Tailwater Tribe

Trout Creek, MI: Further Adventures in the Upper Peninsula

2017-07-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

Nice U.P. brookie on a dry fly

Randy Berndt: THE U.P. Fly Angler

Behind the bar at Upchuck's: Just when you thought you had run out of uses for old chainsaws.

IT WAS THE CHAINSAW behind the bar that struck my attention. Inside Upchuck’s Bar in Kenton, Michigan, the décor consisted of mounted deer heads, hockey posters, and dark wood paneling straight from the 1960’s. The chainsaw was a vintage two-man McColloch large enough to be repurposed as an apparel rack. Hanging from the yellow and silver beast were t-shirts and fleece jackets with the official Upchuck’s logo.

My fishing partner Randy Berndt and I were taking a break from an early-morning bushwhacking hike to a remote stream where we had pounded brookies on dry flies and worked up a thirst and an appetite.

We pulled into Kenton and bellied up to the bar for beers and burgers. As we waited on the bartender to take our order, Randy saw me staring at the McColloch.

“Owner’s been offered $2,500 dollars for the saw,” Randy said. “As you can see, he didn’t take it.”

“Don’t blame him,” I said. “It really adds to the ambience.”

This classy establishment beckoned because I was on my annual fly-fishing tour. I had finished teaching my two five-week classes at the local college and with a few weeks off I pointed my pickup north with my sights on Michigan to fish with a dear friend, Randy Berndt. Randy splits time teaching in Wisconsin and guiding in the Upper Peninsula where he operates the U.P. Fly Angler.

Catching native fish in an untouched environment and taking in some local culture can sometimes work wonders. The bartender placed a Keweenaw Pick Axe Blond ale on a waterlogged coaster. Tasting the local brews always adds to the experience. This beer was good and cold.

It was summer in the U.P., but there were no bikini-clad throngs or beaches nearby, making me wonder if the town is more active during warmer weather or during the winter months where several feet of snow bank the roadsides. A couple bikers on Harleys were among the patrons. It was easy to tell these guys from the locals. Bet Upchuck’s didn’t get many tourists in January unless you counted deer hunters.

Three years had ensued since I had visited the Ottawa National Forest, 90,000 acres of one of the most spectacular wildernesses in America and home to an untold number of creeks and tributaries of the Ontonagon River system. This area is Randy Berndt’s wheelhouse and he has a pulse on every trickle of water in the forest. Because the area is so remote and often requires long hikes through almost impenetrable vegetation to get to the good places meant that we had seen no other anglers in two days. We had some of the last, best trout water in North America to ourselves. Randy and I scarfed down burgers and Ruebens, killed the remnants of our second beers and headed out.

Two days earlier, I met Randy at his home in Wittenberg, Wisconsin to begin a trip we had been planning for three seasons. Randy and I struck up a friendship in grad school at Montana State in Bozeman where we spent more time on the Gallatin River than we did in class. Unlike many friendships that fade away after you leave school, ours has blossomed over the years and includes reciprocating periodic visits to fly fish. Three years ago, Randy started “living the dream,” and quit his day job teaching high school to become a fly fishing guide. This is my second trip to the U.P. and one thing is obvious, Randy has grown as an angler and a human being. He is simply an amazing guy.

I followed Randy from Wittenberg to the U.P., a two-hour drive and stopped in Watersmeet, Michigan for a license.

On the outskirts of Trout Creek, Michigan is a winding road marked by a sign that reads The U.P. Fly Angler. Navigating a gravel road through a field of timothy waiting to be cut for hay in the fall and a copse of aspen and birch. I view a neat collection of cabins built and maintained by Randy. This camp would be my home for the next three days. I backed my truck in front of the guest cabin, dropped my gear in the room. I cracked open a couple of celebratory beers from the Yeti in the back of my truck, handed one to Randy and we began plotting our strategy of how best to fish the Ontonagon over the next two days.

After a late-night campfire and many more beers. I walked in the cool night air to my room. I flipped on my headlamp, unpacked a book from my backpack and crawled into my sleeping bag I had placed on the top bunk of a three-bed arrangement. Even though, I had driven 1144 miles to get there and it was well after midnight, I was still wired about the fishing the next day. The book, I felt, would wind me down. The silence of the room was deafening, literally. I have never been to such a quiet place in my life, so a little music was in order. I turned on the Bluetooth speaker and flipped through my iPhone for a playlist. I crawled into my sleeping bag and read by the lamp strapped to my head with an eclectic mix of music in my ears. Sleep came quickly.

The cabin was toasty, but by morning, the temperature was forty-nine degrees, giving my deep-south-July-acclimated-body a shock as I walked across camp to the bathroom. Randy prepared coffee and breakfast in his cabin as the sun began to shine on the aspens outside. After breakfast, I pulled on a Simms Cold Weather flannel shirt, which is actually a jacket before putting on my waders. Had it been possible to do so while remaining in my sleeping bag, I would have.

Breakfast and dressing completed, Randy and I loaded our gear into his truck and followed a grid of paved and suspect, washboard gravel Forest Service Roads to our first destination. The stretch of river Randy had in mind is accessible only by way of an extensive bushwhacking hike through some of the most magnificent scenery imaginable. After ducking beneath low-limbed trees and wading through waist deep fern forests, the river beckoned. It was breathtaking, but still a bit high and off-color due to a large rain event that had dumped several inches of rain in the area a couple days earlier. The water, although a bit high, was still magnificent. Randy studied the conditions and rigged up two different rods for us to fish, a stimulator with a nymph dropper and a small woolly bugger. We walked into the nearest easy access from the wooded bank and slid into the water. Water trickled between my boots from an area of soft water which led to a riffle around the bend as I cast the stimulator into the pool.

Thimbleberries and moose tracks lined the trails and banks that led downstream. Swapping my stimulator rig for the woolly bugger, I worked the pools and eddies of the flowing current. Accustomed to bigger rivers and swinging currents, I found myself completely inept at hooking up. The fish were there, but my sets came too late.

A half-mile down the river, I was back to the stimulator. A large splash bruised the top fly and I finally had something to the net. Randy reached in to the net and pulled out a nice colored-up brookie with bright, fully-intact fins. This fish was wild. We took some photos and slid the trout back into the water, watching it fin over the rocky shallows until it mustered the strength to head back into the current.

Continuing downstream to our last destination of the morning, We caught rainbows and brookies all along the way. Finally, with the knowledge only an experience wilderness guide has, Randy hopped out of the water miles away from where we entered. We bushwhacked our way through a winding maze of thimbleberry, fern and virgin white pine until we finally made it back to the Forest Service road which led to the truck. I was sweating under my flannel shirt and stripped it off with a vengeance as I peeled out of my waders and boots.

“Better to have too many clothes than not enough,” Randy said. I agreed as the noon sun warmed my soaking T-shirt and downed a bottle of water.

“I’ve got to work on my streamer technique,” I said. “You make it look easy.”

“All about rod position,” Randy said. “Nice morning on the dry flies for you, though. Love to watch you fish.”

I guess no matter where we are as anglers, we can always learn something new. Randy’s knowledge and skill far exceed mine, but it’s nice to know he can learn something from me as well.

The afternoon and entire next day were spent exploring remote areas not fished since the last time Randy fished them, where I lost count how many we brought to net. Of course, I blew it when a big fish came tight, but figured they could wait until next visit. No beaches and bikinis in this neck of the woods, but that’s a good thing. It keeps the tourists away. Randy and I have already marked our calendars for next year’s reunion. I can’t wait.

You should have been here last week

2017-03-29T14:46:00.002-07:00

“You Should Have Been Here Last Week,” he said.

“That so?” I said looking out the window; snow flurries flecking gray skies outside.

The guide at Steve Dally’s Ozark Fly Fisher in Cotter, Arkansas didn’t let my lack of enthusiasm curb his.

“Yep. Eighty degrees and sunny last week. Caddis coming off so thick you couldn’t breathe. Had two hundred fish days, all on dries, got tired of reeling ‘em in.”

“Nice,” I said, peering at the weather app on my phone. 34 degrees. I shuffled to the fly bin, passing the elk hair caddis and found the micro flies. It was going to be a midge afternoon.

Back up a week. Spring break approaches. Caddis reports on the White River sound promising. The long-range weather forecast looks great: sunny, temps in the high 60’s, touching 70. Even the generation reports are predictable. Minimum flows on the White River? I must be dreaming…And I was. Visions of drag-free drifts, big takes and big fish, the surface of the river littered with insects. I consider myself mentally competent, but have to question my sanity sometimes. Only an insane man plans vacation time around bug behavior.

Rhycophila caddis adult

Caddis are insects. They spend ninety percent of their lives underwater, metamorphosing into air-breathing, flying adults that resemble little hairy moths. When temperatures warm and the spring sun begins to shine, hormones are triggered and the surface of the river explodes with emerging insects taking flight and trout smashing them before they can.

Good memories are the seed of all addictions. First kiss, first car, first paycheck, first beer…first caddis hatch. A beautiful April day at Cow Shoals on the Little Red River. The Ryacophila came off all day. My wife Laurie and I got into those fish and I recall losing count at 70 trout. Drift an elk hair caddis across the water and wham! They were smashing our dries like muskies on mouse patterns.

Addictions build on first-time euphoria and entice the addict to replicate whatever activity caused the addiction. Endorphins of nirvana. White River at Cotter Access, bugs so heavy they crawled under your clothes. The hatch continued until well after dark. I could not see my fly. I listened for the strike and set the hook. Little Red River again at Pangburn. Reclusive browns came out of deep pools to eat these little green-bodied insects. Signature fish of the day measured 20”. Another, at Ramsey in a big riffle, swarms of caddis coming off and fish going crazy. Used to time the summer caddis hatches on the Firehole in Yellowstone NP when I was in graduate school at Montana State--a particular stretch where bugs are predictable as income tax day.

Despite visions of caddis dancing in my head and not on the water. I fished two days in the snow and managed to land a few. All on midge patterns, of course.

Cutthroat! A surprise visitor in my net...

You see, caddis and me go back a way. They are my first and favorite hatch, so when I get the opportunity to fish while they are metamorphosing, I jump. My record of accomplishment is not good. You have to be at the right place at the right time, which involves being there. Hope I make it just once this year…

Tailwater Tribe: A Trip Abbreviated

2015-05-24T18:14:00.001-07:00

Tailwater Tribe: A Trip Abbreviated: Every trip is a gift. The longer I live, the more I realize how precious each opportunity is. Each time I break down the fly rods and slide ...

