It’s been an interesting week – the end of a guiding season is on the near horizon, and it feels like it’s been staying lighter later on the river – as if the Earth is leaning to keep it’s feet in the warm sun as long as possible.  6 pm the other night, the caddis started jumping around like the dog does when your keys jangle in the door.  Pepper, our black lab, hasn’t had that kind of energy for quite some time now, and after a bout of cancer this January, and the common issues 15 year old labs face, we had to make the painful but obvious decision to ease her pain.  A dog’s dharma – it’s sense of calling or duties if you’re subscribing to the Hindu thought – was really evident the last few months.  She wanted to please, even though it was very tough to do so.  It’s easy to anthropomorphize (sp?) for dogs, because I tend to think of canines as family, more so than other pets.  Maggie’s been acting up lately too, so I observe her actions as frustration and not knowing where Pepper is, and being scared if she’ll come back or not.  How do you explain that to a dog anyways…

Pepper's final rest.

I’ve met a few of you in person over the last week or so – floating down the Yakima River just past the confluence of the Teanaway, you called my name and it struck me by surprise – guess I’m recognizable but it feels strange to hear it on the water, passing by.  Thanks for reading my blog – hoping you’ll leave a comment about your day as well, it looked like you were with family, your dog(s), and fly fishing.  A perfect way to spend the day.  Pepper liked to float the river with us, and on her last trip to the Clark Fork in MT, I first started to see that these trips would soon end.  I’m thinking of spreading her ashes on the water, and we took a plaster mold of her foot print.  We also did this with our first dog, Sage (just cause it felt funny running after her yelling “Orvis get back here!”  If I mix their ashes in the one thing that brought us all together, the river and fly fishing, my wish is that every return visit will result in a shared memory – but there I go anthropomorphizing.

Steelhead have also been on my mind, lately.  I’ve got a trip planned to the Grande Ronde with the Orvis Endorsed Guide, Mac Huff, in November.  I’ve floated the GR before, although from Minam to Troy in the warmth of July.  This is lower and later, but Mac’s been posting some great photos lately and it looks like it’ll finally happen.

Wishful thinking.

Speaking of issues – this dog must have real issues.  Assuming the owners are the kind of people that get up before they’ve even been to sleep, listen to Norweigan Death Metal on the way to the river, and in general refer to themselves as “Steelheaders” they’ve created quite a monster, here.  A dog that goes by the name of fish that doesn’t even really exist.  Or at least it’s headed that way.  Pacific Coast fish contracting Atlantic Fish diseases via Chile and who knows else where.  Become aware of the issues associated with fish farming, and you’d wish you hadn’t – at least when I’m thinking like a wild fish, that’s what I lament.

If you look around, you’ll find an interview with Robert Hunter, who after watching “The Hounds Of The Baskervilles” with Jerry Garcia, wrote the lyrics to “Dire Wolf” which, and very simply condensed, speaks of the eventuality of Death. “When I awoke, the Dire Wolf.  Six hundred pounds of sin, was grinnin at my window.  All I said was “Come On In.”

Anyways, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down and had a chance to collect my thoughts.  Fall fishing has been really good, and the river’s ready for a winter sleep.  I think of the turning colors as a big, extended yawn and pulling on the blanket, getting ready for a good nap.  Thanks for reading, and if I react strangely the next time you see me on the river, it’s not you – it’s the idea that being recognized is humbling and scary at the same time.

Fall

I took the new puppy out for a walk this afternoon, at the usual time, and for the usual reasons.  Maggie is a puppy full and full; can’t stop eating, pulling on the leash, biting the rug, and the occasional slip up when I happen not to be looking.  It’s the kind of thing I’ve come to expect, like having an infant in the house again.  I’ll sit down to something really important, like change the channel on Pandora from Ripple Radio to Reflection, which I’ve so named for songs I enjoy.  And as I sat down at 6:37 PM tonight, a song by that band with the prism on the album cover begins; the acoustic guitar opening of Wish You Were Here is like the sweetest kiss from this little puppy of mine.  So I start reflecting on a issue that’s been arcing across the ridges and valleys of my mind for a while now, it’s colors not so bright and cheery any longer; and I open an industry magazine from today’s mailbox reflecting on the state of the fly fishing industry.

In no uncertain terms, the editor of the magazine sizes up what he sees as the biggest problems right now.  I hear “Running over the same old ground what have you found? The same old fear” floating through the speakers and landing pretty heavy on the subject – and that’s fear.  Fear in the industry is becoming a reflection on the many problems it faces.  That some should benefit rather than others is the pointed-head, spiked tail evil spirit in the room.  Tradition, the “way it is” and so on.  “What about me?” the battle cry comes, louder and louder.

What ‘s driving this fear, and I’ll ask another question – how visible is it to the “never will be an angler” or the person who probably won’t read this blog but has a few friends who might, or has a parent who used to, or who may live near a fly shop and always walks by but never in-person out there?  If you read the same publication I got in the mail today, before you even reached the 10th page, you will have read opinions, statements, and indictments about “why” the problem exists, “what” fear looks like down to the laces of its boots, and even the more other important “W” in the equation – the “Who?” this evil is.  Another timely lyric drops in – “Oh some evil spirit, oh some evil this way comes.  They told me how to fear it now they’re placing it on their tongues” is pretty much right on target.

I had a business teacher in high school whose favorite phrase to say in most every occasion was “Jesus said, the love of money is the root of all evil”  (actually, it was Paul who said it according to the internet but I’ve never quoted the bible).   Evil looks like someone else who wants to try a different idea, who wants to take a different path, who sees an opportunity to solve a problem.  That dank, unlit alley is a long, winding path that courses through us all, accelerated with a heavy push on the gas pedal by other forces – motivation, expectation, tradition, selfishness.  During a discussion today in that dark alley, I shed light on it – “thank you, but that’s what I do, that piece of the pie is mine, so bugger off.”  When we’re on that path of fear, is may be easy to find treasure along the way in someone else’s chest, but should we be afraid of that?  Or should that make us examine it and respond to it.  It’s hard to answer for you, fine reader, but I’ll sum it up from my point of view – if you want a piece of my pie, I don’t fear you, I fear my response.  Will I take note, and change, or will I rely on the past?

