Firsts

I was calling and texting with McSteel, KZ and RS, putting a plan into motion.  KZ and BL were heading up north to set up a huge canvas wall tent, throw down some cots, and fish.  McSteel and I were hashing out our plans for a slightly smaller canvas wall tent, some sleeping pads and fish.  RS had been up to the river a couple of weeks before and he was jonesing.  The itch got the best of him and he planned to load the getaway car on Thursday and drive up that night for a day or two of swinging flies.

On Tuesday, McSteel called to tell me that his son had just taken a nasty spill and broke his arm.  There might be a consultation or surgery or both.  Up in the air.  Not Sure.  Waiting for an update.

Wednesday he confirmed that he wouldn't be up that night and that he'd keep me posted on the other two days.  KZ said he had plenty of room in his tent so I blasted north with nothing more than a lodging revision...hardly a speed bump.

The tent was lantern lit and warm with the glow from the wood stove.  A huge pot of chili, recently unburdened from a majority of its payload, sat on top of the stove.  Instantly welcomed, warm and fed.

The rain fell through the night and didn't stop for daybreak.  Mostly well rested, KZ and I trekked upstream and fished. 

Rain be damned. 

The river was high but not too high, off color but not worrisome.  I fished with conviction.  After a few runs we found ourselves split-up on a deep slow corner, me at the head out of sight of KZ, while he worked the corner and tailout.  On the fifth cast, the fly swung across and then stopped.  I set and the tugs and thrashing began.  I gave KZ a whistle and he, armed with an eye for photography and his camera, appeared bankside.  He also brought a net.  "Do you want the net?" he asked.  It was a welcomed concept.  He deftly scooped up the thrashing brown, handed me the net and started taking pics.  Once a guide, always a guide.  I'd say the brown was 24", the second largest of my life and the largest I've caught on his river.  (I haven't seen his pics yet but with his blessing I'll likely hang one here when I get it.)

Fishing downstream that afternoon I got separated from the group and spent 4 hours on my own.  Another nice brown of 19"-20" fell for an Eat A Peach Leech and I fumbled with my own camera to get a shot before finally propping it up on the wet moss of the bank and snapping a decent photo.  I could have used KZ's net and camera skills again.

By 5:30, after 10 hours of non-stop swinging, I pulled on some dry socks, poured a drink and waited for the others to return.  At 6:00 KZ and BL trudged back into camp, at 6:27 RS arrived and at 6:30 McSteel had arrived.  We got the "IC" set-up and started a fire in the lantern light.  Most of these guys were meeting for the first time and fueled with a bellyful of BL's outstanding sausage and a drink or two, it became obvious that there would be no fistfights in camp that night.

The feeling was odd...something in my hair.  I pulled my arm out the warmth of my sleeping bag and swatted at what I suspected was probably a spider, but its departing footfalls on the floor tarp and then its silhouette against the tent wall betrayed the mouse.  It was early, but that was the end of my slumber.  Coffee was made, waders donned.

RS and McSteel and I took a drive down river after finding out that KZ and BL were packing up and heading home.  We took 3 cars to plug the parking lot of the river access we were targeting.  Perhaps a waste of fossil fuels but an excellent method for keeping too many other anglers from joining us.
It was the third steelhead trip of RS's life and he was still looking to land his first.  McSteel, who knows this water well, pointed us to the head of a run and then went downstream to work the tailout.  RS stepped in and started dropping beautiful casts onto the far seam and swinging through.  When he was 50' down river I stepped in and started to work the fly.  On the fifth or sixth cast, as the fly swung through water that I expected to be MUCH too fast for steelhead, the river exploded.  The thrash and run was electric.  The fished started to head downstream but then turned and ran straight at me.  I struggled to keep up and then watched the line go from tight to limp to slack. 

I was laughing at the sheer madness of the event as I checked my knot and then my fly and found the hook bent open.  "That was a nice fish." Was all I could think to say, and then laughed and probably cursed.

It was late morning, fishing behind RS.  He might have made a noise or it might have been the splash, but when I looked up his rod was arced and he was fast to a fish.  I couldn't tell if it was a trout or a steelhead until it rolled and left an impressive wake.  I stood with my camera and snapped pics of the battle. After a couple of minutes he brought the fish in close and grabbed the leader...gently working to coax the steelhead's beak out the water.  It was a beautiful fish, silver with a dark back 25" maybe more...it flicked its head and I heard Rob say, "NOOO!"

And it was gone. 

I tried to explain that a "leadered fish" was a caught fish, but he wasn't buying it.  "I just wanted to touch it."  He said.