A Trip Abbreviated

2015-05-24T17:59:00.002-07:00

Every trip is a gift. The longer I live, the more I realize how precious each opportunity is. Each time I break down the fly rods and slide them into their tubes, I wonder when and where I'll assemble them again. These are thoughts I hadn't visited until recently. With age and experience come introspection and epiphany and mine is this: fishing as in other pursuits of passion is a privilege instead of a given.

Never was this reality more pronounced than on my latest fly-fishing excursion to my "home waters" in Arkansas. I ventured north from Gulfport for a quick trip wedged between the end of Spring term and beginning of Summer term. I planned two days fishing and of course, was at the mercy of the weather and the fickle generation schedule of the USACE.

Arkansas has had an unseasonably wet spring, even for them. The tailwater reservoirs (Bull Shoals, Norfork and Greers Ferry) were all in flood pool and the Spring River was blown out. The reports were not promising. Despite this, I went anyway. After numerous calls to all of the fly shops in those areas, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that the generation pattern on the Norfork was providing wadable water in the mornings.

By the time I arrived at Mountain Home that afternoon after my normal ten hour drive, the USACE had already turned on the water at Norfork, and the White, of course was running four units. There would be no fishing today. I found a motel and bedded down for the night.

On Tuesday, the skies were blue, temperatures crisp and the promise of a great day in the Ozarks was making me feel like a twelve year old kid ready to fish. When I arrived at the Norfork, the parking lot was so full I had a difficult time finding a place to set up. Undeterred, I assembled the rod and bounced down to the river.

I had a great morning catching more fish than I deserved. I got in on a caddis hatch and for a while found the trout looking up. I took several fat rainbows on an elk hair caddis and a couple others on partridge and green soft hackles before the brief insect activity ceased.

Pick of the litter: 16" rainbow caught looking up

The next morning I got up with the chickens. I grabbed my phone and saw a text message from my sister telling me my mother had fallen and broken her femur. Surgery was planned. Question was: Could I make it back to The hospital in south Mississippi in time to see her before she went under anesthetic?

Long story short, my mom is doing well, albeit a long rehab ahead. She's a trooper and one of my biggest supporters. I'm a pretty big fan of hers, too.

In summary, don't take anything for granted. Thank God for every day, every opportunity, and take time to tell the ones you love that you love them. Tight lines.

Tailwater Tribe: A Teaching Opportunity

2015-05-09T05:30:00.001-07:00

Tailwater Tribe: A Teaching Opportunity

A Teaching Opportunity

2015-04-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

By occupation, I am a teacher. My parents were teachers, my sister and only sibling was a teacher. My DNA is constructed for it.
Even though most of my teaching occurs in an indoor classroom, one of the greatest pleasures I get is teaching someone how and where to fly-fish.
I've had many mentors along the way, starting with my father, who certainly meant well when he took me fishing for the first time, but had no idea the impetus would fuel a life-long addiction.
On a pond bank in rural Mississippi, cane pole in hand, hook baited with a live cricket, I watched my red and white plastic bobber go under, yanked back and felt the spinning tug of a brightly colored sunfish. Beyond excited, I flipped him out of the water and promptly flipped my brain into fish mode, for it was in that instant I was hooked on a sport that would in some level dominate the rest of my life.
Dad, I am forever grateful that you took time to introduce me to such a wonderful sport. Thank you for the greatest gift you could have given me.
Many years later I would have the pleasure of presenting my own son with his first angling opportunity. I can only hope that one day he will have the blessing to do the same with his own son and continue the legacy.
As I grew up, many other counsellors had a hand in instructing me in the fine art of angling. My grandmother, my great aunt, various cousins, adults, and many friends added to my knowledge and skills. When I became an adult, my fishing friends were and are my favorite people. As a matter of fact, my favorite fishing partner is my wife, Laurie who has crawled every rock and waded every stream I've led her through for the past decade. God knew what he was doing when he put us together.
I recently had the opportunity to incorporate a new friend into my fold. He was new to the fly-fishing for trout game and I was more than willing to teach him a thing or two.
Danny is a great guy with a keen sense of adventure and competitive drive. He is a former high school teacher and coach and has served as a Methodist minister for more than three decades. Danny purchased a house in northern Arkansas and was seeking counsel about the outdoor activities there. Although Danny is my pastor, I’m not sure how he found out I was a fly fisherman familiar with the area, but he did.
Soon after, we began planning a trip so I could “show him the ropes” and what a great trip it was. Over a four day period we fished the White, Norfork, and Spring Rivers and I had the pleasure of watching Danny catch his first trout on a fly.

Here are a few pics from the trip. I am hopeful that Danny and I can share many more trips in the future and that I might have another opportunity to pass on some of the knowledge that countless others have so graciously given me.

TROUT AND TAMALES

2015-02-20T14:42:00.001-08:00

Laurie and I left Gulfport New Year’s Day for Heber Springs, Arkansas. We arrived at 5:00 p.m. and I began to unpack our gear. A “deer in headlights” look came into my eyes when I realized I’d forgotten Laurie’s waders and boots. After the initial shock of disbelief and thoughts of defeat, I remembered a trip I made to this same destination a few years back. I forgot my waders and boots and borrowed a pair of each from Jed Holliman at the Little Red Fly Shop. Jed saved my trip that weekend in a most gracious way. Unfortunately, the LRFS closed its doors a few years back.

The Little Red Fly Shop back in the day. RIP: What a great shop!

The Little Red Fly Shop today: Unfortunately, it is now Chuck's Steak House, which I'm sure is a great place to eat

“Ozark Angler,” I said. “We’ll call and see if they can help.”

Laurie was skeptical but I was optimistic as I rigged rods and organized gear for the next day.

The Ozark Angler has been a staple of the fly-fishing community in Heber Springs for years and I have been a patron since my first trip to the Little Red River over a decade ago. During this time I have met and gained knowledge from a number of OA employees, most of who have moved on to other places or pursuits.

The next morning we awoke to rain and 38 degrees. We had breakfast at the hotel where we were staying. While dining, we struck a conversation with the desk clerk and mentioned we were going fishing. She looked outside at the cold downpour and said, “Oh, really?” I don’t think she believed us at the time.

After breakfast, I called Ozark Angler and talked to a man who assured me that he could help with our crisis. Elated, we loaded the truck and headed out in a steady, cold rain: temperature now 36 degrees.

When we arrived, we met George Born, a really nice guy. George fixed Laurie up with a loaner pair of waders and boots and sold us some flies and other things we didn't need but had to have. He also showed me his personal rig for the winter brown trout spawn period. I won’t share the intricacies of the rig, but I will tell you it involves a #16 peach egg and a #16 Red Ass.

#16 peach egg pattern

#16 Red Ass: A Little Red Staple

When I asked him his “indicator of choice,” he quickly replied.

“Palsa Pinch-On. White only. How many fluorescent yellow, green, or orange things do you see floating on the river?”

Palsa Pinch-Ons. Ignore the other three colors. White is the only one that matters!

This made perfect sense, although I’d gotten away from this school of thought while spending the last ten years searching for my “perfect” indicator. George’s advice brought to mind the ingenious use of white double-sided insulation tape from my original sensei, Rebecca Rawls, years ago.

“Looks like air-bubbles to the trout,” she said.

This stuff works just as good and you can make like a thousand indicators from one roll! But the Palsa's are more convenient to hook on your lanyard.

Hot-Pink Thingamabobber

Neon-red Lightning Strikes

That being settled, no more hot pink Thingamabobbers or neon red Lightning Strikes for me.

To quote Michael Fitzsimmons from the classic movie "Peggy Sue Got Married":

"I'm going to check out of this bourgeois motel, push myself from the dinner table and say, "No more Jell-o for me, mom!"

Michael Fitzsimmons: The classic rebel from Peggy Sue Got Married. I suspect I know how he feels about brightly-colored indicators...

Kathleen Turner as Peggy Sue. Not sure how she felt about indicators, but she didn't end up with Michael Fitzsimmons!

An American Classic

Finally, the fish…

After a long hiatus, Laurie got back into the saddle and promptly landed a nice rainbow.

I followed with a couple big browns. We stuck fish after fish, mostly smaller rainbows and I got one 18” bow that gave me all I wanted. We used George’s rig with great success. Thanks, George for making our trip a success in more ways than one.

We fished until our hands were numb and returned to the motel for hot cocoa in the lobby. The desk clerk we had visited with that morning greeted us.

“How was the fishing?”

“Unbelievable,” I said, taking out my phone to show her our pics from the day.

“Unbelievable is right,” she said. “I couldn’t believe you were going fishing in this weather.”

“You have to be crazy,” I replied.

We shared a laugh and I was certain she thought I was crazy.

We returned to the room, thawed out with a couple cold beers and reorganized our gear for tomorrow which, if today was any indication, was certain to be the best day ever.

At 3:00 a.m. I was awakened by the sound of sideways rain against the windows. If this kept up, I knew we were in trouble. Four hours later it was still raining as I drove for a visual on the river to see the damage. Sure enough, the Little Red was blown out: high and the color of chocolate milk.

Would you like a little chocolate milk with that Little Red?

I knew Greer’s Ferry JFK access was our only hope.

The rain and 41 degree temps persuaded her to stay in the warmth of the F-150. I repelled down and found a section of clear water. A midge hatch was on. I fished two hours and caught a dozen brookies to 10” using various flies, the best being a #22 Zelon Midge. A great pattern I’d picked up from Craig Matthews at Blue Ribbon Flies in Montana years ago.

#22 Zelon Midge: Highly Magnified

I stripped off the boots and waders, climbed in the truck and drove south.

Between Searcy and Heber we found a roadside tamale stand.

“We have to stop…”

And we did…

A really nice guy with a tear-drop tattoo greeted us from the trailer. The guy was an interesting dude from LA (Los Angeles, not Louisiana), telling us the story of how he was raised by a Mexican family and learned to make tamales from his Mexican “madre,” and even how he worked for tamales growing up.

