Every week I do my best to offer a bit of literary drivel that I hope all 5 of my loyal followers find at least mildly amusing and enjoyable. The point of the Unaccomplished Angler blog is to give me an outlet for writing about my fly fishing adventures and misadventures. You see, writing and fly fishing are two of the many things I love to not get paid to do. Aside from this blog,  the marriage of my writing and fly fishing is what led me to create the series of children’s fly fishing books featuring Olive the Little Woolly bugger. I hope by now you’re familiar with the books, however I don’t want to use this forum to cram them down your throats employ hard sell tactics (that’s what my other blog is for).

That being said I would like to point out something of great importance at this time. Back on April 1st 2010 I posted an April Fools Day entry and in my clearly fictional fish story I had a little fun mentioning April Vokey of Flygal Ventures.  It was just a lark, but fortunately for me it led to some correspondence with April, who as it turns out is a really nice, really great person to know.

April recently returned from Victor, Idaho where she participated in the Casting 4 A Cure fly fishing event on August 27-29. Because of our mutual support for this tremendous group of people doing great work to raise money for the International Rett Syndrome Foundation, I recently reached out to April to ask for her help: I sent her a Facebook message and asked if she might consider posting a note on her wall about the stickers I’m selling to raise money for Casting 4 a Cure. The stickers are available online through Myflies.com thanks to another great person, Sharon Butterfield. But it doesn’t stop there. One of April’s friends, K.C. Lund, stepped up to offer a pair of free Optic Nerve sunglasses (a $100 value) to the person who places the largest order of stickers by October 4th.  K.C. is a fly fisherman and former professional snowboarder now working as a steel fabricator and is the BC/Alta rep for Optic Nerve in Canada. This generous act has left me humbled – thanks, K.C.!  If you would like to reach K.C. to inquire about Optic Nerve sunglasses you can do so by sending email to E.kc.opticnerve (at) telus.net

As far as selling the stickers goes, let me lay it out for you here:  The stickers sell for $3.00 each and none of it makes its way into my pockets.  Of that $3.00, half goes to cover my cost to have the stickers printed and for postage. The remaining $1.50 gets sent directly to Bill Farnum, the Executive Director of Casting 4 a Cure.  The stickers are very high quality and would look great on your drift boat, fish mobile, or tricycle.  I’ll be blatant now and ask that you please consider buying an Olive sticker and supporting Casting 4 a Cure.  Thanks again to my internet friends April and Sharon for your help to bring the Olive stickers to the the masses. And thank you all for reading the Unaccomplished Angler.

Click on the sticker graphic below to order yours.

I love the power of the internet.

Hoppers can be devastating to crops and native grasslands, and farmers throughout the west were grimacing. At the same time anglers were grinning ear to ear. I certainly wish no ill upon the good folk who work the land, but hopper fishing in the mid to late summer is always a grand time on rivers such as the Yakima. Floating the canyon under abundant sun and hot temperatures, tossing large bushy imitations that look somewhat like a grasshopper tight to the banks is something I look forward to every year. The fish are seeking protected shelter from the high summer flows so they don’t really want to move more than an inch or so to eat. Casts must therefore be right on the bank. Not six inches out from the bank, but literally on the bank.  If you can bounce the fly off a blade of grass or twig of some shrubbery and have it flop gently into the water within an inch of the bank, chances are an opportunistic trout will grab the offering as it falls on their nose.  If the hook snags some vegetation and holds, the angler need not necessarily fret because heavy tippets are needed to turn over the big flies. 3X doesn’t snap as easily as 5X and it’s not uncommon to get your fly back after snagging it. I think that’s what I like best about hopper fishing.

As daunting as the predictions were, the hopper invasion evaded me on two consecutive outings on the Yakima this summer during what should have been prime hopper time. On one outing we saw a lone grasshopper. On the next trip we saw not a one. Fishing hopper patterns did not prove overly effective either, so apparently the fish weren’t looking for that particular foodstuff.  Maybe they new that it was all just hype. The first hopper-free outing was written up previously here.  The next outing is what you are reading right now.

Try as we might neither Jimmy nor I could find a third person willing to share time on the oars come fishing with us, so we headed east on I-90 toward Ellensburg. Friday traffic was fairly heavy as West-siders fled the gloomy gray weather for more summer-like conditions on the East side. Luckily they were all in a hurry to leave the lousy weather in the rear view mirror and traffic moved along at a good clip. That is, until the sudden presence of a police vehicle in the slow lane caused everyone in the fast lane to overreact and apply their brakes. Police vehicles always make people nervous, even when those people aren’t violating any laws. As we inched our way past the police car I could have sworn I saw Barney Fife behind the wheel, though I may have just been having flashbacks to 1956. We were headed to Mayberry or Ellensburg? Weird.

Without further incident we made it to Ellensburg and grabbed a sandwich at Subway before proceeding into the lower Yakima Canyon to procure a shuttle at Red’s Fly Shop. We launched Jimmy’s Hyde at Big Horn and began our afternoon float that would take us 16 miles to the take out at Roza. The great flip flop of the Yakima was happening early this year and the high summer flows were already dropping. Lowering water means feeding fish, and we were stoked to hit the river. The plan was to pound the banks with big bugs all day and once the sun dropped behind the canyon walls we’d be on some slow water for when the fish switched from hoarking hoppers to sipping small caddis.  The last 3 miles of our float were perfect for that- long stretches of flat water lined by grass and shrubbery.

The hoppers were, again, curiously absent.  The w#nd, however, was not. It blew in our faces and at our backs, but w#nd is something one just learns to deal with, and except for a few gusts that blew our hats off and rattled our fly boxes, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been (like the day before when it was blowing 40 mph). I fished a golden stone dry for most of the day before switching to something smaller and tan-colored later on, while Jimmy fished mostly a variation of tan foam ant.  He did try a Chernobyl hopper for a spell, but it yielded no results. This actually surprised me because often times if an angler thinks outside the box and shows the fish something radically different from what they’re used to seeing, the results can be favorable.  Not so this time. As far as fishing goes, it was still a great day.  Low pressure over the West side of the mountains had cooled things off in central and eastern Washington, and the temps were comfortably in the mid 70’s – very cool for this time of year but very tolerable, especially when on the oars. And since it was just the two of us we each saw plenty of time in the rower’s seat, mostly trying to keep the boat from being blown into the bank.

The last remnants of the Great Summer Rubber Hatch of the Yakima revealed itself in a number of scantily-clad young people in inflatable toys, milking the river for all its worth. They were admittedly under-dressed for the coolish weather but alcohol seems to dull the senses and they all appeared to be having their own brand of fun. In another few days the river would drop to levels where exposed rocks would put an end to the Rubber Hatch for good.

Other than the few flotillas of frolickers the river wasn’t very busy. We leap-frogged with 4 other boats all day but there was plenty of room in all the good water to drop anchor and ply the likely haunts with our dry fly offerings.  We saw a couple anglers fishing with strike indicators but we refused on this day to fish anything but a dry. We stumbled upon Sir Lancelot and Marck and their cargo of guest anglers as they were pulled over seeking a place to grab some lunch. As we approached I shouted a friendly greeting as friends often do when they see a comrade on the water:  “Ahoy! Catch any whitefish lately?” I asked.  Marck’s reply was brief, as he’s a man as short on words as I am on height: “Nope, how about you?”  Before I could say “We’re not fishing for whitefish, sir – we are gentleman dry fly anglers and we are fishing exclusively for trout,” my rod tip bent slightly and I reeled in a small Squawfish Northern Pikeminnow. Marck pointed out what I already knew: there is a bounty on the heads of any Northern Pikeminnow over 9 inches, and my fish would have fetched a reward of $4 had I caught it on the Columbia River. But there’s no official bounty on these fish in the Yakima River so I released it back into the waters to devour more juvenile salomonids.

Catching was actually better than what I typically encounter on the Yakima, which isn’t saying a lot. Jimmy landed a half dozen fish in the 8-10 inch range and nearly landed a 15 inch trout that showed all the gumption of a spawned-out, half-rotten salmon.  It was really quite a surprise at how little resistance this otherwise healthy looking fish offered, and the fact that Jimmy didn’t actually bring it to the net speaks only to the fact that he is as unaccomplished as the other fisherman in the boat.  Yours truly landed a handful of rather unimpressive fish in the similar size range of 8-10 inches.

The action turned up a notch during our last 45 minutes on the water as I hooked 3 fish and landed two of them.  A strong fighting ~15 inch fish took line from my reel and jumped a couple of times before breaking off my 5X (at least my knots held).  I’d liked to have landed that fish for sure, but it was fun just to feel a solid tug on the end of the line after many previous trips without that privilege. We saw very few rising fish all day, and many of those hooked were done so several feet off the banks.  The only fish we encountered that were hunkered tight to the banks were 2-4 inch troutlets.  This came as no surprise given the dropping flows – the larger fish were moving into feeding lanes out from the banks as they do every year at this time. So everything was as it should have been.

Except for the hoppers.  Where were the hoppers?

