On the Coast

A Photo Essay...

I'll Go Out Howling at the Moon Tonight

Time and timing are essential elements when fly fishing for musky with any degree of success. For an angler bound to weekend warrior status during peak musky season, timing can be an oxymoron. The best conditions almost always fall on working days leaving scarce opportunities to make it out on the water. When you finally do, shitty conditions create a general lack of confidence and a whole lot of hope dangling on a string. Even the best hunters can turn into hopers, which leads to missed opportunities when that big girl appears out of the gloom. This past year, my opportunities were scarce and I was getting a little antsy. I had not caught a musky on fly for almost an entire year. My worries slowly grew into a desperation and I decided that a mental health day was in order. I checked the week's weather window, flows, and the calendar. My analysis zeroed in on a key day with ripe conditions on a haunt I know well. I decided to call in sick. Sometimes, you just have to make the time when you the know the timing is right...

Walking the Line

My parents took a lot of time, research, and savings, to plan a family vacation in the Bahamas. Due to the pandemic, it was canceled twice. When it was finally rescheduled and the green light was given, I was in the midst of a cross country exploration in the van. I ended up flying out of Boise and convened with my family members in Atlanta for the last leg to the islands. Unlike my prior trip, I decided to pack fishing gear this time. It had been over ten years since I did some legit flats fishing, and with the target species being one of my favorites to pursue, I was stoked. I also couldn't wait to walk a flat with my brother again. This time, I even checked a bag that was filled with fishing gear, cameras, foam rollers, straps, and other equipment to put a kayak on top of the rental vehicle. That's right, the family rental car. In order to bonefish proper, I'd be walking the proverbial line between family time and fly fishing. Lucky for me, my family understands who I am, what I love to do, and willingly embraced some exploration. Despite that, I put some boundaries on myself to avoid crossing the line...

Hallowed Water

After almost a quarter century of fly fishing, you inevitably develop a "bucket" list of rivers that you want to wade into and species that you want to shake hands with. Idaho's Silver Creek has always graced the pages of the catalogs, magazines, and the books I perused as a young teen. It is famous for its brown drake hatch in the early portion of the summer, but the images that captured my attention weren't of storming mayflies. They were of anglers in float tubes fishing a relatively small, meandering meadow stream, with high grassed banks. Held aloft in their hands, arms extended, were the most beautiful, and massive, hook jawed brown trout you'd ever lay eyes on. Before the days of the internet, these types of images etched themselves into my long term memory never to be forgotten. After a lovely day floating a blown out Snake River, I decided to head further west to fish Silver Creek. With a day and a half before catching a flight in Boise, I bypassed the famed Henry's Fork to head to the horseshoe bend...

Yellowstone Teton Territory

A Beautiful Cutthroat From the Upper Teton River

One of America's most majestic views resides just outside Jackson, Wyoming in Grand Teton National Park. Towering over the serene fields, woods, lakes, and rivers are the peaks of Grand Teton, Mount Owen, Middle Teton, Mount Moran, and others. They vault directly upwards off the valley floor producing jaw dropping scenery from the surrounding countryside. This particular area has been fly fishing "meme'd" to death thanks to a variety of accounts making fun of Mark Melnyk's repeated use of the phrase, "Yellowstone Teton Territory," on his show: The New Fly Fisher. All jokes aside, the area is expansive, featuring famed waters and access to almost all trout species in the lower 48. With good reason, some of the most famous names in the fishing business call this, or have called this area, home. The wide variety of waterways to fish is astounding, it is relatively accessible, mostly on the lower end of the difficulty spectrum, and a whole lot of fun. On my end, I was simply passing through...

