El Rey Plateado

You'd probably assume that 5 days of fly fishing on a sun-baked flat off the coast of a Mexican island would be about as relaxing and therapeutic as it gets. And, in many ways, it was. But along with all the fresh fish and cervezas and siestas a guy could ask for came a big dose of humility in the form of the silver king.

Leading up to this trip I considered myself to be a competent caster. Put a 5-weight in my hand, tell me where to put the fly and 9 times out of 10 I'll get it there. Give me a 10-foot 7-weight and I'll hit a trashcan lid at 60 ft. with an off-shoulder roll cast. Apparently though the transitive property doesn't apply to fly fishing, because I couldn't cast a 12-weight to save my life. So, in hindsight it was probably a good thing that Brett was on the bow first when on the second day of the trip we ran into a massive school of 100+ pound tarpon.

Seeing a school of adult tarpon rolling on the surface would probably unnerve even your average non-angler... It sent me into a heart-throbbing panic and i wasn't even the one casting. So as I watched Brett and tried to capture the first fish of the trip on film, here's what I remember it going down...

1. Half-way through the retrieve the line goes tight. The surface explodes and a silver missile flies out of the water with alarming velocity. The monster tail walks the surface for what seems like a few seconds and the water explodes again as the fish disappears.

2. I hear line hissing furiously through the guides as I try to anticipate the fish's next aerial display.

3. Fish goes airborne again and I start snapping.

4. "!!!!!***&&&????" - stream of incoherent obscenities coming from the bow of the boat.

5. "CRACK!!!" - the fish, fly line, and almost every snake guide on the 12-weight rod are gone.

We recouped, tallied the casualties, and rigged up the backup rod. But all this had made me uneasy. Watching that first fish defy gravity as it shattered the surface traveling skyward scared the piss out of me. I thought to myself that if, by the hand of God I could get a fly close to one of these dinosaurs, and heaven forbid if one were to eat it, how the hell was i going to land it?

The whole thought process gave me a case of the Jello-Knees the likes of which I haven't had since I asked out my 6th grade girlfriend. As much as I wish all this colorful commentary was just me trying to sensationalize the story, I legitimately had a difficult time standing when it was my turn to take the bow.

And sure as shit fish started rolling again. Some of them were uncomfortably close. So close that I wasn't sure that I wanted to hook one for fear that it might jump into the boat. As much as I'd like to say I shined under the pressure of the moment, the truth is I shit down my leg with impressive style. My casting loops were collapsing like folded waterfowl. To say I was getting hot and bothered would be an understatement; I was sweaty and nervous and angry and frustrated and anxious and wondering if I was blowing the best chance I'd ever have at hooking a triple digit tarpon and wondering what the hell I'd signed up for in the first place and whether I could even call myself a fly fisher when I got home after such a pitiful display and maybe it was about time I grew some cajones. And then the line went tight.

It probably lasted all of 3 seconds and truthfully all I can remember is thinking "OH shit oh shit oh shit." I'd liken it to hooking the bumper of a stock car just before the green flag goes up. Dead weight suddenly accelerates to mach 3 before the neurons in your brain have time to get from one cell to the next. During that nano-second the fly line had backlashed around my stripping hand and snapped with an Independence Day caliber "BANG!" It didn't register until after the fact that I'd felt like my arm was going to be pulled through the stripping guide and that if that had happened I probably could've ridden that fish all the way to Cuba.

Two tarpon hooked, two fly lines lost, one 12-weight exploded and zero fish to the boat; Dudewater was off to a hot start...

Tying the Carnival Crab

A Rude Awakening

Two days ago it was 85 degrees and I was putting on triple-applications of sunscreen to mitigate the sunburn I'd already obtained. A chorus of birds belted out songs in foreign tongues as I watched a school of snook chase my fly all the way to the boat only to peel off at the last second. There were sandwiches and cold beer in the cooler and I was trying not to think about the fact that I was about to jump on a plane that would take me many miles and two full seasons away from this place. So as you might imagine, looking out at the 8 inches of fresh snow outside my window this morning felt like awakening to a frosty hell....


I returned to The States Wednesday after 5 days of fishing in Isla Holbox, Mexico. It's a place I absolutely can't wait to get back to. The island was beautiful, the fishing was exciting and diverse, and our hosts were overwhelmingly generous and hospitable. Brett was joined on the island by his family this week and will be staying through the weekend and I'm sure he will have plenty more pictures and stories to share when he gets back.


