Friday, August 12, 2016

How often?

One of the many 4UR veterans who are now still working in the industry or on the water is my good friend Drew.  Drew is a Wisconsin native who now guides for the Tight Lines outfit, a group of great Midwest boys who are fishy as hell and super keen on their smallmouths.

I had the good fortune to join Drew and a colleague for a spell in Pembine, Wisconsin, where the Tight Lines crew lives for the summer season.  The owner of the shop, Tim, falls into the description above and was especially excited for me to experience the great fishery they have at their doorstep.  I arrived late on a Wednesday to find the beer and whiskey flowing.  With an early wake-up approaching fast, several times we all contemplated the beds that awaited us.  Tim has a particularly good line of peer pressure that whisks away most reservations about another round, another story, another anything:  How often?  How often do I find myself in northeast Wisconsin with two of my best buds?  How often do I get to smallmouth fish on the Menominee with two of my best buds?  How often can I have one more beer in Wisconsin with two of my best buds? 

Not very often, is the answer to those questions.  I encourage you to employ such a quiz when confronted with decisions over one more beer or staying up a little later.  If the answer is 'pretty often', maybe you can find a way to phrase the question to get the answer you desire.

The mighty Menominee.
My prior experience with the smallmouth bass was largely in a couple ponds in the Camden-Rockport area, where Lefty Steele and I kept a canoe stashed in the woods when we were working at Maine Sport.  We found the fish agreeable to popper presentations there.  July in Wisconsin is topwater season for the smallies, and our bugs consisted of mostly the same, plus a local pattern known as Ol' Mr. Wiggly.  It's a quick tie that I plan to experiment for other species.  Perhaps you'll do the same.

So we were to float various sections of the Menominee in Drew's Clacka.  On the first day, ten minutes in, Drew pointed out a particular spot below a dam where a back-eddy turned into a downstream flow.  I made my cast with a yellow popper and this fish ate it immediately:

19.5" to start the trip.  Great!
Same fish as above.  Looks bigger here, eh?
Different fish than above, but just a bit downstream.  Twenty minutes into the trip.

I forgot how much fun smallies are.  They pull like hell, corking out 8-weights, eat topwater bugs like the dickens and love that warm water.  For a summertime fish, they're pretty rad.  I'm looking into my smallmouth locals out here.

Top.  Water.
Mahoney Thumbs-Up of Approval.

More.  Top.  Water.

Ate it good.
One last story.  We had pretty damn good fishing, but like any place you go, it'll slow down from time to time.  From what I've gathered, the gear and bait guys can really clean up on this river.  Case in point, on our final morning, while waiting on Drew to finish running the shuttle, I watched as a party barge (the river is pretty wide and slow) made its way up the middle of the river and then cut its engine directly in front of the boat launch.  Now I've heard of 'take-out fish', but rarely do I hear of boat launches being a fishing spot that one might target, or seek out.  Nevertheless, the captain of this vessel thought it to be a fine spot.
As the boat coasted to a stop mid-river, the captain grabbed the anchor and tossed it into the river: KABOOM!  The anchor splashed down, causing quite a ruckus, I thought.  I watched as the man then proceeded to remove his shirt, pull a beer out of his cooler, grab his fishing pole and head to the stern where he took a seat on a waiting chair.  He let fly his bait/lure and began a retrieve.  A moment later and he had one on!  Damn!  I guess that does work!  It would take us an hour and a half to get our first that day.
The big lake.

Cheers!  How often?!


Thursday, April 14, 2016


Twelve months. 

That's how long I've waited to be here again.  To stand on the platform, look into these waters and see them:  tarpon.

You will find them in a handful of different types of water and types of ways.  No matter how the shots come, they're all awesome, but the laid-up tarpon is especially exciting.  You'll sometimes stare for hours at a time at brown-green water; you'll stare so long it seems like you've forgotten what to look for, or what they look like.  Then, all of a sudden, there's one.  From afar, they're light-brown-tannish against the murky, backcountry Everglades water.  You inch closer and closer and slowly the shape appears.  Then it's glowing at you.  You can barely make out its head and its tail, but you know which is which.  It's just sitting there. 

