Catching Fish on Our Terms

I was casually checking the Headhunter Fly Shop blog the other day a few months back, mulling through one of Scumliner's recent articles "News Flash.  Not All Anglers Want to be Dry Fly Anglers." that got me thinking about this topic in earnest.  Clicking the link will take you to the article.  After that you can come back here, or not.  It's up to you.  You just might get swallowed by the Headhunters website after all.

Do You Like Sneaky Stuff?

Back?  What does catching fish on our terms mean?  Simply, catching fish how and when we want to.  In my humble opinion there's a prevailing sense in our sport that dry fishing is the ultimate, high art way to catch trout.  Many folks would agree with that statement but it's when you start dissing on the other disciplines I think there's a problem there.  True, personally I would rather catch fish on dries or streamers than on nymphs but that's just me.  There's nothing wrong with indicator nymphing or anything else for that matter.  It's my opinion that fly fishing is fly fishing, plain and simple, and as long as you're not San Juan shuffling, chumming, or snagging fish I could care less which method you prefer to use.    

Throwing the Big Bugs?

This brings up an interview I recently heard on an Ask About Fly Fishing Internet Radio podcast with steelhead guru Dec Hogan.  He was discussing why in the heck we choose to swing for steelhead when we could nymph them up a lot better.  Or for that matter, why not just chuck bait and catch every fish in the river?  I guess the answer lies in the fact that many anglers reach a point where it's not important how many or how many big fish we catch.  It's that we want to catch those fish the way we want to, on OUR TERMS.  We just want to do what makes up happiest.

The Big Nasty Stuff?

Thinking back to steelhead again.  Why swing?  There's a lot of reasons out there to justify it.  Purists might argue that a floating line and wet fly combination is the only method fitting of such an amazing creature.  Plain and simply though, it comes from a mindset that you're going to catch that fish the way you want to catch it.  Most hardcore steelheaders that only swing, I believe, would agree with the notion that when you catch a fish it's because you deserved it, you worked hard for it, you earned it.  For some, that one fish and the consequential feeling of achievement and satisfaction it brings, means more than anything, more than twenty gear or nymph caught fish.  I get it.

The Junk?

After many years involved in this sport, I've come to the conclusion that there's almost no wrong way to fly fish.  This craft of ours accommodates every style, every method, every age, and (almost) every personality type.  The fact of the matter is that you should do whatever brings you joy.  If fishing a double nymph rig under an indicator brings you joy, then do that.  If ripping six inch long streamers on a sink tip brings you joy, then do that.  If throwing a size 24 trico spinner on a 3 weight with a 20ft. leader brings you joy, then do that too.  Fly fishing should bring you joy, whatever that may look like.  There's no better way, no worse way.  There may be the more technical and challenging way (think dry or die and/or streamer junkie guy) but it's not better.  Hey, but if it makes (dry or die and/or streamer junkie guy) happy then that's what he should do, plain and simple.

Do What Makes You Happy.  Get out and Fish.

There's a hatch, a run, a technique, a fish, a spot in the world for everyone and everything.  So go do what makes you happy.  Catch those fish on your terms, how you want to.

And if you really just like to catch a lot of fish, use bait learn every discipline, technique, method, fly, and rigging combination you can, and figure out when and where to use it.  Oh, and swing soft hackles occasionally, you just might catch every fish in the river.

Feel free to leave comments and tell me how I'm totally wrong about all this. 

Small Fish Are Cool Too.

I think a large part of many an angler's life is spent in search of the next "big" thing.  The next "big" hatch, secret Shangri-La stretch of water, or next big fish.  It's true, fly fishing folk are the kind of people with their heads always in the clouds, daydreaming about that next big steelhead, tarpon, salmon, or kyped out slob of a brown trout. 

