Let The Daydreaming Begin...

Tonight I find myself back home after some 3,000+ miles of driving and what feels like a lifetimes worth of fishing adventures packed into ten days. With hundreds of pictures and stories and memories to share, we should have some solid blog fodder for many days to come. But whilespending the last 28-some hours in the car (the better portion of which seemed to be spent driving across the endless abyss of I-80 that is Nebraska) I kept catching myself dreaming of the same memory over and over again. So to get it off of my chest, somewhere in the middle of the Cornhusker State, sometime in the middle of the night, I pieced together this little recountencance on my cell phone:

“As handsome as he is, the cutthroat trout is in many ways an odd creature. For one thing, his vibrant coloration almost makes him seem out of place, like a drag queen in a country club. He is to the waters of The West what the cowboy is to the land, a pioneer of sorts whom, relying on adaptation and cunning is able to eek out a remarkably comfortable existence amidst some particularly harsh living environments. He goes about this business with what must be to the other trouts an enviable flair.

To become a big fish in a small stream is no easy task. So, as if to flaunt his achievement, a big cutthroat will take a dry fly with a nonchalance that borders on arrogance, like Michael Jordan shooting free throws eyes-closed. Often he appears to go out of his way to flash his deep crimson gill plates and fire-orange throat slashes as he lazily but gracefully breeches the surface, mouth agape, to sip the fly before vanishing into the depths. Indeed, the cutthroat dry fly "take" is a sight to behold.

Far up the canyon and near the end of a spectacular day of fishing I encountered an exceptional pool that stopped me in my tracks. It featured a sheer rock face on river left, and several jeep-sized boulders at the head of a powerful run which roared through its center. The gin-clear water appeared deceptively blue, a shade which I'd only seen previously in New Zealand. On the far bank, a cave-like overhang had formed in the ancient rock wall. Below it, a large eddy swirled like a hot tub with the jets on. I climbed to the highest possible vantage point to inspect the eddy.

I could see the big trout so clearly that part of me almost felt guilty, like I was watching some guy in his living room. If the roaring river were the rough and rugged streets of New York City, than this guy was living in the 5th Avenue penthouse suite, high above it all and without a care in the world. He swirled about the mild currents of the eddy sipping bugs so unsuspectingly that I knew if I could get a decent drift he'd take the fly without thinking twice about it.

The first cast was a poor one which he never saw. The second landed against the rock wall, and the fly held its position just long enough for the fish to see it before being swept downstream. I worried that the dragging fly had spooked the fish and held my breath for the third cast, which landed in the dead center of the eddy. He rose to it so deliberately that for a second I thought he might actually refuse the big foam dry fly. Then it disappeared between two gaping jaws…

Since I first encountered them I have marveled at the distinct attitude of the cutthroat and his ability to test an anglers' patience. Because the cutthroat often shows himself long before he actually eats the fly, antsy anglers go home empty handed. It takes tremendous restraint to watch the fish rise from his lie, inspect the offering, swallow it with indifference, and turn downward. Then and only then should one set the hook.

So I waited. And waited. And waited. And when I lifted the rod after that eternal half-second and felt life at the other end, I thought that if there were such thing as a perfect moment in fly fishing, this just might be it.”

Passin' The Time

Dudewater Goes West

In a matter of hours Alex and I will be departing for the Western Dude Summit 2K11, which promises to be a raucous affair. Some 22 hours of driving and 1500+ miles stand between us and a long-awaited rendezvous with some old friends...

Oh yea, and I'll be catching up with some fishing buddies as well.

So here's to 10 days of beer, beautiful scenery, big trout, beer, big foam dry flies, whisky, cold clean rivers, fishin' buddies, bluegrass music, and beer.

And did I mention big trout?

Urban Warfare

Times are tough right now for the midwestern fly angler. For starters, it's stupid hot out. Should you dare venture outdoors, rest assured it won't be long 'til you find yourself sweating like a whore in church. I haven't even so much as cast to a trout in well over a month, and there's several miles, about 80 ft. of water and a veritable eternity between here and fall steelhead. Indeed, we've officially entered the doldrums.

