Coming Home

 

 

 

Connections….

They define us, they bind us to our inter-relationships, they flow and ebb, break and reconnect our concepts of identity. They are everywhere, but only if we look for them.

 Thus it was a connection I sought on Wisconsin’s Bois Brule’ river. Although the desired connection was a bright one with a wild steelhead, one sometimes seemingly as elusive as a unicorn, there would be another connection that, when the dust had settled, became more important.

 Our journeys as anglers are never straight paths. We seem to stray or explore different approaches and desired outcomes in our progress on the water. Thank god for that, for as one old friend reminded me, “Exploring paths in the journey along life’s road allows us to take side-steps and wind and turn throughout the one-way trip, thus adding miles and miles to what otherwise might be a straight, quick journey to the inevitable end.”

 As I get older, I am slowing down, and the explorations and approach, the history and lore seem as important, or sometimes even more interesting than the fishing itself.

So I drove up to the river with a wagon full of cane rods and hand-tied flies inspired by antique Scottish patterns fished on the Dee and the Don. The main rod was going to be a restored and newly cut and spliced Sharps of Aberdeen two-hander. It started out as a sweet rod several years ago, but after getting the ferules stuck together rather permanently, it got chopped and spliced to @ 10 ½ feet. Finding a line for it was a nightmare, as I sorted through my huge box of spey lines, for it started out moderately soft, but as I taped it up, realized that now it resembled a Frankenstein monster, cobbled together and chopped and sort of stiff moving, much like Boris Karloff’s flat-topped rendition. I drove to the local muddy canoe landing on the Kickapoo river and fitted it up with a 4 ½” wide-drum Hardy Perfect reel from 1917. To make a long story short, it was like casting a broom stick. I finally put on an old 10/11 weight salmon line and was able to make it work…. Sort of.

 Stubbornness runs in our family, and I got a double dose of it. That is the only explanation why the rod didn’t get left at home. “I can make it work,” I justified to myself weakly and often to reinforce the error.

 The weather was remarkably warm and beautiful when I arrived ahead of our party and settled in for lunch and coffee, dreaming of the river while I sipped and waited for Barry, who would accompany my foolishness.

 Steelhead are often a beat down. Not necessarily physically, but mentally. Bright cheery and eager faces entering the water at first light can often leave it after a fishless day not speaking to anyone, full-of self-doubt, self-loathing, and completely lacking in the confidence that was over-flowing in the morning. Everything gets the blame; Tackle, the sun, the water clarity, leaves in the water, the choice of flies, and our selection of aftershave. The truth is that confidence is the most important part of the game, and it is all mental and as fragile as a newborn despite our best intentions and egos. I have fished for steelhead all over North America for years and years on storied rivers. One would think I was used to this, but when Barry picked my pocket by landing his first Brule’ steelhead behind me in the second run we fished, I started to experience the downward spiral into self-questioning, misery and defeatism that we call steelheading. His fish was a stunner. Wild as the weather on Lake Superior and chrome. Translucent fins too. All that was missing were sea-lice. Here was the McCloud strain from California’s tributary to the Sacramento River, and extinct there. Transplanted along with rainbows and stocked in the tributaries to Lake Superior, they were all wild fish now, a rarity in the world of anadromous fish. Thus the happy congratulations and high-five we give each other often decays as we want a fish too…. And the mental beat down begins in proportion to the beauty and rarity of the fish.

 I stuck with the Frankenstein rod, making it work through stubborn will and body strength until in the morning of the second day, we screwed up, and took the wrong path for the morning fishing. This led to poor water and crowds and a path which we stubbornly followed with hope that things would improve and we would find better water and less anglers (who seemed to appear out of nowhere as soon as we set our feet in the water). The path started to give out as we continued downstream, and we had to crawl and climb through the beaver-falls and clay banks, rods snagging on pines stub branches, our clothing covered with brambles.

 We spent five hours hiking through the forest tangle, fishing here and there and swinging flies for a few casts until the water petered out, only to find ourselves back at the next parking area downstream where the other two anglers in our crew had put in. We walked back to the car soaked in sweat, dehydrated and pissed off, and when the rest of the gang met up with us for lunch in the parking lot, found that they had success, and Lem had hooked and landed his first Brule’ fish literally on his first morning on the river ever. The mental beatdown was now riding on my shoulder like a chattering monkey. “You suck,” it kept blathering endlessly.

 I kept with the monster rod throughout the rest of the day, but the physical exhaustion and muscle fatigue and doubt combined to make me take it apart and put it away before nearly passing out. Both Barry and I skipped the big party on the river we were invited to, and silently ate dinner after visiting three restaurants just to find a single available table. Back at the motel we knew we had to come up with a plan to beat the crowds. It seemed that half of Wisconsin and Minnesota showed up that evening for the weekend fishing. We had to have a plan. Well, the plan just sort of developed all by itself. By going to bed early, we awoke early and refreshed, and opening the motel door to the cool air of false dawn light, found that the parking lot was still full of cars. Everyone had slept in.

 We hoofed it into waders, choked down a doughnut and coffee or tea, and drove like the devil for the stretch of river I chose for the morning fishing. There were only two cars in the lot ahead of us, so we geared up by aid of headlamp and chanced it.

 Here is where the connection begins. I reached for a single-hand bamboo rod, and took it out of its case. A restored Clifford Constable 9’ six-weight restored by my friend Joe Balestrieri, and matched by a Hardy Perfect reel of 3 5/8 inches; a special reel, but more on that later. I tied on the new fly that, get this, I had not fished yet, lacking in confidence.

 Sometimes things come together in just the right way to make the connection. I noticed right away that I was fishing better as the light began to increase and the water chilled my legs. My swing was in zen mode, the little corrections to fly speed just happening as I didn’t struggle to fight the gear. Before the light was fully on the water, my fly was intercepted with authority. I had hooked my second Brule’ steelhead, the one last year having coming unpinned due to user (or loser) error.

 The bonus was some drama. The steelhead moved back and forth in the run, with me not trying to place too much pressure on it and screw it up. Then as Barry watched, it exited the pool and the reel began to sing and screech and protest the sweet music of an old Hardy. The run ended with a sharp left-turn of 90 degrees and a rapids which as I followed, my fish took my line into the tree branches at the bend, to be saved by Barry, alert as always.

 By now I was convinced I was not gong to land the fish. There was another 100 yards of rapids to go, but all of a sudden, the reel stopped screaming, and the fish buried itself in a soft pocket of water in the middle of the maelstrom. I spotted a small sand bar under water to the side, and a landing plan was put together. Maximum strain was placed on the rod turned upside down to equalize tension and strain on the bamboo, and the fish was landed. A sweet buck with a small bit of rose flank for color. The beat down had ended. I was staggering around in relief and joy when it hit me. The reel was owned previously by the late Andre’ Puyons, angling legend, former president of Trout Unlimited, prolific teacher and tyer with ever-present pipe and Irish hat and co-owner of Creative Sports, a fly-shop in Walnut Creek, Northern California. Walnut Creek is just west of San Francisco, gateway to the Sacramento and its now land-locked tributary the McCloud River. My reel most likely fished the McCloud back in the day in the hands of Andre’ Puyons.

