Sunday, March 3, 2013
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Little Brother
I called my little brother today to talk to him about some details for our upcoming fall steelhead float on the Deschutes. We discussed moon phase and float vs jet weekends and a few other pre-pre trip topics. He mentioned that if I subscribed to Fly Rod & Reel magazine that I might see a picture of him in the Winter 2013 issue. As I am not a subscriber but seeing as I was heading into the city that night for a dinner out with my family, I stopped by a bookstore and picked up a copy.
At the store I quickly flipped through the pages and then found the shot...my little brother photographed from the back, with a leaping steelhead in the background. Cool shot. When I got home I opened the rag to have another look and to see what the article (that he was pictured in) was about. As it turns out, the story is about my brother and his 3 friends and their annual winter steelhead camp. I skimmed the story and then called my brother..."Hey man are you 'Viking'?".
The writer chose to use the character's nicknames in the story. My brother, "Yeah that's me....". he mentioned that he had a pic in the mag but failed to tell me that he played a prominent role in the story. If you haven't read it, I might suggest you get a copy.
Later in the same conversation he said, "Have you ever read The Drake?". I had and I told him so. He asked if I knew the car called "Clyde" featured in the stories, "Ride with Clyde". Again I had and I told him so. He said, "I'm driving Clyde to steelhead camp next week". I said, "huh?...". He explained the legendary vehicle was taking on a new owner (one of the guys in his winter steelhead camp gang bought it) and he was delivering the car to the new owner at the winter steelhead camp. All I could say was, "You gotta send me a picture of that..." And he did.
At the store I quickly flipped through the pages and then found the shot...my little brother photographed from the back, with a leaping steelhead in the background. Cool shot. When I got home I opened the rag to have another look and to see what the article (that he was pictured in) was about. As it turns out, the story is about my brother and his 3 friends and their annual winter steelhead camp. I skimmed the story and then called my brother..."Hey man are you 'Viking'?".
The writer chose to use the character's nicknames in the story. My brother, "Yeah that's me....". he mentioned that he had a pic in the mag but failed to tell me that he played a prominent role in the story. If you haven't read it, I might suggest you get a copy.
Later in the same conversation he said, "Have you ever read The Drake?". I had and I told him so. He asked if I knew the car called "Clyde" featured in the stories, "Ride with Clyde". Again I had and I told him so. He said, "I'm driving Clyde to steelhead camp next week". I said, "huh?...". He explained the legendary vehicle was taking on a new owner (one of the guys in his winter steelhead camp gang bought it) and he was delivering the car to the new owner at the winter steelhead camp. All I could say was, "You gotta send me a picture of that..." And he did.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Sunday, December 16, 2012
While we sit in the snow II
I decided a little more painting was in order and nothing warms the soul in dead of winter like dreaming about bonefish...here is what I came up with:
Monday, December 3, 2012
While we sit in the snow...
I got a message from Tim Pearson at River Blend Studios and he suggested that I dig my paints out of hibernation and paint a picture of a Brule River Steelhead in exchange for one of his. Excited, flattered and a little scared were my emotions (in that order). I haven't painted in 10 years. With just the right push at the right time I decided to give it a go. He suggested that I paint for an hour or so and, when finished, box it up and send it to him. I headed out to the art supply store to update my supplies and returned with a few new drawing pencils, erasers, drawing pens, brushes and tubes of watercolor. Tim is a masterful watercolor artist and I decided to follow his lead and give them a try despite never having used them. Nothing like putting yourself on the spot...
Basically the end result was a graphic pen drawing with a watercolor overlay. I took the hour deadline and multiplied it by about 15. My painting, like my fishing is deliberate, intense and hard-earned. As they say in the "Movie" "...all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - came by grace; and grace comes by art; and art does not come easy."
The exercise was good for me and I was comfortable sending Tim the piece:
Tim followed up by sending me his beautiful rendition of a Brule Steelhead...I'm sure he probably cranked this out in an hour (which really pisses me off!)
