Schmidt's Walkabouts

Early Season

2009-06-29T11:08:00.000-07:00

“A picture is worth a thousand words”. Through the windshield on a recent foray into trout country attempting to find fishable water makes one ponder the sanity behind such actions. At times during the early season journeys to western rivers and streams simply were a bust; reservoirs filled to beyond their thresholds regurgitating torrents downstream, monsoonal rains taking stream levels even further beyond their natural limits. Yet, the adventure of the unknown that early season fishing yields is often justification alone; seldom predictable, occasionally successful, always intriguing.

Given the patience of those who pursue trout with fur and feather this wet season has been trying. For others willing to roll the dice, there are rewards and discoveries that only the wrath of Mother Nature’s violence can conjure up.

If you are serious about finding good water to fish when seasonal conditions are so unpredictable better leave home with a full tank, a thermos of coffee or two, pack a lunch and don’t plan on heading pack anytime soon. You should also have a plan if you are hoping to have any opportunity at success. That said, even the best laid plans this spring have failed to deliver.

In a recent trek, the undertaking revolved around a reliable rumor involving Salmon Flies. Upon arriving at our destination, Salmon Flies may have been around, but the evenings down pour had negated any such opportunities. We moved finding the next piece of water in better shape, but also suffering from the previous nights deluge. Hours later we climbed to 9660’ the road eventually vanishing into a gray wet abyss before dropping into the canyon. Gnarled aspens still void of leaves eerily rose obscured by the summits dense blanket. This image fueled a growing skepticism. Descending the sun navigated through the ashen vapors illuminating a distant hillside lending hope to our dwindling spirits, the brilliant display only temporary.

Pulling over the rain continued to follow us, yet below the streams currents ran clear, a stark contrast from those waters we viewed earlier in the day. Rain drops dimpled the surface. Downstream a trout rose, its residual ring dissipating in the streams quiet currents. Those miles and swollen rivers we had left behind quickly transcended into distant memories.

PMD’s, Drakes, and Blue Wing Olives struggled to rid them selves of the stream. Those that struggled quickly disappeared, the streams piscatorial predators taking advantage of the easy meal. They showed the same eagerness for our flies, as long as the drift was true. At times that didn’t even matter.

At days end we gathered in a brief interlude of sun, riding ourselves of a damp chill. The valleys Aspens and Willows glowed, their newly emerged foliage shimmering in various shades of luminous green. Just before departing we witnessed a Golden Eagle’s rage as it fell from the sky in an attempt to red an unsuspecting Redtail from its turf both perilously plunging earthward. The hawk pulled up, the less agile Golden continued to descent before recovering to continue its ill time pursuit. This alone was worth the journey.

Living on a Dream

2009-05-26T15:01:00.000-07:00

In the predawn hours of semi-darkness we idle north to the calm waters enveloping Key West. It’s May, the commencement of peak tarpon season. The islands tourists that flock here have departed the culturally mixed tropical destination for their more mundane domiciles, leaving it relatively mundane for those who pursue a mythical fish that has captured mans imagination since the early 1900’s.

Outside the no wake zone our guide seamlessly puts the small skiff on plane, navigating the juggernaut of invisible channels and the myriad of moored boats tethered randomly like abandon dogs within the islands sheltered basins. Startled cormorants emerge interrupted from the oceans oiled reflections as we pass. The morning’s cool air tugs at ones flesh vitalizing senses that aren’t accustomed to functioning at such an early hour.

John slows the skiff some to accommodate the smooth emerald rollers that separate us from Tower Flat, the deep channels blue waters vibrant even at this dull hour. Pulling up to the flat, its dimensions are easily defined by the mornings soft ruffling breeze. With the turn of a key, the motor dies lending an anxious calm to the atmosphere as we glide silently to the flats distal edge. All eyes methodically affix upon the shimmering waters, a rods quietly extracted from the hull, while John deftly attains the poling platform. To the east, the horizon turns various shades of crimson.

Having the pleasure of fishing with John for a number of years, we’ve learned some of his subtleties. Idle conversations slips between us in hushed tones in anticipation as he deftly works the shallow waters. In our first years we wouldn’t have noticed the alteration in the skiffs movement, but now we understand. Following the alteration peripheries locate the tarpons dissipating footprint, the only visual evidence that there are tarpon here. John quietly maneuvers the Dolphin knowing from experience that should the fish again show we’ll be in position to have a shot. Somewhere submerged the fish slips by silently undetected, “we’ll find another”.

From a thousand miles removed, I can smell the sweet scent of the ocean, hear and feel the breeze as it ruffles the ocean waters, the tousle of flags perched atop the marinas tall ships, they’re all vivid recollections. Once you’ve experienced the roll of a giant tarpon, felt its immeasurable power, heard and witnessed its manic gyrations timelessly suspended above shattered oceans the impressions remain eternally etched.

Just before the tarpon takes the fly, there’s a moment of brief hesitation as the prehistoric fish sizes up that which it pursues, their giant eyes unwavering. With a flick of a powerful tail, the tarpon accelerates, lifting simultaneously opening its cavernous mouth, the abyss, sucking in its prey. In the briefest of moments the fly disappears, almost imperceptibly, yet there is no mistaking the act. Moments later the line comes tight, the giant fish clearing the water, shaking its body violently before crashing into the emerald waters of the flat. In an instant the entire length of fly line disappears from the oversized reel, like a runaway kite severed from its string.

For the first time since being introduced to the waters off Key West and hooking my first tarpon, I’ll not make the annual migration in pursuit of this revered fish, yet realize the wealth achieved in past experiences. Like the addict I’ve become I yearn for that which I can not have. Fly-fishing is like that; casting allusions of hope for that which is often not so easily attainable.

Never Again

2009-04-13T08:47:00.000-07:00

The snow blew vertically across the landscape as we made our way to the river; ideal conditions for spring mayflies and not necessarily so for those who fish. Entering the canyon a patch of blue sky lay visibly obscured above us. At first glance the winds ferocity disheveled the trees and tugged at the surface of the water, but the snow had begun to dissipate. Further upriver an impoundment showed little change in the winds temperament. To our amazement the canyons turnouts were void of any vehicles, the river undisturbed by the presence of any anglers; an anomaly for this fishery even under such challenging conditions.

By the time we arrived in the canyons upper reaches the wind had begun to disperse. Still no signs of legged’s, leaving us with unbridled choices. In the three decades I’ve fished here, I’ve only fished in solitude in dawns first light, but never at this late hour. I ponder the likelihood of ever witnessing such an unprecedented act of emptiness again.

I expect another vehicle or two to join us as we get dress and rig our rods, yet to our dismay none do. The steep bank that we must navigate to reach the river is covered in snow. Cautiously we descend. Once we reach the river bottom, we spread out, knowing there’s no one here. The suns rays maybe warm, but the canyon breeze adds a slight bit of discomfort to the air, yet it’s far more pleasant than the other days I’ve fished here this season.

Upstream a break of mature conifers shelters our casts and waters from the wind. Midges scurry about, and a blue wing or two drifts uninterrupted on the rivers placid currents. On the far bank, the afternoon’s first rise grabs my attention. Lazily I ponder the situation, soaking in the sun, patiently waiting for the hatch to mature before committing. Like magic the delicate insects appear, their numbers increasing, drifting haplessly like toy sailboats waiting for their wings to dry anticipating flight. It’s an amazing struggle given their size and the environment they must navigate to reach adulthood.

Eventually several of the rivers larger trout are attracted to the waters surface. From where I sit I watch a nice brown track a single blue wing olive, drifting back several feet before leisurely opening it’s mouth; water and mayfly cascading into its gullet. Before I leave it will take one of my flies in the same confident fashion, settling back in its lie before feeling the pressure of the line that now connects us coming tight. Twice the brown clears the water, its plumb body shimmering in the late afternoon sun before reluctantly sliding into my net.

These fish have wintered well, evidence of last year’s good flows. I admire this final trout’s large black spots and those prisms of color that are unique to Salmo trutta. It’s a far larger brown than I anticipated, although it felt heavy on the line. It’s broad pectoral fins flare, stabilizing its body in the cool current. With a gentle thrust of its tail it slides from my outstretched hand.

I secure my fly to the rod and reel in the slack eventually retaking my position on the bank in the sun content with the day. As the pool mends, its trout settle again feeding confidently on the carpet of blue wings. Quietly I sit and watch. For the first time since I started casting I hear the wind whistle through the adjacent hillside of protective pines. For the moment time slows as only it can on a river so unfettered.

