You gain a sense of the moment, hopefully catch a few trout, and walk away with what amounts to a frozen snapshot of what you think the river is all about, though most of the time we’re wrong about that.

Hazel Creek through the trees. Pretty, pretty stuff.

If fishing a river delivers a snapshot, living alongside one for a few days tunes you into much more; the animals, the weather, the river’s moods, history — even how it reacts to sun and rain.

That’s why — when Ian and Charity offered me a chance to piggyback a backpacking trip onto their outfitted trip to Hazel Creek, I jumped at it.

They (and their outfitter) ferried a group of nine anglers across Fontana Lake, where they set up camp.

Light action 8′ 5wt and a few flies — all that’s needed on Hazel.

Calling it a “camp” is a little misleading; they slept like royalty (cots and big tents), ate like kings (fresh-made Blackberry Cobbler, steak, shrimp kabobs, pancakes, margaritas — the list goes on), and fished like demons.

It was a lavish production, and judging by the the number of anglers who said they were ready to sign up for the next trip, the whole enterprise is bound to be repeated.

The hike up Hazel Creek was flat, easy, and carpeted with wildflowers.

Because I’m prone to fits of isolation and self-denial, I packed my backpack with instant oatmeal and Top Ramen, and hiked five miles up the drainage.

I enjoyed being alone on Hazel Creek, but admit that being served great food while you focus on fly fishing isn’t the kind of thing I should reject out of hand.

Still, I think I made the right decision. I was hoping to lose weight, not gain it.

More Hazel Creek, farther up. Beauty, eh?

Still, there I was, five miles from the lake and setting up my ultra-lightweight “one-man” tent, which frankly felt more like a coffin.

Naturally, it started raining almost right away, and the Coffin Tent became less an abstract thought and more a temporary home.

For the next 11 hours, this is home; the inside of the Coffin Tent.

Still, the next day (Friday) dawned wonderfully clear, so I hiked up the Bone Valley — so named because an April blizzard trapped 100 cattle in the tiny valley and killed them, leaving bones strewn everywhere.

That was in the late 1800s, so the bones are gone. What remains is a perfect little valley, complete with historic cabin (built in 1880).

The cabin in Bone Valley, which is bigger than a coffin.

The fishing was slow until 11:00, when the rainbows started hitting my dry. I don’t think fly selection was particularly important, though I believe a yellow fly improved the odds a bit (there were many yellow stoneflies flitting about).

Not unlike the trout back home, except he fought with an accent.

All the fish were small, and after a couple hours, I hiked back to camp, made a late lunch, contemplated the river, and eventually headed a short ways down Hazel Creek.

It was a beautiful evening, and I was getting lots of eats on the small stimulator dry (lots of yellow stones in the air).

The fish included a couple of nice brown trout, the Tennessee version of which are so brightly colored that I marvel each time I catch one.

The red dots are bright, and the fins are orange. Gorgeous.

Later, I came to a large pool and didn’t get a single bite. I thought it was strange until I discovered one of Ian’s group had stuck a 26″ brown trout there only minutes before.

Oy.

Later in the evening, I stumbled on a Sulphur hatch (with spinner fall) and managed a few more fish.

A good day. A very good day.

I also stumbled across a snake that Ian later said was harmless, though I reminded him that I could have jumped back in fear, fallen and hit my head.

Harmless my ass.

That night, it started raining again (more hours in the coffin), and the next morning the creek picked up considerable color.

Still, it was falling and clearing, and reasoning that the rain might wash the yellow stones off the leaves and into the water, I threw a small yellow stimulator.

And yes, score one for intuition.

A frog (or toad, I can never tell which) overlooking Hazel Creek.

For a while I hammered fish — until it started raining hard. The water rose, it muddied, and the bite shut off.

Damn. I sloshed my way back to camp, and was confronted by the fact that I had nothing to do for the next 20 hours — and no dry place to do it.

By that point, the Coffin tent smelled like wet feet, which wasn’t all bad as I needed something to distract me from the wetness (and yes, next time I’m bringing a book).

One of the true joys of backpacking is when things get wet, there’s no way to make them dry until it stops raining.

And typically, everything gets wet.

The next morning, the sun came out, so rather than pack a bunch of water down the trail, I spent an hour trying to dry my gear.

Everything was wet, so it looks like I’m holding a wilderness garage sale.

Somehow, all the gear in the picture above fit into the pack below. (Never underestimate man’s ability stuff.)

It only looks light. It’s heavy.

I hiked down the trail back to the lake — going fast and losing elevation all along the way — and encountered members of Ian’s group.

First came Charity and her client, then I stumbled on Ian fishing alone.

Ian Rutter pottering about on Hazel Creek.

Finally, I was at the lake, and for all intents and purposes, the trip was over.

Of course, I’m leaving out a ton of stuff, including the contents of eight pages of notes I made in a small notebook.

Rather than fall too far behind my blog posts, I’ll cover the basics here and try to write an “end of the trip” wrap-up post that will be fraught with meaning and laden with deep thoughts.

Otherwise, you’d be reading this in October.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #1

On the trip over I drank a large soft drink, then drove over “The Dragon” — a stretch of road so twisty and curvy (330+ turns in 11 miles) that motorcyclists come from miles around so they can test themselves against it. I lost the test. Even though though I was driving, I attained a state of advanced motion sickness, pulled over, and barfed on my own shoes. Nobody was more surprised than Ian.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #2

The first night in the campground I met Larry K — who owns property on the Holston River, which Ian, myself, and some Nameless Guy had floated the day before. Amazingly, he saw us go by, correctly identifying Ian’s boat, Ian, and the fact that I lost a fish right in front of his house. Ahh, Lost Fish — the ties that bind.