And so, I suppose (or, I’m told as I stop reading) that my response should be to look within, only seek relief with those who may seek the same, and forgo all else.  But I can’t help but read a ember hot idea burning through the pages about “the way to keep your pie is to make sure people think it’s yours.”  For you see, fear lives in the margins, and those small margins is what we’re all afraid of.  That ever darkening path of fear is a narrowing slim margin and it’s the most valuable treasure in the industry.  And it’s the  hardest stone along the path to break; for to continue to exist in the margins, it’s not really about supporting the industry, it’s getting your piece of it.  And there’s not a single person in it that isn’t out for it.  Once we all agree that this fear is competition, and that our own response is our own response, we can finally call it what it is.  And once you name fear, it becomes a lot more familiar..that Paul guy was pretty smart after all.

I feel pretty good about my (slim) margins and how I walk down that path right now – how about you?

First off, apologies to my six faithful readers, who despite my absence in writing and updating this blog, keep coming back.  You must like what you see, and since you do, please know that there’s going to much, much more coming soon.  Keeping up with the pace of the world while managing a full-time guide business, being a father for two brilliant children, a husband for my wonderful wife, and now babysitter of a new puppy – well, there’s just lots of stuff to balance.  But – there’s light at the end of the tunnel.  A special thanks to Dave Carpenter, recently endorsed by Orvis in Oregon – Dave guides on the Santiam, which is literally in his backyard. He catches steelhead, trout, and salmon within sight of his kitchen and fly tying area.

What have I been up to?  Well, in a longer than I prefer winter/spring, there’s been a lot of travel.  Along the way, I picked up a nice piece of hardware from the good people at Orvis – I had to buy a new belt….

And when I returned home from a two week trip through the West, fishing MT, WY, and UT – my home water was blown due to rain and snowmelt.  What does that look like?

It looks like this.  Chocolate milk, mocha, mud – whatever you want to call  it, it ain’t clear.  But with the right fly and technique, there’s always a fish to catch.

Took the new puppy along, and she’s becoming quite the fishing dog.  Right at my feet, eating rocks, sleeping in the truck, etc.

So, as the title implies, it’s down to chasing blue lines where you can find them for some spring time fishing.  As most of the Western US has record snow packs this year, it’ll be a while.  But, I’ve heard the Kootenai fishes well at 20K, so perhaps a trip to visit Tim & Joanne at Linehan Outfitters is in order.  All the while, chasing little blue lines on the map…

Thanks for reading – there’ll be more soon.  Much more frequent than 5 months.

Derek

Those long twisty roads, creating the lyrics of the journey with our stories, the chapters are the long miles whose characters speak in rhythm with the dull thumps of the blacktop where it’s sealed from the thrusting and shaking of the earth.  Their pasts split, like the fork in the road you don’t take because you want to know where the knife is, damn the fork.  Under it all, wheels turning and oil burning.

Then it arrived, spoken by a wise man years ago – “Never show a man upside down wearing pants, unless you’re selling pockets with zippers.”

We’d just fished the pocket water of the Grande Ronde, the slow deep pools with just the right sized boulders underneath, but not boulders in the sense of the round – the sharp edges of volcanic basalt wearing dull, and will eventually get there, but not in my lifetime.  This is a nice return to the river for me, having floated it a few years past thorough the Wild & Scenic stretch between Minam and Troy, Oregon.  To be told that we floated, camped, rollicked on the sandy beaches playing Barts, danced, and generally lived it up a year or so ago through some of the densest rattlesnake and scorpion country afterwords was unsettling but sent a jolt of adrenaline up my spine, just the same.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the words of Robert Allen Zimmerman..

“Let me drink from the waters where the mountain streams flood
Let me smell of wildflowers flow free through my blood
Let me sleep in your meadows with the green grassy leaves
Let me walk down the highway with my brother in peace.
Let me die in my footsteps
Before I go down under the ground.”

Mortar & Pestle

I suppose we were there to catch fish of mythical proportions and legacy, but mostly it’s one of those trips were expectations were low despite our best intentions.  To be honest, these fish have traveled further than the ones where I live, and they are probably more trouty in behavior as a result of it.  A recent discussion about steelhead behavior, mostly centered around the “players” or the most aggressive fish a in a pool.  A corollary discussion about the behavior of resident trout and perhaps that the longer that sea-run fish hold in freshwater, their behaviors become more instinctual.  Warmth in a mother’s arms, the natal preference.  And honestly, I don’t fish to compete.  Never have.  Too much of that these days, and the human behavior it drives is counter productive.  Someone replied that if you don’t want to harm wild fish, that we should only fish the systems without wild fish in them.  Isn’t that convenient?  I don’t agree with the most popular and effective way to catch steelhead, because I think it’s the easy way out.  If we’re really going to be serious about sustainable fisheries, then we have to take hatchery fish out of the wild environment to even out the equation.  If the thrill of catching a concrete run fish is just the thrill, then why not build giant concrete pools with only hatchery fish in them, and just let ‘em at it.  Put them far, far away from wild systems, charge by the fish, pound, length – whatever the people say brings value from the experience to them.  I’m not elitist, but a realist.  The continued stocking of hatchery fish in wild fish environments is just bad (insert your favorite term here, like “science” or “ethics” or “human behavior”) and drives a wedge between anglers and the general public who just doesn’t understand the difference.

