Fly Fishig: Times Past and Far Away Places

Early on I discovered the Hornberg...Wet or dry didn't seem to matter so long as I pitched 'em on the straight and narrow...

...but that was later. In the beginning we drowned garden hackle but the bait of choice, seined minnows--run stripers in case you are interested--really got it done. We fished almost exclusively for half-starved brook trout since Pap ran the show and as far as I know never in all his life fished anywhere near where the stock trucks dumped "those friggin' fakes the bastards try to pawn off as trout." Pap was, you might say, somewhat opinionated when it came to fish and fishing methods. Later after I had decided to dedicate my life to becoming an "expert" fly chucker, Pap snorted at the idea. Said to the old man, "Charlie there's somethin' wrong with the boy, I mean, gezzus mighty, fishin' a sissy stick!!!

But as I say flies came later; half-starved brookies were flat out suckers for a strung up "minnie" as we called 'em.  And while it took a few seasons to get the hang of it by the time I graduated high school, not to brag, the hardest part of hauling a limit (8 daily, 6-inch minimum) was keeping the minnies alive in the jar, e.g. for the uninitiated in the audience, "dead minnies work but not for much."  Pap... 


Spinning rods were out there I guess but I didn't own one. Instead made do with telescoping steel poles and later el cheapo bamboo which of course were better though not much. My first bamboo was made somewhere in Asia--probably Japan--back in the day "Made in Japan" was something of a sick joke. The OM won it on a punch board at the Legion and I'm pretty sure the only reason he gave it to me was to try and appease Mom for yet another boys late night out. But that was their business. The important thing was "I" was now proud owner of a "real fly rod" and...Well, as they say, the rest is history; albeit a rather convoluted tale which I will continue to post off and on in the near future as time and duty dictate...over and out...

Beaverhead National Forest: Poking Around

Heavy duty guide schedule of the past couple weeks so tired the ol' boy all desire to rant was put on temporary hold...lucky you, eh? But of course we did muster up enough gumption to take advantage of a couple days off, do a little poking about in Canyon Creek--a place we haven't visited in several years. Carved by the lively, gin clear crick, towering limestone (and other rock we have yet to ID) cliffs, soaring golden eagles and the very real opportunity to glimpse all sorts of wildlife, including the resident goat herd (alas no goats this time) the awesome canyon itself is reason enough to go but...

Canyon Creek Charcoal Kilns

 

...the presence of these 23 (several restored) charcoal kilns makes it unique--one of a kind so far as I know.  The kilns turned wood into charcoal to fire the smelter at Glendale five miles east of here. Between 1894 and 1900 the smelter produced more than $20,000,000 from silver and lead ore mined in the surrounding Hecla Mining District—among the most productive in the state.

 A few miles further upstream the public road ends at this gate offering up a pretty nifty view of the still (mid-July) snow-splashed peaks of the East Pioneer Range. The ranch, by the way, is part of the Merewether Ranch which is currently in foreclosure so I assume CCGR is also? At any rate this day the place was abandoned. The nearby USFS campground is also closed at the moment to remove mountain pine beatle killed trees.

Gale could not resist (who could blame her?) tempting the crick's colorful brookies to sample her favorite Orange Stimi--obviously a ploy worked to perfection.

Fly Fishing: Record Runoff Over At Last

Bert Gildart Photo (click to enlarge)

At least it would seem that way as the Big Hole has dropped about 2000 cfs in the past 5 days and barring unforeseen downpours should continue to do so, although maybe not quite so dramatically. Still the flow is roughly 3 times the historic average for this late in July. While for me the lower flows are indeed welcome, i.e. the big water is just too damn hard on this ol' boy, I can't say it has done much for the fishing as recently more days than not have been on the slow side, afternoons especially. That said, I would say overall there have been more big fish in the net so far this season than any I can recall, especially common on the upper river have been browns over 18 inches and fat brookies in the 14-15 inch range. Curiously with all that water it would seem the "moskeeters" would be really thick but except for brief periods that has not been the case. Not so, however, the deer flies...yesterday my boat was litterally covered (like zillons enough to nearly obliterate the green paint)...somewhat mystifying Doug's gray boat hardly had a bug...deer flies find green attractive? Who knows...Anyway most experts predict above average flows should continue maybe even into the fall...that so expect the fishing to ramp back up as well.

Fly Fishing: Dodging the Opening Day Circus...

Road over the mountain might be bare but off the blacktop you are indeed in deep do-do...