Below is a photo essay from our first day of fishing on the island. I'll be adding more pictures and stories from the trip over the next few days so keep an eye on the blog!

Agua De Los Hombres: Dudewater heads South

Today marks the unofficial start of mission "Spoon with Poon." In just a little bit I'll be getting on the road. First stop is a rendezevous in the Nation's Capital, then tomorrow morning were Southbound. Rest assured we'll be returning with a motherload of blog fodder! We'll be fishing with this guy... (fast forward to minute 8:00 to see why)




Stay tuned, we may even throw a teaser up while we're down there...

History In The Making

I awoke to chaos this morning after having slept like a baby through what was apparently an epic February thunderstorm. My phone had been inundated with panic-inciting text messages…

“Chagrin @ 19K?”

“Dude, you see the Chag?”

“16.57 ft. and going up!”

Turns out the Gates Mills Dam, constructed over 100 years ago, gave way this morning during what may turn out to be a 100-year flood. The dam was an iconic landmark for Cleveland’s East-Siders and I know it holds a special place for both Brett and I as it was where we both connected with some of our first steelhead. I jumped out of bed and decided to capture a few images before all hell broke loose…

February Fixes

Seems like everybody but me has managed a fix this month. I shouldn't really complain though, as I'll be south of the border chasing a triple-digit fix of my own before the week is out...

Joe Doug was at it again last week, harassing spring creek specimens on a few PA limestoners over the holiday weekend. I've reproduced his report below for your viewing pleasure...

"Fortunately signs of spring are slowly making themselves known. The sun is out and the harsh bite of winter seems to be waning ever so slightly (Or this could be delusionary wishful thinking at its finest). The same could not be said a week or two ago when the winter doldrums were becoming truly unbearable.

Presidents’ Day offered a needed reprieve from the office and some extra travel time in the pursuit of trout. The destination was south central PA, due to the number of spring creeks that the region offers. I was able to drag my father along and we hit Big Springs, Falling Springs, and the Letort. The fishing wasn’t epic by any means, but we kept the skunk off and tightened up everyday. I had never fished the region so I didn’t really know exactly what to expect. Watercress was everywhere, the water was gin clear and trout seemed to see my lanky
ass from miles away.

At Big Springs on day 1, I was walking downstream haphazardly flipping a streamer, wondering how we were going to catch fish when a 15 inch brookie nearly came out of the water trying to eat my fly. He was only 6ft from my rod tip and surprised the hell out of me. I thought I lost my shot, but lobbed the streamer back in his wheelhouse to see if he would reengage. He came out from his rock with vengeance and crushed the fly. It was one of the coolest eats I’ve had in a while and will certainly be a memorable fish.

From there we went down to Chambersburg and nymphed up some bows on Falling Springs on Sunday. Monday, we spent the majority of the day weed whacking and getting stuck in the silty Letort streambed. Fortunately, right before we had to pull chocks for home, some BWOs started hatching and we managed to fool a small brown in the bottom of
the 9th.

I got to spend some quality time with my pops and although we didn’t catch any of the absolute pigs that we saw, I did add another stop on my summer mousing tour . . ."

What's A Dude To Do?

It seems like everywhere I look, or fish, water is disappearing.  I'm not talking about losing it to ice like we do in winter, or to weather like we do after rain, I'm talking about losing it to ourselves.  All of you have seen it or heard about it before.  At home, the amount of public access and "unposted water" on the southern shore steelhead streams has never been lower.  Nothing sucks worse than rounding a bend in the river and seeing orange and black signs on trees that tell you that you can't fish water that was previously "yours".  I'm not saying that we're justified in feeling this way, but the funny thing about fishermen is that the water we love becomes the water we own, regardless of if its actually ours.

Can't fish here anymore...

I've heard all the arguments about why landowners are wrong for posting their property.  However, the simple truth is that most of them have pretty damn good reasons for doing, and if it was my land I probably would have done it a lot sooner.  Maybe that makes me an asshole, but if so, then I guess that's just the way it is.  If you've fished around our area for a while you've also heard about lots of half-hearted efforts to restore access, change the laws, and give the fishery back to the people.  Admittedly, I shouldn't be one to criticize.  I've participated in some stream clean-ups, but I don't belong to any clubs, and would never say that I've participated in a "grassroots movement" to bring the water back to the hordes of greedy anglers all looking to get tight to a big, sloppy trout.