The fish I landed was a ghost, an anachronism not out of time but out of place and now in last refuge from extinction. We all got tangled up and met in a connection on Wisconsin’s Brule’ river. I could almost smell the pipe smoke. The reel had come home. Old Andre’ was looking down and cracking a wry smile from somewhere beyond the pines and the mists of the river. I felt it. God, I dig this sport.

They say you can never come home again. I disagree. The time and place might be a little different, the circumstances connected with crooked lines of geography and chance, but if one closes one’s eyes, we can see it, it is all around us. We are always home through the connections that entangle us.

The enigma rod

Fritz Schreck 8' 1" 6 wt rod and old Hardy reel with Irish salmon doubles

Part One, the Phoenix rising


“I have a rod for you…”

Thus it began the night before I was to drive up to the Bois Brule’ river in the pine and birch forests of Lake Superior to fish for steelhead. Packing and final preparations such as shopping for supplies and groceries would have to wait. I got a call at work from friend and bamboo rod guru Joe Balestrieri, and when he found out that I was driving to the Brule’, he uttered those prophetic words.


Dusk found me at his home, where he awaited with the rod and a reel spooled with a flyline. “I think you may like it, and nobody can appreciate it anyway, so I want it to go to a good home,” he said as he was taking it out of its green bag and putting it together. “Fish it.” “It might break, I dunno… It’s a Swiss Schreck 8 foot 1 inch.” “What….Who?” I thought. “Schreck? Geez, that means ‘Horror’ in German.”

He cast it effortlessly and handed it to me. “I think she is a 6/7,” he stated while sipping what he referred to as a Finnish Martini (Vodka and apple-juice). I picked up the rod and easily threw a tight loop of line 50 feet. I was surprised and shocked at how easy it was to cast a graceful loop with this rod. I pulled out more line and cast a tight 60 feet and the line cranked the reel at the end. “What the hell?” I stated out loud. “Did you tweak this rod?” “What the hell is this… What did…. How?” He was chuckling as we hurried to the safety of his den as it began drizzling. After a few glasses of his Spey-Side single malt that had more peat taste than bog-water, and long conversations on hand-made musky plugs, fly rods, angling, theory, art, aesthetics, literature and what-not, he bade me farewell to the Brule’ and I went on my way home with the windows open to hopefully dissipate the bog-smell from my person.

What was this rod?

It took awhile and a bit of searching before I could put together a provenance. Balestrieri had received the rod as part of some vague trade/acquisition involving a reel from some guy in Italy. The rod was made by a Swiss rod maker named Fritz Schreck, who, according to Rolf Baginski’s book on European bamboo, was a self-taught craftsman with quite a loyal following in Europe itself. He made rods under the ‘Kingfisher’ logo, and was noted for his taper design by trial and error, and for his eccentric way of using only the power-fibers of the cane, and assembling as many as 36 strips to make each section, instead of the common six strip method. Balestrieri had found some Swedish maple burl for a reel seat, and used it to compliment the odd but lustrous way each of the 36 pieces were flamed a different shade in the heat-treating process, making for long running lines of intricate blending of chocolates, coffees and caramels. He described the state of the rod to me as “A tomato-stake” when he got it. The reel seat and cork were past dereliction and some of the splices in the rod needed fixing.

Here was something new to me, and fascinating. A little-known rod-maker hardly seen or represented in America had crafted this fine instrument, and it had traveled from Italy to Balestrieri, who lovingly restored it, offered it for sale, and since nobody seemed to want it, sold it to me. It was back from the dead, complete with new rich brown silk wraps and a new bigger stripping guide, and destined to make music again on the water.

I placed it in my car in the morning, paired with a hangover and a Hardy Bougle’ mk IV 3 ½” reel. This was the “Use the good China” reel I had written about 7 years earlier after I found it in my reel bag nearly un-fished after I almost dinged it on a boat frame once. It was too valuable to fish… Then I was listening to a radio story where a woman was telling the tale of her mother’s good china which she had found preserved and safely put away after her passing, and decided to actually use it, unlike her mother. “Use the good China” became a symbolic phrase for sucking the marrow out of life, for using the good reel, and not collecting things to be used only once or twice on special occasions, but to brighten our every day lives with their use. So the Phoenix rod, back from the graveyard of an Italian closet buried under old shoes and the “Use the Good China” reel would be paired up. “Fitting,” I thought to myself as I arranged all the clutter of the trip in the trunk and back seat of the Volkswagen.

Part 2, the Phoenix fishing

On the Brule'

There would be no prettier place anywhere where I would go to baptize this new rod than ‘The river of presidents’. The lower Brule snakes its way through a canyon filled with a wild forest, grouse, and wolves. Their howling can accompany one through the woods on a late-exit from the river. On the drive up, I spotted a bull moose in a swampy field filled with cranberry bogs and springs feeding multiple river systems. A good omen, and a rare sight for Wisconsin.

I was alone on day one, for my friend was not to arrive until the following afternoon. I slept in the car that night, the cries of distant wolves haunting my sleep. The next morning broke bright and sunny, and I headed upriver to a smaller and narrower reach of the Brule’ and assembled the rod, geared up, and got on the water. Here I was, fishing the Schreck, and clearly completely out of my mind. There were somewhere in the river, steelhead pushing 30”, and I was using an 8’ 1” restored tomato stake and a reel with almost no drag at all. “Well, Carpe Diem damn it!” I thought aloud.

The rod performed flawlessly, especially with over-head casting. It threw without any difficulty a 7’ sink tip with a large green-butt skunk tied spey-style. It could perform spey-casts too, although it got tricky with a rod that short and a sink-tip and large fly. The rod and I got to know each other that day. I slowed down a bit in my casting, became smoother. I began to bond with the rod. I sat on a rock and looked at it in the bright sun. Not a gaudy rod, but rich with somber hues of memorable scotches and morning teas. A rod built for a purpose. Sea trout? Grayling? A workhorse. It did everything I asked of it within reason, like a fine shotgun that just mounts to your shoulder and swings like an old friend. Pick up the line.. backcast… put it down… and the rod was accurate as an arrow too!

Last year our little crew was visiting with two young fishermen from Minnesota late at night in the motel parking lot, when after enough lubrication for the tongue and 3 days fishless one of them solemnly brought forth the following phrase, “The Brule’ is beautiful, but she is a cruel woman.” This could sum up all my trips here for steelhead, where a swung fly, despite all the beautiful water, just has a hard time connecting with the fish, despite my long steelhead experience, or those of friends who she has enticed to her waters and dismissed with a turn of face and a wry smile. However, I would be guilty of sacrilege worthy of being tarred and feathered if I were to fish a nymph or pink plastic worm thrown with a bobber and split shot on that holy place, or with the new rod. We left after 3 days of hard fishing, knowing the river a good deal better, including why not to follow me when I think I find a deer trail, and having a wonderful time altogether…albeit fishless.

Part 3, Back on home waters…

Storms followed me back from the Brule’ the whole way, and by the time I was back at work, the skies were dark with rain, and the rivers coming up in flow. The first opportunity I got, I was in my local Lake Michigan tributary armed with the Schreck rod and a new sense of hope and expectation… and wind.