But then again, it all depends on your perspective. I suppose we could sit at home with the air conditioning on full blast and a six pack of patriot cans in our laps and bemoan our unfortunate anglers' predicament. But I like to think I'm better than that. So I've been bringing the six pack with me, leaving the AC behind, and wading muddy bathwater flats, frantically searching for scales and whiskers. Desperate times, as you know, call for desperate measures and it was only a matter of time before we'd be forced to engage in urban warfare.

Choosing a strategic carp blind is cirtical when engaging the opponent in urban confines...

Best leave your shirt (and your shame) behind...

Hatch matching; not as easy as you might think. It was a layered hatch of buttered popcorn, creamed corn and cheetos. In the end, the fish showed a strong preference for Cheeto Spinners...

"I want my cheesy poofs"

So after we'd had our fun, we went and did some "real" fishing...

And bagged a backyard bone the hard way...

Summer fishing is what you make of it. Personally I'm having a ball, but the truth is I won't think twice when it comes time to hit the road and head west in 15 days (not that I'm counting).

I wasn't lyin...

Had some free time this morning.

I'm quickly becoming a bonafide hoover hound.

Get 'em While They're Hot...

Check out yesterday's Plain Dealer article where Fast Jimi Says, " Our feathers are a flyin'. If you fixin' to get your hair did, best do it soon..."

http://www.cleveland.com/style/index.ssf/2011/06/feather_hair_extensions_are_ho.html

Close Encounters

As I stepped out of the truck I fully anticipated a reception of odd-ball stares from the dog walkers and joggers and half-baked hippies known to frequent this spot. Though I couldn't remember ever pulling into an empty parking lot here, I'd always felt like it was one of my spots, so their goofy glances and muffled giggles had never much bothered me. I grabbed the pre-rigged rod and box of flies from the bed of the truck and the pooch and I took to the trail, mission bound and with a bounce in our step.


Mojo building was the first order of business, so we did our due-diligence and wacked a picture-perfect bronzeback specimen in a likely-spot.

We made it a mixed-bag in short order with an unexpected but welcome river resident largemouth.

So we'd gotten the juices flowing and now it was time to conduct some real business. River bass are a fine quarry to be sure but they were low on my list this day. I'd had a chance encounter with a self-proclaimed carp addict a few days prior and it'd renewed my intrigue with these bath water brutes. He'd even given me a home-grown lure which, he asserted, had been known to turn cruising carp 90 degrees for a closer look. I intended to test that assertion and tied one on. Confidently I approached the long shale flat that I hoped would be hosting some targets...

Too confidently. I was right, the flat was holding feeding fish, but in my haste I'd waded with a little too much gusto and spooked them into deeper water. Dejected, I scuddled over to a make-shift carp blind to wait for another shot. 10 minutes went by and my mind started to wander. I watched some kids splashing around upstream of me and hoped they wouldn't get close enough to spook my fish. In retrospect they must have been watching me with similar angst, wondering what that creepy guy and his dog were doing hiding behind a log in the river...

And then there he was. Thought it was only a foot deep, at first all I could see through the stained water was a dark, arrow-shaped line about a foot long moving right at me. As it got closer a huge, ghostly grey submarine-shaped head took shape. Fly in hand, I crouched as low as possible so as not to spook the beast, who was still moving towards me. At about 12 feet, he turned sharply to my left, turning broadside to me. I flipped the fly ahead of him and watched it land. The moment it touched the bottom he was on it. With my leader inside the rod-tip all I could do was twitch the fly using the rod itself. On the third twitch the fish closed on the fly like a smallie and tilted down.

One one-thousand.... WHAM

The fight was a good one on a 6-weight, but I didn't even care about landing the fish at that point. I'd gotten what I'd come for, an eat that I won't forget for a long time. After that rush, I'm fully hooked on hoovers and pretty sure I'll be spending the rest of my free time this summer chasing backyard bones...