Larry the boat watcher.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #3

Thought I took a couple of rods, I mostly fished my 8′ 5wt Diamondglass rod — a fairly flexible, slow tapered rod that was largely perfect for Upper Hazel Creek and its tribs. You want a rod able to throw big flies if needed, but soft enough to work at leader-only ranges.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #4

Hazel Creek is a fascinating area, home to a truckload of history, including logging operations that largely leveled the area, the eventual loss of those jobs, the reversion to a rural society — all of which was displaced when Fontana Lake was built and cut the area off from the rest of the world.

Some remnants remain: cabins, cemeteries, and even a rusting old iron headboard at my campsite.

Though I was ready to get dried out (and yeah, a warm shower wasn’t entirely outside my realm of thought), it was hard to leave Hazel, knowing it’s entirely possible I won’t make it back there again.

Look for a wrap-up post on my Tennessee trip (I’ve got two days of fishing yet to blog), where I plan to write more about Hazel Creek. It’s worth a few more words.

See you up the creek, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, fishing, hazel creek, bone valley, tennessee, smokies, great smoky mountains, gsmnp, backpacking

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Then that crafty bunch over at MidCurrent went and excerpted a chapter from Casting a Spell by George Black, a book about craftsmanship and its survival in the face of the industrial revolution.

I found it interest because it paralleled my thoughts about Bill Phillipson’s fly rod company, which tells a similar story about craftsmanship in the face of growing corporatism.

From MidCurrent:

George Black’s fascination with bamboo rod-craft pivots on Eustis Edwards, whose personal history speaks volumes about the survival of craftsmanship in American culture. This excerpt looks at the final disillusioning and yet productive years of Edwards’s life, and at the rods which exemplified his obsession with perfection.

Black focuses on Edwards rods, using the rods and their makers to illustrate the changes rapidly overtaking society post WWI.

I place Bill Phillipson’s rod company in a similar context; his small, individually owned company thrived for years before it was bought in 1972 by a large corporation which–immediately and somewhat inexplicably–folded the company.

His bamboo trade–like most others–had foundered with the appearance of fiberglass and the bamboo embargo of the cold war years, but unlike so many other production companies, he was innovating and building what were probably the best fiberglass rods available.

I’m sure there’s an answer to be found at the bottom of a spreadsheet in a file cabinet somewhere, but it’s hardly possible to overlook the larger trend at work: the corporatization of business in the USA.

That’s why the George Black excerpt at MidCurrent dovetails so nicely with the post I was already writing in my head.

I love it when the Universe writes my lead for me.

What’s Desirable in Bamboo?

In the weird, overlapping hierarchy that defines “desirability” in modern bamboo fly rod collecting, it’s possible that the Edwards rods were among the best, least-appreciated models–at least until Black’s book was released.

Longtime bamboo rod collectors will be reminded of the release of Michael Sinclair’s “Heddon: The Rod With The Fighting Heart” book.

It had an immediate (and galvanizing) effect on the price of used Heddon rods, which–until the book’s release–crowded the used rod lists at relatively low prices.

Still, the Edwards rods were never as plentiful as the Heddons, and I know I ignored the Edwards creations simply because there weren’t enough of them available to interest me.

Yet, equally true is the fact that the rods I owned and fished weren’t really considered desirable among the majority of collectors.

If I could have afforded it, I might have made an exception for the fishable, consistently excellent Paynes, but the Garrisons, Gillums and others were too rare (and expensive) to even contemplate buying, and the time I spent with their tapers (as represented by modern builders) was underwhelming.

In my case at least, the need to “collect” simply didn’t exist, at least not in the sense that I was looking to assemble (or could afford) a quiver of rods whose makers and tapers would impress when casually dropped in bamboo-savvy company.

Bill Phillipson & His Fly Rods

When I first grew interested in older bamboo rods, I focused on the Western rods, and soon fixated on Bill Phillipson’s creations.

Phillipson was foreman of the Granger shop starting in the mid 1930s and owner the “Phillipson Rod Company” until the early 70s.

It’s likely my interest was fostered by what I learned about Phillipson himself; a sometimes gruff man, he valued function over form, and his goal was to build rods that cast and fished as well as the most expensive models, yet at a price anyone could afford.

It’s likely that tapped into the populist vein that runs through me, and clearly, Phillipson was no huckster.

He was, in fact, an expert caster and a fine fisherman, who right up until his death could be found fishing Colorado’s waters, including the South Platte.

John Gierach cops to sometimes fishing an 8.5′ Phillipson on the South Platte not just because he sometimes ran into Bill Phillipson there, but because the rod’s perfectly suited to fishing that river.

Fishing Rods, Not Toys.

If day-to-day fishability defined collectability, the Phillipsons would occupy a place on the food chain far above many more expensive rods, perhaps only one rung below the vaunted Paynes and one above the currently hot Grangers (most of which were also Bill Phillipson’s children).

Still, though I own an even dozen Phillipson rods, I never became what you’d call a “collector,” and because I like talking to rod builders, I’m wholly interested in what today’s bamboo rod craftsmen are doing in the now century-old bamboo rod trade.