It can be a battle just to find one, but when you do, another battle begins; this time with yourself.  Present the fly properly.  Drop it two feet in front of the fish's nose.  Maybe a hair across it too.  Not too hard. 

In a basketball game, when you shoot a foul shot, you have ten seconds.  You do your routine, and shoot.  Mine goes like this:  line up my right foot with the nail, hold the ball in my left hand, look at the front of the rim, and breath.  Two dribbles, then look again at the rim.  Breath twice.  Shoot.

The time from spotting a laid-up fish to making your shot can be a minute or less than ten seconds, but the procedure is somewhat similar in that there's a definite success or failure.  The fish eats (you make the shot), or it doesn't (you miss the shot). 

Two times today I was blessed with the quintessential laid-up tarpon shot.  Two times today I was polled closer and closer while I stared at the glowing fish, just sitting there.  I know where I want the fly to go (the ball to go through the rim), I can see it landing there (the ball hits nothing but net).  I know what I want the fish to do, I've watched them do it before.  Two times today I watched as my cast landed feet away from where I wanted it to.  Two times today I watched as the glowing tarpon disappeared before my eyes, never to be seen again.  Blown shot.  Brick.  Fail.

When you land the fly where you want it, this is what it looks like:



Tuesday, June 9, 2015


Last year a good buddy and I spent our first days on a tributary of some bigger water that we had frequented.  We were pleasantly surprised by the stream, its setting and the fish it held.  There were good number of 4 - 8" fish to keep us busy between the bigger pools, where we had encounters with fish up to 15".  Coming from a ~75 CFS stream, we thought that was pretty cool.  To add to that, the fish are all wild and from what we've gathered, the cutthroat are native.  As the first Saturday in June is the season opener for this, and a number of other small waters in Washington, the same friend and I made plans a while back to return to this little gem. 

I'm still amazed of the geographic diversity in Washington: a few months ago we were swinging flies for winters in the rainforest; now we're in a high desert, fishing what feels like a southwest Colorado trout stream.  Being that I spent a couple years in the latter, it's a great change of pace.  After a winter and spring of long rods and Skagits, it's also nice to break out the small sticks and get the rust off the trout-game again.

Like many other places, we're a little short on water at the moment here in the Pacific Northwest.  The story was the same for this little stream.  Looking at flows before we arrived, we knew it would be lower than it was the last time we were there, but what that would look like or what that would do to the fishing, we didn't quite know. 

Fish Dat.
The fishing started great and only got better, but the catching started slow and declined from there.  The smaller fish we expected to find in the pocket water weren't around.  We fished our way upstream to the first deeper pool, where we had found our first bigger fish last year.  The pool itself looked pretty rough and we couldn't find any fish in it.  This was disappointing, but we kept going.  Soon after we reached a stretch of water that borders some farmland.  Massive sprinklers sprinkled as we fished by.  Upstream of the sprinklers we came to the first of two sets of pipes pulling water out of the stream.  It was a sobering moment and we passed by in silence. 

Eventually we came to the pool where we had stopped last year.  Unseen water lay ahead and we were excited, but to this point we hadn't seen any bigger fish, afternoon was coming on and it was very hot.  Hope for the bigger fish was failing, but on we went.  Finally it happened and out from the depths of a nice pool came a rise of no mistake: the distinctive, slow take of a nice cutthroat.  I was half surprised I had waited long enough, but I guess I'll say instinct took over and the hook-set was solid.  It would be the fish of the day.