The quote then began to make sense to me.  The very essence of a pocket is easy access to things that are important enough to be close, but not so important that you have to lock them away.  A pocket with zippers is nothing but a bag.  Wild rivers and their inhabitants should be important enough that we don’t have to put zippers on them.  It’s our way of protecting something we don’t want to lose, when in fact it changes the very essence of what it was to begin with.  You lock up the future of a wild system when you put hatchery fish in it – in essence, a zipper seals it’s fate.

There’s a term used in flyfishing, in describing flowing water features – “pocket water” is water that when the conditions dictate, the smart angler looks there to find fish.  Most often, that’s low and slow water being the dominant features, and fish will seek out the “pockets” of water where higher concentrations of oxygen, and food, should be present.  And, the ability to poke that nose out and grab a few calories with little risk or energy spent just makes sense, to a fish.  Pretty simple.

The more I look at the picture I posted above, the more meaning I find in it.  I stepped out of the boat a few hundred yards above the water I eventually swung a fly through, walking down the cobbled bank.  I sat on a log in the middle of the riverbed, low now and needing rain, and just listened.

Giraffes in the wild.

It’s just a rock, just like the steel beams in the picture above are not giraffes.  But it symbolized something bigger and more real.  A call to nurture the river and its fish for what they are, not to turn it and the fish into something else.  It looks more like a growing egg, protected by something long enough that will eventually fade away.  I just snapped a picture of it, but my initial thought was that it would look great in my collection of other symbolic items – but then the realization is that by possessing it wouldn’t change what it was, only where it was.  So I left it be.

One year later, and with the world a much different place, we headed North with a StreamTech Boats Green Drake in tow, for delivery to Woods Bay, MT.  Brenco finally pulled the trigger, and happily took delivery of a sweet boat with nice amenities.  Unexpectedly, we came into a demo boat from a fly shop in MT that needed a little TLC and what better way than to take it across the border and pursue big trout on dries, and aggressive pre-spawn Bull Char.  All things aligned for the good of all.

Fernie was as welcoming this year, but colder and the Elk was running lower.  Fall is already in the air, the black bear already making appearances in town, prepping for winter.  We’re told that there are more than 100 RCMP in town for a conference, so instantly the flashbacks to last year http://flyfishtheyakima.com/2010/09/08/fernielicious-with-a-twist/ didn’t feel as ominous.  Well, at least this time it would be bears, not meth heads, but where did the chocolate-covered raisins go…

Mousin'......

Day one was uneventful; a late afternoon float throwing big dry flies, a copious Fall caddis event which the YakCaddis came in handy for, Chubby’s, streamers of all sizes – it all worked.  The only reason to change flies was just to see what wouldn’t work – it’s that good of a fishery.  A few small Bulls come to hand, but nothing like what we’re expecting.  Dark came quickly, and we high tailed into town.  There were four of us, but like the Three Wise Men we were drawn to Fernie to find no rooms for the weary.  Apparently the economy in Canada is much stronger than in the US, as there were plenty of workers in town occupying every available room – but for one.  Kyle from WI makes the call and finds a kitchenette not far from where we stayed last year, and we settle in.  I’m pretty sure everyone snores, although I’m the only one called out for it – and Brenco’s dog licks himself all night.  Insert your dog jokes here, but damn son give it a rest.

Day two and we’re floating a different stretch this year – no improvement in launch facilities, so I’m still left to wonder where exactly the $20/day that tacked onto the “special waters” permits goes.  We’re met by several other boats, so the locals are onto something and we’re in on it too.  Big pools are accessed by football (US, not Canadian) sized runs that run shallow and are no match for the Green Drakes.  These boats pull very little water, don’t bang around like glass or wood boats, and even when portages were necessary, at 165 pounds (what’s that in Canadian?) very easy to move around.  We don’t draw the attention of many fish to start – it’s earlier in the day, colder, and overcast.  We mutter that it’s an olive day, but that would take all the fun out of throwing chunky foam dries.  So, I dig deep into the box and out comes the Mouse.  I tied the pattern above earlier this year, and have only fished it on the Yakima once.  I got a few followers, so in the face of adversity (meaning, each cast didn’t move a fish) I suggest we go rodent to get their attention.  And it worked.

Rodents.

Sunlight, through your tail, makes me happy.

Day Three is the day of the Bull.  The big fish aren’t showing themselves so it’s back down to the lower stretches of the river, and a quick stop at one of the many fly shops there in town.  Where’s the 2/0 bunnies, please?  Depth charge line, the 7wt lined up for the battle and it stood to be a good one.  We don’t leave this system without big Bulls, and it’s down to the last day.

Three Wise Men or The Four Horsemen?

Fishing with even your best friends after three days can be challenging – the bottle of whiskey is running low, the Pabst is warm, and there’s a nervousness among us.  Whose going to boat it?  The jockeying intensifies, with normal decorum taking a break as we drift down further, light fading..

We wonder if there is a curse.  While casting mouse patterns, Hayes witnesses a large cutthroat take this fly right off the line without even a ripple – staring back at me, as if to rewind time, the silence of the bank robber sends a chill down our spines – the mouse pattern that’s been so effective is now gone – I only tied one.  Hayes doesn’t give up easily, so we wait a minute on anchor – and the mouse appears.  Popping out of the water a few yards downstream, I quickly unseat us from the cobbled river bottom and the chase is on.  Recovery comes quick, and without hesistation he ties it back on.  Five minutes later, we veer left at a shallow braided fork in the river – we’ve not floated this side yet, and with Brenco and Kyle ahead of us, may have just pulled a coup.

We're headed left.

