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.

A couple of months ago while my kids were on Spring Break, my son and I were scheduled to spend a day bonding with fly rods in our hands.  I’d made arrangements for Schpanky and I to float the Yakima River with Derek Young of Emering Rivers Guide Services, and we’d been looking forward to Spring Break and the fishing trip for quite some time. To make a long story short, Spring was broken. Mother Nature showed her dark side and the trip was called off the night before due to winter-like weather. Come Hell or high water, I was determined to get the lad out on the water sooner or later, so we rescheduled for a later time when school was out and summer weather would prevail. So we waited for two months and endured a very cold, wet Spring in the process. For those who like to dwell on the negative, the Seattle area enjoyed 0 days of sunshine in April 2010, 2 days of sunshine during of May 2010, and up until the 21st of the month, only 1 day of sunshine for June 2010. The new date for our trip was June 22^nd, and when the day finally arrived it looked as though Mother Nature would finally smile upon us. We needed some sun and some good fishing, and because the high summer flows had not yet begun, the promise of good conditions and maybe some Salmonflies had us jonesin’ to go.  At least me, that is.

I’s Be Troubled

The night before our trip, Schpanky had gone to bed early and ended up logging 14 hours of shut-eye.  While it’s not uncommon for a 16 year-old to spend a good majority of their time unconscious, the early retreat signaled that something beyond growing bones and overactive hormones was amiss.  When I awakened him on the morning of our trip his bedroom smelled of death. Fortunately that was just the odor from the pile of dirty cloths lying on the floor. His vital signs were strong, though it was clear that he was not feeling well. This was troubling, but there would be no canceling the trip again. Like any good parent I doped him up with some Tylenol Cold, vitamins and a couple shots of Dry Fly whiskey. OK, not really – it was just one shot (Note to Schpanky’s mom, AKA Mrs. UA: I’m kidding). The boy was moving at a snail’s pace as we loaded up the truck with our gear. No time for breakfast, he grabbed a couple pieces of toast and a slice of bacon to eat as we drove to meet Derek. One piece of toast slowly found it’s way to his digestive system, while the other slice of toast and the bacon sat untouched on the dashboard of the truck, getting cold.  Not one to waste a perfectly good piece of toast and bacon, I quickly consumed them both.

So Glad, Baby

Jumping ahead to the town of Cle Elum, we stopped at Owen’s Meats for a few sticks of the best pepperoni in the known world before driving to the Bristol launch east of town. We’d be doing a 5 mile float that would take us all day toward the town of Thorp. The weather forecasters appeared to have finally gotten it right, and blue skies and no wind greeted us as we received our pre-launch safety instructions from Derek prior to launching his new raft, The Green Drake (A Maravia raft outfitted for fly fishing by StreamTech Boats of Boise, Idaho).  I assumed my duties as Rear Admiral, giving up the hot seat in the bow to the lad who was feeling not-so-hot. Whether it was the good weather or the drugs finally kicking in, Schpanky seemed a bit more chipper as we set off downstream in quest of trout. The water temperature was right about 56 degrees, and there was a fair amount of debris in the water, but clarity was 3-4 feet. The previous day Derek had floated with a couple of clients and encountered strong winds, but ample trout-based opportunities. The wind was not a factor on this day, so we anticipated a glorious day in all regards. I’ve rarely been more excited to start a day on the water than I was on this day.

You Gonna Need My Help

Derek is a great teacher, which is why I had wanted to get the lad out on the water with him. Schpanky has fished with me since he was about 11 years old, and he had learned decent fundamental skills and caught a few fish.  But I wanted him to advance his skills and catch more fish. Thus enter Derek. Throughout the day he worked with Schpanky in a calm but enthusiastic manner, giving him pointers on his casting and talking about insects, river dynamics and fish behavior. And giving him more pointers on his casting. We’d been throwing dries all day, but Derek strung up a third rod and schooled the boy on nymph fishing and roll casting.  I soaked up the sun and remarked that if I’d been the one doing all the same talking and correcting, fisticuffs would have broken out between Father and Son and only one of us would have made it home alive.  And Mrs. UA would never have forgiven her little boy for having dispatched of me somewhere in the Upper Yakima Canyon.

Tough Times

The lad remained uncharacteristically quiet for most of the morning, and had I not known he was feeling poorly I would have accused him of acting like a brooding teenager who was simply showing his displeasure at the lack of catching. As mid-day approached we found ourselves fishless. It’s not that either of us lost any fish, we simply had no hookups.  But we were never without hope, and to his credit, Schpanky kept at it. A guide on the oars of a passing boat commented about the rising water and said that the river had come up over 250 cfs in the past three hours.  Come to think of it, the water had gotten dirty and visibility was greatly reduced over what it was when we had put in. Derek declared that it was time to pull out the “Trout Candy” to hopefully entice the fish to look up and take an offering that was too good to deny.  I was confident that no trout in its right mind could ignore these patterns that resembled something out of a Dr. Seuss book (sort of a cross between a stimulator and a circus clown). But all the Trout Candy succeeded in doing was to make the fishermen hungry so we opted to pull over to enjoy lunch on the same gravel bar where Derek had eaten lunch 24 hours earlier.  A lot had changed since the day before, and there was much less gravel bar visible now.  While the fish may have been fasting, Derek fed us well with homemade Turkey sandwiches that weighed at least 2 lbs each.  Always the teacher, he showed me how to open a bag of Oreos using the easy open pull tab instead of using my teeth to tear open the packaging. What will they think of next?!

