What ever happened to just going fishing?

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

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"

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. .

That's ok, Well find another!

At 6am I’m numbly feeling my way to Dam Good Foods for breakfast and to retrieve our day’s lunch. Signs of the day’s emergence are just beginning to show. Harbor flags that adorn the tall ships masts, era of a century gone by, move softly in the pre-dawn breeze. Although it’s still cool for this time of year, the air temperature is perceptibly warmer. These are things one notices when strolling through Key West in preparation for a day on the flats.

The forecast has us starting a little earlier on this third day. Light variable winds from the west have precipitated this favorable change. I’m sure will begin our morning where we started the previous day. In anticipation, John’s already put the skiff in. We make the short trip to City Marina, restock our water and quickly are underway.

Departing we notice a cumulus bank of dark clouds building on the eastern horizon. Nothing threatening but, a condition that will produce some minor inconveniences later in our day. The Gulf’s smooth as John brings the Dolphin up on plane. Calm enough to continue sipping my coffee. Although at thirty plus miles an hour I wouldn’t call the act of finishing the last of ones coffee sipping. I’ve been known on numerous occasions to wear most of the contents of my morning Java in a feeble attempt to ingest the last dregs. Today, I’ll arrive unscathed.

Ken’s up first this morning with hopes of replicating yesterday’s fortunes. To the east the sky now glows of burnt orange, a color enhanced by Florida’s widespread wildfires. It’s beautiful until you realize the significance of the situation. Pulling onto Tower Flat somewhat earlier than the previous day it takes a little longer for the first and only school of tarpon to show; again their backs reflect gold from the freshly risen sun. “Tarpon”, that magical word that transforms all thoughts to a solitary focus pierces mornings still air. Our game begins.

The eat materializes much as it did the day before, the difference, Ken’s fly never finds its mark. His instinctive reaction to the explosive take not serving his best interest. As trout fisherman we’ve all done it; the habits of our upbringings ingrained over decades are difficult practices to break. The school vanishes as if a figment of our imagination. Disappointment hangs in the air yet the fleeting opportunity instills some confidence and optimism. Before departing John exhorts, “that’s ok, we’ll find another”. A phrase over the duration of the trip we’ll hear often.

Although the back country has been fairly void of laid up fish, the warming waters hopefully will have lured a few weary tarpon into their protected basins for a brief pardon from their journey. This vast labyrinth of mangrove islands bordering the Gulf is one of our favorite areas. If our fortunes should continue to prevail we’ll find a laid up tarpon or two. To our disappointment such was not the case. Other than the abundant birds and the occasional Hawksbill or Loggerhead Turtle, the backcountry was regrettably empty. Begrudgingly we move to the Atlantic to join the rest of the tarpon fishing community.

Its late morning since leaving Tower Flat. In that time we haven’t had another shot. Out of nowhere a small string of blue backs moves onto the small isolated flat we’ve just poled up on. My tarpon partner of nine years is again up and almost immediately gets an eat, yet as before his line continues without perceptible interruption, the disillusionment from lost opportunities more noticeable this time. Silently we watch the pod of large tarpon swim past knowing there was nothing Ken could have done to have changed the outcome. We linger for sometime afterwards, but the flat goes uncomfortably quiet: “that’s ok, we’ll find another.”

If you choose to fish with a fly for tarpon, at some point you are simply bound to fail, sometimes with grace more times than not wretchedly. Regardless of ones abilities or experience it’s going to happen. Never was this more apparent than my next opportunity.

My day for the most part has been a combination of poor presentations and fleeting opportunities. Since my partners eat, we’ve again moved. After several failed shots at close range, John finds a nice string; “tarpon”. At twelve o’clock a small group of tarpon enters our field of vision, slow and happy. The shots at a slight angle, yet near perfect with ample time to determine speed and distance. After several false casts I lay a cast down. Perched high overhead John instructs me to move the fly as the group nears. His vantage point and focus prevents him from noticing my frantic attempts at locating the line. The string moves silently out of range before I regain control. “That’s ok, well find another”. Not exactly the outcome I was hoping for.

I’m humbled by my ineptness knowing that this may have been the best opportunity of the day. One never knows. Although we’re still seeing fish, we’ve all tired of these dour fish that have showed little if any interest in our flies. The best either of us can muster after several hours of playing this game is a perceptible lick, nothing more. Such an insulting gesture! Surveying the horizons it doesn’t take much of an imagination to know why. We’re third in line, and there were two more boats behind us.

It’s late in the day and most guides are heading in when we finally leave the Atlantic for one last opportunity. As we move onto our last flat, two Tomcats shatter the Key’s silence, their presence a brief and irritating reminder of a loathsome war. John takes the poling platform while Ken strips out line. We fished here earlier in the day and found just a few laid up fish. At this late juncture we’re just hoping for a Hail Mary.

