You ain't cool if you ain't catching these:
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Fishing on the prairie
Another sensational weekend in Phillips County, Montana, on and around the American Prairie Reserve. Best believe we caught some dandy trout in the brown-water BLM reservoirs, and that we weren't the only ones doing so.
The whooshes of songbird swooshes can startle a person, far from the relatively metropolitan vibe of southwest Montana. Boges, who started with two good eyes and four good legs, plundered about without worry of endangering the neighborhood. Sunrises like the one below decorated each morning.
If only we can convince the powers that be to stock the reservoir on the private property at which we stay - it has a large forage base of scuds and probably fathead minnows. I'd happily fish for anything - even the weird fish native to this area like sauger, channel cats, paddlefish (yes, please), or sturgeon.
But the Madison River's nice, too.
But the Madison River's nice, too.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Recent Montana fly-fishing news in aggregate
A local roundup:
- Bear-proofing may be required on the Smith River
- The charms of Livingston
- A plea for protections for where we'll be this weekend
- Remembering a Montana angler
- Montana Sporting Journal returns to the newstand
- Fungus among us, on the Big Hole
- Kettlehouse to expand
- Eight-mile on the Upper Madison to temporarily close
- Two more Fishing Access Site closures
- A great photo
- A big trout
Have great weekends!
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Redington Butter Stick, or Molasses in January
I've always liked fiberglass fly rods, but have never cast one with regularity. My dad's old 7-weight St. Croix and the 7-weight Wright and McGill Sweetheart I pulled out of a neighbor's garbage were fiberglass and I was curious if this new generation of fiberglass fly rods would tickle my fancy as much as those unwieldy old rods did. So I borrowed a Butter Stick.
Redington's new fiberglass offering promises "high modulus fiberglass, added premium components, and ... retro styling, all at a phenomenal price" and "enough flex to deliver delicate presentations, but all the strength to reach fish on the far bank." Mine was an 8-foot, three-piece 5 weight.
My first several impressions weren't great. It felt heavy in hand (until casting it) and it was bad at casting heavy flies, especially on the roll cast. Light flies were much easier, and casting distance was not an issue. And it scored some bonus points for making 13-inch trout feel 17 (noodly disposition and all); and a friend who likes to spey cast (and isn't easily impressed) liked how it roll cast.
But I wasn't in love with it.
The rod I compare it against, which admittedly isn't fair, is the Sage Circa. I so love the modern, slow action on that rod that my expectations got a little elevated for actual fiberglass. The Butter Stick ($249.99) comes in at a much lower price point than the Circa ($775), however, and doesn't try to compete.
Finally, on about my seventh trip, I figured out that if you slow your cast, then hesitate a second, then wait a little more, then go slower, it casts great. It is slower than I was expecting. I was finally able to cast big streamers (though it took its toll on my arm after a while and I still can't recommend fishing a big or dual streamer/s).
Once in the zone, it was a heckuva lot of fun. It provided every bit of that velvety feel that fiberglass fans love and that I was hoping to find in the contemporary models. It's obviously not the Circa, but for it's price point, it's a charming rod.
The most important measure: I did, in fact, buy one of my own.
Redington's new fiberglass offering promises "high modulus fiberglass, added premium components, and ... retro styling, all at a phenomenal price" and "enough flex to deliver delicate presentations, but all the strength to reach fish on the far bank." Mine was an 8-foot, three-piece 5 weight.
My first several impressions weren't great. It felt heavy in hand (until casting it) and it was bad at casting heavy flies, especially on the roll cast. Light flies were much easier, and casting distance was not an issue. And it scored some bonus points for making 13-inch trout feel 17 (noodly disposition and all); and a friend who likes to spey cast (and isn't easily impressed) liked how it roll cast.
But I wasn't in love with it.
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| Dinks feel decent with the Butter Stick. |
The rod I compare it against, which admittedly isn't fair, is the Sage Circa. I so love the modern, slow action on that rod that my expectations got a little elevated for actual fiberglass. The Butter Stick ($249.99) comes in at a much lower price point than the Circa ($775), however, and doesn't try to compete.
Finally, on about my seventh trip, I figured out that if you slow your cast, then hesitate a second, then wait a little more, then go slower, it casts great. It is slower than I was expecting. I was finally able to cast big streamers (though it took its toll on my arm after a while and I still can't recommend fishing a big or dual streamer/s).
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| Slower! |
The most important measure: I did, in fact, buy one of my own.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Job opening!
The Bozeman angling and floating community has a job opening! We are seeking a reliable, affordable shuttle service to make runs on the Madison River from Black's Ford to Headwaters State Park.
Job requirements: Must be punctual, have access to a vehicle, and be available on evenings and weekends (ideally weekday days, too). Must not change CDs in or steal from vehicles being shuttled. Must run the shuttles you promise to run. Must want to be your own boss, and make some bank during peak seasons.
Please reply with your name and phone number on this posting. Anglers will get back to you.
It seems that all the shuttles services on the Lower Madison are currently either out of business or unreliable. It could be an opportunity to make some money, for the right person/crew.
Some quick hypothetical math: It's about 30 miles for me to get to the river, and 30 to get home. If I did six shuttles for $25 each, totaling, let's say, 92 miles (making six random stabs at where and in what order I'd shuttle cars), I'd drive 152 miles for $150. My car gets about 30 mpg, so I'd use a little over five gallons of gas costing me $17.18 (at the current $3.39/gal). Six shuttles would gross $150, and net $132.82 (pre-tax, and sans additional insurance). That's almost double the current standard mileage reimbursement ($0.56). Doesn't seem like six shuttles would be a difficult number to reach, at least in the summer and on weekends, March through November.