Adams eater.
The walk back to the truck, for lack of a better phrase, fucking sucked.  It was very hot, pushing 90 degrees and because we got started early in the morning when it was much cooler, we were in waders.  I was also donning my fishing vest which, simply put, holds too much stuff.  I had fished four flies with two different tippet sizes that day yet carried six boxes' and eight spools worth.  Habit, possibly; stubbornness, perhaps.  My father gave me this vest for Christmas when I was nine years old; I'm 30 now.  I've worn it in countless states and five countries across four continents.  Needless to say, I'm pretty partial to it.  But as I sweated it out on the way back to the truck, I conceded that my approach to walk-and-wade trout fishing needs changing.  The next day I ditched the waders, put two fly boxes, two spools of tippet and one extra leader in a waist pack and went for it.  I fished a whopping three flies that day and the two not in use were stuck in my hat.  It felt like I had lost 50 pounds of gear.  I was a brand new man. 

The day's fishing activity was as refreshed as I was.  Instead of fishing first, hiking later, we hiked first and fished our way back to the truck.  Walking by pool after pool was a little difficult but when we did get started, two of the first three pools produced the bigger fish we were after.  The fishing turned out to be really good. 

The first good one I got was a ~14" rainbow that was super hot.  It jumped a half dozen times and ripped line off my reel.  It was a great fight on a 2-weight and a click reel.  A while later I came to a pool and started false casting while my buddy took a seat and watched.  I was fishing a parachute hopper at the time and the first cast in the pool brought up a gorgeous, healthy cutthroat around 8"; not quite the size we were looking for, but still a good one.  The very next cast, a very big fish porpoised on the fly.  We could tell it was a very nice cutthroat.  I was trigger happy though and pulled the fly away too soon.  Luckily, so soon that I hadn't stung the fish.  I made one more cast with the same fly to no avail then let the fish be.  For 10 minutes we chatted about my next move.  I finally tied on a parachute Adams, the only other dry fly I had needed that weekend, and made my way back into the pool.  The first cast nothing happened, and the second cast, the same.  Then on the third cast, the fish appeared and refused the fly.  I put the parachute hopper back on.  Again a refusal.  I then took my buddy's rod and cast his orange Stimulator several times with no sign of the fish.  I was beginning to admit defeat as I tied on a single tungsten stonefly nymph and started working the pool.  The first casts to where the fish rose came up empty.  I moved up into the eye of the pool and there, in the deepest, heaviest water the indicator went down.  I set the hook in disbelief, but the the head shakes that came next gave me no doubt what I'd found.  It was a good one, and oh so satisfying.  Ain't them cutties purdy?

This morning I received a text from a buddy in the Keys with a picture of him holding a permit pushing 30 pounds.  After exchanging expletives, I passed along the above picture, a brief recap of the encounter and added, "It's no 30 lb permit but hey."  His response:  "If you worked for it, then it's a great fish.  That's the best part."  True dat, Nat!


No wonder the orange Stimulator worked!

'Til next time...

Thursday, May 14, 2015

I'm going on a trip in August.

To a place I've been once before. 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013


there are salmon around the sound right now.  this spices things up for the Bainbridge Island angler.  being away for July and half of August, I hadn't fished the beaches since June.  James had been though.  my first trip back on the beaches, I stuck one nice coho on a pink clouser.  welcome back!

I wasn't prepared with the rock shampoo for that fellar, so back he went.  but now we're fishing for meat.  it's like they know it's coming.  I've hooked three since landing that one, and they've all spit the hook.  a couple of those I thought I really stuck, too.  so it goes.  they're around, and we're after 'em.  more to come on that.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

My head has been in the clouds since I left and it's still up there now.

Here I sit, again at the kitchen table in my apartment on Bainbridge Island.  My head has been in the clouds since I left and it's still up there now.  It'd be impossible to tell the story from start to finish, so I've just written some thoughts on a few subjects.  Give me a shout if you want to hear more about it or about anything specific.

Some statistics:  I fished for eight days and averaged a fish a day.  I got blanked a couple days, my best day was three and I landed the last five that I hooked.