John quickly positions his skiff before immediately spotting a tarpon, then another and yet another; “oh my God, there’s a shit load of tarpon here. They’re fucking everywhere”. Even at my low vantage point I can make out several laid up fish. With patience, John maneuvers the skiff from one to another; the first several tarpon rejecting the offerings much like we’ve endured throughout most of our day. Close and off the bow an ambling pair swings towards us. Laying the fly down the lead fish immediately shows interest and settles just inches behind the fly, yet only apparently to scrutinize the tie. After what we’ve been through the gesture is agonizing. John does his best to encourage the fish; “come on!” After letting the fly sit, Ken again moves the fly, instantaneously the tarpon accelerates, eats but misses the fly. The lost opportunity now has both tarpon frantically in search of the fly. Upon locating it, the lead tarpon again dives on the fly. Ken’s line immediately comes tight.

From thirty feet the tarpon explodes showering the flat then shattering the basins numbing silence. In late afternoons soft light the shows even more impressive. In seconds a hundred yards of backing and fly line disappears from the reel. Anxious Ken looks back at our Captain to see if he’s going to take up the chase. He reassures my partner that his Gulfstream has plenty of backing. We ended up not needing much more. In a brief struggle to regain control the line suddenly goes lim[. Upon inspection, the sixty pound shock tippet had worn through. That’s tarpon fishing.

My partner somewhat dejectedly steps down to replace his fly. In the interim I take the bow. I’m immediately confronted by several uncooperative fish. At this late hour I know my opportunities are dwindling. High up on the flat John finds three tarpon leisurely mingling. Silently we move towards them. Eventually running out of real estate, they’ve no choice but to turn. We’re in perfect position.

Measuring a cast to intercept their path, none of the trio seems to notice as the fly lands to their side and slightly ahead of their path. Unaware of our presence they’re barely moving. I do my best to match the speed of the fly with their lethargic pace. At thirty feet the second fish tilts up and slides in behind the chartreuse fly, yet agonizingly it doesn’t take. All’s deathly quiet. At twenty-five feet the fly hovers inches from the tarpons mouth. I accelerate the strip, the cat and the string, the tarpon rapidly accelerates taking the fly not wavering from its path. I feel nothing in my futile efforts to catch up with the fishes lunge. Eventually the boat spooks it, the trio departs leaving their footprints on the waters surface and gathering mud where their powerful tails propelled them from harms way. I exhale disappointed and audible sigh escaping from holding my breath.

I watched the trio disappear into the flats mirrored waters knowing that was my last chance. To be teased in such an objectionable manner was exhilarating, but so unfulfilled. I reel in. My hand runs across the shock tippet to find it’s rough confirming the failure of the fleeting encounter.

As we leave the flat we crack a Red Stripe for the long run home, the sun now dull in the smoky western horizon, each of us to our thoughts after this long day. Upon joining the rest of our crew well learn our day was far more productive than most. A hint of optimism returns for our last day however, the reality of failed opportunities not lost on the reality of fly-fishing for tarpon. Circumstances you’ll grow to appreciate only with time.

Sometimes You Get Lucky

Morning arrives at the same time around the world every day, but in Key West during tarpon season they seem to dawn a little earlier. No more so than for tarpon guides. It's hard work and as appealing as it may seem to some youthful souls, it's definitely a vocation not suited for everyone.

It's May in the Lower Keys, historically peak tarpon season. So far this year’s variable weather patterns have compounded the challenging circumstances one faces when pursuing these fish. The reality of fly-fishing for these prehistoric piscatorial swimmers perched on the bow of a small skiff, with a rather small fly, under often tumultuous conditions, is you’re setting yourself up to fail. Once you get over this fact, you’ll realize there are few experience in fly-fishing that rival this game.

As we begin our second day the winds have died from yesterday. More importantly the waters surrounding Key West have warmed some. It’s cooler than normal, but given climate change what’s normal anymore. Religiously we monitor the weather, but have paid little attention to the water temperatures in the past. This year different. Leaving the dock John takes his first reading. It's improved, but still several degrees from where he would like to see it.

Idling from the marina, skies are clear, winds are calm, and again there’s a slight chill to the air. We head to Tower Flat, hopefully for some dawn rollers. In the past we've had great success on this flat. Given yesterdays gauntlet of guides oceanside we're taking a bit of a gamble hopefully in exchange for some tarpon that have yet to encounter the masses. As we pull onto the flat, we're alone, except for a few cruising Brown Pelicans and the ever present Cormorants.

John’s willing to take a chance now and then, a quality of many he posses that I respect and enjoy. He’s not afraid to change and break his daily routine. Nothing like rolling the dice once in a while! Any ardent gambler knows you can’t throw 7’s if you don’t let them tumble now and again. In the past his hunches have led to some of our most memorable and successful days. As we begin this day, we’re hoping to add to those recollections.

Ken and I rotate morning shifts and I’ve the satisfaction of occupying the bow on this beautiful morning. The oceans relatively calm and we’ve all seen it far worse. There have been times when staying upright was challenging. Enduring such circumstances makes one appreciative of these more pleasant circumstances. Tower Flat’s shallow waters shimmer before us. Its dimpled dark surface stands out from the oceans surrounding chop. Even Ken and I can easily deduce its boundaries.

First light on a tarpon flat before suns penetrating rays offer a window into their world is exhilarating. Cuban caffeine laced with raw sugar heightens the morning’s intensity. There’s always an electrical aspect to this game, yet at this hour it always seems to go up a notch or two.