Basically the end result was a graphic pen drawing with a watercolor overlay. I took the hour deadline and multiplied it by about 15. My painting, like my fishing is deliberate, intense and hard-earned. As they say in the "Movie" "...all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - came by grace; and grace comes by art; and art does not come easy."
The exercise was good for me and I was comfortable sending Tim the piece:
Tim followed up by sending me his beautiful rendition of a Brule Steelhead...I'm sure he probably cranked this out in an hour (which really pisses me off!)
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Steelhead Blitzkrieg II
I spent last week in a casino in Connecticut. Work related. Luckily all of the work was outside. Still, the hotel and the meals were inside the casino. Blue hairs wasting their final years and last dollars on the slim chance that they might win. It's draining, depressing if you look too long and think too hard. Twenty-somethings pissing away hard earned paychecks that they probably should be sending to the college loan folks or at least buying gas to get somewhere else.
Returning home, my flight touched down at the home airstrip and I turned on my phone...34 emails and 2 messages waiting. One of the messages was from McSteel. He explained that he was heading up north, before the river closed, to get in one last round of talks with the steelhead. He mentioned that his brother and JG were coming too. I could feel the envy surging as he asked me to call him back. I dialed and he gave me the game plan. He said, "I know that [your wife] is out of town for work this weekend and [my wife] says she will watch the girls if you can make it." I said, "Give me two hours and I'll call you back."
Fourteen hours later I was in the car heading north. Kids and McSteel's brother packed in along with waders, switch rods and a coffee pot. The casino slime was already drying up and cracking off.
I dropped the kids off at McSteel's house and almost felt guilty as we motored off, sans kids, to the river.
We stopped by the campground to see if we could secure a spot on a Saturday night. There are a moments in a steelhead trip when, despite my age and years astream, I still get anxious. One is pulling into the stream access point just before you can see how many other anglers have beat you to the spot. The other is pulling into the campground to see how many other guys had the same great idea you did and if perhaps just one decided to stay home and watch the football game, leaving a little patch of grass for you to drink a beer and sleep too few hours.
The campground was empty.
With our patch of grass virtually assured, we skipped the set-up of camp and headed to the river, wadered up and got to it. Start time: 2:00 pm. McSteel, being the understated maestro of this particular ribbon of all that is good, guided JG to the first steelhead of the trip within 30 minutes of ankles wet. I stumbled through trying to get the Elder Brother McSteel into a fish, but I am a lousy guide. I swung through the run behind him and caught a 14" chopper that was most probably a jack and even if it wasn't that's what I am calling it. Somehow it would be less of a failure if this little fish had been in the big water and swam with the intended target. If it was just a river bow, the connection would have been just that much farther off.
We fished a second run and watched downstream as McSteel hooked a steelhead of his own. In the gray half-light of the drizzly evening that started at noon, his rod bowed and thrummed as I sprinted downstream to get a photo.
And then, as if part of the script, McSteel paired up with his brother and promptly put him on a fish.
We shared an obligatory brew in the dark, de-wadered and headed back to the empty campground to stake our claim.
Tallboy PBR's, a hot woodstove and the smell of heating canvas and wet socks. Conversation that flows like the river itself. Another PBR and perhaps another...
Morning comes early when the plan is to hike in at first light. Today's beat included a familiar stretch of water and I relaxed a bit. McSteel took it upon himself to get me into a fish. He planted the other two guys in the #2 and #3 runs and took me to his #1. The rain was falling light but cold. The wind kicked up a little. I knew this run. I'd hooked fish in it in the past. Still, you are either a steelheader or you are not.
I am not.
I don't feel the mojo. I seldom think "this swing is moving through perfectly" or "one step to the bucket". I get my fish by keeping my fly wet and moving...over and over and over. I'm sure I screwed up the #1 run. I probably should have tightened up the angle of the swing to get the fly a little deeper. I probably could have tucked the fly a little closer to the log. My fly did tempt a little brown and that was cool...but it wasn't steelhead cool. I kept stepping down...past the bucket that McSteel himself would've have drained. I felt like it was needed. I was in a trance...freezing my ass off but covering the water. Swing, step, swing step...