And then it happens again.  Only this time, a strong cutty makes a strong shake of its head, and the mouse is gone.  We watch in horror as it swims away.  Wait, did I tie another one?  There’s another mouse in the house, only this one is tied a bit differently and doesn’t sit as nicely.  Remember the tail in the first photo?  That made Mouse #1 swim so lifelike that we narrated each cast – “it’s just me, little ol’ field mouse walking down the log towards the river for a sip – oops, I’ve fallen in and need to swim away from these big fish so that I don’t get GULPED.”  Brenco and Kyle have witnessed us take two large cutts on the mouse, and can’t believe it.  Mouse #2 doesn’t have the mojo, and it becomes apparent that perhaps we are cursed – Hayes casts it into a log jam and we’re done.

Switching from oarsman to caster, I take the front seat and try a Chubby Chernobyl – it’s worked already, it’s easy to see, and at this point, hoping it’s a curse buster.  “There’s a nice undercut over there, Hayes – put me on it” I ask and make haste with casting.  Then, the curse rears itself again.  I’ve hooked a bird in the leg, and it’s making havoc with my line.  Diving and yelling like mad, it’s trying to drown itself it seems as I pull it closer towards me.  We are cursed, indeed.  It’s quick but messy, bloody work but the bird comes free, flying off into the trees.  I’ve taken the rod down, and stored it away.  We consider the events of the last 30 minutes, break for lunch, and as the wind picks up, make for the takeout.  Half of the float remains, we’ve hit a rough patch, but press on.

It’s time to change strategy and tactics – the big bulls will come with time we say, and float over gin clear water from deep pool to deep pool.  There’s less jockeying for position now, as deep holes become treasure troves that require time.  Fish it all the way, from top to bottom, they’re in there.

And then the curse is broken.  Kyle and Eric are 40 yards downstream, at the tailout of the last big pool with any promise.  I can see Kyle’s fly rod bent towards the water and he’s shouting about a bull char.  I’ve cast 60 feet to my left, behind a car-sized boulder, and let it sink.  Then a strong pull, and a flash at a big Bull.  It took three days, but within 10 seconds of each other, we’ve each hooked a fish and the work begins.

Elk River Bull Char.

I’m thankful for the opportunity to fish these great waters with great friends, and this year’s trip is a welcome change from last years.  Concerns about locals removing the air from your tires, wondering if vandals will strike again (I didn’t bring the bag of chocolate-covered raisins to appease them) go away quickly as the riches of the experience overcome the worry.  A curse that is broken.

“Blue light rain, whoa unbroken chain,
Looking for familiar faces in an empty window pane.

Listening for the secret, searching for the sound
But I could only hear the preacher and the baying of his hounds.

Willow sky, whoa, I walk and wonder why,
They say love your brother, but you will catch it when you try.”  -Robert Peterson and Phil Lesh

I’m outside my comfort level, with unfamiliar gear that strangely enough, when asked, I step right in and work; downriggers, cut-bait, depth finders.

It’s comfortable on the water, a break from the oars in exchange for the salty air and seagulls.

I celebrate a good friends coming birthday with time on the water. Soon, we’ll be back in shallower freshwater, casting flies and far removed from the deep Sound.

Right outside this lazy summer home
You aint got time to call your soul a critic no.
Right outside the lazy gate of winters summer home,
Wondrin where the nut-thatch winters,
Wings a mile long just carried the bird away. “Eyes Of The World” – Robert Hunter

Ask for a mixed drink anywhere you go, and it’s likely not going to be exactly the same as the last one you had at that other place – local flavor, or the attitude of the slinger that day, or perhaps you’re bringing something to the bar that flavors your drink in a more esoteric way.  Either way, it’s the first day of September, and as it happens the sun rose this morning in such a different way as to slightly touch the corner of my roof – perched for the morning soak, Eyes breezes through the speakers and it comes to me – the Sun is lower in the sky, and the warmth extends itself in a different way as well.  As we get closer to Fall, the day is now measured by how much the water warms and brings to life the river.  Technique changes, and it’s less noisy in the coming months too.  Orange and yellow begin to slowly influence the palate of the day, soon to dominate the green, then surrendering to the gray and white and winter’s blanket of snow.

I’m looking forward to Winter this year, not just for the change in season but for it to be deservedly quiet; the noise of summer has worn it’s welcome.  It makes you wonder if it’s just as awkward for nature to change seasons – putting on a pair of pants the other day, it felt like it was too early.  “What is this fabric from my knees to my ankles?” my calves seem to ask, and I can only acknowledge and then wonder just where the cold-weather dry bag is – the wool socks, down jackets, fleece hats.  Shuddering at the cold I know I’ll feel soon I quickly move to the shorts drawer and give that pair of shorts one more chance.  The long-sleeved shirts, however, are moving to the top drawer.

I’m stuck in a particular eddy, around how fly fisherman interact with our cold water resources, and how we leave it.  I took a nice drive up the river road yesterday, and it was too easy – and I feared, what have I missed?  Did my comments mean nothing, do the voices of those who love this river sink below the weight of vox populi – make wilderness easy by paving the way.  A few shaker potholes, the smaller waves in the gravel that kick rocks off the side, the occasional “ting” on the fenders sound like seconds on the clock.  I smile and reflect on the lack of garbage however, but I fear that this new layer of crushed stone simply covered what was there, sweeping it under the quartz carpet.  20 minutes later I’m at the trailhead, Maggie’s running around anxiously to get to the water and I’ve got to slow her down.  Sling pack, rod and reel, water, bushy dries, and we’re off.  Rain, but my hoodie will do just fine.  Hope the fine folks from that insurance company up here aren’t filming – “Sandals, Shorts, and Hoodie Guy, you’re one of us.”  Oh well. The first casts come tight on wild fish, with more chasing the one I fooled to see just what’s going on.  Release, cast, release..

For the secrets this river gave up yesterday and those it’s still keeping today, this is why I return here.  The intoxicating mix of stone, water, trees; the quiet conversation that Nature holds internally, flaring in colors both bright and dull – the deeper emerald pools holding the coldest memories of winter as a reminder.  It’s a mixed drink; swirling around in the glass, it’s inviting and the ingredients go well together.  I bellied up to the bar yesterday and ordered a drink that quenched a fading summer’s thirst.