All that being said, it was still a little tough to swallow the fact that I got out-fished by my wife on what happened to be her very first time fishing. Ever.  Prior to this trip she had spent 45 minutes in the back yard waving a stick in the air. The practice session went fine, and she was able to recognize when she did something wrong, even if she was unable to correct the flaw. My biggest concern at the conclusion of Lawn Casting 101 was that she was no closer to determining whether she would be a left- or right-handed caster than she had been before we started. I wasn’t sure if this was a manifestation of impressive ambidextrous ability or an inability to decide. This and other areas of concern were discussed in a previous entry.

As Mrs. UA and I drove the Fish Taco east over the Cascades, at least one thing was clear:  The weather was going to be much better where we were headed than it was from where we were coming. Western Washington was suffering the typical “Summer Ream Job” as was so eloquently described by my friend, Scott Miller. Miller is a deep thinking man:  a solver of problems and a philosopher. He’s also an incredible photographer (seriously – check out his work here). He’d recently been visiting his hometown of Spokane and was returning to his current home in the Arizona desert when he snapped this aerial photo (above) depicting the clear line drawn in the clouds along the crest of the Cascade mountains. As is evident in the photo, the west side of the state is often blanketed by a layer of “marine air” (AKA clouds) while everything east of the Cascades enjoys more typical summer fare (sun, warm temps). It’s pretty obvious that Washington is split down the middle (or rather down a division of approximately 1/3 going to the west and 2/3 to the east).  The west side is home to depressing weather and Democrats, while the east has much better weather and Republicans.  These are, of course, generalizations and I don’t want to get into a meteorological/political debate here. Let’s just say the state of Washington should be divided into two separate states, and I should move east.

But I digress. It was arranged that we’d be meeting up with Derek Young of Emerging Rivers Guide Services at the fruit stand in Thorp prior to driving to our launch point. As we drew nearer our rendezvous, in addition to abundant sun and warmer temps, another common occurrence on the east side of the Cascades was showing itself: wind- that four letter word that sends shivers of despair into the hearts of fly anglers everywhere. Now the w#nd is not the fault of central and eastern Washington, but rather an unfortunate bi-product that we can also blame on the west side. With the low pressure in place over the coast and inland Puget Sound region, the eastern slopes of the Cascades often suffer from forceful moving air. For reasons obvious to those who angle with a fly, the one thing I had hoped to not encounter on Mrs. UA’s first outing was the w#nd.  Sooner or later in her fly fishing career she would have to learn to deal with it, but I wanted to protect her from the perils as long as possible. It appeared she would be facing baptism by fire and I pitied the poor lass before we ever set foot on the boat.

At around 12:30 pm we dropped The Green Drake into the clear waters of the Yakima River at a location known as Bristol, and prepared to float approximately 6 miles to the Thorp takeout. Looking spiffy in her brand new Emerging Rivers Guide Services hat, Mrs. UA listened intently as Derek administered his safety instructions on what to do should we encounter any trouble on the river. Being the Safety Commissioner at her place of work, emphasis on safety is of paramount importance to my wife. She was clearly more concerned with how to save herself than how to save me should I be the one to end up in the river. This made me a little suspicious about the life insurance policy she’d recently taken out on me, though I convinced myself that I was just being paranoid. Right?

As we began our drift, Derek asked Mrs. UA what her expectations were for the day, what she hoped to accomplish by the end of the float, etc. I believe her reply was something akin to this: “I just want to out-fish him.” (meaning me, of course) And I believe Derek’s reply was something akin to this: “Don’t you want to set the bar a little higher?”  I made a mental note of this and calculated Derek’s tip accordingly.

Derek is a great teaching guide, which is precisely why I wanted to take Mrs. UA out with him on her first trip.  This trip was a 21^st anniversary gift of sorts, and I knew that if I wanted to see our 22^nd I had better involve someone other than myself in the instruction department. I knew that  if I opened my mouth to offer any advice, I’d be invited to “talk to the hand”. So I opened a beer and kicked back without a line on the water as Derek coached Mrs. UA on her casting and explained presentation and drift.  As she laid out her first cast, which was more of a “flop the fly on the water a few feet from the boat”, she listened as Derek described how real insects drift in the current seams, and the goal was to imitate that with a drag-free drift.  Suddenly she had a fish on before she had been instructed on what to do if she had a fish on. To be honest nobody expected her to catch a fish so soon, or at all for that matter. I had prepared her for a skunking with all of my stories about long days spent on the Yakima River without catching a single fish.  She got an “on the job” lesson in how to manage the fly line and when to use the reel and when to strip line.  This first fish was no more than 2.5 inches long, so her drag was not put to the test. But she was thrilled with her first fish and I was thrilled that my wife had learned to strip.

Throughout the day she caught more and relatively larger fish. The truly big fish weren’t playing nicely on this particular outing, but in all honesty it’s likely a good thing that she didn’t hook up with an 18 incher. With her neophyte skills it may not have resulted favorably, and it would have really pissed me off.  She did manage to land a couple fish in the 8-9 inch range (though Derek’s glove made them appear larger than they really were). She also missed the hook set on several others, but suffice it to say that she saw enough action to keep herself amused. In fact she was downright giddy each time she hooked up with a fish, and while at first I was happy for her, after a while it got sort of annoying.

When her casting arm grew tired, she simply switched hands. The wind was present nearly all day, but it really didn’t cause many problems for her because, again, she could simply switch hands based on which way the wind was blowing.  Not once did she lose a fly or bury one in the back of my head. A couple very minor wind tangles occurred, but at the end of the day there were no wind knots evident in her leader (I made sure to check, hoping to point them out to her). Yes, I caught a few fish myself, including the largest cutthroat of the day – a whopping 10 incher that didn’t really impress Mrs. UA very much. But hey – the net made the fish look smaller than it actually was.

With predictions of an epic hopper invasion across the West this summer, it should have been prime hopper time on the Yak and I’d told the missus that we’d be tossing large foam flies tight toward the banks all day. I’m full of empty promises and gross over-exaggerations, so it came as no surprise to my wife that we saw one hopper all day and didn’t fish a single hopper pattern. The hot ticket all day long was a golden stone dry fly. Later in the day I switched to a couple of different caddis patterns, but neither yielded the success of the stone. We did a little nymphing but didn’t spend much time at it and all the fish were caught on the surface. The trout tally for the day (although no one was keeping track) was Mrs. UA: 6 (with another 6 or so missed); and the Unaccomplished Angler: 5. All were beautiful little Westslope Cutthroats. Mrs. UA now calls her new hat her “lucky fishing hat”.  Pretty cocky, I’d say. I reminded her that it’s just a stupid hat and not to assign any wild superstitious powers to it. Lucky fishing hat – I’m just so sure.

On the drive home she sent a text message to our daughter to proclaim her angling accomplishments. My daughter’s reply was something akin to, “You caught more fish than Dad?  Wow, Dad must really suck! : ) LOL”

No snakes, spiders, or grotesque swarms of insects were encountered, much to her delight. She did get a little fish slime on her hand and agreed that it wasn’t too bad. When I asked her if she really, honestly enjoyed herself or whether she was just faking it, her reply spoke to the true essence of fishing: “Sitting in a boat, floating down a river on a beautiful day, drinking a beer and catching some fish?  What’s not to like about that?” She gets it – there really is more to fishing than catching fish.

She made it pretty clear that she would not become a winter steelhead fishing person any time soon, but would enjoy being a fair weather angler. To that end I was instructed not to jump to any wild conclusions or go running out to buy her a bunch of gear and  I promised not to do anything stupid. I wonder how she’d feel about a drift boat?

I know, I know – talk to the hand.

I had certain expectations going into the trip and will say that nearly all were handily exceeded. Having only been to Vancouver Island once before on a family trip to Butchart Gardens in Victoria when I was a kid, I was actually looking forward to this fishing trip even more than the first visit to the island. Not that an 11 year-old kid doesn’t love touring a giant flower garden with out-of-town relatives, but it’s hard to top a fishing trip. My buddy Fritz has been to Nootka Sound several times before, and he filled me with visions of geographical beauty and fishing awe.  To that end I was not disappointed. He also provided me with intel that suggested I may have an opportunity to use my fly rod. So with that in mind I went armed with Coho poppers and baitfish patterns courtesy of my friend Leland Miyawaki.  Leland had given me some tips on how to present the flies, and I looked forward to executing the knowledge imparted upon me.  Wax on, wax off.  I would do my best to make Miyawaki-san proud.

A border crossing, chili dogs, and a not-so-rustic motel.

My Toyota Tacoma (AKA the Fish Taco) was commandeered for the trip so I stopped by Fritz’s house at 8 AM before we picked up his father on our way north. The back seat of the Taco was a bit tight, but apparently not too terribly uncomfortable as “Senior” quickly nodded off for one last stateside nap. Less than two hours later we arrived at the border crossing for some “Duty Free” bottled beverages and a couple cases of Kokanee.

Our first navigational snafu occurred immediately thereafter as we mistakenly got in the Nexus line for frequent crossers. In our defense, the line also appeared to be labeled “duty free” which we assumed meant us. This error in judgment meant we had to pull over under the humorless watch of Canadian security guards and go inside the customs office to pass inspection.  Luckily it didn’t involve a body cavity search, and by committing this innocent infraction I think we actually made the crossing faster than if we’d stayed in the proper lane. A half hour later we were in line for the ferry to Nanaimo.  With plenty of time to kill, Senior opted to take his first Canadian nap in the back seat while Fritz and I grabbed some chili dogs to ensure that the next leg of our journey would be pleasant for everyone concerned except Senior. Hey – you snooze, you lose, eh? The Canadian chili dogs worked more quickly than their American counterparts to which I am accustomed and I quickly became worried that I would be considered flammable cargo, which is strictly prohibited on ferries.