John has us on a clock after we’ve seen nothing. It’s an expression he uses when he’s lost confidence in our location. We’ve all been relatively quiet in anticipation when a single word breaks mornings silence; “Tarpon”! It’s a magical word spoken with a slight edge. At the back of the flat the sun catches the backs of several rollers as a school lazily moves onto the edge of the flat. Cautiously we move towards them.

Not having the advantage of visible light adds a level of vigilance that dissipates later in the day. Time passes slowly as we maneuver into position not knowing exactly where the school lies. Several others roll slow and easy before one at the head of the school pops up within casting range. A hint of purple now is visible, the only thing I’ve to go on as the school slides toward our position. My first cast moves through the school affecting no interest. Another lazy roller reflects the suns yellow rays. I try to relax, and slow down before making another cast. John’s in the process of guiding me yet a third cast. Mid sentence “ keep stripping” ends the notion, “you’re in ‘em, strip”. I can feel my pulse and notice I’ve stopped breathing.

We fish for tarpon to watch them eat the fly. After that, the chaos than ensues shatters gossamers of monofilament, splinters rods, and leaves your whole body shaking. But, it’s the eat that sets this fish apart from many game fish. The combined experience is one of the most exhilarating in fly-fishing.

Out of dawns blackness an explosive flash of light the magically materializes. It’s all I can do to keep from habitually lifting my rod, a trout fishing habit that’s cursed me on numerous occasions. A brief moment of emptiness passes before the line becomes taught. It seems like and eternity. The 80lb fish erupts from the flat, crashing back to the security of the oceans dark waters. Mornings silence is shattered as fly line rapidly leaves the reel. Four more times the tarpon catapults itself above the dark surface of the flat. Four times I bow.

John and Ken are mocking my silence as I concentrate on the bolt of electricity I’m tethered to by a thin wisp of monofilament. John stakes out the skiff and prepares to land the fish. At this early hour my day is complete having landed a tarpon, knowing that I’ve gone weeks without so much as a sniff from one of these amazing animals Quietly I watch the tarpon disappear, replaying that which just occurred before reveling in my good fortunes, Captain John remarks that this tarpon is his years inaugural Tower Flat fish. That puts the season in perspective.

Although we had a number of opportunities throughout the remainder of the day, neither of us touched another fish. We had our chances, but for the most part many of these tarpon have been around for a while and given their lingering presence they want nothing to do with our offering.

Eventually our day comes to and end. They all end much too soon. Running across the backcountry late in the day we begin the long run optimistically hopeful for the days that still lay ahead. Given our day’s success and the weather that’s predicted for the remainder of our stay, we’re all enthusiastic.

It's been Worse

Tuesdays forecast; winds out of the NE at 13 knots changing by the afternoon to the NW. Highs for the day near 80, which it never reaches, clear skies. The Weather Channel monotonically yields our first window into the day. Before collapsing last night the weather was one of the last things we checked. Given the conditions we arrived under we had some legitimate concerns. Simple changes in the weather can make or break a tarpon trip. With these elements bearing significance, all anglers and guides manically monitor these elements.

At 7am our Captain, John O’hearn, pulls up to the Cypress House. At this hour when most tarpon fishermen begin their day, the streets of Key West are quiet, void of those pale tourists who will crowd these sidewalks later in the day. Although they are entertaining to watch, they are a noisy distraction from all that Key West once had to offer. Several houses down, one of islands notorious roosters breaks the silence. That’s a whole other but related Key West story and debacle.

After a casual but warm greeting we pile into our Captains truck and head to Sandy’s for Cuban coffee and a quick breakfast sandwich to go. Sandy’s is one of those obscure local holes in the wall that’s reminiscent of the way island life once use to be. Since its inception much has changed on this island. This and a few flavorful places like it thankfully haven’t been tainted by those that drive this burdening tourist economy. Consequently more and more of our countries corporate commonness erode this islands and our nations character.

The suns yet to crest the eastern horizon as we launch from the City Marina. Being our first morning, it takes a moment to put our rods together and get settled. It’s always kind of a cluster fuck getting situated on first days. There’s a definite chill to the air that we’ve seldom experienced here in the past. Under a sky clear of clouds John quickly has his skiff on plane. It doesn’t take long for Kenny to don his Buff Ball Vest. Between the cool air and Cuban coffee our senses begin to finally come alive.

Entering Boca Chica, boats are already stacked up on the first flat we were hoping to fish. Not wanting to take a number John’s assessment of the crowd has us back on plane and moving oceanside up the Keys. Now sometimes when you’re the only one on a flat, it’s for good reason. Other times it's just good fortune. Such was not the case here. We see one lazy roller, but the fish never gives us a shot. Being early on the first day and still untainted by any sequences of events we optimistically leave and continue our quest.

Terminal tackle takes on a whole new meaning when it comes to these fish. Having my fair share of failures, until I learned how to tie my own leaders properly, there’s still lingers some subliminal uncertainty. That first year I tied all my own leaders, every single one failed. Some frustration came with those failures, but I still wanted to learn to tie my own. If you tie flies, you remember that sensation of catching your first fish on a fly you tied. The elation from landing a tarpon on my own leaders was very similar. I’ll never forget that success.

