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Georgetown Lake, Montana. Not a lonely place.

Because we found 27 boats bobbing on a single arm of the lake when we arrived, I’m going to assume Georgetown Lake isn’t exactly a secret either.

Why were we there?

In fairness, [name redacted] warned in advance it wasn’t exactly a pristine fishery.

In fact, he said we’d see a lake carpeted with other fishermen.

But when a fishing buddy says “we could hit the damsels, the callibaetis, and even the giant lake caddis – and maybe catch a 20” brook trout,” you tend to forget the parts about crowds.

Montana features a lot of sky. I’m calling “Lotta Sky Country.” Catchy, eh?

After all, fly fishermen are largely about potential - reality runs a poor second in our fevered brains – and selective memory is a key part of the package.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Back to Georgetown Lake, where the Stuart Mill arm opened the day we arrived.

Ignoring the hordes of other fly fishermen, we slid [name redacted]’s little drift boat in the water, and… started catching trout.

A lot of trout.

My damsel-esque streamer made it exactly 1/3 of the way through my first retrieve before something grabbed it.

That something turned out to be your standard 12” rainbow trout, though fishing slowed dramatically after our fish fish; it took nearly 2/3 of the next cast to hook up with a nice 16” specimen that ran me all around the boat.

A Georgetown Lake rainbow (apparently one of many).

Crowds? What crowds?

I’d love to cast the fishing in terms that recognized my considerable skill at the matter, but in truth, of the 27 boats in the Stuart Mill arm, a good 1/8 of them seemed to be hooked up at any one time.

The fishing was good enough that [name redacted] and I started casting our eyes about for bigger trout, and “stupid easy” was a phrase I later used to describe the fishing to the L&T. (Yeah, we had cell phone coverage, and yeah, I miss the L&T. What of it?)

[Name redacted] and I aren’t exactly body counters, and we can’t tell you how many trout we caught, though we can say one was a brookie, though instead of the fabled 20” brookie, he was a 12” fish who twisted off before we got the net under him.

I do know this (and I’m putting it in writing for the first time): it got a little boring.

A Georgetown Lake Callibaetis, courtesy’ someone’s shirt.

You may have read the short story about the fly fisherman who dies and finds himself on a beautiful stream where he catches big fish on every cast.

Eventually, he discovers he’s not in heaven, but in hell, and while nobody would confuse Georgetown Lake with the fiery pit, there is an element of truth to the idea that good fishing is good, great fishing is great, but too-much, too-easy fishing is neither.

Fortunately, the next day’s fishing was tougher, and the days after were tougher still.

We managed to catch plenty of trout – including a 17” Brookie and a fair number of similarly sized rainbows – doing all the usual lake things (speed-stripping a streamer seemed to always work, and the grabs were good, clean, vicious fun).

A 17″ Brook trout — the Official Char of the Trout Underground.

Spicing the trip were the daily electrical storms, which lit up the Pintar Range like no fireworks display ever could, and sidetrip down a culinary alley that almost left trip leader [name redacted] to meet his maker.

The prior day we’d rolled into nearby Anaconda for lunch, and made the mistake of ordering the “special” at a restaurant that I won’t name for fear of reprisals.

It sounded good on paper, though in truth, we’d have been better off if we’d eaten that paper instead of the sandwich.

That was bad, but what it lead to was what can only be described as a Huge Culinary Advance in the State of the Hot Dog.

The Slaw Dog’s Younger, More Dangerous Brother

My reader’s know of the Underground’s affection for the slaw dog - that heart-stopping collection of dog, bun, mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw.

Lacking almost all those ingredients – but craving the rich, tasty goodness of a slaw dog - [name redacted] and I hit upon a substitute.

In retrospect, it wasn’t the best decision we ever made, especially as [name redacted] foundered on a man-sized helping of our new creation, hovering for several hours in the twilight zone between life and death before his gastronomical shock troops gained the upper hand.

What could cause so much suffering? What simple lunch could push a human being to the brink, there to stare into the never-ending abyss?

Undergrounders, we introduce the Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog:

The Bacon Wrapped Hot Dog - like nuclear weapons - should never have been developed.

It’s a harmless, friendly appearing snack, but like those fruity-smelling South American plants that lure you in, then bite your fingers off (I read about them in the checkout line), the Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog looks gentle, but bites hard.

You’ve been warned.