It's a strange thing to be happy for somebody when they are disappointed and all for the same reason... but I understood.

An hour and a half later we returned to our original run.  McSteel looked at me and said, "Should we try it again?"  I suggested we run three rods through it and since RS had already caught one, McSteel led the charge and I followed.  RS stepped in much higher in the run than I would've started but I figured he was more interested in fishing than waiting so he moved up river and started casting.  We cast and swung, repeated and then stepped down. The events of the morning were completely reversed now and he swung his fly down through to near where I was standing.  I am convinced it was the same fish in the same fast water, that crushed RS's fly.  I missed the first part of the fight as I made my way to the bank and got my camera out.  By now, McSteel had heard the ruckus and appeared on the bank.  The fish thrashed in the fast water as we discussed how to get this one landed.  McSteel said he could tail it.  I happily stood by shooting pics.  RS made a million snap judgements on how to get his hand on this one.  In the end, the hook held, McSteel grabbed the fish and I stood by enjoying the show.

It was moment to remember...RS holding his first steelhead.

Special Thanks to KZ and BL for your hospitality, culinary, photographic and netting skills.
Congrats to RS for opening the flood gates.
And McSteel...what can I say.  We've been at this for a long time.  It seems to get better every year...Thank you.

RS's first...untouched but it COUNTS!

The Zone

It's been awhile.
Not because I have been lazy and too "busy" to write.
Nope.
It's because this is a fly fishing blog and there has been no fly fishing.
There is an upside.  I've watched my girls play some great soccer and work is going well.

But...
.... it has been awhile.

I flew in from the East Coast on Friday afternoon, packed up some gear and hit the road on Saturday morning.  I met up with Brother Bill and McSteel, loaded the Tacoma with rods, flies, waders and provisions.  McSteel offered to finish off the last two hours of the drive and I was all in.

We pulled into "the" campground as the light was falling.  In the deep gray November evening we saw only one other tent...a nylon version, perched lonely and coldly deep into one of the campsites.
The three of us were amazed less by the empty campground during steelhead season than by the soul who would choose to sleep a November night in a cold plastic dome.
Nylon amazement...because we have yielded to a higher power:  The "IC" (Idiot Central).The IC is the name given to the community canvas wall tent we were free to erect in any (of all the rest) of the other campsites we chose to claim.  

The IC is the most satisfying temporary structure in existence. 
Warm in temperature and ambiance, the outside world ceases to matter/exist once the steel stove is fired up and the IC is glowing with help from a lantern.  McSteel and few others plopped down some cash to acquire her a number of years ago.  I am not an "official" owner/member of the community canvas but I think I have established a solid foothold by virtue of squatter's rights.
AK pulled his truck in just before the evening's food, drink and incessant banter ensued.  Later, post lantern light,  the BBC rolled out of McSteel's portable radio with a timer set to shut it down in 15 minutes.  My personal dosage of the newsfeed from the UK lasted far less than the prescribed amount.

The tent was dark inside when I rolled up my sleeping bag, set a pot of coffee on the stove and opened the damper.  I stowed my sleeping pad, set up my chair and started getting ready.  I was in no real rush since the others were all still asleep or at least holding out.  I opted for a quick mash up of scrambled egg/sausage breakfast burritos on the cast iron skillet.  The morning unrolled as all camps will on morning one....excitement mixed with the slow confusion laced fog of the final night-cap and the disjointed order that is living, for the time being, out of duffels and totes.

We dropped a truck at the take-out and then took the shuttle upstream to the put-in.  By whatever forces are at work, McSteel and I headed further upstream and AK and Brother Bill headed down.

I don't really remember what happened next.  I just stepped in and started swinging.  I was telling the guys in the IC the night before that I intended to go "full-on west coast swing" and pull my hood up and tuck my left hand in my wader pocket just to see if I could hit groove and if not, I intended to look cool/foolish doing it. 

It worked.

My line slid down and across current and I fished the fly.  I had the sense that I was in the zone.  In retrospect I also remember thinking that I didn't care what zone I was in.  My hand was tucked and my hood was up.  My line tracked true and my guides froze.  Every 6th or 7th cast I popped the offending crystals out of the snakes and kept stepping down.  After what might have been 30 minutes but may have been two hours, I crossed the river and felt my waterproof camera bag hanging heavy.  I made it to the far bank and opened the bag to find standing water and destroyed camera.  A camera that has taken a majority of the photos on this blog and been with me everywhere.

My reaction was to bring it back to my truck, deposit it on the floor of the driver's side, step back into the river and step back into the zone.