After a while I gathered my reluctant companions. The rivers trout continued to rise, tempting our retreat. We pause periodically taking in a river bathed in afternoons soft light, its currents still void of anglers, its trout feeding undisturbed, an image and a day we all store in the memory banks knowing it my never happen again.

The Nipple Rise

2009-04-10T10:59:00.000-07:00

Couldn’t resist! Rise forms often lend insight into what a trout may be taking. Here, there’s know doubt, yet the residue of pure bliss from another blue wing unsuspectingly engulfed the remaining lingering residual, the nipple rise form.

Argentina

2009-03-29T14:16:00.000-07:00

When traveling distances without signs of human habitation, you’re wandering in destinations that are becoming increasing rare to experience. A thirteen hour traverse south from Atlanta will put you in such a place. In the dark of night we flew over fertile forests so vast they control much of the world’s climate. To date such mysterious habitats have only been viewed from the comforts of my couch. Tracking the trajectory of the plane, I began to surmise the expansiveness of this rich continent. I vividly recall the graphic animation as the plane entered the northern tip of South America. Hours later it appeared to have barely moved.

The sky outside the aircrafts windows were beginning to pale as we prepared to land in Argentina’s capitol, Buenos Aires. Its size was as impressionable as the country it resides within. After the lengthy journey it was a welcome change, but generally such masses of humanity aren’t much of a welcome reprieve for me, after flying packed like cattle on their way to the slaughter house. Guess I’m not very cultural, preferring landscapes were evening skies aren’t diffused by light or pollutants that are byproducts of the worlds densely populated metropolises.

Travel these days has a certain level of anxiety. Add time zones, customs, and language barriers and it’s often escalated to a much higher level. All was going smoothly, until we confronted a check in agent who wouldn’t let us carry our rods on as we began the next leg of our travels after our cultural awakening in BA. She must have been having a ruff day. Our best “Spanglish” didn’t win us any consolations. Somehow, we diverted the discussion sufficiently to move forward, taking fate in our own hands. Had we not, a number of rods would have been splintered into carbon fiber toothpicks, that is if they showed up at all; fortunately only a minor blip, considering other potential mishaps.

By the time we met Ron, Chocolate Labs Expedition proprietor and his guides Diego and Eduardo we were ready to see a familiar face. Even in such a remote city as Bariloche, they easily stood out. On a grander scale, in Buenos Aires, street peddlers and merchants of various sensual pleasures annoyingly picked us out just as easily. I’ve found it pays to walk slowly in such situations. Wherever you travel, anglers are easily recognizable by those with similar pursuits, even without rods in their hands. Whether it’s the baseball caps, the ventilated shirts, or the raccoon eyes, regardless there is an aspect of herd mentality that’s noticeable.

Just outside of Bariloche, we traveled juxtaposed to the Rio Limay. Its invitingly clear currents immediately conjured preconceived images of Argentinean trout. From the main road, we detoured along one of its tributaries, steadily climbing. At the summit, we peered upon the Continental Divide, something none of us expected to encounter. The view was breathtaking, the road fittingly dirt, spiraling down through an uninhabited valley birthing yet another stream. They seemed to be endless.

Other than on the Limay we saw no anglers working the pristine waters we crossed that day. Entering San Martin and on into Junin sculptures and signs bearing silhouettes of trout was the first evidence of the areas summer bread lines. Just outside of Junin we crossed the Chimy Huin, another one of the more famous Argentinean waters, yet only one of a vast number we would cross this day. It was apparent that our brief stay would barely touch what Argentina offered in scenic vistas and waters to cast a fly within. Considering Chile’s snow capped Andes rose just a stones throw to the west where waters of a similar scale and prolificness flowed, a perspective grew that was somewhat inconceivable.

At the end of the long drive we entered San Humberto, home to the Rio Malleo, at least 30 some odd miles. The surrounding Lombardi Poplars exposed the properties whereabouts, as they did almost all estancias in the region. Behind its gated fence lay a well manicured lawn, meticulously landscaped with varieties of ornamental vegetation. Long legged Ibis patrolled the grounds for an unsuspecting meal, while the cackle of parrots filled the air. At the end of the driveway, the lodge looked richly inviting.

Being late we briefly met the proprietors before being escorted to the first of many epicurean delights and our first of many fine Malbecs. Although it was a snack to tide us until the evening meal, it could have easily sufficed until morning. It was readily apparent the eating in Argentina was an event, at least when it came to lunches and dinner. Dress was hurried as we prepared to sample the waters for the first time. It was what we had come for and anxiously anticipated from the time we left several days past.

The Rio Malleo was the perfect beginning to the trip. It’s a small piece of water when compared to many numerous liquid ribbons that dissect this fertile region. Ernest Schwiebert fished here on numerous occasions and wrote of its character often. The stream and the valley it meanders through is as picturesque a trout stream as you’ll find, especially with the towering presence of the Lanin volcano looming in the background. That first evening, those early apprehensions concerning distances traveled eroded as we stepped into the water.

The diversity of flyfishing options in the Neuquen Province is mesmerizing; from tiny spring creeks to waters equaling North America’s “Mother Rivers” presenting infinite opportunities. In our travels we caught many memorable fish, each of us left with our own fond recollections. For me, it was one fish that was more a testament to the Argentina’s elements than the fish itself.

This last day, winds blew from the put in, picking up where the left off from the previous day. If’ve your familiar with this country from a fishing perspective, you’re privy to it’s infamous winds. This day, they pummeled our backsides. Casting from the boat was tolerable, but they created persistent hardships on all the guides. With growing layers of dense clouds gathering to the west, the winds notched it up in afternoons waning light. The last fish of the day was a plump brown that exceeded most browns encounter when fishing home waters. As Ron tried to set the anchor, the brown propelled itself in the opposite directions of our drift quickly removing the fly line from the old Hardy. As the distance between us lengthened, the wind drove the belly of the exposed line far over the exposed stones of the river bank. In amazement we gawked as the growing tension from the driving wind eventually beached the sizeable brown. By they time we got to it, the fish was almost completely out of the water.

At the take out, we gathered. Mate’s, and beers were exchanged while boats and vehicles were loaded for the last time. Randomly one of us would scurry across the rocky shore for articles that the wind had carried off. We paused for a final photo before departing. A certain gratification permeated the group as we assembled, leaning into the wind one last time.

It was a quiet ride back to motel each lost in their own tired reflections of trout, rivers, shared friendships and a time that transpired much too fast. Back on the main road, the sky burned red in the western horizon before giving way to evening’s darkness; that blackness that’s only seen in such corners of the world anymore. Places where one can take stock of life with few if any. We’re fortunate to experience such solace, especially in such distant lands; a luxury none of us take for granted.

It's Over

2009-03-09T09:58:00.000-07:00

Finally, it's over. HB 187 was defeated this morning shortly after 10am. The process works. There were a lot of people involved in this process and everyone role was integral to our successful efforts. No need to pour salt on any wounds remembering that we'll need to deal with this legislative issue in the future. To pull it off, it's going to need a collective effort from all sides. Given what will be at stake, it won't be easy.

We owe many people thanks, especially those representatives that voted to table the Bill, took the time to talk with us and consider what we had to say. We're going to need their support again in the future to get a Bill sponsored and supported. This is not going away, as much as we'd like to think it will.

Behind the scenes, there was a ground swelling grassroots effort. It was beautiful to see. As I wrote earlier, we came together as a community and worked tirelessly on a cause that effects us all. Lets not loose the cohesiveness that's come from this effort.

For now we can all go back to what binds us, fishing. Although we have the opportunity to fish waters we've never fished before, I urge all anglers to go out of their way to create relationships with those whose waters we now may fish. These relationships will be imperative to our success as we move forward. How we behave will go a long way towards passing a Bill that serves affected parties.

Finally, I've got some new friends out of this ordeal. This effort brought a diverse group to the table and tha now realize we're all on the same side regardless of how you fish or what you fish with. Even if we had not won, the camaraderie from this endeavor won't diminish anytime soon. It's even more solidified given the series of events that occurred this morning. To all, thank you! Collectively we couldn't have done it without all who contributed. Now the real work begins.

Third Times a Charm

2009-03-08T15:22:00.000-07:00

The saga of HB 187 lives on. Friday Rep. Ferry played a strategy that’s become common during this process, bringing his patchwork piece of legislation to the floor just prior to its adjournment. This was the 3^rd substitution. What’s new is language by Rep. Draxler. His injections changed the board from having one that had advisory capacity to a board with rule making authority, something we’ve been asking for since before the Bill was made public. There’s just one hitch; a simple little word that sets up the criteria for listing a river, the word and. Since the word and was used, in order for a body of water to qualify for addition to the list it must meet all listed criteria. Had the word been or, a said water would just have to meet one of the listed criteria. Bottom line, there few if any waters that will be acceptable. Rep. Draxler tried to amend this recognizine the implication of the language, but his amendment was not accepted.