About mid day, Kenny gets the stink off as a small string of tarpon moves onto the flat. Up to know we’ve seen only a few sulking fish. These guys are lit up, happy and lazily. Their dark bodies are easily visible as they move over a bottom of mostly white sand. As the string gets within casting distance their brown backs are out of the water.

The first cast produces an eat, but the fish is so aggressive it out runs Kens ability to strip the fly fast enough to make contact. The string slides away from us, but still at a leisurely pace. With some work our Captain keeps us within the school, eventually Ken gets another shot. We all see the fish flare, than the brilliant flash as it takes the fly. This time the tan fly finds it mark. The initial surge is quick but powerful, before the tarpon shatters the silence with its first and only jump. Somewhere in the next few seconds of mayhem Ken’s line goes slack. The fight ends as quick as it starts, the leader parting at the knot. Although disappointed, were all energized by this short success.

That fleeting moment of chaos was the cumulative success of our day. There were a number of other opportunities, but none that produced the optimism and confidence that this one little string of tarpon did. Having had days and trips where such single success never materialized, we eventually yet optimistically headed in knowing that tomorrows another day.

The Journey Begins:

It’s 11:30pm in short order I’ll board a red eye that will eventually take me to the Lower Keys. Like the giant Tarpon that annually migrate through those waters, myself and several afflicted souls migrate south to pit our fly-fishing skills against the elements and a fish that has captured my imagination since first being exposed to images and writings of there existence.

All trips have roots. As the days passed prior to my late night departure I pondered them. Really this journey and quest began decades ago without me really being cognizant of this fact. My first boss in the fishing industry, Gene Snow, had the tarpon bug bad. Until he’d met this creature he’d quite easily conquered many a species with his fly rod. Such was not the case with Megalops atlanticius. Gene’s animated frustrations and misadventures brought this fish and its reluctance to eat a fly to my attention. I remember him being 0 for 10 at one juncture. Not ten days but ten enduring frustrating trips without a single leadered tarpon. Yet, the illusiveness that these fishless days created led to his obsession that now has crept into my soul. Subliminally seeds were being planted, but it would take sometime before those seeds germinated.

Impressions left after reading Lefty Krehs, “Saltwater Fly-fishing” are the first conjuring images I recall that elevated a certain curiosity and astonishment that has led to this now growing obsession. Actually it wasn’t the text of the book that created this sensation, but a photo, and the cover photo to be precise. If you’ve read or picked up this book you know the image I’m referring to. Little did I realize the impact that photograph would have.

At first, I thought that the quest for these ocean travelers was precipitated by the sheer size of these prehistoric creatures. Billy Pates videos and his documented quest for a world record tarpon more than peaked my curiosity. These videos brought the emerald waters of the Florida Lower Keys and it Silver Kings to vivid life. Yet as incredible as these images were, being tethered and towed by one of these migrating giants didn’t quite appeal to my sense of sport. All that changed eight years ago on a family vacation to Key West.

My early business travels introduced me to, Jeffrey Cárdenas. His shop, the Saltwater Angler was Key West’s gathering place for migrating tarpon anglers. His warm personality and enthusiasm for the Keys raised my curiosity enough to lead me south to the southern most point in the US. On a Thursday evening during that family vacation he called to invite my son and I out for and evening of “Splooshing”; when Tarpon eat migrating shrimp like trout eat giant mayflies. I’ll never forget when Jeffrey hooked the evenings first tarpon. That evening and it’s events changed me forever.

One cool spring morning, over a cup of strong coffee, Ken Louder and I cast into the mirrored surface of a local pond in preparation for this years trip to the Keys. A light rain accompanied our effort. The locals, Green Heads and Honkers, rejoiced in the reprieve from last weeks heat. This ritual of meeting in the predawn hours helps us shift gears from everyday life to the incredible world of the tarpon. Some years that transition is smoother than others. In most instances neither of us has any control of that. As we both head south via differing routes today, we anxiously await to see what this years trip will have in store. Only time will tell.

Read a Reliable Product Review Lately

Not long ago I received another poorly done fly-fishing product rating and review publication. Lately these appear to be growing in popularity. Between the internet, chat rooms and a number of in-depth magazines such as this, there seems to be a lot of experts crawling out from the woodwork. Conceptually, product analysis and rankings can provide valuable information. Unfortunately since the majority of the reviewers lack professional expertise and are often motivationally influenced their printed word often falls short of any substantial credibility.

Most of those who analyze fly-fishing products get it for free. Wouldn’t that be nice, free inventory to use at my discretion? The concept of free definitely creates impetus towards a biased response. Should you have personal interested towards specific companies or products that may slant your review even more? When it’s all said and done, there’s even and opportunity to make a little extra money off e-Bay from those excesses acquisitions.