You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had

There are always frustrations when fly fishing, particularly for those with limited experience.  Not that anyone was keeping track, but Schpanky lost 8 flies during the course of the day. Fortunately these were flies that Derek had supplied and not me, because I would have deducted the cost from his allowance.  Since he doesn’t get an allowance, I’d have simply charged him for the flies. He’s got a job at the Carnation Golf Course so he could afford it if need be. I wish I could say that the flies were broken off by fish, but such was not the case. The good thing about that is that the lad never lost a fish.  The bad thing is that he never got a chance to lose a fish.  Me neither for that matter.

Blow Wind, Blow

The calm start to the day gave way to the four letter word:  W#nd.  It’s well nigh impossible to avoid the w#nd completely this time of year, but there’s always hope that the air will be still. The fact of the matter is that fly fishing and w#nd go together like oil and water: they don’t mix well. However, they also go hand-in-hand, so to become a fly angling person one has to learn to deal with the w#nd.  Schpanky got plenty of opportunity to do that, which led to the increase in lost flies and frustration.  Catching just one fish would have done away with all the other worries of the day.

Muddy Water Shuffle

As if Mother Nature’s decision to unleash the w#nd wasn’t enough, another entity added a big dose of salt to the wound: as the day wore on the river continued to rise slowly and visibility was rapidly lost. This is not the recipe for good catching, and while we saw a couple fish rise, they did so only once and not to our flies. The high water put them down and sealed their lips. Mother Nature started exhaling heavily on us and the w#nd grew frustrating at times. After piling up his fly and leader into an impressive wind-aided bird’s nest, I saw Schpanky’s cheeks puff up and then deflate as the telltale sign of frustration reared its ugly head.  Things appeared dire, but we were never completely without hope. Derek’s is a master at sensing the plummeting mood of his companions and steering them away from the dark abyss of self pity, so he cheered us on as we continued to pound the banks with big salmonfly patterns and smaller caddis and PMD imitations, all to no avail. Even my Lucky Fishing Hat wasn’t enough to save us from a double skunking.

(I Feel Like) Going Home

We tucked our collective tails between our legs and terminated our float: time of death shortly past 7 PM. I always hate the end of a day spent fishing, but I could see it in the lad’s eyes: the second dose of Tylenol had worn off, and all he wanted to do was get home and hit the sack. Derek and I weren’t quite so content to drive home without a rational explanation for our defeat, so we performed a final water clarity test and determined that the visibility had been reduced to 4 inches at best. Driving home we noted that the Cle Elum River, which dumps into the Yakima River west of the town of Cle Elum was the muddy water culprit. Apparently the Army Corps of Engineers failed to check with us first before deciding to discharge water from the Lake Cle Elum reservoir prior to our trip.  Derek’s enthusiasm was seemingly boundless, however, and he pointed out that we’d simply have to do it again.

Come Back, Baby

That we shall.

We departed West Yellowstone at a very reasonable hour and drove toward the last leg of our Montana Trout Trip: The Madison River at Three Dollar Bridge.  It was a beautiful, calm morning as we skirted the shores of Hebgen Lake: the water’s surface was like a giant millpond, and reflected a mostly blue sky.  It was a welcome relief to see the sun for the first time on our trip (and for the first time in about 2 months overall).  We stopped at the Quake Lake Visitor’s Center for a little tourist activity. It was Memorial Day and the flag flew at half staff.  I never knew this before, but prior to 1971 Memorial Day was known as Decoration Day.  I must not have paid much attention to this for the first 8 years of my life, because I always remember it as Memorial Day. But one can learn something new every day if they’re willing, and I’m always interested in acquiring new knowledge. I have a thirst for anything new and different – you might say that I embrace change (Mrs. UA just spewed coffee on her keyboard after reading this).

Quake Lake.

While we were taking in the views of Quake Lake and the slide area, we saw a herd of elk, Bighorn sheep and mountain goats on the ridge above the visitor’s center.  After having just spent two days in Yellowstone where wildlife sightings are commonplace, it was still pretty cool to see all these critters.

Earthquake slide area.

We arrived at Three Dollar Bridge around 9 AM, geared up under mostly sunny skies and dressed according to the balmy weather.  It was 57 degrees, which meant the fleece would not be needed for a change (which was a good thing, because over the last few days it had taken on a certain man-musk odor).  The wind was light, the river wasn’t horribly high and the water had some clarity (whereas the year before it was much higher and had a visibility of exactly zero). There were 4 other rigs in the parking lot which seemed a bit surprising given the Holiday and all.  We expected it to be much busier than that.  With our 6 weight rods rigged with Pat’s Stones and San Juan Worm droppers and indicators, we made our way upstream to fish the mighty Madison.

For you history buffs, the Madison was named in July 1805 by Meriwether Lewis (who suffered from manic depression) at Three Forks, where the Madison joins two other rivers to form the Missouri. The Madison was named for then-U.S. Secretary of State James Madison, the 4^th President of the United States who is considered one of the Founding Fathers of the nation. The other two forks are, of course, the Jefferson and the Gallatin (named after two other famous dudes from that era). Based on images of Madison, I’m going to suggest that he was a stern, humorless man who rarely, if ever, enjoyed a good laugh. Assuming that to be the case, it was fitting that the Madison River was named after him. After my first visit to fish the river at this location, I had found very little to laugh about. I was fully intending to change that this time around.

