2013 - A Year in Pictures

2013 was a mighty fine year.  My wife and I bought a house, adopted a dog, I fulfilled the dream of becoming a fly fishing guide, and of course had some wonderful days on the water with friends and caught some beautiful fish. 

Here's looking to 2014 and another great year.  Below is my best an attempt at an end of year post.  I didn't feel like writing much so here is my year in pictures.



Spent many days exploring my home river.  The Bitterroot.

Did not let a broken finger keep me down.

Experienced some great hatches

Had some amazing days on the Mo' with friends

Floated the one and only Smith River.

Had a few stellar days of carp fishing.

Experienced many amazing Montana summer days.

Caught my first Steelhead on a fly.

Got to experience the incredible scenery and fishing in Hell's Canyon.

Looking forward to what 2014 has to offer.

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. 

Beaver Believer - Part 2

The long awaited sequel to Beaver Believer Part 1, and the epic mediocre final chapter to my first Beaverhead River trip.

 

Gettin' Down in Brown Town.

Day 2.5 started right where day 1.5 left off.  Early.  Melo-Shelo, the early riser he is, got us (well me) up early for some pre-breakfast nymphing by the dam.  A size 20 flashback PT was the winner of the morning.  Hooking a fish on that size of bug is one thing, landing it is a whole different proposition.  We hooked, fought, and mostly lost a slew of good fish.  I tell ya, when your whole world is a big, big fish, and then that fish is gone, it's one heck of a surreal feeling.  It seems like you go through all the stages of grief in about 15 seconds.  And you know what?  Norman Maclean was right, you do remember that fish forever.  When I think about it I can still vividly remember the incredible fish from my childhood.  My first steelhead, my first bull trout over 24 inches, my first Deschutes Redside Rainbow on a Salmonfly.  It's like it just happened.  I can recall these moments better than I can what I ate yesterday, or what shirt I was wearing.  Fishing for me is an elevated state of being, your whole consciousness is trained on one single goal, one single task.  Convincing a fish to eat.  I haven't found any other activity yet in life that demands as much singular attention, focus and dedication.        

 

I'm Seeing Stars........ And Some Random People.

Wow, I really went off on a tangent on that last paragraph.  Okay, back to the recap.  You know It's really hard to take a picture when you are alone!  Does anyone else have this problem?     

The Awkward Solo Picture Attempt

Adam, feeling the love.

Okay, back to the recap, really.  After a solid breakfast of bacon, bacon, eggs, and more bacon, the crew began to part ways.  I took to venturing off on a solo mission to find one last good fish.  The day went pretty much like this.  Landing a bunch of average trout and getting rocked by a bunch of above average fish.

Miracles happen though.  Once in a while.  A few of my friends had decided to float that day and had passed me about a half hour earlier in their raft while I was wade fishing.  I continued fishing downstream and happened to bump into them as they were anchored up working a great looking run.  I had my flies dragging in the current, in a 6 inch riffle, as I walked towards them and as I went to cast to avoid hanging on the bottom, I hooked something solid.  The solid object quickly turned and started smoking downstream, I played it off like I had planned the whole thing.  Not really...  We landed the fish directly in front of their raft, my best fish of the day.  Total dumb luck.  Glad they had a net.   

My Fish of the Trip.  No Skill Included.

At that point, I figured I had burned up any and all fish Karma I had up until that point built up.  I reeled in, packed it up, and hit the road for home.  No use trying to top that series of events.

Beaverhead River, I'll be back.  You can bet on that. 


Rollin' Home.

Dry Days are Here - Happy Spring!

Yes they are.  It's a busy week so here's a haphazardly slapped together collection of  fish pictures from the past few days.  All of these fish ate the dry. 

Long story short.  The dry fly fishing at times has been good, and for brief moments, very good. 

The trout are looking up, birds are returning, tulips are emerging, and the grass is getting greener everyday.

Happy first day of spring.  Hope you get to spend it on the water, unlike me.

Cutthroat Spots



Love that gill plate



Midge eater

All Smiles

And another

Peace out bobbers strike indicators.  It was nice knowing you.

March is Here

Time to inflate the raft, or dust off the drift boat. 

The first day of March to many here in western Montana is the unofficial start to the new fishing season.  The State seems to think so as well, because fishing licenses expire annually on the last day of February.  On the first day of March, I and a multitude of other avid anglers, shuffled on down to the nearest sporting goods store and bought a new fishing license.

A 'Bow's Adipose

For a large number of fly fisher folks now is the time to string up the rod that's been hibernating since the start of hunting season, dig out the waders that are shoved into a dark recess of a forgotten closet, and try to piece together the rest of the gear scattered throughout the house.  I'm just guessing at this, maybe most folks are more organized than I am.  I'm also one of the wackos that never stop fishing in the first place.