If you’re publishing your findings and seeking advertising dollars, the significance of a manufacturing account may have an influence on your findings, especially in the early stages of a publication. One would be reluctant to piss off a key account by giving their products an unfavorable review. It’s also common knowledge in our industry for manufacturers to pay to have their products favorably reviewed. If it works for politics, it only seems unfortunately natural here.

I found it interesting that rarely do you get any background information on the testers. In fact in the last publication I received, I’d never heard of the guys. Having been in the business for 25 years, I don’t know everyone, but I have a pretty good handle on most of the key players.

In another recent publication the testers were listed as a saltwater guy, steelhead guy and a guy from Salt Lake City. There were some other testers as well, but no mention as to their background or credentials quantifying their participation. What makes these guys qualified testers? They fish! So do a lot of people. In fairness to this particular review I know several of the testers, and they have significant pedigrees. It would have been nice if the general public had been privy to this.

George Anderson did a very good review on 5 wt. Rods. He dedicated a fair amount of space to qualify his expertise and validating his opinions. The outcomes of his rod choices were fairly obvious since he worked with a number of the top rod companies. Of course those rods being influenced by his preferences rated as some of the best rods in his ranking. His biases were identified and his choices only seemed natural.

As I read this new publication and shared it with my fellow employees, including a number of valued customers, we were most perplexed by the rod reviews and rankings. I must say over the years that in most systematical reviews involving rods that I’ve found their analysis to be puzzling. This one to seemed to follow this unfortunate path. Point and case!

The SAGE TCR 905-4 was rated as the best all around trout rod of those tested. The review included Winston, Scott, and several other very reputable rod manufacturers products. After looking at the rankings from best to worst, I then read the accompanying analytical review written by the testers. Remember when you where in grade school and had to match a description to a specific object? If you had done this simple grade school exercise with this publication you would have flunked.

The TCR is a fairly straight forward specialty rod. If you asked 10 shop owners who handle the line, I bet you’d get at least 9 of them to agree on its qualities and attributes. I would guess that none of them would have described the rod as it appeared in this review. Makes you wonder what these guys were smoking.

Before I continue and get my head handed to my by Bruce, Mark or Jerry from SAGE, should they stumble upon my Blog, I better clear the air. First off, the SAGE TCR is one of the finest rods available and SAGE Rod Company is unquestionably one of the leading rod manufactures in the industry. For some the TCR would be a great all-around rod. However, so would the SAGE SLT or TXL along with many of the other rods that were included in the publications testing. It truly depends on ones casting abilities, the way they fish and the techniques they employ. To emphatically rank a rod as being the best for you just because it tested well for those who reviewed the product bears no merit. I am sure that Bruce, Mark, and Jerry equally been perplexed by such reviews on more than one occasion.

In another series, a magazine reviewed and rated the leading waders. One of the testing categories was the ability of the wader to with-stand DEET. What they neglected to inform the consumer of was the amount of DEET, applied to the waders for an extended period of time had a toxic rating of 100%. A puddle would accurately describe the application. An unrealistic proportion at best. This part of the test carried a significant amount of weight as it pertained to the waders ranking and those that tested poorly were reviewed rather poorly. Personally, I’ve never used any product that carries a skull and crossbones warning on the label.

The point is, if you’re in the market to choose a fly-fishing product, the majority of these analytical reviews are biased and very misleading. They may offer some valuable data and insight, but in most instances are filled with a fair amount of individual bias and misinformation to appease those who provide them with their products and dollars. If it can be helped you should never invest in a product, especially rods, without being able to get a hand on one or two.

I’m sure I’ll get some feed back on this piece, but my motivation is simply to enhance an anglers fly-fishing experience. If you ask me what product is the best, my answer most times is the one you like. That’s one of the very cool aspects of our sport, from the style of fly-fishing you prefer to the equipment you choose to pursue your quarry with. Those who write reviews and rank fly-fishing products do not do the equipment they analyze justice and rarely rank equipment based on how it would suit a style of angler. At times, and more times than not, it is obvious. Their inconsistencies leave consumers making in appropriate decisions and confused. Should you consider the motivation and influences behind the process, it’s easy to see how opinions can be compromised. As they say when making an important medical decisions, “get a second opinion”.

First Day Out

There's something special about the first day of the year on water. For some such an eventful outing isn't defined, instead it's a mere blend of continuous days fishing from one year to the next. Others, such as myself, consummate each season with a traditional day or trip where upon it's conclusions a purposeful reprieve is taken. Such pause nurtures time for reflections and anticipation, anticipation for the first rings from winters trout lulled from frigid currents to feast on the years first aquatic drifters.

Unlike many of my last days wading Nez Perce Country's cool fall waters methodically hoping for that often elusive Steelhead tug , first days occur more randomly. As I've gotten older, I'm a little more selective about maiden voyages. Where once freezing temperatures were an open invitation for solitude, they now leave me in the shop patiently awaiting more temperate conditions and reasonable weather. I must be getting old, not wanting to admit my maturing age. Perhaps particular is a more appropriately chosen word.

For the last several weeks there's been a change to the weather. Although there has been a significant amount of needed precipitation, the days are warmer stirring the urge to get out. I'm not the only one to have noticed. My compulsion possibly has been coerced from the growing number of reports from those who have recently ventured to the river. After all, one can only take so much and I've appeared to have reached that threshold.