It blew. 30 mph gusts and sustained winds of 15 to 20 mph greeted me as I got my feet wet. Oh hooray. Perfect place for a bamboo rod. Up-stream winds too. I had to use a sling-around modified Belgian cast in order not to hook myself in the ear. I had to wade closer in order that my fly would not land upstream of me. Leaves littered the water. Every cast seemed to hook a leaf. If I dangled the fly in the water it collected leaves as the fall winds cleared oaks, maples, elms and willows of a color palette rich in frustration.

I took out of my old rusty Altoids tin a blue and black tube fly dressed in the wing and body to resemble an Atlantic Salmon fly. It was the choice not to resemble a leaf, and offer a big enough target in the optical-saturated water.

The rod performed beautifully given the horrible conditions. I still had to wade closer to the taking lies than I wanted, but found with a 25-30’ cast I had perfect control to steer the fly around in the bubble line and boulder bottom. I yearned to catch a fish, lake run brown or steelhead alike, either would be fine. I was like an anachronism out there in the river. Nobody does this... a bamboo rod and a big classic fly fished on the swing for big fish. I felt like I was summoning ghosts of the past as the winds whispered and wailed with imagined voices, and shadows raced across the water.

Then it happened… or something did. I had a tentative grab on the terminus or dangle of my swing. Instinctively I did nothing. Another little pull. It was definitely a fish, but since the river had king and coho salmon in it, I was afraid to set the hook, lest I foul hook a decaying salmon. Finally the loop of line pulled out from my rod hand, and the reel turned a few clicks. Aha! The ‘Aha’ turned out to be a small 19” steelhead. I set the hook, and was off to the races. The little male couldn’t really go too far in this water, so after a short battle and a screaming reel, my little Schreck rod bent and unbent and easily landed the fish, my heart beating a touch faster now.

What a hell of a rod. A true one of a kind, possibly the only one in North America… and I had baptized it ten minutes from my home.


The rest of that great day was spent in love with the rod, but frustrated with the fish, due to either the optical saturation of leaves in the water, the bright sun, or a combination of factors, I kept getting very tentative grabs like a steelhead coming for the fly, grabbing it, and then dropping it during the turn. I had six of these non-hook-ups in all, one which pulled out drag on the reel, and when I set the hook, found nothing but empty water. I just couldn’t seal the deal until evening, with dusk falling, I waited out the tentative grab again, and when I set against only a speculation of feeling, was hard into a steelhead which went upstream and airborne, causing the reel to sing an aria and the rod to take a deep bending bow to luck, to provenance, to history. “I have a rod for you…”

I stood looking at the fading sunset now painting the horizon a deep pink matching the sides of the steelhead I just released, and thought about the chain of events that found me here with a smile on my face, with a rod I never had heard of, and even if I had, never would have understood without casting it. A rod from Italy made in Switzerland by an eccentric genius reborn in loving hands and restored by my friend to bend again in the wind and on fish. What a journey.

Production salmon and steelhead fly dressing

Cooped up in the Midwest winter, I decided to practice a bit of production tying. The aim was to produce a set of sample flies to display at shows, and barter for dog-food sell.


First off, I discovered to my dismay that this kind of tying can be tedious. In a production or commercial run of flies, every fly must be almost exactly the same. That means heads must be uniform, hackle and wing lengths measured and trim, and proportions correct.


Until one tries this for real, it seems easy. Take ten flies and look at them separately, and they look fine. Then place them close together and voila! we see differences. The old Sesame Street game of “One of these things is different/not quite the same” comes to mind.


I frowned and scratched my head. When I examined the ever-so-slight differences in the flies, I discovered that often it was related to selection of materials. One wing was tied denser than another due to a few too many black bear hair fibers, or the hackle lengths were not uniform. There was also the human factor at work, but the pre-selection of materials, and laying things out properly solved the issue of my mind wandering when reaching for fur or feather while contemplating Mahler’s ninth symphony.


So here is what I learned:


Choose the hook sizes first and lay them out.

Pre-select the winging material and collar or throat hackles. These are the two material areas where careless prep work can sink a fly.

Place a piece of cork or Styrofoam near the vise, and place the completed flies there before lacquering. This will allow one to check exact proportions.

Dress at least half a dozen flies of the same size and pattern at the same time.

Do not answer the phone or get distracted.

Too much sniffing head cement coffee leads to errors.


From the left: Rusty Rat, Will Taylor Special low water, Silver Doctor low water, Laxa Blue varient, Unnamed winter fly, and the Blue Bear. The last two are winter dressings, while the others are intended as summer flies.

What it means to me

I tried to capture with available photos some of the romance I find in this fine sport of angling for bejeweled fish in glorious rivers.

A couple of spring patterns

Although these flies can and are tied more sparse for lower water situations, here I tied them more full for spring spate flows in March and April.

Will Taylor Special varient and the Blue Bear. Both Canadian Atlantic Salmon patterns.

The Blue Bear is pictured as tied with krystal-flash, but I substituted peacock sword.

The Will Taylor Special comes from the Miramici River, and according to the best information available to me, was originated by Boyd Dunnett.

Both flies have bodies spun of dyed wool. I kind of like the green I got by mixing a bit of chartreuse with kelly green.

A Few Flies, or it is a long winter…

First up is the Bloody Mouse.

Tail is sable, wing is skunk, and the body is made from segments of grizzly soft hackle and fiery red SLF.

Next up is the famous Atlantic salmon bomber style fly The Green Machine.

I tied this one more like a traditional bomber.



Next, a cross between a Rusty Rat body and Cossboom with a green wing I call the Highland Rat.

Next, A sort of experiment in orange, yellow and green.

And Last, my attempt at a married wing Irish style Thunder and Lightning. Dressing per Alcott.

The no-hitch Stealth Bomber

A while back, I posted a picture of this fly, and some of you wondered if I had fished it. New designs and prototypes are fine as art, but until actually tested in river conditions, they are an unknown quantity.

So, this fall I did fish the N.H.S.B. Here are my conclusions.


The fly works as designed. The bare hook at the rear anchors it, and the radically tapered head pushes water. I did not need to place a hitch on it, although I have no doubt it would work with a hitch just fine. I did not catch anything on it, but that is my fault. I only used it a couple of times, once in a run that was most likely fishless, and the second time as a comeback fly for a fish that chased and boiled.


The action of the fly was solid, but after around an hour or so of being in the water, it had a tendency to sink into the surface film. All I had to do was squeeze out the water and it worked for a further half-hour or so before becoming waterlogged.


As graded by the harsh professor:


Aesthetics: A

Design: B+

Performance: C+


Definitely a fly for faster water. Works well in riffles. Works fine in glass water too, unless waterlogged.


And there we have it. From concept to vise to river.

The Distracted Take

Huh? What the…? Zzzzz ZZZZZ!!


Anticipation. Expectation. Hours of repeated confidence reminders. The Zen zone. Nothing, and more of nothing. Wading practice.