Ten more pieces of water were added as part of the 3rd substitution. This is good, and now takes the list up to 40, 41 listed but one is listed twice (yet more confusion). We’re still far short of a reasonable list of waters, especially in the central and southern part of the state. Given the inclusion of and versus or, virtually this is all we’re going to get. If the Bill passes the House, which we’ll know by Monday, there may be some opportunity to add waters in the Senate.

Rep. Draxlers efforts weren’t all for not however, he was able to get the Board changed. It’s members would now be mostly comprised of those who recreate on our public waters. But, unless we’re able to get the language changed, this board will have little to do. Todd Bingham of the Farm Bureau was chomping at the bit to get this recent revision through the House and onto the Senate, now we know why. He lobbied hard all day Thursday and Friday to get this to the floor for a vote, but as we speak, Rep. Ferry late submission cost him, and again HB187 sits circled.

Having some time to read the Bill over the weekend has brought some other things to light. This is still a poorly crafted piece of legislation, even after Draxlers amendments, which are an improvement. However, the crux of the matter still falls upon the list; it’s arbitrary and capricious nature. It’s a list of random waters chosen based upon opinion, yet is far from inclusive. Regardless of how this Bill will affect the parties involved, its uncertainty creates inequality for all. Maybe that’s what good legislation is supposed to be.

With luck and hopefully wisdom, those in the Legislature will recognize the Bill’s shortcomings, piecemeal content and legal susceptibility. The House of tired of dealing with this given other very significant legislation that’s still to be dealt with. It seems obvious that interim study would at least give us something to work with. At this late juncture, that’s not likely to occur.

I look back at our first meeting with Rep. Ferry in January, and in frustration ponder the time we’ve collectively spent on this Bill. In that first meeting if he’d included us in the process as we asked, I can’t help but think we’d have been more constructive with our time. A number of the issues we brought up and questioned several months ago have been changed through conflict and divisiveness. It didn’t have to be that way, but unfortunately we weren’t the ones pulling the strings.

Resurrected from the Dead!

2009-03-04T18:18:00.000-08:00

This morning I was feeling pretty good about the world, all things considered. Then about noon the e-mails began arriving. Rep. Ferry was attempting to resurrect his HB 187 from the depth of yesterdays defeat. Since he heads the House Rules Committee, I was pretty confident that he would be successful with his efforts.

There were several of us already at the Capitol when I arrived. Some had been there since the morning session. Just before 4pm after speaking with those we had the opportunity to reach, I looked out across the Capitols floor now growing silent, gazing across the sprawling rotunda cambers when a song from Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young began resonating through my head, “We are helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless…” If you’re in your 50’s, you know the song.

At four we scrambled to the balcony to watch Rep. Ferry bring his Bill back to life. Last I looked; he had 40” yas”, plenty to keep HB 187 alive. As the session came to a close, his Bill sits circled to later again be voted upon.

There is still hope that HB 187 will be defeated at this level. If not it goes to the Senate. We again need to circle the wagons, make phone calls and pound out emails. In doing so, it’s imperative that you be respectful to all parties regardless of your personal feeling. This isn’t about personal emotion, its about issues. Defamatory e-mails and phone calls do nothing but hurt our cause. Each day this stays alive, we need all the friends we can get, just sick with the facts:

1. Public input into the Bill has been very limited and not all parties have been involved.

2. The list of waters currently included have been arbitrarily derived. We need a reasonable list of waters based upon a specific criteria to quantify waters, not personal opinions.

3. At present, the board is an advisory board only, it has no power. Rumor has it that will change before it goes to its final vote in the House. So pay attention.

4. This Bill impacts 400,000 anglers, anglers that contribute 700 mil to the state’s economy annually. This Bill will erode these revenues and in doing so effect retailers, guide services, restaurants, hotels/motels, make no mistake. This just doesn’t effect anglers and those who derive there livelihoods from angling. .

5. The ability to post private property based upon the 150 yds and 150’ is confusing and will create an enforcement nightmare. When we lost the original clause after the 2^nd substitution, we lost the provision that allowed us to wade through such areas.

6. The fact that this Bill has been substituted twice, amended numerous times, and being amended once again shows how flawed it is. We need to take a year, sentd this Bill to interim study and be apart of a piece of legislation that works for those parties that have a vested interest.

There is still a lot at stake here and we aren’t out of the woods yet. Rally the troupes. Contact your representative, your senator. There’s only 8 remaining days left to have an impact.

AT and Impasse

2009-02-23T06:56:00.000-08:00

You could see the turmoil and anxiety as we filed from cambers after two and a half hours before Rep. Ferry and his constituents late Friday. We assembled at this late hour upon his request after he’d circled HB-187 earlier in the day. As the Bill lingers, it appears to be loosing support, but there is no confidence on either side as to the strength of their position. All we know is our grassroots efforts have eroded the support he so arrogantly displayed when the process began months ago.

Rep. Ferry was hoping to be able to sway the angling and recreational community into enough concessions that he could move his Bill forward, an attempt to seek some middle ground. Both sides for the first time met, and discussed their concerns. It was good to hear comments from the other side and be able to address them, for they are valid, but so are those who spoke that day regarding angling and recreational concerns. By meetings end, there arguments did nothing to sway our position.

As discussion continues the key points have not changed. These issues are sensitive to all, including the Division of Wildlife Resources: No recreating within a 150’ radius of a home, a clause that deals with historical usage, the paltry list of 17 waters, and the advisory board. On a broader perspective, the entire bill, after being amended 7 times, with 5 more listed for further discussion is so convoluted it’s difficult for anyone to truly understand. A perfect example of its confusing nature occurred on Friday, when a Representative struck the Price River from the list thinking she was preserving access for the public.

Of the hot points, the list is of the most concern. There shouldn’t be a list. As of Friday 6:30pm only 17 waters included. Rep. Ferry hinted that he’d consider several more, but such additions would still leave us far short of what’s reasonable. At best it’s a paltry list and still denies recreational users access to numerous waters many that they’ve had access to in the past.

There are vast problems with the list, the most obvious, the omissions. The second and more significant aspect of it pertains to the way the list was comprised. Rather than all waters in the state that are affected by the Supreme Court ruling being subjected to a valid criteria waters were randomly selected. Although Rep. Ferry vocalizes that the inclusion of these waters were subject to a definition of navigability, not one of the 17 waters was ever tested. To complicate matters more, his definition of navigability at sometime was removed from the Bill and only recently was a more obscure one included.

At this juncture the list includes waters that were selected for various reasons, and in reality none of those reasons truly dealt with navigability. Simply, they were selected based upon someone’s opinion. Now is when you should ask, in whose opinion. In discussions with the DWR, in many instances they weren’t involved, nor of those in the recreational community. No one in the recreational community was asked to particpate, yet a number of private property owners were.

As of this writing we have out foot in the door. Monday it is slated 7^th, after debate if it passes it will move to the Senate. There we will have our last opportunity. Should this Bill not be tabled for interim study, it most likely will be settled in the courts. Neither side would like to see that.

During our final comments Friday, we again asked that this Bill be sent to interim so that a reasonable more reasonable Bill can be created. We also asked to be given the opportunity to prove to landowners that our constituents would conduct themselves with respect towards rights of private property owners. We offered a more compromising list that would not include all waters that the July ruling impacts. Those waters would be determined based upon a reasonable definition of navigability. In frustration, understandably at this late hour on Friday, no concessions were made.

We have our hands full as HB 187 moves forward. Although we have gained ground, it’s far from over. Anglers and all interested parties are going to have to put a great deal of effort into defeating this Bill should it make it out of Committee and move into the Senate. That said, we need your help. Call your senators. Ask your friends to do the same. Contact the governor; let your voices be heard. If you have the time, meet us at the Capitol. We’ve been there everyday, working with representatives and our senators. If you can’t get there, call them on the phone. If you care about your opportunities to recreate on Utah’s waters, you need to get involved. It’s as simple as that.

Vote No HB 187

2009-02-22T07:38:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to the Utah angling community, you showed up this past Wednesday. For as long as I can remember, it’s a first in my lifetime here in Utah. If you not familiar with HB 187, it’s a piece of legislation in response to last years Supreme Court ruling that gave anglers access to virtually all bodies of moving water in the state. This Bill, in its current state, will negate the ruling and more critically remove waters that generations have had the opportunity to fish.