The others were off on their own water when the little chromer hit my fly and then the sky. Maybe 21-22" inches of fat bright steel. Not big as steelhead go, but certainly not a river 'bow. I tightened my drag to keep her out of the alders but she took a leap into them anyway. After a few minute fight, I landed her and botched the photo opp. I started swinging again. Step, swing. Futher down I felt a tug and landed a torpedo brown that could've also been a lake fish.
At noon we pulled our chilled feet and light hearts from the water and headed back to the camp to warm up, pack our gear and head for home. Twelve hours of driving for 10 hours of fishing. This runs counter to my standard equation of 1:1 driving to fishing.
But, in this case, it was a smart move and sure bet.
Returning home, my flight touched down at the home airstrip and I turned on my phone...34 emails and 2 messages waiting. One of the messages was from McSteel. He explained that he was heading up north, before the river closed, to get in one last round of talks with the steelhead. He mentioned that his brother and JG were coming too. I could feel the envy surging as he asked me to call him back. I dialed and he gave me the game plan. He said, "I know that [your wife] is out of town for work this weekend and [my wife] says she will watch the girls if you can make it." I said, "Give me two hours and I'll call you back."
Fourteen hours later I was in the car heading north. Kids and McSteel's brother packed in along with waders, switch rods and a coffee pot. The casino slime was already drying up and cracking off.
I dropped the kids off at McSteel's house and almost felt guilty as we motored off, sans kids, to the river.
We stopped by the campground to see if we could secure a spot on a Saturday night. There are a moments in a steelhead trip when, despite my age and years astream, I still get anxious. One is pulling into the stream access point just before you can see how many other anglers have beat you to the spot. The other is pulling into the campground to see how many other guys had the same great idea you did and if perhaps just one decided to stay home and watch the football game, leaving a little patch of grass for you to drink a beer and sleep too few hours.
The campground was empty.
With our patch of grass virtually assured, we skipped the set-up of camp and headed to the river, wadered up and got to it. Start time: 2:00 pm. McSteel, being the understated maestro of this particular ribbon of all that is good, guided JG to the first steelhead of the trip within 30 minutes of ankles wet. I stumbled through trying to get the Elder Brother McSteel into a fish, but I am a lousy guide. I swung through the run behind him and caught a 14" chopper that was most probably a jack and even if it wasn't that's what I am calling it. Somehow it would be less of a failure if this little fish had been in the big water and swam with the intended target. If it was just a river bow, the connection would have been just that much farther off.
We fished a second run and watched downstream as McSteel hooked a steelhead of his own. In the gray half-light of the drizzly evening that started at noon, his rod bowed and thrummed as I sprinted downstream to get a photo.
And then, as if part of the script, McSteel paired up with his brother and promptly put him on a fish.
We shared an obligatory brew in the dark, de-wadered and headed back to the empty campground to stake our claim.
Tallboy PBR's, a hot woodstove and the smell of heating canvas and wet socks. Conversation that flows like the river itself. Another PBR and perhaps another...
Morning comes early when the plan is to hike in at first light. Today's beat included a familiar stretch of water and I relaxed a bit. McSteel took it upon himself to get me into a fish. He planted the other two guys in the #2 and #3 runs and took me to his #1. The rain was falling light but cold. The wind kicked up a little. I knew this run. I'd hooked fish in it in the past. Still, you are either a steelheader or you are not.
I am not.
I don't feel the mojo. I seldom think "this swing is moving through perfectly" or "one step to the bucket". I get my fish by keeping my fly wet and moving...over and over and over. I'm sure I screwed up the #1 run. I probably should have tightened up the angle of the swing to get the fly a little deeper. I probably could have tucked the fly a little closer to the log. My fly did tempt a little brown and that was cool...but it wasn't steelhead cool. I kept stepping down...past the bucket that McSteel himself would've have drained. I felt like it was needed. I was in a trance...freezing my ass off but covering the water. Swing, step, swing step...
