fork not live up to your expectation.

Man has a history of being impatient with Mother Nature. After almost a decade of drought, there’s little wonder the Henry’s Fork is struggling. Tons of silt that found its way into the river when work was being done on Island Park Dam has added to the rivers struggles during this time. I know of few waters in the west that have not fallen victim to Mother Nature’s recent wrath.The Henry’s Fork Foundation and others have invested a significant amount of resources over the years addressing the issues that face this complex river system. Simply, there are no easy answers. But, given the opportunity Mother Nature has shown throughout history to rebound under favorable conditions to a state of healthy balance. Sometimes this takes time and patience, qualities as two leggeds we struggle and eventually succumb to far too often. Although stocking the Henry’s Fork may put a few more trout on the end of ones line, it doesn’t solve the problem.

That which eludes us only adds to its addictiveness. Changing that simple fact simply diminishes the desire. That’s a significant part of what makes the Henry’s Fork rainbows and this river so enthralling. That fact that it’s difficult to catch a trout on these waters only adds to its mystic. Looking at short term solutions with long term consequences that are not known historically has gotten us into trouble. I’d hate to see that happen here at this juncture.

I once heard someone state that the “Henry’s Fork is a magical place” in describing his affection for this river. Those comments sum up mine and others feelings for these waters. Since then the river has been through some challenging years. Through it all the Henry’s Fork has shown resilience. It may not be were we want it, but it’s better than what it was a decade ago and given the health of the fishery this year, it appears to be continuing to improve.

I hope when all is said and done that we have the patience to let Mother Nature run its course and we exude the same level of fortitude that it takes to be successful on the Henry's Fork. At the very least the river deserves that consideration.

Moments Reflection

2008-07-08T22:10:00.001-06:00

After an uneventful landing, the twin engine eight seater abruptly exits the abbreviated runway. Moments later the props last turn winds to a throbbing halt. Looking from the crafts aged windows one may notice, “Welcome to the Conch Republic” emblazoned across the terminals second floor. Prior to the gangway opening the tropics dense humid air engulfs the planes poorly ventilated cabin. In this instance the slight discomfort is a welcome stimulus of an uneventful arrival and of climates unlike those left behind.

After taking the islands greeting to heart, I gaze at the terminal flag. Lethargically it unrolls from its tethered perch; a welcome sight when traveling with a fly. Once in town, there are similar indicators as to conditions one will encounter before the day unfolds that habitually are checked. Such habits are part of the antics played out when fishing where and whenever I get the opportunity to cast a fly. A lifetime of fly-fishing has taught me the value in such noticeable observations. Yet, the calm emerald surface on this days Gulf crossing and limp flag lend only temporary occasions for hope.

Although it’s human nature to yearn for that perfect trip, several decades spent chasing migratory species has taught me to put my fly fishing opportunities into a more humbling perspective. Pear Jam summed it up well, "Mother Nature has it's own religion, gospel of the land". To become disgruntled over fickle elements that are out of ones control has wasted many a day where opportunities exist, but never realized. Age and valued mentors have slowly helped me to understand there’s far more to a day on the water than the narrow focus of what’s on the end of the line.

Like most, such lessons were learned the hard way. There was however, a turning point. It occurred over a decade removed after seven painfully unproductive September days in BC. While on the river I barely noticed the vibrant cornucopia of fall colors or the surrounding grandeur of the glaciated peaks that stood sentry overhead, or took into consideration that I did after all land a steelhead. On the flight home, sulking, a reluctant conversation changed my narrowmindedness.

Upon taking a seat for the return flight home, I barely noticed the older gentleman seated at my side. He was tall, fit, had a good stock of gray hair and by the rods he carried on board obviously had been steelhead fishing. Reluctantly, due to my demeanor, we struck up a conversation. I was barely from the womb when he first began his jaunts to BC. “Back then” was often iterated through his reflective conversation. Having gotten older, I’ve noticed that I too use this expression far more frequently. Considering many of life’s harsh alternatives, I surmise this to be good thing.

Over our discussion, we talked of his passion and concerns for this noble fish. Like any fly-fisher, he’d ebbed and flowed through techniques, focus, and priorities as he ventured into steelheading. Similar to anyone who has fished long enough, he’d developed great passion and concern for the future of these and other great waters of the world. Eventually, he realized that the method in the madness bears far more significance than the tally at the end of the day. He admonished that he now only fishes with a waking fly. Given the periled existence this fish now lives, he didn’t need to wack a bunch of steelhead to enjoy success. At this day and age, given their perils, just to touch one once in a while was all that was needed to fulfill the circle of life that connects the dwindling wildness that makes one feel so alive. By his standards his week was better than expected, yet his numbers were similar to mine. By the time we departed, I learned yet another one of life’s valuable lessons; simply we live a privileged life. Just to have the opportunity to fish for these and other fishes of the world should be enough. To catch a fish or two along such journeys, simply a bonus.

Ironically, this May upon releasing the first tarpon of the trip, I reflected on my conversation old friend. Should he be fortunate to still wake a fly, he’d be in his mid nineties. I was hoping his travels kept him young beyond his years and he was still active. Waters of the world where anglers cast a fly need such mentors. While watching this lone piscatorial traveler back into the calm rich waters of Mooney Harbor, I wondered how many years I had left to fish. In the past few years it wasn’t the first time this thought crossed my mind.

I reeled in, placing the slender tarpon fly into the base of my aging Gulfstream. My fishing partner took the helm while I relaxed and sought solstice within this ocean refuge. I image what it must have been like when Jeffrey made those early runs across dark waters under the light of a full moon to discover new uncharted waters. I ponder on a similar crossing when I made a similar journey of discovery and realize how fortune I’ve been to have fished in the Conch Republic and other places of such beauty where wild fish still exist and on such chance occasions take a fly.

Last Minute Contemplations

2008-06-03T16:06:00.001-06:00

Shortly before midnight I’m anxiously waiting to board a red-eye flight that will depart a little before one in the morning, eventually transporting me to warmer climates. Although personally partial to the cold, the Silver King would find the weather of my home state rather uninhabitable most months, even though Utah has an infamous saltwater landmark. It snowed on this day. In the Rockies, such is not an uncommon occurrence for May and makes Key’s weather rather inviting. This day’s flurries ideally suite the west’s spring mayfly hatches, yet lends a stark contrast to the emerald flats and tropical temperatures where tarpon call home.

I inventory my gear before boarding, as if at this juncture it’s going to do much good. Typically such gyrations are contemplated well in advance, yet circumstances prohibited such preparedness. My attics provide a source of entertainment for my fellow passengers. Given their expressions I wouldn’t be surprised to find a TSA agent or two sauntering my way to further inspect my assembled arsenal given the neurosis that now permeates our society. God knows my gear appears far more hostile than the tube of toothpaste the agents confiscated from me earlier. Shaking my head, they were kind enough to let me keep my razor. Go figure!

Normally, a row of freshly tied flies adorns an area above my fly tying table affectionately known as the Flight Deck. Those neatly assembled patterns serve as a visual reflection of my readiness. Only a handful hung on the Deck when time came to pack. A bag of hand tied leaders neatly labeled normally accompanies the selection of newly tied creations. All I managed was to purchase the hard mono needed to build them. Fortunately I’ll have several days to prepare before that first cast is made.

Then there’s that preparation that accompanies the first cast. Either the previous year or the one prior to our Captain elaborated on the complexities part time tarpon anglers are confronted with, that would be me. Out of respect, knowing the similar challenges a boat Captain faces when fishing for these piscatorial giants, normally there’s time appropriated to re-familiarize myself with my bigger sticks. It’s not that the practice doesn’t help, you simply can’t replicate the gyrating conditions that flats fishing confronts one with: tides, wind, moving boats, moving fish. For some reason the ducks and geese used to impersonate the Silver King’s habits don’t quite assimilate the real deal.

