Through the Desert

Desert Steel...

The Deschutes is downright breathtaking. Every. Single. Time. Due to the natural beauty of the canyon, I've made a concerted effort to make it out to the river in each of the last four summers, fishing for steelhead during the last three. I typically find myself there during the hottest month of the year for both air and water temperatures. Due to these conditions, swinging for steel is much slower than the fall months of September and October. The water temperatures on the lower river are borderline creating a thermal barrier of sorts. This forces some fish to hunker down in the Columbia awaiting cooler weather and others to make their way upriver seeking colder temperatures. Due to this, most of my fishing has been concentrated above Mack's Canyon. Outside of an overnight solo float from Pine Tree to the mouth, I've mostly fished the river on foot. This summer, my friend Austin had a brand new raft, which had us following the railroad on the hunt for steelhead. 

Any overnight trip on the Deschutes should be on every angler's bucket list. The river's scenery, wildlife, and whitewater are worth the price of admission in and of themselves. The icing on the cake is a cold river (it could be colder) teeming with life in the form of redband trout, steelhead, and aquatic insects. Flowing through the desert, this attracts all sorts of wildlife from eagles, big horn sheep, ospreys, deer, mountain lion, chukars, otters, heron, and more. From a geologic perspective, the canyon walls reveal the history of earth. I often find myself staring at these walls, or the wildlife, and miss the tell tale signs of a steelhead's take. At night, the remoteness of the canyon reveals the Milky Way galaxy and an unfathomable amount of stars. On some nights, you are treated to consistent shooting stars as meteors burn their way through the atmosphere. When you share that all with friends, good food, drinks, and a cot under the night sky, the vibes become immaculate. 

Cedar Island

Luke Hatch and Austin Tighe

A New Year and a New River

The only moment of sun over four days...

In the winter of 1781-1782 Mt. Hood erupted sending hot pyroclastic flows and a lahar down the Sandy River basin radically altering the landscape. The lahar filled the river’s channel and covered an old growth forest with 26 ft. of volcanic ash, mud, sand, and debris. When Lewis and Clark arrived at the river’s delta entering the Columbia, the river was still recovering from the immediate aftermath of the eruption and devastation of the lahar. Therefore, the name they gave this system reflected what they saw and learned from indigenous tribes. The river has since reclaimed its bed but the remnants of the Old Maid eruption period are still highly visible when floating down the lower sections of the river as it carves its way towards the Columbia. The river’s native steelhead populations, like they have for eons, adapted to this changing environment because the eruption is a naturally occurring process. On the other hand human industrialization, clearcutting, hatcheries, and the damming of the river had a much larger negative impact on the system and the entire PNW. Nonetheless, the steelhead persisted. Over the years, I heard a lot about the Sandy River and was always looking forward to one day fishing it. 

Over the new year, I was fortunate to spend the first few mornings gearing up in the dark surrounded by moss covered trees and the sounds of a high Sandy River. With each passing minute, new light illuminated the day’s playground and conditions. Having never been on the Sandy, each bend revealed rapids, runs, and buckets to swing through with the ever present hope that my fly would intercept with a steelhead’s journey. It was a constant state of optimism and anticipation. As John Buchan once said, “a perpetual series of occasions of hope”. Looking back on it, the river, and the hunt, are all just one big metaphor for life and the new year ahead.

No salt, no steel?

Someday

Someday, I'll make it there, I swear...

Out of reach. Privatized. Too expensive. Too exclusive. Not enough information. The sport of kings. I have to hire a guide? A lottery system? Beats? Where am I going to stay? The list could go on and on, but these are a few of the excuses that repeated in my head over the last decade whenever I entertained the idea of heading north to go Atlantic salmon fishing in eastern Canada. Each time I seriously considered making a DIY trip at the end of the school year, all of those questions and doubts would inevitably squash the idea in my head. I always gave into fear and the unknown. One winter evening, I was listening to a live Instagram session between Topher Browne and Travis Johnson that discussed all things Atlantics when I did something I normally never do: ask a question. I wanted them to talk about DIY fishing, but didn't want to feel like a parasite seeking information. Instead I asked something that I actually find very interesting: "Do you ever think the PNW would adopt the "pay to play," model of eastern Canada in order to protect increasingly smaller populations of steelhead?" Topher laughed out loud at my mere mention of "pay to play". I believe his exact words were, "anyone that thinks that probably hasn't done much Atlantic salmon fishing". 