Jordan with a solid 'bow from this weekend.

You know March just feels different psychologically.  It's not a month that necessarily conjures up images of frozen tundra, epic blizzards, sub-zero temps and the like.  However in Montana, these events are still very real probabilities on any given day this month.  But even so, March brings about a certain form of optimism, hey spring is right around the corner right? 

Big Blue at the helm of The Gray Whale, shootin' the chutes. 

 

You begin to notice the subtle signs that winter is on it's way out.  You catch sight a few hardy red-wing blackbirds in the cattails.  There are several unconfirmed reports of robin sightings throughout town.  The morning drive to work brings with it a glimpse of newborn calves.  And before too long, some lovesick and lonely male flicker will start banging on your stovepipe everyday at 6am (really looking forward to this!). 

A trout in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Spring however, regardless as to what the calendar says, for me never really begins until I see my first sandhill crane.  I can distinctly remember my first crane sightings of each year I have lived in Montana.  The best was a couple years ago, when, standing hip deep in the river, a mated pair suddenly stormed overhead like prehistoric pterodactyls and landed on the far side of the river.  As if to say, we're back, did you miss us?       

Holla' if you like the Skwala.

Last week we were the only boat on the water.  This week there's suddenly a dozen trailers at the put in and discussion of dry flies and dreams of Skwalas to come.  It won't be too awfully long before the real action begins and with it the annual circus that is Skwala season on the Bitterroot. 

Here's to March.  Glad you decided to show up.       

Fast Times on the Mo' Part 2

So in case you missed part 1, here's the link.  Fast Times on the Mo' Part 1.  This post may make more sense if you read it.  Or not.  Not quite sure if my posts ever make sense.... 


6:30 PM: Time to shed the leaky waders and partake in the evenings many events.  The first and foremost being that of sampling the fine variety of Tombstone Pizza and hot sauce collection at Joe's.  The hot sauce treats some more favorably than others. 

7:30-9:30ish PM:  Glad to have enough wood for a lengthy fire.  The flames warm the extremities and provide the focal point for the nights entertainment which goes something like this... 1. There's talk of fishing. 2. "Thunder Cat" Caleb brags about his freestyle rapping prowess, I challenge him to a lengthy rap battle, he wins.  Just gotta say, that kid is a lyrical assassin.  3. More talk of fishing. 4. I counter the sting of defeat by belting out every Michael Jackson song I know, which happens to be a substantial number.  5. The more musically inclined of the bunch join in. 6. More talk of fishing. 7. Look at pictures of fishing. 8. Lie about fishing. 

And so on and so on...     

10:00PM:  It begins to rain and blow.  We run for cover.  Natures way of saying it's time to go to bed.


Craig, MT fireworks show

Day 2

8:30 AM: Wake-up.  Feast on a gourmet breakfast of PB and J sandwiches, black coffee, granola bars and half stale doughnuts.  Garrett, who is apparently the only prepared guy in the bunch, toasts bagels over the fire and serves them up with cream cheese.  I try to convince myself that my day old sandwich, granola bars and said doughnuts are just as good.  Somehow I don't think they were.

9:30 AM:  Step into my soggy waders, this does what the coffee had until this point failed to do.  Break camp.  Load up the boats, rods and other gear and set sail one more time.

10:30 AM: We continue to nymph up fish.  Different day, same story.  Pink, pink, pink, midge, pink, pink, scud, etc...

11:30 AM: Start seeing a few heads up.  Rig up the dry rods, hope for the best.  Chris, Garrett, and I all manage to stick fish on top.  Our collective first dry fly fishes of 2013.  It feels really good to not be staring at bobbers indicators for a while.  This is why after all, you come to the Mo', for a chance at a big selective fish.  It's nice be rewarded, even just a little bit.

First top side trout of 2013

1:00 PM:  The forecasted snowstorm finally rolls in and brings with it a stiff west wind.  This shuts down the dry fly bite and our will to push on.  The decision is made to pack it in and get out of dodge.  This decision turns out to be a good one.

Hey guys, have you seen my ________?

Summary: It was during this very weekend last year that I had to good fortune of running into Zach, Stan, Alec, Caleb, and a few others in the Craig campground.  Since that time I have had the luck of getting to know these fishy fellows better, and have had the privilege of fishing with them a time or two.  This years President's Day weekend bash turned out to be even bigger and better than last years.  It's always great to be around a bunch of good guys who don't take things to seriously, can tell a good joke, laugh, and flat out catch fish.  I think plans are already being made for next year.  Until then. 

And now you know, as Paul Harvey would say.  "The Rest of the Story." 

What keeps you coming back.