Wednesdays rally on the steps of the Capitol was just the beginning. There is still a tremendous amount of work ahead for anglers, floaters, and non-consumptive users of our waterways if we are to have an impact on HB 187 and the waters we will be able to fish in the future.

For those who don’t reside in Utah, HB 187 will limit the waters you will be able to fish as well, waters that you’ve had the opportunity to fish when you visited our beautiful state. For some, those rare and unique waters are the reason you visit Utah. If you are one of these anglers, your voice needs to be heard as well; write our Governor and Ben Ferry the sponsor of this Bill. In reality, this piece of legislation will have an impact on all water users across the nation, due to the fact that it and other like it set precedence.

So where are we? On Friday HB 187 went to committee for its first reading. The throngs of concerned citizens overflowed chambers. Another room had to be set up to accommodate the growing numbers. It was awesome! The Natural Resources Committee was obviously taken back by the numbers that were in attendance. After long deliberation and a number of amendments were added the Bill passed 10-4, a distinct party line vote. Several bodies of water that had been left off the list were added: Blacksmith Fork and the Logan most notably, but there are still numerous bodies of water that you won’t be able to fish. Left Fork of the Huntington, Cottonwood Creek, Thistle, Creek, East Fork of the Sevier, just to name a few of those most known.

The Bill passed and now moves to the House, the fact that concessions were made shows that our efforts are having an impact but, there are still significant flaws with the Bill. Of these the most egregious pertains to definition of navigability and its relationship to the list; the list being a limited number of waters, 16 at this juncture that we’ll have access to. Rather than applying an acceptable definition of navigability. First off, HB 187’s definition is not reasonable. Second, an arbitrary list of waters was selected to which the definition was applied. Instead, all waters of the state should have been considered and tested for navigability, not just those where the minimal private property conflicts occurred. Blacksmith Fork and the Logan are examples of the erroneous of the process. Regardless, on no waters have they actually tested the current definition, they’ve just assumed.

With luck we’ll be able to get the Bill into interim. In talking with members of senate this past week, they would like to see this happen. One way or another, we’re going to have to deal with the oversights of the Supreme Court. Since were engaged, we might as well finish the process, it just needs to take a year to effectively draft a Bill that will address such a critical issue.

As we move forward, if you haven’t contacted your representative, it’s imperative that you do. You also need to contact the Natural Resources Committee. HB 187 has been assigned to this committee. Some of its members are very influential legislators and can have a significant impact on the Bill’s future.

To read a copy of the Bill or to find contact information on the committee and representatives, visit “Utah Water Guardians” website. You’ll find their link in my links section. It’s important to note that any e-mails you send put “Vote No on HB 187” in the subject header. They have received so many e-mails, that they don’t have time to read nor respond to them all, so putting this in the subject header is very important.

Regardless of where you are, if you care about fishing, this is your fishing future. What happens here is important to the rest of the nation. They aren’t building any more trout streams, steelhead or salmon rivers, or oceans. You can either sit by and watch those who have the resources continue to take away your access or you can get involved and be apart of preserving those fishing opportunities you, your children and future generations have the right to enjoy.

Times Like These

2009-01-14T19:17:00.000-08:00

This past week a number of us spent a good portion of the afternoon with one of our state representatives. He’s championing a bill in this legislative session that intends to impair a recent Utah Supreme Court ruling that gives public access to the majority of the state’s moving rivers and streams. There was some discussion that parties would possibly seek to overturn the ruling all together. At the conclusion of our dialog, there were no surprises, other than he was very gracious with his time.

Related to that, the previous day I attended a Blue Ribbon Fisheries Council meeting where a portion of the meeting was allocated to the issue. At one juncture the Division of Wildlife Resources revealed the number of streams being considered for inclusion within the bills language, yet would not disclose names. Their unwillingness to divulge the specifics left many with an aurora of suspicion and frustration. The following day as we left the State Capitol, our sentiments had not be satisfied.

At weeks end, I sat down to watch “Red Gold”, a documentary on Alaska’s proposed Pebble Mine; nothing like immersing ones self. If you haven’t seen it, do so. Buy, rent, borrow or download a copy. Even if you don’t fish, you’ll appreciate the mines implication. Should this mine be permitted, it threatens the world’s largest sustainable sockeye run; an annual phenomenon that feeds nations, and sustains every living fiber within the Bristol Bay watershed and beyond.

Distraught over current events and the prevailing administration 11^th hour initiatives, I took my old dog for a stroll. Her slow lethargic pace was good therapy. Halfway through our walk I paused, leaning back in search of the Big Dipper. Anymore you can’t always see all its components. To the east, the full moon showed a sliver of light as it crept up the back side of the valley’s snowcapped peaks. Rather than being close to home, momentarily I wished to be camping, far removed from the light, air and noise pollution that increasingly permeate the valley.

Toward the end of the jaunt, I pondered much. I’ll never truly know the extent our native people suffered as we took their lands from them, although I’ve a mind having read more than most. There is no doubt there are significant differences between then and now, yet I can’t help but ponder the underlying similarities to those struggling today to preserve those lands and resources that add such an immeasurable quality to our lives.

From the planets standpoint, we are at a crossroads. Never has so much been on the table. In our lifetime, the stakes never have been so high. On a grand scale, this bill we’re attentive to doesn’t matter much, yet it’s an integral piece of a complex puzzle. Given the global financial crisis, much of what we’ve fought to preserve, protect and nurture seems vulnerable as short term gains are prioritized neglecting long term implication and responsibilities. Our kids futures face incredible challenges and burdens because of the way we’ve behaved, yet I hope one day looking back when all is said and done, we do some things right. I hope we continue to protect and preserve those magical places so they to can benefit from what we often times take for granted. We owe that to them. At times like these, I ponder the reality of such.

Staying in Touch

2008-12-21T13:57:00.002-08:00

I've received a number of comments, e-mails,fly shop buddies and phone calls, on ways to get involved with various issues that revolve around our treasured resources. The Provo River development prompting the most recent inquiries. Over the years, I've written about issues here, but never have really tried to communicate or manage any actions through my Blog. After giving it some thought, I'm going to post issues and actions here, starting with our most recent endeavor to see if that is of help and allows those who are concerned to participate.

Starting with this years upcoming legislature, we have a significant issue that we are already involved in. I wrote earlier about the state Supreme Courts ruling on stream access. Several representative are drafting a bill that potentially will eliminate this recent ruling and possibly block off access to streams we already have. I warned of this in an earlier Blog, "Just Because we have the Right", August 26, 2008.
At the moment, there is no language written on this piece of legislation, but from meetings held over the past weeks, we have little support at a state level. Several concerned lobbyist have joined our efforts. At the first of the year Rep. Ferry, who will champion this bill should it go forward, has granted us a meeting. We are hopeful that we can make some inroads at this early juncture to avoid any confrontations and help draft a bill that is agreeable to anglers. For now we are encouraged by his offer.

In the infancy of this endeavor, we are looking for anyone who may know a friendly legislator. Once we get a feel for the language, or ideally, have a copy of the bill, we're going to need all the friends we can get. This won't be an easy battle, should the bill be drafted with the language we are anticipating.

If you know any one on the hill who can lend their support, this would be a big step. Our issues here are not so much the right to fish or access as much as the potential economic impact reduced access will have on the states angling revenues, revenues that have declined steadily over the years. If you would like to reach me and not share your comments with others who read my Blog, please feel free to contact me at: schmidt@xmission.com.

We have another meeting before the year ends. I'll post updates or any new developments as they occur. Thanks to those who have gotten involved and those expressing and those wanting to help preserve those few precious resources we rely upon to cast a fly with hopes of catching a trout or two. As theyears pass, and with the current economy we are going to have our hands full.

Provo River Avoids Development

2008-12-07T19:20:00.001-08:00

The Provo River is arguably one of the nation’s best fisheries. With recent work completed between Jordanelle and Deer Creek reservoirs it’s even better. This past week a decision to continue to put these resources recreational and wildlife values before those who would develop it was an significant.

Unbeknownst to many an application to rezone private lands on the Lower Provo River was put before Wasatch County Council (WCC). Should this request have been approved it would permit twenty residential units to be built. Four of those units would lie within the rivers riparian corridor. Even more critical, the rezoning change would open the door for other landowners in the canyon to develop additional properties.

Obviously given the sensitive nature of this resource, there was a lot at stake. As an angler, the trout fishing and those recreational values associated with it are significant. The wildlife values that this canyon supports are critical. Such a development, given its scope, would definitely impact these. Then there is water quality. Simply, it’s the lifeblood of all that is living.