The very nature of river discussions casually amble somewhere between the specific and the absolutely pointless.  In such cases, it’s not always an option to break the glass and pull the fire alarm.  Nor is it advisable to yell “Fire” in a crowded movie theater – the sort of chalk test that we’ve come to use everyday to explain our actions.  As we stand here beneath the widening chalk board, the exit door to the room lies far away to the right, past that frustratingly simple triangle, the olive green trash can tucked under the graying aluminum ringed desk.  There’s a quietly painful feeling that an increasingly growing number of us suppose that if the answer is wrong, then we’d just erase the question and without pause put the right one it’s place – problem solved.

If you’ve spent any time with me on the river, there’s a couple of things I’ve found myself repeating, not for better or worse, but simply an observation about fly fishing – if you fish the water you’ve missed, you’ll miss the water you should fish.  Or,  sometimes I’ll drop the brilliance of  “Remember to forget” – that your muscles will eventually stop being fooled by your mind, and it will all stop making sense start making sense.

I recently overheard a small group of fly fisherman chatting over the last hours spent on the water – what worked, the weather, etc.  “Yes, the water is high and fast right now but it’s supposed to be” lingers like camp fire smoke blended into that hoodie you didn’t wash after the last overnighter but will probably get in the laundry tomorrow.  Look past the leaning cottonwoods who just might be doing so to listen more closely to the day’s report.  As a quick side note, when the water does go back down, it will be very good for walking the edges after the water’s gone down, collecting shop flies and hand-tied wonders – you should limit on foam dries and bead headed nymphs very quickly.

You and the tree’s both heard the quip that sounded something very similar to ‘Starve Steve McQueen” and it sticks (pun intended) out the most – a concept taught somewhere by someone at sometime in someplace, that by uttering that phrase while watching a large fish that has immediately closed that gap of two feet from behind that rock and is immediately at your fly will somehow result in critical mass, or as Merriam Webster defines as “ of sufficient size to sustain a chain reaction.”

Simply, it takes a lot of time and energy to think about what you should do when a fish takes your fly, and in that time gap of time, it’s already realized that it’s not real, and turned it’s head.  Set The Hook.  If in the course of your pursuits you’ve found yourself thinking about what to think when the fish takes your fly, why not just Set The Hook?  People have a tendency to get in their own way, and they can’t unplug plug in to the river and the rhythm and Set The Hook.  This fine pursuit of the trout requires one to get out of their own way, discover and connect rather than be censorious, and Set The Hook.

Having now reached critical mass upon the idea, let me mention mending.  How much time do you have?

Among the many theories that attempt to describe how Man engages with himself, nature, and society, Theory Z is the result of decades of observation, tweaking of other theories, and the study of situational leadership.  The most apt characterization of how Theory Z applies to the current day is as follows – “Interaction is man’s social unit of importance.”

Given the smile on this fellow’s face, I’d say Theory Z is right on.  The importance of interaction with nature can never be underestimated or taken for granted.  Before we had Theory Z, the study of human behavior was deeply rooted in motivation, and what satisfied man.  Maslow, in his work, posited that in order to reach self-actualization, there were basic needs that must be met first – safety, food, shelter, etc.

As time progressed, and individuals in the workplace became more known as “resources” than “personnel” and we moved away from a militaristic model of managing people; the importance of roles, working together, and collaboration became the norm, not the exception.

I often get clients whose workdays and challenges are mirrored in the situations we find on the water – problem solving, communication, the wise use of resources, and working together.  As we float down the river, the water and the workplace are dissected; look downstream, not up – if you fish the water you missed, you’ll miss the water you should fish is one of my little river gems.

In a previous life, these theories and the study of human behavior kept me confined in a little cubicle, with a ill-tempered and inpatient boss, whose own challenges with human behavior motivated me to follow Maslow’s advice, and to self-realization.

I submit as my thesis into the study of human behavior, my interpretation of Theory Z.

Days on the river, nights around the fire, mornings in the canyons, life lived as it should be.

I hit the upper river solo on Monday, to recon a section for the first time of the year – the high water affords access where there normally is none, bringing life to a narrow band of swift water slowly eating at the cobbled banks as it twists back towards the main channel.  There, a deep slow pool where I’ve floated over spawned out salmon, the water promising.  I make a few casts, a flash, the splash, and a gorgeous cutthroat comes to hand.

You’ve had some time to speculate about just what this week’s post is about, but please – don’t skip ahead to the pictures, as scandalous and scintillating as they may be.  You’ll need to really understand the events leading up to the unpleasant ending, and as relieving at it may be, you’ll only end up feeling like you wanted more….

Fishing from a drift boat is a lot different than wading, particularly when casting.  There’s not a single guide out there who hasn’t been jarred awake in the middle of the night, muttering “downstream and 45, downstream and 45….”  Well, why is that so important, and why is it so hard to perfect?  If you’re used to fishing from a drift boat, then don’t click on this link on Orvis.news for great information provided by Tim Linehan at Linehan Outfitting Company.  If you’re not, then what I’m writing about is the result of not reading that link, so on second thought, just click on that link anyways cause Tim’s a great guy and he’s got a great article about mending, and it’s not just a city in China.

In an undramatic re-enactment, represented in the photograph below, you’ll see first hand the result of looking upstream while in the front of the drift boat, and making a roll cast into the trees.  What’s unique about this predicament is the miraculous positioning of the yellow “bobber” (for all the purists like me it’s an “indicator”).  For on this occasion, the actual on-water errant cast resulted in the line, leader, flies, and “bobber” neatly trapped between the two forks of a fallen log.  You are looking at a photo that I took days after the event, due to the trauma I’m still dealing with.  Even as I sit here today, recalling the chest deep wading in the raging Yakima River, struggling upstream to reach said conflaguration, I still cannot bear to recall the events as they actually took place, so you’ll have to believe me when I say that it was a cluster.