Just having the opportunity to fish for theses giants creates a level of significant contentment. There are so many variables that contrive to ones fortunes when fishing for migratory fish. Putting the variables into a simpler context I’ve come to the realization that “you get what you get when you get there”. It’s no more complicated than that. My mantra flashes briefly through my cranium while rummaging through my carry-on having little effect on the anxiety spawned by my lack of preparation.

Shortly after midnight the loudspeaker projects a shrill voice alerting most from their stupor, announcing the initial boarding of the flight. My quick survey shows nothing critical has been left behind. Given the lack of efficiency in most airlines there’s a 50/50 chance my bag will even arrive at my final destination. Fortunately you can travel with most of the items that are critical to your fishing trip: rod, reel, flies and a well traveled coffee cup. Making my way down the gangway I take comfort in that notion.

A Growing Addiction

2008-05-26T14:50:00.000-06:00

Poling onto the flat long after Lower Keys guides have headed home the Gulf’s placid surface lay silently crimson before us. Back on the island clusters of pink tourists gather in Key West, ceremoniously watching the setting of the sun; a tradition here that transcends time. Their disillusionment grossly detached from that which we have come for. Such disparities have juxtaposed since the first tarpon anglers ventured to the Conch Republic in search of this shallow water leviathan.

Ahead the evening’s first roller breaks the meniscus momentarily levitating before slipping back into the oceans reflective waters. Its body uncharacteristically black against the copper hue of the Gulf; accentuated by the glowing orb that now dominates the western horizon. A distinctive suck reverberates through the heavy tropical air filling an unfamiliar silence as this prehistoric fish secures life sustaining air. We stare transfixed as if not to disturb that which has played out before us. An explosion on the flat breaks the breathless tension. The violence shatters the Gulf like a rock breaking a single pane of glass. The feeding frenzy has begun.

Jeffrey climbs from the poling platform and removes several rods from the gunnel of the skiff simultaneously pulling line from the reel in preparation. Another violent attack resonates within casting distance of the boat. In seconds the shrimp pattern lands within the tarpons dying footprint. For thousands of years these mysterious predators have plied these waters. They’re not here by accident. Neither is Jeffrey whose predacious nature mirrors the quarry he passionately pursues.

The fly lands yet briefly before the line stretches tight the hook finding its mark. Seventy-five pounds of gyrating electricity erupts from the shallow confines where this and a growing number of predators have gathered to feast. The beige fly line instantly vanishes yielding a thin tether of connectivity. In the distance the fish catapults from it liquid environs, momentarily suspended r before gravity sends the tarpon crashing to the darkened waters. This first personal encounter with a tarpon still almost a decade later unforgettably remain etched in my mind.

The tarpon makes one final lunge to break the proportionally thin leader before sliding defiantly alongside the small skiff. The diminutive hook wrapped of feather and fur easily falls from the cavernous abyss that constitutes this unique fish’s mouth. Jeffrey marvels at the creature he’s briefly been connect to even though he’s enacted out this situation thousands of times; his genuine allure impressionable. With one purposeful tail flick the tarpon disappears into the deceptively placid waters continuing its quest for oceans yet unknown.

This dusk escapade forever changed my notion of fly fishing for tarpon. Even had I not hooked a fish, where once I thought being connected to such giants required more machine than manpower, I now know the converse to be true. In the footsteps of Hemingway and those before him, I now know the purpose of their habitual journeys. Had it not been for the gracious guidance of Captain Jeffrey Cardenas that led to that fateful April evening, I may never have known what drives the passion of such men. As Neil wrote in the “The Needle and the Damage Done”, I too have succumbed to an addictiveness of sorts, yet for those who yearn to catch fish on a fly that urge is no less powerful.

The Void

2008-02-11T17:17:00.000-07:00

Coincidentally, this absence in Blogging is juxtaposed to a deficiency in fishing. Not that days on the water are the sole inspiration for babbling, but days casting a fly or wandering through open spaces definitely correlate to my sense of creativity, or lack there of depending on how this gibberish is view.

A Blog on the state of affairs of rods has been in the works over this lapse of time. Typical of such undertakings, re-reads and writings left me with little enthusiasm for the subject matter. Towards the end, rather than finalize the endeavor, I’d convinced myself that most don’t care anyway. Other tainted influences also led to the termination of my last efforts: death, graduation, ailing parents, work, all drubbed any peripheral pleasures and justifiably so.

It’s been over a month since I was near enough to water to hear its movement. It was a beautiful Sunday; overcast, cool and snowing. Blue Wings were hatching, and this early season mayfly prefers such weather. For the vast majority of those who recreate just the opposite can said. Such in-climate days leave the most longing for fairer weather, an added bonus for those who venture out on days when the skies spit a bit of moisture.

I met “Snake” about a half mile down river. Discounting our vehicles there were only two others in the lot by the time I arrived and rain had turned to snow. Given the dense stratum of aging snow that still covered the valley, their occupants didn’t wander far.

We worked our way a mile or so further before we found a perch somewhat sheltered from the wind and increasing flurries. Before departing a plethora of waterfowl would parade before us on the placid pool that lay before us: Mallards, Geese, Goldeneye’s and Northern Pintail’s. Several Red-tail’s occupied the rivers towering yet naked cottonwoods, their voice distinct from other species in the family. A group of disgruntled Sandhills beckoned as if defiantly questioning their arrival into this wintry scene, given the warm confines they left in milder climates. With such distractions, as time passed intent conversations and observations took over as fishing became an afterthought.

By the time we’d headed home joints had become stiff, neither of us making a cast. We’d arrived optimistically hoping to encounter a quite stormy afternoon and a river laced with emerging mayflies, yet not a single delicate sail drifted aimlessly upon the rivers mirrored currents. Even under our most scrupulous glare could a single trout be willed to the surface.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate such days; to be with a friend, to sit on the bank of a trout stream in solitude, to witness life in a simpler setting. Fishing brings one to such places, a harbor from life’s distractions. These days to catch a fish only adds to the cornucopia of life experiences when one’s attracted to water. To ask more of a day on the water would only take away from what fishing with a fly has to offer.

First Temptations

2008-01-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

Winters frigid cold and snow reluctantly took the day off. From the south evidence of its next assault drapes lazily from the mountain tops like a dark veil. For the moment sunshine lends a sense of false comfort to the afternoon. Even with snowshoes travel along the river was relatively cumbersome. A short distance from the parking lot the last struggles of a determined angler are soon behind us. The deep depressions left in the snow gave good reason for their going no further.

Traveling among the shadows of the corridors bare cottonwoods any comfort from the sun quickly dissipates. Other than those early remnants of struggling anglers, the rivers cold clear currents are void of two legged’s; a rarity over this past decade even this time of year. Encountering the occasional sign of deer and possibly moose, it’s evident they too struggle. Their bellies drag through the powdered surface where snow is deepest. Winters harsh qualities show no regard for such creatures labored efforts, which for many unceremoniously end in death.

The river winds through the valleys bottom black in contrast to the enveloping blanket of snow. Ancient cottonwoods stand as bare sentries over its meandering course. In the distance a lone eagle sits perched enjoying winter’s temporary reprieve before nightfall’s cold and approaching storm assaults all things living left exposed. It’s a tranquil and somewhat foreign scene compared to recent winters past.

