I was hiking to fish a high cutthroat lake inside Glacier National Park with my father and my wife. Not the most orthodox of fly fishing parties, but then again I’m not the most orthodox of fishermen and fly fishing’s not the most orthodox of subcultures, so it all seemed natural enough.

When we finally scrambled off the steep hillside and down to the lakeshore, we brushed the limbs to the side for our first close-up look. At least half a dozen cutthroat trout were scattered around lazily sipping something from the surface. Unfortunately for us, a gentleman was already there casting to them. He appeared to be the only other fisherman on the lake, so we worked our way around the west shore, the eastern side being a shear slope of loose talus that we didn’t feel like tackling. Besides, the west side appeared to hold most of the shallow water when we took our first look from high above.

I found it tough to contain the jitters. Every fisherman must know something like this when there are big fish right there, and you don’t know if you can catch them. And I was far from certain. I don’t know why I have so much trouble catching trout from a lake. I mean, my whole life I’ve been catching bass and bluegills from ponds and lakes, and from streams so sluggish they might as well have been lakes. What’s so different about trout?

I suppose a lot of it boils down to me still being a swamp water bass fisherman in fact if not at heart. I just can’t get it out of my head that catching a fish from water that still, shallow and clear is impossible or at least highly unlikely. Most friends would call me an experienced fisherman, but the majority of that experience has taken place on the aforementioned ponds, lakes and muddy streams, and with conventional bass tackle instead of a fly rod. Trout are still a beautiful, exotic species. A handful of trips for trout every year just doesn’t saturate you with the confidence that comes from living and breathing fishing like I did for bass back during my early college years.

And it’s not just the lakes that continue to bother me. What is it about the bugs? I mean, with bass, you just toss something big, gaudy and meaty out there and wind it back any way you want. Eventually you’ll find a bass hungry and mean enough to eat just about anything. I’m beginning to think all that crap about the confident fly fisherman calmly identifying the correct insect, tying on an imitation and catching trout is just that. Crap. Here’s how it happens this time, which is fairly typical of my experience:

I climb out on a rock and look over the lake. There are several fish rising. What are they eating? I don’t see a thing on the water. If I didn’t know better, I’d say these fish had gone mad from hunger and were sipping at nothing, convinced they were dining on fat green drakes. Nothing’s flying in the air either. I try an old trick, that did actually work one magical day on the Lamar River, and brush the grass trying to stir any clinging insects to flight. Nothing other than a few scrawny grasshoppers, and I’m certain the fish aren’t feeding on those. I take my hat and use it like an aquarium net to seine the surface of the water. Nothing shows up in there either. So, I tie on an Adams.

Of course, I might as well admit it. I’m now firmly entrenched as one of that much-maligned group, the weekend fishermen. I’m not out there “living the life.” I have a wife, a job, a house, bills and I typically observe socially acceptable levels of personal hygiene. No trout bum here, that’s for sure. Not that I wouldn’t like to be, it’s just that I’ve made choices, and right now I’m going to see how they play out. Maybe those supposed “real fishermen,” who poke fun at my lack of dedication, really can confidently tie on the right fly in these situations. I don’t know. None of my friends are real fly fishermen either. I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever met a “real fly fisherman.”

Meanwhile I’ve had three agonizing refusals to my Adams. Finally one apparently stupid cutthroat (aren’t they all supposed to be stupid) takes it, a fat 15 incher. Then the refusals begin again. Eventually the fish just completely ignore the fly altogether. So, I stop to think on it a bit, which is probably what I should have done a bit more of at first. But, I’m sure you know how it is when big fish are rising right there in front of you. Doing something seems more importantly than doing the right thing, a principle which applies often enough to areas of life other than fishing as well.

I’ve heard this lake has good hatches of mayflies on most summer days, but I don’t see any. My first thought when fish are feeding on something I can’t see is midges, which to me is akin to them feeding on mythical ice flies from the land of Perelandra. I mean, how do you honestly know when fish are feeding on midges? I’ve heard about places with giant size 12 midges that are easy to see, but in most places I’ve fished, you can tell they’re feeding on midges only by the fact that absolutely nothing else makes sense. You’ve systematically eliminated mayflies, stoneflies and caddis flies, and it’s winter, so you know it’s not terrestrials. Hmmm, must be midges. Even if you’ve never actually seen a midge, and therefore, assuming you’re unfortunate enough to consider yourself an empiricist, can’t truthfully confirm that they actually exist. So you tie on a zebra midge, the winter tailwater equivalent of the Adams.

Anyway, that’s pretty much been my experience. At this lake, I just don’t get the feeling that it’s midges. In fishing I’ve found feelings to be just as useful as anything else. Could be ants, another of the options when you can’t see anything, but the wind isn’t blowing very hard, and the fish are rising well away from shore. I figure it must be some sort of aquatic bug, and I’m betting it’s a mayfly. I could probably tie on a streamer or nymph and get some fish, but I won’t. It’s not that I have a problem with them. It’s just not what I want. I want them on top or at least on something close enough to what they’re feeding on. Then again, for a weekend fisherman on the year’s only big trip, catching fish can begin to feel like a desperate matter, so no telling what I’d do in these situations given enough frustration, a stick of dynamite and a match.