You see, I was positioning the boat at a close distance to the tree-lined banks for a reason; the wind was howling, the river was high, and that’s where the fish are right now.  And as Tim alluded to, line management means mending (not the city in China) and it’s very important.  It’s what I teach on the river – tight line nymphing as described by Bill Carnazzo.  Take note that he’s describing wading technique – but it applies to drifting, with one important variance – cast downstream and 45, not upstream.  I add one other element- making frequent “micro” mends using the tip of the rod, and (only when necessary) mending the right section of line to keep the indicator bobber from moving, along with jarring the flies out of position.  You’ll hear me stating “mend that belly” or “just the tip” when teaching someone this technique.  When you’ve got it mastered, it will dramatically improve your catch rates – subtle takes are very easy to detect because you’ve got the rod tip in the right position, the line is “tight” and not dragging, and the time from “take” to “set” is very short.

If I haven’t already lost you, or if you’ve skipped ahead, then you’ve missed a bit of the story, so hang in there.  After the line, leader, bobber, and flies became “stuck” in the tree, and about the time that the boat was close to 150 feet downstream from the whole mess (envision a screaming line, a puzzled client, a raging river, a hot under the UV-collar guide) I was able to get the Salmonfly to the bank.  Hey, that’s a clever bit of predictive entendre isn’t it?

Anchor dropped, looking upstream, I calmly state “just keep the tip where it’s at….”

Then “snap” like the worst snap you’ve ever heard, there it went.  My favorite Helios of all, the 10′ 5wt Tip Flex.  Trying to keep a hold of the rod and reel, my client inadvertently moved the rod, under extreme stress, too far in the wrong direction.

It is was the perfect nymph stick and I don’t mind sharing it with my clients, in fact, they quite enjoy it.  “It’s ok” I assured my client, “it happens.”  What I wanted to say was “remember downstream and 45 to keep your flies out of the trees, to see the best water coming, to keep the best drift possible…” to somehow impart that this whole thing was preventable….to not break my $800 fly rod.  But in the end, it is all ok.  Orvis guarantees their rods for 25 years from purchase, and will repair/replace it if needed.  I’ll send it to the fine folks in Manchester, VT for repair.  Soon, it will be back in the stable, ready for another day on the river.

The moral of the story, my dear (8) readers, is that sometimes even when you’re enjoying yourself on the river, things happen, and it feels like you’re getting the shaft.  Sometimes, it’s just the tip.  Which, by the way, I didn’t take to the bank.

There must be some way out of here, said the Joker to the Thief.   Maggie and I thought we’d steal the day away on the Yakima a few days ago, after providing some cross-country travelers some private casting lessons.  Seems they were driving all the way from Key West, FL to Fairbanks, AK and wanted a basic knowledge of how to fly fish once they got to Alaska…maybe this closes the circle from Wharf Rat but that’s probably a stretch…anyways.

The river was moving at 6000 cfs – and there was little of the river cobble to be seen, but for a very few places.  Tucking into the corners gave little respite from the flow, nor at the ends of the barely visible islands that normally make up the river’s edge and banks during lower flows.  But that’s where the force of the water was the most reasonable.  I suspect that underneath the Salmonfly, amid the caddisflies and golden stones in the water, that we were right on top of the fish.  Maggie spotted them, gave out a small bark…your next Emerging Rivers Guide Services protege!

Here’s the river dog all suited up and ready for her maiden voyage on the Yakima.  She did well, mostly rested and let me do all the work…it’s a dog’s life.  She’s got her Orvis dog bed on order…

We felt the river dropping underneath us, and sure enough after getting home the numbers told the story.  There will be a short period of time over the next few days in which to sneak in a float and perhaps catch the river on the drop…

Not much has changed in the lower canyon, although this stump just above the Rock Garden is certainly new.  Won’t pose a problem to most floaters, but it will provide some main channel structure.

We drove home via Hwy 10 between Ellensburg and Cle Elum, to check out the upper canyon area.  It was certainly windy but a nice sunny day.  I’m going to float this section on Saturday – in high water, the pools in this section are even better.

Put $5 in the can…

Lest you think it was a perfect day…we ran into traffic on the way home.  Two hours later, in the gray and rainy skies, we were home after a successful first river float for Maggie and me.  We didn’t fish, but the fish were there.  Middle of the river, splashy vertical rises for size 16 tan caddis and blue winged olives, dripping slowly into the water like the rain drops on the windshield.  Thanks for reading – Derek & Maggie.

The Yakima River in Washington State is classified as “Blue Ribbon” trout water, and as such causes a love/hate relationship with those that pursue the native Westslope Cutthroat and wild Rainbow in its waters.  The 70-miles of designated special regulations water is where a lot of Washington’s trout anglers first experience the heartbreak and soothing salvation of fly fishing.  So, that’s both the blessing and the curse -  you don’t need to drive all the way to Montana or Idaho to experience great fly fishing (which I also enjoy doing), but what you won’t find on the Yakima River is what makes other well-known and heavily fished trout waters so popular.  No, you won’t find 10,000 trout per mile, or even 3000 – numbers that make you wonder how you could fish water that rich and not catch anything.  You will find between 800-1000 fish per mile, depending on which stretch you fish, and the time of the year.  It’s what I love the most about guiding, fishing, and sharing this river with friends and clients – it’s about the discovery, and if you’re the type of angler who appreciates the discovery, hard work, and getting out there to see the river for what it is, then you’ll find me right there along side you.