Still, after years of use, a couple of my favorite Phillipsons require some ferrule work, so I need to ship them to a rod repairer (the true downside of bamboo rods).

I fish a couple of the rods often, and wonder if that means I value them so much as fishing tools that I overlook the fact that another Phillipson will never be made.

In fact, the rods fish so well, I could–in a fit of Thoreau-esque simplification–surplus all my other cane and end up a perfectly happy camper (for most trout situations anyway).

Still, let’s face it; I’m not going to do it.

What I am going to do is split this post over a couple days. So tomorrow, more on Phillipson fly rods–the models I actually like to fish.

Click to read Part II of “Bury Me With My Phillipsons.” 

See you at the rod closet, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: bamboo, bamboo fly rods, phillipson, phillipson bamboo fly rods, phillipson fly rods, payne, george black, edwards bamboo fly rods, fly fishing, fly rod

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It was snowing, the Upper Sacramento flows were coming back up, and Wayne agreed on the phone that we wouldn’t fish long or go far, none of which mattered.

I was getting out; not writing, computing or blogging.

I might have driven to Dunsmuir a little too fast.

Snow falling on Eng. (click the image for the big Hollywood version.)

We found ourselves fishing right in town, sharing a fly rod and a camera.

I missed the only bite of the day on a dry and dropper, which is a factually accurate summation of the trip, though it misses the point entirely.

There’s something about fishing in the snow; it’s a separate experience from fishing in sun or rain.

It’s quiet, and - if you’re dressed warmly enough - there’s the sense of functioning as a self-contained, foul-weather, mobile fishing unit.

It’s freezing outside, warm inside, and you’re pretty sure you could do this most of the day.

Still, when the fishing is tough, a couple hours is plenty to prove you’re a smart, tough fly fisher who fishes when the weather’s bad and everyone else is holed up in front of a heater.

Some days you just need to get out and marvel at the concept of waterproofing.

As I’m writing this (the end of the day), it’s snowing softly and steadily outside, and tomorrow will find me shoveling several inches of the fluffy white stuff off the driveway.

Snow is forecast for the next couple of days - good news for the ski industry - and I’ve got enough writing to do that I’ll be back in my office.

Which, suddenly, is looking a little roomier.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, upper sac, upper sacramento river, fishing

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That’s the hilarious contention of John McCoy (staff writer for the Charleston Gazette), and I wonder if his employer shouldn’t immediately administer a drug test - lest John suffer another drug-induced flashback.

I gaze at the piles of expensive fly tying materials, expensive hackles, machined HMH vise, chemically sharpened hooks and several-lifetimes-supply of hen necks cluttering my office and wonder what our friend John has been smoking.

My HMH vise. Ticket to savings, or expensive tool of obsession?

He recounts the high price of flies - and his amusing solution:

A relatively inexpensive answer to this problem is to learn to tie flies. Thirty years ago, when I started fly fishing, I couldn’t afford to buy rods and reels and flies too, so I learned to tie. I’ve done it ever since.

It’s difficult to estimate how much money I’ve saved, but I’ll try.

Let me try for you. I’d have to tie flies from now until people started making dinner reservations for their 2999 New Year’s Eve celebration to recoup the investment I’ve made in tools and materials.

And frankly, I’m an underachiever compared to the likes of Noted Pack Rat Dave Roberts, who recently built a whole new extension onto his house so he could warehouse his er…. “extensive” collection of materials.

(When the apocalypse comes and fly tying materials disappear from our nuclear-ravaged landscape, I’m heading right for Dave’s house.)

And there are plenty of people who consider him an underachiever.

So how about it? Is anyone saving money tying their own flies. Or are we spending scads of money for the privilege of getting them exactly the way we want ‘em…?

Technorati Tags: fly tying, hmh, flies, fly fishing

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If you’re not familiar with Muriel Foster or her diary, she was an upper-class Englishwoman who lived from 1884 to 1963. In addition to fly fishing, she loved to paint, and the heavily illustrated private fishing diary she kept is an engrossing record of one woman’s love for the sport.

She kept meticulous records of the fish she caught (including measurements and weight) as well as the flies she used.

Most pages were decorated with illustrations or poems, and the total effect is as much a portrait of the artist herself as it is a record of fishing in the early-to-mid 1900s.

Her diary spans a remarkable 35 years, though her latter years found her fishing (and writing) less due to the ravages of arthritis.

In fact, the final entry ends with “Finis Arthritis!” - but only after she describes fishing “a very deep, black little lake, surrounded by trees or cliff. difficult to fish.”

Like a true Undergrounder, she added “A most beautiful lake…”

There are days when I could tell you what the Trout Underground was all about, and others when I don’t have a clue, but I do know it’s at least partially an online community of like-minded fly fishing fiends/slaw dog enthusiasts - and a personal record of one writer’s fly fishing life on a river he loves.

I’d never claim to be a trout bum (and I know a few, including one who works way too hard to qualify as any sort of bum, but leads a truly enviable fly fishing life), but I do know what the sport means to a lot of the fly fishers I meet.

Most don’t keep hand-illustrated fishing diaries or snarky fly fishing blogs, but you can learn a lot from the look in their eyes when they meet you on the water, or the edge in their voice when you mention the fishing over the phone.

I only hope that - when the time comes to stop doing this (either fly fishing or the Underground, it doesn’t matter which) that I go with the grace of Muriel Foster, who didn’t make a big deal about things, but allowed as to how she’d fished a beautiful, deep black little lake with a borrowed rod.