At the end of my Tuesday evening tying class, I finally succumbed. Although it's late when I arrive home, that energy derived from the contemplation of this day has me anxiously running around my home and garage in search of those trout fishing necessities; fly boxes, floatant, tippet material (had to make a quick run back to the shop-one advantage to having a key to the door), cheaters and license. You'd think it would be easy, but I'm not the most organized person. My wife will attest to that. By midnight I'm packed.

I'm fortunate I don't need much sleep nor need to set an alarm, especially on a day such as this for I slept little. I'm up before it's light out with coffee on, while the rest of my family sleeps. Normally I travel with someone on a day like this, but for some reason I've relegated to fish alone. At times there is no better elixir for relieving life's often hectic pace. Not having much time, I figured I may possibly put a damper on anyone who might come along.

Today my requirements are simple. Most days on the water lately seem to take on this peculiarity. Even if I chose not to cast a fly, the elements that make our sport gratifying will suffice to satiate my needs. Should my expectation be met, I'm hopeful to cast a fly over a rising trout. If I should be fortunate enough to have the trout take the fly than I'll consider the day a fortuitous success, for not many enjoy such acts of leisure.

Entering the canyon a fair amount of snow lies plowed by the road. The sun has yet to touch the water. All remains still as I pull over. The canyon aromas and sounds rejuvenate my numbed senses upon exiting my vehicle. As foreseen I'm the only angler in the canyon, yet I don't waist time in preparing to begin. Having not fished this year, I leave my rod unstrung until the need arises. Initial observations reflect all is quiet, no signs of life.

I head upstream to an area that's a little more challenging to access in hopes my effort will leave me plenty of water to fish. A short distance should suffice knowing the habits of most anglers. Entering the water to cross, I pause to study the rivers surface for signs of any aquatic travelers. For now there appears to be none. Crossing an old trestle where mornings first rays perpetrate a growing window into a trouts world. I watch several decent Browns comfortably nestled in the depths of the rivers protective currents that on occasion alter their restive state to intercept a minute meal.

Crossing the river for a second time, I again look for the midge hatch that I've heard about. An insignificant winged creature emerges and quickly departs the icy meniscus for life in a new found world. Several others, barely perceptible, follow in suit and take to flight. The game begins, yet will there be enough to lure these trout to the quieter pools to feed. Only time will tell.

It's still early yet much of the river lies before me bathed in sunshine. The mornings rays feel good, the air however yet crisp. Cautiously making my way up river, a trout rises and stops me in my tracks. I watch for a moment before quietly retreating to a lower vantage point with no sign confirming what I saw. Quietly entering the water a short distance downstream moments later another ring appears.

The cool currents creep into my bones as I patiently watch and wait. In the shadows the fish rises it's tail dimpling the waters still surface as it settles. Paying close attention to the growing number of midges now dancing across the currents I finally string my rod before selecting a hopeful imitation. A dark of snout delicately pierces the water and a cast is made, then another and another before I retrieve the fly. Another fish also rises within casting distance, yet I ignore the temptation knowing that the best opportunity lies just a short distance ahead. Inspecting a natural I change flies and again patiently wait not wanting to rush or spoil possibly the days only opportunity. One never knows.

The rises are sporadic but consistent enough to pin the location of this fish with some confidence. I present the new offering. It's small, too small to see. No reaction from the fish has me making another cast. The dark nose again appears disrupting ever so slightly the waters placid surface. An audible sip is followed by a purposeful yet gently lift of the rod, the line comes tight. Although I suspect this to be a decent trout, it's a little larger than expected as it leaps into the sunlight before crashing back into the dark depths of the river revealing it ample proportions. It bores upstream removing what little slack I've held in my hand, then plays a short tune of beautiful reel music before eventually coming to hand. These fish have wintered well. Its plump yellow belly evidence of that. The fly is quickly removed and cordial respects are paid before this Brown slips back to his icy laird.

More fish are now working the pool I've started in. I bring one more to and then loose another on a strong run then leave to explore another section. The waters clarity affords an easy view of the numerous trout that inhabit this prolific river. Up river I bring two more to hand before reeling in to call it a day. Although I could of easily fooled several more trout, I'll leave the others for another day. These fish don't get much of a repreive and I'm grateful for my fortunes. Knowing this, I'd prefer to preserve the quality of my experience to be shared by others. After all, in reality adding to my tally would add little to the enjoyment that I experienced this morning.

I take some time to enjoy the quiet and appreciate the canyon before reluctantly heading to work. Several Browns quietly rise to take the growing number of midges that are now scurrying across the waters surface. It's a view that will carry me through the remainder of my day, possibly lingering longer. Still no anglers have made the trek to share these waters. Tracks in the snow show signs that few have traveled before me since our last needed storm. The quiet walk is a fitting conclusion to the limited time I had, yet there was time to satisfy my cravings and surpass all expectation for any day, let alone the years first.