The Green

Picture Stories From The Flaming Gorge

I'll be honest, I never heard of the Flaming Gorge of the Green River until the day before I fished it during the summer of 21'. I had just departed Oregon and was traveling through Salt Lake City, Utah to check out the famous Provo River. Disappointed in the Provo, I ended up texting my friend Austin for recommendations. When he said, "The Flaming Gorge," I remember chuckling at the name and of the local town: "Dutch John." After a quick internet search, I found that the river has insane numbers of trout that reach upwards of 15,000 per mile. In addition, it has a reputation for growing some very large trout. A few hours later, I was boondocking on some BLM land prepping for the following day of hiking and fishing. Arriving at the "Little Hole," I hiked a ways up into the lower end of the Flaming Gorge. In the early morning light, I swung up a few solid browns before the sun revealed sight fishing opportunities to brown trout up to 22". I caught them on top, on droppers, and on streamers. As I hiked further into the gorge, I was taken aback at the beauty of the canyon walls, the wildlife, and the sheer quality of the fishing experience. The only downside, especially for an angler on foot, was the amount of people floating the river. Starting around noon, an endless procession of guides, rafts, kayaks, and SUPS formed a continuous line down the middle of the river. I didn't have a whole lot of time to spend, but the river planted a seed in my mind to eventually return. In the summer of 22', I came back to Dutch John at a slightly different time and with an entirely different approach. 

It was memorable...

One and Done on the Deschutes

A Story of Highs and Lows Shooting the Deschutes

August 22'

Maupin is a quintessential western river town nestled along the Deschutes River canyon in central Oregon. It is an oasis amongst the surrounding high desert and sage brush, attracting tourists intent on enjoying the river’s bountiful recreational opportunities. The community consists almost entirely of rafting and fishing outfitters, guides, and the small businesses that support tourism. The main drag features bars, a coffee shop, a hardware store, a cafe, the rafting companies, and probably the best fly shop in the United States: Deschutes Angler. I was simply another tourist, of the fish bum variety, intent on catching a wild steelhead on a swung dry line. The ODFW decided on August 15 as the day to reopen steelhead fishing after the brutally low return numbers and high water temperatures of 2021. Stepping out of my van onto Main Street, I could sense that there was a buzz in the air, and that I wasn’t alone in my intended pursuit.

A Not So Fleeting Fall

Early Morning Gloom...

Seasonal changes can often be abrupt, or they can linger into the next season. In most years, the fall transition occurs suddenly giving way to winter winds and cold temperatures. The leaves begin to change and a few days later are being blown, raked, and swept off yards across Pennsylvania. In others, the change is gradual, the leaves reach their peak, and a weather event never comes to signal their doom. It can be downright breathtaking to be on the river during this time. The only thing prettier is a colored up brown trout preparing themselves for their yearly procreation. The fall of 2022 will be remembered for a long time...

Four Years

A typical summer sunset from the back of the van...

After three straight days of trout fishing in the Flaming Gorge, I found myself with a signal at a prominent overlook. I reconnected back to the world, caught up with family, cooked a meal, and checked my boondocking apps looking for a place to stay. Rather than drive far, I decided to head down a long dirt road that I'd been watching numerous off-road vehicles, kitted out trucks, and a few RV's turn onto. By the time I decided to follow them, I had no idea if there would be any spots left, or if they'd welcome me alongside them. With the lack of four wheel drive in the van, along with a scant amount of clearance, I always find myself rolling the dice in these types of situations. As the last light faded below the horizon, I turned off the main dirt road down a riveted finger being ultra careful to not bottom out and/or get stuck. It led me to the edge of a cliff overlooking the lake and a clearing where vehicles had previously parked. I set up shop, grabbed a cold one, and checked out the stars before hitting the hay. In the morning, I made some coffee and walked to the edge of the cliff. I immediately spotted a prowling carp in the shallows. The last time I casted at a carp was almost four years ago but the image in front of me was stirring something within my fly fishing soul...

Buster Wants to Fish

Buster

When I arrived at my Uncle Tony's house in Colorado Springs, he promptly informed me that, "buster wants to fish". That iconic line from A River Runs Through It made me chuckle as I realized my Uncle wanted to trade in his red Hills Brothers can of worms and take on a more worthy pursuit. After a stint in the Navy, and a career at Berwick Electric, he finally retired. His good friends had gotten him a substantial gift card to Angler's Covey and he wanted to get rigged up for a retirement of fly fishing and other bucket list items. Before we went shopping, I took him out to the van and picked out a few different styles of trout rods for him to cast. He liked the most expensive one and ended up buying the rod, a new reel, line, vest, net, pliers, tippet, and flies. In other words, he was fully kitted out. I convinced him that he didn't need waders yet. We tried to avoid the crowds and fish some beginner friendly water within the South Platte system and settled on Tomahawk. It was pretty cool to get him going in the right direction and let him go out on his own. It took a little bit, but he started catching some fish on his own. I hope he continues the pursuit and finds that a fly rod can take you to some awesome places filled with experiences that you won't soon forget. 