Note: there are still used copies of Muriel Foster’s Fishing Diary floating around the Internet, including a few here at Amazon.com: Muriel Foster’s Fishing Diary (A Studio book)

Technorati Tags: muriel foster, diary, fly fishing

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A walk with the Wonderdog. Photo by Tom. Snow & sunset colors by God.

For many, it’s time to settle in and start tying flies, but ever since the Upper Sacramento was opened to year-round fishing, my fly boxes have slowly emptied.

It’s a busy week, but fishing is hardly out of the question. More snow coming today. More clouds later this week. And more to come on the Underground!

Technorati Tags: winter, upper sacramento river, mount shasta

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So it’s probably accurate to say that going fly fishing with a lot of expectations in place simply means you think you know what’s about to happen before something else does.

After today, I’m all for spontaneity.

Wayne Eng holding my 19″ brown. Big browns are our friends.

Surprise!

Earlier this year I scored an Upper Sacramento River Grand Slam; browns, brookies and rainbows in one evening.

I would have laid odds on it being the last time it would happen, but - based on the photographic evidence below - I was dead wrong.

Sometimes it’s good to be dead wrong.

Dazed and Confused.

Wayne Eng and I headed to a part of the river I swore I’d fished in the past, but now realize I hadn’t. It was long ago and my only excuse is that I was younger and generally more confused back then.

I’m glad I finally made it.

Waiting for me was a 19″ brown trout who ate a #16 dry. And a pair of 12″ Brookies who ate #16 dries. And several colorful rainbows who ate #16 dries.

The Grand Slam. And you get to read all about it for free.

A closeup of our friend the 19″ Brown trout. He’s Brown-a-licious.

I love Brookies. They’re Brook-a-licious.

The rainbows here are beacons. They’re Bow-a-licious.

It’s tempting to wax philosophical about the whole affair as if you and I were sitting in the study wearing smoking jackets and drinking $100-a-bottle liqueur.

Instead, it was just normal fishing, even down to the Keystone Cops moment that erupted when the 19″ brown - which I initially thought was small - took off for Lake Siskiyou.

I needed to scramble over a couple of car-sized rocks to land him, and while I’d like to think I did so with aplomb and grace, an honest appraisal would probably include words like “elephantine” and “clod.”

Fine. You hook a big brown and see how many octaves your voice goes up.

I landed the fish, and Wayne even stopped laughing long enough to help, the sign of a good friend or a fisherman with priorities.

Wayne Eng fishing a dry. It’s Sac-a-licious.

As for the death of expectation, not only was I wrong about fishing that stretch before, but we set out thinking we’d score heavy with the spent October Caddis dry.

Naturally, we did better with a #16 yellow stone and a similar-sized olive parachute.

I was fishing an 8′ 5wt Steffen Brothers glass rod that Rich Margiotta built for me, and it was lovely.

Wayne said it cast like it was on ball bearings - a better description than I would have written - and I’m slowly building a case for the concept that low-modulus materials fight fish better.

I’ll let you know after a couple more years of testing.

The L&T Nancy and I are heading south for Thanksgiving (to a place tragically devoid of trout) so there’s little hope for another fishing report for a week or so.

Of course, that won’t necessarily stop me from posting. Or wishing I was fishing. See you on I-5, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: rainbow trout, brook trout, brown trout

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The key quote:

Despite what experts consider an ironclad case for the removal of the dams, FERC issued a draft environmental impact statement that recommends only modest changes to current dam operations. Ignoring the demands of the tribes and conservation groups for dam removal as well as agencies’ mandate for fish screens and ladders, FERC has proposed that PacifiCorp drive fish around the dams.

Heartwarming. Your tax-supported Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) - ever vigilant in protecting rolling-in-dough energy producers from profit-sapping environmental inconveniences like nearly extinct salmon - has ignored an enormous body of evidence suggesting that trucking salmon around the four dams on the Klamath simply won’t work.

Given the perilous state of the Klamath’s salmon population (fewer than 30,000 fish returned for the third year in a row), this decision makes me want to buy a deer rifle and fix the problem more directly.

But that’s the kind of talk that brings the feebs swooping down on you, and lord knows I don’t need that.

Got Foam? The Klamath last summer. Lovely, eh?

Instead, I’m doing the polite thing and sending a polite e-mail to FERC Secretary Magalie Salas explaining (politely) that FERC would do a better job of protecting the public if the agency staff had been fed to weasels.

You, however, should probably follow CalTrout’s instructions and send something reasonable. Here’s what I’m asking:

1. Go to this web address: http://ga3.org/campaign/klamath/wdnebx6295×5m5t?
2. Fill in your name and e-mail address
3. Click a button

That’s it! It takes seconds, and with any luck, we can get FERC to pull its collective head out of its ass and order PacifiCorp to pull its collective dams out of the Klamath’s ass.

This river has suffered so much at the hands of these dams, which generate huge water quality issues in addition to the loss of spawning habitat.

It’s time for them to go politely straight to hell.

Technorati Tags: klamath, klamath river, FERC, pacificorp, salmon, caltrout, heartless bastards

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This time, Moldy struck the motherlode of fly fishing industry “journalism” and since I’m feeling a little hostile from my own lack of sleep, it’s time for a Trout Underground rant.

The omniscient Moldy uncovered a chunk of videos by Fish & Fly Magazine from the Denver Retailer show. You’d think these would be interesting, but (welcome to the fly fishing media) they’re mostly just nauseating.