After the first of two public hearings, the request was denied, but only due to the fact that the Wasatch County Planning Commission didn’t have enough members present. Those in attendance voted in favor of the rezoning request 3/2. A 4th favorable vote was needed to make the motion.

A second hearing for public comment was held before the Wasatch County Council, who would make the final decision. I entered this meeting with not much optimism given the Planning Commissions lean. I was even less optimistic given the lack of opposition that spoke before the Council; three of us all totaled. Given what was at stake it was disheartening to see a virtual no-show from the public and those who derive their livelihoods from this resource. Granted there were a number of apposing e-mails received by the Council and a few more in attendance at the first public meeting, but warm bodies in front of this Council would have carried much more weight.

I was relieved and surprised to learn, given the circumstances, of the Wasatch County Council’s judgment to deny the landowners request this past week. Their decision showed great vision. Anglers owe this group a debt of gratitude for efforts and judgment regarding this incredible resource. Their pronouncement will have a positive impact on the continued health of this valuable resource. Should it have gone the other way few would have noticed until the backhoes and bulldozers arrived.

The Last Grab

2008-11-20T20:43:00.000-08:00

I've fished Idaho waters when you were lucky to see a steelhead. For years the only fish we'd see had been caught by methods other than fly. Didn't matter, at that juncture you were just glad to see one. Such an occasion lent hope to the next run. A few years would pass before a tug brought me that much closer to holding a steelhead that had traveled over 800 miles to take my fly. That in and of itself is amazing!

Those early years in the Lower 48 were bleak. On many byways they still are. Were once the worlds largest run of sea run fish ran free, they now hang in the balance infused with fish of hatchery origins that only make their existence more tenuous.

Yet, in all of this, as an angler, I have great respect for these fish. They travel the same arduous journey and migrate through the same challenging gauntlet as their dwindling wild relatives. Although they don't quite measure up to a wild fish, they do command a certain respect and admiration, for they to are survivors.
My last outing of the year was one of my best. Sub freezing temperatures that historically freezes ones hands, guides and feet, were gratefully absent. It's been that way for several years now. And although the fishing has been good for the past several years, this year was more than generous.

My friend, caught his first steelhead. It came on the last day. He was already headed down the addictive road after our first trip. Once he landed his first steelie, he was history. I'm waiting to have to explain his delusional state to his wife, especially come next season.

On that last day, I drummed up a ghost in a new piece of water. Several head shakes later and a few clicks from the reel the fish was gone. It was rewarding confirmation that will serve me well on another day. Towards days end I briefly felt another fish. It was a solid grab that ended as quickly as it occurred. Know it was my last I thought the encounter was fitting. Looking back to those early years, an unmistakable grab would have been reason alone for joyous celebration. On this trip it was more than just.

Shortly afterwords I chewed the fly from its leader, carefully placed it in it's box, and reeled in the line. Before leaving I took a moment to take in the canyon, it sounds and breath the damp smell of a river corridor that holds onto a certain rawness. It'll be another years before I fish these waters again. I remembered the grab and the years where a physical presence was only a figment of an imagination. Heading home, the rain darkens the desolate two lane road. We are fortunate to have fish in these waters now. We don't talk about it, but we wonder for how long.

The Green River Looses a Friend

2008-11-12T08:15:00.000-08:00

When one thinks of the great waters of the world where we cast a fly, we often associate those waters with keepers whose long association endures them to the waters their lives revolve around. On Utah’s Green River one of those individuals would be, Denny Breer. Since he and his wife, Gracie, established Trout Creek Flies in the remote corner of northeastern Utah, he’s been one of the Green’s unheralded champions. There’s not another person who’s watched over this prolific fishery with more vigilance than Denny. This past weekend a tragic accident ended his life. In his death the river and the fishing community lost a great friend.

Although others may carry on where he left off, you can’t replace the personality and the character he brought to the community of Dutch John and the river he’s associated with. The river, his shop, the meetings he so faithfully attended will all seem unfamiliar in his absence.

Those familiar to the Green River, his shop and guide service know that he offered a welcome matt to anglers from all corners of the globe. He was most at home on his beloved river or those waters he enjoyed when time permitted or with his pigeons. If you were fortunate to share a ride in his dory, count yourself as blessed. Over the past few years, such days were shared by only a few, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t where his heart lied.

We all owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Breer for his relentless persistence. Few know the extent he went to be a voice for this precious resource. The Green River, the health of this fishery, those who love and fish this river are all beneficiaries of his tireless efforts. His authority and knowledge commanded respect in the arenas he wandered on behalf of the river. As an outfitter and angler, he commanded respect as well. He wasn’t shy about letting you know that. I liked that in him, that frankness he often exuded.

Denny’s legacy will live on, his efforts, passion, and character forever recognized in the history of Green River fly fishing. In his passing our hearts go out to his family and those he left behind. I hope you’ll find comfort in knowing that Denny will always be warmly remembered. He will be greatly missed.

The Gift

2008-10-30T05:37:00.001-07:00

Before me flows a river bathed in sunshine. Its size dwarfs any I’ve cast a fly in. Swollen currents toil a tainted brown from days of relentless rain. A condition that occurs with more frequency from years of clear cutting that now jeopardizes the heath of all waters in this province. A slim buffer of vibrant cottonwood, birch and popular radiate in fall color; accentuating the virile condition of the river. The immense landscapes towering snow capped peaks and unimpeded waters are impressionable.

Hidden amongst these murky waters migrates the majority of this regions wild steelhead, the names of their home waters legendary in steelhead lore. Given its current state it’s difficult to imagine these piscatorial travelers are present, yet these conditions will do little to deter a primordial instinct. Little does.

Two decades of fishing in British Columbia has yet to afford me time on this intimidating river since I first stood on her banks. Many of its famed tributaries have seen my foot prints, but never the Mother River. The last time I saw her was over a decade ago where several of her tributaries open to accept her offerings. Not far from that point of observation stands a row of native long houses and totems, a tribute to the Gitxsan People, and the spiritual powers this confluence holds.

After lodge life this year, an old friend invited me to poach some of the British Columbia’s other waters. After goodbyes were exchanged with our hosts and my fellow companions, Collin Schadrech and I headed north on Yellowhead Highway.

Gray skies clouded the landscape dropping a steady drizzle on the windshield and surrounding countryside. A perfect day for steelheading accompanied us to our new digs. Our base for the next few evenings was a stark contrast from that which I had enjoyed over the past week; cinderblock walls, well worn shag carpets, moldy towels and meals prepared over the tailgate of Collin’s Chevy. No plates, no dishes. From our front door, Stekeotin loomed ominously overhead. Steelhead paradise never looked so good.

That afternoon we spent the bulk a wet day slogging through marshes, deadfall and the provinces dense brush in search of legends and myths. Maps were of some help, but much had changed since they were drafted. We often paid for their inaccuracies.

Before darkness ended we pioneered a handful dirt roads, this time along the Mother River. In the waning light we searched for a descriptive boulder with a single cairn perched upon its top. We were unsuccessful. By the time we left the valley’s river bottom it was raining and dark, a darkness that’s difficult to find these days. In remote corners of the world removed from global sprawl you’ll witness such blackness. On this evening a low ceiling hid heavens light show intensifying the abyss.

The following day we arose early, beginning our day in darkness. By the time we headed out, morning’s sun still had yet to crest the snowcapped peaks that kissed a thin layer of residual vapor. Eventually we located the road that eluded us the evening before. The old track wound through long abandon fields, dull in dying weeds and tall grasses.
We parked a short distance from the river. Its banks lined in ancient popular, cottonwood, birch, and balsam fir. Below us the waters strolled leisurely for hundreds of yards among sizeable boulders. It shimmered, as only a steelhead run can. Towards the head of the run stood the rock with an unobtrusive cairn perched nonchalantly upon its surface. Our eyes lay fixed on the water, making mental notes as to where each fish may lie. As we drifted apart, the old man chose the head of the run, while I stepped in midway.

The rivers size yearned for long casts. I thought the same to hold true for the fly; big river, big fish, big fly. Yet I refrained, at least in first passing knowing that this was our water to fish alone. Dec Hogan’s words resonated through my fly box as I selected a pattern. Eventually I chose a preferred spey fly in hopes of taking my first fish on one worthy of these fish and the occasion.

About a quarter of the way into the run I had to calm myself. I had plenty of coffee this morning. I usually do, but that wasn’t the reason for my anxiousness. I started thinking of the famous tributaries that feed this big body of water, their names rolled through my mind along with the significance of their steelhead. A broad grin crossed my face as I scanned the snowcapped peaks that overshadowed the valley. Finally stepping back into the river, I knew they were there.

