Crusade day 4: Craneflies? Seriously?

I'm tired as hell and set to rise at the ass crack of dawn for another round tomorrow, so forgive my brevity. Suffice it to say that we set out to stick cutties on dry flies and stick them we did... Along with a few bows, browns, and cut bows. The bug du jour was Craneflies surprisingly enough and I watched well over a dozen naturals get wacked throughout the day. Our best match was a size 12 tan Schroeders Para Hopper, and while not perfect (saw plenty of refusals) it was enough to get the job done. Nothing huge and no big numbers, but stunningly beautiful Westslope Cuts from water that now has to be the front runner for most beautiful setting I've ever made a cast in. Clark Fork mañana! Here's hoping for the big one!

Yakity Yaak; Let's Go Back

Different float on the Yaak today. Heavy winds made fishing a little tougher with 2 and 3 weight Rods, but we still found some players. So far in two days of fishing and over 20 miles of water we've seen a total of two other anglers. The Koot Is dropping fast and we'll have a boat from our group on it tomorrow, excited to see what it produces at 30,000 CFS. The rest of us will float another drainage in search of big Westslope Cutts. Stay tuned for another update tomorrow and I promise, pictures are coming!

Crusade Day 2: What is and what ought to be

Today we floated the Yaak River, a remarkably pristine drainage by modern standards. It was not a day about numbers(there was no shortage of fish) or size. It was wholly about coaxing native, wild rainbow trout tothe fly in water which they'd arrived in thousands of years ago by their own accord and by no hand of man. It was about seeing those fish strike a fly as if it were the first they'd ever seen and the last they might see. It was about pink cheeks and silver sides and slashy rises at sloppy casts. It was about two-weights bent to the cork by 9-inchers. It was... exactly what it should be.

 Of course, the most memorable trips always involve some hitches along the way. A powerful windstorm had rolled through the Yaak Valley just a couple of days prior to our arrival. In it's wake a left a number of 100 ft. + tall widow makers across the width of the river. Sean and I did a little road maintenance, then went back to handlin' bidniss...

Trials and Triumphs of a Travelin Man

I've been as disappoointed as all seven of you who read the blog that I haven't done much posting of late. As an attempt to remedy that, I'm going to do my best to chronicle the next three weeks of Western trout fishing, a project we'll refer to as the 2012 Dudewater trout crusade, with daily updates. I'll be working on my iPad, which doesn't allow for adding pictures, but I'll do my best to interject those where possible. Oh and P.S., it doesn't allow for formatting either, so I'll clean it up later. Without further adieu...

12:37 PM, Mountain Time
Somewhere above Montana

Leg one of the the 2012 trout crusade was off to a disconcerting start. Barely underway, there'd already been enough trip-ups and mishaps to make me think twice about carrying on. The first of them came nearly three weeks prior to our scheduled departure for the far northwest corner of ManTana. To that point it'd been smooth sailing and easy planning; this years trip was to be a repeat performance of the trip I hosted last September, one that'd been wildly successful by all accounts. I'd done my job as a trip host, recruiting the maximum number of patrons, including  a number of alumni from the 2011 expedition.  But an email from our Montana hosts changed our outlook in a hurry.

As you know by now, the Kootenai basin has been trapped under a veritable deluge that carried on through June and into early July. The Kootenai, the regions crowned jewel and our destination fishery, was unfishable and would remain so for the foreseeable future. We would be forced (oh woe-is me) to explore smaller tributary rivers and creeks, perhaps on foot rather than from the comfort of drift boats. This change of plans uneased several of my companions to the point that they decided they'd "rather just wait until next year." My group of 8 was now down to 5, but we were committed, excited to explore new water, and so packed our bags and carried on.

Three days from departure, I received a call from one of the remaining 5. Turned out that he had wrenched his back badly, was struggling to get out of bed let alone walk, and was unsure about his status for the trip. I quivered, told him to "get better, quick," and waited for his call on Friday. A little miracle work by the chiropractor and an an untold number of Vicodin later, we were shaking hands excitedly in the Cleveland airport.

Not four hours into our trip we ran into the latest amusing (in hindsight, that is) deterrent. Standing in the terminal walk window I watched as airline staff unloaded mine and my travel companion's gate-checked bags packed with untold thousands of dollars worth of fly rods and reels. I couldn't help but notice that our bags were not being transferred with the rest of the gate checked luggage from our flight. After several minutes only our two bags remained,  surrounded by a collection of poking, prodding, and seemingly perplexed Delta workers. As the first officer exited the plane I "politely inquired" why our bags were not being brought into the terminal?

As fortune would have it, the gate attendant  in Cleveland had taken our bags without reciprocating the requisite "pink tags" that denoted them as having been security-cleared. Our connecting flight was to depart in roughly 45 minutes, and the only TSA-acceptable remedy would be to retrieve our bags at baggage claim and go through security, again. No problem, aside from the fact that baggage claim was at the farthest possible end of the airport, and that we were likely to miss our flight by the time we made it back to the gate...