He lifted the lid from the pot sitting outside on the gas burner and voila! No doubt this was the real deal. Steamy, made from scratch, wrapped in real corn shucks. We sampled one and I must say, these were some of the best I’ve had. Authentic? An understatement.

These tamales are the real deal! No deer meat! 100% beef

The hand-written sign on the trailer said: “$10 per dozen.” We bought 12; six plain and six jalapeño-cheese. We had downed a half-dozen before we got to Searcy.

To add more of a dynamic, it seems the tamale stand owner is infamous. He told us of a run-in he had with AFGA by selling deer meat tamales. It seems he didn't know it was illegal and I believe him. How many deer stands have you ever seen in East LA?
http://www.arktimes.com/ArkansasBlog/archives/2014/03/17/tamale-stand-reopens-no-more-deer-meat
You never know what you are going to get with each fly fishing trip to Arkansas. One thing is for sure: there will be a weather event. Another thing: there will be an unexpected adventure along the way. Thanks George Born at Ozark Angler and thanks, tamale dude for making our first fly-fishing trip of 2015 a great one. Tight Lines to all of you...

Laurie and I after fishing. Our faces are frozen this way.

Taco Bag in Evening Shade

2014-10-29T15:41:00.004-07:00

Taco Bag in Evening Shade

Original Cast of "Evening Shade"

Remember the TV sitcom “Evening Shade”? I don’t really, other than Burt Reynolds was one of the stars. I believe he was a high school football coach and Marilu Henner was his wife. I also believe the show was set in a fictional town in Arkansas. A few years ago as I traveled from Heber Springs to Mammoth Springs after the Little Red River had been blown out by an epic rainstorm, I passed through Evening Shade and thought: “what a coincidence.” After doing a little research, I know now Evening Shade, Arkansas was the location for the show.

Since then, I have passed through Evening Shade many times chasing water; attempting to find wadable trout water after the USACE performed their daily buzz-kill: elevating the water I was fishing from docile to treacherous. Each time I passed through, I thought about a TV series I never watched, but other than a passing thought, moved on without significance. Last summer, Evening Shade took on a completely new meaning for me.

My friend, Robert and I traveled from Gulfport for a few days of fly-fishing. Although Robert is a capable fly-caster and an avid outdoorsman, he had never been to Arkansas to trout fish. Since I was the designated “guide” of the trip, I was determined Robert would have a great time and catch as many fish as possible.

After making the ten hour drive, we arrived in Cotter and stopped by my favorite fly shop, Steve Dally’s for licenses, information, flies and some cool Simms gear I couldn’t resist. With most of the day behind us after the long drive and a longer than anticipated stay at Steve’s, we fished the White below Cotter. Although the fishing was slow, the outing was not without excitement. We got an up-close and personal view of the AFGA doing their thing. The officer, who will remain anonymous, did an excellent job of rounding up a group of well-oiled boaters out for a good time. Little did I realize this excitement was only a splinter of the forest of adventure we were about to enter.

On our way to Cotter access, I was stunned to see the old White Sands Motel I used to frequent had reopened under a new name—The Cotter Trout Lodge. Needless to say, we checked in for a couple night’s stay. This was an awesome blast from the past and I’m sure Robert grew weary of hearing tales of my many adventures there and all of the characters I had met. He did enjoy our conversations with all of the fly fishing guys who converge there after hours, turning the parking lot into what appears to be a drift boat dealership.

The next day we fished the Norfork and had a slow, but steady day. Concerned about the USACE water generation schedule on the White River and the low enthusiasm of the trout on the Norfork, I decided we would move on the following day to Mammoth Spring and fish the Spring River.

“The trout are always hungry on the Spring. It’s a lock. The place never lets me down. It won’t be a question of will we catch fish, but how many fish will we catch?”

I think Robert believed me. Hell, I believed me.

With visions of an eighty-fish day in our heads, we headed to Mountain Home and posted-up at Chili’s to celebrate our assured future success by knocking down a couple cold ones and watching some pre-season NFL games at the bar.

The next morning, much to the chagrin of the fine owners of the Cotter Trout Lodge, we checked out of the Cotter Trout Lodge a day early. They were extremely nice and gave us a refund with no problem. I’ll definitely be back next trip.

We made the trip to Mammoth Spring and arrived at the Riverview Motel where we secured a room. Ten minutes later, we arrived at Lassiter Access. The water was low and slow and the fishing even slower. We chucked woolly buggers for four hours and only caught two fish in sections that normally would have been money shots.

“I made a bad mistake,” I said. “I can’t believe how bad the fishing is.” “It’s never been this bad.”…blah, blah, blah…

I’m sure Robert tired of hearing my whining about why we weren’t catching them like “I normally do.”

Hot and exasperated, we drove out of Mammoth Springs on Highway 285 and onto Bayou Access, hopeful a modification of venue would change our luck. No such providence. After traveling seven miles of winding dirt road (one way), Bayou Access was a wasteland of low-holing worm and corn dunkers, kids swimming, and a drunken flotilla of canoes, johnboats, kayaks, and rafts in incessant passage down the stream. We never got out of the vehicle. Slack-jawed at the menagerie I was witnessing, I shook my head and muttered something about it not being in the cards. We turned around and headed back to Mammoth Spring in a trail of dust.

On the way back, I decided the only way to save our trip was to roll the dice one more time and travel to my last ace in the hole destination—The Little Red River in Heber Springs.

Meanwhile, all was not well with Robert’s vehicle, which was actually Robert’s wife’s vehicle. It seemed while we were fishing, we developed a slow leak in one of the tires. Usually this wouldn’t be a problem. Unfortunately, it was Sunday and there were no tire repair shops open from Hardy to Koshkanong.

Over the course of the afternoon, we made three trips to the air pump at the Stateline Truck Stop in Thayer, Missouri. Robert finally called AAA and they came to the Riverview Motel where we were staying and changed it. I know you are asking, why couldn’t two grown men change a flat tire? I’m not sure I have an intelligent answer, but I will say after we got off the water, the day was hot and the beer was cold. You’re probably also asking, “How does Evening Shade fit into this convoluted tale?” Well, here it is.

The next morning we left the Riverview Motel and headed to Heber Springs. There is a tire shop in Mammoth Spring, but it doesn’t open until 8:00. Our logic says even though we don’t have a viable spare, we will chance it and find a tire shop along the way for our repair.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Robert said. “The odds of having a flat are slim.”

“Slim?” I said, wondering if two days of hard fishing in the heat had gotten to him.

We move through town after town without luck until we drove through Evening Shade: Population 465. Finally, we spot it, a tire repair shop with no sign. Actually a nondescript metal shed with no sign. How did we know it was a tire repair shop? All the tires stacked outside, of course!

Nothing is easy as you’ve seen from this tale. And getting to the spare in the Dodge Durango is no exception. The back of the vehicle is crammed with fly fishing gear and luggage, all of which we have to lug out, piece by piece to get to the lift panel and remove the back panel, get to the spare, unlock the spare, and twist the spare downward until it contacts the ground. In the middle of the process, Robert has a bowel emergency and asks if he can use the “tire store’s” facilities.

“Ain’t got no restroom,” the tire repair technician replied.

“Uh, oh,” Robert says, looking around at the mine-field of gear strewn all around the yard.

“But,” the repair technician says, “There’s a convenience store just up the road a piece. It’s where I go when nature calls.”

The tire guy looks at Robert looking at our out of commission vehicle and eager to solve another problem, says, “You can take the shop truck,” nodding to a nondescript Chevy 4WD pickup of questionable lineage and year model. “only thing is…”

I held my breath.

“Once you crank her, don’t switch her off, or she might not start up again.”

Robert said, “So you want me to leave it running while I’m in the restroom?”

“Yup.”

“Aren’t you worried someone will steal it?”

I look at the truck and wonder why Robert is being so polite in his volatile condition.

“Do it every day. Ain’t been stole yet.”

So the tire guy turns the key, Robert gets in and disappears up the road.

While the tire guy is repairing the tire, I decide to get industrious and rig up. In what most certainly must have looked like a scene from the Trout Bum Diaries, I used a set of 55 gallon oil drums as props for the 5-weights as I changed out leaders and tied on flies. I got a lot of funny looks from passing motorists along Highway 67. Even tire guy comes over to see what I’m doing.

“I always wanted to try that fly-fishing stuff,” he said and spat a brown stream of Copenhagen on the ground. “Go to the Little Red in Heber. They got some big ones over there.”

I thanked him for the advice.

Robert returns, the tire guy, one of the nicest guys I ever met, fixes the tire, goes through the detailed engineering feat of putting the spare back without a hitch, and we transfer all the gear back into the Durango, pay the man and head to Heber Springs with visions of trout still swimming in our heads.

We get to the Swinging Bridge in Heber, jump out of the Durango, pull on the waders and boots…uh, oh…where’s my Simms Taco bag with my waders and boots in it? You’ve got to be kidding, right? Robert, I’ve got some bad news…I think we left something in Evening Shade…

To say I was in a panic would be an understatement. I’m going over the various scenarios…did I leave it at the hotel in Mammoth Springs? Did I leave it on top of the Durango at the tire place? Did someone steal it and I didn’t know about it? Next, I’m thinking about the monetary output necessary to replace a pair of Patagonia Rio Gallegos waders, a pair of Patagonia Rock Grip wading boots, a pair of Simms wading sandals, two pair of wading socks and my favorite Simms wading belt. If I told you how much, you wouldn’t believe it.

We break several speed limits on the way to Evening Shade, all the while trying to call the mystery tire shop with no sign or no name.

“Hey! Wasn’t there a Dollar General Store across the street from the shop?”

No problem, call them and find out the tire shop number. No so fast, my friend…

No listing for this particular store. We call a neighboring store in Cave City and they tell us the Evening Shade store is brand new, not listed in the book…yet, but I can give you the number…

We get the Evening Shade Dollar General Store manager on the horn…

“We’re all new here, sir. Don’t have any idea about the tire store across the street with no sign. How do you know it’s a tire store?”

“All the tires out front…and we just had a tire changed there about two hours ago…never mind…”

“What about the store?” Robert said. “Nice folks in there. Even watched the truck for me while I was in the bathroom. If the tire guy goes there every day to use the facilities, surely they know who he is.”

“Do you remember the name of the store?”

“No, but how many stores are in Evening Shade?”

I start Googling and find the only convenience store number I can find on Highway 67.

