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Over and out.

DZ

Brown is the New Black

July is off to a killer start.  Summer time around here can be really hit or miss, depending on what the last six months have put in motion.  The bigger fish are in faster water now, which is not to say that you won't find fish all over...but my biggest grabs have been in the quick stuff.

 

Hiking in. 

 

Reading and moving.

A spirited 22" brown.

 

Light and water.

 

Breathin better. 

 

Jan fights something serious. 

Net was barely up to the task.

 

Fooled you Pa. 

Birds and mice are not safe on this river.  25" of predator.

Other than being a faithful friend, Jan Nemec knows his stuff.  I wouldn't find half the fish I do without his sage advice and generosity.  Instead of pissing away your cash on fancy gear, book a trip or class with Mimic Fly Fishing this summer to take your fishing up a notch or three.  You won't regret the small investment.

When the Heat Gets Hot

Sorry folks, June got away from me.  Now for some catching up.

When people ask why I fish, I usually reduce the mountain of reasons to something like "it's the perfect balance of competition and relaxation".  This is 100% true, but it really only scratches the surface.  Another primary reason: fishing forces the raw beauty of Nevada right up in front of my face.

Desert, wha?

Things have heated up substantially now with triple digit days happening at least a few times a week.  This is the desert, so no complaints here.  I'll take it dry and high over the humid armpit many others face each day.

I hit the river out east a few last times last month before I knew it would be off the menu.  Did alright, but nothing compared to what spring was like in term of numbers and vigor.

Eatin' good.

Release and return.

Brandyn in mid-flight.  Click to see it bigger.

Healthy fish right in town.

Took another out-of-towner out recently, a mentor and incredibly wise man that has been speaking into my life for the last two years.  He only had a little fly fishing experience but he was a quick teach.  Had a guide friend offer to join us, give us a location, then had an emergency come up so I was left "touring" in water I'd never seen before.  Not a recipe for success but we made the most of it.

Hooked something for a brief moment right at the top of the day, but immediately lost it.  After a few slow hours of exploration, I checked the same slot for a second shot and hoped that a couple of hours was enough to clear the slate.  It was, as evidenced below:

Not often do you get a second chance around here.

Jim checking the lanes.

Riffle and run.

Protein pack.

Flash some gill.

All in all, I didn't see the river a whole lot in June.  The weather has been incredible but I can't help but wonder what lay ahead this year.  The fate of the whole ecosystem hinges on enough water moving from Tahoe to Pyramid all summer.  Stuff out east is already dismal.  We'll see what happens.  In the mean time, grab a souvenir from the local aluminum hatch and help everyone out.

Caddis and Kickstarters

This past year some friends and I raised funds to make a new record through the crowd-source favorite, Kickstarter.  One of the prizes for select backers was a guided fishing trip with myself (amateur) and a local guide (professional).  I didn't expect folks in other states to choose that prize, but a couple did.

We finally got Alan out to the high desert from his home in Chicago to hit the river.  Alan did quite well, given it was his first visit to northern NV.  Enough fish to keep the day interesting anyway.

 

Chicago gettin' bent. 

 

Fly that flag.

 

The river was kind to this first timer.

 

Off ya go. 

 

Claw in blue.

Caddis in green.

 

Biggest of the day.

 

Personal favorite.

Entertaining out of town guys is great because you can properly set their expectations, let them experience the beauty and challenge of the local water, and know you won't find them in your favorite hole next week.  Caddis in green and rust, small stones, and copper johns are moving fish.  Grab a few and get outside.

Solo and Stormy

When the weather turns on you, you have a choice. 
1. Pack it up and wait for better conditions.
2. Throw the hood up and enjoy the river by yourself.

This particular time I made the right choice.

 

Finger paint.

 

Breach. 

 

Dorsal.

 

Cutbow doesn't mind the rain.

 

Spots and spots. 

Pond Scheme

A friend of mine is part of a large family that owns a ridiculous amount of land.  That land is host to some water that produces decent fish.  Unfortunately in recent times they have had a spike in trespassing and poaching.  For the first time ever you can find the occasional piece of trash in what has previously been untouched territory.  The combination of increased family use, illegal pressure, and some lontra joining the local ecology has resulted in a decline of the fishing experience.

We made the most of a recent run to these waters.  The weather didn't help...inside of an hour we had blue skies, torrential downpour, snow, and vicious hail.  In between flurries it was obvious that the trout were slurping something off the surface.  Without a good supply of dries I had to stick with my chironomids and stuck a few fish.

As much as I love urban fishing, there will never be any substitute for silent solitude on the water, miles from structures and pavement.

 
Wild flowers covered in melting hailstones.

 

Pond dweller.

 
Tale of a tail. 

 

Getting a lifetime lure tosser to switch to the fly-rod is a war of attrition.