Each swing of the fly I expect a tug. In disbelief the governors removed from my cast. I tack on another ten feet or more. Several casts later a fish boils below me. A second passes before realizing it had moved to my fly. The additional length of line momentarily skewed my judgment. I focused, waiting for the line to come tight, which never did. Sliding further into the river not taking my eyes from where the fish showed, I cast again in hopes that a slower drift would entice a grab. My breaths held as the fly entered the zone. The line simply stops. All is motionless until the surface erupts below me as the hook solidly finds its mark.

Behind me the fish breaks the surface, as fly line exits the rod in the opposite direction. There’s a power and weight there that I’ve yet to experience in days past. A second and third jump shows it’s a sizable buck. A hint of rose can be seen along his gill plate and flank. After the aerial assault he surges upstream as if unencumbered. By the time I’m ready to land him, Collin’s beside me, cradle in hand. We share in the special moment together as the buck slides into the net. The barbless fly easily comes from the corner of the buck’s mouth. I’d hoped to hold onto the steelhead for a moment before it continued on the journey, but our reunion would be brief. He had other things on his mind. I tried to visualize his character; color, spots, scars, bulk and the power of the creature that rested in my hands, before he disappeared into the depths knowing this could be my last fish. Even though this one bears special significance, I treat them all in this manner. With one power beat of its broad tail he slides away.

Content with my fortunes I settled on the bank to watch Collin wander slowly up to finish his piece of water. It didn’t take him long to hook up. I amble up the bank to return the favor. It’s another broad fish, but this time a hen still bright with sea lice clinging to her. As Collin prepared to send her on her way you could see his hand through the hen’s translucent tail. With the flick it, she too vanishes.
This perfect pair would be the only steelhead we’d encounter during our brief time together. As their habitats erode and these fish continue to decline you wonder at what point you’ll embrace your last wild steelhead. I recently heard Russell Chatham say that steelhead anglers have become complacent by equating the success of a day, a week or a year with as little as a single fish. By doing so we’ve accepted the doomed blight of this great fish. For those passionate about steelhead, I don’t think he could be further from the truth. With each fish, there is confirmation that they still travel the great liquid highways of their origins and avowal hope that future migrations will continue to exist. Without that connectivity, regardless of its frequency, all hope would be lost.

Steelheaders Remorse

2008-10-20T15:16:00.001-07:00

Having just gotten back from my annual trip to British Columbia, I'm struggling getting back into work, home life, and just about everything else that isn't related to fishing for these mysterious fish. But, in reality such angst is something all of us who fish with a fly go through. I'm not alone, I know that.

Most of my companions on this trip are suffering equally. Since returning they've spent a fair amount of time manipulating their lives to accommodate one last opportunity to hook up with one more steelhead. Should it be just a tug, a sign that they are still there, that would be enough. Just to fish their rivers would be sufficient.

Since I'm having trouble writing anything worth reading, here's a few photo's from BC. It was a good year, better than usual.

Impressions

2008-09-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

For the first time in recent memory a cool rain greeted the morning. Its arrival punctuated yet another long dry season in the west. Layers of white vapors shrouded the foothills, the valleys towering peaks looming above lost among gray layers of moisture laden clouds; a stark contrast from summers heat, haze and dull blue sky that’s beat upon us for the past months. Before me the Bitterroot River flowed, a ribbon of black viscous through a valley of dying grasses, dull cottonwood, willow and river birch. I looked to the currents for signs of life. None were immediately visible.

Exiting my vehicle, I walked down the steep bank to the rivers edge. The Bitterroot is a big river. Expansive reaches of bleached rock lay exposed on inside corners, evidence of immeasurable power and more turbulent event. An eagle cried in defiance of the weather lost somewhere among the corridors damp cottonwoods. Before me a broad river flowed; riffles drained into smooth long runs resembling those waters of the great Northwest where the oceans anadramous travelers have begun to arrive home to their native rivers. A small group of geese restlessly took to the air in preparation for a journey that would take them to warmer climates.
At the head of the run before me, I envisioned where to begin working a short length of line, eventually extending the cast to sufficient cover the water; lessons drummed into my skull from those initial days of steelheading with Collin Schadrach and Greg Smith. Years of trout habits initially muddled a view that was far different for a fish that often wanders thousands of miles before returning home. With no wind the rhythmic cadence of a single spey would adequately cover the broad rivers currents. A greased line fly led by the pull of a soft line sufficient to entice any willing taker.

Rain continued to drive the illusion. The valley’s damp ceiling and chill fed the impression. The air smelled of dried and decaying vegetation. For the first time since summers PMD’s appeared there was a presence that wasn’t there before. The change symbolizes a reluctant end to summer’s aquatic emergences and an anticipated shift for me to the great waters of the northwest. For the first time there was pause for reflection of a season coming to its end and one just commencing.

Just Because We Have the Right?

2008-08-26T14:35:00.000-07:00

Recently the Utah Supreme Court ruled to allow anglers access to any river or stream where there is public access. This decision received a mix of emotions. On one side you have anglers, who couldn’t be more elated about the opportunities this created. Yet, on the other hand you have developers, land owners, and businesses who aren’t too excited about the prospects of having unwelcome visitors on their property. In many respects I can’t say that I blame them.

Back in the day, before the big western land grab, it was common as an angler to walk a dirt driveway to a farmers or ranchers home and asked permission to access waters that may wind through their fenced properties. Most times consent was granted given that a certain respect was extended in exchange for the privilege. Over time on occasions these impromptu and casual introduction spawned lasting friendships. Such instances are rare occurrences these days.

There were a lot of individuals who were involved in this recent ruling. In this age of information, news spread rapidly regarding this landmark decision and anglers rapidly began exploring those waters that had been closed and with that an imminent collision of apposing parties.

As anglers enjoy their new found freedom, those who adamantly oppose the current ruling are working on legislation that will negate this privileged opportunity. A Bill drafted for the upcoming Utah Legislative session has already been introduced. This bill single purpose will be to minimize our access opportunities. I’m sure they are looking at other ways to impact and negate the courts ruling. Only a well orchestrated front by those serving anglers interest will possibly defeat it.

As an angler, I’m very concerned how we have conducted ourselves in this short period of time. Where we may be within the law, we have shown in many instances total disregard and respect towards landowners who are disgruntled by the unwelcome visitors into their backyards: Property lines have been crossed, fences cut, verbal abuses exchanged. Such confrontations will only fuel their animosities, one that definitely does not need stimulation.

We have an abundance of water to fish without pissing people off. As many of us continue to work with landowners to gain access and improve the states fishing opportunities our ill mannered behavior will make future negotiations more prohibitive. Having been involved in such efforts for over twenty years, these efforts are already challenging enough.

I’ve always felt that as an angler we should become worthy stewards of the water ways we fish. If you are out there taking advantage of the new Trespass Laws be overly grateful to those who grant you access without resistance. For those who are agitated with your presence, be respectful enough to take their angst into consideration. And Let’s work on mending fences, not building bigger barriers, it will go along way towards keeping our waters open in the future and to ensure we have miles of available water for the public to fish.

The Game:

2008-08-24T20:28:00.000-07:00

At the tip of the island, I paused to scan reflective waters before moving; a habit ingrained from decades of stalking trout on this river. Scanning the stream, morning’s clouds cast illusions before me. Gently stepping from the lush grasses I tentatively entered the river. Fine gravel afforded easy wading permitting some degree of vigilance, still I almost failed to notice the imperceptibly break of the surface meniscus, the residual bulge nearly blending with the waters disheveled surface. In that brief instant “The Game” had begun.

Understanding the consequences of haphazard wading, I froze. The trout arbitrarily rose taking in mornings profusion of dying mayflies. Looking to the current for clues, PMD, Drake and Flav spinners floated haplessly upon the waters calm current adding to the complexity of the situation. The frequency of the trout’s rises lent some insight into the rainbows partiality causing a change in flies.

Cautiously wading into position I knelt in ankle deep water waiting for the trout to again show before making the first of what would be numerous casts. Visibility hindered by morning’s reflective glare added to the challenge. Another fly change lent renewed optimism. The trout rose near the artificial, bouncing the fly in the undulating residual ring.

For what seemed to be a long moment the large rainbow failed to rise. Dejection from an opportunity concluded crept in. Motionless, I waited sometime. Downstream the rainbow rose again. Either a lack of stealth, the presentation or the trout’s own indecisiveness had it invisibly slide out of casting range. Such antics occur with some frequency on these waters, “dog on a lease”.