Touché Topher, touché...

Skunkings and Outliers

Great Lakes "Steelhead"

One fish per day. If I were to average the number of steelhead I've landed on the swing over the last 16 years on the Salmon River, that is what it would come out to. In general steelheading terms, that is a pretty good number. For real, wild, and native PNW steelhead, it is high. For potamodromous rainbow trout on the Great Lakes, it is low. For my style and ego, it is right where it should be. Keep in mind that I don't fish the lower fly zone, you'll never find me on the DSR, I'll seldom swing a few runs in the Upper, and I'll occasionally dabble in Altmar on a slow day. I like that number. It means that I get skunked quite a bit and every now and then I catch a bunch. That number keeps the experience from getting stale and ensures that I keep making the five hour drive as I burn the candle on both ends of a work weekend. Every now and then there are outliers. For example, in 2020-21 I didn't land a single fish on the swing on the SR in New York, but caught 3 wild summer fish in Oregon on the Rogue, North Umpqua, and Deschutes. This year, I fished nine total days and didn't catch a single fish on five of them. But...I landed almost 30 fish on the other four. Two outlier days where time and timing converged with pods of migrating fish, some fresh out of the lake. On days like that, you literally forget certain interactions, grabs, and released fish. Looking back on it, I prefer a particular day fishing with Mike Kohler, Nate Kohler, and two of their buddies. On that day, I took a back seat and helped them get into fish. On that day, I fished less, and only landed one. It was a big chrome hen on a dry line and a wet fly. That's the one you remember. Everything else is just skunkings and outliers...

Mike Kohler with the release...

The Shoulder Seasons

Scenes from the shoulder seasons...

If I had to break down my fishing exploits over the years, you'll probably find an identifiable pattern of activity that is heavily concentrated in the fall and spring. Building out a van and using it the past few summers has swayed my cycle a little bit, but those two periods that vacillate between too hot and too cold in the Mid-Atlantic region will always produce the most action. The in-between, or shoulder seasons, result in sporadic outings, less results, and are way more unpredictable. Within these shoulder seasons, my least favorite time to fish is during September. Overall, most waters are still way too warm to fly fish for trout. When you combine that with low water and high water temperatures from summer, I find it downright unethical to entertain the idea of trout fishing within that window. It grinds my gears when I see local guides posting about fishing in August and September because a weather window dropped the water temperatures to 66 degrees one morning. Ridiculous! I typically give trout a break during the month of September and will concentrate seasonal outings in the month of October. This gives trout time to recover from a long summer. As November approaches, I shut it down to allow the trout to spawn and do their thing. I won't pick trout fishing back up until the second shoulder season from January-March. That window is overall more productive, more ethical, and slowly ramps up to the peak months of April and May. 

Smalliepalooza

The annual Spring "Smalliepalooza" 

Over this blog's existence, we haven't taken advantage of the mid-Atlantic region's smallmouth bass fishery enough. However, we have begun to partake in this game over the last half decade, but mostly in the spring before the spawn kicks into gear. The summer remains almost entirely untouched. All of this begs the question; what are we waiting for? Is there a more fun fish to catch than a smallmouth bass? Is there a more fun fly fishing experience than smallmouth bass fishing with a group of buddies, good food, copious amounts of beer, and camping? I don't think there is... 

