Birthday Party on the North

The North

The North Umpqua is well steeped in the traditions and history of the swung fly. Known as the "graduate school" of steelheading, it has drawn anglers from all over the world to its unique emerald green pools, runs, and tailouts that flow over vast ledge rocks. The river is flanked by tall pines and volcanic features that add to its overall beauty and appeal. Old school legends like Zane Grey and Jack Hemingway, and more modern ones like Lee Spencer and Frank Moore, have all waxed poetic about the river over the years and have done a lot to protect it. Almost forty miles of the river is a "fly only" section that requires anglers to basically only fish a dry line. That is highly appropriate for the surface oriented summer steelhead that call the water home. It also provides them a catch and release "sanctuary" of sorts as they wait out the high water of the fall. These fish are special, and like others in the region, are threatened by a host of natural and human variables, including the god awful Winchester Dam. The North's beautiful wild steelhead hold in deep waters along ledge rock, their surface orientation and preference for a skated fly produces a moment in fly fishing that is hard to replicate elsewhere. Combining that moment with the surrounding beauty is what creates the vast appeal and continually brings anglers back each season. 

Renowned PNW guide, Rich Zellman, once said that the North Umpqua has a habit of providing a "gift" to anglers plying its waters for the first time. I was a recipient of one such gift, as I had a beautiful hen smash my skated muddler in the tailout of Log Pool about 90 minutes into my first ever session on the river in 2021. That moment left an indelible impression upon the direction of my future fly fishing pursuits. That summer on the North produced only 400 or so summer steelhead on the river due to high temperatures, drought, and intense fires that took out most of the Umpqua's surrounding forests. It forced me to heavily self-reflect on my angling pursuits and the value of a single fish. I've been back a few times since, but was never able to bring another steelhead to hand like I had on that early day one dawn. I've had several chances, but never sealed the deal. The river and its silver kept calling me back. On the morning of my 39th birthday, I found myself driving to the river. The only gift I wanted was a dry fly chrome steelhead out of the confines of this iconic river...

Looks nice, maybe I'll skate a fly...

Wild Beauty...

The White Whale

The Deschutes

Swinging flies for wild west coast steelhead is a difficult proposition that is well known within our little niche of a sport. With declining population numbers from a myriad of circumstances, the chances of encountering one of these elusive anadromous trout has dwindled, especially when faced with the climatic changes from a warming planet. For a fish that doesn't eat when entering freshwater, it can also be challenging to illicit the necessary reaction to trigger their predatory instincts from their time spent in the ocean and as a smolt. So for a two handed angler swinging some feathers on a hook, it takes a lot of time, effort, and energy to find the intersection of all the variables at play. If one's life does indeed cross paths with the migration of a steelhead, will your cast be pure? Will the angle of presentation and the speed of the fly get noticed by the fish? Will the fly even matter? Will the steelhead make the final commitment to the fly or peal off never be seen again? Will you stay patient and wait for the weight of the fish or blow the hookset? If hooked, will you be able to keep the fish pinned on a barbless hook or will it shake free on a jump, head shake, or landing attempt? There are so many variables and obstacles to overcome for a few precious seconds admiring one of the prettiest fish on earth. For some, this challenge defines their angling adventures. For others, they are simply hoping to catch one. It is one of our sport's white whales...

Austin Tighe Dropping a Bomb...

It's All About the Hang...

One Battle After Another

Turn, Turn, Turn...

Saltwater flats fishing can be boiled down to specific moments of memory involving heartbreaking defeats, confusing punches in the gut, and adrenaline filled dopamine enriched triumphs. For the traveling DIY angler that only finds themselves on the flats once every few years, those moments carry you until the next chance you have at sealing the deal on some of the most popular gamefish in the world: bonefish, tarpon, and permit. Whether in victory or defeat, there is something about the permit that weighs heavier than bonefish or tarpon. It could very well be the mystique and hype generated amongst fly anglers, but for me it is from my own personal interactions. I can honestly remember every interaction I've had with the permit I've casted to. I can't say the same for every bonefish or tarpon because those moments have been far more numerous and successful. If I can get a good angle at a bone or a cruising tarpon, I'm fairly confident that they will eat, or at least entertain, the fly. The opposite is true when I'm stalking a permit. I simply have no idea what is going to happen on that presentation and how they will react. Sometimes textbook perfect presentation results in the perm darting off the flats. Other times, it is as if they don't even see the fly until they brush up against your tippet/leader. Their body language and behavior is too hard for my novice eyes to ascertain and I've had too few reps. Regardless of ops and experience, tarpon and bonefish are still no cake walk and the same can be said for giant barracuda, sharks, and other species one can encounter while walking the flats. Simply put, you win some battles and you lose some too...