The very serious James Madison.

Jimmy and Stan had never fished the Madison before, and requested a quick lesson on how to get it done.  Given that I had caught 2 fish last year at this location while Marck caught upwards of 15, I deferred to him.  While we watched, Marck chucked his tackle into the seam below an upstream rock, and threw in a quick mend.  “You want to let it drift right through the seam. Fish will be sitting in the calm water inside the current,” he declared with all the confidence of a Fishy Dude.  “The takes will be subtle”, he added, “So every time your indicator dips, set the hoo—“  The take was not subtle, and Marck’s reel sang as the fish took off at warp speed for the fast current.  Marck ran down the bank, holding his rod high and tightening the drag on his reel to prevent it from spooling as the fish put distance very quickly between itself and Marck.  I’d never seen a trout run that hard and fast, and Marck was close to his backing before he turned the brown and brought it to hand.  It was no hog but it was a very respectable fish and a textbook demonstration on how to fish the Madison.  It looked easy enough, so we spread out and each began to attempt similar feats of fishing. The river temperature was 44 degrees – plenty warm enough for the trout to be feeding.  I was looking forward redeeming myself after a rather lackluster experience the year before.

I fairly quickly got into a smallish rainbow that measured only 12-13 inches (small for this area), but it gave me sense of confidence.  A false sense of confidence to be very clear.  Jimmy also got into a decent fish quickly, and lost another.  I don’t know what fate Stan encountered as he was a good distance below, but I think he wasn’t having much luck.  After a couple more hours of fruitless fishing, Jimmy and I decided to make our way downstream to see how Stan and Marck were fairing, and suggest we break for lunch. As we hoarked down sandwiches, we collectively agreed that it felt great to have the sun baking off the moss and mold we’d accumulated over the past three days of fishing.  Three out of the four of us also agreed that the Madison was dishing out some punishment, and we wore the despair on our faces. Stan had caught one 8 inch fish in the morning, so between Stan, Jimmy and me, we’d caught less than one third the number of fish Marck had caught. And while we had been out fishing, the parking lot had filled with a dozen vehicles. Anglers were spread out in all directions as far as the eye could see and it was clear that we would have to walk a long way to find unoccupied water. After finishing our lunch we crossed the bridge and headed upriver on the opposite bank.

I had no action on the end of my line for the next hour. I decided that my flies weren’t getting down to where the fish were hiding, so I changed things up a bit by going with a tungsten head Golden Stone up top with a larger San Juan Worm underneath.  I was immediately getting down deeper, and consequently hanging up on every rock/branch possible.  Being one who openly embraces change, I adapted to the conditions by adjusting the depth of my indicator. I proceeded to hang up much less. I didn’t catch any fish, either, and after another half hour I switched to a rubber-legged woolly bugger and began stripping through some deeper pools.  I still wasn’t catching any fish, but at least I was actively engaged in working my fly rather than watching a bobber.

As I hiked upriver to a new spot I passed Stan, who finally had a bend in his rod. “Sweet!”  I yelled as I dashed toward him, “I’ll help you land it!” You could see on his face that Stan was a man with rejuvenated hope and faith as he turned the fish toward shore. I was truly happy for Stan as I reached toward the fish.  He was going to get a photo op afterall – something to commemorate his day on the great Madison River! As I reached to tail the fish and remove the fly, I proceeded instead to knock the fish loose. Accidentally, mind you.  We watched as the pretty brown of about 15 inches sprinted into the current.  There was really nothing I could say other than “Sorry, man, I…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. I thought about punching myself in the gut to save Stan the trouble of having to do so, but realized self abuse was not the way. I dipped my head in shame and walked off to be alone.  Words cannot describe the misery I felt. Stan had worked hard for that fish. He wouldn’t get another fish the rest of the day, nor would I.  But Marck would. We’d lost track of Jimmy, but we played leap-frog with Marck throughout the rest of the afternoon.  At one point Stan stood on the bank taunting watching Marck, who proceeded to catch not one but two more fish in rapid succession. The only bright spot in the day came when Marck stepped into a mud bog and sank up to his knees.  Stan and I enjoyed seeing him struggle, but eventually helped him out. It’s not Marck’s fault that we didn’t catch fish.

The sky had begun to cloud up and the wind was bringing in a new supply of rain as we arrived back at the parking lot. Jimmy was already there, and had been for some time.  As with Stan and me, the Madison had kicked Jimmy’s ass. Butt rather than stand on the banks of the river and continually absorb the savage beating, he did the smart thing by tapping out early and reducing the damage. We stowed our gear in the back of the Suburban, hoisted a beer to celebrate Marck’s good fortune and drove across Three Dollar Bridge. As we put distance between ourselves and the river named by a depressed explorer for the humorless 4^th president of the United States, I could have sworn I heard the ghost of James Madison laughing.  Turns out it was just Marck.

Three Dollar Bridge over the Madison River.

A while ago I was  approached by the manufacturers of Smartshield® oil free sunscreen to perform a field test and review of their sunscreen.  This is the first time I’ve been tasked with reviewing a product, and I’ll admit – it made me feel kinda like a big shot. I was given no compensation for my review, other than a free tube of the product.  If there was something about the product I did not like, I would be honest and declare the shortcomings herein.  However, I found nothing not to like about Smartshield, which is an all natural, eco-friendly sunscreen.