We regale to each other, stories of that time on River X where we "slayed them," all on dries, and they were all big fish.  We are always in search of that next adventure or new piece of water.  We make big proclamations every year such as; "I'm definitely going to go to Silver Creek this summer" or "I'm not missing the Salmonfly hatch on the Big Hole this June."  Sometimes these prophecies come true, sometimes they don't, but at any rate, we never stop dreaming.

I digress.  The point I was out to make when I started writing this was that small fish in small water are cool too.  I mean, what if that next "big" thing happens to be that beautiful meadow on a tiny mountain stream a few miles up that bumpy dirt road?  

 

Often I find myself plotting on how, when, and where I'm going to catch more and bigger fish.  I spend money I don't have on food, gas, licenses, flies, and fixing flat tires in order to get to big famous rivers with their (if you read all those fly fishing magazine articles) supposedly never ending supply of big fish.  Don't get me wrong, I love a good adventure, and I REALLY love to catch large trout. Who doesn't after all? 

However no matter how many big fish I catch, and all the big rivers I fish, my first love will always be for throwing dry flies on small streams for beautiful, clean, and (mostly) small fish.  I can't really even explain why I love this kind of fishing so much.  All I know is that by the middle of July, all I want to do on my days off is grab my Tenkara rod, and run up the nearest trail into the mountains.  Small mountain stream fishing for me is like coming home, I feel like a kid again, it washes the dust of life away.  Plainly and simply,  I can never get enough of it. 

The small fish that are found in these mountain streams never cease to amaze me.  From the fiery red of a pure blooded cutthroat's slash, to the shocking Technicolor shades of a wild brookie, to the leopard spots of a wild rainbow, these fish are simply gorgeous.  Pure and wild.  Missing are the shredded fins, washed out colors, and beaten down bodies of a hatchery trout, or the ripped lipped, missing mandible, hooked-scarred-been-caught-100-times tailwater fish.  These small stream trout are fresh, bright, clean and 100 percent wild.  I'd rather catch one of these six inch fish than a 20 inch trout that looks like it's been through World War II any day.   

Folks that claim to be above catching small trout are okay with me.  Less competition for me, less pressure on the fish I love, I'm cool with that.  You can have your drift boats and big rivers when it's one hundred degrees outside at 2pm during those dog days of summer.  I'd rather be standing in an icy mountain stream catching six inch cutthroats, alone, unbothered and unencumbered. 

If your goal is to have your face up on the Slab of the Month page on Moldy Chum this may not be your kind of fishing.  If however you want to be alone and feel like a nine year old all day, this may be your thing.  Small fish are cool, and as I would argue, the most amazing of all.         

  

Annual Post - Cape Solstice

The winter solstice.

 A day to reflect on your place in the world and the magic of the seasons.  Living in Montana we are fortunate to get to experience all four at their best.  Spring is full of life, rebirth, rain, hunting morels, and chasing the big hatches.  Summer days are, as Norman Maclean would say, are "arctic" in length.  Endless, beautiful, full of long hikes, beautiful fish and dry flies.  Fall is about golden leaves, hunting season, throwing streamers for big browns, and those fantastically crisp mornings.  Winter is snow, skiing, and catching up on everything you should have done when you were fishing the rest of the year! 

The winter solstice is always a much anticipated event, the start of the long journey towards spring.  In My Story as Told by Water, fly fisherman and author David James Duncan points out how sedentary things, mountains, forests, people, are truly the ones who migrate, travelling along with the equinoctial tilt of our planet.  It is in fact the creatures we consider migratory, that actually don't move at all.  The following is taken from Duncan's book.  

In the fly-fishing classic The Habit of Rivers, Ted Leeson glimpses this journey when he looks up from his home river at departing Canada geese.  He writes,

As the recognition of autumn comes suddenly, in a moment, so one day you first hear the geese....Bound for the south, these birds seem to me a strange point of fixity...for in a sense they don't move at all.  They take to altitudes to stay in one place, not migrating, but hovering, while the equinoctial tilting of the earth rocks the poles back and forth beneath them.  The geese remain, an index of what used to be where, and of what will return again.  Their seasonal appearance denotes your passing, not their own.