Chris, who I’d joined that morning, had settled among the tall grasses to watch the antics. He too had been playing a similar game. I turned to acknowledge his presence. He smiled knowing all to well my predicament, offering some encouragement before I returned my attention to the task at hand.

Eventually the trout settled near a grassy bank, pinning it in some regards. On a rare drift, I could see my fly. The rainbow rose, the imitation disappearing below the residual ring. As the line came tight, the trout cart wheeled across the shattered waters. As it settled the fly came free, my line went slack, my heart raced. It was a trout worthy of such an effort and emotion, but how worthy I’ll never truly know.

Its unfinished endings that drives foolish passions, this “Game” we play on rivers between man and fish with wisps of feather and fur. I derived some contentment knowing that I’d fooled the trout into taking an impostor, yet under the circumstances the results felt incomplete. Had I landed that fish or stayed connected just long enough to affirm its size and power, “The Game” would have been over and with that a certain satisfaction.

A week later I returned in hopes of finishing “The Game”. I found the crushed blades of grass where I stood before entering the water and sat among the lush vegetation and waited. An eagle cried, shattering the early morning silence somewhere off in the forest. The sound of the river lent a soothing quality as I sat in anxious vigilance. Like clockwork spinners gathered overhead, sunlight shimmering from their translucent wings.

I walked out that morning having not made a cast. Other trout rose to morning’s offerings, but the trout I sought never rose. “The Game” was over. There will be another, but for now it had come to an end.

Stocking Fish

2008-08-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve fished the Henry’s Fork for over thirty years. It’s a long time, yet I know of many who have fished it longer and with more frequency. Over that time I’ve been witness to its many mood swings. They run the gamut. But, never has it disappointed, even in the most meager of times. I remember several years back where I failed to land a trout and if truth be told only momentarily hooked one. Sitting on the banks among the tall grasses surrounded by a cornucopia of wildflowers in anticipation of what this river reluctantly yields reaches out to a hundred emotions. One should ask nothing more of a river and especially this one.

Upon leaving the famous Ranch section of the North Fork, a Henry’s Fork Foundation intern conducted a survey regarding whether these waters lived up to anglers expectations. Numbers of fish are down and have been for some time. For a growing number of anglers, they’d like to see something done about that. I told the intern that I felt there were just as many trout per angler now as in the glory days given that numbers of both had declined. Due the current state of the fishery, which is a matter of opinion, there are rumors regarding the possibilities of supplementing the existing wild population of rainbows. I ponder this recent impetus uncomfortably.

The Henry’s Fork, in particular the Ranch section, has such unique qualities that separates it from many of the other western waters. For one, they’re the rainbows: big, powerful, scarce and mostly hyper-selective. Laid before them is a daily profusion of insects, which only complicates the complexity of the game one must play to fool them. Then there’s the water; deceptively placid in appearance, but wrought with disorder and misdirection. The fact that there is solace in its beauty and the surrounding scenery only adds to its qualities.

For those not familiar with this river, being successful takes on a whole new meaning. On some occasions, just hooking a fish can be considered a favorable outcome, on others a fish or two. It’s not a game of numbers here; the challenge this river presents is more personal than that. However, a short distance from these waters there are plenty of other rivers where you can get your fix should your time on the Henry’s Fork not live up to your expectation.

Man has a history of being impatient with Mother Nature. After almost a decade of drought, there’s little wonder the Henry’s Fork is struggling. Tons of silt that found its way into the river when work was being done on Island Park Dam has added to the rivers struggles during this time. I know of few waters in the west that have not fallen victim to Mother Nature’s recent wrath.The Henry’s Fork Foundation and others have invested a significant amount of resources over the years addressing the issues that face this complex river system. Simply, there are no easy answers. But, given the opportunity Mother Nature has shown throughout history to rebound under favorable conditions to a state of healthy balance. Sometimes this takes time and patience, qualities as two leggeds we struggle and eventually succumb to far too often. Although stocking the Henry’s Fork may put a few more trout on the end of ones line, it doesn’t solve the problem.

That which eludes us only adds to its addictiveness. Changing that simple fact simply diminishes the desire. That’s a significant part of what makes the Henry’s Fork rainbows and this river so enthralling. That fact that it’s difficult to catch a trout on these waters only adds to its mystic. Looking at short term solutions with long term consequences that are not known historically has gotten us into trouble. I’d hate to see that happen here at this juncture.

I once heard someone state that the “Henry’s Fork is a magical place” in describing his affection for this river. Those comments sum up mine and others feelings for these waters. Since then the river has been through some challenging years. Through it all the Henry’s Fork has shown resilience. It may not be were we want it, but it’s better than what it was a decade ago and given the health of the fishery this year, it appears to be continuing to improve.

I hope when all is said and done that we have the patience to let Mother Nature run its course and we exude the same level of fortitude that it takes to be successful on the Henry's Fork. At the very least the river deserves that consideration.

Moments Reflection

2008-07-08T21:10:00.001-07:00

After an uneventful landing, the twin engine eight seater abruptly exits the abbreviated runway. Moments later the props last turn winds to a throbbing halt. Looking from the crafts aged windows one may notice, “Welcome to the Conch Republic” emblazoned across the terminals second floor. Prior to the gangway opening the tropics dense humid air engulfs the planes poorly ventilated cabin. In this instance the slight discomfort is a welcome stimulus of an uneventful arrival and of climates unlike those left behind.

After taking the islands greeting to heart, I gaze at the terminal flag. Lethargically it unrolls from its tethered perch; a welcome sight when traveling with a fly. Once in town, there are similar indicators as to conditions one will encounter before the day unfolds that habitually are checked. Such habits are part of the antics played out when fishing where and whenever I get the opportunity to cast a fly. A lifetime of fly-fishing has taught me the value in such noticeable observations. Yet, the calm emerald surface on this days Gulf crossing and limp flag lend only temporary occasions for hope.

Although it’s human nature to yearn for that perfect trip, several decades spent chasing migratory species has taught me to put my fly fishing opportunities into a more humbling perspective. Pear Jam summed it up well, "Mother Nature has it's own religion, gospel of the land". To become disgruntled over fickle elements that are out of ones control has wasted many a day where opportunities exist, but never realized. Age and valued mentors have slowly helped me to understand there’s far more to a day on the water than the narrow focus of what’s on the end of the line.

Like most, such lessons were learned the hard way. There was however, a turning point. It occurred over a decade removed after seven painfully unproductive September days in BC. While on the river I barely noticed the vibrant cornucopia of fall colors or the surrounding grandeur of the glaciated peaks that stood sentry overhead, or took into consideration that I did after all land a steelhead. On the flight home, sulking, a reluctant conversation changed my narrowmindedness.

Upon taking a seat for the return flight home, I barely noticed the older gentleman seated at my side. He was tall, fit, had a good stock of gray hair and by the rods he carried on board obviously had been steelhead fishing. Reluctantly, due to my demeanor, we struck up a conversation. I was barely from the womb when he first began his jaunts to BC. “Back then” was often iterated through his reflective conversation. Having gotten older, I’ve noticed that I too use this expression far more frequently. Considering many of life’s harsh alternatives, I surmise this to be good thing.

Over our discussion, we talked of his passion and concerns for this noble fish. Like any fly-fisher, he’d ebbed and flowed through techniques, focus, and priorities as he ventured into steelheading. Similar to anyone who has fished long enough, he’d developed great passion and concern for the future of these and other great waters of the world. Eventually, he realized that the method in the madness bears far more significance than the tally at the end of the day. He admonished that he now only fishes with a waking fly. Given the periled existence this fish now lives, he didn’t need to wack a bunch of steelhead to enjoy success. At this day and age, given their perils, just to touch one once in a while was all that was needed to fulfill the circle of life that connects the dwindling wildness that makes one feel so alive. By his standards his week was better than expected, yet his numbers were similar to mine. By the time we departed, I learned yet another one of life’s valuable lessons; simply we live a privileged life. Just to have the opportunity to fish for these and other fishes of the world should be enough. To catch a fish or two along such journeys, simply a bonus.

Ironically, this May upon releasing the first tarpon of the trip, I reflected on my conversation old friend. Should he be fortunate to still wake a fly, he’d be in his mid nineties. I was hoping his travels kept him young beyond his years and he was still active. Waters of the world where anglers cast a fly need such mentors. While watching this lone piscatorial traveler back into the calm rich waters of Mooney Harbor, I wondered how many years I had left to fish. In the past few years it wasn’t the first time this thought crossed my mind.