Admittedly I haven’t had much opportunity to test the product because the Pacific Northwest has been shrouded under a dark cloud of despair and cooler/wetter than normal weather for the past 3 months. When finally a warm, sunny day presented itself, I grabbed my fly rod and tube of Smartshield (30 spf) and set off for the Yakima River in hopes of catching some trout and a good case of sunburn to bake away the pasty white skin courteous of our northwest Spring weather. Neither happened. Unfortunately the fishing was unproductive, and the Smartshield proved worthy of it’s name.

The first point of inspection was the smell test.  Some sunscreens have a less than savory scent that resembles gin, cigarette smoke and body odor.  Others have a medicated aroma to them, while others yet smell too sweet and perfumy.  Not so with Smartshield’s clean, fresh scent.

It goes on smoothly without an oily feel, and absorbs instantly into the skin. My hands had none of that greasy residue that many sunscreens leave behind.  When you’re handling fishing gear with the skill that I do, there’s no room for slippery hands. The aloe vera content leaves the skin feeling smooth as a trout’s skin, though fortunately without the protective slime coating.

After 8 hours on the water, with the sun beating down from above and reflecting from below, the verdict was that Smartshield is a worthy product. To quote my fishing companion for the day (Derek Young, owner of Emerging Rivers Guide Services) “I don’t have that ‘I’ve been wearing sunscreen all day’ feeling.” Well said.

I would have to agree, and give Smartshield two non-greasy thumbs-up.

The first person to respond to this review by posting a comment (and then sending me your mailing address) will receive a complimentary tube of Smartshield. For others, the following coupon code is good for $2.00 off any online order at Smartshield.com: Sun2

As noted, this is my first solicited product review.  I enjoyed it and I’m open to reviewing other fly fishing related products. I would welcome inquiries from other manufacturers such as Simms, Sage, Ross Reels, Clackacraft Drift Boats, etc.

The Jimmy Green Memorial Fly Fishing Fair and Casting Expo is a lot like Woodstock was.

• One was a festival held at a dairy farm near White Lake in upstate New York.  The other is held at Lake Tye in Monroe, Washington where there used to be many dairy farms.

• Woodstock was billed as an “Aquarian” exposition. Aquarius is the Zodiac sign of the “water bearer” which has something to do with water.  The Jimmy Green is billed as a fly fishing exposition, which has something to do with water.

• Northwest legend Jimi Hendrix rocked the Woodstock event. The Northwest event named for the legendary Jimmy Green rocks.

• The 60′s were a turbulent decade filled with war, social unrest, and a sense that the world was spinning out of control. One could easily say the same thing about current times. Music and fly fishing are both be a nice escape from the real world.

• Woodstock was a free concert that brought folks together for 3 days of peace and music. The Jimmy Green is a free expo that brings folks together for a piece of fly fishing.

• It rained off and on at Woodstock, and people got wet. Surprisingly, it did not rain on the Jimmy Green event this year, though it threatened.  The only people who got wet were the ones standing in the lake.

• 32 acts took the stage at Woodstock in 1969. There were over 32 exhibitors and presenters at the Jimmy Green in 2010.

• There was a “freak out tent” at Woodstock for attendees who were suffering from a bad trip.  There were booths at Jimmy Green where attendees could talk to guides about booking a freakin’ awesome trip.

• I wasn’t at the Woodstock festival in 1969 (I was only 6 years old), and I wasn’t at the first annual Jimmy Green event in 2009 (I was 46 years old).

I can’t change history and attend Woodstock, but I was determined not to let history repeat itself by missing the Jimmy Green event this year.

I made good on that  promise to myself, and I had a great time. There were casting competitions, demonstrations and seminars, and loads of great folks assembled from the Pacific Northwest fly fishing industry. Exhibitors came from near and far to show their passion for the sport with those who attended as visitors. The list of booths was impressive and spanned the full gamut from conservation and education groups, to guides, fly shops and rod and tackle manufacturer reps. There was even a booth promoting a series of kid’s fly fishing books featuring Olive the Woolly Bugger- oh wait, that was me.  Heh heh. I met a lot of nice folks who stopped by my booth to chat about fishing, learn a little bit about my books and enter a free raffle.  Three lucky winners were drawn and received signed editions of Olive the Little Woolly Bugger, and 4 others received Olive fishing hats (I hope the hats prove lucky).  One dad visited my booth with his two young boys. They’d already become familiar with the books so they just stopped by for a photo op with the big shot author.  Probably best that the kids don’t know that I’m really just an unaccomplished angler.

Being an exhibitor I didn’t get much opportunity to walk around and shake hands with many of the other folks. Luckily I did have a chance to kick tires with a few new and old friends including Leland Miyawaki from the Bellevue Orvis shop, Derek Young from Emerging Rivers Guide Services, Ron and Kristin Torda from All About the Fly, Brian Paige from Steelhead Fly Anglers, Ted Truglio and Jason Boitano from Troutwater Guide Services, Ryan Smith from Arch Anglers, Dylan Rose of Skate the Fly, Mia Shepperd from Little Creek Outfitters, Dick Sagara from TFO Rods. Nathan Keen from the Avid Angler did a great job on the megaphone and making sure things ran smoothly. Camp Chef extraordinaire, Project Healing Waters champion and all around great guy Jerry Daschofsky made sure everyone was well fed. The folks from the Washington council of the Federation of Fly Fishers were excellent neighbors for the day. I also got to meet some great folks who were there as attendees. Some of those folks I’d “known” in an internet sort of way and finally was able to put a face to the screen name: I wasn’t disappointed, though I can’t speak for them.   There were more people I didn’t get to meet than those I did.