Duncan writes the next passage after noting the sudden change after the first cold snap of the year.  If you live in the Rockies you know the one I'm talking about.  The day when fall suddenly gives way to winter, when that stream you were fishing days or weeks before suddenly has the appearance of an immovable solid.  It is on these kinds of days that you realize that you are indeed the one migrating.

Returning home from these surroundings, I found that our house, too sat differently upon the land.  The log walls were no longer anchored to solid ground: they cut through the axial stream like a ship's prow. I'd step indoors with a sense of climbing aboard, make tea, sit at the window, watch the mountain world plunge, shiplike, through the slow equinoctial flow.  Winter solstice became not a date on the calendar but a destination: something to sail toward, then around, the way schooners used to round Capes Horn and Good Hope.  When my daughters climbed in my lap, I couldn't contain my wonder.

"We're moving!" I told them. "The house, the mountains, the whole world is sailing. Can you feel it?"

 They gazed gravely at the mountains, then nodded with such serenity is seemed they'd always known.  And on we glided, deep into winter, out around Cape Solstice, then straight on back toward spring.

Sailing Onwards, Towards Spring.

Duncan, David James (2001). Tilt. My Story As Told By Water: Confessions, Druidic Rants, Reflections,    Bird-Watchings, Fish-Stalkings, Visions, Songs and Prayers Reflecting Light, From Living Rivers, In the Age of the Industrial Dark. (pp. 57-60).  New York, NY. Sierra Club Books.       

 

To Hell's Canyon and Back - Photo Essay

Several weeks ago I was extremely fortunate to have the opportunity to fish the mighty Snake River in Hell's Canyon on the Oregon, Idaho border.  My uncle has ventured there with friends every year for over a decade, and this year I made it a point to join them.  This was my first visit to the canyon and I already am looking for a way to get back there, ASAP. 

Hell's Canyon stands as the deepest canyon in North America.  At one point it's a 6,000 feet from the tops of the mountains to the river.  The caynon Is also one of the most rugged and inaccessible pieces of country you could ever imagine.  There are only three roads that enter the gorge that I know of, and no cell service or much of anything else for that matter.  Yeah, it's an awesome place to say the least.  I hope the pictures do it justice even though I know they won't. 

Oh, and the fishing was pretty darn good to.  I forgot how much I love smallmouth bass fishing.

 

The Road Home. 

My First Steelhead

On a fly rod that is.

 

Growing up in Oregon I had caught steelhead on several occasions with plugs and spinners.  As an adolescent with a short attention span, I lacked the desire to seriously want to fly fish for them.  Like most kids I simply wanted to catch as many fish as quickly as possible and fishing with gear was, and frankly still is the most effective way to catch steelhead.

 

Fast forward a decade later and I suppose I have a little more patience the closer to thirty I get.  Friends had told me how incredible it was to catch a steelhead on a fly rod and particularly by swinging flies.  For my hardcore steelheader contacts, the apparently endless hours of casting didn't seem to bother them much.  From all accounts, hooking a steelhead on the swing was one of the more difficult things to do but also one of the most incredibly rewarding accomplishments in fly fishing. 

 

I had to try it.  So last week I decided to get myself a Spey rod, make the drive to Idaho, and see for myself if I couldn't just swing up one of these amazing fish.       

 



I decided to make the Clearwater River my destination as I would be meeting friends and family a few days later on the Snake River in Hells Canyon (I'll save this for another post).  The chance of hooking a big B-run fish over 30 inches didn't seem like such a bad thing either.  Since I was starting from scratch and really had no idea what I was doing I made my first stop, the Red Shed Fly Shop in the thriving metropolis of Peck, Idaho.  This has to be one of the best shops I have ever been in and reminds me that you can't judge a book by it's cover.  Behind the battered wood door and the peeling paint stands what is nothing short of amazing.  I almost fell over when I walked in and found the best selection of steelhead rods, lines, flies, and materials I have ever seen in one place.  The best part of course has to be the owner "Poppy," and his no nonsense, tell it like it is approach.  I appreciate a fly shop owner who tells me point blank, "I'm not going to sell you a bunch of stuff you don't need."   