You'd need a partner, however, so splitting that money even would yield $66.41 (though the car's owner should get more). Accounting for 25-percent payroll taxes, it's equivalent to earning about $11.07/hour for a standard 8-hour-day job.
Feel free to do your own math, but would it be worth it for that pay?
Job requirements: Must be punctual, have access to a vehicle, and be available on evenings and weekends (ideally weekday days, too). Must not change CDs in or steal from vehicles being shuttled. Must run the shuttles you promise to run. Must want to be your own boss, and make some bank during peak seasons.
Please reply with your name and phone number on this posting. Anglers will get back to you.
It seems that all the shuttles services on the Lower Madison are currently either out of business or unreliable. It could be an opportunity to make some money, for the right person/crew.
Some quick hypothetical math: It's about 30 miles for me to get to the river, and 30 to get home. If I did six shuttles for $25 each, totaling, let's say, 92 miles (making six random stabs at where and in what order I'd shuttle cars), I'd drive 152 miles for $150. My car gets about 30 mpg, so I'd use a little over five gallons of gas costing me $17.18 (at the current $3.39/gal). Six shuttles would gross $150, and net $132.82 (pre-tax, and sans additional insurance). That's almost double the current standard mileage reimbursement ($0.56). Doesn't seem like six shuttles would be a difficult number to reach, at least in the summer and on weekends, March through November.
You'd need a partner, however, so splitting that money even would yield $66.41 (though the car's owner should get more). Accounting for 25-percent payroll taxes, it's equivalent to earning about $11.07/hour for a standard 8-hour-day job.
Feel free to do your own math, but would it be worth it for that pay?
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| Do... you ... want .... to run a shuttle service on the lower Madison? Good boy! |
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Crickets, in Wyoming
I found 'em. The best secret keepers of the fishing world are in Wyoming.
Working on a short article regarding a mountain range in Wyoming we recently visited known to be arcane, I gave it my best. I read up, spoke with locals, and tried to track down fish-stocking records. All I found were wild geese, which I gleefully chased.
Stocking records are not on the website, as Wyoming Game and Fish receptionists will try to tell you, so I called for a PDF or a biologist. Five times:
The close-mouthed champions.
Eventually, a brave soul from Lander e-mailed me a pdf with the most recent records. The fish species, however, were in a three-letter code. When asked for help, she responded, "This might help" (no attachment, no link).
You win, Wyoming.
But in a time of online fish surveys, loose-lipped message boards, and steelhead tickers, it's kind of nice to think there's a place where you really gotta go to know.
So fish the fishy stuff, and let me know what you find.
Working on a short article regarding a mountain range in Wyoming we recently visited known to be arcane, I gave it my best. I read up, spoke with locals, and tried to track down fish-stocking records. All I found were wild geese, which I gleefully chased.
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| The upper Green River below Warren Bridge. We landed *CLASSIFIED* trout over *CLASSIFIED* inches. |
Stocking records are not on the website, as Wyoming Game and Fish receptionists will try to tell you, so I called for a PDF or a biologist. Five times:
- Transferred to voice-mail that cut me off mid-message.
- No answer (business hours).
- Answered by a strange beeping sound.
- (shortly after call number 3) Busy signal.
- I got a person, who directed me to the website. I asked if she could be more specific so she looked it up. Couldn't find anything. But she did have a print-out of the June stocking, that she could make copy of and mail to me (no PDFs in Pinedale). Can't wait to see what actually arrives. Even if it is the June stocking report, I'm sure it's only one season's worth.
The close-mouthed champions.
Eventually, a brave soul from Lander e-mailed me a pdf with the most recent records. The fish species, however, were in a three-letter code. When asked for help, she responded, "This might help" (no attachment, no link).
You win, Wyoming.
But in a time of online fish surveys, loose-lipped message boards, and steelhead tickers, it's kind of nice to think there's a place where you really gotta go to know.
So fish the fishy stuff, and let me know what you find.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
The bugle of the brown trout
There are not many places where trout are as long as the flow, so I figured it was worth a shot. I didn't expect to catch any 30-inchers, nor do I know what I'd have done if I hooked one (probably thrown my rod in and gone home) but it was not the only two-foot brown sampled here.
Problem was, there are also plenty of dinks here. I figured my biggest challenge (besides getting a monster to eat, fighting off moose, avoiding the harassment of ranchers and the eyes of anglers) would be to getting a fly past the eager adolescents.
It was moosey land - I took a minute to analyze every black or brown head sticking out of the willows to see if it had an ear tag. All I saw were brawny bulls of the bovine variety, but most of them stared me down then encroached a bit - not reassuring when you're already on edge. I had one hand on the bear spray most of the first couple hours.
At fisheries like this, you almost feel like you're breaking the law, stepping through river-spanning fences and getting the hairy eyeball from locals (though everything is officially on the up and up as long as the water is open to fishing, you gained access at a public road/land and stayed within the high-water marks). You at least feel like you must be out of the loop since few others ever fish these certain places. Or the only one in the loop.
But the ranch workers couldn't have cared less, no moose were seen (until the drive home when I saw a group of six) and my six-inch Double Bunnies quickly sank past the dinks.
I landed a half dozen fish over about eight hours, but zero browns. And one chamber-of-commerce rainbow - I should've packed it in then.
Problem was, there are also plenty of dinks here. I figured my biggest challenge (besides getting a monster to eat, fighting off moose, avoiding the harassment of ranchers and the eyes of anglers) would be to getting a fly past the eager adolescents.