Another drawback to being tethered to my booth was that I didn’t get to listen, watch and learn from the pros like Mike Kinney who put on casting clinics. Other on-the-water demos included Anil Srivastava, Michael Bennet, Dave McCoy, Al Buhr, George Cook, Leland Miyawaki, Ryan Smith, Jerry French and Dan McCrimmon.

Nor was I able to participate in the casting competitions, luckily.  Watching the big boys busting out 140+ foot casts in the Spey casting competition was humbling.  I’m pretty sure I could hit 40 feet on a good day.

The one final downside to being an exhibitor was not being able to capture the event with photos.  Thankfully a lot of great photos were taken by others- here are a few:

Photos by Mia Sheppard

Photos by Dylan Rose

Photos by Paula Heath

After they had all gone home from Woodstock, those who attended discovered  that they had made history and would never be the same. Similarly “Nobody goes home a beginner from Jimmy Green.”

Sorry if you missed out on Woodstock.  If you haven’t been to the Jimmy Green Expo, you’re missing out.

Thanks to all who put the event together and to all who came out for the day. See you next year.

Bacon.

Sunday morning we got a 6:30 AM start to the day by grabbing some breakfast at The Three Bears. The food is always reliably good, although it’s hard to go wrong with eggs, hashbrowns and of course bacon. Again, eating was more a habitual thing than a necessary means of survival since the pizza from the night before was still in the process of being digested. But bacon goes good with anything, anytime, regardless of the need.  Bacon good. Let there be bacon.

After overloading our bodies with more food we set out through the gates of Yellowstone once again, destined this time for the Firehole River as it flows through Biscuit Basin (mmm…biscuits and gravy. And bacon). This second day was a balmy 33 degrees and windy to start, so while the ambient temperature was only a couple degrees colder than the previous day, the wind did made sure it felt even colder.  At least it stayed mostly dry throughout the day.

Biscuit Basin.

We dropped in below the foot bridge and staggered ourselves along both sides of the river.  Stan always likes to fish right under the bridge. Come to think of it he does resemble a troll, but it’s hard to fault him for it because he always catches fish there.  And this year was no exception. I worked a series of riffles below him, and after witnessing fish after fish on the end of his line, I moved a ways downstream. I caught a few fish, and the wind was in my favor so my casting actually felt pretty good for a change.  Mark had his sights set on a stretch of water 1/2 mile away and declared his intentions to catch the big brown that he’d caught last year in that same location.  It was a monsterous fish (according to Marck) for the Firehole: a 20+ incher that he accurately (allegedly) marked on his rod (or so he says).  Jimmy and Erique fished in the same vicinity as me, and as the day wore on the consensus was that everyone was catching fish.  Maybe not quite as many as we’d caught the previous day, but fishing was still very good.  We ran into another angler who mentioned that the Biscuit Basin area had been closed for a portion of the previous day due to “bear activity”, so it hadn’t likely seen as much fishing pressure as had there been bear inactivity.  We saw no bears, though Marck did notice a fresh track in the mud.

I tend to be more concerned with Bison than bears, because a bear isn’t likely going to waste it’s time trying to eat me (not enough meat on my bones to be worth the trouble). Whenever we’re fishing the Firehole there’s always bison activity, and a bison would likely find great sport in tossing my skinny arse into the air and kicking me around in the dirt. At one point we were all working a run near the road when I noticed a bunch of cars had pulled over and tourists were out of their vehicles with cameras pointed toward the river.  I assumed they were photographing Marck as he stood in one spot and caught fish after fish (though he never did manage to reunite with the “20+ inch Firehole brown”).  Just then a lone bull materialized in the distance. He sauntered along the riverbank past Marck and the others, and made his way slowly upstream. Toward me.  I was standing mid channel in a stretch of fairly fast moving water, and my footing was secure as long as I didn’t try to move. I glanced about and formulated a plan of escape in the event that the bull decided to walk across the river right where I was standing.  I really had no good options – retreat would be slow in the fast water, and I had no doubt that I’d be swept off my feet if I tried to move quickly. Getting soaked wouldn’t have enhanced the quality of the day at all.  Fortunately for me the bull he kept moving along the riverbank, taking his time as he moved upstream.

Bisquit Basin Bison.

After the Biscuit Basin Bison was out of sight, the photographers climbed back in their cars and moved on to the next point of interest, of which there is no shortage in this country. However, one photographer decided that of all the unusal things in the park, the Unaccomplished Angler was worth some space on his memory card.  I tried to pretend I didn’t see him, but this individual was fairly obvious as he stood in the open with his 800mm zoom lens trained directly on me.  Fortunately a rainbow tightened my line and I was able to show my audience how a real live fly angling man sets the hook, plays the fish deftly to hand and releases the fish quickly and efficiently.  I puffed up my chest, cocked my lucky fishing hat just a bit to the side and did my best Clint Eastwood squint (from behind polarized sunglasses).  Then I quickly proceeded to put a wind-aided tangle in my line. I waded carefully to the bank and sat down to work my way through the bird’s nest. Knowing that my every move was being documented I made short work of the mess, tied on a new section of tippet and a fly, and strode to my previous location to continue my work.  However, the paparazzi had fled the scene.  Apparently he hadn’t been interested in the “other” side of fly fishing.  Just as well.