Pausing at the head of a run, several minute rings form as some of the rivers lesser occupants dine leisurely on those few drifting dipterids left vulnerable. Judging the current and drift, all defined by waters hidden structure, mental stock is taken as if to fish. Being without rod or reel the process is imaginary, yet natural for most that pursue this game when presented with water regardless of the opportunity.

Scanning the run before departing, a dissimilar rise catches the periphery of my eye. The tell tale sign of a larger fish still remains, yet rhythmically disperses as I stare. Several minutes pass before the brown takes another hapless midge confirming the illusionary will of false hope. Its broad shoulders break the dark meniscus briefly lending a porthole to its size. For a time all senses are magically consumed.
The brown never rose again, yet its image remained transfixed. Prior to leaving mental notes marked the run and trout’s location in preparation for a next visit. Unlike this leisurely day there will be more purpose upon my return. Given this temptation, that won’t be long.

Winter Reprieve

2008-01-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

At three in the morning the screen to my bedroom window began to whistle as winters first storm rolled into the valley. Several freshly torn branches from the century old poplar that sags dangerously close to my home rattled across the roof. That was late December. Given winter’s tardy arrival, those who fish, greeted this storm with a sigh.

Winter’s critical snows arrive as if to wipe a season’s slate clean. Its dismal showing over the past decade have left many with significant trepidations. No more so than at the end of this past trout season. Recent western storms and ensuing artic temperatures have shaped a level of optimism that’s been absent through much of these past years.
Towards year end, winters onslaught has lent a mixed silence from a pastime that consumes us during the fly-fishing season. For many enthusiasts it’s a comforting reprieve knowing the sustenance that winter yeilds. Others perceive this frigid intrusion as an annoying distraction. For those finned creatures we stalk, it’s the first semblance of calm they’ll enjoy after a season of daily intrusions. Given this century’s persistent drought, they could use the time off.

One would think that given my profession and passion for fly fishing that winter’s intrusion would be annoyingly received. Instead, like the trout I pursue, I welcome the respite from summer’s heat. If it wasn’t for fishing and the opportunity to be submerged in cool waters, summers persistent heat literally saps the life from me. This year it came close. At one point waters therapeutic currents did little to relieve one of the miseries of summer’s lingering inferno. At such times there’s a longing for cooler climates and the need to don a layer or two to stay warm. As the season came to an end my thoughts traveled from home waters to the steelhead rivers of the great northwest.

I remember the previous year’s first outing. It was the last day of fishing I enjoyed with my good friend Rich Seamons. It was early February and winters artic temperatures broke to a balmy forty degrees. We sat that beautiful afternoon bathed in sunshine, alternately taking a handful of nice Browns that were delicately sipping on the smallest of midge. We never rose to take a fish, choosing instead to cast from the comfortable berth of several smooth rocks. Across the river a lone eagle perched in a solitary Ponderosa watched our antics. Towards the days end a solitary angler passed us. We exchanged pleasantries before he went on his way. Such are the pleasures of winter.

This morning’s reading from my porch thermometer dipped to zero. At elevation where our trout live, I’m sure it’s a few notches colder. Given the weather forecast and temperatures it’s probably going to be another week before I’m motivated to dust my rod off, put a fresh leader on and possibly tie a fly or two in preparation for my first day. For now that’s fine. I just as soon see the snow and cold keep me at bay for as long as Mother Nature has in mind. My fishing requirements, at this juncture, fall behind those acts of nature that are critical to our water resources health. For now I'm content to watch it snow, but before long that will change.

The Disappearing Art of Flyfishing

2008-01-08T15:09:00.000-07:00

Those who know me, acknowledge that I have a preference to fishing with dry flies. That was not always the case. Similar to most that have progressed through the sport I’ve managed a cycle of fishing with a fly. Initially I tried to just catch a fish. Then I worked on catching my fair share. During those early days I didn’t put much thought into the methods I employed, yet options by today’s comparison were few. Like everyone who initially enters this sport, there’s a natural yet personal progression; one of the beautiful aspects of fly fishing.

I was blessed having been mentored by some of our sports more ethical predators; Emmett Heath, Reid Bonson, Reme Harrop, Mike Lawson at a time far removed from the sport taking center stage. To this day these talented fly fishers and others continue to mold how I approach my days on the water.

Today my fly boxes contain a cornucopia of dries, emergers and soft hackles. Now and then lost among those patterns you’ll find a nymph or two, but not always. These random stragglers for the most part are left over from the numerous classes I teach.

I did hook a rather large rainbow on a nymph this year, which in some regards is a milestone; one that there was one in my box and two that I tied it on. It was the largest trout I was tethered to all year. I recall reading at one time on the disparity of nymphs compared to dries. The former being the most preferred. Those authors may have been from the early writings of Skues or possibly the more recent publishing of Charlie Brooks. For some reason pragmatic premise never stuck with me. To a fault I’ve never done things the easy way.

On those occasions when I fish the sunk fly my approach resembles that of dries and emergers; visually without the aid of strike indicator or dropper fly. When you’re close enough to see the fly being taken there’s no need for such visual distractions; the stalk being another challenging game in and of itself. Conditions on that fateful day when I took the rainbow permitted me to fish this way. After several searing runs and a spectacular jump the hook pulled free. Ascending the basalt ledges from where I first spotted this fish I again found it resting. As much as I would have liked putting this beautiful rainbow to hand, in the end I was accepting of the outcome feeling in some regards that I’d been disrespectful of this beautiful trout.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with those who fish the sunk fly. In fact “Snake”, my fishing companion, has a penchant for fishing nymphs. He’s a tight liner and I marvel in his skill at fishing the sunk fly. Although our techniques may vary on a given river we both have issues with the apparatuses used today to fish subsurface flies and the gluttonous results that incur from the use of such gadgets. Just because one uses a fly on the end of their line doesn’t mean their methods equate to fly fishing.

Like much in life I’m slow to the take. I use to believe that everyone should fish dries, just like I once believed that every trout stream should be catch and release. Both of these ill conceived wisdoms have since fallen from my grace. If the masses fished dries than much of the water and those trout that occupy such nooks and crannies would be frequently occupied. With anglers preferences towards techniques and methods that employ the sunken fly there’s a rather significant amount of open water available to explore.

It may seem like I’m being intolerant of those who fish nymphs, which is not the case. One of the great aspects of fly fishing compared to other sports is the option to pursue it in a myriad of directions. Such freedom permits one to enjoy the sport for ones own personal gratification. My disgruntlements are not with the participants or the way they have chosen to fish, but with many of those who make their livelihood from the sport and what we’ve allowed the sport to become. What once was promoted and taught as a beautifully challenging game now has become lost in an obscure practice that at times rarely resemble fishing with a fly.

I look back at my early mentors with great appreciation. They were teachers, philosophizers, hunters, conservationist and students of the sport. Today, these exemplary qualities are a rarity in many of the sports professionals and would be experts. In many regards I feel we’ve cheated the masses in an effort to get new entrants into the sport and in doing so have blurred the edges of what our sport is.

The Times They are a Changing

2007-11-19T11:49:00.000-07:00

At the risk of confrontation on many fronts I pursue a final outing that may lend some perspective to a troubled year. If you fish, I need not explain. With several incredible fall trips under my belt I thought I’d be content to hang it up. I underestimated my self control, which when it comes the potential for a road trip, I often do. This time however, there’s more than just fishing that’s driving me. Not that I wouldn’t mind one last tug, but as the years pass it’s not that simple any more.

For starters that bad taste left in my mouth from my final day of steelheading unfortunately lingers. Its semi ludicrous this offensive gesture would blemish all that transpired on that trip. Had it not been a last day my impressions may have been more tempered. Regrettably such is not the case.