Shufflin'

Victory...

Nam VOR 7126 Review

The Nam VOR 7126-6

Gr. Window 420-480

After a few years of traveling to swing flies for steelhead out west, I began looking for a 6-piece travel rod in order to save money from not having to check a third bag. I almost always fly with a Watermaster Kodiak raft to allow better DIY opportunities, which means having to pay an extra $200, or more, for each flight west and back home. Travel rods slide right into the bottom of a checked bag and don't require an expensive rod case to house them. Another positive byproduct for me, is that it simplifies my approach by bringing less gear. There are a good amount of 6-piece rods on the market and almost all of them are at the very high end with prices north of $1,000 dollars. Nam Products is a company that offers a wide selection of 5-6 piece spey rods and I've grown to like my Original Series 7137-4 quite a bit. When they announced the new VOR series, coming in at a mid-price point, I was definitely intrigued. In the American market they are offering a 7126-6 and 8132-6. I wanted the rod to be my primary piece for summer steelhead and one that could moonlight as a backup winter rod in lower 48 steelhead rivers. You can say I was pleasantly surprised, even shocked, at the quality of casting performance from the Nam VOR 7126-6. On a recent trip to Oregon, I was able to fish the rod on the Deschutes and North Umpqua. The VOR met, and exceeded, what I was looking for. The VOR has me seriously rethinking its aforementioned uses because it is a quality stick...

Bridge Tributary 475

A sweet, affordable, travel rod that can also be your main rod...

The Bottom of the 9th

Dan's 40th Birthday Trip

It can be tough to live up to the hype of something deemed legendary. For those that have read this blog since the beginning, you may have been most captivated by our trials and tribulations fly fishing out on the far end of the Lesser Antilles. You wouldn't be wrong to say that it was our peak, or our "good ole days". It was a blend of storytelling, adventure, successes, failures, photography, combined with the fact that Instagram didn't exist yet. In those days, Dan was a reader that became enthralled by our experiences which led him to reach out to us. We ended up meeting, and becoming friends, at the Somerset Fly Fishing Show. Afterwards we fished occasionally in Pennsylvania and New York before he moved to Florida where he worked for the Bonefish and Tarpon Trust. After several years, he moved back to Pennsylvania where we've only grown closer as friends. Currently, he serves as the president of his local Little Lehigh TU Chapter and he's a board member of Keep Fish Wet. When the opportunity came for us to return to those islands, it was only natural for us to invite Dan for part of the journey. Once invited, my brother and I realized that we suddenly had to make a decade and a half of anticipation, hype, and stories live up to the legend...

The Search...

A Walk Off Bonefish...

Surf Bones

Paradise

Outside of permit, the salt species that I get most excited about are bonefish due to the sight fishing opportunities they provide and how they truly test ones gear on the flats. On this particular trip, I had multiple shots at some mega-sized bones. When I say "shots," I actually mean glimmers. The moments were fleeting due to where I encountered them, which was typically in the surf. The geographic features of these volcanic islands do not produce the traditional flats that one would find in the Bahamas or The Keys. They are smaller, rocky, and full of dead coral that make landing a fish incredibly difficult. A lot of these micro flats have waves rolling across them. When combined with wind and glare it is very difficult to spot a bonefish and get an accurate cast off before they vanish. Here, it is rare to see a grouping of bones with more than 2-3 fish. More often than not, they are solitary prowlers. Another area where a lot of these larger fish are encountered are directly on the beaches where the unpredictability of the waves, and the backwash they produce, give you such a short window to make a presentation to sighted fish. On top of that, the presentation of the fly becomes difficult due to the sheer power of the current moving in and out along with the changing turbidity. The task is an exercise in patience as you have to wait for a viewing window that is only open for a precious few seconds before it closes again. More often than not, you don't see anything. Sometimes, you see the image of solitary giant bonefish that will haunt your dreams at night...