 

Survey any of my former high school teammates about my athletic prowess and the one adjective your are certain NOT to hear is "fast" (indeed, the Fast Jimmy moniker is steeped in irony). But let's just say that, as I sit here in seat 21-C, Montana-bound with rods stowed safely overhead, I am considering making a late push for Gold in the 100-yard dash this summer. This evening, knock on wood (seriously... knock again would you?) we'll be enjoying cold Moose Drool, watching The Koot' roar by the front window, and prepping gear for our first day on the water. As you might imagine, that first cast can't come soon enough!

Update: 


9:23 PM Mountain Time

Drought? What drought?

We're T-2 weeks until I depart for Northwestern Montana for a week of fishing with customers. You may recall that I hosted a similar trip last year, one which featured many highlights including my first [2] ever bull trout on the Kootenai River. Well I'm confident we've got another great trip to look forward to, but we know one thing for sure; we won't be having any repeat performances on The Kootenai.

You see, while almost the entire country is experiencing record breaking heat, devastating drought and catastrophic wildfires, the Kootenai basin has been getting pounded by rain for nearly the entire month of June, to the tune of nearly 300% of average precipitation for the month. On top of a healthy snowpack all that water has Koocanusa reservoir, from which flows the tailwater section of the Kootenai, just inches from capacity pool. Meanwhile inflows from the upper Koot' and tributaries, which are dropping but still hovering around 60,000 CFS, are exceeding outflows from the dam which are currently steady at around 48,000 CFS [and no, I did not add an extra 0]. You can hash that math out if you like, but what it all boils down to is that my group and I won't be fishing the Kootenai in two weeks. For that matter, non one will be fishing it for a while, presumably until mid-August or later.

The silver lining is that a big water year like this - nay, an extraordinary water year - while putting the Koot' out of the picture, should mean healthy flows on the other area rivers, perhaps even providing some float opportunities on what would normally by late July be exclusively walk-wade fisheries. While I'm bummed about missing out on the Koot', I'm super excited to see some new water and scenery. As a bonus, upon returning for Montana on the 27th, I'm home for less than a week before jumping back in the cars and heading westward for the 2012 Dudewater Trout Crusade. Pouring over maps and potential routes last night, this one is shaping up to be even more epic than last years, and I promise to do my best job of documenting it to share with y'all. 

Off The Hook

Who' we kiddin'... y'all don't listen to the music anyway.

Since I haven't posted in a month I figured it best to shoot from the hip. Fact is, I'm off the hook. Gave that Lymphoma the ole' 1-2 and now, at 25, I'm officially a cancer survivor... and the same fishin' fool I always was.

But though I've made light of it along the way, the last 8 months have had a powerful impact on my life. In fact, as more and more time passes I consider my diagnosis a blessing, a chance to see things like I might not otherwise have seen them. Though I wish I could take away the fear and anxiety that it caused those close to me, for me it's been an overwhelmingly positive experience. While I'd like to think I've never taken life's blessings for granted, truth is sometimes it takes a life altering event, a change of perspective, to see the value in life's little moments. The outpouring of support from friends and family and strangers alike has overwhelmed me from the very beginning. As my man Dave says,

"Turns out not where but who you're with that really matters."

Amen, brother.

So forgive me for not posting much, 'cause I've been livin' a little harder of late. Lord knows I like tellin' a good story but as it turns out, bein' there's a little more fun...

Ha! Just playin'. I may be feelin' good, but I'm still sportin' the Ford Ranger 'round town. Got her spiffed up the other day though so keep an eye out for those 14" chrome rims when I roll through your 'hood...

I Wanted a Perfect Ending

This time was different.  A few days before I'd returned from making a long cast to the other side of the country, and metaphorically speaking, I'd raised a big trout - only to have it throw the hook and sink away out of sight.

Driving west on highway 66, there was a feeling in my gut that I hadn't had in a long time.  Pounding pavement at breakneck speed, there were pangs of desperation and longing coupled with the stinging reality of my situation, but also the comfort of knowing that before long I'd find myself in an environment as familiar to me as anywhere else in the world - the moving water of a trout stream.  I was alone, and although I would almost always rather share the water with a  friend, this trip needed to be exactly the way it was.  

I try to be mindful of my motivation whenever I fish alone.  If I'm weary, sick, fed up, overworked, angry, frustrated, need to think things over, or need to stop thinking things over, I've found that I should probably go fishing; when progress is important, it's best when I'm alone.  On a solo fishing trip, there are no obligations other than to fish and do whatever comes into your mind - you can turn your phone off, leave your watch in camp and discard any sense of obligation you have to the rest of the world.  In an increasingly connected world, personal progress is hard to find among a constant bombardment of emails, phone calls, texts, and other modern day catch-22's.