A growing sense of urgency as another year comes to an end also adds to my mood. Not so much related to my advancing age, but driven from an apprehension for the future of our resources. One would have to be appreciably detached to not have concerns for the condition of our western waters; declining wild salmon and steelhead stocks, river closures, relentless drought, climate change, increasing water demands, fires, and invasive species. As of late the list deplorably is growing. After one of the most environmentally taxing years in memory, for the first time I seriously contemplate their future.

In the last two months I’ve flown across the entire country. Much of it at that vantage point resembles an old ball mitt. You may have come across such a relic among your dad’s or grandfathers possessions. One from the 40’s or 50’s in particular; dried, cracked, and dull. I don’t ever recall the landscape brown nor looking so beat down and trodden.

At the height of the season Yellowstone Park initiated a voluntary closure of its waters from noon until 6. Summers persistent heat led to these restrictions becoming mandatory. The Madison below Quake Lake incurred critical water temperatures of 70. At about this same time I was getting my head handed to me on the Henry’s Fork. As summers heat lingered these waters to were faced with similar conditions. On a recent trip through the Bitterroot and Salmon River Valley I was awed by the number of tributaries that ran dry. Not to mention the fires that pilfered the countryside for the second consecutive year.

In the west there’s a perceptions of abundance when it comes to natural resources. Trout waters included. Anglers, all methods, are not immune from this notion. As a whole there seems to be little concern nor knowledge of the knifes edge we walk. Life distractions that bear little significance on our true well being have led to a budding level of indifference and disconnect. I find this trend disturbing given our state of affairs.

Heading out of the river corridor where I spent my final day in BC I wondered if during my lifetime these wild steelhead would face a similar fate as their relatives in the lower 48. Their declining numbers leave little room for optimism. Exiting this wild river corridor I reflected on this and the future of those waters nearer to home. On the ride home as the rains continued I turned on the radio. Although the program was barely audible, the distraction it provided was an improvement over the disheartening realities that ran through my head.

As days and weekends pass my window of opportunity to head north is slipping away. Although, should my year end without another tug I know there will be occasions next year, or will there. For the first time there’s an awareness that our time on the water is in jeopardy. Given the start to winter in much of the west my anxieties continue to be reinforced. For your consideration, praying for snow is no longer an option.

A Two Fingered Salute

2007-10-01T18:00:00.000-06:00

Previously I composed a Blog focused on the lack of etiquette that's seems to be permeating our waters. Recently while steelhead fishing in British Columbia I had a run in with angler that underlines my position. This ill-mannered flyfisher was fortunate that I was a foot and a visitor to boot. Given recent disgruntlements between non-residents and locals on Canadian steelhead rivers his day could have ended changing a tire or two. Unfortunately in some instances that and other acts of vandalism are what it’s come to.

I had one remaining day to fish before flying home. My companions had already left, leaving me alone to ply for one last tug. Having fished this river for twenty-one years there were a myriad of familiar options to choose from. That was a problem. I spent a restless night muddling my choices. Walking would limit the amount of water I could fish. Still there were numerous opportunities.

By the time I woke I'd narrowed it down settling on a piece that I hadn’t had the opportunity to fish in a decade. Breakfast was on the fly as I prepared and packed. I was able to borrow an old Suburban for the day; two wheel drive, no power steering, cracked windshield, garbled radio. Inside it looked like the homeless had just checked out. The BC plates pimped out this steelhead poaching rig. Turning over the diesel and heading out I felt right at home. I noticed the tachometer. It read almost 300,000 miles.

Over the years the locals have grown tired of foreigners. Doors once open, have slowly closed, precipitated by an encroaching behavior that has brazenly eroded our once harmonious welcome. Having witnessed such inconsiderate actions in the past and again on this day, I can't blame them for their less than neighborly attitude.

It was pouring. The lush provincial valley lay enshrouded in a stratum of dark clouds. If there was ever a day in the week that had a steelhead sense, this was it. Leaving any semblance of civilization quickly I quietly followed the greasy two lane road that would lead me to my destination. There were few vehicles traveling at this hour. Given how my loaner wandered, I was grateful for this.

Trout Creek, a favorite piece off water for locals, was nearly deserted as I passed. So was where I needed to park. Should the spot have been occupied I would have put into effect, Plan “B”. Not being superstitious I took this fortuitous situation as being a good omen.

It didn’t take long to dress and be head down the damp dense trail to the river. The heavy rain continued. Entering the river corridor it was evident that spring floods had changed little here, but the yellow can that once lay partially buried in the sands for decades had washed away. Relatively fresh tracks occupied the sandy beach. Just because the can was gone, didn’t mean anglers didn’t know where this run was. The boot tracks made this obvious. I scanned the area, but saw no one.

Yellow Can fished so well, I had to fish it twice, not believing that there wasn’t a fish somewhere beneath its ruffled mirrored surface the first pass through. My extended effort produced the same results as the first, much to my chagrin.

The rain continued as I continued to fish in solitude, Ravens and Eagles being the only witness to my presence. Downriver I crossed a small channel to an island that historically has consistently produced. Where other parts of the river seemed unmolested by spring’s torrents, this landmark was totally rearranged. Not wanting the day to pass quickly I leisurely plied the waters and casually strolled from run to run. Besides, navigating greased ledges and loose rock isn’t the easiest going.

I hung my heavy pack on the end of a 100’ cottonwood. It was one of hundreds deposited in mass by the spring flood. I took a moment to ponder the significance of natures power. From this juncture to the head of the run at the top of the island was three hundred yards. The first hundred yards is easy. The second in knee deep water more laborious.

I wasn’t really attentive as I entered the water. The shimmering water, towering cottonwoods and snow laden peaks diverted my attention. Periodically I’d check my progress and make sure I was far enough from where these fish might lie. On one such occasion a hint of movement caught my eye. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, the damp air distorting my aging vision. Moments later there was no mistaking the two boaters quietly drifting downriver. Unconcerned I continued.

Half way up the run I stopped to survey the intruders noticing one was nearing the head of the run I sought to fish. Knowing that I was readily visibly and the habits of most steelheaders I didn’t give this a second thought. From their perspective there was no mistaking my intent. Moments later he stopped. Dumbstruck I just stared, not believing that someone would so blatantly cut me off.

At this distance the evil eye generated little impact. To verbally accost him would only intensify the situation and further mar my day. After all, he was well aware of what he was doing. Verbal confirmation would not change the obvious. Dismayed I simply raised both arms with freak flags flying and bowed. “Fucker” quietly slipped from my lips before I rose. Smiling, I headed on knowing how spiteful the steelhead gods can be. Paybacks are a bitch.

I didn’t touch a fish that day. There have been many such days on steelhead rivers in my life that have ended this way. It’s part of the game. But, that which I experienced unexpectedly was something new. Given the growing lack of consideration on our trout waters I shouldn’t have been surprised. That single incident appreciably spoiled what could have been a perfect day. Regrettably even in steelhead country where we are often guests, self-serving interests are permeating a world where once semblances of order and standards were religiously followed.

The Migration Begins

2007-08-28T14:39:00.000-06:00

I thought this summer would never come to pass. My first hint of its demise transpired one crisp August morning on the banks of the Henry’s Fork. While patiently waiting for death to reveal itself, a perceptible change in the air that wasn’t there previously suddenly gathered my attention. Although subtle, it was noteworthy. Back home falls first shades of crimson now randomly litter the valleys surround parched hillsides. As September approaches there is evidence of a change, but falls reluctance to emerge from summers grip yields a growing concern.