It was moosey land - I took a minute to analyze every black or brown head sticking out of the willows to see if it had an ear tag. All I saw were brawny bulls of the bovine variety, but most of them stared me down then encroached a bit - not reassuring when you're already on edge. I had one hand on the bear spray most of the first couple hours.
At fisheries like this, you almost feel like you're breaking the law, stepping through river-spanning fences and getting the hairy eyeball from locals (though everything is officially on the up and up as long as the water is open to fishing, you gained access at a public road/land and stayed within the high-water marks). You at least feel like you must be out of the loop since few others ever fish these certain places. Or the only one in the loop.
But the ranch workers couldn't have cared less, no moose were seen (until the drive home when I saw a group of six) and my six-inch Double Bunnies quickly sank past the dinks.
I landed a half dozen fish over about eight hours, but zero browns. And one chamber-of-commerce rainbow - I should've packed it in then.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
The high motivation of creamy Jif
My shoulders spelled my soul, and we started uphill for four days and three nights in Wyoming's Wind River Range.
It was my first back-country camp-trip since a 2002 Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness trip, and it was different. This was no Duluth Pack, float-and-paddle vacation. I bought a Go-Lite backpack, had my packing list quartered then halved, and researched food that offered high energy in small packages. 'Twas then that I discovered my true motivation: Peanut butter.
A couple years ago, I abandoned certain foods like bratwurst, macaroni and cheese, and my beloved creamy Jif. I grieved like a mother dolphin, but it was worth it and I lost weight.
I found alternatives like PB2 - a low-calorie powdered peanut butter. It's fine. Perfectly edible, and great for low-calorie Asian sauces, but not a suitable substitute for p.b. connoisseurs. Incidentally, PB2 is usually ideal for this kind of lightweight trip, except that I might actually need more calories. Why waste the opportunity?
I turned into a dopey mule behind a dangling carrot, bounding uptrail, counting down until snack time, and spreading on a little too much. If the bears could've smelled my thoughts, I'd have been scalped.
The manifestation was truly exquisite... Mmm... Let us take a moment for silent reflection...
Beyond the back-country delicacies, we celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act in the Bridger Wilderness of the Bridger-Teton National Forest. We fished, thanks to Finis Mitchell's pre-fisheries-enlightenment bucket biology. No golden trout were hooked, but a low-pressure front and thunderstorms were certainly to blame (#sarcasm?). We did find eager rainbows and a stunning brook trout.
Home again, the blisters are healing and the peanut butter has returned to the shelf. Until we start uphill again.
A couple years ago, I abandoned certain foods like bratwurst, macaroni and cheese, and my beloved creamy Jif. I grieved like a mother dolphin, but it was worth it and I lost weight.
I found alternatives like PB2 - a low-calorie powdered peanut butter. It's fine. Perfectly edible, and great for low-calorie Asian sauces, but not a suitable substitute for p.b. connoisseurs. Incidentally, PB2 is usually ideal for this kind of lightweight trip, except that I might actually need more calories. Why waste the opportunity?
I turned into a dopey mule behind a dangling carrot, bounding uptrail, counting down until snack time, and spreading on a little too much. If the bears could've smelled my thoughts, I'd have been scalped.
The manifestation was truly exquisite... Mmm... Let us take a moment for silent reflection...
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| Guardian. |
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| Hooked up at Seneca Lake. |
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| It's not a golden, but it's not so bad. |
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
The jewel of the western prairie
My old friend wanderlust recently brought me to the Chinooks and shrubs of northeastern Montana, and the American Prairie Reserve. What it lacked in sippin' trout, it made up for in wondrous openness for this old fisherman.
It's a largely undisturbed landscape of scrub, grasslands, and unadulterated prairie (save for a few generations-old ranches) rich with beautiful emptiness, nicknamed America's Serengeti. The reserve was created and is operated by its namesake forward-thinking conservation non-profit organization, and is working to preserve a large-scale prairie complex. The actual property is a patch-work of public (BLM and state) and private (APR) lands bordering the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge south of Malta, Mont., and is open to the public.
In a way, it's a wilderness all its own. Not in the government-designation sense - more of Merriam Webster's version. A wilderness you can drive through, with power lines and occasional ranch houses, and where you have every square inch and similar biodiversity to what you have when you're miles deep into Yellowstone.
We had our own spot in the world about 45 miles down the notorious "gumbo" roads from the nearest amenities, accompanied by the nighthawks, swallows, doves, partridge, grouse, burrowing owls and prairie dogs. And a few miles away, buffalo. One of the APR's primary goals is to bring bison back to the prairie, which they've been doing for years. It's one of the few places in the world you can see pure-strain bison (APR's are from the Elk Island National Park in Alberta) - that is, not at least part bovine.
The dog had the time of his life. He pounced through the marshy shoreline of the nearby reservoir until he limped, fulfilled his dream of riding in the back of a pickup, and lived a life of freedom he's proven he can't handle in a settled area. I feel like a monster for bringing him home.
That night as I watched the dirty water run down the shower drain, I got to believing in what APR is doing. That drab, desolate prairie is something to save.
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| Dawn on a prairie reservoir. |
In a way, it's a wilderness all its own. Not in the government-designation sense - more of Merriam Webster's version. A wilderness you can drive through, with power lines and occasional ranch houses, and where you have every square inch and similar biodiversity to what you have when you're miles deep into Yellowstone.
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| I went all the way to the prairie and all I got was this grousy photo. |
The dog had the time of his life. He pounced through the marshy shoreline of the nearby reservoir until he limped, fulfilled his dream of riding in the back of a pickup, and lived a life of freedom he's proven he can't handle in a settled area. I feel like a monster for bringing him home.