I reeled in, placing the slender tarpon fly into the base of my aging Gulfstream. My fishing partner took the helm while I relaxed and sought solstice within this ocean refuge. I image what it must have been like when Jeffrey made those early runs across dark waters under the light of a full moon to discover new uncharted waters. I ponder on a similar crossing when I made a similar journey of discovery and realize how fortune I’ve been to have fished in the Conch Republic and other places of such beauty where wild fish still exist and on such chance occasions take a fly.

Last Minute Contemplations

2008-06-03T15:06:00.001-07:00

Shortly before midnight I’m anxiously waiting to board a red-eye flight that will depart a little before one in the morning, eventually transporting me to warmer climates. Although personally partial to the cold, the Silver King would find the weather of my home state rather uninhabitable most months, even though Utah has an infamous saltwater landmark. It snowed on this day. In the Rockies, such is not an uncommon occurrence for May and makes Key’s weather rather inviting. This day’s flurries ideally suite the west’s spring mayfly hatches, yet lends a stark contrast to the emerald flats and tropical temperatures where tarpon call home.

I inventory my gear before boarding, as if at this juncture it’s going to do much good. Typically such gyrations are contemplated well in advance, yet circumstances prohibited such preparedness. My attics provide a source of entertainment for my fellow passengers. Given their expressions I wouldn’t be surprised to find a TSA agent or two sauntering my way to further inspect my assembled arsenal given the neurosis that now permeates our society. God knows my gear appears far more hostile than the tube of toothpaste the agents confiscated from me earlier. Shaking my head, they were kind enough to let me keep my razor. Go figure!

Normally, a row of freshly tied flies adorns an area above my fly tying table affectionately known as the Flight Deck. Those neatly assembled patterns serve as a visual reflection of my readiness. Only a handful hung on the Deck when time came to pack. A bag of hand tied leaders neatly labeled normally accompanies the selection of newly tied creations. All I managed was to purchase the hard mono needed to build them. Fortunately I’ll have several days to prepare before that first cast is made.

Then there’s that preparation that accompanies the first cast. Either the previous year or the one prior to our Captain elaborated on the complexities part time tarpon anglers are confronted with, that would be me. Out of respect, knowing the similar challenges a boat Captain faces when fishing for these piscatorial giants, normally there’s time appropriated to re-familiarize myself with my bigger sticks. It’s not that the practice doesn’t help, you simply can’t replicate the gyrating conditions that flats fishing confronts one with: tides, wind, moving boats, moving fish. For some reason the ducks and geese used to impersonate the Silver King’s habits don’t quite assimilate the real deal.

Just having the opportunity to fish for theses giants creates a level of significant contentment. There are so many variables that contrive to ones fortunes when fishing for migratory fish. Putting the variables into a simpler context I’ve come to the realization that “you get what you get when you get there”. It’s no more complicated than that. My mantra flashes briefly through my cranium while rummaging through my carry-on having little effect on the anxiety spawned by my lack of preparation.

Shortly after midnight the loudspeaker projects a shrill voice alerting most from their stupor, announcing the initial boarding of the flight. My quick survey shows nothing critical has been left behind. Given the lack of efficiency in most airlines there’s a 50/50 chance my bag will even arrive at my final destination. Fortunately you can travel with most of the items that are critical to your fishing trip: rod, reel, flies and a well traveled coffee cup. Making my way down the gangway I take comfort in that notion.

A Growing Addiction

2008-05-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

Poling onto the flat long after Lower Keys guides have headed home the Gulf’s placid surface lay silently crimson before us. Back on the island clusters of pink tourists gather in Key West, ceremoniously watching the setting of the sun; a tradition here that transcends time. Their disillusionment grossly detached from that which we have come for. Such disparities have juxtaposed since the first tarpon anglers ventured to the Conch Republic in search of this shallow water leviathan.

Ahead the evening’s first roller breaks the meniscus momentarily levitating before slipping back into the oceans reflective waters. Its body uncharacteristically black against the copper hue of the Gulf; accentuated by the glowing orb that now dominates the western horizon. A distinctive suck reverberates through the heavy tropical air filling an unfamiliar silence as this prehistoric fish secures life sustaining air. We stare transfixed as if not to disturb that which has played out before us. An explosion on the flat breaks the breathless tension. The violence shatters the Gulf like a rock breaking a single pane of glass. The feeding frenzy has begun.

Jeffrey climbs from the poling platform and removes several rods from the gunnel of the skiff simultaneously pulling line from the reel in preparation. Another violent attack resonates within casting distance of the boat. In seconds the shrimp pattern lands within the tarpons dying footprint. For thousands of years these mysterious predators have plied these waters. They’re not here by accident. Neither is Jeffrey whose predacious nature mirrors the quarry he passionately pursues.

The fly lands yet briefly before the line stretches tight the hook finding its mark. Seventy-five pounds of gyrating electricity erupts from the shallow confines where this and a growing number of predators have gathered to feast. The beige fly line instantly vanishes yielding a thin tether of connectivity. In the distance the fish catapults from it liquid environs, momentarily suspended r before gravity sends the tarpon crashing to the darkened waters. This first personal encounter with a tarpon still almost a decade later unforgettably remain etched in my mind.

The tarpon makes one final lunge to break the proportionally thin leader before sliding defiantly alongside the small skiff. The diminutive hook wrapped of feather and fur easily falls from the cavernous abyss that constitutes this unique fish’s mouth. Jeffrey marvels at the creature he’s briefly been connect to even though he’s enacted out this situation thousands of times; his genuine allure impressionable. With one purposeful tail flick the tarpon disappears into the deceptively placid waters continuing its quest for oceans yet unknown.

This dusk escapade forever changed my notion of fly fishing for tarpon. Even had I not hooked a fish, where once I thought being connected to such giants required more machine than manpower, I now know the converse to be true. In the footsteps of Hemingway and those before him, I now know the purpose of their habitual journeys. Had it not been for the gracious guidance of Captain Jeffrey Cardenas that led to that fateful April evening, I may never have known what drives the passion of such men. As Neil wrote in the “The Needle and the Damage Done”, I too have succumbed to an addictiveness of sorts, yet for those who yearn to catch fish on a fly that urge is no less powerful.

The Void

2008-02-11T16:17:00.000-08:00

Coincidentally, this absence in Blogging is juxtaposed to a deficiency in fishing. Not that days on the water are the sole inspiration for babbling, but days casting a fly or wandering through open spaces definitely correlate to my sense of creativity, or lack there of depending on how this gibberish is view.

A Blog on the state of affairs of rods has been in the works over this lapse of time. Typical of such undertakings, re-reads and writings left me with little enthusiasm for the subject matter. Towards the end, rather than finalize the endeavor, I’d convinced myself that most don’t care anyway. Other tainted influences also led to the termination of my last efforts: death, graduation, ailing parents, work, all drubbed any peripheral pleasures and justifiably so.

It’s been over a month since I was near enough to water to hear its movement. It was a beautiful Sunday; overcast, cool and snowing. Blue Wings were hatching, and this early season mayfly prefers such weather. For the vast majority of those who recreate just the opposite can said. Such in-climate days leave the most longing for fairer weather, an added bonus for those who venture out on days when the skies spit a bit of moisture.

I met “Snake” about a half mile down river. Discounting our vehicles there were only two others in the lot by the time I arrived and rain had turned to snow. Given the dense stratum of aging snow that still covered the valley, their occupants didn’t wander far.

We worked our way a mile or so further before we found a perch somewhat sheltered from the wind and increasing flurries. Before departing a plethora of waterfowl would parade before us on the placid pool that lay before us: Mallards, Geese, Goldeneye’s and Northern Pintail’s. Several Red-tail’s occupied the rivers towering yet naked cottonwoods, their voice distinct from other species in the family. A group of disgruntled Sandhills beckoned as if defiantly questioning their arrival into this wintry scene, given the warm confines they left in milder climates. With such distractions, as time passed intent conversations and observations took over as fishing became an afterthought.

By the time we’d headed home joints had become stiff, neither of us making a cast. We’d arrived optimistically hoping to encounter a quite stormy afternoon and a river laced with emerging mayflies, yet not a single delicate sail drifted aimlessly upon the rivers mirrored currents. Even under our most scrupulous glare could a single trout be willed to the surface.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate such days; to be with a friend, to sit on the bank of a trout stream in solitude, to witness life in a simpler setting. Fishing brings one to such places, a harbor from life’s distractions. These days to catch a fish only adds to the cornucopia of life experiences when one’s attracted to water. To ask more of a day on the water would only take away from what fishing with a fly has to offer.