Luckily I spot a single lonely mayfly. It’s small and olive-brown. Maybe, just maybe, these mayflies are about to hatch, and the nyjmphs are actively reaching for the surface. Maybe that’s what the trout are after. Maybe a few are making it and hatching, and this is where my little mayfly came from. At least it’s something.

So I tie on a size 18 olive hare’s ear wet fly and sort of half-heartedly dab some floatant on it. You know, to sort of make it float, but not really. And it works! Two, three then four fish take the fly with no hesitation. Suddenly I’m having lots of fun and feeling a little smarter! I stand there like a heron (at least I imagine I look like a heron) scanning the water, looking for the dark shape of a cruising trout, but I usually don’t spot one until it breaks the surface. Then I cast where I think it might go next. Then there’s that rising anxiety when the fish first sees then approaches the fly. And then that indescribable exultation when it takes! And they’re taking the fly that I, the ingenious outdoorsman, figured out. It feels really good.

Then the fish just disappear, and the whole thing feels strangely futile again. Maybe the bugs quit hatching. Maybe the sun was too bright. Maybe, as Dad was wont to say when I was a kid, I wasn’t holding my mouth right. Whatever the reason, I decide it’s time to look around a bit. I tell Jacqulyn and Dad that I intend to walk on around the lake, something they want no part of, still being tired from the climb down. Pushing my way around the overgrown trail, I wonder for a moment about bears before consciously pushing the thought from my mind. Can’t let something like a grizzly get in the way of good fishing. I spot a side trail that leads out onto a small rocky point. The water drops off more steeply here. There’s nothing on the surface. Peering into the deep blue depths, I think I see, well, something. It looks like something other than the play of light on the indistinct bottom, something that tickles my not-so-well-evolved fish sense. In an instant, the something goes from black to gold to recognizably fish-shaped to a couple of large cutthroats launching themselves into the air chasing, well, something. Has to be caddis. That’s the only thing that would make trout do that, right? Or maybe they were jumping for the shear joy of it? If I was a fish living in that setting, I might. I see nothing flying or on the water. What I really want to know is why there can’t be some certainty from time to time?

Hoping for the caddis, I tie on a number 14 olive St. Vrain caddis. I can still see that indistinct something moving in the depths, this time knowing it’s those two nice trout, but neither fish rises to the fly. I continue on around to a large shallow bay. No fish are visible, but they could be hiding behind any number of large boulders. I decide on a whim to skate the caddis with a long sweep of the rod, and a nice cutt immediately materializes and slams the fly.

Suddenly everything is working, even though I can’t tell that I’m doing much different from the last half hour. I’m catching a fish every few casts, some of them darn nice ones. Doesn’t matter if I skate the fly or let it sit. It all works. I feel like a real fisherman again. When I hook one hot fish I imagine that I’m fighting it with a bit of style. I raise the old Granger bamboo rod high, like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It, and the fish tears off some line. For a moment I try to see myself from a distance, and I don’t look half bad. No Brad Pitt, but not too bad either, especially if you’re far enough away that I’m only a silhouette. That’s how far away I went.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it’s over. The lake is once again barren of life, and I have no chance of figuring it out. I start back toward Jacqulyn and Dad, stopping to make the occasional cast. I manage to catch a fish at that rocky point with the acrobatic trout, but it doesn’t count. I mean, I’m going to report it as a fish caught, but secretly I know it doesn’t count. I was dragging the fly while maneuvering to a new casting position when the fish hit. I’m betting that most seemingly confident fishermen harbor some secret self-doubts because of just this type of thing. And probably a few of their most impressive catches shouldn’t count either.

When I get back I report six fish caught. Finally I just sit back and enjoy the scene, the first time I’ve really enjoyed the scenery all day. The lake sits in a high mountain cirque with towering rocky cliffs all around, except at the outlet where the mountains drop abruptly, and beyond, overlapping peaks that could go on forever for all I know. The shadowy spots still have snow tucked in and clinging in defiance of summer. Even though it’s high summer, and the sun is bright, it’s only pleasantly warm with little humidity. The air feels light, like my lungs don’t have to work as hard to process it up here as they do down in lower, steamier country. The water is crystal clear in the shallows, taking on first light emerald and then deep sapphire as it gains depth. It truly is spectacular, and I wrestle with the regret that there’s not more time in places like this. But I’m just a weekend fisherman on a too short vacation, and it’s a long, steep climb out. So I soak my bandanna in the icy water, wrap it around my neck, and nod to Dad that I’m ready for the climb.

When we finally struggle to the top, Dad says this is why he likes bass fishing from his boat. I think this is why I gave it up.