In anticipation of seasonal change we to alter our fishing habits spurred by the return of an anadramous fish whose journey near its end. Analogous to the timing of such natural phenomenon a small group of anglers appear in dawns gathering light at a near-by park. For several decades this congregations has assembled in anticipation. Approaching the water the parks resident waterfowl vocally voice their displeasure in their arrival. They gather at a safer distance to watch. Soon the still airs silence is broken with the resonance of their long rods as theses casters repeatedly work to hone their skills, their rods and techniques evidence of a time long past.

Greg Smith, who first introduced me to steelhead fishing with a fly emphatically stated while sipping a few cold ones, “When I get before the almighty the first question I’m asking the man is; why steelhead?” That was twenty one years ago. Collin Schadrech that same year said I’d never be the same after visiting the rivers of British Columbia that fateful fall. He was right. Since then, I’ve spent countless hours at day break in preparation of these mysterious travelers, an obsession that I now share with a growing passionate few.

Last evening at dinner with several staff members these fish worked their way into our conversation. At this late juncture in the year, that’s not unusual. Matt, who’s always wound tight, was seeking affirmation regarding his decision to get married. Coincidentally his matrimonial status would interfere with a trip to the Salmon scheduled for later in the season. Knowing his wife to be, obviously his better half, it took another couple of beers to convince him that he should stay the course. The fact that one would contemplate such is testimony to the addictiveness of fly fishing for steelhead. He wasn’t the first to surrender all aspects of reason to these fish, nor will he be the last.

As days pass and summers persistent heat reluctantly surrenders the frequency of such exchanges grows. My first of many phone calls from my extended family in British Columbia came around the same time as our sessions at the park began. It was one of many. Reports from various locations across the northwest precipitate many a conversation. For the past decade, with global implications affecting the world’s fragile ecosystems, these conversations carry considerable concern for on these waters there are consistently fewer fish. Yet, for those who pursue these fish, it’s not about numbers. If you can’t be content with a chance encounter, you should stick to other more predictable species.

After a concluding a recent early morning sessions in the park, and my last late night tying session I’ll soon be headed north. It’s what I live for and have since my first steelhead. Should I catch a fish or two, I’d consider myself fortunate after experiencing many a wet cold day on the water with nothing to show. But it’s that which often times seems unobtainable that I like the most about this game and most when it comes to fishing with a fly. It’s true also of the Henry’s Fork where lost opportunities create fanatical followers. Steelheaders are much the same. What other species of fish wills the angler to endure such challenges with hope as their only lure dangling form the end of ones line. In my experience, none.

A Perfect Day

2007-08-03T15:05:00.000-06:00

At 6:00am the air felt cooler than it had been the previous four mornings. Dew on the seasons dying grasses and the adjoining waters dense layer of fog visually confirmed what my body sensed. I was up early, this being my last day. The sun had yet to crest the eastern horizon. I quickly made coffee and took in little sustenance before heading out. The previous morning’s fish were up by the time I and my companions arrived. I wanted to be there prior to the rivers residents taking notice of the dying mayflies that would soon be floating overhead.

For the past several days fishing had been good precipitated by summer’s heat reluctantly yielding to cooler temperatures. A much needed reprieve for this and other western rivers that have suffered through another season of minimal rainfall and record breaking heat. The previous evening the heavens released a brief washing of refreshing rain. Something I hadn’t seen or felt since early June. The storms electrical intensity had my rod arching in my hand. The first subtle shock got my attention. The second sent the it off into the nearby sagebrush. As the air crackled I was wondering if I’d used up another of those nine lives. For a moment it wasn’t funny.

It was a short drive to the river from camp. Exiting my vehicle morning’s cool air was still damp from the previous evening’s storm. Overhead not a cloud littered the vast blue sky. For now I was the only person present. Other than a few vacationers, that’s how it’s been every day. Casually I began the ritual of suiting up while sipping the last of my caffeinated dregs. Before finishing, several of my friends casually began to arrive. Milling around in various states of consciousness, depending on how many beers one had had the evening before, the sound of a hastened vehicle disrupted any semblance of calm. A level of anxiety followed its arrival. Noticing our presence its occupants quickly exited their oversized truck and began to dress. It was obvious they intended to beat us to the punch. Already dressed, I casually made my way to the water, noticing the Texas license plates as I passed. My departure didn’t go unnoticed.

Having had four good days behind me, I wanted to enjoy some solitude for as long as possible. It was a short walk to the river from where we parked. By now each of us had our spots where previous days challenges had gone unfinished. Yesterday, I missed a very nice fish after a long patient effort. It took my Honey Ant as aggressively as it had the numerous naturals that drifted overhead. Setting the hook, only the slightest tensions was felt before the fly came free. I had hopes of having another opportunity this day.

Crossing the first of three channels, all was quiet. I cautiously made my way to the small island where I would sit in anticipation. Matted grasses showed where we’d patiently hunkered down previously. For now I was alone. Across the way a mature Bald Eagle leveraged its body into the nook of a dead tree as an irate Osprey assaulted it from above. It was obvious that neither was happy. After a while the Osprey succumbed to the futile situation. Noticing a return to calm a sibling joined the mature raptor. If this day should fail to unfold as the others, the view was worth the effort.

Before me lay a vista of ancient glass, the rivers current barely evident as it flowed around me. A random Callibaetis spinner lay dying on the water and slowly drifted by. Not enough yet to stir the rivers larger rainbows into taking notice, but it was still early. As the air warmed clouds of Caddisflies and swarming Trico’s gathered. The past mornings spinnerfalls had been excellent, extended by a calm that’s a rarity in this basin. For the past four mornings before the last dying mayfly floated by, we were treated to a shower of Honey Ants. This delicacy is cherished by angler and trout alike. My friends, having never fished this river before, were treated to something that I’ve rarely encountered here in thirty odd years of fishing these waters.

My buddies from Texas eventually emerged from the parking area again disrupting my mornings calm. Like buffalo they waded into the river oblivious to anything. Where they stood and flogged the water a number of nice fish had dimpled the waters surface the previous day. Such would not be the case today, at least anytime soon. Before long several other anglers came lumbering up from the parking lot, my friends interspersed among them. It looks like our visit to the local fly shops the previous day had tipped our hand. Where over the past days we seen virtually no one else, today there were ambling bodies surrounding us. I hunkered down.

It took sometime before the first nose rose to take morning’s first offerings. Typical of the sequence, it was a smaller fish and not what I was looking for. It soon was joined by several others. I tried to hold off the anxiety of last mornings as time passed and none of the larger fish who’d agonizingly inspected my imitations over the previous days appeared. Halfway through the morning a cool gust dispersed the mating insects. As time passed the wind increased, the gathering spinners scattered and never found the water.

Eventually I found a nice fish up at the tail of the island. I put one of my friends on the steady feeder since he’d yet to land a nice fish. Jon and some of my old high school friends traveled from Ohio to fish these famous waters with me. Given how challenging these waters are, we were fortunate to have the tides turn during our brief stay. We both had a date with a fish this morning. He eventually got his. I on the other hand was less fortunate. Three hours had passed with me hunkered among the islands tall grasses quietly watching. For the first time since arriving my reel would not disturb the stillness. If you fish here, you get accustom to such days.

Eventually I left my perch. I didn’t wander far. I noticed after a while that Jon had also moved on. I passed several other wandering anglers looking for the ants they’d been promised to find here: “you should have been here yesterday”. Reality was setting in. I smiled at the ambling scene before me feeling fortunate knowing that our stay could have been filled with fruitless wanderings.