After stocking up, it was time to hit the river.

Okay, here goes nothing.  Time to start casting, stepping down, and casting, casting,  and casting some more.  I've heard that steelhead are the fish of a thousand casts.  I was hoping that this would not be the case for me.  If it was the fish of 127 casts I might be okay with that.  1,000 casts?  Are you kidding me!?

At the start of the day my spey casting left a lot to be desired.  At the end of the day it still did, however I could at least manage to throw a manageable double spey at around seventy feet.  There was nothing in my castsing that remotely resembled the ease, grace and beauty of all of those awesome spey casting videos I have been watching on Vimeo as of late.  It also lacked the sweet hip-hop beats soundtrack.  I must just be missing the soundtrack.  

Many steelheaders talk of the Zen like trance that swinging for steel produces.  A person supposedly obtains some sort of higher state of being while fishing.  On closer examination I can see some similarities between the Buddha's stint under the Bodhi tree and standing in an icy river for hours on end casting, watching, and waiting for that one moment of transcendence.  Perhaps I need to fish some more because on each cast I just kept thinking, "this time, this time," "eat it, eat it, eat it!" or, "I sure could use a doughnut and a cup of coffee..."  I definitely didn't obtain that state of oneness with the universe that my steelhead buddies talk about.  Maybe I need to take up winter steelheading?   

As the sun began to set I started to lose hope that I would get a fish on this day.  I stepped into what I thought looked like good water below a riffle corner and began casting and stepping down once again, my purple fly swinging easily across the current downstream of me.  A fellow spey rodder joined me a few minutes later working the water at the head of the run.  I was starting to get hungry (stupidly I hadn't stopped fishing to eat more than a granola bar all day) and cold (again: I stupidly left my coat in the car) so I told myself "one more cast."  As I was making my way to the bank across the Clearwater's greasy bowling ball sized rocks I felt what I thought was a fish take my fly.  No way I thought, could it have been a fish?  Probably just a rock.  Heck, I'll make a few more casts.  I worked out the Skagit head, made the only cast I could reasonably throw with any sort of grace, the double spey, mended and waited.  A few seconds into the swing I felt a hard jolt, weight, the line went tight.  I set the hook and a large fish went airborne fifty feet in front of me.  Game on.  

Ten minutes latter, but for what felt like an eternity, I found myself holding my first fly rod, swung up steelhead.  A female B-run chromer, over 30 inches and beautiful.  There are a few moments in your fishing life that you remember forever.  I'm sure this will be one of them.   

Technical

Wake up.  Slam the coffee.  On the water at first light.  You arrive at the river hoping a few things pan out.  If it's calm, the sun is shining, and the water has something to it resembling clarity, you know you have a chance.  In this game, to be successful, everything has to work out just right.  Once the rod is strung, the real task begins, find a feeding fish, stalk it, get in position, make a pinpoint cast, perfect presentation, and hope that the fish eats the fly.

The fish are big.  You are sight fishing.  This is likely as technical as freshwater fly fishing gets.  No, this ain't trout fishing.  You probably guessed it, we're talking about carp here. 

These fish are technical

Dawn Patrol

Carp seem to be all the rage these days among a certain group of anglers.  There's a good reason for it as I have discovered.  They are big, strong, spooky as all get out, and are usually extremely picky about what they put in their mouths.  Not easy, but definitely rewarding fishing.  As I've read, carp have the some of the best abilities to detect sound and vibration of any freshwater fish.  They are also equipped with a formidable sense of smell.  Try throwing a freshly tied and cemented fly at them and see what happens!  You probably won't like the results.  Since these formative experiences, I've stopped cementing all my carp flies.  Sunscreen on your hands?  Bugspray?  Better not touch that fly.  If you do, all you may see for the next few hours is the quick snap of a spooked carp blasting away from your fly acompanied by a sudden startling SPLOOSH!  All you will be left with is a cloud of silt and more than a few yards of empty water.