Begin the Flaying

For starters, the interviewers displayed all the reserve of small children seeking candy, but then, what did you expect in an industry where the magazines seem wholly committed to kissing ass?

I’d tell you to avoid these video clips at all costs, but frankly, it’s easier to look away from a five-car pileup. Why?

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an interviewer almost wet himself in his efforts to kiss the Sage honcho’s ass.

And when Winston’s Sam Drukman made a point of telling viewers that boron costs 10x more than carbon fiber, it lead me to wonder why their low-tech WT rods - made from a decades-old IM6 graphite - cost the same as Winston’s “high-tech” Boron models.

Gosh, I wonder.

And if you don’t cringe when Simms’ president casually mentions their new $700+ wader allows you to relieve yourself in the middle of the river, you haven’t envisioned seeing an angler doing exactly that one run upstream from where you’re fishing.

It’s a great day for fly fishing journalism

The Gierach video could have been the star of the bunch, but Tom Pero couldn’t stop fawning long enough to ask a single intelligent question. Still, it’s worth viewing, if only for Gierach’s refusal to bask in the glow of his own press - the man seems amused at the attention he receives.

Kudos also to Patagonia’s Bill Klyn, who rose above the fray by discussing the environmental aspects of manufacturing outdoor products instead of endlessly repeating the marketing’s department’s product bullets. Good on ya.

You can’t blame the manufacturers for taking advantage of Free Marketing Service Disguised as Editorial Content an interview. But you can blame most of them for doing it so poorly.

It’s a Learning Experience. What Have We Learned?

First, marketing in the fly fishing industry is largely stone age.

Second, fly fishing media probably don’t have your best interests at heart.

And third, there’s a fine line between technological advance and marketing ho-ha, and many of the latest products crossed that line some time ago.

We also learned it’s time for the Trout Underground to gather up his low-tech bamboo/glass fly rods and go fishing before he starts writing biting e-mails to everyone who’s wronged him over the years.

I’ll let you know how it goes. See you at the Prozac counter, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, retailer, fish & fly, fly rod, simms, sage, winston, rant

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I once wrote that I got all the daily news I needed from the weather report, and while it’s nowhere near true, it does indicate a set of priorities.

The local weather is a gimme, but I also check the weather forecast in places I’ve fished before, including Grand Lake (Maine), Townsend (TN), Ketchum, Medford and a few others.

It’s become so much a part of the routine that I don’t think twice about it.

Still, this morning I caught myself eying the 60 degree forecast for Townsend, and - knowing that the baetis hatches were running strong in the park - found myself standing behind a tree on the Little River, throwing a sidearm cast at a run filled with rising trout. (In my head anyway. No way I fly across the country without whining to my readers about it.)

I could wax about the power of the printed word and how someone else’s words can transport you to a place and time of your own experience, but it seems a little over the edge for two numbers and a “partly cloudy.” Still, every morning I check.

Between jobs, families and the general heading of “obligations,” we’re all more likely to put ourselves on a good trout stream in our heads than in reality.

All it really takes is a trigger, and the weather seems to be one of mine.

This morning Townsend’s forecast is 44/61 and partly cloudy, which puts me on the Little River, then sipping something warm and writing about it at all at the now-wireless coffeehouse frequented by the Internet-less Ian.

Ketchum’s at 13/35, which probably means icy guides, a baetis hatch on the Big Wood River, or maybe a red brassie fished in upstream in this shallow, rocky river that developers have sadly deprived of most of its woody, in-stream cover.

I can even pinpoint the run where I’d finish - the same place I landed a pair of very healthy rainbows the last time I fished there in February.

It’s the kind of idle mind game that a lot of us play, and it reminds me that I have strong recollections of fishing experiences dating back to the early 70s, but that I can’t remember most of the other crap that’s happened along the way.

(For example, most of those early trips involved riding bikes to places where we weren’t legally allowed to fish, but my mind’s forgotten the part where I’m breaking the law.)

I’m probably focused a little too much on the weather element of fly fishing. But that’s because I live near great fly fishing, yet can’t fish every day, and “decision by forecast” beats the flip of a coin.

Of course, if anyone actually uses a coin, I’d love to hear about it.

Technorati Tags: weather, fly fishing, trout, ketchum, maine, townsend

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Which – if you stop to watch most fly fishers on the water – begs the obvious question. Why don’t more fly fishers act like predators?

Wayne Eng’s so skinny he probably doesn’t need to be sneaky, but he does it anyway.

In the past, there were times I’d have told you I was a pretty stealthy bastard on the water, and a lot more times when I knew I wasn’t (probably because I wasn’t making the effort). Still, nothing reveals your weaknesses like exposure to someone who really knows what he’s doing, a concept I rediscovered (again) last spring in Tennessee.

I was on a fishing trip, but sick enough that I was happy to watch someone else fish, which is why I spent hours watching Ian Rutter stealthily creeping along the banks of Tennessee’s Little River, catching fish after fish.

It was eerily similar to watching Wayne Eng creep along the banks of the Upper Sacramento (catching fish after fish), and even a hugely thickheaded writer would have to learn something from the process.

After all, Chandler’s First Law of Fly Fishing says the second best way to learn to catch fish is to watch people who are good at catching them. Simple, eh?