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| Wheeee! |
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Tying the (fisherman's) knot
Fly anglers, myself included, tend to let the sport infiltrate their thoughts, conversations, travel, employment, relationships, and ultimately, the majority of their lives. Therefore as silly as it was, I really wanted a fishy social-media engagement announcement/photo.
So Liz and I headed to the Lower Madison, but got distracted with potential riverside wedding venues and didn't land anything noteworthy. Giving it one more week, we headed to Wyoming's upper Upper Green River which was full and fast. Fishing was initially frustrating.
But soon, Liz's rod bent and bobbed.
I hollered, seeing the robust rainbow flail. "This is our fish!"
Fighting the pressure and the fish, she brought the feisty, freezing-water rainbow to hand, where a toast was in order. Silly as it is, this photo is kind of a big deal to me.
No prizes for guessing the wedding theme.
So Liz and I headed to the Lower Madison, but got distracted with potential riverside wedding venues and didn't land anything noteworthy. Giving it one more week, we headed to Wyoming's upper Upper Green River which was full and fast. Fishing was initially frustrating.
But soon, Liz's rod bent and bobbed.
I hollered, seeing the robust rainbow flail. "This is our fish!"
Fighting the pressure and the fish, she brought the feisty, freezing-water rainbow to hand, where a toast was in order. Silly as it is, this photo is kind of a big deal to me.
No prizes for guessing the wedding theme.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Catching upstate
We traveled to where it all began for Liz. And we made a point to try to find the exact hole where she landed her first-ever fish - likely a trout - from Fall Creek in Ithaca, New York.
Whether this was it or not, she wasn't positive. But it was close enough, and in the couple hours we ended up with to fish, she caught that fish again. A special moment on a wonderful trip across the northern U.S.
The rest of the trip involved floods, mudslides, a broke-down car that's still in Pennsylvania, little league baseball, a wedding, friends new and old, family, and lots of driving. Great trip, but good to be home. We're ready for summer in Montana, and all that it entails.
Whether this was it or not, she wasn't positive. But it was close enough, and in the couple hours we ended up with to fish, she caught that fish again. A special moment on a wonderful trip across the northern U.S.
The rest of the trip involved floods, mudslides, a broke-down car that's still in Pennsylvania, little league baseball, a wedding, friends new and old, family, and lots of driving. Great trip, but good to be home. We're ready for summer in Montana, and all that it entails.
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| Hero midge - a descendant of the ones from Lake Erie that helped the Indians beat the Yankees in the 2007 ALDS. |
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| A stonely out of the catfish water in Mankato. |
Friday, June 6, 2014
Montana Sporting Journal changing hands
It should shock no one that the sporting publishing realm is not a gold mine. Especially in a tough economy when advertising is often a luxury, magazines that depend upon it suffer.
With that in mind, it is with remorse that I learned that the Montana Sporting Journal has printed its final issue as we know it. Jay Hanson, editor, publisher and owner, made the announcement a few months ago.
It initially appeared it would fade into publishing abyss, but as happens often with magazines, it was acquired by a party who had a new vision for it. Schnee's Boots, Shoes and Hunting Gear out of Bozeman has taken the reins. It will reportedly will lean more toward hunting, and scale back on fishing content (or so I am told - Schnee's retail business offers more for the hunter than angler, so it would follow).
It is my understanding that subscribers will retain their subscriptions plus one issue to compensate for the downtime. E-mail staff@montanasportingjournal.com with inquiries.
The next issue (Schnee's first) is scheduled to drop in early September, and is slated to be focused solely on big-game hunting.
With that in mind, it is with remorse that I learned that the Montana Sporting Journal has printed its final issue as we know it. Jay Hanson, editor, publisher and owner, made the announcement a few months ago.
It initially appeared it would fade into publishing abyss, but as happens often with magazines, it was acquired by a party who had a new vision for it. Schnee's Boots, Shoes and Hunting Gear out of Bozeman has taken the reins. It will reportedly will lean more toward hunting, and scale back on fishing content (or so I am told - Schnee's retail business offers more for the hunter than angler, so it would follow).
It is my understanding that subscribers will retain their subscriptions plus one issue to compensate for the downtime. E-mail staff@montanasportingjournal.com with inquiries.
The next issue (Schnee's first) is scheduled to drop in early September, and is slated to be focused solely on big-game hunting.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Don't let the cocoa make you locoa
Spin fishers don't fear the runoff. Nor do the winds, the sun or the rain. We can be like they are.
Most times and places where the water's brown, I'll concede that fly fishing suffers. But not always, and not everywhere. Particularly in canyons when the water's not completely opaque, fishing the soft edges can be fruitful. We did just that over the weekend over about 10 round-trip miles, with some success. Pink Worms shine in this climate, as do Clousers and crayfish. Spin fishers seem to be ahead of the curve on this one...
Most times and places where the water's brown, I'll concede that fly fishing suffers. But not always, and not everywhere. Particularly in canyons when the water's not completely opaque, fishing the soft edges can be fruitful. We did just that over the weekend over about 10 round-trip miles, with some success. Pink Worms shine in this climate, as do Clousers and crayfish. Spin fishers seem to be ahead of the curve on this one...
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| Angling the Kitchen Sink Rapid, as captured by Liz. |
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| In gin or in cinnamon, fish the fishy stuff. |
Thursday, May 1, 2014
April, on the Smith
Watching the USGS streamflow graph gain and lose for a couple weeks raised our eyebrows. When the 10-day forecast revealed borderline weather, Liz and I looked at each other for reassurance. But with the local press bombarding us with news of a mine potentially infiltrating Montana's Smith River drainage, we figured we better go while we had the permit, even if spring's unpredictability was in perfect form.