After an uneventful ferry crossing under thick clouds that afforded no view of our surroundings, we docked at Nanaimo and drove the next leg of our journey to the town of Campbell River. Along the way the clouds lifted and we finally saw the sun and blue skies that one expects to see in August. As we entered Campbell River we gassed up the Fish Taco and checked into our room for the night at The Rustic Motel. To me the term “rustic” conjures up images of a poorly chinked log cabin with rough hewn plank floors and a leaky roof. Based on my preconceptions The Rustic was certainly not what I would consider rustic, and after having stayed at the Ho Hum Motel in West Yellowstone, The Rustic was actually fairly posh.

The salmon were pink; my hat was orange.

Although I’d gone through a mental checklist of everything I could possibly need for the trip, it wasn’t until we were on the road that I realized I’d forgotten a hat.  Now, I wear a hat nearly every day so why on this day I left home without one is still a mystery to me.  I was able to remedy this as we stopped by the River Sportsman Outdoor Store, which has an impressive selection of hunting and fishing gear, and hats.  My new hat for the week would be one that Fritz assured me didn’t look “gay”.  After the tags had been removed he commented that the hat looked “a little gay”. I assumed he meant happy and cheerful, and I’ll admit that the orange was uplifting and a nice change from my normally selection of drab-colored hats.

The Pink Salmon were running and the Campbell River itself was abuzz with fishermen. Down south in the States the Pinks aren’t running this year, but just as they bring out the crowds down here, so do they draw hoards of anglers on Vancouver Island.  I watched from a bridge as several fish were caught and lost by an equal number of gear and fly fishermen.  I contemplated grabbing my 8 wt. and trying my hand at some Canadian Pinks, but two things kept me from doing so:  First, an 8 wt. would have been silly overkill; secondly, I didn’t have a fishing license.  I didn’t want to risk an infraction so soon after entering the country (and we’d pushed our luck at the border already so I was sure I was on their radar).  Instead I returned to our room at the Rustic for happy hour before heading out to grab a bite to eat.

After dinner we stopped by The Tyee Club to watch as hopeful members rowed back and forth in the offshore channel trolling for a potential Chinook salmon that would earn them one of several nice prizes, one of which was a Sage SP gear rod.  It’s a neat club with a long-standing tradition dating back to 1926. The club caretaker was quite the character and made the visit worthwhile, even though no fish were caught while we watched.

Breakfast and a kindred spirit.

The next morning we were up and ready for breakfast before the final driving leg of the trip.  As we pulled into the parking lot at the Ideal Café I took particular notice of the Jeep Wrangler next to us. Badged with a large decal that read “Single Spey Fly Fishing Adventures” I immediately felt at ease knowing that somewhere inside there lurked a fly fisherman.

After we were seated at our table, Senior pondered aloud, “I wonder who the fly fisherman is?”  Seated behind me at a table with his young son was Ken Moreau, the fly fisherman in question and owner of Single Spey Fly Fishing Adventures which is located just a short distance from the famous Roderick Haig Brown heritage property on the banks of the Campbell River.  As fly anglers are prone to do, we struck up a conversation. I told him of our destination on Nootka Sound and how I hoped to employ the fly rod on some surface silvers, and Ken gave me a quick rundown on the river fishing on the Island. It sounds like they’ve got quite a fishery up there, and one day I’d like to go back with my Spey rod and swing for some steelhead. I feel as though I’m ahead of the game already as I now have a fly fishing guide to hook up with when I go. Never one to overlook an opportunity to make a potential future fan of Olive the Woolly Bugger, I gave Ken a card.  When I returned home from the trip I was delighted to have received an email from him. Nice guy. Certainly an accomplished angler. I hope his son gets hooked on Olive

Cougartown.

Next we drove up the island to a place aptly named Cougar Creek. If there was a town there I didn’t see it. Nor did I see a cougar, but there had been recent sightings. From what I could tell there’s only a log landing facility where timber companies bring their harvest and a seasonal settlement for campers who bring their boats to do one thing:  fish.

We left the Fish Taco parked there and waited to be picked up on the dock by Fritz’s brother “Roberto” (he may be Mexican – there is some family debate).  Roberto had been up there fishing for several days already, and the reports were favorable. As Roberto idled to the dock I was relieved to see that the boat wasn’t named the “SS Minnow” and that we weren’t destined for a “three hour tour.” Once aboard the 26’ Seaswirl Striper named “The Field Office” we made the short run to the small bay where our floating accommodations awaited us.

Destination accomplished.

Nootka Sound Sports Fishing Charters & Accommodations is a very comfortable floating lodge moored in a protected cove that looks directly out into Nootka Sound.  While proprietors Elaine and Vaughan Michaud have been running their charter business since 1975, the accommodations weren’t always so refined.  In fact, to hear it told the original “lodge” was a bit rustic. I’ll never know, as the original structure at this location on Three Bay Cove was replaced with the current accommodations about 5 years ago.

It’s a very private lodge than can sleep several guests comfortably, though it was only the four of us for all but our last night.  We were spoiled by Elaine’s stellar culinary skills, starting each morning at 5 AM with coffee, homemade scones and porridge to get us on our way.  We packed with us our sandwiches for lunch and typically fished until mid afternoon, returning to the lodge for a break and a game of cribbage if one were so inclined to let Vaughan impart his dominance accordingly. We enjoyed some incredible dinner fare that included the likes of fresh-caught halibut and lingcod fish & chips, babyback ribs, Alberta steaks and more mouth-watering side dishes than one could shake a gaff hook at.

After dinner we would head back out for the evening bite and fish until dark – usually 8:30 or 9 pm.  Following a friendly card game I usually turned in by 10:30 pm, and except for the first night I slept very well. Had I remembered to install my ear plugs the first night I’d have slept well every night.  I had received fair warning that Fritz could saw logs, and I found that to be the case the first night. After that the earplugs were effective in drowning out all noises, including my own loud breathing that was confirmed by Fritz. In his defense I will say that Fritz is not in the same league as my buddy Stan the Goosemaster.

During the week we were treated like members of the family.  And speaking of family, Elaine’s daughter Michelle was there for a visit. Michelle and her husband Ian Jensen operate a fishing charter outfit on remote Quatsino Sound, which is on the northern tip of Vancouver Island: Gold and Fish Adventures. Michelle’s daughter Sabrina was our dock hand for the week, making sure that imperfect docking maneuvers didn’t result in catastrophes. It should be noted that Vaughan offers full-service fishing from his own boat but my fishing compadres supplied their own vessel for our trip.

A fly rod sits idle.

Our first afternoon of fishing proved a bit slow on the catching side of things, but that evening I drew first blood by landing an 18 lb King. While that put a skip in my step, I also soon realized that my hopes of catching a silver on either a surface popper or a baitfish pattern fished near a kelp bed was not likely going to materialize. The Silvers run later in August and we were in the thick of the Kings. We would end up catching a few Silvers but the opportunity to employ the 8 wt didn’t happen.  Although I dreaded having to return home and shamefully profess to Leland that I had failed him, I was able to live with the idea of fishing with anchovies behind flashers. Perhaps Leland will find it within his heart to forgive me after I present him with a nice fillet of Chinook and some smoked Coho.

This method seemed to get it done and by the last day I completely forgot that I was, at heart, a fly angler. I had been transformed into an unshaven,  sea-legged, treble-hooking, bait-fishing, down-rigging, fish-killing machine. The closest thing to fly fishing that I encountered was the surprise sighting of a lone caddisfly which had stowed a ride inside the cabin of the boat on our first night. Nobody else on board found anywhere near as much amusement in this as I did.  I think they dismissed me as some sort of curious fool taking photos of a bug, and they were right.

Chumming for Salmon

On our second morning Roberto checked the weather and decided that it would be a good day to fish “The Highway” (named for a particular area where the migrating fish pass through en masse). The Highway is located outside of the protected waters of Nootka Sound on the open ocean, and on this day the ocean was allegedly calm.  What constitutes “calm” for a salty old sea dog doesn’t necessarily equate to the same thing for an Unaccomplished Angler more accustomed to fishing rivers for trout and steelhead.  A wise man would have chosen to sleep in on this day, and Senior proved to be that wise man. A beautiful sunrise indicated that the day would be stellar, and our spirits soared over the prospects of getting into some bright ocean fish.  As we made our run several miles from the mouth of Nootka Sound into the open sea, the marine fog obscured the sun. The swells grew to about 4.5 feet and The Field Office, while entirely up to the task and very sea worthy, bounced up and down on the waves like a toy boat (say that 5 times fast).