They know the guy and will tell him we called if he comes by. Best we can do for now.

Needless to say, we didn’t get in touch with the tire store guy. Finally, we get to Evening Shade and the tire store and guess what? Straight up 12:00 noon. The guy’s gone to lunch.

I will spare the details of how we recovered my missing taco bag, but I will say Robert performed the task of retrieval like a true professional.

On the way back to Heber, the really nice tire guy calls. It seems he went to the store to use the restroom and they told him we’d called. He’s glad we found the bag and was concerned we’d forgotten about it and with no way to contact us…well, you get the picture.

We have another slow day of fishing on the Little Red, it seems as if the change of venue had no effect on the summer sulkiness of southern trout. These fish just aren’t biting anything we’ve got.

I could continue for another couple paragraphs and tell you how the bar I wanted to take Robert to for a cold beer after a hot afternoon of fishing was closed on Monday and we ended up socializing with the fine patrons of the Heber Springs VFW. I could also tell you about the next morning and how we hammered a few trout at Cow Shoals access and how the trip ended up being exactly what it was meant to be…an adventure I will never forget.

Great Times in Michigan with the UP Fly Angler

2014-07-18T14:53:00.000-07:00

Randy Berndt's Logo

God has blessed me in so many ways. My beautiful wife, Laurie, allows me to fly-fish all over the country. Sometimes she accompanies me. But more often than not, due to a demanding work schedule, she is unable to go. I want to begin this post by thanking her for loving me enough to let me roam and scratch my itch whenever possible.

My latest trip was a year removed from initial planning and originally was to be an extension of a two-week jaunt out west last summer with two of my closest friends, Randy and Jean Carr from Louisiana. We fished various trout rivers in Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana and were scheduled to swing over to the UP (Upper Peninsula), or “upstate” Michigan to fish with another dear friend, Randy Berndt. Randy is a fly-fishing outfitter, guide and owner of the UP Fly Angler in Trout Creek, Michigan.

If you keep up with my blog, you are aware that Randy (Berndt) and I finished grad school together at Montana State University in Bozeman. Since graduation in 2010, we have planned numerous fishing trips, all of which did not come to fruition. This trip was no exception: a series of rain events blew out every river in the region.

In December, Randy drove south and we finally got together for a fantastic two-day trip on the Little Red River in Arkansas where we caught numerous post-spawn brown trout to 20”.

Fast forward seven months and I am ready to reciprocate the 1300 mile trip north. As I was finishing my first-term summer teaching schedule, Randy called weekly to give a fishing report. The news was good. Both the fishing and the weather were great. It seemed this was finally going to happen.

The Post Office in Trout Creek, MI
The Best Name of Any Fly Fishing Destination in America

After two days of hard driving, I made it the UP Fly Angler facility in Trout Creek. Trout Creek is a small town located in the Ottawa National Forest and has some of the most picturesque trout waters in the world.

One of the beautiful rivers in the UP whose name I cannot mention...

The UP Fly Angler is an absolutely first-class layout. Comfortable accommodations, including a sauna, fantastic meals, and the peace and serenity that only such a great location provide.

My Cabin for the Week

The Morrish Hopper and its real namesake...

For the next four days Randy guided me over some of the most beautiful waters I’ve ever seen. I caught so many wild brook trout I lost count, some up to 12”. This might not seem very big, but for a “brookie,” this is HUGE. Of course, I failed to catch the biggest fish, a brookie that in Randy’s estimation was at least 15.” This fish slammed my hopper pattern three consecutive times. I am still lamenting my abject failure on this world-class fish. But then again, it gives me an excuse to try him again next year…

Nice UP brookie

In addition to catching all these brookies, I also caught my share of rainbows, my first Northern Pike and a 20” Walleye, all on a fly-rod. These two fish were firsts for me.

My first ever Northern Pike from a lake I can't mention...

Buck brookie from Ottawa National Forest

I normally divulge information on where I fish, but this time I will not. If you are really curious about fly-fishing the UP and want to have the experience of a lifetime, book a trip with Randy Berndt at the UP Fly Angler (www.upflyangler.com) 715-570-5438.

Randy Berndt and the Clacka Headhunter

Thanks, Randy for everything. Can’t wait for our next trip.

Video Backlog...Time to Make a Move

2014-06-17T19:42:00.000-07:00

Sweet new net with a sweet fat rainbow

I have not created a new post since December, so much to my disbelief, this is officially my first post of 2014.

Drunken Prayer "Into the Missionfield"

Really, in the fly-fishing realm of reality, not much has happened. I've made two trips north over the past six months: one during Spring break, and the other a couple of weeks ago. I did pretty well on both of those romps, taking a good number of trout on the Spring, White, and Norfork Rivers. Each time I go fishing, I take my old friend the GoPro with me and alternate between vids and pics as I attempt to capture the action. This has caused a backlog on my SD card of footage dating back to last Summer's epic adventure out west. I am winding up the final couple weeks of summer school teaching at the local college here and am currently (of course) planning new trips for July and August. It is time to clean my SD card and make room for additional great footage of all those toads I'll be catching this summer. So let's just call this the first installment of my greatest hits of 2013. This particular video is a compilation of a great fall morning on the Spring River where I pounded fish after fish on Woolly Buggers. Most of the fish were small, but there were a couple of really good bow's in the mix. I can tell my old footage from new footage because I've replaced my old net that had a black rubber bag with a sweet new Nomad with a clear "ghost" net. Also, I've begun experimenting with the addition of music to my vid and this one feature's Drunken Prayer's "Ain't No Grave," and Los Lobo's "Hearts of Stone." I hope you enjoy...

Accidental GoPro self-portrait. If you've got one, you know where I'm coming from

I Love It When A Plan Comes Together...

2013-12-23T17:20:00.002-08:00

Once in a while, the planets, The Army Corps of Engineers, and the Weather Man get together and allow a fishing trip to be successful. If there is one thing I have learned from years of planning fishing trips: the more you plan, tweak your plan, and anticipate every aspect of your plan, the faster you set yourself up for disappointment.
This trip, however, was a spur-of-the-moment affair. Randy, my friend from Wisconsin, was traveling south to visit relatives in Texas, and asked if I'd like to meet in Arkansas for a couple days fishing. Of course, I was more than happy to accommodate him as my teaching semester had just ended. What transpired, was an epic two-day trip where we caught more big browns and rainbows than you would believe.
Randy is a fantastic fly-fisherman and guides in the UP. We met three years ago at Montana State University in Bozeman. We were there to defend our Master's theses. By coincidence, he attended my defense where it was mentioned in my introduction that I had "fly-fished from Mississippi to Montana and was going to fly-fish my way back home."
While Randy and I were in Bozeman we spent a few days fishing the Gallatin and some of the spring creeks in the area and formed what has turned out to be a lasting friendship. For you who have followed me, you will remember this as part of TTFFT #1 (Tailwater Tribe Fly Fishing Tour #1), an unbelievable adventure that allowed me to fish many of the rivers out west that I had often read about, but had never fished. I had fished the Gallatin in the park and below Taylor Fork, but Randy's expertise of the Gallatin above Taylor Fork proved to be invaluable to me.
As I consider Arkansas my "Home Waters" it was my turn to reciprocate by putting Randy onto some fish. Our trip started with a rendezvous at the Colonial Inn in Heber Springs, one of my all-time favorite "hole-in-the-wall" fly-fishing mom and pop motels. We stowed some gear and headed straight to the Little Red River and fished the Swinging Bridge Access.

The Colonial: A Trout-bum's Haven...

I showed Randy the building where Jed Holleman used to run the Little Red Fly Shop. This place is now occupied with a café called Chuck's Steakhouse and Diner. I'm sure the food is great at Chuck's, as evidenced by the number of lunch patrons in the parking lot each day, but every time I see this building, I lament at the passing of one of the greatest fly shops I've ever had the pleasure of entering. (Check back to an earlier Tailwater Tribe Post: "Little Red Fly Shop RIP") After a little history lesson, Randy and I assembled the 5 weights, donned the waders and headed to the river.
Over the next two and a half hours, we proceeded to catch fish after fish: big-shouldered browns and beautiful, colored-up rainbows.
I wasn't sure where the fish were from a spawning standpoint as I'm not a fan of people who trudge through redds and bastardize these fish during their delicate return to nature each year. It was my guess to Randy that these fish were in post-spawn mode, but judging from the crowds at Cow Shoals, which we drove by, but under no circumstance were about to stop.
The next day was epic. In lieu of a shower and shave, we had Coor's light for breakfast and hit the river at 7:00 a.m.

Excuse the water drop on the GoPro lens, but this was a beautiful brown trout!

Another GoPro lens water droplet blur, but this is a toad!

The next eight hours were unbelievable to say the least. We caught fish after fish, hammering them consistently all day on various flies. The most consistent patterns for us were Y2Ks, sowbugs, and egg patterns in every color ranging from hot pink to peach. Both Randy and I had our shot at the fish of a lifetime. Mine ended with a tangled tippet around a stalk of elodea after a deep bull-dozing run downstream. I saw the fish's back after the strike and I knew he was a toad. Randy also hooked a pig in about the same area and after a long battle, the fish mysteriously got off. In this life, you expect to lose those big fish. All you can ask is a chance. Both of us were extremely fortunate to get one.
I'm closing with a pic of Randy enjoying a cold one after an epic day. He's back in the Great White North and I'm back on the Gulf of Mexico. We are quite the odd couple. Our graduate degrees at Montana State brought us together, but fly-fishing keeps us in touch, planning the next trip. But to avoid disappointment, we won't plan too hard. Impromptu trips like this one always seem to work out the best.

Randy celebrating the day with a great American beverage

Sulphur hatch to the max!

2013-05-22T09:43:00.001-07:00

Finally got to go fly-fishing last week and had an epic experience on the North Fork of the White River, or "Norfork" to the locals. Since all of my prior attempts to head north had fallen through, and I missed the caddis hatches of April, I was more than ready for good weather and prolific bugs. On this trip, I got both!

The annual Ephemerella (Sulphur) hatch was in full bloom on the Fork and I took advantage of a predictable generation pattern by the USACE and wonderful, albeit, unseasonably warm, weather to rack up forty or so, fat, colored-up rainbows.