Fishing alone, especially in unfamiliar waters, it's possible to learn more about yourself than you could probably ever predict before you do it.  Uninfluenced by crowds, other guides, and friends for better or worse, you're free to be yourself, to live as you like for the time being, and to fish the way that suits you. Although it might not be apparent at the time, a reflection a day of solo fishing can yield impressive insight into who we are as fisherman, but also as people.  Like it or not, many of us live like we fish, and vice versa; and as famous fly-fishing author John Gierach says, "for some it's a blessing, and for others it's a curse."

I started fishing standard fare for this river, a small Sulphur dun, and a Griffith's gnat and was almost immediately rewarded with a fine trout.  However, after working through a beautiful pool for the next hour with a handful of rising fish, and God-knows-how-many waiting patiently under the surface, yielded nothing, it was time for a change.  I sat down on a midstream rock and poured through a half-dozen boxes, considering everything from size 24 midges, up to a size 2 streamer.  I settled on a fly that I have more confidence in for trout than probably any other, and over the next few hours my confidence in this bug was justified, over, over, and over again (although I still can't figure out what this piece of rubber, dubbing, foam, and yarn represented to these wily and seasoned tailwater fish).  Therein lies one of the other charms about fly fishing - how you can be dead wrong, but somehow right enough to get the job done better than you could have possibly imagined.

 

 

So I hit the river really the only way I know how, with a smile on my face, and contentment in my heart - ready and eager to accept whatever, good or bad, the river had to offer me on that particular day.  In all the changes I've gone through in my life, and in particular this last chapter, fishing is one of the few things that has a feeling of permanence to it, which is a very comforting thought even at the most convoluted times.   

I'd by lying if I said that I expected to catch a fish on every cast, but every time I throw a line I do it with hope.  Every cast is a flirtation with uncertainty, and to be honest on most days it's more than likely that most casts won't end up interesting a trout.  I guess in some ways that's the mystique and also the silliness of fly fishing - if it was all about kicking ass and taking names you'd be crazy to do it with a Sage and some feathers and dubbing - an Ugly Stik and a hunk of power bait or a spinner would seem to be a much more suitable and effective choice.  So instead, I fly fish because it's the activity I want to do, done the way I want to do it.  It's the way I've chosen to live an incredibly large and important part of my life.  Now, on that day I was losing myself in just casting, wading over mid-stream boulders, doing my best to sting a few trout, but mostly keeping my fingers crossed for the serendipity I'd so narrowly missed during my last "fishing" trip. 

I've had more great days, and also more tough days on a river than just about anyone I know, purely because of the fact that over the past 6 or 7 years of my life I've been incredibly lucky to spend an enormous amount of time on the water with a rod (or in many cases, a net) in my hand.  During that time I've developed my own style of fly fishing - as all anglers are apt to do - which was described by an old fly fishing friend of mine in San Francisco as - "you just fish, you just love it, and you never stop."  Sometimes this means that I fish on days when I shouldn't, when conditions aren't ideal, or the drive doesn't seem worth it, or I get on or off the water earlier or later than is best (or at times, healthy), it means that I do nonsensical things like traveling through the middle of the night in order to be on a piece of prime water come morning, and it means that even when I see a trout lie shrouded by branches, snags, and difficult currents, I'm going to make a couple damn casts in there anyway.  It means that I don't know how to give up on a big fish, and once I know where it is, I'll settle in and buckle down.  In many ways, this life is like a big trout, and I can only hope that I'm a cagey angler with all the time in the world.  

As the day was winding down, I made a series of casts into a particularly promising backwater.  It was deep, dark, and full of boulders - a perfect home for a big brown trout.  On the third or fourth cast into this pocket, a shape moved off the bottom, and slowly ascended through the water column, opened its mouth, and engulfed my fly with unflappable confidence and laziness.  I set the hook, and after a brief but eventful fight over boulders and across the swiftest part of the current, brought one of the most beautiful fish I've ever caught to the bank.  After snapping a couple quick photos, I removed my special fly, and watched the fish glide away back to where he came from.  It's funny the moments when a moment on the river really hits you, and this one certainly did.  I sunk to my knees midstream, in disbelief of what had just happened.  At that moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut had, over the course of the day, been replaced with one of satisfaction and comfort. Despite recent disappointments off the water, this fish was exactly what I had been looking for that entire day.  I wanted a perfect ending, and on this day, I got it.

No matter what the outcome of my last cast, or my last fishing trip, or my last anything -  the next event is all but decided - another cast, another trip, another anything.  Perhaps the only certainty to fly fishing, or life, is that there really isn't any, and there isn't much else to do but embrace it and keep casting and fishing on, fingers crossed, hoping for some serendipity.