The Fishing Stuff

This being a fly fishing blog and all, I suppose a quick (yet detailed) rundown of - you know – fly fishing gear is in order.

First, we caught trout at Georgetown on:

• Many different Damsel nymphs
• Many different Callibaetis nymphs
• Many different streamers
• A couple different dry flies
• Many different other assorted flies

Now that we’ve established the technical nature of the fishing, all that’s left is to comment on the gear, which included:

• Clear Camo sinking lines
• Floating lines
• Lines that were supposed to do either, but didn’t

The Underground’s rod preference ran to the Raine 8.5′ Hollowbuilt Quad prototype, though what turned out to be the real star of the show – the 9′ 6wt Orvis Zero Gravity fly rod I reviewed a long time ago.

Everyone who cast the Zero G loved its feel, responsiveness and ability to cover serious quantities of water (without assuming the identity of a broomstick), but derided the too-small grip (“I’ll buy it when they make it an adult model” quipped one).

In an age where you find people trying to fling streamers into the wind with 3wts, the oft-forgotten 6wt fly rod deserves a little overdue fly rod love (and some day, I may write that essay).

My word processor tells me I’ve gone beyond 1000 words, and anyway, [name redacted]’s standing by the door, rod tubes in hand,

I haven’t yet written up our side-trip to a small tributary stream, where we caught three Westslope Cutthroat trout in the 14”-16” class (astonishing size for the small river), but I will.

You’ll hear more as soon as I get back, which is looking like late Tuesday.

See you somewhere in Montana, Tom Chandler.

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This looks vaguely familiar to the meadow stretch:

Another favorite is titled “Fisherman’s Castle”:

You can see more of her work by clicking here.

Once again, the Underground leaves no Google link unclicked in our search to make your Online Fly Fishing Experience a Quality One.

See you at the art gallery, Tom Chandler.

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Rock Creek from the “Hogback” overview. Lots of stones - and trout.

The first stop on the Underground’s Tour of Montana’s Fishy Fleshpots, my fly fishing host [name redacted] and I arrived on Saturday for the last three days in the drift boat season.

Last three days?

On July 1, drift boats are banned from Rock Creek (flows are typically too low to comfortably float anyway), and the river becomes a playground for wading fly fishermen.

Yes Undergrounders, the wildflowers are out. You almost don’t need trout.

While I was just in time for the end of the drift season, I should have been several weeks too late for the stoneflies.

Helpfully, a late winter intervened in my favor, and the salmon flies and Golden Stones were out in force (given all the “you should have been here last week” stories I’ve heard, I’m accepting this as my due).

The stoneflies were late — good news for me.

In simplest terms, we arrived in big bug heaven.

[name redacted] and I broke out our big bug fly boxes, argued that the other guy’s patterns were obvious crap, loaded [name redacted]’s small Santiam Drifter, and pushed off.

I wasn’t really ready for what followed.

Rock Creek flows like the government spends. It was the fastest float I’ve ever experienced, and there were few places to pull over and take a breather.

And while you wanted to drop the big Golden Stone dries right next to the willows and overhanging branches, breaking off a fly meant missing a hundred yards of good trout water – a heartbreaking thought even now.

God help you if you broke off a chunk of leader.

The result was an ongoing exercise in Risk Assesment; bigger trout would come to tougher casts, but no trout were caught if you were tying on a fly and the bank wizzed by.

While the bite varied over the three days, it was almost always good, often crossing the line into great.

Browns by the dozens jumped our dries (mostly Golden Stones as the Salmon Flies weren’t working as well).

Other patterns worked better, but the Stimulators worked (and floated) well.

In one side channel, we stopped and I caught my first pure strain West Slope Cutthroat, though it turns out the things are hard to hold and we didn’t get a picture.

Most of the fish we caught were Browns, the biggest of which might have pushed 16”.

A fair number of Cuttbow hybrids also made an appearance in the net, though true Cutts were rare.

Neither [name redacted] or I are exactly fish counters, but I’d guess our best day resulted in several dozen hookups (and a bunch of misses).

[Name redacted] and a rare cast delivered outside the drift boat.

The pace of the float was intimidatingly fast; I took damned few pictures on the water, unwilling to sacrifice a shot at prime holding water (I’m greedy that way).

And nobody was surprised to hear we’d broken a rod setting the hook into a big Brown Trout. Manly stuff, but not unusual given that Rock Creek claims a couple drift boats and rafts every season.