Another amazing thing about the trip was the fact that I never pulled the waders out of the Taco bag. I wet-waded the entire trip, and even though the water was shockingly cold at first, the afternoon sun soon made it a very comfortable place to be. It was nice for all things to come together for this trip! Once again the guys at Steve Dally's made my trip a successful one as I scored several nice size 16 Sulphur dries that turned out to be the ticket.

The Norfork is a great place for dry-fly afficianados such as myself. On this trip I didn't tie on an indicator, or a nymph of any kind. All my fish were caught on dries, and I did not catch a fish that I didn't see before I casted to it. Dry fly fishing offers a freedom that nymphing cannot. I am, by no means a master of the drag-free drift, but I am getting better with each trip I take.

Battle on the Bayou IV

2013-03-07T13:51:00.001-08:00

Before the Gun: BOB IV

The Shed: BBQ, Blues and COLD beer!

For those of you who aren't familiar, the Battle on the Bayou is one of the premier paddle watercraft races in the Southeastern United States. This year's event featured over 230 paddlers in 15 categories, each with the common goal of finishing the 9.5 mile race. The course is a section of Old Fort Bayou and begins at Gulf Hills Hotel in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, and ends at The Shed-a popular BBQ and blues joint. The Shed terminus offers great incentive to finish as there is, in addition to the fantastic food, all the free cold beer you want.
The ladies and gentlemen who paddle this race are an eclectic mix of fun-loving outdoors people with a broad range of ages, skill-levels, watercraft, and motives for being here. I've found that the paddle-crowd is very similar to the fly-fishing crowd: friendly, talkative gear-heads that talk in a language of inside jargon that others outside the domain would be clueless to comprehend, but not snobby elitists, either. Most paddlers, except the hard-core racers are more than happy to take time with newbies to extol the virtues of the technical and adrenaline-fuel aspects of their sport. I'm sure the hard-core racers in their long, sleek boats are nice, too, but since I'm always in the rear of the pack, I never see them long enough to meet them.

Pre-race: Adrenaline and Anticipation

This being said, I just finished my fourth BOB and am looking forward to the fifth. My wife, Laurie is responsible for getting me into this kayak thing, having bought me a Native Ultimate 12 for a birthday present. I'd had my eye out for a kayak as a vehicle for fly-fishing, in particular for paddling out to Deer Island and puttering around Bernard Bayou. My last thought, as I blissfully embraced my shiny new blue boat, was kayak racing.
I heard about Battle on the Bayou I, which was initially a 12-mile race, and decided to give it the old college try. I don't know why I made this decision; maybe temporary insanity, or the new-kayak-smell hadn't worn off yet. Either way, after the gun sounded on the pristine March day, I found out the difference in kayak FISHING and kayak RACING...
In kayak FISHING, you paddle, fish, fish some more, and then leisurely paddle to your next spot to fish some more. In kayak RACING, you don't stop. At least I don't stop, because my innate competitive nature won't allow me to. Stopping means that someone is about to pass me, and I don't want to finish last.

Imagine paddling this for 9.5 miles...

I love my Native Ultimate 12. It is wide and stable, which are great assets for a fly-fishing kayak. However, the things that make my little blue boat a dream to fish in, make it a nightmare to race in. I like to use terms like "bathtub", "bulldog", or other catchy nicknames to describe paddling the NU12 for 9.5 miles without stopping.
The NU12 has repeatedly humbled me, but still pulls me magnetically toward my outdoor addiction every time I see it hanging on the wall of my garage. I have to tell myself that this is a FISHING kayak , not a RACING kayak, and that, it is. My little Native U12 is sweet, almost as sweet as my wife, Laurie, who bought it for me. She is my biggest fan on race day, doting over me like a mother hen, arriving at every way point, legal and illegal, along the course, waving and yelling words of encouragement to me as I bring up the rear of the pack. I'm her biggest fan, too. She married me for what I was: an insane fly-fishing addict, and has traveled with me in rain, sleet, shine, and snow, wading and traipsing through all manner of rivers and saltwater flats, taking brutal boat rides to remote keys, and has never once complained. I can't wait until BOBV, where she'll no doubt be doting over me again.
Oh by the way...I'm going to install a center skirt and a rudder on the little blue boat. Maybe that will improve my time next year.

I Am Not Alone In My Insanity...

2013-01-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

After the hectic Christmas season, Laurie and I ventured north from the Mississippi Gulf Coast to the Traveler State. I had carefully planned this trip well in advance. My strategy was to fish the midge hatches on the Norfork and White Rivers for two days, and then meet the Bouncer and his wife, Peggy at their place in Mammoth Springs to celebrate New Years. I had meticulously checked the weather and the generation schedules for Bull Shoals and Norfork Lake, read John Berry's fishing report, checked in with the Ozark Fly Flinger website and all the prospects looked favorable.

When we left Gulfport it was 57 degrees. By the time we got to Hardy, AR, it was hovering between 32 and 33 degrees and snowing like crazy. It seems as if every time I have a window to trout fish, that Arkansas is having a major weather event. Over the past ten years I have seen blizzards, ice-storms, epic floods, hailstorms, and tornadoes--just about everything short of a tsunami. This trip was no exception. We drove in snow from Hardy to Mountain Home, found a room at the Motel 8, stowed our gear, and promptly hit the bar at Chili's. There, we had a couple tall cold beers, some well-appreciated food, and caught one of the many college football bowl games on the tube. Afterwards, we retired to the room, got up the next morning, threw the rod tubes, duffles, waders, and other assorted fly-fishing gear in the truck and headed out for breakfast. We tried a place we'd never dined at before: Bobbie Sue's. Bobbie Sue's is a local eatery in Mountain Home and serves a mean breakfast. While Laurie and I drank our coffee, and before I could slather my over-easy eggs with Tabasco, I decided to "check the water" or "call water" as I have affectionately deemed it over the years. Much to my chagrin, but not to my surprise, the USACE had changed the game, and thereby changed the entire course of my fishing excursion. I checked the Southwestern Power Administration Power Predicted Generation site and it read: "0 units" all the way down on both the White and the Norfork Lakes. Just to make sure I wasn't hearing iPhone Gremlins, I called again and the news was the same. The USACE was running maximum generation on both rivers, making it impossible to fish. Ten hours, driving in blizzard-like conditions to get here, and now I can't fish. When I say bummer, I mean bummer.

When you can't fish, you can always go to the fly shops, and that's just what we did. That is, after we made a quick trip to Hastings. for fly-fishing mags, and Laurie found a couple of cookbooks she absolutely had to have. Her inspiration was in part, my fault as my Christmas gifts to her were all kitchen oriented, but the thing that put her over the top?

I bought her a copy of Julia Child's "My Life in France," which she read, cover-to-cover on our road trip. The cover of the book features one of Julia and Paul's (her husband) valentines that they sent annually to their friends. From the snippets Laurie read to me on the road, this is a book that I would read.

After our media decadence, we drove to Blue Ribbon Fly Shop and much to my further chagrin, it was closed (double bummer). Not to be deterred we drove to Steve Dally's Ozark Fly Fisher in Cotter. I've featured Steve and his shop in other posts.

Steve, a native Kiwi, is one of the nicest guys I know. Very knowledgeable, a great salesman and fishing guide, he always makes you feel like spending money, which I, without fail, amply do each time I'm in his shop. This time was no exception wherein I score this sweet Simms Trout Visor Beanie and a thermal Buff to boot.

Also ran into a windfall tip here as well: One of my heroes, Derek DeYoung, is going to be at Steve's shop in February. In case you've been living under a river rock and don't know who he is, Derek is one of

the premier trout artists in the country. If you've seen any of Derek's work, you won't forget it.

Since I'm an amateur trout artist myself, getting to see Derek at work is going to be a tremendous learning experience for me.

With a renewed vigor and lot of cool new gear, Laurie and I left Steve's shop and headed to our inevitable destination: Mammoth Spring and the Spring River.

We spent the night at the Bouncer's cabin with he and Peggy being the exceptional hosts they are. Their next door neighbors--The Whites, were in town. Dr. White has a clinic in Imboden, AR and is quite the fly fisherman. On the side, he picks a mean guitar. The Bouncer is the master picker, however, and when he and the Doc get together, it's a fun show. The Bouncer and the Doc picked and grinned while Peggy and I chimed in with our best vocal efforts.

The next morning was beautiful, but a brutally cold 19 degrees. I assembled the Scott S4, tied on an olive Woolly Bugger, and put on every piece of Patagonia and Simms layering I had, including my new Simms beanie and wool Buff, packed the truck, and drove to Lassiter Access. I figured no one in their right mind would be fishing this morning, and I was right: The parking lot was empty. I had the river to myself, but as I was putting on my waders and boots, a funny thing happened. A vehicle pulled up beside mine and a bundled-up male and female fly-fishing duo from Kentucky stepped out.

I snapped on my GoPro Chestie, grabbed my road and walked by the couple, readying themselves for fishing. I said, "I see I'm not alone in my insanity."

"No," he said, and pointed at my GoPro, "or optimism."

We shared a laugh and I headed to the river. After 4 and a half hours and 9 fat rainbows that were suckers for my olive woolly, I had lost the feeling in my fingers and headed back to my truck. I cracked open a cold PBR and looked over my shoulder to to see the Kentuckians returning as well. It was then I found out they were a father-daughter team. Nice folks.

So all-in-all, as disastrous as the trip started, this day made it all worthwhile. I caught more fish than I deserved and the sun did its best to melt the snow. As a matter of fact, this would be the only time I would see the sun throughout the remainder of my trip. But that didn't matter. I thrive in my lunacy. Sure is nice to know that I'm not alone in it. I didn't catch the father and daughter's names, but we did have a great discussion about the merits of the Patagonia Rock Grip Aluminum Bar Wading Boots among other things. They are definitely members of my tribe.

Slumming With the Microcaddis at Mammoth Spring RV Park

2013-01-26T09:08:00.000-08:00

I’m not a fan of overvisited, public-access areas, but when I see rising trout tipping and sipping, my fly-fishing purist, virgin-remote-wilderness, not another angler in sight indignation, is quickly forgotten and I am consumed with the entomology and ichthyology of the moment—not where I am.