So after lots of watching and a little practice, I’ve gotten a lot sneakier. Which has lead me to develop the Underground’s Four Strategies for Being a Sneaky Bastard:

Rule #1 - Stay Out of the Water

Being far denser than air, water conducts sound very, very well. In simplest terms, when you’re in the water, fish can hear you. In a recent Internet post, John Wilson of the USA Fly Fishing team described watching fish bolt when an angler set foot in the water 40 feet away.

Ian Rutter skulking bankside on a run I was going to wade. He caught many, many trout.

In a freestone river – with its constantly moving water – you’d think the effect was lessened (it probably is), but face it, trout are highly attuned to their environment. Your average trout can pinpoint the sound of a fly fisher stomping along a riffle the same way a fly fisher can pinpoint the sound of a beer being opened in a crowded campground.

So while I’ve always been a “get in the river and flounder” guy, even I’ve come to see the light. Nowadays you’re a lot more likely to find me standing around behind trees and boulders, looking guilty and throwing more backcasts into bushes, but catching more fish.

More often than not, catching fish requires wading - but try stopping to think about it first.

Rule #2 - While You’re in the Water, Wade Smart

I recently waded into some “tough” technical water – expecting to throw hugely complicated slack-line casts in devilishly complex currents – and almost stepped on a 14″ trout. The lesson? Don’t charge into the water like a rampaging hippo. Hippos catch few trout. Want to avoid hippo-hood? Here’s how:

When you’re about to wade, don’t. Invest a few minutes looking for rising fish and likely holding spots (especially near your entry point). If you’re presenting to a specific fish, make sure you’re wading to the right spot. Arriving - and then realizing you can’t make the drift - means more wading and spooked fish.

Hide your underwater half. Fly fishers know they’re supposed to hide behind objects above the water, but inexplicably fail to do the same for underwater obstacles. The Upper Sac (like many rivers) is littered with subsurface boulders, rocks, trenches, weeds…. Keep these between you and fish, and you’ll sleep better at night.

And don’t ignore current tongues (not every barrier to being seen is solid); that bubbly barrier between you and the fish inhibits their sensory abilities (some warships use a curtain of bubbles to foil sonar), and can spell the difference between success and that awful skunk smell.

Wayne Eng keeps a bubbly current between him and the fish.

Keep it quiet. Rene Harrop suggests that studded wading boots spook fish, but then again, he’s fishing the largely sedate Henry’s Fork, not the “greased cannonball” bed of the Upper Sacramento. Two-stepping your way through a run is likely to spook fish more than studs, but his premise is good – keep it quiet underwater.

A good friend once gave me a gorgeous aluminum wading staff that was stable and strong. Unfortunately, it rang like a gong, and I did away with it. Don’t get gonged.

And all that manly power-wading crap? If you truly feel the need to push a bow wave, trying fishing the beach, where presumably the fish respect manliness more than trout. I’ve managed to put down rising fish by wading carelessly and pushing even little pressure waves across shallow water. Don’t you do it too.

Rule #3 - Be a Hunter

OK, so you’re staying out of the water when possible and wading quietly when it’s not. It’s time to adopt the posture of a predator.

Hide. This isn’t exactly groundbreaking advice, but it’s also rarely followed. Casting from behind trees and bushes means you’ll experience more of those excruciating “Better go to my happy place” leader tangles, but once you’ve mastered the art of fishing while skulking, you’ll catch more fish – especially on small streams.

The value of this was brought home in Tennessee, where on my last day of fishing, I hiked the upper section of the Little River, and caught several fish from slots right on the bank.

I stayed hidden, poked the rod out, made a rotating “flip” cast, and the fish were there - in the kind of water I’d have said looked good, but never produced for me in my less-surreptitious past.

Camouflage. There are endless debates about the virtues of shiny rods vs. matte finish rods, light clothes vs. dark, bright fly lines vs. neutral, etc. Given my tendency to split the difference, I try to match my fishing shirt to the color of the background, stay away from light colored hats, and typically shun day-glo fly lines.

What should you do? Whatever feels appropriate - given that the best fly fishers I know blend into their surroundings a lot better than the worst fly fishers I know.

I have many pictures of Ian Rutter. In every one, he’s being a sneaky bastard.

Don’t Flail. Waving a rod over a fish is a manifestly bad idea, as is false casting over fish in shallow water. Fish are highly attuned to movement – and they’re definitely aware of objects flashing overhead.

Keep your false casting to a minimum (yes, this means you), and practice your change of direction cast. Come the low, clear waters of fall, you’ll need it.

Don’t Compound Mistakes. When you’re casting to a specific spot and miss, don’t pick it right up and slap it back down. Let the current pull it away and try again. Similarly, when you’re casting tight to cover, don’t throw right into the “zone of death” the first cast.

Instead, drop your fly at the outside edge – it gives you a chance to measure the distance, avoids a terrify-the-big-fish tangle with bankside brush, and offers the fish a chance to come out and eat the fly anyway. (Cuts down on the amount of swearing too.)

Stalk. If most fly fishers stalked fish half as hard as they stalk deals on the Internet, there’d be a lot more sore-mouthed trout in the rivers. For example, casting a long shadow is always a bad idea, yet I often see fishers casting with the sun at their backs.

To trout, shadows mean birds, and birds mean dinner (and not in a good way). Keep a low profile, stay aware of the sun, and fish with the sun at your back only when absolutely necessary.

#4 – When All is Lost

Finally, when there’s no cover, the water’s clear, and your casting choices are limited, there’s always the Waiting Gambit. Pick your best spot (the one that offers you the best shot at the most/best fish), wade in as quietly as possible, and if the trout stop rising, wait ‘em out.

