Supporting Home Grown

In fly-fishing fly rods are the wand that transforms effort and energy into a rhythmic dance that eloquently delivers wisps of fur and feather to an unsuspecting quarry. They are the essence of our sport that connects us to waters near and far. In my lifetime they have evolved from natural fibers the color of golden honey, to smooth fibers of glass to what most use to pursue the worlds fishes today, graphite.   Although fly rods have changed considerably over the years what hasn’t is the process and the fact that some of the finest are still made painstakingly by hand here in the USA.

Recently I took a tour through a manufacturing plant that is regarded as a world leader in fly rod innovation, technology and design, Sage. Unlike the growing  number of fly rod manufacturing companies that produce their fly rods overseas, they choose to make all their rods in the USA. This wasn’t my first tour of a leading fly rod company or was it my only visit to Sage.  On all occasions I was captivated by the methodical manufacturing process and the impressive number of craftspeople whose hands touch each rod before it is finished.

Before taking the ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island, home of Sage, I had the opportunity to spend some time with Marc Bale, its VP.  He was kind enough to put me up for the night at his beautiful lake side digs and chauffer me around rarely letting a minute pass without invoking some insightful thought on the state of our industry, our place in time and where our train may or may not be heading.  Seems we’ve shared this conversation before.

On the ferry we sat with several of Sage’s IT crew admiring their latest web-site that recently launched.  Already my convictions that much has changed in this industry were being confirmed as we scrolled laptops and phones to admire the sites latest enhancements, gadgets and widgets.

Although I would assume it’s a bit of a hassle for those who migrate from Seattle daily via ferry to the island, I felt it was a rather pleasant experience.  I’m sure they find the novelty of this peaceful crossing  somewhat arduous, but for me this water taxi added a very nice quality to the start of the day. A good cup of famous Seattle java only made the passage even better.

Upon arriving at the factory a brief greeting in the lobby took place before being led to Jerry Seim’s cluttered office.  It reminded me of my own disheveled confines back in Salt Lake. For those not familiar with him, he’s Sage’s head rod designer and has been since the first time I made this trek.  Other than we both were older, his office looked as it did over a decade ago and stands as testament to someone whose life long pursuit of the perfect fly rod remains a driven passionate quest. 

I first met Jerry some thirty years ago outside of Will Godfrey’s North Fork Angler on the banks of the Henry’s Fork.  He bet my fishing partner he could cast further with his hand than my buddy could with his new 9’ graphite fly rod.  It wasn’t even close.  For those who haven’t seen Jerry cast, his effortless and deceptively powerful stroke simply leaves one in awe.  In this day an age of “Castrubation” and competitions it’s rare you’ll ever see him jacking it out there.  Instead, should you be fortunate to grace his presence, you’ll find him more interested in discussing his latest pursuits, fly rod design or technology developments within the industry in general. He also likes to discuss his trips where  he puts his fly rods to the test, but on this visit he was all business and for good reason. With his latest endeavor, the Sage ONE rod, he has raised the bar.

We stepped out back to his private casting pond where he divulged the attributes of the new ONE rod.  Unequivocally this brief, yet thorough synopsis of this rods unique features, from its color, weight, unique mesh of carbon fiber married with Sage's new proprietary resins were as impressive as Jerry’s effortless casts.  I’ve always had considerable respect for Jerry and after this day even more so.

Next I had the great pleasure of getting a rather lengthy tour with Steve Greist, Sage fly rods head mad scientist; handle bar mustache, white lab coat and all he looked the part.  He’s been with this company since the beginning.  Before he ran me through the plant, we spent a fair amount of time discussing the arduous process of building quality fly rods in this country; a fact that clearly sets them apart from their overseas competitors when it comes to consistent quality and attention to detail. That was on display at every corner of my tour through the Sage factory.

Prior to my first visit to Bainbridge Island I expected to see a factory resembling today’s auto industry; lots of white coats, plenty of machinery, sparks flying, and hard hats. Yes Steve was wearing a white coat that day, but he was the exception. Having that over zealous image shattered I came away again in awe of the process and especially the personal touch and attention that goes into building today’s Sage fly rod.  Given the manufacturing challenges that companies are faced with, I was even more impressed with Sage’s unwavering commitment to building all their rods in the states.  Where others have succumbed they have stayed the course.