                There is no ugly place to catch a trout, at least none that I’ve found. Trout love clear, cold water, and you don’t generally find such hydrology in areas that aren’t clear and cold, too. A couple summers ago while hiking and fishing a remote stretch of the Gallatin River in Montana, I encountered a graveyard of rusted automobiles lined up door-to-door along the bank. I didn’t consider this oxidized scar on the landscape an ugly sight because there were too many beautiful things to offset it: azure skies, mountains on every horizon, and clear currents of melted snow rolling over freestone. Even in the back Urbana of Denver where the South Platte River flows through chunks of graffiti-covered slabs of concrete would I consider this geography ugly.
            The Mammoth Spring RV Park in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas represents such a scar along the banks of the Spring River, a geological wonder created by the discharge of untold millions of gallons of pure water 70 feet deep, from one of the world’s largest aquifers. The town of Mammoth Spring grew up around this aquifer and derived its name from it, as did the river that the aquifer created. The first half-mile or so of the Spring River flows through Mammoth Spring. As with other rivers that run through urban areas, you have a mixed bag of what you would expect to find along the banks. High above the river, I stand on the balcony of the Bouncer’s cabin and stare across at a checkerboard of concrete RV pads complete with Cast Iron BBQ grills, and picnic tables. I move my gaze from riverside development to the river below and see rising fish.
                I had seen these fish many times, but had never fished for them before. But this morning was different for a multitude of reasons. The conditions were unfavorable; overcast, 23 degrees and spitting a sleety rain, but despite the brutal conditions, these fish were feeding. This was my last day to fish before returning to work. Tomorrow would bring a ten-hour drive back to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. So this was it. I removed those thoughts of dread from my mind and returned my focus to the river to see those fish dimpling the water in regular cadence. No matter what the weather, I had to suck it up and do what I came here to do.
               The water flows from left to right with the spring about a quarter-mile upriver. The river flows straight under highway 63 and then makes a severe gooseneck right below the Bouncer’s cabin. Here, the water is deep and slow with large pools inundated by huge boulders that in many cases can only be seen during periods of low water. In this run, the water is emerald green with tints of azure and the surface, due to the depth, is slick. In order to get to these fish, I had to gain access through the Mammoth Spring RV Park, a place I had never before. Mainly because the river is normally lined with corn-dipping, worm-chunking, PowerBait-probing low-holers that drive 40 ft. RVs with dogs and kids in tow, who promptly scatter along the bank throwing rocks into the water, which their dogs eagerly try to fetch.
               Of course I didn’t have that problem today. It was raining buckets and cold as hell. No one in their right mind would be fishing today.
               Instead of traveling to a remote area, I decided to take on the Mammoth Spring RV Park and its mysterious rising fish. I put on every layer of Simms and Patagonia I had, got in my truck and drove around and across the river to the Mammoth Spring RV Park.
               Let me go back, in case you don’t know about my love-hate relationship with the trout in the Spring River and qualify my previous statement, clarifying the rationale behind my reference to these rising fish as “mysterious.” Most of the time I fish the Spring River out of necessity. When the other three trout rivers (White, Norfork, and Little Red) are generating water through their USACE-operated hydroelectric dams, making it impossible for a boatless, wade-grunt such as myself to fish, I can't be picky. I travel over 500 miles to trout fish and can't be choosy about when I can fish. The fact that I am not a marginally-employed trout bum, but a college professor who works for a living, doesn't allow me the luxury of schedule flexibility. I work so I can fish, not the other way around. A blessing, of course, is that my good friend, the Bouncer, owns a cabin on the Spring, offering a good base of operations. If the generation schedule shuts me out, I've always got the "good-ol' Spring" to fall back on. Here, I don't have to worry about generation, and I always find willing trout to eat my humble offerings.
               The fish in the Spring River are stockers, all generously supplied by the AGFC from a hatchery adjacent to the Spring River located at an access point known as Dam 3. The fish are stocked by truck at each access point already 10-12” long. Most of the Rainbows that you catch are cookie-cutter 10-12” fish straight from the hatchery. These fish, since birth, have been fed pellets by a machine, so their knowledge of how trout are supposed to act is limited. But at some point, the DNA kicks in and these fish, the ones that aren’t caught immediately by the first piece of PowerBait they see, begin to target real trout food. After all, they have to eat, and the longer they are in the river without being caught, the more “trouty” they become.

Craig's Zelon Midge

Craig and Jackie Matthews

at Blue Ribbon Flies

West Yellowstone, MT

These fish were acting extremely “trouty” on this yucky day and their quarry was invisible to me as I stepped out of my truck, grabbed my rod and walked to the edge of the water. I assumed, and probably rightfully so at other times, that these fish were sipping midges. So I came to the river pre-loaded with a #22 Zelon Midge, cream-colored. A great imitation of the same bug I’d seen enumerable times on the river. Craig Matthews would have been proud, considering I ordered them personally from him at Blue Ribbon Flies in West Yellowstone, Montana.

I entered the river and waded around, targeting rising fish, cast after cast with no takers. It was then that a tiny, black bug landed on my nose. I caught it, and through examination determined it to be a caddis; a microcaddis. As I began to scan the surface of the water moving slowly past my waders, I saw more and more of these tiny bugs in the film.
I quickly perused my midge box; the only box I’d brought with me, as I was certain the only bugs that could possibly be hatching today would be the ubiquitous midges, and had nothing that resembled what was coming off. I hoofed it back to my truck and peered at the sun visor where two Cliff fly patches cluttered with flies were clipped. Viola! I found a Red Ass soft hackle, a Little Red River pattern, actually a variation of a partridge and green, but the body is tied with peacock hurl with a rib of red thread behind it, thus giving it the name “Red Ass.”

A View From My Sun Visor#16 Red Ass (A Little Red River Staple)

I tied it on, hustled back to the river and fired a shot above a rising fish. Bam! I struck, and immediately broke my 6X tippet. Straight rod and slack line in hand, cold rain pelting my face, I once again ambled to my truck and searched the Cliff patches, finding one last red ass, sparsely hackled and slightly chewed from another fishing trip. I trimmed my leader, tied on the fly and headed back to the river.

I caught rainbow trout until my already weathered Red Ass was nothing but a scrap of peacock hurl hanging feebly from a coiled remnant of black thread at the eye of the hook. Every fish I caught was a visible riser. Not quite what I expected on the Spring River. But the more I fish here, the more I’m convinced that these fish are more focused on insect hatches than I had previously thought. Even these “naive stockers” are genuine Oncorhynchus Mykiss, true Salmonids, a family that includes salmon, trout, char, whitefish, and grayling. In other words, the DNA from pre-ice age ancestors is still in every individual cell of these fish. That being said, rainbow trout are by nature, opportunists who will fall for the ruse of a red worm or a piece of fluorescent green PowerBait, just like they will a well-presented fly.

Lil' black caddis

There is supposedly a good Trico hatch coming up in March. If so, you might find my truck parked at the Spring River RV Park, and me, walking along the bank looking for rising fish. In the meantime, I stumbled across this fantastic Zelon microcaddis pattern tied in...where else? Montana? No. Arkansas. Here's a picture of the bug and the website. http://www.northarkansasflyfisher.org/little_black_caddis.html Think I'll tie up a few and put them in my midge AND my caddis box. That way, I won't be unprepared again when the "no-see um's" turn out to be caddis instead of midges. Tight Lines and Best fishes to all of you.

Epic Weekend: Jacks are Wild (and so are the trout)

2012-10-25T19:48:00.000-07:00

When I left Gulfport at 1:30 p.m. on the Friday before fall break weekend, it was 90 degrees under a cloudless, Mississippi sky. Donned in shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt, I cranked up the Widespread Panic on the iPod and jammed my way north. The Yeti Roadie was in the backseat, the Scott fly rods in their tubes, as well as enough minimalist gear to take care of my basic needs (sleep, fly-fishing, and beer) for the next four days. The long-range weather forecast for Northern AR predicted a cold-front was on the way, but hopefully it wouldn't be a factor in my journey. No such luck. I passed through Jackson, missing the 5:00 rush and now cruising on I-55 through Memphis with dark clouds looming on the horizon. When I passed Exit 5 (Brooks Rd/Elvis Presley), the same exit where you would find Graceland, it was 82 degrees with a few raindrops spitting on the windshield. Five minutes later on I-40 toward Little Rock, the rain was blowing sideways and the thermometer read 52 degrees. Yes, the temperature had dropped thirty degrees in five minutes and the torrential monsoon I was driving through made speeds above 35 mph impossible. After crawling through West Memphis and finally making it to the Flash Market in Marion, I stepped out of the truck in my tropical attire and into an artic blast and driving rain that quickly reminded me that summer was not endless. Needless to say, I make a quick entrance into the store for my traditional beer and ice purchase at the crossroads. As I've mentioned in other posts, this store is SPECIAL and is the official beer store of each Tailwater Tribe fly fishing adventure into Arkansas.

At the Crossroads: Flash Market: Marion, AR. The Official Beer Store of Tailwater Tribe

I call it the crossroads because if I continue north on 62, I can fish the Spring, Norfork, and White Rivers. If they are generating water on the White and Norfork, I can make a left turn right past the Flash Market and be on my way to Heber Springs and the Little Red River. That being said, I managed to throw the Coor's and ice into the Yeti, and quickly made an administrative decision not to tackle the 150 miles of desolate road in 30 mph wind and blinding rain. I would cut my losses and regroup in the morning with a full cup of Sonic coffee in the console. I called the Bouncer's wife, Peggy, in Mammoth Springs and told her to tell the Bouncer that I would see them in the morning. I then found a fine (cheap) accomodation, the Hallmarc Inn, scored a room, turned on the heat, and bedded down for the night with pent-up visions of large trout smashing my flies at will with every cast, following an eight-week hiatus from catching one.

The next day started cold and cloudy, but rapidly cleared as I made my way to Mammoth. I stopped by the Bouncer's cabin, said hello to everyone and quickly made my exit to Lassiter Access on the Spring River. The cold weather turned the trout into feeding maniacs, and over the next two days on the Spring River, I landed more trout than I could count. The following day (Saturday), I ventured down the eight-mile gravel road to Bayou Access and pounded the rainbows on Olive Woolly Buggers.

Bayou Access: Spring River. You don't think you'll ever get here, but it's worth the effort...

Olive woolly bugger: A Spring River favorite! Lots of sculpins here.