If you stand still and make no threatening gestures, the fish might foolishly decide you’re not a risk and resume feeding. It often happens in as few as five or ten minutes, and while the wait is excruciating, it can be effective.

Sometimes - if you wade very, very quietly - the fish don’t even stop rising. Continuously working fish are sometimes happily oblivious to what’s going on around them, as evidenced by the time I slowly waded less than a rod’s length away from a pod of big, rising trout in very shallow water.

This is far more likely to happen on overcast days than bright ones; sneaking up on ‘em is just that much easier when the fireball in the sky is on vacation.

The Moral of this Article is…

Sneaking around brushy trout streams isn’t always easy – and you’re often left to perform the fly fishing calculus needed to choose between two bad options – but it costs a lot less than a new fly rod. And unlike a new rod, being sneaky will actually help you catch more fish.

So practice stealth. Fish like a sneaky bastard. And remember: the best bastards never stop getting better. After fishing with Ian Rutter last spring, I realized there was a lot of roll casting practice in my future. That recently paid off handomely – to the tune of a wad of 14”-19” fish.

Technorati Tags: trout, stealth, rutter, fly rod, tennessee, upper sacramento

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Clearly, it’s time someone in the outdoor media stood up and asked the question that others don’t have the guts to ask:

Are all Montana trout smoking crack?

One bad fly pattern could be an anomaly, but given the wholly unproductive “sure thing” patterns offered by other Montana-based Undergrounders, a larger picture begins to emerge.

And it’s an unpretty picture indeed - one of trout so stupid that they’ll eat October Caddis imitations other trout won’t touch. Or even hopper patterns more Dali-esque than duplicative.

Is this proof of excessive drug use among Montana’s trout?

It’s starting to look that way to this reporter.

I’m reminded of a local fly fisher’s quote upon his return from Montana; he was asked about the fishing, and replied “It was about what you’d expect from a place where they mostly fish flies made from foam.”

Revealing. And damming.

Foaming at the Mouth

Everything I’ve said so far could simply be the ramblings of a deranged fly fisher (not that there’s anything wrong with that - it works for most political pundits), but careful examination of the lyrics from Montana’s Official State Song offers incontrovertible proof:

Montana, Montana,
Glory of the West
Of all the states from coast to coast,
You’re easily the best, and your trout are as dumb as rocks.

It’s time to save the Montana trout. By getting them into rehab…

.

.

BREAKING NEWS UPDATE: It’s the expectation of any brilliant (nay, genius) journalist that breaking the big story could mean you’ll experience attacks by those desperate to preserve their dark, dark secrets. Fly Fishing in Yellowstone has launched the first, though his latest “can’t miss” pattern frankly tends to support my theory. (Either that, or Montana’s filled with a lot of fly fishing musicians.) Don’t miss the notes for what might be the funniest fly pattern of the year…

Technorati Tags: montana, October Caddis

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A Grand Laker running down Junior Creek on West Grand Lake.

Too early for the fall colors… except for this one Maple on “Treasure Island.”

I admit it - the clouds here are wilder than in California. Sepia filter anyone?

Another cloud pic? Why not?

Yeah, it’s sooo hard to relax up here…

Just when you thought it was safe for rocks to go back into the water….

Technorati Tags: Grand Lake Stream, Maine, maple, Grand Lake Canoe

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Forty-five minutes from the boathouse. Don’t believe what I wrote about the seaworthiness of the Grand Lake Canoe? This is the start of our run home. It got much, much worse. (Brought to you via a waterproof camera set to “Winslow Homer “mode.)

Then it started raining very, very hard. The wind whistled. I saw lightning in the dark clouds that were overrunning us.

Which is when things got bad.

Happy, Sunny Day…

The day started peacefully enough. Bluebird even. We fished mostly poppers until early afternoon, caught some nice, hard-fighting smallmouth, had lunch, and largely enjoyed the warm weather.

Early in the day. Stripping a Sneaky Pete in bluebird weather. I’m only seconds away from the trip’s first (and hopefully last) pickerel. (L&T Nancy photo)

With darker clouds looming to the Northwest, we raced to rocky structure in the hopes of catching big, aggressive smallmouth in the dead calm that precedes a cold front. Fish are often unbelievably aggressive at the edge of a front, and because I’m greedy, I wanted a few of them.

And, true to form, I quickly hooked four smallmouth, including a 12” fish and another slightly smaller fish that chased the popper right to the boat. But - despite the years I’ve spent fishing lakes - I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

I heard a faint hissing noise that kept growing louder – a thousand “snakes on a plane” heading our way. I looked to the Northwest and saw what I can only describe as a solid line of wind on the water.

On one side of the line, the water was dead calm, and on the other, swells were already building.

The “line” washed over us (I’m guessing 30 miles an hour), and the air went from warm and humid to cold and dry in literally a heartbeat.

It wasn’t an isolated gust of wind; it was the leading edge of the cold front that dropped our overnight temperatures 20+ degrees. I’ve seen fronts move in over the course of half an hour, but never one so clearly defined that I could pinpoint its passage to within a couple seconds.

Without a word, I put away my rod and Nancy fired up the motor. “No problem” I thought, “We might get wet, but we’ll stay on the front edge of the storm.”

Duh. I thought wrong.

Twenty minutes from the boathouse. It was raining hard and the thunder was loud, which was just as well – that way the L&T Nancy couldn’t hear me whimpering. (The camera lens dramatically flattens the waves. They were tall.)