Take care,
Nathan

My reasoning is that they’ll never be able to generate the ad revenue needed to keep going in their current format. I probably spend a couple hours with each issue, so if you have an ad in there, you get my attention for maybe a couple minutes every two months. That’s just not much. For their sake I hope I’m not the average reader. With a print magazine, I might look at it every couple days for a month or so, assuming I leave it in the magazine rack by the toilet or lying by the bed. I just don’t believe these new magazines are taking full advantage of the internet. I mean, one of the things I dislike about print magazines is that I have to wait a couple months before I get a new one. Well, if you’re running an online magazine, there’s no reason to limit your audience in this way. Why not publish new content at least a couple times every week? Why wait until you have a whole magazine’s worth of content before publishing any of it? My suggestion to those looking to craft an online magazine would be to use the blog format, but not make it a blog, if that makes sense. Simply use blogging software (Wordpress would work just fine) to publish your content as it’s ready for publication instead of using the flipbook format. Just because it’s Wordpress doesn’t mean you have to call it a “blog.” Wordpress would simply function as your content management and publication system. You could even maintain an editorial “blog” as a separate section on the site.

No one out there’s doing this, and I really don’t understand why. Midcurrent is probably the closest, but it doesn’t really do what I’m talking about here. Not yet anyway. What I’d like to see is an online magazine that publishes very high quality features at least twice every week. Maybe Monday I can go in to work and read a feature essay about someone’s backcountry trip. On Thursday I have a video about tarpon fishing from float tubes in some croc-infested swamp. For the weekend I get a full-length article related to fly tying, and the next week I am treated to a photo essay on Alaska’s monster rainbows. These wouldn’t be your typical blog entries. They would be full-fledged articles and features just like those being published in the magazines, but instead I’d be fed material more regularly. On top of that, I’d be visiting the site daily looking for new goodies, and therefore I’d see the ads every day instead of just once a month. You’d need to figure out how best to get the ads seen without causing too much irritation. That’s one good thing about the flipbook style – you see the ads as you flip pages, but it doesn’t feel overly intrusive. Personally I would publish large, attractive, image-based ads (similar in look to the ads in the flipbooks) as the feature post on days when no new content was ready. That’s in addition to sidebar and a few in-line ads. Please, no pop-ups or pop-unders!! Also, you could have a section listing guides, shops and lodges for specific locations, much like the print magazines have in back. I would actually find that feature useful.

Something like this just might pull in enough ad revenue to make the whole thing click. Of course, you’d need really high quality material. The writers, photographers and video-makers would need to be paid for their contributions. In addition to the features, you could include a breaking news section, a weekly editorial opinion section (which would be like a normal blog entry), and a forum. You’d need to maintain a presence on all the social networking sites like Twitter and Facebook, but the truth is, something like this wouldn’t be that tough to do, and I’m a little puzzled as to why the digital flipbook has become the format of choice?

I think you’d have to keep the whole thing free and make it work on ad money alone (and maybe a few other things like calendars, DVDs, fine art prints, etc). I know I just wouldn’t pay for something like this. There’s too much good material out there in blogs, forums, etc. for me to pay for online content. There are still print magazines good enough that I’ll pay to receive them, but I haven’t come across any website that I’d pay for a subscription to. Midcurrent is probably best positioned to make a run at something like this, but I’m not sure it’s what they’d want to do. You may ask why I’m not trying it myself. Well, I think whoever does it needs to be positioned as an “insider.” Someone who has the clout and respect to pull in the requisite talent quickly, and maybe convince that talent to work for free for the first couple months. I’m about as far from that description as you can get. Heck, I don’t reckon I even fish any more. Doesn’t feel like it anyway. I just post and read about it, and I like pretty fishing pictures. So, what do you think? I want to see these folks succeed. I like the content, and I like the people. Plus I want a good product, and I want it more often. Tell me what you think.

Take care,
Nathan

But there are bass to be caught. Big ones that don’t like to come out and play during the harsh summer sun of daylight. So lots of us fish the lake at night, or at least we did years ago. Back when I was a kid, there were nighttime bass tournaments that let out from the Mud Creek boat ramp every Tuesday night. My brother and I would sometimes fish with our dad. We would get lucky on occasion and win one, but mostly Bobby Hutchins won them all with everyone else fighting for second place. Bobby was a heck of a fisherman. He was a skinny, older fellow who was a legend among the local bass fishermen. Bobby always fished alone and always at night. He was extremely secretive about the lures he used and his favorite fishing holes. He was friendly enough, but the rest of us always got the feeling he was making fun of us somehow, especially at weigh-in time when he’d wait quietly until everyone else had weighed their fish. Then he’d pull the winning stringer out and pick up his check.

This didn’t bother me too much. I was just a kid, and I felt lucky just to be hanging around so many good fishermen. Plus, like I said, we’d occasionally win one of the tournaments anyway. By the time I got in junior high school, my friends and I didn’t fish the tournaments any more. Our dads got the crazy idea that we were old enough to be paying our own entry fees if we wanted to fish, so we just went out by ourselves in the little aluminum boat with wooden seats that we had christened The Hawgdaddy. We’d row the boat over to watch the weigh-ins, but mostly we decided that we liked the fishing better than the competing anyway.

Then one night Bobby didn’t show up at the weigh-in. They found his boat in McIntyre Slough, but they didn’t find his body until early the next morning. Officially his drowning was an accident, but there were some pretty rough characters who fished those tournaments. Characters who didn’t take well to donating their hard-earned money to Bobby every week, and who might have grown tired of Bobby’s smug attitude. We always figured some of them did Bobby in that night.