Yes.  These fish are technical.  

There's no sure thing with carp fishing.  Best laid plans can be torn asunder by an unexpected windstorm, rain, hail, or host of other meteorological disasters  inevitably bound to hit the wide open prairie at any moment.  After all, there's nothing between you and the arctic circle save for a few wheat fields and a few Canadians.  This year, incessant surprise thunderstorms muddied the waters for what seemed to be weeks at a time making fishing tough.  

When I went out, I would spot a fish or two gently tailing in several inches of water, and take great care getting into position as to not spook it. By the time I did get into range, often the fish would be nowhere to be seen.  Likely he slid off into slightly deeper water but you would have no idea as to where or in what direction.  Blind casting for carp in muddy water you soon learn, is pretty much a waste of time.   

When you tell folks that you came all the way out to the middle of the prairie in eastern Montana to fly fish for carp you get a whole bevy of interesting responses.  All the way from the mild interest to annoyance, to just plain disgust.  Folks give you quizzical looks, stare in disbelief, or ask "What are ya fishin' for?"  Sometimes all you get is a laugh and a headshake.  

As one gentleman put it when I told him what I was doing, "Fly fishin' for carp!? well ain't that somethin'."     

I think it is. 

Sometimes Even a Blind Squirrel Finds a few Acorns

Did I mention carp can be tough quarry?  Just as you feel like you got a handle on them, these fish quickly humble you.  One day I had double digit hookups in the 2 hours I fished.  All right I thought, I got this figured out.  That success was followed by three straight skunk-fests.  Nice.

To get these fish to eat requires a pinpoint cast at 30 plus feet.  Landing the fly close enough to the fish to get his interest but as to not spook him.  Then you have to detect the take, and this is not often an easy thing.  Sometimes a tailing fish will turn on the fly, sometimes if you are lucky, you will see the fish suck it in.  Often however, all you notice is a brief quiver, flick of the tail, sudden pause, repositioning, or other oddity that alerts you that the fish has eaten something.  Many times it's not your fly but when it is...  

Hold on.  

The Hybrid (courtesy of John at Carp on the Fly) Strikes Back

Trout fishing has got nothin' on this.  Well, at least not very often.  My hardest day of dry fly fishing for trout would equate to about an average day of carping.  Though this perception can, in large part, I suppose be contributed to how lousy a carp fishermen I am.  I tell you what though, carping sure makes you a better, more patient, stealthy trout fishermen.

I'm no expert, but the one thing I've learned is...  These fish are technical

Go get yourself some.  Go ahead.  Do it. 

Perfection

What's your definition of perfection?  Mine is...

Standing in a mountain stream.

Tenkara rod in hand.

My favorite dry fly

Best friend alongside 

Catching some of the most beautiful trout in the world. 

Perfection

Don't Be a Hater - Letter From a Whitefish

Got this in my inbox the other day, thought I would share it with everyone. 


Dear fly fishermen (and women),

It's your friendly neighborhood Mountain Whitefish here.  Scientific name, Prosopium williamsoni.  I know some of you anglers might not think too much of us.  You might consider us to be bottom feeders, a nuisance, and even a trash fish!  None of these things are true.  Did you know we are native to most western rivers, just like your beloved cutthroats?  Did you know we also like to eat dry flies on occasion?  Did you also know that strong populations of mountain whitefish are signs of a healthy river?  Hey, I'm just here to set the record straight. 

So, don't be a hater.

Transparent gill plate. Kinda cool eh?