Late in the day Jimmy and I approached a flat section of river that would be perfect for when the 3 pm hatch of PMD’s started coming off.  We sat and waited and watched another fisherman make 200 casts in some nearby water.  He was there for the same reason: to fish dries to rising fish.  But instead of taking the calm, calculated approach and waiting for bugs to hatch and the fish to turn on, he flogged the water incessantly. He made some friendly conversation about how yesterday he had absolutely slayed the fish on dries, announcing that “I musta caught 6 fish in an hour…say, while you guys are sitting there, do you mind if I fish through this riffle real quickly?”  After a while he gave up and hiked back to his car to ice his casting arm. The hatch never really materialized, though we did manage a couple fish on dries.  Marck and Erique converged upon the spot where Jimmy and I had been waiting patiently for two hours.  While they sat and watched, I tried unsuccessfully to entice a particularly stubborn fish that had been rising in a foam line several feet below us.  It was a tough drift that proved too much for me. Fortunately Marck just happened to be shooting some video, so while a fish was not captured, some excellent footage was. Remember: presentation is everything, especially when fishing a size 18 dry on 5x.

With our hopes of an epic hatch dashed, we retreated to the parking lot, broke down our rods and stowed our gear, bidding a fond farewell to the Firehole.  Back at the Ho Hum, we showered quickly and went in search of a good steak.  We were on the verge of starvation at this point, and were given some good intel that a new restaurant in town served up some fine steaks. I was hankering for ribs, but was advised to go with steak instead. That was a tough sacrifice I was willing to make, and as we entered the Montana Cattle Company, the smell of grilled flesh set the salivary glands into motion.  We were seated promptly, and then began The Long Wait. It was 15 minutes before our waitress stopped by our table with 5 glasses of water. Then she vanished again.  Over the next 20 minutes a couple of other restaurant employees, in a hurry to get elsewhere, reassured us that “we’ll be right with you!” When nothing happened, the manager showed up at our table and offered some consolation in the form of a couple plates of complimentary buffalo wings (I’m still not sure that they were actually buffalo wings as they tasted remarkably like chicken). Admittedly it was a nice PR gesture and we inhaled the wings, which were good. In another 15 minutes our waitress, wearing the expression of a deer caught in the headlights, apologized profusely and finally took our orders.  The Montana Cattle Company may have been established in 1879, but the restaurant in West Yellowstone had only been open for 3 days at the time of our visit. They clearly were not ready for business and were terribly understaffed. Amazingly, while it took forever to get our orders taken, the food arrived in nearly record time. That proved to be not such a good thing because two of the orders were mixed up, and all of the steaks were either under or over-cooked. I’m anything but a restaurant snob, and I will always give the waitstaff the benefit of the doubt. But a chef in a restaurant specializing in cooked cattle should know the difference between medium rare and overcooked boot leather. Oh well. As the manager pointed, it’s really hard to get good help in a town like West Yellowstone, especially on short notice.  I’m not saying you shouldn’t give the Montana Cattle Company a chance to prove that they’re worthy of your patronage, but next year I’ll stick to bacon and pizza. And if you’re looking for work in West Yellowstone, they’re hiring multiple positions.

Fortunately the evening didn’t end on that sour note. As we walking back to the Ho Hum I stopped in at the Book Peddler to see if they carried a particular series of titles featuring Olive the Woolly Bugger. The year before I had paid the owner a visit and told her about the books, and she indicated that she would order them.  I never know if shop owners actually plan to follow through with their intentions or just offer lip service to get rid of me. I was delighted that they had the first two titles in stock, though they do need to order more copies of Olive Goes for a Wild Ride. Jimmy did a little bit of rearranging to improve their shelf presence.

What with this being our last night in West Yellowstone, a normal younger group of guys would have opted to hit the town and whoop it up: drinkin’, fightin’ and getting tattoos. We opted instead to turn in at a reasonable hour because we had a date with The Madison in the morning. All except Erique, that is – he had to get up at 4 AM to make a 6:30 flight out of Bozeman. He would be home before we even arrived at Three Dollar Bridge.

With bellies swollen from our recent burger encounter in Ennis, we rolled into West Yellowstone under the cloak of darkness for a reunion with an old familiar friend, the Ho Hum Motel. Oh, and Erique too.  He had flown to Bozeman to conduct a bit of business earlier in the week, and his rental car was parked out front – he had arrived 6 hours earlier and was eagerly awaiting our arrival.  I’ve known Erique for years, and exactly what he does for a job is still shrouded in mystery. It involves prosthetic devices and he has at least one client who makes, among other things, clown shoes (I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that). Jimmy and I moved our gear into room #8 while Marck and Stan settled into the Big Room (#7) with Erique. Turns out the arrangement worked nicely because Erique can saw logs with the best of them (although I’m sure Stan’s reign as “Goosemaster” is in no danger of ending anytime soon). The Ho Hum had undergone some upgrades since the previous year, and the new bathroom tile in both rooms was a welcome upgrade. With the addition of new carpet in The Big Room, the accommodations bordered on lavish (our room still had the same red carpet and slightly-curious-though-not-necessarily-unpleasant smell leftover from 1958). But this isn’t a motel review, and the Ho Hum is always perfectly suited to our needs. We spend just enough time in our rooms to get a little shut-eye each night, nothing more. The day the Ho Hum gets all fancy on us is the day we search for a new dive, and I don’t think we’ll have to ever worry about that.