The color and shape of the river recently has been the biggest challenge – record snowfalls in the Cascades and several extraordinary weather events in January, March, and then again in May have changed the river.  Change is good, and that adds to the challenge – where fish used to hold, feed, and travel has changed over the last six months, so anglers have to adapt to it and think more like a fish.  High water means searching out deep, slow pools where food and fish collect.  It means inside seams, and walking speed water below the classic run, riffle, pool river structure.  It means there will be hatches and rising fish, but more so it means finding the right water and presenting your flies the right way.

The first two days of June brought improving river conditions – from “fish someplace else this week” to “okay” is how I described it on the Orvis.com report. Floating the upper river sections between S. Cle Elum and Thorp, WA are my favorite stretches of the river – braided, tree-lined, and full of character.  I know some guides who haven’t fished the upper river once over the last 10 years, and while I don’t frequent the lower stretches as much as others do, there’s a reason why – the fishing is more technical up here.  But the reward is greater – there are fewer fish, but they are bigger and more often clients are bringing nice Cutthroat to the net.

This fish was caught on a golden stonefly nymph, and representative of the color and the shape of the cutthroat in the upper river.  The fiery orange slash, the remarkable blush of the cheek, the fight.  You won’t find acrobatics in general, but you’ll know it when you hook one, as the slash is vibrant against the olive jaw.

Here, Dan caught a end of the day beauty of a rainbow on a Pat’s, drifted deep and slow in the fading light. A personal best for him and on any river a fine fish.

Between the three of us (I don’t normally fish with clients, but when demonstrating a technique, the inevitable happens!) we netted three fish, with many more bites – takes were slight, sometimes sets were missed, but we found a great sunny day.  Water temps in the upper 40′s, air was in the 60′s, and the water was clear.  Definitely improving, and these flows will likely stick around until mid-September when the flows are normally reduced for the winter.  Overall, a great day sharing the river with two new friends and clients.

Thursday the 2nd brought similar conditions – sunny and warm, but windy.  However, for Jason and Chad, their first interaction with the Yakima River.  With what we learned the day before, I set us up for a afternoon float.  On the water around 1:45, off at 7:45.  Water temps were in the upper 40′s, but the wind resulted in fewer bugs on the water and tougher fishing conditions.  Covering the basics of casting from the boat and working together (hey, stay out of my water!) we fished hard, stopping frequently to re-rig as the conditions required big flies, down deep, and close to underwater structure.  The saying goes, “if you not losing flies nymphing, you’re not doing it right.”  And while I agree with the premise, if you master the technique, you’ll not lose flies.  It’s technical fishing – frequent mending, reading the water, managing your line, adapting – if you become proficient at catching fish subsurface on the Yakima River, you’ll catch fish anywhere.  I do think of the Yakima as having a steep learning curve, but if you’ll put in the time, the rewards are great.  Three fish to the net, including a end of the day (sense a trend here?) beauty fought valiantly by Chad – into his backing, and a good 40 yards from the boat, I finally netted his fish.  He’ll come back with a 5wt next time, cause this ain’t no 3wt water up here.

Jason’s a high-school classmate of mine, and Chad’s a Coug.  Couldn’t beat the company on the water that day, with an initial introduction to the Yakima – having gone to college and fished in MT and in Alaska, Jason’s taking fishing the Yakima seriously.

And that’s all I can report on for the first two days in June – back on the river after a two-week break (nature and nurture) has been a welcome return for me.  Getting back to river speed, to rowing, to casting, to teaching, to netting, and to sharing my home river is a blessing – the color and shape, from season to season, I keep coming back.  The Yakima River demands your attention to be successful.  Don’t expect it to be easy, but expect the reward to be worth it.

Thanks for reading,

Derek

I was in Denver five months ago, representing StreamTech Boats at the International Sportsman’s Expo, when the idea for a blog entry came to mind.  Given how frequently I was updating Fly Fish The Yakima, any inspiration that I could find was fair game.  Not being a big fan of trade shows, it was nonetheless an opportunity to hang out for a few days with Chris from Maravia, and Link, the owner/head guy at StreamTech.  Both have years of experience in the industry, so the opportunity to personally hear them describe the Salmonfly and Green Drake to the public was something I was looking forward to.

So, after three days of soaking in the show,  it came to me. I originally titled a blog entry “Dress Camo” in February, in the spirit of poking a little bit of fun at what I saw (or did I really see that?) on just about every other piece of clothing you could imagine.  Camouflage as far as the eye could see,  but I decided to let it simmer a bit – sometimes observations like these are best kept to oneself.  However, as you’ve come to read in the past on this blog, I write in a style that is both respectful and meaningful at the same time.  I personally own a hat, maybe a bandana, made of camouflage material.  I don’t hunt or wing shoot yet, but I have many friends who do and also own many pieces of camouflage.  But what we’re talking about here isn’t the functional use of specialized materials in technical, stealth-required situations – we’re talking about head to toe ‘flage, indoors, under fluorescent light, in the middle of town.

And what does this have to do with time travel?  Well, as Dan Nelson pointed out upon the publishing of Chasing Blue Lines, there was a question about timing – how could something be originally created in February, describe events from April, yet published in May?  Time travel, my friends…it is possible.

I titled the prospective blog entry “Dress Camo” because as I watched the show attendees walking past the booth, with a handful of kettle corn, a soft drink, and a compound bow or sheds on their shoulders, I wondered what’s behind it.  We all have our uniforms – for the river, for work, to hang out with your buddies, we wear what’s comfortable, and what we think describes who we are and what we do.  I get that.  As I sit here waiting for the river to subside, I dream of shorts and sandals, long hot days on the river, soaking my trucker hat in the river and putting in back on to get a little relief from the heat.  At the same time, with such a long winter, that first time I step outside wearing shorts feels a little uncomfortable – it’s been so long.  But whatever the uniform, our clothing is as much a part of who we are as it is who we want others to know who we are.