Some folks call us the Rocky Mountain Bonefish.  Not sure how to take that.  I've never met a bonefish after all.  By the name, it doesn't sound like they would be good eating.  Us on the other hand are pretty darn delicious smoked.  I didn't just say that did I?  You know maybe people should start calling bonefish the tropical, salt water whitefish.  Just sayin'. 

Ain't no cutthroat, but ain't to bad to look at either, right?

Yes I know we're easy to catch, sometimes too easy.  It's not our fault we can't pass up anything with a gold bead and peacock herl on it.  Hey if trout were this easy to catch would you be complaining? 

Didn't think so. 

Beast! 

Yes I know most folks don't think we're the prettiest fish out there.  That's not our fault.  I also know that we're a little scaly, slimy, and give your hands and net a bit of a funk, so what?  Don't blame us, blame evolution. 

AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!

So next time you want to curse us when you spot a whitefish attached to your fly just remember, would you rather catch nothing?  On second thought don't answer that. 

What I'm trying to say is: All we want is a little respect, maybe a little care when you release us.  Please don't throw, drop, squeeze, kick, or toss us around.  Don't we deserve a little better?  Whitefish are native after all, and we eat your stupid flies.  With enthusiasm I might add.

Please.  Don't be a hater.

Sincerely,


The Whitefish         

Friendly Face.

Alone

Today I fished alone.  By choice. 

It felt good to be out on the river with just my thoughts and a fly rod.  Don't get me wrong, I love my fishing buddies, who doesn't?  Even so, I find that every so often I have to fish alone.  Not sure why, it just feels good to be away from humanity for a while, especially during those weeks when it seems like you are constantly surrounded by people. 

I'm a bit of an introvert so I enjoy being alone for large chunks of time.  Fishing by nature, is a great hobby for me as I often like to spend inordinate amounts of time totally alone.  To me there's no greater joy than being completely removed from society, fishing a small stream somewhere in the mountains, throwing dry flies to enthusiastic trout.  I can do this all day, and often do so.  In fact, if it weren't for the need to eat and sleep, and the peculiar truth that the sun always disappears everyday.  I'm not sure I would ever stop fishing.  Maybe when I ran out of flies, maybe. 

Fly fishing is one of the only activities that I can think of that captures my complete attention, thought and emotion.  When fishing I sometimes seem to lose all conscious thought.  Call it meditation, or whatever you want, I just know it happens.  Whether it be stalking a big picky riser during a trico hatch.  Throwing a streamer to a slot where you know the cast, the retrieve, everything has to be perfect.  Fishing hoppers on a small stream in the spot you know that big brown lives, and you know you will only get one shot at him.  Or dissecting pocket water on a mountain stream, where your casts have to fit into a space the size of a coffee cup.  I get lost in those moments, completely charged, alert, focused, free from thought, alive. 

It's those "spots of time" that I and I think most fishermen seek.  It's everything that leads up to the eat.  It's the stalk, the cast, the drift, the head coming up, the mouth opening... 

When you fish alone you really get to work a riffle, run, or pod of fish exactly how you want to.  You have to trust your judgment, pick your own flies, figure out things on your own.  Nobody's there to help.  Fishing alone brings it's own rewards and challenges.  It's rewarding when you finally figure out what those fish are eating, or discover a new "secret" spot.  Challenging when you catch a nice fish and try to take a picture.

 
When you fish alone, you see a lot more than when you're with other people.  You just do.  Today I noticed a Great Blue Heron rookery, a stonefly hatching on a streamside log, deer crossing the river, the sounds of blackbirds, and caught sight of a woodpecker going to work on a snag.  Fishing alone, I'm just that much more aware of my surroundings, my environment and how truly alive it all really is. 

A day of fishing alone brings with it a feeling of rejuvenation.  It's hard not to feel good after a few hours on the water.  I've never come back mad after fishing.  Tired maybe, a little sunburned, dehydrated yes, but never mad.  If you get mad while fly fishing you need a to pick a new hobby, sorry, you just do.  Why do you think I stopped golfing?