The highest high was forecast to be 51 degrees, the strongest gusts were predicted at 40 mph, and rain was projected three of our five days. And for the win, the prior week's warmth had set runoff in motion.
The Smith River corridor is a 59-mile stretch of river bounded by towering cliffs and a boat ramp on each end. Montana Fish Wildlife and Parks manages the float section with cooperation from the US Forest Service and private land owners (80 percent of the float is on private land). Permits are required and given out via a lottery each March. Nine parties are allowed to launch per day, and boat campsites are assigned for each night when you check-in at Camp Baker (the put-in). It is typically done in four or five days. Prime dates are much harder to draw a permit for, which is why some parties (including ours) apply for April when you're almost guaranteed a permit. Almost guaranteed questionable weather and flows, too.
So we embarked... After the flow spiked to about 560 cfs early Wednesday morning (our launch day, April 23), we were pleased to see fishy green water at Camp Baker. But about 25 feet downstream enters Sheep Creek, which was vomiting mud. Our first two days were pretty blown out, and our fish had to come at tributary mouths.
Day three graced us with a lighter hue. Quickly, a 20-plus-incher was brought boatside before popping off, and later another dandy came to net. We'd had a day of fishing that seemed unlikely. Baetis backed-up in the foam eddies (fish eating them in places), midges were about, and we saw a few skwalas.
Mid-canyon, the Heaven on Earth Ranch offered an entertaining interlude. While Gary Anderson's grandson cut our firewood, the man himself carted us up to his beautiful saloon, showed us his massive bull elk mount, and poured us Deep Creek Specials while boasting of Chubby the black bear, who, prior to Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks' crackdown, would take an apple right from his mouth. The Ranch refilled our water, ice and spirit. Floaters can book a cabin which includes steak dinner, cocktails, golf at the par-3 course on the river, showers, and more, and it won't count against your river nights. When we're rich...
We found three public-land pictograph locations. The first are handprints downstream of the mouth of Tenderfoot Creek at about river mile 16.2 on river left. You have to catch them while floating - they are above the water. The next are animals, handprints, and finger swipes on the cliff directly upstream of Crowsfoot boat camp on river left (you'll need to pull over and hike). The final is Pictograph Cave, which requires a short, steep, rocky hike to an opening that can be seen from the river. The trail is river left just downstream of lower Parker Flat - be on the lookout for the cave on the cliff side. This location has the most diversity and offers views of the river from above.
It's a mystical experience to feel connected to these ancient people, and the pictographs are considered sacred. If you locate them, make a point to tread lightly as the walls can be fragile.
The wildlife was surprisingly humdrum. A few beavers and muskats, mule deer, a mink, one white-tailed deer, a mouse, one bald eagle, a few turkey vultures, many mergansers and mallards, and tons of Canada geese. There were also more houses and cabins than I anticipated.
The Seamstress (so called for the "needles threaded" through scattered river rocks) rowed about 75 percent of the trip, while I (nicknamed Panic Attack for overly aggressive oar strokes) was forced to fish...
Despite cold, wet nights, windy days, muddy campsites and barely translucent water, we agreed we'd do it again. Even in April.
As the sensation of bobbing downstream fades, sweet sadness enters. We survived and we're warm and dry, but the jagged walls, honking geese, and intimacy of a remote float have long-since faded. Our parting gifts are memories of Montana backcountry, the chance to grow together, and indulge in some of the best of the outdoors.
Related links:
Just she and me for five cold, wet, wind-blown, isolated, glorious days on the Smith River.
So we embarked... After the flow spiked to about 560 cfs early Wednesday morning (our launch day, April 23), we were pleased to see fishy green water at Camp Baker. But about 25 feet downstream enters Sheep Creek, which was vomiting mud. Our first two days were pretty blown out, and our fish had to come at tributary mouths.
Day three graced us with a lighter hue. Quickly, a 20-plus-incher was brought boatside before popping off, and later another dandy came to net. We'd had a day of fishing that seemed unlikely. Baetis backed-up in the foam eddies (fish eating them in places), midges were about, and we saw a few skwalas.
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| "Panic Attack" got lucky. |
We found three public-land pictograph locations. The first are handprints downstream of the mouth of Tenderfoot Creek at about river mile 16.2 on river left. You have to catch them while floating - they are above the water. The next are animals, handprints, and finger swipes on the cliff directly upstream of Crowsfoot boat camp on river left (you'll need to pull over and hike). The final is Pictograph Cave, which requires a short, steep, rocky hike to an opening that can be seen from the river. The trail is river left just downstream of lower Parker Flat - be on the lookout for the cave on the cliff side. This location has the most diversity and offers views of the river from above.
It's a mystical experience to feel connected to these ancient people, and the pictographs are considered sacred. If you locate them, make a point to tread lightly as the walls can be fragile.
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| Pictograph Cave. |
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| Crowsfoot pictographs. |
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| Handprints downstream of Tenderfoot. |
The Seamstress (so called for the "needles threaded" through scattered river rocks) rowed about 75 percent of the trip, while I (nicknamed Panic Attack for overly aggressive oar strokes) was forced to fish...
Despite cold, wet nights, windy days, muddy campsites and barely translucent water, we agreed we'd do it again. Even in April.
As the sensation of bobbing downstream fades, sweet sadness enters. We survived and we're warm and dry, but the jagged walls, honking geese, and intimacy of a remote float have long-since faded. Our parting gifts are memories of Montana backcountry, the chance to grow together, and indulge in some of the best of the outdoors.