To my way of thinking having a crick such as this all to ourselves trumps participating in the Opening Day Circus every single time; no matter how many or how big the trout...Not a single soul did we see the entire day...can't beat it.

In deference to Kate who would really like to get in the crick but can't anymore, at least not safely, I did not wade. Not being able to at least get in the crick to get around obstructions calls for a bit of ingenuity, to say nothing of perseverance...actually getting to a spot like this and making the cast is, to put it mildly, damn hard work...

Thanks to the fishing gods it ain't all a jungle...

Runs such as this are, if not to die for, certainly highlight the dream-reel and sometimes even serve up a pretty nifty trout...and if you're really on your game maybe two or three even...imagine!

Solitude, pretty spot, pretty trout, lots a critters...to my way of thinkin sure beats the crap out a rubbin' elbows on , say, the Beav or (fill in your favorite blue ribbon trout water)...I rest my case...

Fly Fishing: Highlights...Part 6

Man, what my trusty ol' Water Skeeter might a done for our luck way back when...

A brief stint in the Adirondacks led to an Associate Degree in Forestry and Land Surveying, more importantly led to a sort of advanced degree in the art of casting flies to pond dwelling brookies; prior the only fly fishing I knew (maybe even thought existed) was in moving water. Now separated from the so-called "blue line" which defined trout pond rich 2-million acre Adirondack Park by the Oswegatchie River. At first I didn't know much about the Park but the river was like an old friend, thanks to Ray Bergman's magnum opus, "Trout," which much to mother's dismay, had by then, for me, replaced the "Holy Bible." 

As luck would have it roomy, Larry, and next door neighbor, Lem, did know and, better still, were willing to share not only necessary tactics but lead the way to all their secret spots.

Some ponds were fishable from the bank. But most were better fished off shore--from a canoe or boat would have been ideal but due to severe time restraints--you know attending classes and mandatory study halls 6 days a week--we were forced to travel light and fast. So we built rafts--crude log affairs nailed and/or roped together--and took turns poling as best we could.

Rules of the game were simple--catch a trout, you were then expected to pole like hell to the bank, next guy's turn. OK, not so pretty but we did catch trout. The downside, if you could call it that, was the ponds all had a legendary past of routinely giving up brookies measured in pounds not inches. By the early 60s acid rain had not yet totally devastated the once great fishery but had begun to take its terrible toll. So while all of us dreamed catching monsters the reality size-wise anyway didn't quite measure up...Oh well, who needs big ol' slimy brookies anyway...  

Fly Fishing: Bugs n' Brookies

 

October 21, 2006 while fishing a lake in Manitoba this lucky angler landed what turned out to be the largest brookie ever...29 inches long, 21 inches girth, estimated weight between 15-17 pounds. Because the beast was later released it goes into the record books as World Record Catch and Release and since it was taken while trolling a Rapala on unofficially tested line it stands as the All-tackle record. Anyway you look at it tis one helluva brookie, eh? Photo courtesy Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame

No, that's not me drooling the record brookie. But now that I think on it perhaps the date 10/21, my birthday, really is an omen that someday soon...Nah!

More our speed, no doubt having much ado with our increasing devotion to pitching dries.

Truth is, in a career now spanning 6 decades and counting, despite having chucked first baits, then hardware and, for many years now, flies, to more brookie holes than the law should allow, having hooked literally thousands in the process, I can boast just two might...I repeat might...have gone an honest 18-inches. OK, honest is something of a stretch, since neither was actually taped. But 18-inches or whatever, naturally I recall both historic moments vividly (sort of) even though much water has flowed beneath the proverbial bridge since.

Small streams are just plain fun...and challenging...true story.

A Parmachene Belle, a classic wet fly supposedly first tied to fool the giant brookies once swarmed Maine's Rangeley Lakes region, accounted for the first. The catch could have been classic in every sense but...For starters it wasn't even caught in Maine but at the mouth of small tributary of Ontario's Lady Evelyn River. But what really makes the catch pale in the classic sense...I snagged it.

Beaver dams and fat brook trout go together like apple...well, you know

Sad I know but true. Trolling a big slow pool in the main river past the creek mouth, littered with beaver cuttings, Dick Byrem, in the bow (me in the stern) hung up. Nearing the end of a long trip and dangerously close to running out of flies, breaking off was not an option. Lines trailing, we bent to the paddles, turned the canoe up river, paddled like hell to where Dick reached down and pulled the flies free. As the canoe once again turned down river my line came tight and what turned out to be the trip's biggest brookie splashed the surface. Obviously other than the fly, classic, even bragging rights, hardly apply.