Although Don Green, Sage’s founding father, is no longer with the company the reins of Sage are in good hands with Travis Campbell.  To my delight his commitment to making Sage fly rods on Bainbridge Island and to maintaining the Sage brand as one of the cleanest and most recognizable in the industry is unwavering.  As this company moves forward I believe his business acumen and tenacity will allow him to do just that.  I can also attest that he's a dam good stick, whose is passionate about the sport and committed to its rich traditions.

Sage isn’t the only company that makes fly rods or quality fly-fishing products here in the states.  There are others. Many I am privileged to carry at Western Rivers Flyfisher: Simms waders made in Bozeman Montana, Abel and Hatch reels beautifully machined in California, Scott fly rods in Montrose Colorado, Waterworks/Lamson reels just north of us in Boise Idaho, Nautilus Reels south in sunny Florida, RIO fly lines in Blackfoot Idaho, premium Winston Rods in Twin Bridges Montana ,SA fly lines in Midland Michigan, and the list goes on. These and other dedicated companies manufacturing in the US produce some of the world’s finest fly-fishing products; products that in many instances are the driving force behind our sport, that are coveted today, but also will be treasured for generation to come. 

When I left Bainbridge Island I departed with a renewed perspective for those manufacturing companies that produce jobs and support local communities by continuing to manufacture their products in the USA, their dedicated staffs and the value in the products they proudly put in our hands.  In this day and age it’s a significant challenge for any manufacturing facility whether here in the US or Europe to not wander to China, Taiwan or Korea. The next time you go to purchase something to wet a line with you should ponder the true benefits of their efforts. As I have you'll see they go far beyond just building quality fly-fishing equipment, accessories and apparel. That has always been important to me, it should for you as well if you care about the future of our sport, the worlds waters we fish, and fly-fishing as we have come to know it. 

A Day on the Water

Winter in Utah has been a mild one.  February slides into March more like spring than the second month of the New Year.  This fact has Skyler and I pondering why we chose to fish one of the months coldest and windiest afternoons to venture out for a quick fix.   Regardless we know one thing for sure, the storms that rolled into the Wasatch Front this day would be significant enough to keep most at bay. 


Cresting Parleys Summit, the squall that obscured the snow laden paeks gave way to a brilliant eclipse of blue sky, yet the hillsides dry grasses, Scrub Oak and Big Tooth Maples swayed violently. We barely noticed glad to be rid of the city and out of the shop just long enough to breath some fresh air and hopefully find a fish or two up on midges.  


Rumor had it winter's Buffalo Midges were gracing our streams.  After fishing 24's and 26's we were both looking forward to tying on a fly that one had a reasonable chance of locating once it hit the water.  At my advancing age that's getting to be a rather significant consideration.  


At the Bunny Farm, a local fly-fishing gathering place that is often overrun with vehicles and their accompanying bodies, only a couple of cars sat idle in the frozen snow.  Several of anglers could be seen in the first significant piece of water lobbing their florescent bobbers over the rippled pool. Their lines propelled by several split shot looked like slow wipers making there way across a dry windshield. 


By the time we reached the river the parking lot had emptied.  In a quiet seam just downstream of us the first nose of a rishing brown broke the cold metallic surface of the river.  After 5 minutes it never rose again so we moved on. 


Just downstream at the head of a small braid we took a seat and mechanically strung up our rods with a close eye on the small pool that spun quietly away from the main current. On the inside seam the head and tail rise of a decent brown took a midge from the swirling currents.  Unlike the first trout we encountered it rose again and yet one more time before Skyler slipped quietly in behind it to begin the game we so enjoy. The trout failed to resist, taking the tiny Morgan Midge eventually defiantly slipping into Skyler's net.  


As the day lingered the rises forms became more scarce.  To the west, dark clouds began to creep over the tower snow covered peaks of the Wasatch.  Occasionally a squall would break free from the approaching front racing across the valley only to quickly dissipate.   In the shadows it was cold, guides frozen, fingers growing numb we zipped up our coats as far as we could standing vigilant hoping for one more steady riser before heading home. 

We never did encounter any of the larger midges.  This hunchbacked midge is a big meal that a trout will move noticeably to intercept when they are on the water.  We weren't surprised they never showed given the weather, yet we weren't disappointed either.  It was just nice to cast a fly for the first time this year, feel the weight of a nice trout on the end of the line, and enjoy a quiet beautiful day next to running water. Sometimes that all one can ask of a river.  Sometimes its all one needs. 

Fracking; buyer beware!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.