A couple years went by, and most people forgot about the whole thing, or at least didn’t think about it much. Us kids didn’t though. We’d go out fishing at night on the lake in the Hawgdaddy, and we’d scare each other with stories about Bobby’s ghost stalking the shores of the lake on the darkest nights, eternally searching for those who held his head under that black water. Like I said, Lake Guntersville at night is a scary place. It wasn’t hard to scare each other.

They kept holding the night tournaments, and things went along pretty well as you’d expect until big Bubba Dean disappeared. I don’t mean he drowned like Bobby. I mean he flat out vanished without a trace.

Bubba was a big, tobacco-sucking, profanity-spewing redneck of a man, and we’d long speculated that he’d had something to do with Bobby’s drowning. Bubba disappeared on the night of the first tournament of that summer. Bubba’s partner Jerry had to work that night, so he was alone. They found his boat near McIntyre Slough, close to where Bobby’s had been found. They searched for a week, brought in divers and blood hounds. Never found a thing. They drug the creek bottom first and then the main river channel. They drug up plenty of junk, but none of it providing a clue as to what happened to Bubba. Chances are, everyone figured, that he had a heart attack, fell out, and got hung on a snag or in that jungle of aquatic weeds in the murky depths to make a meal for the catfish and turtles. But then people started to wonder. People started to listen to us kids a bit. They started to whisper about a ghost stalking the shores of the lake at night.

Then to everyone’s horror, Jerry, too, met a strange end out on the lake while fishing the tournament one night. Jerry Hughes was another big man, but quieter and more shy than Bubba. And smarter. Or colder and more calculating, depending on how you looked at it, or who you listened to. He didn’t disappear. They found him in the bottom of his boat (once again near McIntyre Slough), pale as death, his hair turned white apparently in an instant, a look of shear terror on his face. At least that’s how my pal Jimmy told it. His dad was the coroner.

After Jerry’s death, they quit holding the night tournaments. Too much weird crap going on out there in the dark. But us kids didn’t quit going out. Mom didn’t like it, so we’d tell her we were just going to hang out at Jimmy’s house. Then we’d use Jimmy’s ATV to drag the old boat down to the water. At least, we kept going out until this one night near the end of that summer.

Jimmy, my brother David and I went out on the lake and decided to fish in McIntyre Slough. We weren’t scared, at least not enough to admit it to each other, and besides, we figured Bobby’s ghost wouldn’t hurt us. Why would it?

We’d been fishing a grass line on the drop off out from the point at the mouth of the slough for a few hours, picking up a few decent bass on large plastic worms when Jimmy said he thought he heard something walking around on the bank. David and I told him to shut up, we weren’t that easy to scare any more. But Jimmy kept insisting, and he was beginning to sound scared himself. So we kept quiet and listened. Yes, there was something. Then David said he could see it. Jimmy and I peered through the darkness. All we could see at first was the silhouette of the trees on the point against the starry sky. But then we made out something, something pale white, like a man but not really. It knelt down to the water as if taking a drink, then stood again. It walked on down the bank, stopping directly in front of us. Then it turned and stared right at us.

By this point, we were all beginning to panic, as I’m sure you can imagine. We didn’t know what it was, and didn’t want to. The old boat was fixed with a small 7 hp engine now, and I shakily tried to crank it. It always was an ornery thing, and it chose this time to give me trouble. I got it cranked three times, but when I’d throw it into forward, it’d die. Jimmy screamed at me to pump the bubble, which I did. I looked at the island, and the thing was wading out toward us. Finally the engine cranked and I tore out, but in my haste I forgot about the stump flat right in front of us. I drilled a stump, and the shear pin broke. The engine died. We all cursed, the boat slowed to a stop, and waves splashed out from us and disappeared into the darkness. Then it was all silent except for the slow, relentless sloshing of the thing headed our way. There was nothing we could do. We sat and waited for it. Then it was in the boat. We all cursed and screamed and scrambled for position. Then I had ahold of it, and it was a duck. Yes, a duck.

Now, we all knew that what we saw was bigger and shaped nothing like a duck, but that’s what we found in our boat. That was all we saw that night. By the time we managed to paddle the boat to shore and drag it back to the four wheeler, we all knew we would never go out on the lake again at night. I guess you can believe what you want. You can believe that Bobby’s ghost really was out there that night, once again stalking the shore in his eternal search for justice. You can believe that we were spared because we were indeed innocent of Bobby’s murder. You can believe he sent that duck instead of death just to frighten us a little. Or you can believe we were a bunch of kids, too easily frightened by our own imaginations. But we know that what we saw on that shoreline wasn’t a duck.

Or, you can believe this: That a few kids found a great fishing hole in McIntyre Slough and didn’t take too kindly to a few of the older men finding it, too. You can believe that kids can do things in anger that you’d never suspect. You can believe that when tested, the imaginations of young men can be put to frighteningly creative use. Either way, you should know that fishing is serious business, and you should stay away from McIntyre Slough on the darkest summer nights.