You see an eagle, osprey, owl, or fumble in your wader pocket trying to locate that half of a granola bar. It is then that we are most vulnerable. Mr. Steelhead often picks this very moment to strike.


The first occurrence happened on my first large steelhead. It was bank side squirrels rioting in a crunchy, leaf blanketed back yard that pulled my attention away for just long enough to… BUMP! TUG! WhirrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRR ZZZZZZZ!

My knuckles still hurt from getting in the way of that reel handle. I must have looked like a panicked juggler as I frantically did everything possible to lose that fish, but somehow failed.


My first steelhead on the west coast came when the sun rose above the canyon walls and I fumbled for my sunglasses. I actually had them half out of the case when the fish pounced on my spey fly. Glasses and clip-on sunglasses in one hand, rod in the other, I blindly squinted down river at the blurred scene of a chrome fish jumping and spitting the fly.


The typical scenario on a river goes like this. All full of coffee and in that zone of concentration, I fish for a few hours like a studious heron. I crouch, lift and reach my rod, mend attentively, and follow every nuance of the water. If a midge landed on my rod tip, I would feel it. I know exactly when and where that jolting take is going to occur. My fly tracks through the water like a poem on a mission.


Then slowly, after endless casts through productive water fail to produce, my mind starts to wander. I make a cast, and with my fly still swinging, take a photo, fumble with the wading staff, talk to a buddy, or watch wildlife.


There is also something about moving water, and the light patterns and reflections off the bottom that tend to mesmerize me. As the day wears on, I spend more time looking into the water than I do watching my fly.


One of the cardinal rules of fly-fishing is this; “If your fly is in the water, you are fishing.”

We all know this to be true from the times when suicidal or mentally challenged trout, panfish, or bass have hit our fly as it dangled in the water at our feet while we were picking out a wind-knot, or rooting around through various pockets.


A number of years ago, a partner had just landed a spectacular steelhead from a western river. I stepped up to the plate and began to strip out line. The fish had taken his fly on the other side of the river. It was going to be a long cast for me. I rolled out the fly, leader, and sink-tip, and stripped off more line. Suddenly all hell broke loose, and I was attempting to fight a steelhead just twenty feet from me with line everywhere. The fish came off of course.

The moral here is about that cardinal rule, but also that one should cover the water properly. Lord, all the things I have learned the hard way. However, perhaps those lessons stick in our brains better. A kid that reaches over a hot burner tends to equate fire and pain quite effectively after one lesson. I on the other hand am the kind of idiot that has a pebble in my wading boot for six weeks. With every step I mutter “Ow, ow, ow…” and so on. It never occurs to me to actually remove the offending pebble.


This past year I had a couple of wonderfully jarring takes when my mind and tongue were dedicated to something else. A nice hen almost yanked the rod out of my hand as I was asking a friend where his new puppy sleeps. “Does she sleep in a little box or in a cage by the …? *&^%$#@!!!!!! ZZzzzzzzZZZZZ!!!! Man, those Hardy reels can ratchet up a complaining song!


The same thing happened to me on my home river. Once again, my head was turned and I was yakking about some inane topic when my reel decided to play a Wagner overture at 125 decibels. The look on my face was one of shock and confusion.


I often wonder if there is something to this. Perhaps it might have something to do with being relaxed, or not trying so hard. In addition, the distracted take seems to lead to a higher landing percentage. This may be due to our inability to react and ‘screw it up’ at the time of the initial pull or take.


On the other hand, perhaps all the anthropomorphism is apropos; steelhead may have a sense of humor after all.

The Attitude Problem

Some readers of the Classical Angler may wonder from time to time why I seem to get my knickers all bunched up over what I perceive as an attitude problem among many of today's steelhead "Hot Sticks."

Here is a photo that will say it all. I am not going to say who it is, nor where it came from and have blacked out the faces, but even if it is a hatchery fish, it not only shows disrespect, but almost displays a kind of psychosis.

Pouring beer into a steelhead's mouth is beyond silly. It is childish. Childish behavior and unsporting. Especially as this was the 'last rights' before killing the fish.

Grow up.

And another from a different site. Yes, they are only hatchery fish, but should they be treated like this, much less photographed and posted on the web as if it were a badge of coolness?

Grow up.

---------------------------

Editors note: 1/21/10 - O.K. Boys, I think that is about enough for now. The guilty parties are aware that I called them out. Enough of a nest of hornets.
I have a few last thoughts before we put this to bed.
First, how all of us behave reflects on the sport as a whole. That goes for me as well as you. This was not a matter of a hatchery fish and whether or not to dispatch it. Far from it. To me, it simply showed a lack of respect for life, for our fellow creatures, other anglers, and displayed a maturity level on par with the denizens of a video arcade.
My hope is that I made people think. That is and has always been my goal in my writing. Perhaps we might take a moment and think before we post our latest exploits and conquests on facebrag. The world is watching, and I am on the same team as you are. PETA is not.
Secondly, it is interesting that with the variety of writing that I place on this little corner of the blogosphere, that controversy gets the most attention. If I had one wish, it would be that I could share humor and inspiration as successfully.
Erik Helm

How to dress for Steelhead and Atlantic Salmon fishing

The other day I was re-reading a history of my hometown when I came across a photo from the early 1900s. It showed a dozen or so men and boys fishing in Lake Michigan off of a pier. They were using long cane poles and bait. Each was dressed in a shirt and tie and a bowler hat. Not a sport shirt in the crowd. That set me thinking about the sport of fishing and dress in general.

Now I am known as something of an oddball. I am one of the last people of my age to actually study classic English dress, and often enter the river sporting one of a multitude of Irish hats, or British cloth caps. Flyfishing, like all other sports these days, has its own couture. Trout fishers have the Lee Wulff vest, the ubiquitous ball cap, the necessary or unnecessary do-dads and accessories attached to zingers, and the little net hanging from the back. Want to be a trout fisherman? Then one had better look like one.

At least this is better than the NASCAR/BASS circuit, where participants become walking advertisement space; billboards to commercialism.

After a long string of emails with a colleague concerning proper traditional dress for Salmon fishing in the UK, I began to think of the differences between the aristocratic and exclusive nature of Salmon fishing, and the rather proletarian nature of Steelhead fishing.

Atlantic Salmon are the nobility of fish. In general, one also needs to be a nobleman or at least wealthy to enjoy good Salmon fishing. Private associations, clubs, and districts own the rivers, with some less quality water being set aside as public. In Scotland, Salmon fishing was divided by class. The upper classes (nobility, peers, wealthy industrialists, etc.) leased the fishing from the crown, while the estuaries were reserved for the lower class tackmen that pulled nets behind boats. Water bailiffs made certain that Joe lunchbox never poached the river itself.

North American Steelhead in contrast is the poor-man’s Salmon.

Rivers are free and belonged to the public in many cases. Licenses are inexpensive, and everyone can participate in the sport. Sort of egalitarian fishing. (As long as there are fish left…)

The way we dress for the two sports and their complete contrast struck me as fodder for a little humor. So here is my tongue-in-cheek guide to dressing to fish for the respective species.

Atlantic Salmon:

Go to a high end sporting clothing retailer specializing in wing shooting.