Wind, waves, current, and a lot of sharp objects...

A good one found in the surf...

Balancing Act in Blue

The Return...

In 2009, Matt and Stacy went to an international job fair for teachers in Boston, Massachusetts. They left with multiple offers at various destinations around the world. They ended up accepting positions on the island of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. The decision for them was bittersweet. The act of leaving their inner city Baltimore teaching gigs was the easy part.  The more difficult one was leaving friends and family behind and embarking on a journey living in multiple countries over half a decade. On my end, I was definitely going to miss my brother and future sister in-law. On the other hand, their decision meant that I had a free place to stay and fish in a tropical paradise whenever I had the time to go. Looking back on those trips sleeping on deflating air mattresses, small couches, bare tiled floors, hammocks, tents, and in the sand, I've come to realize that they were some of the best days of my life. At the time, I was young and naive, so I didn't truly appreciate the moments for what they were. However, I have very fond memories chasing bonefish, casting at the rare permit, and dancing with tarpon under street lights at night. I last said goodbye to these islands in 2012. Deep down, I always knew that we'd eventually go back. Twelve years later, we finally did...

Finding the balance between family and fishing time...

A tanker in between being "Uncle Mark"

"Sun"

The sun sets in the Caribbean...

I fondly remember a story from my childhood of an image my mother took well before I was born. She was into photography in those days and had a Pentax film camera that she used to document college, marriage, and building a family. She took a photograph of my Dad walking my young brother down the road we grew up on. The sun was setting in the background between the trees and casted beams of light down onto my father as he held his first born's hand. I only saw the image a few times, but I distinctly remember the story behind it. My mom entered it into a local photography contest. In its entry, it simply had a one word description, "Son". That story was on my mind during my first night back in the Caribbean on a chain of islands I hadn't seen in over a decade. I was watching my brother play with his son in the pool as the sun began to set on the horizon. As I framed the shot, the image my mother took a long time ago came back into my memory as I realized I was recreating it for my brother and his son. I was glad to capture the precious moment for Matt and preserve a memory for Isaac, who will most likely not remember it. Maybe one day, he'll capture his own version of my Mom's image and add it to the family line...

"Son"

My mother's photo unearthed...

Returning to a special place from our past...

The Old Man

Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you...

The old man made the walk every evening I was there. I never saw where he came from and I never found out if he was a local, or like me, a tourist. His walk passed directly by my van on his way down to the beach and into the water. We usually exchanged pleasant nods, no doubt due to the language barrier, which was for me a subtle recognition from one fly angler to another. Nothing more needed to be said on either end. He represented his era with a fiberglass rod, Pfleuger Medalist, neoprene waders, an old-fashioned vest, and a hat that had seen plenty of sun and rain in its lifetime. The gear was simplistic, well worn, and honed to the specific task at hand. From his perspective, he found me tinkering with my spey rods, changing out shooting heads, tying flies, or gearing up the single hander for a striper session. The exorbitant nature of my equipment, and its volume, stood in complete contrast to the old timer's approach. I usually felt a slight sensation of embarrassment as I overthought and complicated the most simplistic of fly fishing pursuits...the swung fly. 

Palooza

8th Annual...

The trophy was conceived well after the fact. After multiple years of jokingly contesting the largest "chub," during our annual "Smalliepalooza" pre-spawn extravaganza, my buddy Dan Dow decided to create a trophy. The basis of the trophy was formed out of various gear found during a day on the water. In this case, a chatter-bait and the classic red/white bobber. A few blocks of spare wood and a black sharpie rounded out its overall vibe. It was also renamed to the "Bass of the Year," or simply of the weekend's palooza. The trophy added some extra incentive to our 8th annual gathering. What started as a spring trip with my brother has slowly morphed into a planned multi-day event, a non-stop group chat, and a guest list of almost 20 names. As usual, that guest list gets smaller and smaller as the actual date of fishing approaches. Middle aged men with families don't fare well with actually showing up. For those that do, it can be some of the best, most fun, and exhausting fishing of the year. This year we had three new people join the fray with my brother's long time friend Travis marking his first time fly fishing with several nice bass. Dan's brother in law Chris also came for the first time as did Ryan's friend Collin. Overall, I think we're still working on balancing sun up to sun down fishing with leisure, food, and drinks thrown into the mix. We are also looking on expanding to multiple waterways despite thoroughly enjoying what this creek has to offer. If you know, you already know...