As I headed back my gaze took in the beauty of the area. Views that for the past thirty some years I’ve never tired of. Now only a handful of anglers worked the waters to splashy risers. Little did they know they were fishing to Whitey’s. The more experienced anglers sat and waited or cautiously made their way through the tall grasses that bordered this river in hopes of finding a rising trout feeding on the meager remnants from the mornings affairs. If you fish here, such is the game.

I relived much of the past days fortunes as I stowed my gear away for the last time. An old Neil Young album played in the background. It was an album that was cut when I first starting making the long trek to these hallowed waters. It brought back many fond memories. Morning’s cool breeze rustled the needles of the towering Lodge Poles that shaded my exit. After enduring a summer of intense heat the cool breeze was welcomed even though it stifled the days fishing. At the Park entrance a Red Tail hovered motionless several feet over its prey to my left, its tail and wings illuminated by afternoons intense sun. In an instant it pounced, simply retracting it wings. Proudly it inspected the kill. His success evidence of valuable lessons honed over the years. If one is to have much success on these waters, similar lessons and skills must be learned.

I half expected the day to end as it did. To have had a fifth incredible day would have been a lot to ask from a river that is reluctant to give up its bounty. The Iroquois say that when you see birds of prey you are doing what you like. Often I take this to heart. There are few things in life I prefer more than being on a river. Just to be in a place where trout live, is reward enough. To catch a fish, a bonus.

Shitters

2007-08-03T14:44:00.000-06:00

I wasn’t in the act when this notion came to be. No need to get personal just thought that fact was worth mentioning in. This piece was prompted following an evening jab session at the shop enjoying a few cold ones and of course discussing a favorite topic, fly fishing. Once the topic was breeched, we enjoyed some good laughs over various commodes we’ve encountered during our fishing excursions around the world.

I went back in the archives to drum up my first noteworthy recollection. If you ever fished Silver Creek back in the early 80’s you may remember the outdoor plumbing perched at the bend in the road just past Kilpatrick Bridge. Plywood painted mustard yellow made it hard to miss. This was before the Nature Conservancy put in their luxurious facility at the sign-in cabin.

I’d used this facility a number of times before the irony of it hit me. I remember the moment well. It was one of those very hot July days when nature called. Given there wasn’t anything higher than sage brush, the walk and use of this facility was your only option. It had been so windy that we’d finished fishing for the afternoon choosing to nap or tie some flies while we waited for the evening rise.

It was only a short jaunt to the facilities. Stepping inside most days in July the heat was immediately oppressive. This day it was particularly hot. I’ll leave the odor to your imagination. Looking around once seated for the first time I noticed the bullet holes that riddled the structure. They were accentuated by the sun rays as they penetrated each opening. For a moment my attention was diverted from the task at hand to my awkward position. I’m sitting in a rather vulnerable position at the end of a dry dust road in a sweat box full of bullet holes.

That was the last time I ever used those facilities. Even if the bullet holes had not been present, it wasn’t the most pleasant of circumstances. Talk about a sitting duck.

Steelhead camps predominantly are located in cold climates. Chasing these anadramous travelers has led me to some of the most beautiful places in the world. I recently traveled halfway around the globe to fish the west coast of Kamchatcka. I’d been to Russia previously so I had some gumption of what to expect upon my arrival in this remote camp. I was pleasantly surprised by the lengths our hosts had gone to make their outdoor plumbing accommodating. I still rate their showers as the best of all time….wood heated, incredibly revitalizing after a cold wet day. Wood to fuel the showers had to be flown in, as did everything else that was built here. I’ve yet to be in a more remote wilderness.

Situated some distance from our tents situated at the distal end of a long wooden walk were two outhouses. They blended in well with the rough landscape as did everything that had been built here. By the way it’s true what they say about Russian toilet paper. It takes a little getting use to. To our pleasant surprise our gracious hosts had gone to great lengths to make sure we were all comfortable, but none of us expected a porcelain throne lined with red velvet seat covers. Any short comings these facilities may have had, toilet paper excluded, were overlooked by all as a result of these luxurious accompaniments.

For some reason, steelead fishing latrines made the grade almost exclusively. These facilities are possibly more notable due to their artic quality that many of them posses. Can’t think of a more uncomfortable or shocking experience than a visit to one of many of these frigid boxes that acompany many of our north country’s steelhead rivers in late fall. They don’t exactly lend to jumping from the warm confines of a down relieve oneself when nature calls.

Without a doubt one of the greatest outhouses on the planet is an open door affair strategically located on the Bulkley River in British Columbia. Halfway through Driftwood Canyon is one of the most beautiful camps you’ll ever spend a night in. Part of Frontier Farwest’s steelheading opereation, Twin Camp is appropriately named for its twin shitters. The view from the seat of one is simply epic. I found myself more than once lingering before hitting the river. Before you lies the most scenic of river corridors laced with fir and birch resplendent in falls colors. If you’re fortunate, one of the canyons Balk Eagles will fly by before you depart. For those superstitious souls, always a good omen to start off your day.

To say a visit to this particular commode is a pleasant experience would not be far from the truth given the view. That which we experience on the Salmon River in Idaho provides yet another.

It’s not that the Forest or Park service hasn’t done a good job of building these facilities, typical of their efforts they’ve gone a little overboard. In a pinch there’s plenty of room for a cot with all that’s missing being the kitchen sink. They definitely have a zest of over engineering and design that’s true in the facilities that dot this beautiful river corridor.

Describing the effects of November’s frigid air upon some of your bodies more sensitive body parts first thing in the morning is not exactly the most enjoyable way to begin your day chasing steelhead. The updraft in these roomy facilities is enough to literally freeze one in place. I’m not kidding. Should a gust of wind pass overhead while you’re taking care of business the ensuing waft of frigid air can literally lift you off your seat. It’s always a kick watching the first timers return from this place knowing how chilling the experience can be. It doesn’t take them long to figure out a run to the North Fork is a far more prudent option given the opportunity. That said, we all know that when Nature calls, Nature calls.

We’re all familiar with the unmentionable ones. You’ve a lingering impression or sense of the ones I’m referring to. They are those where human repugnance is beyond comprehension. You don’t even need to open the door should the wind be blowing from the right direction. Should you, you’re faced with the most unpleasant of circumstances. I’ll refrain from such disgusting detail. If you fish, it’s more than likely you’ve been confronted by such repulsive road side or river corridor latrine. I’m sure the images I may have conjured up are sufficient enough to spare any further details.

Everyone who’s spent much time in the outdoors has had an experience with such places. I mentioned to several of the coffee crew about this Blog and the stories began. We shared in a good laugh or two. Given the number of us these days, we just can’t go out in the woods in most places without having an impact. Consequently were finding more and more of such facilities. Given the habits of most people, I’m glad they are there. However, I must say I still prefer a good old squat in the woods when Mother Nature calls. Ah!

What ever happened to just going fishing?

2007-06-14T17:56:00.001-06:00

My last two outings I’ve had run-in’s with inconsiderate guides & anglers while fishing locally. That’s putting it politely. These irritating circumstances appropriately occurred while I was working on this Blog. Timely one might say. From the equipment and techniques we employ to catch trout, to our conduct on the water, fishing with a fly isn’t what it use to be. Personally I feel many of these modifications and behaviors are ruining our sport.

Since opening Western Rivers Flyfisher in 1986 I’ve seen considerable changes in how we gage success and in our fly fishing practices. Uneducated and poorly trained guides have contributed significantly to this current state of affairs, since they are oftentimes the first to impress many of our new participants. Fly-fishing competitions and their practices have accentuated current trends. Where in the past we’d go fishing with no real measure to the day in mind, today it’s strictly about personal numbers for a growing percentage of flyfishers. By the increasing number of complaints I hear, to the conditions of the fish we catch, if we have an interest in preserving that which motivates us to fish with a fly, we need to rethink our approach.