Purchase a Barbour Bordor waxed cotton jacket for $399.00. Add a suit consisting of matching tweed breeks, vest and jacket. Partner that with several tattersall shirts. Should run between $899.00 to $1,200.00 Accessorize with leather-lined Wellingtons for $430.00, and a Harris Tweed cap for $50.00 Woolen knit or silk regimental tie will cost about $30.00.

You should look quite sporting while in the bothy, or seated at the dinner table sipping a fine merlot.

Steelhead:

Go to garage. Locate old hooded sweatshirt you use when you work on the car. You know… the one with the hole in it caused when it got tangled in the torque-wrench; the one bearing a large oil-stain. Tear off the sleeves. Wear this over a piece of capiline so old that you can see through it. Add either a ball cap obtained from a Nebraska farmer, or a knit hat with holes. Spend $499.99 on sunglasses. Find abandoned gloves behind dumpster. Cut off fingers. This will cost nothing, and provide for a good conversation piece, as well as keeping your hands warm. Spend $479.00 on Simms jacket. Use sleeves torn off old sweatshirt as socks.

You should look quite sporting while passed out in your car, or seated at a picnic table eating a gas-station chili-dog.

Traditional Skunk

Meet The Skunk.

The prevailing theory is that this fly originated on the North Umpqua, but the exact original tier is a matter of debate. Wes Drain is mentioned. It is one of the original flies used for steelhead in the Pacific North West.
This fly, once very popular, has fallen out of vogue and was eclipsed by the Green Butt Skunk.

I tied this one according to a number of different sources. The fly is usually tied with a black chenille body, but the original may have used peacock herl.
So, I started with a dyed golden pheasant tail. The body is peacock herl and black ostrich herl spun together with fine silver oval tinsel. The wing is polar bear.

I was priveleged enough this fall to see and touch some actual 3/0 to 5/0 skunks purchased directly from Joe Howell's flyshop on the North Umpqua.

The Golden Demon

Another very fetching pattern

The Golden Demon was a British Empire pattern discovered by Zane Gray in New Zealand, and popularized by him through steelhead fishing in the 1930s.

The original version has no dubbing, but I added a turn or two of seal.

I also reinforced the bronze mallard wing by using an underwing of blackbear.

Beat rotation fishing, Midwest style

Beat rotation fishing, Midwest style




Nearly everywhere in the world of Atlantic Salmon and Steelhead fly fishing a system of angler movement and ethics is used which allows multiple anglers to fish the same run, beat, or pool. Everyone gets the same fair chance.

The system is simple.



The first angler in the run casts until he or she has worked out enough line to cover the run. Then they take one to three steps downstream after each cast depending on the conditions. The anglers following wait until the person before them is comfortably down the run and then start in themselves. If someone catches a fish, they move to the back of the line to allow someone else a chance or move on to the next beat. This effectively forms a sort of conga-line in the run. It works for fly-fishing and gear as well as long as everyone progresses down the run. Everyone gets to have fun and cover the water. Under no circumstances should somebody enter the water in front of somebody else. That effectively torpedoes the whole concept and is called low-holing. If one is unsure what someone else is doing or where they can get in the run, they ask the angler in the water. Asking usually prevents incidents of misunderstanding.



Boy do I wish that this would catch on here in the Great Lakes, but alas, it never does except with a few enlightened souls.



Instead, here in the Midwest we seem to have a separate set of rules. Here anglers behave like the players in an old electric football game. They wander in aimless directions, one goes to the left, one to the right, one spins in circles, while the fourth one falls down.



Here are the rules as I see them practiced:



1. If you do get into a run, you are one lucky boy! Under no circumstances should you move. Cast from the same position in all directions. If you wait long enough, a fish might swim through the run and eat your fly or bait/lure.

2. If the approach you are using does not prove effective, under no circumstances change what you are doing. Keep it up and sooner or later you will either catch a steelhead or die, whichever comes first…

3. If someone is in a run, under no circumstances talk to them or look at them. Just proceed below them to their casting distance and low-hole them. They will get the point sooner or later that the entire river belongs to you.

4. If you are fishing with spawn, make absolutely certain to tell everyone how many fish you have caught.

5. If you see someone about to enter an otherwise empty piece of water, run down the bank and jump in the water before they get there. Remember the spoils belong to the bold and greedy.

6. If you are fishing from the bank with spinning gear, make sure that you cut off anybody wading from any good fish holding water.

7. If you are new to fishing with a two-hander and are having trouble casting, just stay in the run and practice your casting without moving. Since you have no chance, neither should anybody else.

8. If you are wading below a nice piece of holding water or a run and want to fish it, do not get out of the water to walk up to the run on the bank or a path. Instead, splash your way stumbling upstream through the heart of the run. This should stir the fish up and put them in a biting mood.



Or, as an alternative, how about adopting a simple rule…?



“Treat others as you yourself would wish to be treated.”



I saw a guy with a spey rod fishing a run the other day. I fished through two runs above him, then one run below him. He had not moved. Not one single step. I left for another part of the river in frustration. My friend Rick was arriving as I left and I told him about the anchoring angler. Rick fished through a couple runs himself and still the guy had not moved. He was there for three hours. Later I saw him walking out of the water. For a second I wondered if it was the same guy because earlier in the day he was a young dude in his 20s, while the octogenarian before me sported a long beard, a bent back, and was having trouble walking. Then I noticed his hat. Same guy. He had spent so much time in the run that he had grown old. (O.K., so I made that last part up.)



Here are some very well thought out rules of the river courtesy of Poppy at the Redshed flyshop. If we all practiced them, then we would all have a better experience on the river.



"TREAT OTHER ANGLERS AS YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE TREATED"



"RESPECT OTHER ANGLER'S FISHING SPACE,

DO NOT LOW HOLE"



"ALWAYS ASK PERMISSION TO SHARE A RUN,

START BEHIND OTHER ANGLERS ALREADY FISHING"



"WHEN FISHING A RUN WITH OTHER ANGLERS MOVE DOWN A COUPLE STEPS AFTER EACH CAST IS FINISHED"



"AFTER YOU LAND A FISH GET OUT AND GO BACK TO THE TOP OF THE RUN"



"HELP A NEW ANGLER IF IT'S OBVIOUS THEY ARE HAVING TROUBLE, OFFER USEFUL TIPS, SHARE A FLY OR TWO"



"WHEN FISHING CATCH & RELEASE USE TACKLE HEAVY ENOUGH TO LAND THE FISH WITHOUT A PROLONGED FIGHT, MASH THE BARB TO MAKE THE RELEASE EASIER ON THE FISH"



"RESPECT PRIVATE PROPERTY, ASK FIRST,

LEAVE GATES AS YOU FOUND THEM"



"PROTECT THE RESOURCE, DON'T LITTER"



"REPORT GAME LAW VIOLATERS"



"RELEASE ALL WILD STEELHEAD"



"LIMIT YOUR KILL, DON'T KILL YOUR LIMIT"

Experiments with the floating line in the Midwest in fall/winter

Experiments with the floating line in the Midwest in fall/winter

This fall I have tried to commit as much as possible to swinging a floating line and classic flies on the Milwaukee River for steelhead. It was and is a very interesting learning experience for me. Discoveries were made every day. Some things I took more or less for granted began to be questioned, while other prejudices were erased. I fish a floating line in the PNW for summer-run steelhead quite a bit, but most always fished a sink-tip back here. I did fish with a floating line from time to time over the years on my home water, but always succumbed to a lacking in confidence before long.