The wind was calm, however, so all we had to contend with were the ocean swells, which are almost always present in some form or another.  As long as we were moving things were fine, but eventually we would have to stop or slow to a troll. God forbid we should have to bend down to re-bait a hook, but bend down to re-bait a hook we did. And that’s when Fritz started to turn green.  Mind you I’ve rested my chest on the gunwhales of a boat and blown chow on the ocean before, so I know full well that it’s no laughing matter.  To that end I only laughed silently as Fritz heaved his breakfast, then the previous night’s dinner and eventually every meal ingested prior to that.  His involuntary gutteral groans signaled that his ribs were cracking and muscles in his stomach and lower back were tearing. I honestly believe Roberto derived some sadistic pleasure out of seeing his little brother hurling his guts over the side of the boat.  Older brothers are that way – I have one of my own so I speak from experience.

As I said, I would not allow myself to laugh at Fritz’s misfortune, so the only logical thing to do was to join him in a bit of sympathy puking.  Misery loves company, and soon we were both miserable.  But in between chumming for fish we actually caught fish. Quite a few in fact, in a short period of time that seemed to last forever. After a couple of hours and ever-weakening physical conditions, Captain Roberto finally decided that we’d had, and caught, enough.  Being the only crew member on board worth his salt, I think Roberto was getting tired of having to steer the boat, bait the hooks and land the fish while Fritz and I grew more and more incapable of much other than simply remaining upright. The decision to return to port was a relief, and running with the waves was much smoother. By the time we arrived back at the lodge some color had returned to our faces and we were feeling much better.  “Much better” is, however, another relative term and it wasn’t until several hours later that I felt nearly 100%.   Barfing is hard on the body, and my throat felt like raw hamburger for the rest of the day. But my abs had never felt to toned so I suppose it was worth it. Oh, the sacrifices we fishermen make to feed our families…

Some sideshow attractions.

*On our way back from our open ocean experience we saw a gray whale and calf in the sound. With my telephoto lens trained on the pair they put on a good show for us.

*I’d heard that it was common for bears to visit the shoreline close to our lodge. I was prepared for disappointment, which was not the case.  In fact, right after we arrived initially at the lodge a momma bear and her two young cubs were there to greet us. Throughout the week they arrived at certain times, while another single bear came at other intervals.  A three-man slingshot propelled fish heads from the deck of the lodge to the shoreline where the greedy freeloaders appreciative recipients munched down on the delicacies before going back into the woods to forage for other less flavorful foodstuffs. Admittedly I took way more photos of the bears than was required to document the events. After I got home and uploaded all the photos to my computer I gave pause to ask myself, “What was I thinking?”I suppose if I ever do a documentary on the fishhead eating bears of Nootka Sound, the 100 or so photos may come in handy.

*While changing his bait on one occasion Fritz got his hand stung by the tentacles of a poisonous jellyfish.  It wasn’t too bad, and I offered to urinate on his hand to neutralize the toxins. I’m not sure if he knew that urine isn’t really effective in reducing the pain or if he just didn’t want me peeing on his hand. At any rate, Fritz passed on the offer and the sting didn’t prove to be too troublesome.

Bounty of the Sea.

We fished for 2-1/2 days and for just a couple hours on our last morning.  Had we stayed longer we may have encountered our best harvest of the trip as the final morning proved to be the highest fish-per-hour ratio. We went 2 for 3, with Fritz and I each catching one last King, and one fish coming unbuttoned before we could land it (apparently the Long Distance Release is not completely foreign when salmon fishing with double treble hooks).

We successfully landed a total of 17 fish including 9 Kings that ran from 12 to 18 lbs, and 8 Coho that were mostly in the range of 11 lbs with one tipping the scales at 15 lbs.  Not to worry, we left plenty of fish in the sea for propagating the species. I don’t know what all this converts to under the metric system, or even how many meters we traveled to get there and back.  I can tell you we took 142 lbs of salmon to St. Jean’s Cannery and Smokehouse in Campbell River to be filleted and smoked, and it was 725 driving miles round trip. The trip was worth every click of the odometer and every day was enjoyable time spent with good friends, old and new.  There’s a lot of leisure time involved with trolling for salmon, and the conversation was always engaging. Given our seafaring ways, we discussed many important nautical matters such as the presence of Atlantic Salmon fish farms in the Canadian waters and the age old debate of “Mary Ann or Ginger”. It was agreed that the fish farms are bad, and Mary Ann  is the clear winner.

No trip taken by the Unaccomplished Angler would be complete without a few glitches, and to that end we did not disappoint.  The 3:15 pm ferry from Nanaimo back to the mainland was sold out, so Fritz and I had to wait for a 5:45 boat. Senior rode back with Roberto, who had made prior reservations so they made the earlier sailing.  Via cell phone Fritz learned that Roberto had somehow managed to get in the wrong line at the border and the trailer carrying the Field Office was too wide to allow passage.  This caused a bit of a traffic ordeal and it took, allegedly, 15 minutes to clear traffic so they could back up and get in the right lane.

When we finally got on the ferry, the Fish Taco with roof pod was too high for the upper car deck, so traffic was halted as we pulled a U-turn on the deck and had to drive back and get on a lower deck.  The stupid Americans in the white Toyota Tacoma smiled and waved apologetically to the slightly annoyed Canadian drivers waiting to board the ferry. In our defense it was the fault of the ticket booth employee who put us in the wrong line.  After that it was clear sailing to the border where we passed through customs without incident. Clearly relishing the vision of his older brother stuck in the customs line with the boat in tow, Fritz asked two different border patrol agents if they happened to have seen the big boat that got stuck a few hours earlier. Unfortunately none were able to recall the spectacle.

Because of the late ferry sailing we were well behind all rush-hour traffic on I-5 heading south toward Seattle.  However, the delay put us in the thick of construction delays and it was midnight before I rolled into the garage at home, smelling of fish and speaking with a Canadian accent. What is it about me and fishing and traffic?

A good article to read before deciding to teach your spouse to can be found over at Midcurrent where “Dr. Phil” Monahan offers some sage advice for those wading into the potentially perilous waters. It’s worth the read, so click here for the article.

For years I’ve pondered what it might be like to go fishing with my wife but it never got beyond the pondering stage because she never expressed an interest in learning. And honestly I never made the effort to push the issue.  If I can gently transform her into even just an occasional angler, it may save me the pain of having to go on cruise ship vacations or take up lawn bowling or shuffleboard as we grow old. I doubt she’ll ever become a hardcore fly fishing frauleine, and that is not my intent. My hope is that she’ll enjoy it enough to let me get a drift boat occasionally join me during the nice summer months on gentle rivers like the Yakima. Afterall, she grew up in the town of Yakima and was a regular participant in the Yakima River “rubber hatch” that comes off each summer. Ask her about the time she and a friend had to hitch-hike in their bikinis to their car after a day of floating the Lower Canyon in their Walmart rafts – back before there was such a thing as Walmart.

A few months ago I decided to be proactive about this whole matter and booked a float trip with Derek Young of Emerging Rivers Guide Services.  Our Anniversary is August 12^th, and being the hopeless romantic that I am I was hard pressed to think of a better way Mrs. UA and I could spend our anniversary than fly fishing together on the Yakima River (we were married in nearby Yakima, afterall). But forging ahead into this delicate proposition of fishing with Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler is much like intentionally going steelhead fishing equipped with a 3 wt rod, a dragless reel and 6X tippet: it’s probably not the smartest thing to do. To use another metaphor I must exercise the same caution as if wading on the slippery, slime covered rocks of summer while wearing cowboy boots. Again, not something one should probably do. I face somewhat daunting odds, and honestly the chips are stacked against me ever turning her into a hardcore angler. The reasons are many:

First, she hates bugs. I have to admit, this is perhaps the biggest obstacle.  She absolutely abhors insects in a manner that strikes me as being completely irrational. To her, however, the fear is very real and I must try to honor that fear while at the same time attempting to diminish it. At the top of her fear factor list are spiders. Even though technically spiders are not insects, they do fall under the general classification of “bugs” by her definition. Luckily spiders are fairly uncommon when fly fishing. I showed her a photo in a magazine of a 3-inch salmonfly perched atop an angler’s hat. I casually inquired as to if seeing something like this in person would be a deal breaker.  Turns out it would be.  I assured her that we will not be seeing any salmon flies on our inaugural trip. Honestly I am not sure how she feels about grasshoppers, which we will be seeing. I’m inclined to believe hope that hoppers may be an easy bug to not be afraid of, and I’m also  hoping that won’t cause a problem since we’ll be fishing the peak hopper season. She assured me that as long as nothing is present in grotesque overabundance she should be fine. I didn’t point out to her that hoppers are supposed to be thick this year all across the West. What I am a little apprehensive about is her ability to withstand the possibility of a sitting calmly amidst an evening caddis hatch. A panic reaction could result in a rod being  being dropped overboard (I may have to put a tether on her gear). But caddis are benign little fliers. I’d go so far as to say they are the least “disgusting” of all bugs, and are even “cute”.  Right?  Please chime in with your support and agreement here, folks.  Please.

Another thing she has an aversion to is the texture of slime, and trout are slimy. True that. But she may never have to get over that fear because in all likelihood she’ll be lucky if she gets the chance to even touch a fish. Odds are, if she sets the hook on a fish, she’ll experience a Long Distance Release before getting the fish anywhere near her hands. And if she does land a fish, there’s no reason she has to even touch it because that can be delegated as part of a guide’s duty. Or I’ll convince her that fish slime is a natural hand moisturizer. Personally I think the beauty of catching a wild rainbow or cutthroat trout will thrill her to the point where she’ll forget that it’s a slimy thing altogether.  Yeah, riiiight.