Normally we’re up at the crack of dawn and enter the park by 6:30 AM. However, we’d arrived too late the night before to purchase our National Park fishing permits so we slept in the next morning. We ate breakfast out of habit more than hunger (again, reference the burgers consumed for dinner the previous evening), and when the doors at Aarick’s Fly Shop opened at 7 AM we were first in line to purchase our permits and a handful of Secret Weapon flies. Erique fancied himself a sweet Dora The Explorer rod, but showed impressive restraint by leaving the shop with only a handful of flies (this was the second time in 6 months that I’ve had to convince a fishing buddy to not give in to impulse buying). We were layered up for the worst weather possible, which is always a likely scenario as West Yellowstone sits at an elevation of 6667 feet. The skies threatened rain/snow as we drove through the gates to the Park, received our information packet and proceeded quickly into Wyoming.  The information packet is essentially the same every year, but that doesn’t keep me from reading it front to back. I always heed the warnings about bison and make a mental note not to become a statistic. I figure as long as I’m quicker than at least one of my fishing buddies, I’ll be OK. I was shocked to learn this year that the Park was founded not in 1872 as I had always thought, but rather much more recently in 1972. Always the voice of reason, Marck quickly pointed out that it was simply a typographical error.  He should know, afterall–he’s been fishing the Firehole since the Park first opened.

Because of our later-than-normal start we were fortunate not to get stuck in rush hour traffic as we drove the 20 or so miles to our favorite spot on the Firehole River.  Apparently the herd of bison that usually take their sweet time sauntering down the middle of the road had already completed their morning commute, so we made excellent time. We dropped Erique’s car off at Fountain Flats, where we would finish out the day, and everyone piled into Mrs. Jimmy’s Suburban for the last leg of our drive.  As we arrived at Midway Geyser Basin (elevation 7251 feet) we noted that the parking lot was nearly empty. Usually the place is filled with tourists and other fishermen, and it’s not unusual for there to be a waiting line at the restroom. Save for 4 or 5 other vehicles, we were the only ones there. Perhaps the colder/wetter than normal spring weather had discouraged all but the most desperate hardiest of folks. The rain increased in volume and the outdoor temperature was a balmy 35 degrees as we strung up our rods, posed for a quick team photo, and mounted our assault on the ignorant trout of the Firehole. The river was running at ideal flows – almost 200 CFS lower than the previous year, and even then it fished pretty well. Anyone who knows the Firehole knows that it gives up trout willingly, and that’s exactly what draws us there each year. Sometimes an angler just wants some easy catching- good for the self esteem. Opening day of fishing in the Park was underway.

Another result of our later-than-normal start to the day was that more anglers were already stretched out along the water where we usually start fishing.  While there weren’t many cars in the parking lot, apparently every one of them belonged to fishermen and there must have been 6 or 7 other fishing folks plying the waters of the Firehole. Our posse of 5 pressed onward a bit farther.  The good thing about the brisk walk is that it warms the body. The bad thing about the brisk walk is that it gets the previous night’s supper moving. The dampness ensured that it felt much colder than it actually was and any bare skin not protected by a layer of fleece and Gore-tex felt the chill.  I hate fishing with gloves, but I hate fishing with cold hands even more so out came the Pro Angler Glacier Gloves.

In typical Firehole fashion, the first cast yielded a first fish, followed by several more casts and several more fish.  These fish hadn’t been harassed in probably 9-10 months, and they were as gullible as they come (though they do wise up quickly). In the first 20 minutes I managed to hook up with 10 or so fish (but who’s counting, right?).  All were rainbows save for one brown, and most were in the 8-11 inch range. Scrappy fighters, too – thrashing, jumping and head-shaking right up to the point of release and sometimes before then. Because of the geyser activity along many stretches of the river, the water temperature was almost 60 degrees. This speeds up the metabolism of the fish and gets them feeding actively and fighting like champs.

A cookie-cutter Firehole fish on a 4 wt can be a lot of fun, and if you’re fishing a 3 wt trout stick like Marck’s brand new Sage ZXL 376-4, every fish is a dandy.  I made the mistake of trying out the ZXL and instantly fell in love with it. It was smooth and soft casting without being a noodle, and paired with a Sage Click III reel the outfit weighed exactly nothing. By comparison my Sage Z-Axis 490-4 felt like a club, and I never thought I’d say that. To be very clear, my Z-Axis is anything but a club and it’s my favorite rod to fish with.  Still, just sayin’ – the ZXL was like holding a feather. Damn you, Marck.  The next time I ask to try out your new rod, deny me the privilege. You’ll be doing me a favor. (Note to Mrs. Unaccomplished Angler: I have not ordered another new rod. Yet)

While we’re on the subject of gear, I am inclined to mention my Sage Typhoon Waist Pack again.  Prior to this day I’d only used it once, and then it only sat in the bottom of Joe Willauer’s boat, getting rained on and fending off standing water.  Well, on this day I finally got to strap it on for 8 hours.  It was comfortable to the point where I forgot it was even there, except obviously for when I needed something from inside one of its many compartments and pockets.  The bag is a great design and very comfortable. Cinching it tight around my waist also provided the lower back support that a middle aged guy like me appreciates during a long day of wading. The cargo straps on the bottom of the bag are nice for when you want to roll up and stow a wading jacket or another bulky article of clothing. I didn’t do that on this day, as the weather dictated that every article of clothing was readily employed- it got neither warm nor dry enough to remove any layers. Two cold thumbs up for the Typhoon pack.