Happy Halloween
Nathan

Dutchess and Me

We lost a good dog this weekend. Dutchess was nineteen years old (yes, we know her name is a misspelling, and we don’t care). She was a chow mix mutt. Jacqulyn and her were friends long before Jacqulyn and I even met, so it was always understood that, while I might be a human member of the clan, Dutchess nonetheless held a somewhat higher position in the hierarchy.

I did come into the picture early enough that I got to meet Dutch during her mature but still highly active years. There was nothing she liked so much as to chase a cat away from its dinner, and then help herself to it. Dutch had the pickiest eating habits I’ve ever seen in a canine, leaving us to sometimes practically beg her to eat, but the one sure way to make her eat was to try to give her food away to one of the cats.

Dutch didn’t know many tricks, apparently considering them below her dignity. Well, she was a Duchess, you know. Still, she had a few eccentricities that could be exploited for the benefit of all who enjoy good play. You could angrily bark “Get ‘em Dutch!” and she’d immediately switch into guard dog mode, attacking any invisible villains in the area. If you clapped your hands and yelled “Get Dutch!” repeatedly like a hyperactive child high on sugar, she would run circles around you as quickly as she could.

That was my favorite game with her. I’d get her going and then try to tackle her. She picked up on it, and a raucous game of tag would ensue with Dutchess almost always coming out the winner. One particular time she flat out tackled me. Dutch was blind in her left eye, the unfortunate result of a shooting accident when she was a pup. I made the mistake of chasing her on that left side where, of course, she couldn’t see me. She turned and cut my feet right out from under me like an NFL cornerback, sending me tumbling down a hill. When I managed to sit myself upright, Dutchess pounced on me with what appeared to be a big grin on her face, apparently not sorry in the least for nearly crippling me. Anyone who says a dog can’t smile obviously never knew Dutch, or most any other dog for that matter. Or maybe they’ve only known sad dogs, which Dutchess most certainly was not.

Dutchess and I shared a healthy fear of lightening, however we reacted to it differently. I tend to seek shelter, feeling most comfortable with something over my head. Dutchess, assuming we didn’t let her in the house, would run frantically around, back and forth, right out in the rain. I assumed she was trying to keep moving so as to give the lightening a moving target. On occasion we’d let her in the house to lie peacefully on a rug until the storm passed, but generally she was an outdoor dog.

Dutch was quite a devout dog. She could be found faithfully sitting on the steps of the neighborhood church every Sunday morning for many years until we deemed her health too poor to let her make the walk. She wasn’t happy about that and sulked for some time despite our best efforts to explain our reasoning. How that dog knew it was Sunday morning, I’ll never know.

In her later years Dutchess grew quite deaf and blind and was plagued with arthritis. Even then you could easily see her excitement when we arrived for a weekend visit (Dutchess lived with Jacqulyn’s parents). Her whole body wagged when she came to greet us even though she could hardly walk, and that twinkle was still there in her one good eye when she’d hobble over to chase a cat from her food.

We held on to her as long as we could, until the pain she lived with daily was too much for both her and us to bear. We buried her Saturday up on the hill behind the house in a pretty spot overlooking the woods. It wasn’t much, but when we finished covering the grave with stones from the forest and planting a couple flowers, her final resting place looked pretty and peaceful.

Good bye, Dutch. We love you and miss you. You were the best. I hope we meet up again some day in a better place without pain or blindness. Rest well, girl.

Nathan

This leaf was still bright green in the center but fringed with a ring of decay.

I found this leaf lying near these small ferns. The lines of the ferns and the leaf are in opposing tension with each other. Not sure the composition works, but I still like the leaf.

I really liked the detail and curves of this leaf. If I had it to do over again, I would have tried to make sure the entire leaf was in focus.

These are leaves from a black walnut tree. I liked how they stood out from their mossy background, and there seems to be a sense of balance to the twig even though its weighted heavily to one side.

Take care,
Nathan

A few days ago, I drug my son out to the beach to do some surf fishing. In all honesty, I think the only reason he went with me was because he’d been in trouble and was restricted from his lifeline – the Xbox. With nothing to do at the house, he probably figured watching Dad cuss on the beach was more entertaining than checking out the latest House episode.

We tossed some shrimp out, and even gave a topwater plug a useless twirl or two in the subdued surf of the early evening. Christian’s first hook up was a ladyfish – think of a tarpon, but instead of 50 lbs it’s 2. The fish jumped and ran like a sport fish is supposed to and, even though it was small, it lit up the afternoon. He immediately claimed superiority over me in fishing, loudly proclaiming me as THE Loser on The Beach, until I hooked a drum that probably would’ve gone 6 or 7 lbs. Then his competitiveness ebbed…

It turned out to be a mostly un-eventful outing. We caught a few more fish but really had nothing to come home and brag about. Rapidly running out of daylight, we left with sand all over us and a rumbling in the belly. I couldn’t tell then if he’d actually enjoyed himself, but I didn’t think it was all bad. Teenage boys are very difficult to read, and they oftentimes don’t even know how they feel themselves – they’re too busy trying to figure out how they’re supposed to feel.