Safety is a another big factor. She has done a remarkable job of keeping our children alive through their childhoods. We’ve encountered broken arms, cuts and scrapes and even a mild concussion, but nothing too serious. That relatively good safety record can be attributed to the fact that Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler has been somewhat of a worry wart, though to her credit she hasn’t been a Helicopter Mom prone to excessive coddling. Aside from being concerned for the welfare of her offspring, she’s also a bit cautious herself, and not one to run with scissors or color outside the lines. In fact, she was the obvious choice when the company she works for appointed her Safety Commissioner this past year (a proud moment). I just hope that she can relax and enjoy a day on the river without being fearful of falling overboard. But even if she does, she’ll probably be wearing an orange life jacket – you know the kind with the big collar?

Waders may present another problem when it comes to her fully embracing the fly fishing thing.  While she is not a slave to fashion, she is at least an indentured servant. Let’s be honest here: not many women don’t care how they look. And let’s face it – waders are not the most flattering of apparel and make even the narrowest of hips appear wider than they actually are.  I think we can avoid this altogether, at least on our initial outing because we’ll be fishing from a drift boat in August. It would be silly to wear anything other than shorts when it’s 90+ degrees out.  We won’t have to worry about waders until I take her steelheading in January, and it gives me a good idea for a Christmas present.

Indecision plagues Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler from time to time. She is above average when it comes to coordination and athletic ability, but the only difficulty she may have when learning to cast is determining which hand to use.  You see, she’s most right-handed but is nearly ambidextrous. And sometimes she forgets which hand she should throw a ball with. I’m serious. It’s actually quite an impressive ability, but because of the way her brain is wired she can be indecisive.  Will she naturally take to casting with the right, but also feeling inclined toward a right hand retrieve? (Marck does it this way, and it’s really annoying when I’ve had the occasion to use his rod).

Many women like to shop.  I did not say all women like to shop because I know there are those who do not. Thankfully I would not classify Mrs. UA as a hardcore shopper but she can, when she wants, flip through a wide variety of retail goods trying to decide if she likes this or that.  She’s been known on occasion to go shopping and return home with something she purchased, only then to determine that she doesn’t like it.  I’m a little apprehensive about what will happen when she opens a fly box, as she may have a hard time shopping for the right fly. Furthermore, the aforementioned indecision factor may serve to complicate this whole matter.

Patience is not a virtue.  Not of hers, but rather of mine. I am admittedly not the most patient person when it comes to sharing my infinite wisdom with my wife. Be it computer navigation and keyboard shortcuts, how to change the oil in a car, or how to cut-up a whole fryer chicken, I readily admit that I could learn to be less impatient.  While I accept my share of the blame, I would be remiss if I didn’t also state that Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler doesn’t exactly “empty her cup” when it comes to accepting certain helpful instruction from me.  Luckily, I’m placing her squarely in Derek’s hands when we go fishing. I’ll let him work with her while I sit quietly in the back of the boat, biting my tongue and trying to keep the laughter under my breath my mouth shut.

Snakes.  Let’s not go there, as her fear of snakes may be even worse than her fear of spiders.  Luckily if she’s in a drift boat and remains there, no snake will cross her path. I won’t even mention to her that snake-eye guides were used in the construction of the rod in her hand.

Hummingbirds.  It’s true, Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler hates hummingbirds and I am not referring the the brand of depth finders.  Actually, I think she thinks hummingbirds hate her because they often seem to seek her out and hover above her head.  I’ve assured her that the innocent little critters are merely curious and mean her no harm, and I don’t think she has to worry about hummingbirds while we’re fishing, Just for good measure I’ll suggest she not wear a red hat.

While it may require some time, nurturing and a few pitfalls, it will be worth the effort to turn Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler into a fly fishing enthusiast, or at least a willing participant in an occasional fly fishing excursion.  We’ve often discussed the need for a common interest once our kids leave the nest (which really isn’t that far into the future). She has suggested tennis and golf. I’ve suggested a compromise: fly fishing.

Wish us both luck.

Nootka Sound, British Columbia.  I’d never even heard of the place until my old college buddy “Fritz” called me up a few months ago and invited me to join him on a salmon fishing excursion to this location. To be honest, I’m not much of a salmon fisherman. I’d done some salmon fishing off the coast of Washington near Tokeland (which is nowhere near Weed, California for those wondering). That was back when I was in high school and college, but recent years have seen me fly fishing for trout and steelhead, with an occasional bass outing tossed in for good measure.  The first thing Fritz asked me was if I wanted to catch and keep some fish rather than just “petting them”.  Of course I recognized this as a good-natured jab aimed at the gentile practice of catch and release angling.  I assured him that I am not the least bit opposed to keeping fish so long as the fishery is sustainable. I rather enjoyed some grilled and smoked hatchery steelhead last fall, as a matter of fact.  Fish petting – I’m just so sure.  See the photo below?  That’s me with more hair (and less of it gray), and blood on my hands.  Bring it, Fritz- the sleeves are rolled up and the petting gloves are off.

Tokeland, WA circa 1983

Anyway, Nootka Sound is northwest of Victoria, British Columbia on the west side of Vancouver Island. It is approximately (70 km) north of Tofino, if that means anything. It means nothing to me so I checked the conversion: it’s 45 miles north of Tofino. I’d heard of Tofino before, but have never been to that neck of the Canadian woods. Nootka Sound is actually a generalization, as our precise destination is Tlupana Inlet, location of Nootka Sound Sports Fishing Charters and Accommodations. We’ll be staying in a floating lodge that is reportedly just a few feet off the shoreline, and Fritz says it’s not uncommon for bears to wander down to the water’s edge and feast on fish heads.  If all goes as hoped, the bears will stay on the shore and not swim over to the lodge. I expect some amusing photo opportunities.

Fritz, his brother and his dad have been visiting Nootka sound for the last 14 years to so, and have it pretty well dialed in.  They take their own boat up to keep the costs of the trip down, which means I get to go for the cost of lodging. I may even chip in a little for boat fuel and beer. A vacation on the cheap suits me fine because I am, well, cheap. I was remiss in thinking that the vacation would be even cheaper due to the exchange rate being in our favor, but the current fact of the matter is that US and Canadian dollars are nearly equal in value at this time.  I guess that’s good for the Canadians, bad for us.  Or rather, bad for the Chinese, because they pretty much own us, don’t they?  Sorry, I won’t go there.

To be very clear this is not a fly fishing excursion. Gear will be the go-to means of catching fish destined for the cooler. Downriggers, bait, gaff hooks and the whole nine yards.  We may hit some Kings, though we may miss that run. Moreso we’ll be getting into Silvers, or Coho.  Not Silvers OR Coho, but rather Silvers, also known as Coho.  Not one to completely sell out to the dark side, I did a little research on how I might be able to make use of my fly rod on these fish.  Talking to Leland Miyawaki, a wise sage of all things saltwater and the fly fishing manager at the Bellevue Orvis shop, I was told that I needed some top water flies – some poppers.  Leland is famous for his beach poppers, so when he spoke, I was all ears. The shop was sold out of poppers, but being the gracious guy that he is, Leland tied me up a couple of Polar Bears and told me how to fish them. I was instructed to wait until one of the others on board had a fish hooked, then cast the popper near the scene of the crime.  Apparently Coho are prone to following a hooked fish to the surface, be it out of curiosity or to swim alongside and taunt the hooked fish:  “What a hoser – I can’t believe you actually fell for that ridiculous looking imitation!”

Anyway, this overconfident taunter is my quarry, and if I interpret things correctly, I’ll sorta be poaching off the other fishermen.  I should lay out a cast, slapping the popper on the surface, give it a good tug to create some commotion and get noticed. Then I have been instructed to execute a couple of bonefish strips, leaving a gentle wake behind the fly.  If all goes as Leland says, I’ll hook up with a Coho and have a little fun.

I’ve also got some baitfish patterns to try fishing beneath the surface. If I can find some kelp beds, Leland assures me that I’ll crush the Coho. The fish will not be leader shy, so I’m taking along some tapered 2X leaders in 10lb test, as well as some straight 12 lb mono. If those don’t hold I’ll just cut a length of whatever parachute chord is strung up on the gear reels. As with everything else in life, this sounds more easily said than done. I really don’t know how large the fish will be, so I’m taking what I have (a Sage XP 8 wt) and hoping it’s up to the task. In the event that the 8 wt is not up to the task, at least Sage has a great warranty.  It won’t break my heart if a fish breaks the rod, because afterall it’s just a meat stick for nymphing steelhead when swinging with my Spey rod doesn’t produce backup rod for steelheading. Even if things don’t go as planned, it sounds like an awful lot of fun, in some very remote country, on a boat with some great people and an ample supply of Kokanee, Molson, Labatt’s and Moosehead, eh?  I just have to remember my passport. The last time I crossed the border into Canada I didn’t need or have one. Of course that was also back when I had more hair, and less of it was gray.