Deep colors.

Predator much?

Without completely kicking the hornet's nest...I've been having repeated conversations wrapped around the harm in drawing too much attention to waters that are currently not trashed or already "overcrowded".

Most can respect the fact that they have convictions different that your own, others not so much.  Some say that the increase in human presence is inevitable so get over it, or even monetize it.  Others blacklist you for posting a picture anywhere other than your own fridge.  Most of us land somewhere in the middle.

While I completely understand that we humans have a proven track record to abuse and misuse whatever we touch, I also know that I wouldn't enjoy fly fishing today if everyone I encountered had taken the, "I'm not going to let you in on the secret someone else let me in on".  I've made some great actual friends (as in real people you enjoy and spend time with) through various social media "friends" (a cheap and trite digital bit of nothingness) and a shared love for the sport.

In the ten years I've been fishing the river, pressure is up.  I have also gained an education in proper etiquette and conservation on the river because of those that weren't afraid to spill the beans.  Not sure how it all fits together.  I'm going to modify my approach slightly moving forward.  For now.

Trash the treble hooks.  Get a good net.  Stash your trash.  Catch and release. Over and out.

Another Day

I recently got out on the river with an out-of-towner I admire and respect a great deal.  Bruce hails from Houston and is a class act.  He was certainly more skilled than he let on in our preparatory conversations.  Jan Nemec joined us and helped Tex get into a handful of fish even though it was Bruce's first time on the water in Nevada.

The picture does not do this fish's gut justice.

 
Bruce releases a healthy brown.

 

Take a deep breath and scram. 

If you fish freestone streams with any regularity you're bound to shake hands with a serious fish from time to time.  These run-ins usually end all too quickly.  The pressure locally continues to climb and fish don't simply waltz into the trophy class but have to work hard and smart to get there.  You can eventually guesstimate the pull of a two foot bruiser, but even with experience you rarely see the beast that breaks you off.  You're left to estimate and imagine what could have been.

Pause.  Fishing can't be a pissing contest.  You can gut the soul of this sport in a flash.  This is why in part a fraction of my catches get photographed, and a fraction of those end up here. That said...

On rare occasion you hook, sight and then lose an absolute monster; an animal of maturity and instinct.  It's akin to taking a brutal test you crammed for, getting a 98% and having the professor explain that your score is 2% below the failing mark.  It only takes one bad knot, one nicked line, one half-second lapsing on the hook-set, one run of fury you can't pace, and the list goes on.  You can write the perfect novel and forget to dot an "i" and it all burns up.

I understand that it is a gift to be on the river at all.  I understand there is almost always "another day" to try again.  I also understand that when you lose the fish of your life, because I am still a man, it feels like you had an organ stolen in your sleep.

What kind of friend takes a picture of you from the bank the exact moment after watching the gnarliest brown of your life spit the hook?

At this moment, there is a fish in the waters near you that could recalibrate everything you know/love/believe about fishing.  Feeling the pull of what could be that fish and losing it is hard.  Seeing that fish...his silhouette and scale...moments before he outwits you?  Devastating.  Uncool but true.  

Here's to another day.

Spring Swing

Executive summary:  I'm trying new tactics in new water and it's working.  I'm not as frustrated with spring as I once was.  March browns, BWO's and the most gargantuan carpenter ants I have ever seen are on the water.  Micro-mays and San Juans are also moving fish. 
 
Full report:  Each of the four seasons present specific challenges locally.  A couple of weeks ago, I would have told you that I was the least confident in my tactics in the spring. Spring has looked so differently the last few years based on snow-pack.  It's hard to nail down pages for the playbook when things are so inconsistent. 

I've found a little bit of a groove recently, which I realize sounds trite but I can forget easily that I've been at this fly fishing thing two years now and there's a lot to learn.

 

Wrong place at the wrong time.

 

Defend the queen!  Nasty lil' guys.

 

A project unfinished. 

Doug O. and I connected this week.  Two things you need to know about Doug, other than being a stand-up and knowledgeable guy:
#1.  He has superhuman vision on the river. I consider myself pretty adept at reading the water, but where I see runs, riffles, and boulders...Doug sees pebbles. 
#2.  He genuinely enjoys others catching fish as much as catching them himself. 

The bows this day were unreal.  Most of them took to the air and they would run downstream with a vengeance.  The action was so consistent, at one point I literally cramped up in my forearm rendering my right arm useless.  Hurt so good.

Tried to fly away three times.  Almost worked.

 

Put some butter on your breakfast toast.

20-25 fish days are rare, but a blast when they happen.

One handa pose and don't forget the hat.  Doug doesn't want you to forget the hat.

I'm about to revisit my favorite still-water location, so you'll get a full update on that soon.  I don't have the reps under my belt to understand that game yet, so we'll see what happens.