I got into fishing with a fly rod some 44 years ago and just like everyone I wanted to catch fish. But, if it was just about the catching, I would have stuck to the worm and bobber I’d started with. After moving to Utah in the 70’s I was fortunate to be influenced by some of the west’s most skilled fly fishermen. These guys laid the groundwork for me; a foundations rich in the sports traditions, ethics, and sportsmanship. Under their tutelage I became a student of the sport. I was fortunate to have such mentors.

I don’t know about you, but I was drawn to fishing with a fly simply because it was challenging and more complex than conventional methods of fishing. Now some may dispute this position and for a small percentage of conventional tackle anglers you have a good case. Yet, arguably casting a fly rod to hook and land a fish is more difficult than other methods of fishing. Such was the case when I began my journey, but today this point is arguable given the techniques and equipment we no use.

Advancements in equipment have us catching more trout and fish than ever. In the world of trout the strike indicator has helped us put more fish to the beach than any other single piece of equipment we us. In most instances it’s latterly taken the rod and its function out of the equation. I’ve written of my feeling for strike indicators in past Blogs. I use to think these things had a place in our sport, but I question that tolerance at this point given what they have done to the sport and seeing the overall heath of our fisheries slowly deteriorate.

On our more populated waters we’ve got to put limits on our day’s successes. For every 10 fish we touch, one dies. Even as catch and release angers we have an impact. Often times these are slow deaths. I’m giving away my age, but in the good old days if you caught a limit of trout (8), that was a dam good day. By today’s standards a limit of 8 would be viewed as a rather meager showing. With frequency I listen to customers who catch 15 or more trout on a daily basis. I’m delighted with their successes, but given everyone’s ability to catch more fish collectively with the growing number of participants fishing our limited number of resources, something’s got to give. Unfortunately, it’s our trout that are taking the hit. Many look like heroine addicts with the hook marks that scar their bodies. And we often ponder the question of why our fisheries aren’t as good as they use to be.

One of the magical aspects of fishing with a fly rod is the cast. In a “River Runs Through It”, the cast was the mesmerizing aspect of the movie that attracted so many to the sport. Today, with the introduction of the strike indicator it’s rare to find an angler who can perform a cast with any type of proficiency, yet the cast is the defining aspect of the sport. That’s why most people these days fish with nymphs and not dry flies. They simply haven’t taken the time to learn how to cast or present a fly. Fly fishing is supposed to be challenging.

As I eluded earlier, guides have had their hand in the declining skills of many of today’s fly fishers. They often are the first to teach, that’s a novel concept, and impact our new entrants to the sport. The Bob Lamb’s, Greg Pearson’s, Jeffrey Cardenas’s, Emmett Heath’s, and there are many more, of the world are getting hard to come by. On the average, today’s guides rarely know enough to teach. They’ve made the strike indicator the crutch of our sport, rarely use a dry fly that isn’t made of foam, and will literally race you down the bank to get to their favorite run in quest of their life blood, the tip. Guides should be stewards of the stream. For that matter we all should. Unfortunately, most are far from that and are there to serve only their own best interests.

It’s apparent there are a growing number of confrontations on our waters these days. Come on people. I had a guy several nights ago jump in the water so close that before long he was actually fishing to my fish. What really pissed me off is he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong. How could he not. Just a week earlier I had a guide walk himself and his clients down the bank that one of my students was fishing. Later, he crossed the river in the run my students were fishing to see if they needed a guide oblivious to the fact that he just trashed their water. He offered his card. He’s lucky he didn’t get punched. Unfortunately these are not isolated cases.

These days our streams are crowded. It’s only going to get worse. If we are to enjoy our days on the water, we are going to have to be noticeably more considerate. Share the water. So you don’t get your twenty fish that day. Who cares? It’s not about catching fish anyway, it’s about fishing.

In some instances we literally are loving our resources to death; from fishing to spawning fish, to the use of fluorocarbon materials to catch just one or two more fish, to the employment of bobbers, to the aggressive and encroaching behavior some of us are exuding. The extent we willing to go is pushing the limits of our resources and our sport. We fish to remove ourselves from the chaos of everyday life and to be in beautiful places, yet what I’m seeing these days is every bit as chaotic and stressful.

The length’s we’re going to catch a fish is getting out of hand. We can no longer afford to have unlimited catches. Challenge yourself. That’s what fishing with a fly is all about anyway. Slow down, leave a few for others, share in your experience with others, and most of all look around. Fishing with a fly is an incredible life sport. As stewards, which we all should be, let ensure that our resources and our sport are enjoyed by all for our lifetime and more importantly generations to come.

Good Friends are Hard to Come By

2007-06-06T19:14:00.000-06:00

I first met Rich 15 to 16 years ago. He casually wandered into my shop to purchase some items to go fly-fishing. We hit it off the very first time. Hard not to given his infectious personality and enthusiasm for fly-fishing. Over time it was his passion for fly-fishing and the solace he sought in the outdoors that cemented our friendship. In this chaotic frenetic world in which we live, rivers and fishing were his sanctuaries. There he seemed to be most comfortable.

Since that meeting Rich and I have shared many days on the water that rarely went without an insightful streamside conversation. Two days before he passed away we had lunch. We talked of the rivers we were planning to fish this upcoming year. Although he was going through difficult times, which also occupied a portion of our conversation, it was always dialog that centered around fly- fishing that would balance his life’s challenges.

To the end Rich rarely confided in others. It had only been over the past several years that he had begun to open up some, but at best those windows were brief and unrevealing. For those that knew him he had been struggling with his health to the point of great personal frustration and discomfort, yet he rarely let on.

For a time his health prevented him from participating in those activities he loved. Only on rare occasions did he feel well enough to fish. Even though I tried as did others, he would seldom partake mostly not wanting to burden or be a distraction from that which we enjoyed. That was typical of him, not wanting to burden others.

Even though we still spent a great deal of time together over the past several years, I greatly missed his streamside absence. Our trips and travels regardless of timeframe always bore merit. Although since meeting we had ventured to many waters we were just arriving at a stage in our life’s where it was wade the waters of the west with more frequency. Selfishly our days on the water were as healing for me as they were for him. Looking back I wish I’d been more persistent in my efforts to get him out, even if it was to just sit on the bank of one of his favorite rivers to simply watch the world go by.

He’d recently gone through a second bypass operation that for the first time had shed some new light and optimism on his life. Shortly after this, we travel to the Green. It had been a while since we’d been able to fish together. Although brief we were both excited about the opportunity. We caught a few nice fish that day but, it wasn’t the catching of the rivers beautiful trout that was important, it was those moments in-between where we’d find a good rock to sit and watch eagles soaring overhead, relaxed and forgetful about the our often chaotic lives.

Over time Rich had become my fishing partner, mentor, and one of my best friends. Given recent turn of events I was looking forward with great anticipation to the year ahead. For the first time in years he was feeling strong enough to travel and again wade the rivers we loved so much. For now that will have to wait. Dam you!

With his passing one of my regrets is that I never took the time to fish his favorite waters, Buffalo Ford on the Yellowstone River. Whenever he fish there he’d call me to inform me of his experience. For him the Yellowstone country was not just a place to fly-fish, but a spiritual place. He’d tell me of the trout he’d caught, especially the ones that got away, and of all the amazing wildlife he would see.

I remember one event in particular that he told me of, where late under a dark sky brilliant with stars he sat alone with one of his amazing drums and drew in a pack of coyotes, their cries so close he could barely hear the deep rhythm of his native instrument. For all of his accomplishments in life, and there are many, this one is one of his fondest. We talked of it many times for there was magic in this moment. Often on our treks we’d sit up late and try to replicate this feat, however never with success.