At around mid-day when McSteel, Brother Bill and AK stopped for a brilliantly planned riverside fire, I just kept stepping down.  Swinging through.  I meant to care and I meant to turn around and join them fireside...but I didn't.  It had never been like this before, never felt quite this right.  I'm not sure if I was fishing or just enjoying the ride down river.  What I knew was that I didn't need to stop.
So I didn't.

I felt a small tug, pulled in a 10" river bow and snapped a quick pic with my phone, de-iced my guides and kept going. 

Along the way after the boys had tracked me down and AK was standing behind me on the bank he watched as a fish plucked me briefly and smartly.  I came up blank and uttered my best string of profanity just before ducking back into the zone and keeping on.

Fishless with the exception of one small river trout and the sun was dropping.  The air was hovering in the mid to high 20's and the water was not much better.  I fished my favorite run (after the group kindly ceded it to me....or perhaps they walked away cursing me after I jumped in first and staked my claim??)  I was leaning in certain of a take, poised heronlike....ready to react. 

Nothing.

I reeled up.

Done.

Thrilled at my day.

There was some talk of the runs further downstream and I figured that I'd watch the guys fish and just bask in my day of being in the zone.  I heard AK mention the second to next run downstream and then he stepped in to join Brother Bill on the current run.  McSteel decided to try the tail out of the run he was standing on.  I asked him if anybody was heading down and he said, "No man, you take it."

I thought I was done but decided to walk down for a look. 

This is a fools run. 
Easy access, hit hard, no secrets. 
A slow corner, with a relatively shallow flow that drops off only slightly on the outside.  It is a beautiful place to cast and it allows for a decent length of line.  I stepped in, dropped a snap-T upstream and fired off handed to the close side, extending each cast out and across until I reached the far side.  I stepped down.  Still in the zone.

I was third of the way down the run, still hitting my daylong stride in the zone when the fish creamed my fly and ran straight at me.  The ice in my guides popped under the strain as I stripped in line and stepped back trying to reduce the slack between me and the fish.  The boulder under my left foot was the perfect shape and height to drop me. 

I think I've only fallen while fishing maybe two or three times in my life. 
Never in November.
Never in water this cold.

I regained my footing and started stripping line. 
The fish was midstream now.  It bore down and tested the drag on my reel.  I recovered and stood wet and cold, in the deepest zone of the zone, feeling the strain and watching the spray. 

It was probably the largest steelhead I had ever hooked in this river.  27+ inches and fat so fat.
But I never touched it.  I never got the hero shot with my back-up phone camera.  I never got to hold it in the current and watch its gills flare before thrusting its broad tail for deeper water.

It seems that as I stood enjoying the lively thrum of graphite against freshwater power, the head shakes worked their magic and the hooked popped clean. 

Disconnected.

Yet...I was still in the zone.

I can honestly say that I can't remember having ever had more fun steelhead fishing.
It was blue fingers, iced guides, botched fish,  big one that got away, falling in, ruined camera...

...and the zone.

It's a magical place.
Go there if you can.
Return often.

Nailed it.

It was raining on my way North, but thanks to the various electrovoodoo weather apps on my phone I wasn't worried.  The front was passing through and McSteel and I were looking forward to a long afternoon of switch rodding for smallmouth.

In a pocket where his phone worked he called to tell me he ran into construction and traffic heading south out of the north-woods and that he'd be delayed.  Since the plan was to meet at a diner/burgerjoint for lunch he gave me his order and I told him I'd deliver.

The hatch of his rig was up and he was messing around with gear when I pulled in with his 20 minute cold cheeseburger and what was left of a large bag of fries.  The rain was still fallling in fits and starts but the sun was sending rays through the gray and we didn't acknowledge the precipitation as we took a few minutes to catch up and exchange news from our respective homes.

And then we fell into an afternoon of fishing...an easy rhythm that we have forged and worked out over 15 years of angling together.  Mostly fishing together, one a spectator, photographer or coach and the other the angler, caster, hunter.  But, from time to time,  we drifted apart, poking around a back eddy or pressing on around a new corner.

Early on, as we climbed out of the river up a steep bank, McSteel clambered up and with eventual secure footing reached his hand down to give me a pull up.  He knows that I could have easily followed his lead unassisted but since we are friends, fishing partners, it would never occur to him not to offer.   On this occasion he retracted his hand and said, "stay still, don't move..." which made me think of every western movie where the protagonist and his sidekick encounter a rattlesnake.  Only this time it was a giant fishing spider on my shoulder which he he deftly flicked off before requesting that I remove the one that was clinging to the back of his sleeve.  "Did you get it?" he asked. "Yep", I replied.  Toothy Muskies no problem...but we both prefer not to hang out with spiders.  Again he offered his hand and this time he helped me up the bank.