On the Coast

There's a place on the west coast that has quickly become a favorite spot of mine. A perfect concoction of mountains, beaches, rivers, forests, wildlife, and steelhead wrapped up in a relatively quaint package of proximity. Two spring trips have mostly kicked my ass from burning the candles at both ends, but that is the sacrifice to make for this sojourn to happen. I have no way of knowing how many steelhead have entertained the idea of eating my swung fly over the course of a week of fishing. I do know that I've only had one grab, which came from a player we found in a deep tailout. My buddy Austin was on an elevated position and watched the fish come out from a grouping of boulders and chase my fly. After a fly change, I failed to replicate the initial reaction. I switched it up again and added a little action to the fly. This elicited another interesting follow as Austin gave me the verbal play by play. On my fourth attempt, I switched up the angle, gave a slower swing, and added the action. The steelhead came aggressively and seemingly hit my fly hard without grabbing it. I pricked her. Subsequent attempts resulted without any interest. That interaction was probably one of my favorite angling experiences of all of 2024. What follows are images and scenes from two trips, which resulted in three beautiful steelhead for the crew. I am eagerly awaiting my return and any potential shots at redemption...

Teamwork makes the dream work...

Into the Mountains

Feeling small with Ben Paull...

After a few days of floating rivers and swinging flies in the Olympic Peninsula, Ben Paull and I hit the road in a desperate attempt to make the last Port Townsend ferry. As a traveling angler spending all daylight hours on the river, I always find it odd that I miss the sights of the open road while driving at night. We made the ferry with a few minutes to spare and I spent a good portion of the crossing staring out into the dark void of the salt. A few hours of driving later, we drove through Concrete, Washington. Having grown up in a town known for concrete, I found it ironic to be passing by the old remnants of a plant with a giant sign saying, "Welcome to Concrete". Around midnight, we arrived at a beautiful steelhead themed AirBnb, that we immediately checked out of the following morning. What followed was a magic carpet ride through the Cascade mountains and the rivers that converge off of their slopes. I felt small surrounded by the snow capped peaks and standing in the fast flows of the river. I didn't have a grab over three days of fishing, which made me reflect heavily on my efforts. Ben hooked and fought a large hen that threw the hook just when all the cards seemed to be in his favor. On the final day, spring time popped. We awoke to green leaves budding in the trees, dense fog, and a fresh coating of snow in the higher altitudes. It was a sight to see...

In the Rainforest

Ben Paull amidst moss, timber, and evergreen...

Ever since I started this fly fishing game as a 13 year old I've been enamored by images of steelhead and the beautiful rivers, mountains, and deserts they call home. Scenes of two handed casting surrounded by the temperate rainforests of the PNW have always captivated my attention. Flanked by moss covered trees anglers appeared to be lost in a Dr. Seuss book as they probed deep emerald green waters in search of a steelhead fresh out of the ocean. These images became engrained in my imagination and persisted in my dreams at night. Over the last several years, I've led a deliberate lifestyle that has prioritized these experiences. This past spring, I took full advantage of an earlier break and booked tickets to Seattle. A few hours after landing, I woke up Ben Paull in a motel in Forks, Washington to head to the river. What followed was an incredible experience in the very environment I day dreamed about for so long...

Guilt Free

A "screamer" of a chrome hen...

I've never felt more guilt fly fishing than swinging for wild steelhead on the hallowed waters of the North Umpqua. The feeling was inescapable and it haunted me everywhere I went on those banks. It was compounded by the number of suicidal wild smolts that would launch themselves at any and all flies moved over their heads. It took all of one day for me to realize why Lee Spencer only fishes a fly without a hook point. I have not had the same feelings on other wild waters from the Rogue to the Sol Duc. I can say with all honesty that I've never felt any guilt at all fly fishing for Great Lakes steelhead. With wild numbers fluctuating, and a downward trend across the board, I can see the Great Lakes increasingly becoming more of a destination, even for the west coast crowd, to swing flies for large lake run "steelhead". 

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...

Something big this way comes...

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...