The drive to and from was awesome, fall foliage, bright sunshine, perfect weather. I lowered the windows and cranked up the Widespread Panic (Do you see a reoccuring theme here?). It was on this winding maze of jagged rock that I discovered a "new" favorite WP song: "Jack". Even if you don't like or don't know about Widespread, this is one BA song you should have on your iPod or whatever device you have. For you disbelievers, I have included a link to "Jack" (click on the link below) The guy who posted this vid to YouTube did it as a tribute to a Michael Houser, a founding member of Widespread Panic who died of cancer a few years back. It is really well done and a fantastic tribute to a true guitar legend. It is really a great piece of work...Enjoy!

On Monday morning, I bid the Bouncer and his posse adieu and bailed out of Mammoth for the Little Red in Heber Springs. The other rivers (White and Norfork) were off the table as they were both generating water.
In Heber, I scored another cheap hotel, stowed the non-essential gear there, and headed for the river. The next two days were indeed epic as well. After spending two days chunking streamers, I relished in the fact that when I arrived on the Little Red that a hodge-podge of insect activity was occuring: Swarms of march browns, midges, caddis, and other small mayflies were everywhere. I caught too many to count on a spinner fall on a particular slicked out run that was unreal. The next morning, the fish were still rising with no visible bugs, so I tied on a partridge and green and proceeded to catch a half dozen browns.

Partridge and Green Soft hackle: A great choice for a variety of emerging mayflies or caddis

A great surprise since I had not caught anything but rainbows the entire trip. I love catching browns on the Little Red because they are wild fish: born and raised in the river where they swim. Finally, I had to walk out and go home, back to work and reality. Check out the videos below which document two of the browns I finished the trip with, all taken swinging those softies through the tailout on a large shoal. You can see the videos on YouTube as well. Until the next trip...Tight lines, amigos.

Pink Fat Alberts don't turn over easily on 15' 4X Leaders...

2012-08-11T15:27:00.000-07:00

I know you recognize the blast from the past at the top of my post. Yes, it is indeed Fat Albert. What does Fat Albert have to do with fly fishing? Here goes...
Last weekend on the Spring, White, and Norfork Rivers was indeed hopper time. The hopper bite was on and I landed a few eager fish on a #6 gaudy pink pattern known as a Fat Albert. "Pink is the hot color, mate," Steve Dally said as I stared bug-eyed and slack-jawed over the hopper bin at Steve's shop in Cotter, AR. As usual, Steve turned out to be a prophet.

Pink Fat Albert

When Laurie and I arrived at Rim Shoals, the temperature was 107. Needless to say, we donned the Simms wading sandals and enjoyed the cooling sensation of wet wading.
We explored different areas and got some nice takes on our Fat Alberts, but as we moved on the other side of a downriver island, we discovered a nice seam that moved into a deep trench absolutely loaded with fish. We snipped off the hoppers, tied on a beadhead sowbug, crimped a BB shot about 6" above and set our indicators DEEP. Even in the heat, the action was fast and furious for a while. The video above shows the comical things that can happen when attempting to land a fish. Number one, I accidently bought 15' 4X Rio leaders from Steve instead of my usual 9 footers. This was a huge problem in that everytime I tried to land a fish, my leader-flyline connection loop would hang in my guide tip. Okay! Okay! I know. Don't be an idiot. Just clip off the leader and put on a new one. Easier said than done when you're pounding fish and don't want to stop. Number Two: The fish on the video swam between Laurie's legs and actually swam into the net on the way out. Bottom line: No matter how many trout you've landed, every fish is an adventure...
I'm so grateful to have a fantastic fishing partner like my wife. She's a great fisherman and a great soul-mate. Our relationship was formed on trout rivers and we have so many wonderful memories everytime we get back to our home waters in Arkansas. Thanks, Laurie! That being said, I believe the only reason she volunteered to net my fish was to get on the video!
Other things of note on this trip. I got to meet two of my heros and legendary guides on the White: John Berry and Davy Wotten--all on the same day. Also, I got to actually land fish while filming with my new GoPro Hero2 with the chestie. It is really an awesome setup that I'm getting more comfortable with everytime I use it. To say this trip was epic, well, that would be an understatement...

Stop! Hopper Time!

2012-07-31T10:09:00.000-07:00

To say this summer didn't go as planned would be an understatement. Reflecting back to the spring I had visions of guide school on the Bighorn in my sights. My buddy Randy Berndt from Wisconsin, a classmate from Montana State University and I were supposed to attend a well-known guide school on the Big Horn River. To make a long story short; Randy got to go, and I didn't. For me, life got in the way. I am in the midst of yet another job change, a great opportunity that doesn't come around very often. This threw my summer into a loop as it was a late development and by the time I got my ducks in a row, I ran out of time. This forced me to live my life vicariously through Randy. I kept up with his exploits through his blog "On The Fly" and it sounds as if he had a demanding, yet unforgettable experience.
Depending on my new schedule on my job, maybe next summer will be my time. So for now, I will practice my nail knots, improved clinch knots, surgeons loops, double surgeons loops, blood knots, tie some more flies and focus on another time: Hopper time.

Stop! Hopper Time!

It's an inside joke, but everytime I think of hopper fishing I think of MC Hammer. Notice the outfit--big, bold, and bright, just like a hopper imitation. This summer has also been the most fishless summer I've had in recent memory, but I am hoping to remedy that this weekend. It is hopper time on the White, Norfork, and Little Red Rivers in Arkansas and hopefully I can ease my pain with a few explosive strikes and a few nice fish. I love fishing big, ugly, gaudy foam bugs to gluttonous trout! Brings me in mind of the cicada hatch on the Green, and the Salmonflies on the Madison and Yellowstone. It will also be the first trout trip with my new GoPro camera and I'm pumped about that, too.

My favorite hopper imitation is Craig Matthew's Improved Chaos Hopper. The reason it's my favorite is because it's a fly that I can actually tie AND the foam indicator matches MC Hammer's shirt..

Improved Chaos Hopper

This is by no means the only hopper in my box, as I am a sucker for any new bright foam floater I see at the fly shop. My box contains a plethora of bugs bright, big, and ugly enough to scare any pod of trout from here to Bozeman.

To quote Mick Jagger: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you get what you need." A true statement indeed. I am indeed blessed! I'll write an update after I get back, post some videos and hopefully have a great hopper time! As I sign off, I'll leave you a blast from the past: MC Hammer doing "Can't Touch This." Wonder if he's a fly fisherman?

GoPro Hero2: New Tailwater Tribe Toy

2012-07-09T19:08:00.001-07:00

After mysteriously losing my old Kodak waterproof video camera, a loyal friend that had accompanied me from Key West to Idaho, I started looking around for a replacement. I settled on the GoPro Hero2. This is one serious bulletproof, shockproof, and waterproof camera, built like a tank and attachable to anything that moves including my kayak, my head (via headstrap), or the optional chest strap. I took the new toy out yesterday wade fishing in the gulf and shot some practice footage using the chest strap. I didn't catch any fish but I think I like the results. Can't wait to try her out for real!

Widespread Panic: Honorary Tailwater Tribesmen ("Thin Air" to "Fishwater")

2012-07-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

As noted in one of my original posts, I am a HUGE Widespread Panic fan. Although I've never seen them in concert (they're on my list) I do have every studio album they have recorded to date on my iPod. I recently went browsing at Peaches Record Store in New Orleans and found a Panic CD I didn't have. "Ain't Life Grand" was recorded and released by the little ol' band from Athens, GA in 1994. Of course, I had the title cut, "Ain't Life Grand" on another WP album entitled "Choice Cuts."

"Ain't Life Grand" is a Panic staple, but another song on the CD drew my attention, partially due to its title: "Fishwater." This is a kick-ass song with a great bassline and New Orleans roots as well; even more appropo as I bought the CD in New Orleans. On my Tailwater Tribe adventures, long roadtrips that involve many hours of travel, I now have enough Widespread Panic on my iPod to spend days on the road and listen to nothing else. Another great WP song that fits the Tailwater Tribe theme is "Fishing." This cut comes from another WP album entitled "Ball, an album released in 1998. I added "Ball" to my collection earlier this year.

I know from what I've read in Widespread CD liner notes that these guys have Montana roots, so I wonder if there are any trout fishermen in the band? Or better yet, if they fly-fish? After all, there are plenty of great trout streams in Northern Georgia like the Chattahootchie and the Soque, just to name two. It would make sense as they spend a lot of time touring out west in places like Idaho and Wyoming. Want to hear another Tailwater twist? The album "Ball" features another cut entitled "Thin Air" (Smells Like Mississippi) which parallels my own roots from the Magnolia state. For those of you not familiar with the discography of this epic band, hit the links for all three songs and enjoy. Maybe you'll add them to your Tailwater Tribe repertoire and cruise to these made-to-order roadtrip tunes.

Going Old School at Rim Shoals (Thanks, Rebecca!)

2012-07-03T12:22:00.000-07:00

Unloading the gear at the Town and Country (Nice Yeti!!!)

The elusive sulfur hatch on the White and North Fork Rivers turned out to be just that...elusive. I left the beautiful Mississippi Gulf Coast with visions of PMDs spinning in my head. After ten hours I finally arrived in Mountain Home, AR, a place I hadn't been to in quite a while due to the inconsistent generation at Bull Shoals and Norfork Dams. I unloaded the gear and checked into the Town and Country Inn, a fine establishment and a true hardcore fly-fisherman's hole in the wall. A few hours earlier, I had stopped off in Marion, AR for gas and beer and was anxious to see how cold my beverages were in my new Yeti cooler, a father's day gift from my lovely wife, Laurie! She couldn't make the trip but was living vicariously through me. Not only did the Yeti do well in 90+ degrees during the trip, but still had ice in it eight days later. Kudos to @Yeticoolers!

New Patagonia Rock Grip Aluminum Bar Wading Boots (Good Job, Yvon!)

The next day, I stopped off at Blue Ribbon Flies to catch up on the latest fishing reports, bought a few flies and was off to the Norfork. I ended up at Ackerman Access where I found the river low and clear. After donning the waders and my new Patagonia Rock Grip Boots (awesome!) I was looking for any signs of mayfly life. The hatch was sporadic, but I did see enough bugs to be successful with a couple nice fish on Sulfur dries, and a couple more bumping pheasant tails along the riffles.
After lunch, I ventured over to Cotter to check out the White River. On my way, I stopped by at Steve Dally's Ozark Fly Fisher for some info and more flies.