Rich’s passions for the outdoors recently immersed him in an effort to preserve a parcel of Utah’s Green River from being developed. Many of you are aware of this issue. On May 11 this critical portion of the Green River corridor was sold to the Division of Wildlife Resources to be preserved and protected forever. I was in Florida, when the controversial transaction took place. Although, there were a number of individuals involved in this effort, it was Rich’s persistence, ethics, and professionalism that lead to this successful outcome and he alone. He never took credit for any of his contributions. He was humble in these efforts and passed praise unto those less deserving. Such was always his nature.

By accounts I was the last person Rich called.

Several hours after we’d hung up he took his life. Over his last few days he’d contacted many of his friends and family. Not a one of us suspected anything unusual, his efforts to not burden us with his suffering masked to the end. I’ve spent sleepless hours going over that last call. Even as I write I’ve paused to reflect on our final conversation.

In a selfish way I’m pissed knowing that we’ll never sit in the tall grasses on the banks of the Henry’s Fork again or float the Green together sharing a bag of lemon cookies as we always did and that I never took the time to fish Buffalo Fork or sit under the stars there in hopes of enticing the coyotes to join us in song. Dam you!

"The Fish Magnet"

2007-05-29T12:38:00.000-06:00

By the fourth morning, we’ve got as much of a routine as we’re going to get. Unfortunately it’s our last day. I’m up before the alarm sounds even though it’s not yet six. Given how the previous day ended, I’m anxious to begin and slept little through the night. Not that I ever want to rush a last day, but since cracking last nights Red Stripe for the run home I’ve been anxious for this final morning to arrive.

Our long days on the water are showing as we meet outside the Cypress House. Bleary eyed and insufficiently caffeinated for this early hour we waste little time before heading to the City Marina. We’re working on that which we can control, Cuban coffees to go, extra shot and two cubes. The rest of the day’s rudiments will be subject to the whims of the tarpon gods.

After two semi productive stints at Tower Flat, we’ve given it up for hopefully greener pastures. This morning we run east and head up the Keys. I’m up first this morning and there’s a certain mix of emotion that I’ve not felt the previous two days. On the way we pass one of John’s confidants. Having left the City Marina before us John’s curious as to whether hell race us to the where we’ll begin the day. For a young guide, to poach more experienced water after they shared their success would not be advisable. To eliminate the potential threat, he adjusts the throttle. Moments later we overtake the slower skiff.

Unlike past mornings I’m much less observant and more single minded in the days approach. I don’t recall the morning sky or much else about conditions before dawn broke. Possibly, looking back on the day’s outcome, I should have. The back countries flat as we move towards the ocean. We pass under Highway 1 not noticing nor caring of those who travel overhead.

Some of the morning’s early anxiety is relieved noticing we are the first to arrive at this piece of water. The sun’s not yet crested the eastern horizon as John idles to the edge of the small flat. Yesterday’s smoke has yielded to a sky much more clear. As it did the previous day, that could change. All is quiet as our Captain climbs up on the poling platform. My Tibor, for now, is the only sound that disturbs morning’s calm as I methodically remove line from the big reel. I’m hoping before we leave that it will do so again, only at a much more frantic pace.

At this early stage of the game, it’s difficult seeing into the water. The first laid up fish John locates, I struggle to find. At about twenty-five feet a hint of purple eventually appears, yet I can’t make heads or tails of the obscured tarpon. My cast is as poor as my eye sight. Later in the day, John will elude to my early flailing. Deservedly so! This fish slides from sight, pissed at our morning intrusion. I have several more encounters with similar results and eventually offer may partner the bow having blown a number of ample opportunities.

It doesn’t take Kenny long to get a couple of toilet flushes several of these large Ma-moos. He’s had some difficulty getting a hook in them. Reflecting back, we all have.

As the sun begins to warm the cool air, company joins us. Unfortunately they’re not as considerate as our Captain. He cuts us off leaving a modest portion of the small flat to fish. By the time he and his dudes depart the damage is done forcing us regrettably to move on. John, being the consummate southern gent that he is, bites his tongue knowing that words would do little to impact the inconsiderate act. However, for our humor he does provide some graphic verbiage to express his displeasure.

I take two pulls on the bow over back country edges looking for any signs of life. A laid up tarpon here a slider there, but to my discontent nothing materializes. Again having done my time, Ken takes the bow on the next backcountry edge. “Tarpon”, it’s a big fish laid up in deeper water twenty feet from the boat. John’s not too confident in the opportunity given the tarpons location, but believes it’s at least worth a cast. Ken flips his fly, literally to the side of the boat. He’s hardly moved it when the big fish rises to inhale the tan laid up fly. She begins to settle, momentarily levitating in the water column as Kenny’s line comes tight. Instantly one hundred yards of backing and fly line leaves the reel. For the first time that I can remember, we take chase.

It takes some effort to leader this fish and regains the lost line. In doing so, the big tarpon stays fixed to the bottom. She responds to Kens pressure in a half hearted jump, saving her energy to again leave his reel void of line. That’s the last we’ll see of her, the leader wearing through the 60lb shock. The legend of the “Fish Magnet” takes form.

I spend another useless stint on the bow before my clock runs out and we head to Loggerhead Basin. At this point, the scenery is getting a little tiring. Simply, I yearn for a tug, unfortunately for me the “Fish Magnets” rightfully up. Before he can remove sufficient line, John’s on a tarpon. Ken manages yet another eat. This fish spits the fly shaking its head before Ken can come tight. I ’m coming to the understanding that it’s not going to be my day. Swallowing this, our Captain almost immediately finds yet another small school of juveniles daisy chaining. Ken gets another eat!

Tarpon fishing is a team sport. As much as I’d like to hook up, Ken’s success is shared by all, John in particular. He puts hard days in on the platform. By trips end we fish for him more than ourselves knowing our success is his just reward. After the “Fish Magnets” last chaotic episodes, I take the bow one last time. I know that our Captain wants me to get an eat before we finish out this last day. At a time when all other Captain’s are running for home, he idles up to one last flat.

Fires from the north have begun to erode afternoons light as John slides his pole from the cleats and takes the platform. I spot a slider before he manages to get his pole in the water. The tarpon immediately tracks the fly as soon as it hits: “He going to eat it” emanates from behind me. At the last minute the tarpon rejects the fly and quickly disappears. Retrieving the fly, I notice it was fouled. “That’s ok, we’ll find another”. Given the day and the hour, it’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.

As was the afternoon before, this flat is littered with tarpon. After numerous rejections, we finally find a dumb one that takes the fly; love those dumb ones. For a brief moment

the fly holds. It was difficult getting a good stick, the tarpon casually sliding in behind the fly after the eat. Several spectacular jumps and a series of erratic pulls that generates a little reel music from the Tibor, then the fly line goes slack, the fly falling from the fishes hard mouth. At this point, it matters little. I couldn’t be happier.

These last two evening provided incredible tarpon fishing. Over our years fishing with John, we always seem to find these fortuitous flats during dismal times. We take these fortunes to heart knowing the challenging circumstances. These thoughts and reflections of year’s past mingle in my head as we run through a labyrinth of mangroves on our way home. We’re all tired and quiet, no one’s more so than John, yet content with the days success.

Before we hit the mayhem that awaits us at City Marina, I realize it’s over. Other than a night out and good meal, the most important part of the visit has passed. For twelve month I’ll reflect back the events that transpired over the past four days; 365 tortuous days long days. .