The others were off on their own water when the little chromer hit my fly and then the sky. Maybe 21-22" inches of fat bright steel. Not big as steelhead go, but certainly not a river 'bow. I tightened my drag to keep her out of the alders but she took a leap into them anyway. After a few minute fight, I landed her and botched the photo opp. I started swinging again. Step, swing. Futher down I felt a tug and landed a torpedo brown that could've also been a lake fish.
At noon we pulled our chilled feet and light hearts from the water and headed back to the camp to warm up, pack our gear and head for home. Twelve hours of driving for 10 hours of fishing. This runs counter to my standard equation of 1:1 driving to fishing.
But, in this case, it was a smart move and sure bet.
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| McSteel attached to his namesake. |
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| Grip and Look Down |
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| Superior Steelhead |
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| Rare look inside the IC |
 |
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| Non-Target Species |
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| From Left to Right: us |
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Steelhead blitzkrieg
Left Saturday morning for a few hours of fishing on Saturday evening and a full day on Sunday. Total miles required: 708.
Sometimes you just have to go.
With flows in the low 100's and a bluebird day in the works, the odds weren't good, but sometimes you just have to place your bet and roll with it....and besides not betting at all makes you a gauranteed loser.
McSteel opened up the first night swinging up a jack and a nice chrome fish in the mid 20's. I never got a touch. We set-up camp in the dark, heated up the chili and pulled a few cold ones down before turning in.
With the alarm set for 5:15, I was jumpy and rolled out of bed at 4:00. Coffee on the cook stove and a few logs on the fire, a full day of steelheading ahead...pure joy.
Waking up in a warm wall tent with dry waders has gone from a luxury to a necessity...nylon tents have no place here.
We hit the river trail by headlamp and despite the low flows, we found some nice water with enough flow to keep the line tight and swinging. At noon I hooked up on a beautiful mid 20's chromer after stripping my intruder back through some soft water at the end of the swing. All of those beautiful swinging arcs and this fish thought it was a brown trout. I wrestled it up to the surface twice before it twisted and popped. Damn it. Good looking fish too. We scored some free eats at the local bar (Packer halftime viddles on the house) and power napped for 45 minutes, broke camp and hit the river hard until dark with only one more fish hooked and lost by McSteel.
The catching is the gamble...being there is a sure bet.
Sometimes you just have to go.
With flows in the low 100's and a bluebird day in the works, the odds weren't good, but sometimes you just have to place your bet and roll with it....and besides not betting at all makes you a gauranteed loser.
McSteel opened up the first night swinging up a jack and a nice chrome fish in the mid 20's. I never got a touch. We set-up camp in the dark, heated up the chili and pulled a few cold ones down before turning in.
With the alarm set for 5:15, I was jumpy and rolled out of bed at 4:00. Coffee on the cook stove and a few logs on the fire, a full day of steelheading ahead...pure joy.
Waking up in a warm wall tent with dry waders has gone from a luxury to a necessity...nylon tents have no place here.
We hit the river trail by headlamp and despite the low flows, we found some nice water with enough flow to keep the line tight and swinging. At noon I hooked up on a beautiful mid 20's chromer after stripping my intruder back through some soft water at the end of the swing. All of those beautiful swinging arcs and this fish thought it was a brown trout. I wrestled it up to the surface twice before it twisted and popped. Damn it. Good looking fish too. We scored some free eats at the local bar (Packer halftime viddles on the house) and power napped for 45 minutes, broke camp and hit the river hard until dark with only one more fish hooked and lost by McSteel.
The catching is the gamble...being there is a sure bet.
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| Fall |
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| "Never more..." |
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| Swingus Interruptus |
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| stokin' |
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| Bright Jack |
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| Fly box re-shuffle |
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| IC - Idiot Central |
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| Fresh Brew 4:15 am |
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| Rainbow trout or Steelhead...time will tell. |
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| Ribbon of Life |
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