It’s tempting to describe the long run home in heroic terms, emphasizing our triumph over the deadly, uncaring forces of nature, but the truth is it was a miserable run where a novice boater (which the L&T Nancy isn’t) could have easily gotten into some serious trouble.

The swells were big, the wind was whitecapping the waves which slapped the canoe, the rain made it hard to see, and – late in the run – the nearby lightning strikes rattled our teeth.

Swamping the canoe or motor in that situation can make a miserable situation dangerous, but even as she navigated the maze of islands and shoals on the way home, Nancy eased us through the worst of the waves with only the bare minimum of trouble.

Five minutes from the boathouse. We were chasing the front edge of the storm, but that white area kept shrinking, and we pretty easily lost the race. It’s hard to see, but we’re climbing the back side of a swell that – despite my elevated angle – obscures the land in front of it.

Competence in a situation like that isn’t so much demonstrated by heroic measures as it a measured calmness - an ability to navigate situations that could easily go from bad to much, much worse (but don’t).

We were fortunate that the last run to the boathouse was downwind, because the thunder and lightning started getting uncomfortably close. Figuring home was a close as any other shelter, Nancy opened the throttle and we rode the waves – arrowing the Grand Laker into the narrow boathouse slot perfectly.

Adventure over.

Thirty seconds from the boathouse. I’m filing the whole affair under “Unintended Outdoor Adventures” and never assuming that a Maine cold front moves at the same speed as the California variety.

Today’s weather is very windy and though the swells are smaller than yesterday, it’s still whitecaps out there. Fishing is unlikely, but I’m going to take the chance to rest up and put together some of the spare pictures from the trip so far.

See you in the boathouse, Tom Chandler

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The Grand Lake Canoe doing what it does best…

Spend any time peering down driveways around the tiny town of Grand Lake Stream, and you’ll notice almost as many boats on trailers as cars, and that most of those boats are long, broad-beamed wooden canoes with an upswept bow.

But don’t make the mistake of simply calling it a canoe. You’re almost certainly looking at a Grand Lake Canoe (a “Grand Laker” if you’re into Maine guide slang), and suggesting that its roots run deep around the tiny town of Grand Lake Stream is to underestimate its connection to the area; the Grand Laker has big chunks of Grand Lake DNA directly wired into its genetic code.

The Guide’s Choice

Typically powered by a 9hp motor, it’s a craft that’s perfectly suited to guiding the lakes in the area, where the wind often blows and a lot of water needs to be covered, sometimes in a pretty mean chop.

Like most great tools, it’s a deceptively workable design, and while newer, high-tech boats might cover more water, there’s something irresistible about a wood canoe that’s so perfectly suited to its environment that it’s named for the lake upon which you’re currently fishing.

It even reflects Mainer frugality by fishing for several days on one small tank of gas.

And – unlike bigger boats – a Grand Lake canoe can successfully navigate the boulder-strewn shallows of the local lakes - where submerged boulders the size of houses rise eerily from the depths, often topping out at a keel-scraping inches from the surface.

(Watching a guide casually thread the big, broad-beamed canoe through a slot no wider than the boat itself is breathtaking stuff.)

In addition to negotiating boulder-strewn shallows, it also trailers well, launches easily on unimproved boat ramps, and moves a guide and a couple clients at surprising speeds despite the use of small-displacement motors.

It’s tempting to say that fly fishing from a Grand Laker is like a trip back in time, but that statement belies the sheer fishability of the craft. Like Western drift boats, it’s not still used because a bunch of backward locals can’t give it up, but because it does the job it was intended to – in most cases better than anything that’s come after it.

Nearly a Century of History

The first Grand Lake canoes were built just prior to the 1920s, and because there were no outboard motors, they were “double-enders” which were paddled by guides.

With the advent of the outboard motor came the square stern, and in the 1950s, the Grand Lake canoe underwent its final incarnation: the stern was strengthened (to accommodate bigger motors) and a fiberglass skin replaced the canvas exterior.

The result is a 20′ canoe that handles superbly, even with a guide, two clients, and a lot of gear. And despite their light weight, Grand Lake canoes are famous for their longevity.

It’s common to learn you’re sitting in a canoe that’s several decades old (last visit out I enjoyed the singular experience of fishing from a Grand Laker that was almost as old as I am, and one of the canoes in these pictures was built 30+ years ago).

The reliability of the Grand Laker is so deeply ingrained into the local zeitgeist that when an aluminum skiff flipped a couple years ago (it was late Fall, and a man and his son were lucky to be seen and rescued before hypothermia set in), a couple of locals sniffed that it “wouldn’t have happened in a Grand Laker.”

True or not, it’s a measure of the faith the locals have in the craft – and these are people who are on the big lakes when sudden, violent storms whip up some sizable waves, and get home to tell of it.

Clearly, Grand Lake canoe seems at home here because it is – and the same can be said for the guides who pilot them. You could say that they’re deeply sunk into the traditions of the area, but again, that’s an unnecessarily nostalgic view - unless your view of “fishing” necessarily means warp-drive boats, footlocker-sized tackle boxes, and a lot of yelling and screaming every time you land a fish.

Instead, the Registered Maine Guides – and their Grand Lakers - still do things pretty much the way they were done 50 years ago because nobody’s invented a better way to do it.

Technorati Tags: Grand Lake Canoe, Grand Lake Stream, Maine

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