- CrossCurrents Fly Shop Smith River blog
- CrossCurrents Fly Shop Smith River packing list
- USGS Streamflow Gauge Smith River
- Montana Fish Wildlife and Parks Smith River web page (includes shuttle services and outfitters)
- FWP Map of the Smith River
- Detailed map of Smith River with GPS coordinates for boat camps
- GPS Micro SD Card; fits into Garmin and Magellan units that take SD cards; GPX waypoints for Smith River boat camps and launches, and waypoints for access on trout waters statewide
- Information regarding the proposed mine in the drainage
- Not to be confused with this similar situation
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Steelhead bugs and monkeys
On good days, I feel honored and lucky to have hooked it. On bad ones, I'm haunted by the fact that it popped off about a switch rod's length from my feet. It was the only steelhead with whom I've interacted. For as much as I claim to have avoided the steelhead bug, that sticks with me.
Given a second chance, I was on board. It meant dusting off Dec Hogan's classic A Passion for Steelhead, and trading hours of trout fishing for time spent trying not to blow my anchor with my switch rod. But I owe my dues if I want the steelhead monkey off my back.
I was reminded by my local steelheader (who just spent a week and a half in Forks, Wash. - for one fish) that I can't expect to catch anything.
But I'll do my best to fish confidently.
I have two days.
We head to Portland next week.
Given a second chance, I was on board. It meant dusting off Dec Hogan's classic A Passion for Steelhead, and trading hours of trout fishing for time spent trying not to blow my anchor with my switch rod. But I owe my dues if I want the steelhead monkey off my back.
I was reminded by my local steelheader (who just spent a week and a half in Forks, Wash. - for one fish) that I can't expect to catch anything.
But I'll do my best to fish confidently.
I have two days.
We head to Portland next week.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Because April
She
says:
"I want to go
fishing", so we
will. Tie flies to
wait out the chill (though
we are fishing, still). April,
come she will. Steelhead
says:
"I want to go
fishing", so we
will. Tie flies to
wait out the chill (though
we are fishing, still). April,
come she will. Steelhead
over the hill. Secret creek
for ol' orange gill.
Then fifty-nine miles
of floating thrill.
In June:
Catskill
for ol' orange gill.
Then fifty-nine miles
of floating thrill.
In June:
Catskill
and
Go fishing, we will.
 |
| I was busy snagging logs and snapping rods... |
As evidenced above, an angler might go a little nutty when spring fever strikes (close encounters of the fish kind? [I shaped my words into a trout, and have an inexplicable desire to go to trout]). April is descending, but before it arrives and I plan to try to learn to downhill ski, try to learn the spey cast (again) and how to swing, tie trout flies, buy a raft's worth of camping gear, and more, along with the normal business. And that's before things get busy. I'm cursed with great opportunities.
Because April.
Who's coming with me?
Monday, February 24, 2014
Returning what's lost
Fly rods and reels to the angler are instruments to the musician, or hammers to the carpenter (except that anglers might get a little geekier about the nuance of their tools). Fishers like to note how the apparatuses feels in hand, their weights, how they cast (both smooth-wise and distance-wise), accuracy, drag, and how they handle fighting fish. And how they look, smell, taste, and sound.
I've lost a couple of my beloveds in my day - the same day, actually. One was my first nice rod - a Sage VT2 inscribed with my name - and the other was a Winston Passport on its maiden outing, both with Orvis reels. I was at Anderson Lane on the Beaverhead River and apparently just plumb forgot to put the rods/reels in the car. When I got home and noticed they were absent, I called around and an extremely nice fellow/employee at Frontier Anglers offered to drive out to check after work for me. He called back to report that nothing was there...
So I know that it's a huge drag to lose expensive and personal gear. So when Liz spied a rod and reel on the lower Madison last weekend, we knew how to handle it. I keep it, because the world owes me. But Liz wasn't having that, so I posted an ad on craigslist, called all the fly shops in Bozeman, and eventually called the reel manufacturer to see if the markings on the reel foot meant anything.
They did.
Kind of a bummer since it was a very nice reel I'd have been happy to smell and feel. But I guess it feels good to get it where it belongs, and we did score a cool t-shirt and a little story.
The owner (a local guide), turns out, wasn't even missing it. It had been sitting where we found it since November, and he had no idea it wasn't in his possession. Bahhhh.
Karma - if you're listening - I'd like a two-foot, big-eyed, kyped dry-fly eater (I realize Liz is probably more in line to recoup the karma, but please give it to me anyway). Though the satisfaction of doing the right thing is a good reward, too. But I'd prefer the two-footer.
I've lost a couple of my beloveds in my day - the same day, actually. One was my first nice rod - a Sage VT2 inscribed with my name - and the other was a Winston Passport on its maiden outing, both with Orvis reels. I was at Anderson Lane on the Beaverhead River and apparently just plumb forgot to put the rods/reels in the car. When I got home and noticed they were absent, I called around and an extremely nice fellow/employee at Frontier Anglers offered to drive out to check after work for me. He called back to report that nothing was there...
 |
| Note the inscription, "Joshua B Bergan". If you see this rod, know that it changed hands slightly unscrupulously. |
They did.
Kind of a bummer since it was a very nice reel I'd have been happy to smell and feel. But I guess it feels good to get it where it belongs, and we did score a cool t-shirt and a little story.
The owner (a local guide), turns out, wasn't even missing it. It had been sitting where we found it since November, and he had no idea it wasn't in his possession. Bahhhh.