 

Matt Erdosy takes the crown...

Live People Tonight

Steelhead Green

Over the past few years, I've made a concerted effort to consistently put myself in places and moments that I want to experience. In that time span, those places have overwhelmingly been on rivers near mountains, coasts, and canyons that hold anadromous fish, particularly wild steelhead. Rivers that harbor Oncorhynchus mykiss are some of the most beautiful and pristine places on earth and there simply aren't many of those places, or fish, left. While I'm still relatively young and limber, I'd like to continue exploring those places with friends and hopefully shake hands with a few special fish. 

Of course, my mentality has always been one of accomplishing the task on my own accord. On the difficulty spectrum, this means "swing, or go home". It has to be on a two handed rod, with a fly that I tied, in a run I picked out, all without the help of some paid influence in the form of a guide. There is a higher level of satisfaction that comes with accomplishing that goal and its way easier said than done. I've been fortunate to get wild summer run fish to hand on the North, Rogue, and Deschutes. On the other side of the coin, I've found the winter run to be an entirely different beast. I've had one wild handshake on the OP and a hatchery fish in Oregon. The lack of success hasn't deterred my efforts, it's only made them more eager. With that in mind, I returned to the coast for a third consecutive year with the hope of crossing a particular river off my list. This particular place is probably my favorite and its mostly kicked my ass. On this sojourn, the variability of winter reared its ugly head and provided a voluntary beatdown of epic proportions...

Phil "Little Knees" Kirkland

Luke Hatch and Austin Tighe

Pride and Prejudice

A tale of two very different muskies...

The hunt for musky on fly has become a glorified pursuit on social media and beyond. The term, "fish of 10,000 casts," seems overused as is the adoration bestowed upon certain musky fisheries and accomplishments. Fly fishing has always been, and will always be, relative to the location one is fishing, the amount of time someone has to fish, and how much money they have to increase their chances at a successful pursuit. Specific fisheries are simply easier to catch fish in compared to others due to population size, fishing pressure, and geographic location. For instance, a 20" brown trout on the White River in Arkansas doesn't mean a whole lot because they are bountiful and relatively easy to catch. Conversely, the same fish on a small, intimate, and highly pressured creek is a much different type of accomplishment. The same can be said for an angler that travels to the Bahamas to DIY bonefish and catches a double digit fish on foot by themselves. That is a big deal compared to hiring a guide that takes you to the place, spots the fish, tells you when/where to cast, set the hook, and lands that fish for you. This can extend to the swung fly too. A public water Atlantic Salmon is quite different than one from a privatized river with beats, fees, less pressure, and guides that know exactly where the fish are. Fly fishing media places a tremendous amount of pride in accomplishments that should come with an asterisk in the form of the whole story. Most anglers, especially the general public, are ignorant towards what goes into the imagery they see flooding their screens. When that media is saturated with an endless amount of content the lines become very blurry and there is no differentiation anymore. The stories are often unknown and under appreciated. They are replaced with a tap and a swipe never to be heard of, or thought of, again...

The fish of 10,000 figure eights...

Some people have to wait and put in much more effort than others have to...

This Happiness

Largest musky of the year...

Sometimes in order to make it happen, you have to go out of your way to put yourself in the moment. The opportunity cost of fishing during prime time often means sacrificing relationships, work, and more to be on the water when you know it will be good. There are other times, where you just need a break from the day to day grind of life and the water provides the necessary inner calm you need to find your peace. There is also an aspect where fishing creates camaraderie amongst friends and bonding time with family. Most of the time, the moments are remembered best when shared with other like minded people. I think all of these descriptions applied on a particular day this spring when I decided to call out because the conditions were right. I just needed to get out there before prime time had passed. However, I needed a dance partner and couldn't find one. So, I called my Dad. Never one to turn me down, he didn't hesitate to say yes. We came from two different directions, each driving 2+ hours, to meet in the cold damp dark of a boat ramp. The expectation on my end was to be on the oars for most of the day in order to show my Dad a good time and get him into some fish. When we pushed off, he refused to fish. This left me in a peculiar position...in the bow of the boat for an entire float. 

It was memorable...

Largest smallmouth of the year for me...that I landed.

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?