A few years later, again trolling (no idea what) behind a canoe, although this time in a Quebec lake (sorry the name too is long gone), I landed another bigger than we (Billy Eves and me) were accustomed.

Ingenuity helps...

As always no tape so, nothing left, Billy brought forth a dollar bill. For the uninitiated, a U.S. dollar bill measures a hair over 6-inches. Nose to tail he declared "3 bills" so...

I can't say how widespread this dollar bill trick but, in our case, it played a significant role. Early on, actually for many seasons, brookies made up at least 90% of my catch...truth be known really small brookies. Catch and release having not yet found its way into the Pennsylvania hollers, naturally we kept any trout of legal size; the idea of course bragging rights went with catching the daily limit, which I think back then was 8 per. Anyway the minimum legal size being 6-inches, the OM issued a dollar bill at the start of each adventure...As yes, where dollar bills were concerned C&R was well ingrained and indeed not an option as in...boy, make damn sure I get it back, ya hear.

Gale style, up close and personal, obviously pays off...

As any true blue trout nut knows the brook trout is not a true trout but rather a char. It is native in the northeast, down the Appalachians to Georgia, in the upper Midwest and in eastern Canada. But these days brookies swim just about everywhere trout swim; some say they have been transplanted to more places than any other fish species. Here in Montana, trout nirvana to many, " brook trout as natives" is a common refrain. Sorry, not so...

In the literature of fly fishing for brook trout it is de rigueur for the reporter to wax poetically on the beauty and allure of the fish itself.  For example, one breathless scribe painted them, "the aphrodite of the hemlocks." Sounds good, but...Mr.Webster notes, "Aphrodite" as the Greek "goddess" of "love" and "beauty."

Sorry my man, this is one case where in the category "good looks" the male, especially when bedecked in his spawning finery, wins hands down...no contest.

Why brookies, when there are far larger trout out there to be had especially considering in many of our best waters 18-inch browns and rainbows, while probably not dime a dozen easy, catching one certainly won't turn many heads. Well, one thing, we like a little solitude with our fishing, these days a really rare item. But the real reasons: brook trout and good country is a given; most rank high among the last best left on the planet.

Beauty (of the beast) and scenic aside, a typical day fishing the backcountry (wherever) bird and water song fills the clean, sweet-scented air, wildflowers and wildlife at times so abundant it takes real tunnel-vision to maintain focus on the task at hand. Realization on my part there simply was no hope, I no longer consider a missed take as call for despair.

In a typical Montana season Gale and me catch brookies by the dozens (hundreds probably but who's counting). After all we fish often; fish mostly brook trout strongholds; and brookies being notoriously easy pickings...how could we not?

These days the Parachute Adams is often the only fly we bother to tie on...Lazy? Yep. Effective? Usually so...

True most fall into the sub 12-inch category with a handful 13-15-inches and the occasional, maybe one every couple years, 16-17-inches. Still evidence abounds of far larger out there. The state record is slightly over 9 pounds (Lower Two Medicine Lake, 1940). While it seems unlikely the record will be broken anytime soon ( maybe not ever) breaking my personal record seems a definite maybe...more a matter of time than anything. Close to home (Dillon) the upper Big Hole and Georgetown Lake harbor such hefty individuals as do many others...I know of a couple 3-pounders mounted on local living room walls said to have been hauled from Big Hole tributaries. One day last spring my friend, Steve, buggered several 15-17- inches from a single run. So who knows, maybe if I just keep chuckin', eh?

Spring Has At Last Sprung...

...So Sayeth The Brave Order of Virtuous Weathermen...And if you believe that one just take a gander out yonder window... 

Ok, so depite that the official solstice is still three weeks down the road, most of us do consider March, April and May spring months. And as a bona fide- true-blue-carded-fly-pole-toter spring, the official sort or otherwise, tis indeed time I typically get off the proverbial pot and get at it but...for a variety reasons, some of which escape me at the moment, the bug as they say has yet to bite this ol' boy's butt. 

Could be the drive to Butte yesterday: snow drifting the highway, the icy wind howling, oh say, 30-miles plus, to say nothing the stark white iced-over Big Hole broken only here and there by skinny ribbons black, really black open water or...

...the past week's widespread reports of negative 30s and worse in all the right places (read rivers), like someone once noted we all have our limits...right.

Or it just might be that after 50 days or so gamboling about the desert  bedecked out for the most part in tee-shirt and shorts (OK I lie but) I just can't bear the idea a dealin' with a mostly froze-up crick, freezin' butt whilst wavin a silly ol' stick and maybe...just maybe...snaggin' a silly ol' trout or...