There’s no functional reason to wear camouflage to a trade show – after all, there’s really very little risk of wild game being about.  And certainly, if there’s no need to be hiding from wild game, why then does an individual choose to fully hide themselves in the middle of the day, in the middle of the city?

But as I think more about what I saw, I’ll bring it back to the concept of time travel.  In the days when mountain men gathered high in the passes and meadows, there were contests of skill, swapping of furs and flints, whiskey, and campfires.  There’s a longing to be part of something bigger than ourselves deep in our conscious, to be included.  Today, we don’t hunt and gather, we hunt and peck on the keyboard.  We spend precious time outdoors re-creating the rendezvous, and the modern day trade show is nothing more than that – a place and time to dress up, to be part of something vintage and reminiscent of the past.  We can be invisible in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day, hiding from the dangers, searching for belonging within.

We can travel in time – what first appeared in January is now present in May.  Just go look at your river…..

We all live downstream.  Sitting in your living room, stuck in your cubicle, or walking down the street, there’s a river out there whose pristine headwaters are far above your current altitude.  And there always will be.  Look upstream – what do you see?  Turn and look downstream – anything different?  You’re probably already looking at the water you were looking upstream at.  Most problem’s are like that – as soon as you realize it exists, how very quickly it’s already on you and how you react to it is already being decided by the forces of nature.  What are you going to do?

Last September, I attended an outdoor concert at Marymoor Park, outside of Seattle.  It rained all day and night, and while not a Woodstock-esque level of mud, some of the musicians were there at Woodstock all those years ago.  The band playing that night,Furthur, put down a great set – one theme of water in the songs being played was fitting.  These guys get it – about living downstream.  Mississippi Half Step, Peaceful Valley, So Many Roads.

Since that night spent in the pouring rain dancing with friends, I’ve been thinking about a question asked by one of my clients – “So, are you are writer who fly fishes, or a fly fisher who writes?  I’ll let you decide about the quality, quantity, and meaning in my writing – sometimes jumbled with musical lyrics, other times self-promoting, and still yet other times meaning may have escaped within what I wrote altogether.  I appreciate that you’ve been along for the journey – and as I sit here on the computer with my mind going in many different directions, I find focus in a river, once again.  So many roads, so why this one?  Please read along, and I’d love to hear your thoughts and opinions, too.

The Middle Fork Road follows the Snoqualmie River from near its headwaters, still above Snoqualmie Falls, where the Taylor River drains portions of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness.  The Pratt, Rainy Creek, Granite Creek, and smaller unnamed gullies and seasonal snowmelt paths, tumbling down the steep mountain flanks.  It’s uncontrolled water up here, still above some of the richest farmland in the Puget Sound.  Flooding here is a real issue; some of my six regular readers live in the paths of these flood-waters.  Native Salmon, Coastal Cutthroat, Westslope Cutthroat, non-native Brook Trout, and Rainbow all exist here.  The Middle Fork of The Snoqualmie is great fly fishing water – I guide on its waters a few times a year.

The fish above the falls, where it’s at its wildest, don’t grow very large due to several factors – water temps and chemical composition, angling pressure, habitat issues, and abuse.  The road and the forest and water around it have been used as a dumping ground in the past; weekend parties, squatters, car campers, and illegal dumpers.  Over the last few years, it’s been a river on the rebound however.  Then along comes a road.

A road already exists – gravel and mud, then potholes and dust depending on the time of the year one uses it.  Either season, it’s a primitive road that matches the destination.  There have been times along that road, trails, and riverbeds that I’ve felt a million miles away, while yet only 34 miles via Interstate 90 from Seattle.

There’s a proposal being floated right now, by the DOT, US Forest Service, and King County (which the MF Snoqualmie flows within) to pave the road from milepost 2.7, extending nearly 10 miles to the Middle Fork Campground.  At 20 feet wide, this road would be wider than the river in some places.  The primary objective is to reduce the impact of natural flooding on the existing roadway, by elevating the road at certain places, and paving along the entirety.  It’s what called a “preferred alternative.”

The money will come from multiple sources; (WFLHD) Western Federal Lands Highway Division, (FHWA) Federal Highway Administration, (USFS) United States Forest Service, and King County.  The preliminary studies already completed pose “no potential for the….action to significantly affect the human environment.”  Of course, a EIS (Environmental Impact Statement) will be required.  Anyone hungry for alphabet soup?

Here’s my thoughts – while paving the road does have some downstream benefits (think reduced sedimentation in the river which affects nesting and rearing habitat both above and below the falls) as well as economic (I heard a number between $20 and $40 million – plus or minus a million if they close the road to all users for up to two years while it’s being paved) (note to self this last paragraph contains way too many parentheses) I think of the impacts of a paved road, leading to wilderness.  I think about not only an increased number of users in an environment, but the types of users.  I used to frequent Elevenmile Canyon outside of Lake George, Colorado for both camping, rock climbing, and fly fishing.  That dirt road was often rutted and dusty, but rarely crowded.  A rough journey at times, sure.  Compact cars or motor homes? Rarely.  It was a good experience – but it didn’t stop a few folks from taking RV’s into the campground below Elevenmile Dam.  The drone of a generator in the early morning didn’t make for a wilderness experience, but given it’s proximity to Colorado Springs and Denver, it was what it was and is.  Wilderness, in this day, may not be the easiest place to get into.  But would we appreciate the same if it was?

I think upon further review, reflecting upon what I value in nature, that wilderness observed and defined must continue to contain “wild” and should not be easy to access.

Jerry and Robert put it well:

From the land of the midnight sun
where the ice blue roses grow
‘long those roads of gold and silver snow
Howlin’ wide or moaning low
So many roads I know
So many roads to ease my soul

If you’d like to learn more about this issue, please visit www.wfl.fhwa.dot.gov/projects/mfsnoqualmie.