We left home and drove east on Hwy 2 over Stevens Pass, following the course of Skykomish River, with it’s run of summer steelhead, to its headwaters in the Cascade mountains.  As we crested the summit and descended the eastern slopes, our course paralleled the Wenatchee River, with it’s run of salmon and summer steelhead.  Paying no mind, we set the nose of the Unaccomplished Family Truckster north on Hwy 97, following the mighty Columbia River. I barely glanced at the river and certainly gave no thought to the impressive numbers of returning Sockeye Salmon and steelhead that were making their way upriver over the many dams.  I was focused on other things, and in the similar fashion of many fathers on vacation I like to point out interesting landmarks and explain mysterious rock formations.

As we passed one particular area the children in the back seat (ages 16, 18 and 20) took a break from their iPods and iPhones and marveled with great wonder at the vibrant red rocks alongside the road.  Breaking into my best Chevy Chase-as-Clark Griswald imitation, I explained that it was iron content in the basalt which gave it the red coloring to the rock. Immediately we noted the same red coloring spread across the highway like spilled paint, and Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler quickly pointed out that it was “flame retardant” from the recent wildfire in Swakane Canyon. The fire had been on the news recently and had luckily been extinguished.  Not one to be outdone, I reminded her that the politically correct term was for the flame extinguishing chemical was “fire discouragement”.  Ha!  How do you like me now Mrs. Smarty Pants? We rode in awkward silence for another 45 minutes before arriving at Lake Chelan.

The lake itself is a 50-mile long, deep and crystal clear mountainous beauty that does have Lake Trout for those willing to dredge, but as I said it would not be my destination with fly fishing in mind. The third deepest lake in the United States, Chelan is nearly 1500 ft at its deepest, and last I checked my sinking line was only 100 feet long, with another 70 yards of backing. Even if I could reach the bottom with a type VI full sinker, at a sink rate of six inches per second it would take 3000 seconds to do so, and who has that kind of time to spare?  Especially on a family vacation where there would be no fishing. If so inclined, as was Josh Mills recently, one can also take a boat and head north on a quest to find Cutthroat in some of the tributaries, but in order to do so you’d have to be on a fishing vacation, which I was not. We were there for a few days of sun and relaxation as a family.  No fishing.

We checked into our Lake Chelan Shores rental condo that was decorated in a manner that screamed “19-eighty something”. It was clean and plenty nice: the owners simply hadn’t put a nickel into updating anything save for the 48 inch flatscreen TV on the wall.  Priorities, I guess.  As we stowed our gear I was quick to notice a rather large bug resting on the track of the sliding glass door leading to the small deck.  It was large (the bug, not the deck), and quite alive.  Grabbing it gingerly by the upright wings, I studied it carefully, declared it to be a handsome example of a Hexagonia Mayfly, and set if free outside. I barely even made a mental note that it was a prized piece of trout food.  On this particular vacation it was just another bug as far as I was concerned.

As we stocked the cupboards with dried food and filled the fridge with beverages and perishables, I noted that in the otherwise disjointed décor of the unit, a peculiar decorative tile hung in the kitchen.  The image was clearly some sort of trout – perhaps intended to be a brown trout, although the artist had taken great liberties with color so it was more of a blue trout.  Without any other fish-related décor, I was dumfounded as to the presence of this particular example.  Perhaps the owner was a fisherman – perhaps a trout fisherman? I quickly put the notion out of my head and got back to the business of vacationing with my family.

We headed to the pool for an hour of sunning, and since I’m too restless to sit in the sun with nothing else to do I brought with me the book my kids had given to me for Father’s Day. It was my goal for the week to completely read Backcast (by Lou Ureneck) because at home I rarely take time to read. On my nightstand at home I have a backlog of books (all fly fishing related) I keep intending to get to.  My problem is that I’m a bad reader.  To be clear, I’m actually good at reading, but I become fully engrossed in a good book and therefore my social skills take a beating.  Backcast was a great book, by the way, and I fear that I wasn’t completely engaged in our family vacation during the several hours per day I spent reading.  But I was there in body if not in mind, which is more than had it been a fishing vacation. Just as there is more to fishing than catching fish, there’s much more to Backcast than just fly fishing.

The next day we ventured to a different pool that was much closer to the lake.  I’m not a pool guy, much preferring to swim in a natural body of water.  However, I didn’t want to alienate Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler so I accompanied her to the pool to spend some quality time together, sharing some rare but meaningful conversation. I also had my book, so in retrospect I may not have been the most engaging conversationalist. After a good solid hour of reading chatting I decided to cool off in the pool.  As I slipped into the water I noticed a spent bug floating on the surface of the chlorinated pond.  What should it be other than another Hex! I scooped the waterlogged Mayfly from the waters hoping to revive it, to no avail.  I hate to see a good piece of trout food go to waste like that but there were no trout in the pool, brown trout or otherwise.  I momentarily considered carrying the spent bug to the lake to offer it up to a fish, but thought better of it.  I did, however, venture down to the lake for a very refreshing dip in the crystal clear blue waters.  The children were frolicking in the swimming area so I spent a little quality time with them before returning to my book poolside wife.  It felt good to be relaxing without anything to do. Time was on my side and I could choose to do whatever or as little as I wanted.  The only thing I couldn’t do was go fishing.

The next day Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler’s sister and husband joined us for dinner at a fancy winery and vineyard just outside the town of Chelan.  Tsillan Cellars is perched on a hillside looking north with an expansive view of the lake and the mountains to the west. For those who don’t speak the language of the Native Americans from this region, Tsillan is the native spelling of Chelan, which I think means “family destination” though I could be wrong (actually it means “deep water”). Tisllan Cellars offers quite a beautiful setting and the manicured grounds are surrounded by rows of grape vines on 3 sides. We sampled some wines as we waited for our table to be readied for our meal.  I’m not much of a wine guy, preferring low grade beer over grape juice. Having said that I do enjoy a an occasional glass of red (no particular variety – just red will do).

The dinner menu provided by Sorrento’s Ristorante was inviting, but something caught my eye: The “Atlantic King Salmon”.  The vein in my forehead began to pulsate as I announced to my dinner companions that there was no such thing: it was either Atlantic or King Salmon, but it could not be both.  My sister-in-law declared that whatever it was, she was ordering it.  When the waiter came to take our orders I inquired as to the salmon entrée.  “I don’t mean to be a wise guy,” I stated up front, “but can you tell me if the salmon is Atlantic or King? Because it cannot be both.”  The waiter was clearly not prepared for such an inquiry, so Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler stepped in and apologized. “You’ll have to excuse my husband – he’s a fisherman.”  I wanted to chime in and add, “Actually I’m an Unaccomplished Angler on a non-fishing vacation,” but the words would not come out.  The waiter stammered as he explained that the fish was probably Atlantic because that’s all they buy.  Outrageous!  Here we were within a short distance of a river teeming with record numbers of Pacific Salmon and all they offered was Atlantic Salmon?! Farm raised, no doubt.  I opted to not break into a tirade about that and instead simply ordered the Prime Bone-In Ribeye, medium rare.  It was excellent, and by the time dinner had concluded the vein in my forehead pulsed at a normal rate.

After dinner we strolled around the grounds, admiring the elaborate waterfall and circular stream that contained several fish.  Not trout, although the artificially oxygenated water would likely have provided a nice habitat for some stocked rainbows. I grabbed my waterproof Olympus Stylus 1030 SW camera and snapped a few photos of the Koi. No doubt the other guests who were watching me wondered what the strange man was doing on his hands and knees with one arm submerged in the fake stream.  For a moment I forgot where I was and fancied myself on a mountain stream in the Idaho Bitterroots (where I was this same time the last two years before), fishing for stupid Westslope Cutthroat trouts. I came to my senses and remembered I was on a family vacation, far from any fishing destination.

The remainder of the vacation was relatively without fishing-related incident, although on our second to last morning one of the children proclaimed that a vehicle had been defaced in the parking lot, and accused me of being the culprit.  I went out to investigate, and to my surprise and delight, a red Jeep Grand Cherokee bearing University of Washington plates and a dusty back window had been tagged by a dust artist.  Scribed with a finger on the rear window were the words, “Go Cougars!!”  You see, in the state of Washington there is a long-standing rivalry between the good salt-of-the-Earth folk who root for the Washington State University Cougars and the polar opposite people who root for the University of Washington Huskies.  I smiled when I saw the dust graffiti, but what really caught my eye, and thus the accusation that I was behind the defacing act, was the stick figure of an angler casting a long looping line with a dry fly attached to the opposite end.  Eager to strike the fly was a rather large trout: clearly a rainbow by the lateral stripes down its flanks. Knowing that I am an artist, a WSU card-carrying Alum and a fly angling person, any jury would have convicted me and sentenced me to a life of wine drinking and no fishing.  It took all the pleading I could muster to convince my family that I was not responsible.  Word to whomever was responsible: You deserve a pat on the back.  You’re my kind of person, and I hope you enjoyed a nice  vacation. A family vacation that did not have a single thing to do with fishing.