Worse...findin a by God Montana bone a tuggin on the line...

Perish the thought, eh?

Instead me thinks tis high time to toss nother log on the fahr, splash a dash a bourbon in the glass, kick back and when the bluebirds start to singin' up ta lemonade springs well... Be sure and call me, ya hear...over and out...    

Trash talk aside, the mountain whitefish has saved many us iced-up bug dunkers from tastin' dreaded skunk...true story.  

Fly Fishing: Not All About Catching Fish

About all that remains of what I assume was a homestead, situated in the trees beside a big meadow in the East Pioneer Mountains is this carefully crafted outhouse and wood stove. From what I can tell the house probably was destroyed by fire, although not much is really left to prove it--a few charred logs scattered here and there and what appears to be an old iron gate half buried in a nearby hole--what that is all about is more than I know? Regardless it is little mysteries such as these that for us are part of the lure and charm of fly fishing the Montana backcountry. No we will not likely ever solve such puzzles but it sure is interesting poking around puzzling just what brought these early pioneers to places which must have been back in the day way far off the beaten path. In this case there is no sign of mining, although there was a big mine just a few miles from the site. But since there is no longer any sign of a road in or out why would a miner set up housekeeping so far from the work place when there was housing and a town built right at the mine? Perhaps the answer is a simple as just wanting a little privacy and that need far outweighed the inconvenience of traveling to work--sort of like I suppose those who choose to live in the subburbs and travel to work in the big city feel today? Who knows...

But I do know for Gale and me part of the reason we spend so much time casting flies in the woods, away from the big famous trout streams is discovering the many imponderables the Forest holds--if we manage to fool a couple of trout (we did this day, exactly two as I recall) along the way--well that just puts us in bonus territory.

Fly Fishing: Pretty Day, Pretty Crick, Pretty Trout

First cast I missed a really small brookie; next cast this fat female blasted the #16 Orange Stimulator and...for the next couple hours we enjoyed some of the fastest, bestest little crick fishing of the season. Since this was the first trout of the day and a particularly fat one at that I snapped a quick pix before handing the rod to Gale who promply hooked an equally fat one a few yards upstream. Then it was my turn and two or three casts was all it took--although this one was teeny-tiny compared to the first two. No matter, big ones, leetle ones, continued to attack the Stimi often three or four to a run. The males are especially colorful since spawning is just around the corner in these high country cricks. But even the tinest were fat and healthy and I would suppose happy, at least before and after the ordeal of being stuck on a hook for a few brief moments.

Away from the crick the air was sultry, way too summer-like for our tastes but with our feet in the chilly crick it seemed more fall-like, quite pleasant actually. For a short time the wind kicked up and made for tricky casting but then the wind gods decided to take pity and the stiff breeze suddenly morphed into just a whisper making a hot afternoon all that more comfortable.

What with fresh elk tracks in the sand, the shimmering crick framed in flaming aspens and willows beneath your typical wide, blue, cloudless Big Sky, the already snow-splashed granite peaks of the Beaverheads for a backdrop, trout on the take, the dogs behaving (sort of anyway) for a change...hell, can't beat it.  

For Once Plan B Saves the Day

Sad but true often the best laid plans go awry. Sadder still when Plan A fails Plan B might sound good but, at least in our experience, seldom works out much better. But today was different.

A day off from guiding, I decided to take the girls fishing. We hadn't fished a certain pet brook trout crick as much as we like this spring, mostly due to the abnormally long and high runoff. But now that the cricks were dropping to more normal levels it seemed high time to make up for lost time.

Alas, no sooner off the blacktop we encountered cows and lots of them. Based on past grazing seasons (most national forest grazing is rest rotation so cows aren't always an obstacle) we were fairly certain the meadows upstream would be over run and they were...now what?

Since we didn't really have a Plan B winging it seemed the only alternative...so we headed for a stretch of crick we'd been meaning to fish for several seasons but somehow hadn't...no good reason to think cows wouldn't be there too but as the man once said, "ya don't know if ya don't try."

As luck would have it we found plenty of cow sign but surprise, surprise, no cows at present.

The crick here drops significantly creating a series of deep, though plenty fast moving, plunge pools. Inviting as hell but I thought it could be too high gradient, the bottom scoured by ice and run off and worse, troutless.