This was one of the aforementioned big, sloppy trout.

Being young and on a tight budget doesn't lend itself to charitable donations or paying for club memberships; being an angler doesn't lend itself to being overly generous with your fishing holes either. Looking at it all now, my conservation efforts have been pretty selfish.  I pick up the trash that I find when I'm out fishing the places I like to fish and don't leave behind any of my own.  Instead of lobbying for the rights of the masses, I knock on doors with the intention of finding places to escape them.  I guess with the way things are Ohio now that's kind of what you need to do if you want to have a place left to fish in solitude on a Saturday.

Survival of the friendliest? To the talker go the spoils?

There are lots of days where I think that if all of us were a little more selfish we wouldn't have this problem.  The last thing I want to see when I walk down the bank is a plastic bag, a cigarette butt, spawn sack netting (sorry to all you bait chuckers out there - I couldn't resist the opportunity), or any other trash in a place where I go largely because this sort of stuff doesn't belong there.  So I pick up what I find, and hope that at the end of the day I made it nicer for the next time I come back.

By this point you're all probably wonder what could possibly have set me off on this when nobody has been fishing our streams for the past six weeks, so here it is.  The states that have high-water-mark have always had a special place in my heart.  I just think there's something really cool about a state who's citizens, landowners, and government value the rights of a sportsman so much that they fight to protect them and provide them with the freedom and ability to pursue the hobbies and passions that they have.

Montana was one of those states, but that is currently in jeopardy.  For those of you who don't know me very well, I've spent a lot of time in Wyoming and Montana since I was very young.  It’s where half of my family is from, where my grandfather first taught me to fly fish and tie flies, and now I’m drawn back there to continue those things - but also to guide and to share that experience with others.  Every summer when I return it feels like I’m home - coming back to a place where the air is cleaner, the water clearer, and the fish more plentiful and willing to take a dry fly with no regard for their own well-being.  It’s the birthplace of my passion, where exposure to fly fishing started me on a trip that hasn’t ended, and I doubt ever will.

Big brown trout, and being able to fit in while wearing a sweet 'stache builds Montana's case as one of the greatest places to fish in this country.

After you become a licensed guide in Montana, the next thing you do is join F.O.A.M - the Fishing Outfitters Association of Montana.  It's a good group - they do their best to protect the rights of their members, to provide a certain degree of quality control in the guiding industry, and to keep the folks involved in the business informed about things happening in government that might matter to them.  The other day, this email from F.O.A.M. arrived in my inbox:

"FOAM members: 

House Bill 309 is an attempt to modify Stream Access Law by redefining the term 'ditch'. Remember that recreational use of water in a ditch without landowner permission is prohibited in current stream access law. HB309 has two key points that FOAM opposes: 

 1) A live, flowing braid or channel can be defined as a ditch if there is any kind of control structure at the head of the live channel, including 'natural features incorporated into the water conveyance system';

 2) Recreational access is available only with landowner's permission on water bodies created at least in part by waters diverted from a natural water body where the diverted water is the principal source of water in the water body - think about low flows in August and September and the many Montana rivers and streams with side channels and braids that have diversion structures on them where return flow could be considered the 'principle source of water' in the river or stream.

#2 above could potentially turn side-channels of rivers, streams, and possibly whole rivers into ditches where recreational use is allowed only with landowner permission. The bill was 'heard' on second reading yesterday in the House and passed by a vote of 55 Yes, 44 No.  It will face a similar vote today and probably pass by another close vote..."

For most of you, this will never matter.  But for me, and for lots of other anglers - it might - and that's a shame.  There's always lots of jargon and vague wording involved in stuff like this, but the bottom line is pretty simple.  If this passes, there's likely a lot of places that anglers won't be able to fish anymore.

This is no "ditch", but parts of this stream might be classified as one if this bill goes through.

As a group, we anglers need to stop giving landowners reasons to keep us away from the streams that we fish.  So go join a club, or pick up some trash, or knock on a door just to say thanks to a property owner for allowing us to do something that all of us at one point or another take for granted.  Be selfish about what you do while you're out fishing - take care of the resource for yourself, because it gives you some sort of enjoyment when you're out in it.  If we all act this way then maybe - just maybe - we'll stand a chance of reversing this trend.