These things were big enough to skewer and eat (we didn’t).

It’s a nice place to fish, but don’t show up thinking you’ll learn to row on the river. You’ll mostly learn to hit things.

The Camping Comedy Twins

We camped at the Stony Creek Campground, were we lived through the Harrowing Blown Radiator Hose Nightmare and also found trip mascot Stony: a roadkilled, dehydrated snake.

When a whole day’s float is at stake, you fix stuff.

It’s frightening to contemplate, but [name redacted] and I share a similar sense of humor, so the off-river time passed quickly.

In short order, we solved the fly fishing industry’s woes, heaped piles of scorn on those responsible for our environmental troubles, speculated as to Martha Stewart’s sexual potential, and yeah – managed to squeeze in a little talk about fly rods and bugs.

Trip Mascot Stony. Say “Hi” to everyone, Stony.

The culinary highlight of the trip (the lowlight comes in a later report) was [name redacted]’s Dutch Oven Pork Chops, which combined simple ingredients into unbelievably tasty camp food, all cooked in a single pot.

Why it didn’t attract bears and other wild animals amazes me still (when we cooked it at our next stop, fly fishermen poured out of the woodwork looking for a free meal).

Meet your campground — and its friendly inhabitants.

Despite the great fishing, we broke camp and moved onto our next stop; Georgetown Lake.

You’ll hear about those adventures (including a new entry in the Ultimate Hot Dog Wars) when I get them written.

Lots of interesting pictures too (the lake moves considerably slower than Rock Creek).

A side channel; sometimes these fished better than the river.

Until next time, see you in Montana, Tom Chandler.

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The Fourth of July in Missoula is a wild affair. Despite a town-wide ban on fireworks, the entire horizon was constant fireworks from 9:30 until 11:00 pm.

We had a great vantage point (the Underground’s wealthy fly fishing benefactor’s home commands a stunning view from the ridge), and some of the neighborhood shows put the city’s display to shame.

To say I’m tired is an understatement; I’ve got a couple hundred photos to sort through, and many, many more perceptions to put into print.

The last week has been one fishing adventure after another. How can I do it justice?

I’ll start tomorrow. Until then, I’ll see you in Missoula, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, fishing, montana

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The fly fishing on Rock Creek has been excellent; the trout were jumping on our Golden Stone dries non-stop.

Yesterday found me holding my first pure-strain Westslope Cutthroat (pretty thing) in the net. Today it was non-stop brown trout, with a few cutt-bows mixed in to foment suspense.

Adding to the Extreme Fishing Situation (imagine a rock soundtrack playing under this report) was the oddly pleasant high-modulus “crack” generated when a high-end graphite rod simply snapped in half when my big, burly, sinewy, extremely manly arms attempted a hookset into a big, big brown trout.

Us writers are slight, but wiry.

Later, we pulled out [name redacted]’s mini-drifter, but when we arrived at Stony Creek campground, the hissing from under the truck’s hood was audible.

The upper radiator hose had passed from this plane of existence, and if we were going to drift Rock Creek tomorrow (Monday’s the last day you can fish it from a boat), we needed a replacement. Fast.

Fortunately, we had the Subaru shuttle car handy.

Which is where it gets a little weird.

Montana’s not exactly bereft of Ford pickup trucks. In fact, they’re pretty much everywhere, but apparently, nobody feels the need to stock this particular hose.

After three hours of driving, we discovered the only hose in the area was back in Missoula — our starting point Saturday morning.

We made the 2.5 hour drive back, retrieved the Extremely Valuable Radiator Hose, then swung by the [name redacted] homestead for a quick shower (yeah, we needed it), a little beer, and a lot of food.

With two more hours of driving still to come, I sat down and added up the chilling figures; by nightfall, I’ll have spent 26.5 hours in a car seat since Friday morning.

I think I’ve seen as much of the world from behind the windshield as I care to - at least for now.

We’re almost back out the door.

Back… Wednesday? Probably. Should have a few pictures, but Rock Creek’s not exactly a leisurely float; the river is moving fast, there are damned few places to eddy out, and you’re focused on hitting the slack spots on the bank.

All of which leaves little time for photos. But because you are my friends, I’ll endeavor to shoot a few.

See you on the water, Tom Chandler.

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Though I’d love to describe the effort in terms that elevate it to the level of crossing the prarie in a Conestoga wagon, the truth is rather simpler; I just drove a lot.