As turned out I needn't have worried for first cast--actually more a shaking out line to make a first cast--as soon as the #16 Royal PMX hit the water a trout grabbed it. Startled and way too slow on the uptake I failed to make the hookup...but not to worry.  Two or three casts later I hooked a beautiful dark cutthroat of decent size, kicking off one of the best couple hours fishing we've ever experienced. Gale then took a colorful, exceedingly dark brookie from the same pool. Then I nailed a stunning rainbow and then...then we just kept handing the rod back and forth as we hooked trout after trout--mostly brookies, with a few cutts, cutt-bows and rainbows for good measure. Lady luck continued to smile until finally Gale declared "enough fun" I'm hungry."

"Me too."

Back at the truck we broke out the lunch cooler. Gorging, much as the trout did earlier, on left over bar-b-que chicken legs and thighs, peanut butter and cheese crackers and fruit...In between bites Gale observed, "What a way to wile away a summer morning."

"Amen."

Big Brookies in the Big Hole

Over the past few days I enjoyed a couple guide trips on the Big Hole with some of my favorite clients--Doug (above) a Coloradan went both trips while Rocky a Texan and Steve a Californian did one each. Both days we caught a surprising number of fatter than average brookies. The first day Doug and Rocky experienced several hours of non-stop dry fly action--cripples, PMDs, Black Magic, Purple Haze and such. Next day Doug stuck to dries and did okay but the hatch (pmd) never materialized. But Steve went in pitching streamers and stuck with them all day...His reward: hooking more fat brookies in single day than any day I can recall. Both days the fishing was interrupted as a series of ferocious storms swept through in the afternoons. Yesterday the wind roared down river and blew the damn drift boat right up into the grass. Steve recovered quickest, remarking, "Chuck, gotta hand it to you that's certainly a unique way to stop the boat."

Chasin' Colorful Char Is All

What at first sounded like a muffled motor, perhaps an unseen camper's generator, running somewhere down in the trees below upon closer inspection turned out to be the roar of water spilling from the relatively flat, benign meadow into a narrow boulder-strewn chute. Knowing the white and tea-colored, roaring malstrom offered no chance of tempting even the hungriest brook trout to take a swipe at our flies without further ado we opted out.

Later, swinging a pair of soft hackles in the flat calm behind the beaver dams in the meadow, we took turns hooking colorful brookies almost at will. Considering that a 12-incher in this stream puts it in monster class many, no, better make that most anglers couldn't be bothered. Laughable, flat out insane, why would you want to...

But then, why would we not? Brookie fishin' suggests solitude, scenic, simplistic, surprise, serenity, stunning, stimulating, spirited and more. And all that wrapped-up in one nifty package, hell, can't beat it... 

      

At Least We Didn't Need Snowshoes...

With the big storm now history we decided to head to high country, more out of curiosity how much snow the mountains got than any real idea we might just get to fish...after all that moisture it seemed a given the little cricks would be ragin'. But surprise, surprise despite all--up top around Crystal Park there was still at least 6 or 8 inches and you could plainly see a lot had melted--we found them just about perfect. So naturally after having a look around we rigged up a rod and had at it.

The creek is about as brushed in as creeks get. Wall to wall willow thicket just getting to the water is tough finding room to cast at times a cruel joke. But poke around enough and usually we can find a pool or two and hopefully a willing trout or two waiting to nab our offerings.

We almost always rig just one rod and play it something like "three strikes you're out." Mostly because I was holding the rod when we found the first opening I got first dibs. But several good drifts with a soft hackle failed to interest the pools residents so we plowed on deeper into the brush. The next pool looked really good but with all the brush I could not get a decent drift so again we moved on...

The third pool proved to be the proverbial charm. Pitching the soft hackle upstream and letting it wash into the deep then slowly hand-twisting it in a brookie grabbed it but got off as I was manuvering it around the idiot dogs--bless them for their fishing enthusiasm but today the pair were a royal pain in the you know what. But the next cast another brookie grabbed the soft hackle and this time I managed to land it despite the dogs--hooray! 

Handing the rod to Gale she too landed a brookie and then I took a really skinny rainbow. Enough carnage for one spot we continued on. Switching gears we caught trout on a couple different soft hackles, a bead head fox squirrel nymph and Adams dry fly. Two hours and a mile or so upstream we'd had enough--cold, wet feet (why we didn't put on our hip boots who knows) way more than fed up with the damn dogs, and worn out leaping beaver ditches and willow thickets--called it good. 

Several yellow-bellied marmots, a couple sandhill cranes, one way up the crick at the base of the tall mountains, elk and moose tracks galore in the fast melting wet snow, a couple mule deer, two snipe and...hell, dogs excepted, turned out an OK day after all.