Flash forward a few days. My son’s had a bad go of it at school, and my job hadn’t been much better. He came downstairs and plopped on the couch to catch an episode or two of Dirty Jobs with his old man. A couple hours pass, and we laughed at Mike Rowe fighting bed bugs in mattresses and cleaning out God-knows-what from the latest sewer pipe he’d decided to crawl in to. When the eyes started to get heavy and the hour grew late, he popped up off the couch to head to bed.

Just before making the right turn to head upstairs, he spun around and asked, “Hey Dad – you wanna go fishing Saturday morning?”

Now, I don’t care where you’re from our how you were raised, what your background is, how you get your jollies, nor where you fall in the political spectrum. But there is nothing in the world that feels better than having your kid WANT to spend time with you.

In this cynical world, with all the bickering and fighting, with all our problems and all we have to worry about, my son wants me to take him fishing.

Kids sometimes get a bad rap in our society. We see them through the jaded eyes the media paints them with, and too often come to expect them to be the apathetic, angry jerks we just KNOW they are. But every once in a while, every so often, a kid turns aside from the movies, video games and cell-phone texting and chooses to simply spend a morning with Dad. You can rest assured that unless God blows the whistle and we’re all asked to get out of the pool beforehand, Christian and I will be hitting the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, surf fishing in Satellite Beach, FL, during the early morning hours this Saturday.

And I’ll be smiling.

Matt

The Great Plains
This trip marked my third road trip to the Rockies in the last four years. The otherworldly charm of the Great Plains is wearing off. At one rest area I read that it took pioneers in covered wagons a full month just to cross Nebraska. “That’s pretty rough, but at least it wasn’t South Dakota,” is all I could think. The third day on the road found me and my sore hindquarters desperate for a sight of the mountains. That first glimpse of the Big Horns is like a drink of cold spring water on a dusty late summer day. Some day I hope to take a more leisurely tour of the Rockies. When and if I do, I will plunge into those mountains and give them a good looking over. This time we just drove right on past. The first time I went to the Rockies, several of us younger folks drove 32 hours straight (with visits to a few spots along the way) before stopping to rest. At the time, when we were desperately searching for a hotel with a vacancy before we passed out completely, it felt like a really stupid idea. This time we had parents with us who struggle to do 10 hours on the road at once. The idea was to take it easy with the trip spread over four days. I have decided I like the suicidal 30 hour drive better. Just get it all over with at once if you and your group is physically capable.

My parents and Jacqulyn at Avalanche Lake.

The Alabama Bar
We stayed our first two nights in Glacier at Lake Macdonald Lodge. I liked the place. The hunting lodge atmosphere was cool and the food was great for a national park. After dinner a few of us went to the little bar for a drink. When we walked in there were only two other people present (it was near closing time). I had on my Bama ball cap. I ordered a favorite Montana beer – Moose Drool – and the bar tender, in a distinctly Southern drawl, asked where we came from. The girls said Alabama, and the guy laughed, said he was from Birmingham and pointed at the only other person in the room, a fellow sitting at the bar who looked a lot like Tom McGuane. When he told us he was from Sylacauga, AL it became pretty obvious he wasn’t Tom McGuane, but it was almost as cool that the bar was entirely populated by native Alabamians at that point.

Avalanche Lake
The next day I had a day hike planned for everyone to Avalanche Lake. We spent a long time trying to find a parking spot. I wouldn’t recommend this trail if you want anything even remotely resembling solitude. Dad and I carried our fly rods on the hike to the lake, but when we got there we found so many people milling about and throwing rocks that we just sat on a log and enjoyed the view. I took a few photos, but the light was pretty harsh.

That's me netting a nice cutthroat.

The Good Fishing
We drove across Going-to-the-Sun Road to St. Mary Campground where we would spend the next five nights. The first full day Dad, Jacqulyn and I hiked into a high alpine lake where we found absolutely stunning scenery and abundant rising cutthroats. This was really my first experience with good high mountain lake fishing, and I loved it! 10 nice cutts between 15 and 18″ came reluctantly to my hand. It was pretty easy to spot cruising fish in the crystal clear water even though the surface was choppy. The trick was finding what they wanted. I had good luck on mayfly emergers and caddis dries. Dad and Jacqulyn didn’t have as good a luck, but both of them missed some fish and Dad caught a couple. This lake is far from a secret, but I’m not going to name it anyway. If only we’d gone back there a couple days later…

Back at camp, we drove over to the KOA for showers and a meal at the Park Cafe. Try the Park Cafe if you’re in St. Mary. Good hamburgers and fantastic pies. If you’re in a big group, don’t make the mistake of asking for separate checks. One of the girls working there was pretty rude when one of our group asked if they’d mind separating them. Still, the pies and burgers are worth a bit of rudeness.

A cutthroat trout caught in Glacier National Park.

Dad casting to cruising cutts on our lake.

I waited forever for Dad to cast for this shot, but he must have had the mother of all tangles, so I just snapped it anyway.

Another of the cutts I brought to hand.