It’s been said that the type of car one drives says a lot about that person. That may be true to some degree, but the stickers that one adheres to their car say even more about that person.  Many people put stickers/decals on their cars to show an allegiance to a cause, or dedication to a brand or product, or simply to make a statement (which sometimes they ought not do – just sayin’). As a micro sampling of society, fly angling folks seem to be even more prone to the practice of decorating with decals than any other group of peoples, except maybe surfers.  But I digress. Even with fly fishing folks it’s a generalization that all are sticker-hoarders because clearly not all who angle with a fly slather their vehicles with adhesive-backed messages.  However, many do and that is the focus of my report.

I’ve had a few stickers on my vehicles over the years, but until recently I kept the habit in check.  The downward spiral started innocently enough when I purchased a 2003 Toyota Tacoma that came complete with a Leer canopy on the back. That rear canopy window was prime real estate just waiting for development, and the vast empty expanse of glass taunted me. Being desciplined, I started slowly and tastefully with a lone Sage sticker applied top center. When my buddy Marck went and applied a much larger Sage sticker to his Toyota Forerunner, I got competitive and devised a plan: my mission became that of, “Marck ‘s may be bigger, but I’ll have more.” And so began my quest for domination. I like to rep the local fly fly shop, so on went an All About The Fly decal. Next I decided I should fly the colors of the Coastal Conservation Association and the Euro-style STLHD sticker from Moldy Chum to profess my fondness for the anadromous fishes.  That trifecta provided a nice clean look: simple, balanced.  Being a graphic designer I like order, and design principals call for odd-numbered groupings (such as 3 and 5). Three was good, so 5 would be better, right?  Simple algebra, so a couple more were applied. Then came the annual  trip to Montana and Yellowstone Park which resulted in a couple more stickers from the Stonefly Inn & Outfitters and Blue Ribbon Flies. I paused to take stock of what was happening on the canopy glass and reassured myself that it wasn’t too bad. So I added a couple more.

Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler took notice and commented on the growing collection. “I see you got some new stickers,” she said in a tone that was clearly one of judgment being passed more than a simple observation being made. I shrugged it off as jealousy and went about sifting through the stash of stickers I had collected over time but never applied. I extracted a few strategic samples and placed them in an orderly arrangement flanking the perimeter of the window glass. I told myself that as long as I maintained an order I wasn’t out of control. Soon after that I got my hands on an Airflo sticker that didn’t fit neatly into the existing arrangement so I put it where I could and acknowledged that it marked the beginning of chaos. Mrs. UA now just rolls her eyes each time she notices a new sticker.

But I am not completely alone in this strange obsession, and misery loves company. Today I’ll take a look at a few folks – some of whom I know in person, others whom I know virtually in the interweb sorta way – all of whom are passionate about fly fishing and have something to say about the stickers on their vehicles. Disclaimer: It is the responsibility of the press to report the news, not impart opinion or edit facts to suit the personal needs of the reporter. To that end I have not edited any of the information, nor do I necessarily agree or disagree with what has been stated by others. Edward R. Murrow would be proud, for journalistic integrity is not dead.

Mike Nutto: Scandalous Fly Fishing Brothers blog

“I only have companies I think are good on my truck. There is a ton of garbage out so I wont support them. I wouldn’t even support them if they asked me to be sponsored by them! So it is like that when it comes to stuff on my truck. I try a lot of stuff out and if it fails me once I’ll take the sticker off my truck, I have a Ross Reel sticker on my computer. I hate my Ross Reel so much and I hate that the sticker is on my computer now so I’m slowly covering it up!”

A fly fishing sticker on a computer is cool. However, a computer sticker on a fly fishing vehicle is not. I love my Apple G5, but I’m not putting an Apple sticker on my truck. I’m not one to judge, but I will say that I’ve got several Ross Reels and I’ve not had any issues. In fact, I like ‘em all. Making a product that can stand up to the rigorous demands of every hardcore fisherman is a tall order. Speaking of tall, our next featured fisherman is Josh Mills.

Josh Mills: Chucking Line and Chasing Tail

“I have to keep it somewhat classy in the advertising field… so I keep my logo’s to three:

1.  The Silver Bow–my buddy’s fly shop in town, and a really cool logo if I must say
2.  Moldy Chum’s steelhead logo…cause it’s all I want to fish for
3.  The original Moldy Chum fly…cause I dig it and it looks classy. I also added the license plate holder.  My wife says that if I add more, a line will have been crossed – the invisible one that separates normal from nutty.”  [Josh also sent along a photo of the sticker collection belonging to his father, Old Man River, who reportedly out-fishes Josh every time they go out.]

Classy?  What’s that? Cross that line, Josh.  Throw caution to the wind and publicly jump into the waters of nuttiness –the water’s fine!

Which raises an interesting point: When is too much of a good thing a bad thing? As far as I am concerned, never. Unless the mass of stickers becomes so dense that the driver can no longer see out the rear window of their rig.  One way to avoid that is to apply the stickers to the side windows, like Cameron Mortenson has done.

Cameron Mortenson: The Fiberglass Manifesto and Fishy Kid

“At last count I have almost fifty decals on the vehicle which represent TFM and Fishy Kid sponsors, friends, or just companies that I think are doing a good thing.  The badged-out Element has been a great conversation starter and a way to spread the word about Fishy Kid and TFM.”

Roger that, Cameron. Your rig certainly would be worthy of inquisition – great job with Fishy Kid and thanks for the photos.

Speaking of photos, the next offering was provided by Rich Schaff, who takes some amazing photos, and not just of his stickered truck.

Rich Schaff: East Fork Fly Photography

“You guessed right I’m a ’DECAL FREAK’…figured it safer than getting actual tattoos and earrings at my age. Guess they are a mid-life crisis sorta thing anyways… Guess we just want to
stay as immature as long as possible…Hope that’s a good thing.”

Yeah, Rich, I’d say it’s a good thing. And your immaturity makes me feel better about myself. I like the rationale that stickers are perhaps a safer choice than tats or piercings.

You won’t find body art anywhere on our next guest, even though my buddy Large Albacore is big enough that he could host a full size tattoo of the Space Needle on his back if he were so inclined.

Large Albacore:

“The STLHD, Airflo, and spey sticker are all about my love of fishing for steelhead w/ the two handed rod.  The other stickers, UA/Ross Reels/Winston rods are all my attempt to promote quality fishin’ stuff in my small way.  Overall, they communicate that a large part of my life/identity is tied up in fly fishing.  Kind of sick when I think about it.”

I’m not sure how the UA sticker qualifies for “quality fishin’ stuff” status, but thanks for flyin’ the colors. As for it being kind of sick, I would have to disagree. It seems a rather healthy indulgence if you ask me.

And for some like Derek Young, the indulgence isn’t just a personal thing, it’s professional advertising.

Derek Young: Emerging Rivers Guide Services and Fly Fish the Yakima

“To me, my stickers represent a few things. I’m proud to be the only Orvis Endorsed Guide here in WA, and I fly those flags proudly. I also think conservation is important, so I support TU and CleanAngling.org. But, and it’s reflected in my blog, my stickers (I think, anyways) signal my inclusion in the fly fishing culture that I am proud of, and it’s a personal signature of who I am.”

Just when you thought that fly fishing culture was reserved for just fishermen, our next featured angler is girl and an outdoors person through and through. You might even call her an outdooress…

Rebecca Garlock: The Outdooress

“I just got a the new FishCruiser a couple of weeks ago =) About the stickers. I’ve only put one on so far. I recently bought a new Waterworks-Lamson reel and it came with a sticker, so the timing gets credit for the first sticker placement. I plan on slapping a few more on the rig since I figure if I’m going to have an official FishCruiser, I might as well make it look the part. Now I just need to buy more crap so I can get more stickers. An angler can always find a legit excuse for buying new gear right? I should mention I’m also taking sticker placement applications, so if you want the official Unaccomplished Angler sticker on the FishCruiser you can submit the proper paperwork for review.”

Done. Anyone else who wants to apply for representation should contact Rebecca for the paperwork. I can vouch that it’s an easier application process than applying for a building permit.

In sticking with our female contingency, next up is a woman who can outcast most anybody – man or woman – with a Spey rod. I observed Mia Sheppard casting at the Jimmy Green Memorial Fly Fishing Expo and it made me realize I’m not a real Spey caster, no matter how long my rod.

Mia Sheppard: Little Creek Outfitters and Metalheads blog

“Our cars are pretty stickerless currently. Our old guide truck use to be covered in stickers.” But her husband’s ammo can is certainly worthy of mention.

Unfortunately no photos were available of the old guide truck. I hope you get those cars stickered up, Mia– the ammo can shouldn’t have all the fun.

Interesting that the subject of ammunition has come up, because Pat Konsoke applied one of his stickers to deter break-ins.

Pat Konoske: Fishing for Words

“Zero Limit (http://www.catchrelease.com/) – While I do subscribe to catch and release, the hope is that advertisement of this principle will allow my car to go unmolested on waters away from home and guarded by fanatical fly fishermen.

Diablo Valley Fly Fishermen logo (http://www.diablovalleyflyfish.org/) – Carefully placed in acknowledge of my turning away from the dark side. This is the club through which I attended an all-day fly fishing class, and for which I now serve as secretary and webmaster. (I never did learn to keep my head down.)