Karma - if you're listening - I'd like a two-foot, big-eyed, kyped dry-fly eater (I realize Liz is probably more in line to recoup the karma, but please give it to me anyway). Though the satisfaction of doing the right thing is a good reward, too. But I'd prefer the two-footer.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
The zine-ery
The e-zine has fully infiltrated the fly-fishing world. So many have come and gone already, it's kind of amazing (more have probably been born and died since you've started reading this). Some are online versions of print magazines, some are online only. The barrier to entry is relatively low investment-wise (lots of work, to be clear), and since there's so much to see and discuss about fly fishing, it's no wonder. I don't believe too much money is changing hands at any point of the production, but that doesn't mean they're low quality. Some are excellent, some are über-hip, some lack a little something, and most are free to read. To illustrate the point, below is a list of all the fly-fishing ezines I could come up with (please comment with any I missed).
- Fortyone Degrees magazine
- Ten and Two magazine
- Scale
- The New Fly Fisher
- The Contemporary Sportsman
- Pool 32 Magazine
- Fly Fish America
- Florida Fly Fishing Magazine
- Fin Chasers Magazine
- Tail Fly Fishing Magazine
- So Fly magazine
- Montana Fly Fishing Magazine
- A Tight Loop
- Big R Fly Shop magazine
- Headshake Magazine
- This is Fly
- The Cedar Sweeper
- The Patagonia Journal
- Swing the Fly
- Dun
- Southern Trout
- Southern Culture on the Fly
- Flyfisher's Inc.
- Catch Magazine
- Kype magazine
- Flymage
- High Country Angler
- Revive
- Fly Fusion
- Angling Trade
- Trout Porn magazine
- On the Fly magazine
- The American Fly Fisher
- Fish and Game New Zealand
- Alberta Fishing Guide
- Fly Punk
- The Mission
Will the boom slow down anytime soon? Has it already? Is there a market for them? Is this the future, or will print reign for the foreseeable future? We'll see...
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Yesterday, today and tomorrow
Conservation can be boring, but bear with me. If we each do a tiny little bit to stand up for fish and fish habitat today, we'll likely be glad tomorrow.
Fish and their habitat are a finite resource, despite what it seems like some good-fishing days. Whether it's due to Pebble Mine (or other mines), global climate change (no matter its cause), access issues, runoff due to logging, over-fishing, hatchery fish imparting inferior genes, genetic modification, fish farms and their diseases, gill-netting of endangered species, limited habitat due to dams, or any other threat against fish and their habitat, we have to face the idea that today is the yesterday of tomorrow. And the fishing was always better yesterday.
So, with that in mind, a tiny little bit you could do today is simply to watch the movie Rivers of a Lost Coast, available to stream for free. It's well done, informational, and a great reminder that the it's possible to lose what we have. The film profiles the monumental fishing and fish runs for which northern California got famous, and its decimation. Old-angler rivalries and octogenarian's tales tell the stories of these fisheries like only fishy old-timers can - this is not fish porn.
Let's try not to have a similar story to tell the next generation.
Fish and their habitat are a finite resource, despite what it seems like some good-fishing days. Whether it's due to Pebble Mine (or other mines), global climate change (no matter its cause), access issues, runoff due to logging, over-fishing, hatchery fish imparting inferior genes, genetic modification, fish farms and their diseases, gill-netting of endangered species, limited habitat due to dams, or any other threat against fish and their habitat, we have to face the idea that today is the yesterday of tomorrow. And the fishing was always better yesterday.
 |
| Today's fishing. |
 |
| Imagine yesterday's. |
 |
| Let's keep it for tomorrow. |
Let's try not to have a similar story to tell the next generation.
 |
| Good fishing is constantly fleeting... |
Friday, January 31, 2014
Permutations of the Smith
Liz and I sat for a couple hours one evening trying to calculate our group's odds of getting our dates for a Smith River float permit. We kept coming back to that our odds were 120 percent, which are odd odds. We invoked some serious trigonometry and divided everything by everything, then multiplied it with itself - 120 percent (but that only applies if we understand how the drawing works). Last year, there were 30 applicants for the date we most want to get. There are four of us, so far. Nine of the 30 will get it. There are four of us...
Integers, permutations and exponents later, ....
We eventually turned the iPad sideways and it said we have a 76 percent chance. For that one given day. And if we spread out our dates among the four of us to four dates that would work, we determined we'd have about a 95 percent of pulling a permit based on last year's numbers (we're looking at non-peak dates).
Then she wanted to put it into a spreadsheet that would show our odds for different combinations of application/dates. Then graph it...
 |
| Yes, please. (Not the Smith River...) |
We eventually turned the iPad sideways and it said we have a 76 percent chance. For that one given day. And if we spread out our dates among the four of us to four dates that would work, we determined we'd have about a 95 percent of pulling a permit based on last year's numbers (we're looking at non-peak dates).
Then she wanted to put it into a spreadsheet that would show our odds for different combinations of application/dates. Then graph it...
Thursday, January 16, 2014
"Fish long and brag"
Small, seemingly inane comments can make an impact.
As an assignment from my 8th grade English teacher, I created a booklet about my fishing experiences (including catching a 27-inch, 8.2-pound pregnant walleye on Sloppy Joe's Bar of Lake Mille Lacs, Minnesota, on Father's Day weekend 1993), called Lake Mille Lacs Days. Also included was a goofy anecdote to my dad about the first "big" fish I caught - a 3.25-pound northern pike on Lake Sakatah (the bullhead capitol of the world).
The assigning educator was an interim teacher - not even an English teacher, rather a long-term unspecialized substitute. Her simple, lukewarm praise propelled me to decide I'd like to be a fishing writer. Her feedback was something like, "That was different..." or "You have a unique writing style..." Mild as it was, it stuck with me.