Here is a summary of what I have learned thus far:



Conditions:



Fishing with the floating line and classic flies does work, but not in all conditions. Higher and dirtier water is the enemy of the dry line. Some runs with slower water can still be fished during higher water. Temperatures are important, but not as limiting as many people suggest. I hooked fish in 39-degree water. As the temperature decreases, so do the avid rising characteristics of the steelhead. Water temps above 38 degrees, and I am still in the game. As the water clears and drops the fish tend to become quite ‘grabby’. Fish that have been in the river for a while tend to be less aggressive risers to the fly. Often daylight is a killer when the water is clear and low. I did best when light was off the water.



Pressure:



The amount of fishing pressure definitely mattered when using a floating line. Our river is just too small to allow dozens of anglers to flog a run. If I got a chance to fish a run that had not been pressured then I seemed to have greater luck than if I got into a run after it had been frothed to death. That is not to say that I could not follow anyone through a run. If the person going through ahead of me fished like a heron and cast cleanly, then I had all the confidence in the world. However, If the person was using 20 feet of T-14 and couldn’t cast, was hung on the bottom all the time, had to wade through the run to free their fly, repeatedly made failed cast after cast, or chucked gear all over the run and was not delicate, then I think sink-tips would help to place a fly in front of a harassed and dour fish. Fellow anglers fished through pressured water with big flies with movement and light sink tips and still picked up fish while I did not.



Flies:



I found that classic flies do work, but that I had to fish larger irons such as 1.5 AJ hooks or 1/0 7999 Tiemcos than I do out west. I also found that flies with some flash such as a mylar body seem to have more fish-calling power. The interesting thing about fishing irons is that they actually achieve depth far faster if lightly dressed than do string leeches, intruders, etc. What they do lack is movement in slow water. For some reason our steelhead often hang out in unlikely places with little flow. Here flies with movement such as rabbit strip or marabou flies fished by most anglers here seemed to work better. In faster water the classic flies performed fine. I found that light wire hooks seemed to penetrate the fish’s jaw better than heavy wire hooks when fish took in slow water.



Our Steelhead vs. PNW steelhead:



Although our fish generally behave the same as steelhead in the PNW, they do not go through the trauma of moving from saltwater to freshwater. Because of this, they continue to actively feed in the river and key in on what Kevin Feenstra and Dave Pinczkowski call “Meat” or “Protein.” They often prefer baitfish or sculpin imitations, and there is definite merit to this theory. As stated before, our fish tend to hang out in downright strange and counter-intuitive places in the river compared to western fish. I was often rather baffled by this until I realized that micro-structure in the form of an imperceptible log or boulder on the bottom or a tiny change in current speed or direction seemed to provide them with comfort. Above all, in the low clear water conditions, the depth of water seemed to be key.

One interesting discovery, which was totally contrary to what I had believed before, was that lake-run brown trout could be caught on swung flies with the dry line. I always did best with browns when I used big flies near the bottom, but I did catch two browns on classic flies that were fished just beneath the surface. Strange…



The swing:



Swinging flies with a dry line and trying to gain depth and have my fly in the fishy zone was very challenging and a rewarding learning process. Timing mends and planning ahead were important. I found that the majority of my fish took on a greased-line presentation. Here the fly is presented as close to broadside as possible to present the full profile to the fish. The takes were different too. I rarely get a fish to boil on the surface when grabbing my fly if I am using a sink tip, but many of the fish I did get managed to erupt in the water.

There were some runs where fishing the floating line simply put me out of the game. In one run that I fished 10 times without a pull, I studied what was happening with the fly. A fast and narrow chute of water is bordered on both sides by back-eddies. Trees line the run overhead, and downed trees line the shore where one must cast. Screw up and you lose the fly. Cast too short and you are not even in the holding water. I had to cast between branches and place my fly into the shore back-eddy. The fly sank, but then the faster surface currents in the central chute badly bellied the line, and the fly went racing downstream. No matter how I tried, I could not manage to mend the line in order to allow the fly to sink and swing slowly enough. A put on a sink-tip and voila, I immediately caught a steelhead. So, some of our little ditches of runs are best fished without a floating line. In these same areas, one could use a spinning rod to even better effect.



Numbers:



I did consistently catch fish, but did not catch as many as other fishermen of the same skill level. Several days I got skunked completely. I had to limit myself to less water and steelhead that would freely rise to the fly. This can be a lonely path to walk when guys stroll past and without introduction, tell you that they caught 6 or seven fish to your one or none. However, every fish I did catch was a memory and discovery. Once I fished all day without result until at last light, I hit a nice fat arlee in a boulder strewn tailout. I landed the fish, smelled the fly, and walked off the river whistling a tune. I kind of prefer it that way sometimes.

Floating lines and classic flies in the Midwest?

Nah... That won't work.
Or... will it?
I have committed to fishing the floating line with classic flies this fall here in Wisconsin. As long as the water is low and the temps are above thirty five, I have confidence that the steelhead will rise to a fly. I would fish wakers and muddlers, but the low flows provide no current for waking a fly. However, I hit a chrome hen yesterday on a classic hairwing. Neat stuff!

I cannot tell you how many times I have been told that I am wasting my time fishing classic flies in our rivers with a floating line. I agree that when the water is high and cold, big flashy patterns and sink-tips will out-fish the dry line in general, but so few if any practice McMillan's winter techniques here that real experiences are hard to come by. The floating line also minimizes flies hooked on rebar or cinder blocks, although the constant presence of leaves hooked on the fly can drive one to distraction.

Three weeks in the wilds

Three weeks in the wilds

I just returned from my epic drive across North America to swing flies for steelhead in some of the most storied rivers in the world. Instead of telling fish stories let me share some learnings…

Losing weight is easy. My diet of bad coffee, granola bars, veggies, and canned soup and crackers while climbing cliffs and wading on bowling balls lost me seven pounds. I look like a skinnier Grizzly Adams now Woohoo! Only 20 more to go….

Soft rods are a joy to cast until the wind starts to blow like a hurricane. I fished runs that I re-named appropriately. These include the mistral pool, the tempest riffle, the big blow hole, the hurricane ledge rock, and the line gets blown back at you run. Enough wind already!

Waterproof camera bags work great unless they have a hole in them.

Longer belly lines are wonderful to cast until you have to perform casts off of your weak side and reach 90 feet while wading up to your chest on unstable rocks.

Riffle-hitched wet flies can out perform anything else if the conditions are right.

Full dress salmon flies are not just for salmon.

Steelhead can see everything in clear water, and small size 6 super low water flies can work.

A good fishing partner is a joy on the river, and a rare thing. Thanks W!

My skills need improvement when it comes to reaching ultimate distance with the fly turning over properly in the wind.