Back to the fishing. The five of us were spread out along the river as another group of 4 anglers passed behind us, hiking in search of some unoccupied water. I overheard one of them mutter something along the lines of, “I’ve never seen it this crowded on opening day before.”  I was thinking the same thing myself. Just then another trout tightened my line.

Lest one should think that catching a Firehole fish on every cast is the rule rather than the exception, it doesn’t happen quite so easily all the time. Yes, catching can be almost silly, particularly on the first day, but even then the angler is not immune to the occasional lull in the action. At around 1pm, just when the guys at Blue Ribbon Flies said it would happen, a small hatch of PMDs started popping.  However, the fish didn’t really turn on, and in a half hour I only managed one fish on an emerger pattern before switching back to a subsurface game. Same for Jimmy. The others had moved on and decided not to waste their time with this sorry excuse for a hatch. As we worked our way downstream I hit a big void in the catching game. To make matters worse, Jimmy kept himself rather busy with hookups.  I grew weary of witnessing his good fortune so I decided to pout retrace my steps and work the last stretch of water a second time. I was sure I’d missed a few fish on the last run, and my tattered fly was replaced with a brand new one in hopes of enticing a few holdouts.

As I walked upstream I noticed a lone bison walking slowly toward me about 50 yards away. I didn’t want to force the huge bull to back down out of intimidation so I decided this would be a good place to jump back in the river, wade to mid-channel, and give him a wide berth (for his own peace of mind). Then the wind kicked up suddenly, which is always a sign of another high country squall moving in.  The temperature dropped noticeably and the rain turned to snow.  Where I was fishing the river is flanked by stands of timber on both sides, which kept me mostly protected from the gale force winds that I would later learn were blowing my compadres off the river just a ½ mile downstream. In my state of heightened focus and determination to dig myself out of the trout deficit into which I’d fallen, I’d completely lost sight of the others. I turned my back to the driving snow and dug in. The big bull decided to wait out the storm and had bedded down in the trees a ways upstream. Every few minutes I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was still afraid of me.

The storm lasted about a half hour before the wind suddenly – and almost strangely – just stopped.  It grew very quiet as remnants of the snowstorm drifted down softly at this point. It was then that I heard the unmistakable sound of rising fish. I saw nothing and figured they must be sipping emergers, again.  Then the snow stopped completely, the temperature warmed up, and I began to see adult baetis drifting like tiny sailboats in the current, drying their wings as they went. They didn’t stand a chance against the hungry trout. A glance at my watch indicated it was just past 3pm.  I was about to wage battle, so off came the gloves both literally and figuratively. For the next two and a half hours I forgot about the bison and feverishly tossed a #18 parachute PMD to rising trout.  While I wouldn’t call it an “epic” hatch, it was significant and the fish were eager to take my fly as long as the drift was drag free (which it was not always).  I was completely self-absorbed in the good times and lost all track of the time. Call it a serious case of P.M.D. A.D.D.  When my arm finally got tired I checked my watch again: 5:30pm – time flies when you’re having a freakin’ blast.  The others were probably worried sick about me ready to head to the car by now so I decided I’d better reel up and beat a fast track downstream.

As I rounded the downstream bend in the river I saw a couple of anglers, but no sign of those familiar to me. I was puzzled by their absence – surely they’d encountered at least a residual hint of the hatch I’d been selfishly wallowing in, and I figured I’d see them tossing dries in the riffles. When I finally caught up with them after another 1/4 mile I learned that the snow storm had been much more ferocious where they’d been fishing, and the hatch was something only I’d encountered.  I did my best not to gloat because truth be told, I still caught fewer fish overall than anyone else. I’ve determined that it’s my lot in life to bring up the rear when it comes to catch quotas. So be it – I proudly and ocurageously embrace my privileged role as the least accomplished of anglers.

By the time we got back to the car it was 6:30. Day One on the Firehole had drawn to a close, and it had been another good one.  We celebrated by enjoying West Yellowstone’s best pizza at Wild West Pizzeria. A few pitchers of beer went down easily as we listened to a great live band (Tessie Lou and The Shotgun Stars) while watching UFC 114 on Pay-Per-View (cage fighting and Bluegrass – a match made in Heaven West Yellowstone).  The food was delicious and there’s something about a young lady with a Copenhagen can in her back pocket that made the Bluegrass sound all the more authentic. All fights on the UFC card, including the title bout between Rashad Evans and Rampage Jackson, were rather lackluster, but nobody forced us to watch and it was free. So were a couple pitchers of beer (an oversight on the part of our waitress). We tipped well and headed back to The Ho Hum by 11 pm.  Call us old and boring, but we had another date with the Firehole River in the morning, so we opted not to paint the town, just as we opted not to paint the town two nights earlier in Twin Bridges. And like Twin Bridges, West Yellowstone also has a statue of a painted trout in the heart of town. At first I thought it must just be a random Montana thing, but I poked around on the internet and found out that these “Fish Out of Water” sculptures were done as part of a fund raising project. During the summer of 2009, 12 of these painted trouts were sold at a live auction and raised over $60,000 for area charities and the Madison County Economic Development Council.

I want one.