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.

The Treasure State

I was recently offered a free trip to fish the Clark Fork in Montana on the condition I provided a little evening fireside music. This was an arrangement most agreeable. Our host was enthusiastic, the food was everything you'd expect from six men in the woods, and the scenery was simply stunning.

 
Quick stop in Seattle.

 

The front porch of the cabin.

 

My friend Par doing his best impression of Mickey Mantle doing an impression of Paul Bunyan doing an impression of Captain Morgan.

Once on the river, the 6 of us split up: 4 men in 1-man pontoon rafts, and the 2 least experienced guys in the drift-boat with a guide.  Though my experience is limited, and the sample size is small, based on philosophy and approach I wouldn't recommend this particular chap, though he had fascinating views on Bigfoot and the human capacity to see other dimensions. 

As I suspected, some Truckee River patterns I trust ended up doing the heavy lifting.  Once I figured out how to read such a enormous amount of moving water, I figured out what kind of water they were holding in and then the fun started.  At some point on the trip, I was given the nickname "Truckee" which I didn't mind at all.

The diversity of coloring on the cutties was remarkable.

 

Hares ear for the win. Orange color for the stare.

My friend Gilligan thankfully set the expectations for Montana for me before I left, and he was spot on.  Lots of fish, but none as big as the brutes I'm privy to on my home water.  The weather would have shut down any other outdoor event, but between the deep greens of the untouched forests, the occasional rapids, the bald eagles overhead keeping watch, and the action in the water below you, you didn't have time or space to mumble about the water above you.

One of the better fish of the trip.

It was my first time drifting a section of river like that, and two days and 24 miles later I could feel it in my back, shoulders, and most of all, my quads.  Staying hydrated helped, but it was honestly more physical than what I was prepared for.  Still, it was the trip of a lifetime.

I came home with a clearer understanding of why Montana paints itself in every fishing magazine, and why what I have at home is truly a world class fishery.  The beauty here in the high desert is a very different kind of beauty, and I'm fine with it not making any magazine covers.  That said, scenes like this below from Montana were enough to physically stop you in your tracks.  Hope to return to this part of the country again soon, and in the mean time I'll gratefully make do with what I have in my backyard.

 

We get it Montana.  You're awesome.

Was Jesus Green?

Before I dive in to my report, I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge the fact that it is Earth Day.  I know scientists are getting better and better at finding planets out there in the great beyond, but I am particularly fond of this one.  And while we may disagree on the primary reason why, my outdoor friends that subscribe to a faith and those that don't can agree that taking care of the big blue ball we find ourselves on just makes sense.

I've never understood why many in the diverse and often poorly represented Christian camp push back on many environmental issues.  Yes, human life is paramount in creation, which is precisely why we should be first in line on taking care of the world around us.  Ignoring the biblical mandate to rule over creation justly and with wisdom is lazy.  I don't care if you call it "creation care" or "stewardship over ownership".  Pick up after yourself.  Support businesses that offer great products/services and think green.  Pay attention to what your political party's darling is doing on stewarding your area resources.  I know environmental issues are complex and multi-faceted, but a simple launch point is to ask the question, "if everyone out here did the same thing I'm doing, would we be better off or in trouble?"

Anyway, John McConnell probably never dreamed things would be the way they are today, but here we are.  I'd love a world (and a local river) where the picture above is difficult to pull off, but today it is not. </rant>

Tried my new greys 10' rod for the first time and love it.  Lots of bugs hatching as the waters warm a bit.  Got into the biggest "Sierra Bonefish" of my life (20"+ and battle scarred) and a healthy cutbow that made several big runs that got my feet scrambling through the muck on the banks.  Most fish took a micro-may, San Juan, or prince nymph.

 

Soon it will be time to ditch the layers under the waders and mid-day outings will no longer be so generous.  Bring a bag for trash you stumble on and see you out there.

Big Misses

The process of getting a fish to hand is the culmination of a hundred factors, some resting on you and others out of your control. This is what drives most men mad in life...and fishing.

I lost several brutes this week. Lazy hook-set here, an inexplicable pop there.  Hard to say whether it was me or them. What I do know is that they aren't fighting sluggish and reserved anymore, the way they often do in winter. It's a full on assault.

I did haul in no less than 50 yards of mono-filament line from someone chucking spoons.  Shameful to leave that much synthetic material in the river.  Whenever possible, recover your line and dispose of it properly.  Please.