There is no magic bean. Time on the water is the only experience that pays. The short cuts that people are always looking for fall far short when it is time to pay the piper.

Short casts with only 20 feet or less of line out are necessary to cover pocket water and catch fish holding near shore. If I knew this fully when I fished the Deschutes, I would not have been hampered by trying to always cast across the entire river.

Even a difference in a hundred CFS in water flow can result in different holding lies and some runs will hold fish in one water level and others at a different level. The only way to discover this is fish as many runs possible and compare notes.

A wading staff is a necessary tool and not a sign of old age. I cannot believe the hazardous wades I did in years past without the aid of a wading staff. It also doubles as a hiking staff when climbing up and down basalt cliffs.

Don’t be afraid of fishing a run after someone else. Good anglers can sweep a run, but those lacking essential skills may never present a fly to the fish properly.

Watching master anglers hook a fish can be as much fun as catching them yourself.

Changing flies on bumped fish and waiting them out can work quite well.

Being polite and nice is priceless when gaining access from property owners.

Driving over mountain passes in blizzards sucks cheese.

Being from Wisconsin is a ticket for free conversation. I seem to be known as “That guy from Wisconsin.” And yes folks, we have steelhead here too. And, yes, I do know Dave Pinczkowski.

Sleeping at rest stops saves big $$ in the end over campgrounds.

Jet boats with gear anglers blow.

Western canned chili is quite good cold…

17 foot rods are a whole new ballgame. Trying C’s rod was akin to picking up a two-hander for the first time.

And…
It is good to be home.
Steelhead were caught, memories made, equipment destroyed, reels sang, loops formed, friends made, flies chewed up, and a good time was had by all. A big thank you to W who ferried me around after my VW blew its starter. Whitney and Brian, good sharing a campfire. Chris, your puppy is adorable, and that fish you hit was HOT! William, thanks as always. You keep me humble and inspired. Carl, Very good meeting you at last. Ken, thanks for the hospitality and the scotch. May your pipes be always filled!

The 32” wild hen that button-hooked me and then went 150 yards into the backing and was landed in the next run after a death-wade down river was especially memorable.

Thank you steelhead!

The steelhead bum diaries

The steelhead bum diaries

“Hi folks! Brad here for trustafarian productions on location in BC on the X river. Chad is in the river demonstrating his Skagit technique. Whoa Chad! What a hookup! Look at that chrome missle jump! It doesn’t get any better than this, folks! Baked lobster for lunch, and chrome fever all day. Say Chad, that’s about a twenty pounder, don’t ya think?”
“Yup, twenty-five maybe, Brad.”

We interrupt the current program to bring you the following excerpt from reality, sponsored by the classical angler…

Cut to a river somewhere in the PNW.

River journal… day one.

Got up before dawn. Morning temps in the thirties. Wading boots frozen. Ate a granola bar and drank instant coffee that tastes like cat pee. Drove to run and arrived first. Suited up and crawled down loose scree to enter river. Twisted ankle in process. Made several casts and boiled one fish before jet boat roared into run and began pulling plugs and chucking roe. Crawled back up scree and boulders to car. Had to choose path with least poison ivy and snakes.

Went to second run. Wind coming from upstream and howling. Casting difficult at best. Went to run on other side of river to allow for correct casting, but wind changed directions and is now blowing upstream. Tried to get to another run, but car won’t start. Got towed to little car place in town run by a guy full of tattoos. $600.00 later I am sitting in my tent shivering and drinking a can of local beer that makes PBR taste like mana in comparison.

Day two.

Got up at O’ dark thirty and drove to nice piece of water. Made two casts before waders began to leak. Repaired them temporally with candy bar wrapper and chewing gum. Hit a fish half way through run. Fish took out drag and came off. Fell in river and soaked camera. Watch died too. Wind is now howling directly at me. Went back to camp to wait out the wind.

2 PM. Wind subsiding. Raining now. Will fish the glory hole in a few minutes.

4 PM.  Blanked at Glory Hole. Dropped fly box in water and must dry it out.

6 PM. Last light. Rolled huge steelhead in glassy tailout on a hitched wet. Could not get it back. Will try again tomorrow. Ate cold soup from the can for dinner.

Day three.

Got one small 23” steelhead on a muddler. Where are the big fish?

Day four.

Pressure increasing. Hundreds of anglers descending on river. Dozens of drift boats floating today. Lost a nice fish this afternoon. Changed flies and got second pull, then nothing. This is a lot of work. Camp host went nuts last night and kicked me out. Thought I was a heretic. Now sleeping in my car. Got low-holed by a guy in the last run. Went to confront him, but thought better of it when I saw his bib overalls and crossed eyes. Caught one squawfish.

Day five.

Finally hooked and landed a nice 32” wild hen. Beautiful fish. Got so excited I fell in the river again. Waders leaking at seams. Skin drying out and cracking and bleeding. Sunburn on face peeling. Ate cold ravioli from can for dinner. Staying in car at side of runs. Freezing at night.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program…

“Hey Chad, nice shades dude! Let’s get the glory shot with that fish! Hold it out toward me and cock your hat. That’s it! Hold it out more. Perfect. What a nice fish. We are kicking some ass in BC, I tell ya! Let’s cut filming for an hour and hit the lunch wagon. Pierre has grilled tenderloin for us, and a set of dry waders. Cigars all around, dude!”


So…

I would like to remind readers out there that although this diary is somewhat fictional, the fact is that for every glory shot, we have to go through sacrifices and put in time on the water. Large production videos with entire support teams don’t exist for most of us. Cold soup out of the can anyone? All that hard work makes that electric grab all the more of a religious experience. I would not have it any other way…
Except perhaps the car breakdown, the dead camera and watch, the blown out waders, the new wading boots that the laces died on, the snakes and poison ivy, the wind, etc. etc. etc.

Nah… It is all good.

This is what steelheading really is. Tough hard work. Hitting six or seven runs a day from dawn to dusk hoping for that magic hookup. Living in primitive conditions, constantly cold, hot, or wet, and subsisting on a diet of gas station goo and terrible coffee. I would love to see a video of this.

The quintessential moment

 The last post for awhile as I will be off making memories casting a long line on big roaring rivers.

The moment

It is what wakes us out of a sound sleep, and fills out thoughts throughout the dark winter, as we tie flies and dream.
The take. The pull. The grab.
The first sensation of connection to an electric living thing. An unknown. An unseen. A hope.

Halfway down the gravel bar I spotted the power-lines, and smiled. There is just something about power-lines that seem to attract fish. Quite a bit of silly speculation has occurred around campfires as to this phenomenon. One angler explained to me that it had something to do with the fish’s homing sense and the magnetic field of the earth interacting with the overhead electric power. I speculated that it had to do with where the lines crossed the river; that usually being near a narrowing chute of oxygenated water.

Whatever it was, it seemed rather universal. I have found it on smallmouth bass rivers, trout streams, as well as big roaring steelhead rivers.

My fly was swinging well that morning as I cast a long line effortlessly with the two-handed rod. A size 4 autumn twilight was the offering of the moment, and confidence was at a high. I could almost feel the tension. Something was about to happen. The sun broke over the canyon walls just as I reached the power-lines, and the water began to slow and deepen. Expectation crawled up my spine like the electric current overhead.