Death of a Fly Shop

Late last night I was taking a minute to cruise the Web to pursue a few fly-fishing Blogs before settling down to begin my first entry of the New Year. Given the mood of my last Blog, I was ready for a more light hearted topic. Typing into Google, Fly Fishing Blogs, I scanned the selected matches and clicked on what appeared to be a logical choice. Just a few sentences into the site I’d chosen that which makes life a small world hit me squarely right between the eyes.

Prior to opening Western Rivers Flyfisher a shop owner was open minded enough to sit down with me for an interview on the prospects of the fly-fishing business. The simple fact that this shop owner sat down with me, when most shop owners declined to be interviewed, speaks volumes to his character. His name was Gary Sandstrom, owner of Tacoma Washington’s, The Morning Hatch. We’d never met prior to our consultation, yet I’d felt liked I’d know him for some time. Graciously he entertained my probing questions regarding the intricacies of operating a successful fly-fishing business. These were early lessons I took to heart and appreciation.

Fortunately, this wasn’t our last encounter. In this small world we stumble through we unexpectedly crossed paths some years later at the end of a long corridor in a Florida airport. As I led my group to our final gate before departing for Belize City we came across several anglers preparing to depart for their own saltwater destination. Among those seated was Gary. Ironically he and his group were headed to the same tiny island as us.

To date I’ve never spent a week with such a group of pranksters. Morning one the vultures in his group had descended upon their first victim. They had Crazy Glued the poor guys rod tube zipper shut. While everyone else was ready to hit the flats, this angler was frantically attempting to extricate his entombed rods.

As the pranks piled up Gary’s group became so paranoid about their equipment, they began taking it with them wherever they went; breakfast, lunch and dinner. As the week went on and we all became more familiar with each other, we to started to consider the likelihood of falling victim to their shenanigans.

Small world we live in. To this day, I always get a smile on my face when I think of this week. I know I've never laughed so hard on a trip thanks to Gary and his traveling band of pranksters.

That was the first time our paths crossed since our initial meeting. As ironical as that fateful journey to Belize was, my Web browsing the other evening was equally as inauspicious.

The title of the piece I'd selected read;“ Support Your Local Fly Shop”. Authored by the local newspaper in disgruntlement to the recent trend of consumers seeking to save a little here and there on the internet. Or with the intrusion of Big Box and the impact they've had on our communities is often coming at the expense of specialty retailers; Support Your Local Fly Shop. Unfortunately for Tacoma fly rodders this critical editorial was too late for The Morning Hatch. After over twenty years of service Gary was closing his doors. I was shocked!

Having dedicated my life to the sport and business of fly-fishing I know the effort, sacrifices and commitment that’s required to stay in business for as long as he managed. I can only imagine the gamut of emotions he must have experienced in having to close his doors. He’s not alone. Another good fly shop and acquaintance of mine is being faced with similar circumstances. After years of struggles, he’s finally decided that there are better ways to make a living. Unfortunately many of our sports passionate personalities are leaving the business of fly-fishing. But, as the editorial eludes we are losing so much more.

I witnessed this same digression in the ski industry from the 70’s and 80’s. However, the Internet and e-Bay had yet to unleash it’s lethal effects on specialty retail. Today, with the Internet, the out sourcing of manufactured goods, Big Box being fueled by our insatiable appetite for cheaper products, I can’t help but see the path of fly shops and other specialty retailers traveling down the same road.

My whole adult life I’ve been attracted to specialty services and have support their efforts. And not just fly shops. Each service bears a unique personality that's set them apart from each other. A quality in retail and in the service sector that’s becoming more difficult to find across the country as larger conglomerates homogenize our shopping experience.

Sorry Gary. I for one appreciate all you’ve contributed to this great sport and our shrinking community. You’ll be missed.

A Tumultuous Year

I’ve missed Blogging lately. My laptop shit the bed, then the Holidays arrived, and all seemed to converge blurring the years last months. Looking back, all months seemed to pass in such a manner. I hope your fishing season didn’t erode at the rate mine did. Fortunately I put a few trips on the books in advance, otherwise I may have never gotten on the water. It was that kind of year.

Outside of a number of distractions that kept me from fishing, there is a new fly fishing tool that's creeping into the sport that's troubling me. As the year came to a close a particular product has been gaining acceptance, the balloon strike indicator. I got into this business because I have a great passion for the sport. Recent product introductions have me questioning some practices and the lengths we’ll go to catch more fish. The introduction of fluorocarbon tippet and leader materials was the first of these new products that I find ethically questionable. I’ve written about this inert material in the past: Fluorocarbon and Lead: Environmental considerations and concerns. The balloon strike indicator is another that pushes my button.

This crutch and others similar to them have crept into our shops, vests and arsenal of fly fishing apparatuses. The balloon, literally, happens to be the latest handicap we now attach to the end of our line. Guides, not all of course, have driven this trend hoping their clients only care about the number of fish caught irrespective of the techniques employed.

Earlier in the year I witnessed these indicators being used for the first time. A local guide with two very new anglers had each rigged with them. He’d positioned his clients not too far apart, making it all that much easier to instruct both on the finer points of lopping line. Last time I checked fly casting involved a loop of some distinction. With such devises attached to their line these two naive anglers had very little chance of making anything that would resemble a fly cast.