Give and take, flick for flick.  That's how we roll.

The smallmouth were in an exceptionally eaty mood.  We took it as a sign to swing and twitch gurglers and ska-oppers with our switch rods and we were not disappointed in the results.  We hung no record book fish but the sheer number of willing topside feeders kept us giddy until the sun had fallen behind the trees.

We walked the trail down to the last run of the day.  McSteel said it as I was thinking it,  "I wish this day would never end..."  

When we got to the final run, I stepped in and began casting as McSteel worked his way through the falling light to a point 100 yards below me.  I began casting, alternating between snap-T's and switch casts and focusing as much on the feel of the rod through the casting stroke as the fly through the fishing swing.  I could barely make out McSteel in the darkness downstream but the squawk of his Hardy as a nice fish pulled line through his guides gave me a good indication of where he was and what he was up to.

Vacation

The family and I packed up and jumped in my truck for a week up north on an island along Lake Superior's south shore.  My boat in tow, was jammed with bikes, coolers, lawn chairs and every other conceivable vacationing artifact.  Luckily the tires stayed inflated and the ferry only dinged me an extra $50 for the ride across.  The young lady selling the ferry tickets looked through the passenger window at me and said, 2 adults, 2 kids 1 vehicle and the boat and trailer?"  I said, "Yes and the dog".  "Oh, the dog is free, but I just need a sec to measure your little boat".  Which my wife thought was hilarious.   I wanted to go into a witty joke about guys with big trucks and big boats and then reflect on the symbolism of my small truck and small boat...but I couldn't compress my thoughts into a quick comeback and I let it slide despite continued giggles.

Suffice it to say the week came and went.  We scored a backdoor deal to use a private dock and beach that kept the kids and the dog confined and happy.  The kids swam and so did the dog.  My wife hit the lawn chair, read her book and the bikes were used.    I stole away for an hour in a rented canoe and paddled through a rainstorm firing flies at the tannin stained backwaters of a lagoon.  Pike and Bass in evidence.  I spent a day fishing with LK  (more on this in the next post) and another on my skiff with McSteel, shamelessly trying to apply what I had learned from LK the day before.

McSteel and I also took advantage of the yard space to line up various switch rods and lines to let fly.  There may be no finer way to tend a grill than exchanging tongs, for rods, for beers...and repeat.

The rented cabin left a lot to be desired even with the free snake and toad in the basement, but we lived and let live.

At the end of it all, sun darkened weary vacationers loaded up the small truck and tiny boat and headed south where my decompression Sunday took a turn when it was discovered that a contractor's nail had found its way through a waterline in my house. 

Vacation over.

rigging is cool

Sand Hill Cranes

rating: 1 star

at the food trough...a brilliant dragon waits.

Dog of Thunder

mid flight

Great Lakes sand

Private Playground (Thanks Frank!)

Bikin'

touchdown

pike

McSteel beaching it.

loading the rod...

On the platform

wet wading

long ball hitter

mowing the lawn

East Coast

With a work flight booked for Maine, I tucked in a 6 wt switch rod, a box of flies, my flats boots and my stripping basket.  Just in case.

I made a call to Steve at 12wt located in Portland and we made arrangements for me to stop by and say hello.  It's kind of a long story but it was due in large part to some information that Steve gave me back a number of years ago that put me on my first striper.  Since then I've typically given him a call when I make it out to Maine and he does I nice job of given me intel on the stripers.  It just so happens that Steve also runs a fly fishing clothing company that specializes in sun protection.  Partly in exchange for the good karma that he has passed along to me and partly because I need sun protection from time to time, I've bought a few items from 12wt and I gotta tell you, it' some good gear.  All that aside, I've talked to him on the phone, emailed him, exchanged text messages but I'd never actually met him.  So I stopped and he was kind enough to stay late and let me in.  It was good to finally put a face to the man.  He gave me the tour and showed me what they were working on for the 2015 line and it looks like they are going to continue to do good things.  I filled a shopping bag with a couple items that I wanted, bid him farewell and headed out to the falling tide.

I'd like to say that I stepped into a blitz and line burned my fingers with hard pulling stripers....But that didn't happen.  What happened is that I worked out the kinks in my switch rod casting, followed the tide as it receded and then stood in the dark Atlantic, wet wading, wishing I'd brought waders.  The sun dipped low, I trudged the soggy sand past the skeleton ribs of an old wooden ship, peeled off my wet clothes in the dark parking lot and turned my car north for the next days work.

Sometimes just getting time on the water has to be enough.