I reached the river with a box of a couple hundred flies.  While this tally eased my mind in preparing for the trip, it would turn out to be a bit of a hindrance when I was riverside, about to make my pass through a greasy run.  I was determined to catch my first fish on a fly I tied and succeeded in this on the second day.  The pattern that took off my skunk was a 3" unweighted red, orange and pink Popsicle pattern.  For me, the general rule of bright flies for bright skies and dark flies for dark skies held.  After stinging one on my tie, I switched over to a fly tied by my roommate, James.  This fly hooked two fish on back to back casts!  One would be a fresh hen of about 8 pounds that I would get to tail a few hundred yards downstream and the other was a smolt of about 8 inches!  In the end, James' patterns would account for half of my fish.  At some point on day 3 or 4, it felt I was in a bit of a slump.  I was reaching the end of my second fishless day and was becoming a little frustrated with my casting, was hooking bottom and bushes and just generally not feeling fishy when swinging.  I ended the day by losing my fourth fly in the same run.  When I'm steelheading (or fishing in general, I suppose), I like to think that things happen for a reason, so I told myself that the fish didn't want to eat that fly and I took to the bank to take in the scene and collect myself while my friend finished the run.  It was then that I made these realizations: the four flies I had just lost were store-bought, and all the flies that had taken fish were either tied by me or someone I know.  I concluded then that flies without soul would not work on this river.  I spent the rest of the trip fishing flies that I had a connection to, and enjoyed greater catching success on the second half of the trip.  More veteran steelheaders have probably enjoyed this realization years or decades ago, but for me, it happened when it happened.  With this new knowledge in my pocket, my fly box was promptly halved.  Choosing which fly to tie on was still difficult though.  I consider myself to be a fairly decisive individual and I understand that indecision can be a handicap in certain situations.  That said, nearly every time I was to change flies, I found myself hunched over my box, three or four patterns in my hands, contemplating the merits of each.  In hindsight, I think nearly all the patterns in my box would've worked, but for whatever reasons, only a few felt right at times.  Confidence is key in this fishing game, so I guess it doesn't matter if it took me two or ten minutes to decide my fly so long as the one I did choose felt good to me.

Encounters, pt. 1

Third day, second fish hooked.  One of those grabs where your fly is swinging quietly through a run one moment, then in an instant your reel is screaming like the fish was on its way back to the ocean and you tail-snagged it.  The next thing I recall, my shooting head left my view, shooting line followed and backing was passing through guides.  The fish broke the surface of the water, cleared my buddy's swinging line and then was again peeling off line, heading downstream further still.  At this point, I realized that on its path downstream, the fish had gone under a log.  Fuck.  The fish had by now slowed its run, so I gained some backing while walking downstream towards the log to inspect the situation.  "I don't think you'll be seeing this one, Jess." I said to myself.  The log's roots were twenty feet off shore, in waist deep, swift water.  I was able to get to the roots, and get good footing there.  The fish must've tired at this point, because I started gaining line.  The backing knot passed through the guides.  Soon the head was in sight.  My three compatriots watched as I brought the fish closer and closer, my line still under this log, which extended way beyond what I wanted to wade into, angled slightly downstream.  As I got the head into the guides, the fish began to run again.  We quickly discussed tactics.  Visions of Lee Wulff passing a rod through/under/around roots and trees flashed in my head.  I had actually performed such a feat myself years ago, but the log in question was in a couple feet of slow water, not a waist deep current that didn't look like it should be messed with.  We grabbed a Water Master and contemplated getting into it and floating alongside the log to get downstream of it, but eventually decided against this as it didn't look like we could row off the log in time to clear it.  Sooner or later the fish was at the log and I could see her under the surface.  I tried hard to get her out of that log, but it wasn't happening.  One last pull from me, one from her and off she went.  I stood there looking at the log and my fly-less tippet.  My friends offered some words that I don't recall.  Then one said, "Well, you'll never forget that one!"  I glared at him and then started laughing.  "No shit!"  We all laughed.