The Bad Fishing
We spent a full day on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. The plan was to hit a couple of the supposedly underfished and healthy streams. If that didn’t pan out, we’d hit one of the trophy lakes the reservation is famous for. In one of my strangest experiences fishing out West, we found nonexistent fishing in the streams. Both were beautiful streams that looked as if they should have been full of trout. We never caught a trout, never saw a trout, never saw a rise, nothing. And we covered a couple miles of stream in total. They appeared utterly devoid of fish. We did however notice ample evidence of bait fishing. My only explanation is the streams were fished out. If trout had been present in any numbers we would have seen them in some of the deeper holes. So, we drove to one of the lakes. It didn’t look like much, but pretty soon we saw a swirl that’d make a big Alabama bass proud. I nervously tossed a big hopper pattern, and within a couple casts momentarily hooked what appeared to be a five pound-ish rainbow trout. And that was it. None of us received another bite despite trying nearly every pattern in the box. We were all somewhat downtrodden by the whole experience and decided not to go back to the reservation waters. The drive was too long from camp, we really needed a boat or float tube on the lakes, and the scenery wasn’t what we’d hoped for.

My first whitefish. Put up a pretty good fight!

The Ugly Fishing
So we pretty much gave up any grand ideas of trout fishing and tried to nail some whitefish in St. Mary Lake. I did catch my first few lake whitefish, which was sort of cool, but the novelty wore off pretty quickly. Most of the fish were around 5″ and nigh impossible to hook on anything bigger than a size 32 hook. Given another chance, I’d spend more time hiking to alpine lakes, and I might try a couple of the big rivers flowing along the park boundaries.

The Scenery
The scenery is what I’ll remember most about Glacier. It was worth the trip for that alone. We spent our last two nights at Many Glacier Hotel, and it had the best setting of all. A photographer could spend a lifetime photographing the park, and I wouldn’t mind having the chance to try just that.

The St. Mary River exits St. Mary Lake here.

Dad and Jacqulyn stop to rearrange their gear on a hike to a high cutthroat lake.

Dad begins the steep descent to a high cutthroat lake.

Hiking in Glacier National Park.

I grabbed this shot of Dad admiring Virigina Falls without even prodding him into the pose.

St. Mary Lake and Wild Goose Island. I tried twice at sunrise to catch good atmosphere at this famous spot, but both mornings were crystal clear and breezy.

Grinnell Point and Swiftcurrent Lake at sunset.

Grinnell Point and Swifcurrent Lake in the early morning.

Mount Gould and Swifcurrent Lake after a storm.

I was disappointed when this photo came out soft. I quickly grabbed the shot after dinner one night when I saw it developing. I still like it.

One more shot of Grinnell Point at sunset.

A mountain goat high above a lake in Glacier National Park.

The Trip Home
The trip home was almost as tough as the trip out, but we did see some new country, driving through part of Idaho and Utah. We spent a night in Pocatello and ate at a surprisingly fine restaurant called the Sandpiper, just outside our hotel. Really outstanding food and service. If I’m ever through Pocatello again I’m definitely stopping by there.

We stopped in Laramie, WY for supper one evening. As we were leaving town, the sun was just beginning to set, and suddenly I realized why so many people love this part of the country. During the harsh light of mid-day the plains and foothills around Laramie appear pretty desolate and unattractive, at least to me. I’ve found this to be true about much of the West. Unless I’m actually up in the mountains, the terrain just isn’t all that appealing. But, right near sunset, the mountains in the distance take on that famous purple hue and the foothills glow with spectacularly soft golds and magentas. It really is beautiful. I’ll miss the West. It’ll likely be a few years before I make it back out.

Here are a few more random shots from the trip:

This ram was licking up spilled drinks in the parking lot at Logan Pass.

A hoary marmot.

There's a story here, but the picture pretty much says it all.

Our campground at St. Mary.

Jacqulyn looks out over St. Mary Lake.

A gentleman enjoys the boat ride across Lake Josephine.

Take care,
Nathan

Jim Casada's Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park: An Insider's Guide to A Pursuit of Passion

A new book is out on fly fishing in the Smoky Mountains. My interest was piqued when I heard the author was Jim Casada, the well-known Southern author, editor and outdoorsman. I’ve enjoyed several of the projects Mr. Casada has worked on, most of them related in some way to the Smokies or Southern Highlands. I just can’t get enough of the Smokies, and no matter how much I love the West, the streams of Southern Appalachia will always be my home water. Although I already own just about every book that speaks to the fishing up there, I had asked Jacqulyn to get me this one for my upcoming birthday even before Jim emailed yesterday. I enjoyed a short conversation with him (very short – yesterday was a mess at work…), and he sent me a press release for the new book which you’ll find quoted below. I haven’t read the book yet, but based on my previous experiences with Mr. Casada’s work, I believe you’ll find it worth every penny. At first glance, it looks to be much more than just your simple destination guide. Jim Casada possesses an impressive knowledge, not just of the fishing, but of the history, ecology and culture of the Smokies, and he has included more than a little taste of these in the book. Can’t wait to get mine…

Award-winning outdoor writer Jim Casada, a native of the Great Smokies who has written or edited more than 40 books, has just published what he describes as “my book of a lifetime.” The work, Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park: An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion, appears as the nation’s most popular park celebrates its 75th anniversary. Its 448 pages feature separate chapters covering every major stream in the Park, and feeder creeks are covered as well. The book also incorporates a great deal of natural and human history into these chapters, looks at tactics and techniques, visits “Seasons of the Smokies,” discusses equipment, and addresses safety issues of concern to the angler.