Steve is a great guy with a great shop and a plethora of information. I ended up buying some yellow soft hackles with a little bling. I figured they would enhance the sulfur emerger section of my arsenal. This turned out to be the case. Steve suggested I venture to a new access (to me, anyway) called the Narrows. For those of you familiar with access points on the White, it is just down the road from Wildcat Shoals. The water on the White was low. This was something I had not personally witnessed for two years, and I have to admit, when I took my first step into my sacred home waters in such a long period of time, it was therapeutic. I did really well here and caught a dozen fat rainbows all swinging those new Steve Dally yellow softies through a long section of riffles.

(The "Rim" at Rim Shoals)

The next day I ventured to Rim Shoals, one of my favorite places on earth. A place I had first been introduced to a decade ago by a White River fly fishing guru. Normally, the parking lot at Rim is full. But today it was vacant. I took a few minutes to enjoy a cold bottle of Fat Tire and view the first low water I had witnessed at Rim Shoals in many moons.

As I enjoyed the ice cold ale (compliments of Yeti Coolers and Bayman Beverage, Cotter, AR) I realized I had the whole place to myself. No bugs were coming off so I decided to go "old school" with a #16 beadhead sowbug fished under an even more "Old School" Palsa Pinch-On Indicator. I waded into the first riffle, shot out a cast, mended my line and "bam" I had the first fish of the day pulsing at the end of my Scott G2 5 wt. The next few hours were momentous. I fished all of my old haunts and was greeted in each hole by a fat rainbow. By this time I had forgotten my pipe-dream of a thick Sulfur hatch. I was catching fish and realized it was good to get back to my "roots." This was the way I had been taught to fish on the White River by my original mentor, Rebecca Rawls at Cane Island Fly Shop. I even tied on a "Randy", which is a sowbug pattern with a tail, originally tied by Rebecca's late brother, Travis. If you will check out my blog home pic you'll notice a large brown trout being held by yours truly. It was caught on slate-gray February morning at Bull Shoals access on a #16 Randy. The photo was snapped by Rebecca Rawls. What was good then was just as good now. My solitary afternoon at Rim Shoals stirred warm memories when all was new and fresh and I was finally catching these mysterious, cold-water trout I had always dreamed of catching as a little kid reading the latest issue of Field and Stream on hot summer days in rural Mississippi where these fish don't exist. Thanks, Rebecca, for introducing me to this world I will always treasure and fueling an addiction that I can't shake. I've fished the salmonfly hatch on the Yellowstone, the green drake hatch at the Ranch on the Henry's Fork, the PMD hatch on the Gallatin and Frying Pan, the Cicada hatch on the Green and the White Miller rodeo on the Firehole, but it all started here. It is always a great thing to return to your roots. To me, the White River is the "comfort food" of fly fishing. My Mississippi roots run pretty deep into Arkansas and no matter where I go to pursue these great gamefish. It will always be my "home water." The Tailwater Tribe will be introducing a new twist this year. I will be taking my Tour (TWTFFT3) out east to fish the legendary waters of the Allegheny Mountains: Namely, the Letort and Yellow Breeches Creek in Pennsylvania. I'll try to get off my duff and make a new post from there. Until then, tight lines...

Missed the Caddis...onto the sulphurs, I hope!!!

2012-05-15T06:48:00.001-07:00

Well, caddis season has come and gone (for the most part) in my home waters of Arkansas and alas, I missed it. I had great intentions of getting some water time on the White and Little Red Rivers during spring break, but the Corps (full generation), or the weather, was not on my side. I had a wonderful trip to the Spring River in Mammoth Spring and hung out with the bouncer at his riverside pad, got in a lot of fishing and caught a few fish. Even saw a few mayflies and caddis there, but damn it, I missed the caddis! I am forever the optimist and always see the glass as half full. I am hopeful that I will run into these illusive moths somewhere this summer, perhaps the Firehole...but in the meantime, I will move on with my thoughts and my life, to the next available hatch, the sulphurs...
Sulphur mayflies are yellowish-green with rusty brown bodies and are known as PMDs out west. If I'm lucky and the planets align, and I'm at the right place at the right time with no generation from the corps...maybe I'll get on my home waters soon, (last week in May after school is finally out!) Until then, I'm painting trout, watching movies about trout, tweeting about trout, reading about trout, and practicing my casts in the front yard...

If things don't go to plan, hopefully I'll catch up to those sulphurs...I mean, PMDs at the Henry's Fork, Gallatin, Frying Pan, or some other river I'm dreaming to fish this summer.

My First Non-Fishing Post: Shameless Promotion of "Hot Aces"

2012-02-05T14:57:00.000-08:00

When I look at similar and more popular fishing-oriented blogs than mine, many of which I am an avid fan, I notice one thing...shameless self-promotion. I have never been a fan of this practice and this is probably why I am not a best-selling author or world-renowned fly-fishing guru. But here I am, taking the advice of my wife, Laurie, who suggested that I promote my latest novel, "Hot Aces" on Tailwater Tribe. I realize this out of character for my blog. On the rare occasions that I update it, the main topic is fly fishing, travel, Montana, Arkansas, trout and any other topic solely devoted to my passion of the pursuit of game fish on the long rod. But this time, I digress.
Hot Aces is my second novel. The first, "The Brown Stilt House," was published a decade ago and after so many years without a new product, many thought that my writing ambition, skills, or lack of, had dried up on the vine. I'm here to say this is not the case. "Hot Aces," was published this summer while I was in Bozeman, finishing some graduate studies at Montana State, and of course completely absorbed in fighting the conumdrum of where to fish during epic snowmelt and high water events. By the time I got off the Firehole and Henry's Fork and back to Gulfport, life got in the way and I never had the opportunity to plug my book.
"Hot Aces" is a work of fiction in the mystery/suspense genre and I believe it would be worth your while to check it out. There are no fly fishing references, but one of the main characters turns up missing in the Mississippi Gulf Coast after officials found the charred hull of his Boston Whaler washed up on the shore of Deer Island.
All-in-all it is a fun read with many references to many places familiar to me and my readers. If you get the time, check it out. "Hot Aces" is available at all of the usual places; Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc. Just Google, order, and read. Your feedback would be much appreciated.

Until my next post, which will definitely be about fly fishing, good reading! Your support would be shamelessly appreciated...

Deep Freezers, Waning Caddis, Arizona, and Wet Wading in April...

2011-04-19T16:46:00.000-07:00

I got an E-mail from my friend Randy Berndt in Wisconsin to tell me of his weather woes; 6-8" of snow predicted. As of this time last year Randy had landed over 70 trout in the Driftless Region. His count in 2011--1 fish. I feel sorry for Randy in his deep freeze but thought I'd spread a little sunshine his way. Yesterday, with temps in the mid 70's, I donned the waders to fish my anticipatory spring break caddis hatch on the Little Red River in Arkansas. Today (Tuesday, April 19) with temps expected and exceeding 85 degrees, I pulled into the Cow Shoals parking lot, slipped on the wading sandals and shorts and practically jogged down to the river. Hard to believe the freedom that wet-wading provides without the cumbersome boots and waders...
The caddis hatch is on the wane, but I have managed to catch a few rising fish with an X-caddis and an Elk hair variant. I dropped a #16 Red Ass soft hackle below it and got most of my fish on the Red Ass. I was very fortunate this trip in that they weren't running any water from Greer's Ferry. The water has been low and clear and the fish have been very cooperative.
Met an interesting guy on my way out from Swinging Bridge, Joe Miller from desertflyfishers.com. Joe is from Conway, AR via Arizona and spends a lot of his time fishing the San Juan River as well as the Provo, Gibbon and other rivers out west. The San Juan is on my "Rivers to Fish" list for the upcoming Tailwater Tribe Fly Fishing Tour II. Joe is a real nice guy and I enjoyed sharing experiences with him as well as giving him a tip about dropping a #16 Red Ass off a #16 Purple Haze sowbug. He showed me his San Juan fly box and it resembled a sewing kit full of tiny pins--tiny midges and Jong's Special's #22 and smaller. Well, when in Rome...

Shout out to my bud, Randy in Wisconsin

2011-04-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to give a shout out to my buddy and fantastic fly-fisherman Randy Berndt in Wisconsin. Randy and I are alums from Montana State University and I met him this past summer on campus in Bozeman. He really taught me a lot about Montana trout fishing on the Gallatin and Bridger Creek around Bozeman. I can only hope to be as good as he is one day. For those people that follow my blog, please check out Randy's blog "On The Fly," which is listed under my favorite blogs at this site. I am hopeful that Randy and I will be able to get together this summer to rekindle some memories and hopefully he can show me "how it's done" out west somewhere, on my home waters of Arkansas, or somewhere in the driftless region....
Cheer's Randy! Here's to a successful fly fishing season in 2011!

Tailwater Tribe

Trout Creek, MI: Further Adventures in the Upper Peninsula

You should have been here last week

Tailwater Tribe: A Trip Abbreviated

A Trip Abbreviated

Tailwater Tribe: A Teaching Opportunity

A Teaching Opportunity

TROUT AND TAMALES

Taco Bag in Evening Shade

Taco Bag in Evening Shade

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Great Times in Michigan with the UP Fly Angler

Video Backlog...Time to Make a Move

I Love It When A Plan Comes Together...

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Sulphur hatch to the max!

Battle on the Bayou IV

I Am Not Alone In My Insanity...

Slumming With the Microcaddis at Mammoth Spring RV Park

Epic Weekend: Jacks are Wild (and so are the trout)

Pink Fat Alberts don't turn over easily on 15' 4X Leaders...

Stop! Hopper Time!

GoPro Hero2: New Tailwater Tribe Toy

Widespread Panic: Honorary Tailwater Tribesmen ("Thin Air" to "Fishwater")

Going Old School at Rim Shoals (Thanks, Rebecca!)

Missed the Caddis...onto the sulphurs, I hope!!!

My First Non-Fishing Post: Shameless Promotion of "Hot Aces"

Deep Freezers, Waning Caddis, Arizona, and Wet Wading in April...

Shout out to my bud, Randy in Wisconsin