Other Mammals

I have little first hand experience with bears.  I've seen a handful from afar and even had one come into  the gear room of a cabin I was sleeping in, but I've never ran into one in close range while on foot in the woods.  I have done a decent amount of reading on bear safety and how to handle yourself when you have an encounter, but was still nervous about seeing one, especially when every  single person I talked to about the trip cautioned me extensively.  My parents lectured me.  I carried bear spray and a bear bell that still rings in my ears.  We started seeing tracks as soon as the helicopter left us.  We heard a sow and two cubs were around.  In the end, we didn't see a single bear.  This is fine by me I suppose, but I wouldn't have minded seeing one across the river.  Some other tracks were of concern as well though.  On one upstream exploration, two of my crew took off from the raft for a couple hours.  On their return, cougar tracks covered theirs.  Back at camp though, we had our most bothersome run-ins with other mammals:  mice!

Encounters, pt. 2

Fourth day, I think.  As a few of my buddies from home will tell you, I sometimes get frustrated fishing the same water day after day and will elect for fishing new water even if the prospects of catching are not as great.  I'm well aware of the cardinal sin of leaving fish to find fish, but sometimes you just need to do something different.  For a few days, we had spent a good amount of time at one run, each taking long passes through it.  Fish were being hooked certainly, but I was in need of new water.  First thing in the morning we made our way to this same long run and while the three others got ready, I wished them well and made my way upstream, to fish whatever water I would find.  In truth, I was leaving A-water and ended up fishing B- and C-water, but it was what I needed that morning.  I fished a couple runs that were a bit too fast and then fished some small inside seams that looked like water a fish would move through, but probably not hold in.  Several of these spots were head-casts only, and 8 or less casts would fish the spot.  On one such spot, my fly held in the hang down.  I watched it for a second or two then looked up to make my next cast.  The fly was then grabbed.  I quickly turned my head and saw the fish make one big boil before turning and heading directly downstream.  My rod high, crashing through a log jam and side channel, I was in tow.  A hundred yards downstream, I realized this fish was heading for another log jam that would probably end my hopes of landing it.  Thankfully I was able to put the brakes on the fish and slowly it came back upstream where I tailed her in an eddy behind a log.  The sun had just hit the water.  Fishing usually has a way of working out.  Fool-hearty, optimistic plans are sometimes rewarded.  All it takes is one fish to make a day, and you never know what'll happen when your fly's in the water.


I have been on a handful of fishing benders over the years and time is an interesting element in each.  For rendez-vous purposes, I wore a watch on this trip, though some days it seemed its only purpose was to provide entertainment as we tried to guess the hour.  The days are very long in British Columbia right now.  As such, we were up between 4:00 and 4:30 every day.  We anticipated the fishing to slow down during the high sun hours, which would give us a break for food and maybe a couple hours of sleep.  This plan quickly went out the window, as we started hooking fish at seemingly every hour of the day.  So nap time was discarded and we ended up fishing from roughly 5:00 am to 10:00 pm every day, with some breaks for food, coffee and bullshitting.  To say we left the river sleep deprived is an understatement, but I can't think of any other way to leave it.  Without question, these were the eight shortest, longest days of my life.  The days screamed by.  Moments lasted longer, but still not long enough.  The moments shared with each other half-awake waiting for coffeeto be ready, after a fish was landed, staring at a run to be fished or brief campfires where half of us nodded off are ones I will not soon forget.  But there were a million other moments I had with myself, in my head that I wish I could return to.  What was I thinking about for those 12 hours a day when I stood there by myself, my fly swimming through the currents?  The exact thoughts seem to be lost now, but they were mine at the time, so they must be with me still.  It's still perplexing to me how time can move so quickly and slowly while fishing.