To my recollection, since 1496 when Dame Julian Berners wrote the first book of fly fishing, the challenge of fishing with a fly has been its lure. Bobbers were invented some time ago to aid in a conventional cast when using bait. I thought we left these conventional techniques behind for an esthetically more pleasing and challenging means of catching trout, salmon or steelhead. I guess not. Fishing a fly behind a bubble cast from a conventional fishing rod and reel is not fly fishing. Fishing with a bobber attached to your fly line isn’t either. Think about it! Or possibly for the sake of adding one or two more fish to your daily total, we’ll ignore such cogitations. Those who came before us and laid the groundwork for this challenging sport went to great lengths to pass on their legacies; Marinaro, Wulff, LaBranche, Skues arguably they are rolling in their graves.

In May an issue arose that involved the Green River; SITLA’s willingness to sell a critical piece of land smack dab in the middle of the corridor. It just so happens that it’s the only parcel with the potential for being developed. If Brett Prettyman hadn’t written a follow-up article in the Salt Lake Tribune reporting the progress of this project it would have been consummated long ago. His piece sparked a furious retort by anglers nation wide forcing SITLA to ponder its direction. That pause allowed dedicated anglers, Rich Seamons in particular along with members from the Stonefly Society, time to participate in the process. Earlier I’d dedicated several Blog’s on the progress and process as it unfolded. Unfortunately it's the process is still lingering.

What bothers me is SITLA’s lack of principle given the sensitive nature of this land. They claim their mandate forces their hand in such matters. Under similar circumstances they’ve made exceptions in the past. They even state such in their brochure. SITLA knew that this transaction would be met with great controversy, however I don’t think they were fully aware of the extent of the opposition. They know it now.

For years The DWR (Division of Wildlife Resources) has communicated with SITLA their desire to acquire this critical parcel. They, SITLA, had options before them that involved the DWR that would allow them to satisfy their mandate, yet preserve this unique parcel. Speculatively they didn’t.

In fairness, to SITLA, the Division dropped a ball or two in the process as well. The Division has access to sufficient funds to secure this parcel, yet they choose not to exercise or entertain such financial options for fear they will set a precedence. Others viably argue given the unique nature of this parcel that there is no precedence. After all we are talking about one of the nations most valuable resources. Not to mention it’s also one of Utah’s.

Adding insult to injury, the legislature recently announced that it is willing to free up 20 million dollars to aid in the purchase of another controversial SITLA parcel, Tabby Mountain. All we needed was a few million, which we begged for. We spent a concerted effort trying to get Gov. Huntsman to support the angler’s efforts. Although we met in his office, he refused to personally engage himself.

At this juncture, the angling community remains involved but increasingly frustrated. It appears that an access issue is the only leg we have to stand on at this point. That issue, thanks to the DWR, remains key in any further transactions. Should SITLA not be able to clarify this, they won’t be able to receive fair market value for the parcel. If such is fact, there is a possibility the parcel will be taken from the auction block lending some room for optimism. At this juncture we can only hope.

While whining I have to throw the ugly giant that moved down the street into the fuss. Disneyland (Cabelas) came to town this past year. That’s not news to anyone in this part of the country. We felt their impact before they finished building their store and it wasn't the tax incentives and other sweet offering they received. It started when they took one of our key employees, Ryan Barnes. They were able to take him from us because of all the sweet deals local and county officials poured upon them for locating here. We weren’t the only ones they impacted in this manner.

It’s taken us eight months to get our feet under us after their opening. We weren’t sure we ever would. Their presence and long term impact still raises grave concerns. Our ability to keep our head above ground comes with a significant amount of gratitude from loyal patrons who stuck with us during their initial dog and pony show. Now that the wave has subsided, we appear to be back to normal. To those who didn't succumb, thank you.

If establishments like these are to be our resources for fly fishing products, I’d give up the sport. The Big Box revolution seems to be taking a strangle hold on this country and with it many small good retailers are going out of business. By the success of our year most of you share my sentiments and recognize the contributions and niche specialty fishing services brings to your sport. Cabelas and the likes have little interest in stewardship issues when it comes to our local resources and our sport. Since being publicly traded, the sales of their Cabelas brand products and their bottom line is foremost on their minds.

Enough venting. In many ways it was the most trying year I’ve experienced, but it also bore some great rewards. I did get out and fish some this year, but many of the elements that I’ve just ranted about kept me from wetting a line as much as I would of liked. That’s standard for 99% of us who fish. We all have our excuses. I know of only a few who cast a fly as frequently as they would like. My hat goes off to them.

Looking back, fishing provided my salvation and lent a bit of sanity to my year. It always does. With winter's severe cold I’m reduced to living vicariously through the latest versions of fish porn. I’d have to say that the latest viewings are pretty darn good. If you are into the new DVD's and your should be, make sure to check out "Running Down the Man" and "Trout Bum, Diaries, Volume II" They are soon to be released. If they are anything like the teasers we've been viewing, we are in for a treat. Nothing like the real thing however. As it’s been said “the tug is the drug” and if such be the case I’m a hopeless addict.