Tangled Up in Blue

Cabo San Lucas

I flew out of Denver International Airport. At the various concourses, it seemed as if every fourth person had a fly rod attached to their carry on and all of those people sported various forms of fly fishing paraphernalia. On the plane, I counted at least six fly rods and sat across the aisle from a guy reading a popular fly fishing magazine. During the four hour flight, I occasionally took a peak at the articles that were mostly salt themed. I resisted the urge to talk to him because I wouldn't want someone to talk to me in the same situation. However, that didn't stop me from eavesdropping on various conversations on the plane. I heard about destinations, pangas, sailfish, grande roosterfish, ladyfish in the surf, and coastal dorado. All of this made sense as we were flying to the tip of the Baja Peninsula, an epicenter of inshore and offshore fly fishing. From the airport these anglers would disperse in various taxis to their destinations, outfitters, guides, and the fish of the lifetime that awaited them. I was simply part of the herd...

The White

Heaven ain't too far away...

When I was 12, a family friend named Stephen Konopka found out that I was interested in fly fishing and bequeathed to me a giant stack of fly fishing magazines and Orvis catalogs. In one of those magazines, was a picture of Rip Collins' world record brown trout that came out of the Little Red River in Arkansas in 1992. At over 40 pounds, it was hard for me to fathom that a brown trout could get that big and that it was possible to land on light tackle. The magazines, and the images inside of them, were a large part of why I ended up getting a fly rod outfit for my 13th birthday. The rod put me on the path that I've been on ever since. One day I knew that journey would eventually bring me to Arkansas, just like it did with anglers from around the world. Rip's giant brown literally put Arkansas on the world's radar as a fly fishing mecca for trout. Since then, the legend of the Ozarks only grew and my desire to to fish the Little Red and the White River intensified. This summer, I made my way down south, and found myself with a few days to play on a famous river. 

It lived up to the hype. 

Appalachia

 

"Yeah, I love me some California, but it sure ain't Tennessee"

The Dreams of Spring

Springtime dreams...

With swing season in the rearview mirror and temperatures on the rise, the mayflies of spring begin to stir. Nymphs, in various stages of their life cycle, become a more frequent part of the drift. The two handers get put away and the fishermen's routine changes to the tune of the hatch. It typically starts with gordons, then hendricksons, cahills, sulphurs, and finally slate drakes. The usual suspects like caddis, blue winged olives, and the occasional stoneflies round out the daily diet. Four and five weights come out armed with lengthy Harvey leaders tapered to whatever you can get away with. Boats and rafts are launched at unusual hours frequenting smaller sections of river with floats that last well past daylight hours. Anglers are on the hunt for subtle bank side rises and the occasional gator mouth breaching the surface. It is all so fleeting, forcing anglers to give up their daily routines and strain relationships to be on the water, and in the moment, for as long as possible. Battles are lost and some engagements are won. Victories involve smiles, laughter, shit eating grins, and lifelong memories with friends and family. 

These are the dreams of spring. 

The Swings of Winter

Brown trout perfection 

on the 5110 Loop Opti NXT 

I start fly fishing for trout again in early October when the water temperatures drop into the 50s and I'm sure the trout have recovered from the summer. A man has to have a code. 

I stop fishing for trout at the end of October once I see the first signs of trout pairing up. Even then, it might be a little too late, but a man has to have a code. 

I don't pick up my trout spey rod again until after the Christmas holiday and I'm pretty sure most of the spawning is done. Even then, it might be a little too early, but a man has to have a code. 

A growing, albeit vulnerable, wild brown trout population is spawning and I want to let them do their thing. A man has to have a code. 

The guides can continue to guide everyday, anchoring their drift boats on the gravel tailouts "fishing," but a man has to have a code. He goes musky fishing instead...

In the winter, I could grab a box of nymphs and a bobber, but I don't. I know I can do that. A man has to have a code. 

I opt for the two hander, the swing, and the oft chance that a fish will move in near freezing temperatures to eat my offering. A man has to have a code. 

The handicap continues until the mayflies start to stir and the first trout begin rising. A worthy pursuit forcing me to put the trout spey rod away. 

A man has to have a code...