The main story of the booklet:
I remember one day, a few back, at Kamp Dels. It was a dreary, drizzly Sunday morning (approximately 11:00). I was down on the dock fishing for anything that would bite when I felt a pretty good tug. By the time I reeled it in to the dock, I realized this wasn't no bullhead! [It was a northern pike.] There was a nice old fellow sitting next to me and I asked if he could hold it for me while I went to get you, mom and Ryan. When I got to Ryan, he said that you and mom went for a walk so I told Nancy and she told me to tell Gary while she went to see it (Gary was in the bathroom). I walked into the bathroom and saw that there was a guy in there, on the can. Being unsure of who it was, I waited, as did he, to build up enough courage to see if it was Gary. After about 10 minutes, I asked and it was Gary. I told him the scenario and he said he would be down in a second. By the time I got back down to the dock, I had to push my way back to the nice old fella' who was graciously holding my catch. Anyone who questioned my shoving was politely told, 'It's my fish!' and they got out of my way faster than a walleye chasing down a minnow. Then the nice old guy gave my fish back and I thanked him for his time and apologized for all the cuts on his hands. As I walked up to the barn to get it weighed, I ran into you and mom at the bottom of the hill and you guys walked with me to the barn. I remember one guy stopped his van next to us and told his son, 'Now that's a real fish!' Then we got up to the barn and we weighed it and it weighed 3 1/4 lbs. It was [also] a cloudy dreary day when I caught my walleye. The moral of the story is: fish on cloudy, drizzling, dreary Sunday mornings; it's when the big ones bite.*
*Smart kid, that Sunday thing is true.
My mother sent me the booklet after she found it clearing closets recently - I had no idea it still existed. If some memories are Bergan folklore, she discovered a runestone as far as I'm concerned.
Page 1:
My gift of writing is for you:
Although he wouldn't be able too see that well-wish through, his progeny has, for him. A fishy legacy.
Additional excerpts:
I used to be afraid of leetches [sic] because I thought they'd suck me to death.
But now I know that you can pull them off fairly easily if they decide to suck.
Who am I?
I am your son, hopefully someday an avid walleye fisherman with a lakeside cabin on lake Mille Lacs.
I haven't grown up to be John Gierach or even Al Linder, nor do I own that lakeside cabin, but I am elated to occupy my tiny nook in the collective fishing-writing catalog, and thrilled to have this piece of personal memorabilia.
So take a kid fishing, and encourage that kid.
As an assignment from my 8th grade English teacher, I created a booklet about my fishing experiences (including catching a 27-inch, 8.2-pound pregnant walleye on Sloppy Joe's Bar of Lake Mille Lacs, Minnesota, on Father's Day weekend 1993), called Lake Mille Lacs Days. Also included was a goofy anecdote to my dad about the first "big" fish I caught - a 3.25-pound northern pike on Lake Sakatah (the bullhead capitol of the world).
The assigning educator was an interim teacher - not even an English teacher, rather a long-term unspecialized substitute. Her simple, lukewarm praise propelled me to decide I'd like to be a fishing writer. Her feedback was something like, "That was different..." or "You have a unique writing style..." Mild as it was, it stuck with me.
I remember one day, a few back, at Kamp Dels. It was a dreary, drizzly Sunday morning (approximately 11:00). I was down on the dock fishing for anything that would bite when I felt a pretty good tug. By the time I reeled it in to the dock, I realized this wasn't no bullhead! [It was a northern pike.] There was a nice old fellow sitting next to me and I asked if he could hold it for me while I went to get you, mom and Ryan. When I got to Ryan, he said that you and mom went for a walk so I told Nancy and she told me to tell Gary while she went to see it (Gary was in the bathroom). I walked into the bathroom and saw that there was a guy in there, on the can. Being unsure of who it was, I waited, as did he, to build up enough courage to see if it was Gary. After about 10 minutes, I asked and it was Gary. I told him the scenario and he said he would be down in a second. By the time I got back down to the dock, I had to push my way back to the nice old fella' who was graciously holding my catch. Anyone who questioned my shoving was politely told, 'It's my fish!' and they got out of my way faster than a walleye chasing down a minnow. Then the nice old guy gave my fish back and I thanked him for his time and apologized for all the cuts on his hands. As I walked up to the barn to get it weighed, I ran into you and mom at the bottom of the hill and you guys walked with me to the barn. I remember one guy stopped his van next to us and told his son, 'Now that's a real fish!' Then we got up to the barn and we weighed it and it weighed 3 1/4 lbs. It was [also] a cloudy dreary day when I caught my walleye. The moral of the story is: fish on cloudy, drizzling, dreary Sunday mornings; it's when the big ones bite.*
*Smart kid, that Sunday thing is true.
 |
| It's my fish! |
Page 1:
My gift of writing is for you:
Dad.
May you fish long and brag.
Love, Joshua
Although he wouldn't be able too see that well-wish through, his progeny has, for him. A fishy legacy.
Additional excerpts:
I used to be afraid of leetches [sic] because I thought they'd suck me to death.
But now I know that you can pull them off fairly easily if they decide to suck.
Who am I?
I am your son, hopefully someday an avid walleye fisherman with a lakeside cabin on lake Mille Lacs.
I haven't grown up to be John Gierach or even Al Linder, nor do I own that lakeside cabin, but I am elated to occupy my tiny nook in the collective fishing-writing catalog, and thrilled to have this piece of personal memorabilia.
So take a kid fishing, and encourage that kid.
 |
| Look at the size of that belly! The fish, jerk. |
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