Encounters, pt. 3

Fifth day.  Another guy and I went upstream to explore some new water.  What we found was the best water we'd seen all trip.  A long, classic run with a bucket that seemed to go on forever awaited us as we fist bumped and giggled atop a log jam.  I won the roshambo and was first through.  As I reached the bucket, every swing seemed to get better than the last.  My eyes widened, my pulse increased with each step and each swing I made.  If it doesn't happen here, then where??  I looked upstream, hoping to see my buddy hooked up, thinking maybe I just missed the fish.  My swings were now in the tailout and I was trying to judge just how many I had before I should call it.  Then a swing slowly came into tension.  It was an odd feeling, kind of like I had swung my fly into a big branch.  I raised my rod slowly and the tension remained, but it gave slightly.  I kept raising my rod and the same happened.  I started reeling in, thinking that this branch I had snagged was now coming upstream.  "Is that a fish?" my buddy yelled from upstream.  I shook my head 'no.'  I kept reeling but something was very un-snag like about this.  Then I felt a head shake, and another.  I looked upstream, flashed a smile and said something silly like, "Uhh, yea, yea!  It's a fish!"  I thought it was a king.  It was a dog fight at the start with no runs to speak of.  I held strong side pressure and the fish came close.  There it rolled.  "Hoooolly shittttttt..." we said to each other.  It was a big buck.  We had the fish in the shallows at that point and my buddy was able to get a hand on his tail.  That kicked the battle into high gear.  A half dozen times after that, we'd get the fish into the shallows, only to barely touch its tail and it would be off again, on a strong, steady run right to the middle of the run.  Finally the fish tired and we had him.  It was the biggest steelhead I have ever held.  The moment my buddy and I shared after that fish was one I will remember forever.  He could've jumped right back in the run in hopes of hooking his own, but we sat there on a log for what seemed like an hour, talking about how it all went down.  'What do you do after you land a fish like that?' we asked each other.  I've landed big and meaningful fish in other places that felt similarly and this is what I think the answer is:  you watch your buddy fish and hope like hell that he gets one even bigger.

Other Humans

I camped and fished with three other guys.  We were mostly split into pairs while on the river.  I had met and fished with only one of these guys before this trip began but had talked to the others on the phone.  All from northern California, these guys have been steelheading as long as I had been fishing for brookies in New England, which is to say, most of their lives.  Their knowledge on Pacific Northwest steelhead and steelhead rivers was humbling.  As is often the case, I found myself learning a lot just by watching them cast and fish.  Hearing their thoughts on conditions and specific runs was an education in itself.  The two guys I hadn't met before became great friends in a couple days.  I've had this happen to me a handful of times in past several years, but when you're placed in an angling situation with another angler, one who can appreciate a day's single fish, or a sunset over a steelhead river, it's not hard to get along well.  Tentative plans have been made.  See you guys soon.  And what a small community this fly fishing one is.  I met four people on the river who I have mutual friends with.  I've already seen one of them and have plans to talk with another when he gets off the river.  There's a bond within the fly fishing community already, but put yourself on that river and the bond is even greater.

Encounters, pt. 4

Seventh day, upstream of camp.  It would be my best day of steelheading ever.  The trip had been made  already.  Spirits and confidence were high.  The first run we approached, we each made two passes with no luck.  We made our way to another piece that we hadn't fished yet and I sent my buddy through first.  I watched from the bank as he started his pass.  He was a fair ways down the run when I got up and made my way to the river.  I made my way to the very top of the run, as I had done every day before and as I had been told numerous times by better steelheaders than I.  I wasn't even sure where my buddy had made his first cast, but I'll be damned if on my second or third I didn't stick one just about where he had been standing ten minutes prior.  We tailed the fish and took it in.  He started the run over while I sat on the bank thinking about what happened.  My confidence soared and I began to get antsy watching my buddy make his pass.  I needed my fly in the water.  Soon enough, we finished the run and were on to the next.  It wasn't far downstream.  I told him to go ahead and he did.  The writing was on the river for me in that run.  It wasn't a classic piece of swing water, but it looked like A-water to me:  bouldery and fast on each side, but there was a slower piece right in the middle, where a gravel bar dropped off.  The wading would be tough and I'd have to high stick the water in front of me, but there in the middle there'd be a fish.  I felt it.  I watched as my buddy began his pass.  He wasn't starting where I would've started.  I picked a rock downstream and when he got there, I made my way upstream and entered the currents.  As anticipated the wading was tough, but the cast was not long.  My first swing into the good shit, just off the gravel bar and it got yanked like I knew it would.  We landed this one and talked about the run.  I sent him off with my take on the spot and he continued on.  I watched and hoped he would get one even bigger.  Fifteen minutes later I tailed his.