My next cast was about half way through its swing when I felt the slightest tap. It was a delicate little pianissimo thing, like an angel alighting on the head of a pin. Twenty seconds later I almost disbelieved that I had felt it at all. Two more casts in the same place produced nothing but nervous tension, so I took a step down and cast again. Then the wind changed and began blowing upriver. “Crap,” I thought, “now I am screwed.”

It was that last long cast before the wind got me that was tapped subtly but authoritatively way out in the river.

I felt some slight resistance, dropped a loop of line, and let it tighten against the reel before lifting the rod to set the hook. A pulsing resistance raced down the line as the unseen fish began to realize that the pretty little thing he just ate had a pointy end.

The fight… the fish… all memorable.
However, it was that subtle grab, like the kiss of a small child upon my fly, way out in the river, which shines forth brightly in my memories.

It is rumored that the famous steelhead angler Harry Lemire used to cut the point off his hooks if the fishing was good. He just wanted the grab. There was a point to his enjoyment, but not to his hook.

The grab… the moment of bright connection when our dreams meet the river, and fantasy becomes reality for a tiny but sweet moment in time.

Some flies of the summer runs

Some flies of the summer runs

I love to fish classic Dee flies. They have a grace and charm unequaled in the world of flies. Dee flies are large winter dress flies tied on very long hooks, so application as a summer fly is limited. The solution is to reduce the fly. Here are three Dunt Dee flies. Two have white wings and one a more traditional turkey wing. I used dyed black golden pheasant feathers for the hackle, and wound in forward of the dubbing as one would in a hairwing. The reason for this is that with a shorted shank hook, it is difficult to place materials without becoming over-dressed. You know… overdressed! Like wearing a suit, three T-shirts, two rain jackets, and a top hat crowned with a sun-visor. Summer flies should be dressed lightly. The dubbing for the bodies is Angora goat and SLF blended, twisted in a dubbing loop, blended again, and wrapped forward. The hook is a size 2 salmon iron.

Then we have the muddler. A number of years ago Royce Dam, 1994 FFF Buszek award winner for lifetime achievement in fly tying explained to me what was wrong with most all commercially tied muddlers. A muddler is a simple pattern designed to ride in or just below the surface film imitating some sort of small baitfish. To achieve the effect of a baitfish outline, deerhair is spun to form a head. The original muddlers were fairly lightly dressed, but in subsequent versions the deer hair began to be packed tight in several stages to form a tapered head. Deer hair floats. Additional deer hair increases floatation. What the modern muddler did was to effectively become a sort of mini Dahlberg Diver. In order to sink the fly, tying companies added weight.

Royce told me that the original muddlers had a single turn of deer hair for a head, and were NOT trimmed. One had to very carefully stack the hair prior to setting the head, and then carefully make just one single flair and spin of the hair. The resulting muddler sort of pushes water while being free to sink if a heavy hook is used. I tied this one more as a waker on an Alec Jackson hook. I have been using this fly for awhile to test it, and it seems to perform as designed. Thanks Royce!

What is it about steelhead?

What is it about steelhead?

A meandering musing on the rather enigmatic, esoteric, irrational, and all consuming sport we call fly fishing for steelhead.

Why?
Why do we fly fish for steelhead?
Is it just purely because they are there? Do we fish for the same reason a climber is drawn to a mountain?
What are the inherent aspects of steelhead fly fishing that seem to captivate so many of us?

The fish:
A good point of departure is the steelhead itself. Chrome bright or colored with whispers of fuchsia, the steelhead is built like an athlete, and contoured with a water dynamic shape. It migrates hundreds of miles in its life dance, and is as unpredictable as the wind. Along with the Atlantic salmon, the steelhead is the ultimate fresh water game fish, and when hooked on a fly, gives all of itself in an unselfish joy ride of fear and power. Our joy is in the pursuit of these fish, not in their consumption. Feeling a soul connection as the fish burns off backing faster than a forest fire leaping up a slope keeps us in awe.

The rivers:
Steelhead would be nothing but inanimate objects without rivers. Rivers are timeless. They whisper and roar. They have personalities as wide ranging as we do. They have structure. They move. They are beautiful. To feel the raw power of a river as it sucks and pushes at your legs is like feeling the life force of a steelhead. After all, the steelhead is part of the river, and without the steelhead, the river is diminished.

Valleys filled with pines, mists on the river, basalt canyons: they all call to us, each with their unique smells, colors, and even tastes. If the steelhead is our spiritual worship, the river is our temple.

Scarcity, difficulty, etc.:
Steelhead are hard to come by, especially today as runs of wild fish are depleted, and entire river systems are vacant of chrome beauty. The simple scarcity of the fish, and the fact that we most often cannot see them, leads to our swinging flies with hope and yes, even faith. We have to believe the fish are in the river, even if for days on end it seems that we are just going through the futile rhythms of cast and swing. Fly fishing for steelhead is not a game of numbers. If it was, it would lose all interest for many of us. Instead, it is a game of patience. With every hour on the water and every run fished without a grab, we celebrate a sort of self denial, even a type of masochism which makes the eventual grab of a fish that much sweeter. This leads non-believers to condemn us as ‘nuts.’ “A whole two week trip, and you only landed three fish?” Yes…. What a fantastic trip it was!

There is a Zen quality to all this self-denial. We build up a sort of fish karma as we concentrate on the swing, confident that at any second, a fish will grab… right about NOW. Then, since nothing happened, we step and cast and swing again, even more confidant that this time it really will happen. The anticipation and frustration builds and builds until some anglers end up back at camp skulking around with long faces. Like the phoenix, they are ready the next day with renewed confidence and smile.

Steelhead fly fishing should be difficult. This is what makes it the zenith of our sport. The thrill of the chase by nature is by far the most fun. The appreciation gained through time and dues paid is a truer appreciation. No short cuts here. A single fly, a fly rod and line, and you. Our weapons should show restraint and respect.

Bill McMillan wrote in his introduction to Dec Hogan’s book A passion for Steelhead: “…Furthermore, fly fishing (for steelhead) is supposed to be an anachronism – a tradition of antiquated tackle choices to otherwise test mental ingenuity.” He goes on to point out that the difficulty is inherent, and that modern efforts to make it much easier and ‘dumb it down’ are an anathema. “The sport would not have the same fascination if it came easily…” he wrote.

The finest book on steelhead fishing ever written was not even about steelhead, nor was it about fly fishing. It was Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea. Think about it: Self-denial, exhausting delirium, the grab, the joy of success, the heartbreak, and the whole existential quality of the life struggle.

Perhaps the most powerful reason we fly fish for steelhead is freedom. In our fishing, we are free for but a moment in time, the rest of our lives are fettered to money, chattel, fears, and dreams deferred. For that one brief slice of time when we are connected to a wild running steelhead, we can feel what it must be like to be truly free. Free as a steelhead. We may escape to freedom, but it is the fish that is really free, and we can take a bit of this back with us into our world when after the fight, we release them again to go on their life’s journey, as we go on ours.