Other features include dozens of graphs which show changes in stream elevation in comparison with length. These graphs (there is one for all the Park’s major creeks and rivers) also show waypoints of note along streams such as backcountry campsites, trail crossings, and feeder creeks. There are scores of photos, including many of historical significance as well as modern color ones; graphs showing monthly variations in temperature and precipitation; information on guides and outfitters; a removable folding map of trails and backcountry campsites; and an extensive annotated bibliography.
“My intention,” says Casada, “was to provide fisherman, whether newcomers to these storied streams or veterans who have fished them for years, with a truly comprehensive guide to the hundreds of miles of trout-holding water found within Park boundaries in North Carolina and Tennessee. The Park provides the finest fishing for wild trout east of the Rockies, and it has provided me an incredible measure of pleasure over all but the earliest years of my life.”

The work has drawn extensive pre-publication praise. Nationally renowned fly-fishing author Nick Lyons, who wrote a Foreword to the book, says: “This is a book anyone who knows or plans to visit the Smokies will cherish, but also a book that anyone who takes pleasure in fine writing about the outdoor world and especially fly fishing will admire greatly. I do.” Sam Venable, a long-time student of the Smokies and columnist for the Knoxville News-Sentinel, comments that “a detailed how-to book like this can only come from someone who has ‘been there, done that’ and knows how to put those experiences on paper. If your passion is trout of the Southern highlands, this book will prove as indispensable as a favorite rod and wading boots.”

Guides and outfitters have also been enthusiastic about the work. Bryson City, N. C.’s Steve Claxton says that “along with significant information for the inquisitive angler, Jim Casada offers an abundance of historical material on Park streams. The book is full of details on streams, the heritage of the highlands, and insight on the legendary figures who waded these beloved streams.” Byron Begley, the owner of Little River Outfitters in Townsend, TN, says: “I am fascinated by this book and will be from now on. This is the complete book about fly fishing in the Smokies. It is obvious that Jim Casada knows more about Park streams, the area’s history and heritage, and our sport than anyone I know. It is a masterpiece.”

The book is available both as a softbound paperback and a hardback with a dust jacket. These sell for $24.95 and $37.50 respectively, with postage and handling being $5. Signed and inscribed copies of the book are available from Jim Casada, 1250 Yorkdale Drive, Rock Hill, SC 29730; through www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com; or by calling 803-329-4354.

Take care,
Nathan

A new online fishing magazine was released recently which I’ve enjoyed: Fish Can’t Read. The folks over at Chiwulff and Singlebarbed have all been involved. I highly recommend you take a look. These online magazines with the flipbook format seem to really be catching on lately. There are two others that I’m aware of: Catch and This is Fly. Of the three, Fish Can’t Read and Catch are more along what I like. This is Fly is pretty cool, and I probably would have liked it if I’d been into fly fishing as a teenager, but the style is just a bit over the top for me now. I don’t know how long the flipbook format will persist, but something like this is likely the future of fly fishing periodicals. I’m surprised the paper magazines haven’t caught on. Also, this is just my opinion mind you, but I think making the magazines freely accessible is the way to go as well. People will probably cease paying for magazines whether online or not just due to the fact that so much information is out there freely available. I know I have. I’ve got a single straggling subscription left that I’m strongly considering doing away with. It’s really just a waste of money and a waste of storage space to store the old magazines (which I never can bring myself to throw away). If you publish good work, you can probably get enough revenue to support it through advertising.

I’m still working on my Glacier photos. The truth is I’ve really struggled finding time to work on the website here or work on photography or go fishing or even take a walk in the woods. I can’t even put my finger on the problem. “Things” just seem busy lately. I know the job’s been more stressful. Heck, I don’t know. But I do know this: something’s got to give. It has become abundantly clear to everyone around me that I need to be in the outdoors. If I’m not, things get rather ugly rather quickly. Still, I have played around with my photos a bit. Lately I’ve become interested in black and white and “sort of” black and white photos. One thing I discovered about myself on the Glacier trip: I really enjoy working with photography. I still need lots of work to be anywhere close to good, but I do honestly enjoy it. Anyone who reads the site knows I’ve sort of been into photography for awhile, but usually I’m too involved in the fishing to concentrate on it. Glacier offered a chance to focus. I got up at daylight nearly every day of the trip for photos, and several evenings found me waiting for just the right light at some photogenic spot. I’ve GOT to start updating the photoblog more often. Here’s another of my better shots:

Swiftcurrent Lake and Many Glacier Valley in the early morning.

I recently read a wonderful little book of essays on fine art photography by Brooks Jensen entitled Letting Go of the Camera. Jensen publishes the magazine LensWork, one of the best out there. Check out the book if you’re the least interested in fine art photography or even just the life of a fine art photographer.

Take care,
Nathan