In the west — where things are rather far apart — that’s how you get from Point A to Point B.

I’m at the house of the Underground’s Anonymous Fly Fishing Benefactor in Missoula, and we’re throwing gear in the car for a camping trip on Rock Creek.

The stones are still coming off, the creek’s coming down, and for once, it looks like the Underground’s timing is damn near perfect.

Naturally, expecting big fish on top of the perfect timing represents a kind of hubris that can only lead to trouble, so I’m only going to say it’s beautiful up here, The Benefactor’s fun to hang with, and if we catch a few small fish, well, that’s just icing (looks around furtively).

I’ll likely be out of touch for a couple days. But don’t cry for me, Undergrounders. It’s the kind of out-of-touch fly fishermen live for.

See you in Montana, Tom Chandler.

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See you on the road, Tom Chandler

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So does CBS News, who ran a solid (if uncreatively titled) 60 Minutes segment on the subject: “Fish Fuss Over Salmon.”

In the thirteen minute segment, they focus on the Snake River dams, and sadly, the reporter focuses on the cute and odd, missing the larger picture.

The voice of sanity is biologist Ed Cheney, who points out that our billions of tax dollars are largely being used not to recover salmon, but do everything but — propping up subsidized energy, cheap transporation, irrigation, etc.

In short, these aren’t “save the salmon” projects, they’re “save the dam” projects. The difference is crucial.

See you on my way to Montana, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: snake river dams, snake river salmon, salmon recovery, stupid things that never end

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(Click to go to fire map Web site)

Even Singlebarbed is feeling the heat (at work anyway, and it’s nice to see that slacker him buckling down for a change), though the whole wildfire thing is creating some compelling interior commentary.

For example, should a fire burn towards our nestled-against-the-mountain house while I’m gone, I fear the L&T Nancy will manifest the wrong reflexes, saving photographs, clothes and irreplaceable personal items instead of what’s really important: my bamboo fly rods.

It’s a frightening mental picture; the pet-laden L&T-mobile bouncing down the driveway jammed with photo albums and clothes while the fire burns hungrily towards my Phillipsons, Raines, Beasleys and Thramers.

It’s the kind of image that wakes you up screaming at night, and the smart fly fishermen would bundle his favorite rods together, prepping them for rapid evacuation by air, though the prospect of finding a Rod-Evac helicopter on short notice seems a little far fetched (there’s a gold-plated business idea for the Undergrounders, at no charge).

Clearly, a good night’s sleep carries costs far beyond a comfortable mattress.

Of course, that’s assuming I don’t end up stuffing pretty much every fly rod I own into the truck for the Montana trip - a real possibility given my pre-trip tendency towards carefully selecting the bare minimum of rods, then panicking just before I leave and throwing everything that’s left on the pile (I sense a separate post).

Until the Big Fly Rod Decisions are made, I’ll see you in the downstairs Man Cave, staring at tubes, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: california wildfires, fly rods, bamboo fly rods, montana fly fishing trip

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Assuming my ancient Toyota econobox pickup survives the 14 hour trip, this coming weekend could find me scoring heavy on big trout with big, big dries (hint: stonefly sized).

The route, as traversed by a 21 year-old Toyota pickup (hopefully).

That’s a reality offering ample opportunity for online reportage, if not outright gloating.

Let’s face it: the word “Montana” stirs the psyche of your average fly fisherman, neurons firing freely in the part of the brain that covets big trout.

Known for its famous rivers - sometimes overrun with out-of-staters like me – Montana’s also home to smaller, less-visited waters, and if you dig a little deeper into the word itself, you’ll find the promise of uncrowded water staring back at you.

I’m leeching off staying with the Underground’s Anonymous Director of Housing For Snarkish Fly Fishing Bloggers, and yes, attempting to file reports along the way.

Naturally, the Frelancer’s Curse has landed hard; the law of nature where booking a vacation means work and new clients pour out of the woodwork.

That means I haven’t been fishing much (nor writing about it when I do). Between work, packing and duct-taping parts back on the truck, there may not be any fishing before the trip.

Not that I’m complaining. There’s a light at the end of this particular tunnel, and it’s cast by the Big Sky sun.

You’ll know what’s happening on slightly after I do, and until then, see you on the road, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, fishing, fly fishing montana, montana, road trip

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