California Department of Fish & Game Warden Stamp (http://www.dfg.ca.gov/wardenstamp/) – The first California Game Warden stamp, from which the $5 cost supposedly goes into a special fund supporting game wardens. True or not, it warms my heart that in some small way I may be helping protect our resources. I figure in a few years, among the outdoor sports crowds, it’ll be like the now common “KMA” license plate frames of today. (KMA refers to the prefix of FCC callsigns for many law enforcement agencies.)

That’s my story…”

Nicely stated, Pat- what are you, a writer or something? I see and appreciate your reason for the Zero Limit sticker. Allow me to suggest a firearm sticker not in lieu of but in addition to your Zero Limit sticker for discouraging break-ins. Nothing scares a tweaker faster than an “Insured by Smith & Wesson” sticker.

I wouldn’t wish a break-in upon anyone, but if you were to be granted a welcome entry into the trailer of Rocky Maley, you would be in for a treat. I’ve only seen photos of the inside, and it’s awesome. The outside is like a billboard on wheels.

Rocky Maley: Fly Tier extraordinaire

“I bought it to tie in. It would be a lot cheaper than an addition to the house. And it’s easier than tent camping on fishing trips. I put the stickers on to add character to it.”

Not only cheaper, Rocky, but a whole lot cooler than an addition to the house, too because you can take your tying room with you on the road.

And if that road takes you in the vicinity of Ashton, Idaho, make sure you look up our next guest, Marc “Rowdy” Crapo.

Marc Crapo: Fly Wallets and No Sports Allowed

“I’ve held off for many years when it comes to putting decals on my rig. I hate to advertise for anyone unless they are legit and badass, a sponsor, and or (of course) me.”

Rowdy, you’ve got high, if not impossible standards! Guess those high standards are why your fly wallets kick so much butt.

Anyway, there you have it – a few perspectives from folks who are stuck on fly fishing and fly fishing’s stuck on them (or at least their cars). Fly fishing is more than just a sport, it’s a culture. It consumes and defines many who venture into it, and we fly the flags of our obsession proudly.

It’s no coincidence that this hot topic is being discussed elsewhere as we speak.  Take a click over to  Fishing for Words AND Fly Fish the Yakima for more on this matter of the fascination with fly fishing stickers.

PS- if you have some vacancy on your fishing rig, drift boat or tricycle, please consider adding an Olive the Woolly Bugger sticker. All proceeds go to support Casting 4 A Cure to help find a cure for Rett Syndrome and support those families dealing with this terrible disease. They’re available over at Myflies.com.

If you guessed that my fame comes from being a best-selling author of fly fishing books you’d be wrong again because I haven’t quite yet reached that status (although I did have my ten minutes of fame a couple of years ago). But like the river temperatures in summer, you’re getting warmer because I am famous for something having to do with fishing: it would seem I’m famous for a line of fishing bait.  That’s right, Werner’s Wigglers.

My non-fishing friend “Big Fritter” was recently on a week-long bike ride up into Canada. No, he’s not a middle-aged over achiever so instead of pedals and 15 gears, his bike has a V-twin engine and a Harley Davidson badge on the gas tank (and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t wear neon spandex while he rides, either). After a less than welcoming stay (due to weather) north of the border, he and his biker gang cut a swath of terror as they rode south through Glacier National Park and into Northern Idaho, striking fear into innocent families on summer vacations. As Fritter and his band of rogue compadres rumbled through the vicinity of Sandpoint, Idaho, they stopped for some reason unbeknownst to me – perhaps to guzzle beer, beat up the locals and steal their women. Probably it was just to buy some gas and use the restroom.  Whatever the case may have been, Fritter snapped a photo of  simple sign in the window of a convenience store – photo that would forever change my life.

Like all kids I spent a fair amount of time dangling worms under a bobber, and even though I caught my fair share of fish I never really enjoyed that method of fish deception all that much. Even armed with the knowledge that fish would rather take a chunk of fleshy bait over a synthetic insect imitation any day, fly fishing captured my heart and soul and to this day defines who I am. Not being a bait angler suits me just fine. I mean, who besides porn seekers would read a blog titled “The Unccomplished Worm Dangler”? No porn here, other than the very occasional fish porn.

I find it highly ironic that the slogan for Werner’s Wigglers is: “Try ‘Em You’ll Like’m, The Fish Do”. In my last three outings, I’ve been skunked (and only one of those trips was for steelhead, in which case one expects to not catch fish). Clearly the fish don’t much care for me and it would appear that I am not worthy of the Wiggler name. Perhaps I should invent a really fishy looking pattern that’s a cross between a San Juan Worm and a Woolly Bugger, tied on an articulated hook, and call it the Werner Wiggler!  Nah, I don’t want to be famous for copyright infringement either.

Regardless of my fishing prowess or lack thereof, here I am – famous (if even mistakenly so) for night crawlers and red tiger worms, cured bait such as Prongs and Coontails, frozen bait (sardines, smelt and herring) and even meal worms and maggots.  Yes, maggots. Had I known all this before, the character in my books might have been Maggie the Maggot instead of Olive the Woolly Bugger. Hey now– there’s idea for another book (by Kirk Werner)!

In the meantime I wonder if I can get a pro form deal on some Werner’s Wigglers?

After 3 months of broken Spring weather that saw a total of 5 days of sun in April, May and June, and temperatures that were 5-10 degrees below average with more rain that we needed, we Pacific Northwesterners have finally climbed out of our rut.  The 4th of July was cloudy and cool and ended on a sour, rainy note.  As is so often the case, summer seemed to finally arrive on July 5th, and after that it was official: we were headed toward a “heat wave” of sorts. The hottest day of the week is supposed to be Thursday July 8th, when the Seattle area should see temperatures in the MID NINETIES!!!

While that may not sound hot to those of you currently sweltering in other parts of the country, please realize that we here in the Puget Sound region are admittedly weather wimps.  We bitch when the temperature gets below freezing, and we bellyache when it gets above 85. But it’s not really our fault – we’re simply victims of environmental circumstance. One reason for our complaining is simply the physical inability to tolerate it. We’ve become acclimated to fairly mild weather here; everything seems to be in moderation so when that happy medium is violated things go horribly awry (one such manifestation of this weather-induced chaos is that we seem to lose all common sense and the ability to drive our vehicles).

Another reason for our inability to tolerate more-or-less-than-average weather can be blamed on the local television stations. The newscasters turn any unusual weather into front page news, and we the people simply have no choice but to follow suit. The result is that people talk of nothing but weather, and most often it takes the form of complaining.

It’s actually quite amusing the way the local network affiliates assign pet names for our weather events around here.  Snow storms become something much more daunting when named “Winter Blast” or “Artic Freeze”.  Wind storms, while they may not warrant first names like those given to Hurricanes, take on a certain persona when labeled ” The Hanukkah Eve Wind Storm of 2006″ or the “Inauguration Day Storm” (1993). Similarly, an unusually spell of warm weather, even if only 2-3 days in duration (like this one), begs to be named.  The local Fox affiliate (Q13) actually had a reader contest to name this latest “heat wave” (which they admit does not actually constitute an actual heat wave).  People submitted names, the powers that be voted, and it has been declared “Quick Fry in July”. I admit, it’s kinda catchy although I would have preferred simply “The July Fry” which was conceived of by a friend of a friend on Facebook. I would have submitted “Seattle Sizzler” but there’s more to the Northwest than just Seattle (although it sure seems as though Seattle controls politics around here). But I digress.

So yes, it’s going to get a little warm for our pale gray, moss-covered maritime hides. But you won’t find me complaining. Au contraire, I actually look forward to extreme weather events because it’s more interesting than the bland weather we have most of the time.  When our barometer either plunges or skyrockets, we can rest assured that we are in for some of the finest news-based entertainment available.  And some of that entertainment comes in the form of Jim Forman, reporter for the local NBC affiliate, KING 5.  “Danger Jim” as he is affectionately known in some circles, is the go-to guy when every other reporter is cowering under their desk in the newsroom. It would appear that Mr. Forman is the last bastion of bravery – the one reporter whom the news director can count on in a weather crisis. You’ll find Danger Jim in the eye of the hurricane, directly in the path of an avalanche, standing toe-to-toe with a PMSing Mother Nature as she gets her rage on. I always feel a little better knowing that Danger Jim is on duty, and with the mercury headed north, I can rest easy knowing he’ll be on location (probably at an asphalt plant wearing a black sweater and asbestos trousers) risking his own safety for that of others. I just hope he’s got his Smartshield sunscreen. Be safe, Jim.

In all seriousness (because I realize severe weather can be detrimental to one’s health and well being), I hope all 7 of my loyal readers are staying relatively comfortable in this sweltering onslaught of summer. I’ve decided that the best way for me to endure the hottest day of the year thus far is to go fishing. The Yakima River showed her cold shoulder last time, so I hope she’s warmed up a little.  It could reach 100 degrees in the Yakima Canyon tomorrow, but that’s OK – it’s a dry heat.

So there you have it – my blog this week is giving way to the heat. I just wouldn’t be fair of me to expect any of you to sit in front of your heat-generating computer monitors reading things you can certainly do without.  In fact, I recommend you power-down your laptops and desktops completely. With all the fans and AC units working overtime to keep the peace we don’t want to have to contend with a power brown out, although it would be fun to see what name the news stations would assign to that.