Regular readers will know my parents often visited the Trout Underground, and my mother’s been hugely appreciative of your thoughts and comments.

This is the second time the Undergrounders have come through in a big way (the first being our messy fight against the Siskiyou County natural resource policy), and I truly thank you for it.

Right now, my brothers and I are digging through the accumulated belongings of a man who — like many who lived through the Great Depression — threw little away.

It’s a little like an archeological excavation, with the artifacts getting older as you dig deeper, until finally — at the bottom of one box — we found the little cards he handed out at his high school graduation.

The Underground’s regular service will resume by the end of the week, and yes — you can be damn sure I’ll be finding someplace to fish, high water or not.

See you in the past, Tom Chandler.

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After that (usually a lot of years after that) you realize that living through a great depression and surviving front line combat in a terrible war — and then slipping into harness and doing the supremely hard work of feeding and raising a family (and making sure there’s enough for everyone to go to college) means – cape or not – your dad actually did have super powers, and not the flashy comic book kind, but the badass real life variety (though if it ever came down to a contest, he’d kick Superman’s ass every damn time).

Of course, even Superman had a weakness, and my father’s was his heart, and it finally gave out, and he passed away this morning.

When the call comes, you sit down right where you are to a jarring mix of emotions, and you don’t know whether to simply stop breathing and melt into the ground or stand up and shake your fist at the sky, though the sense of someone kicking out a corner of the foundation you’ve built your life on prevents you from doing either.

You know you’ll eventually find some perspective on all this, but at the moment, you realize you can no longer feel the phone against your face.

Rest in peace, Superman. Know that your sons finally came to understand what you were and what you did, and that we loved you for it.

William Chandler, 1931-2008

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I sympathize. Most of my yard is covered in snow, yet 30 minutes down the canyon, the grass has already turned a vibrant green, and spring is underway.

Still, if you were to ask me, I’d say spring is a couple weeks away. Is that alpine-induced tunnel vision, or simply a reflection of my immediate reality?

(photo courtesy Fly Fishing in Yellowstone)

From Fly Fishing In Yellowstone:

The cloistered mind of the high country tends to forget that there are other bits of humanity that seem to enjoy four full seasons and a world with minimal snow.

He ends his thoughtful essay with:

Soon there will be color enough. Riots of small blossoms will appear on the edges - where the dirt first appears. There will be snow in the corners until June, this year — maybe a bit left for the 4th of July. We’ll see.

The Madison River looks asleep up here. Last night’s snow has covered the lonesome foot prints to the fishing spots in the tailwater. It seems dormant. It hides a secret - there are fish there, and they are getting ready for their Spring mating rituals. They will dance with you if you send them the right offering. And only the neighbors will know.

Without getting all mushy about it, I’ll say this: his essay is a rare glimpse into the high country mind. Don’t miss it.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing,fly fishing in yellowstone,fly fishing blog,spring in the high country

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It was released in 1975 — about the same time I started high school — and the controversy it caused immediately made it an attractive read to a teenager.

Abbey also wrote Desert Solitaire, a stunning book that is likely his best work, though it gets lost in the controversy surrounding the Monkey Wrench Gang. From Solitaire:

"This is the most beautiful place on earth. There are many such places. Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary. A houseboat in Kashmir, a view down Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, a gray gothic farmhouse two stories high at the end of a red dog road in the Allegheny Mountains, a cabin on the shore of a blue lake in spruce and fir country, a greasy alley near the Hoboken waterfront, or even, possibly, for those of a less demanding sensibility, the world to be seen from a comfortable apartment high in the tender, velvety smog of Manhattan, Chicago, Paris, Tokyo, Rio or Rome - there’s no limit to the human capacity for the homing sentiment."

Everyone has their own "most beautiful place on earth" and fly fishermen are no exception, which is why some of us feel the outdoors (and the wilderness) are worth fighting for.

For the record, I’ve never Monkey Wrenched anyone’s project, but I sure as hell understand the impulse.

Abbey Quote:

"Anarchism is not a romantic fable but the hardheaded realization, based on five thousand years of experience, that we cannot entrust the management of our lives to kings, priests, politicians, generals, and county commissioners."

To Abbey’s list, the Underground would like to add the likes of Nestle, Westlands, PacifiCorp and the Siskiyou County Board of Supervisors. Feel free to add your own in the comments section.

Abbey died in 1989 and his final resting place — where he was buried by his friends — remains a mystery, which is probably as it should be.

See you in the bookshelves, Tom Chandler.

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(I can’t remember — is it the memory that goes first or is it the knees?)

 
Maine ain’t hard on the eyes.

The Environmental Thing

We had more than our share of fun in 2007, though if you take a run through the archives, you’ll notice it’s also the year the Underground got a little cranky with the people (and the predatory corporations) that want to denude our watersheds, extinguish our salmon runs, steal our water, privatize public water, and flood our rivers with higher dams.

I have little desire to turn the Underground into one of those spittle-streaked blogs where every other post features a venomous attack on Nestle or Westlands or our prehistoric Board of Supervisors (not that it wouldn’t be fun) or some other environmental miscreant (plenty of available villans), so I’ve passed on stories I probably should have run.

Those are backcountry Brookie rise rings. We love it.

And I haven’t even touched on California’s water wars, which encompass a battery of largely farcical statements, unacknowledged realities, and plain stupid behavior.

The obvious answer is to fire up a separate water/fly fishing issues blog — complete with an “action” list of people who need to hear from the “strike team” of readers.

Sadly, there’s that little question of time. Given the amount of non-revenue producing time already invested on the Underground, a new blog represents a one-way ticket to insolvency and divorce.

I have no answers, but I did want to acknowledge the question. If anyone has an idea, feel free to write it on a winning lottery ticket and mail it to me immediately. I’ll give it every consideration.

Stoneflies in June. Part and parcel of every year.

In 2007, the Underground Stayed Close to Home

Though I fished in Maine and Tennessee again, 2007 found me sticking closer to home. No trips to Idaho in Winter or Belize in fall, though I did hike my way to a lot of backcountry waters I hadn’t seen before (and a few I had), and yes, that did cut into my time on the Upper Sacramento.

I’d feel bad about that, but it’s hard to argue with jewel-like (and admittedly small) trout in tiny streams and impossibly beautiful mountain lakes, and there are only 24 hours in a day.

The backcountry. Spent a fair amount of time there in 2007.

And admittedly, the latter part of 2007 was consumed by things which — like a herd of little space-time carnivores — pretty seriously ate into my fishing time.

In the interest of not sounding like a massive whiner, I won’t list them here (though our very time-consuming fight with the Sisikiyou County Board of Supervisors ranks among them). Sometimes, life just intrudes.

Still, anyone who lives near a lifetime’s worth of fly fishing water probably shouldn’t expect a lot of folks to cry along with him, and so I’ll move on to…

What’s Next?

That’s a good question. If the Trout Underground were a corporate enterprise, I’d have a “Mission Statement” and Team Building exercises (and you’d all have to take drug tests).

Given the somewhat doubtful chemical histories of many of my readers, I suggest we skip the corporate angle, and move forward with the predictions.

Expect to see the usual philosophical fishing reports, the typical barrage of pictures, the same snarky take on the industry and world at large, and a few longer, more serious articles.

 
There’s a stream there somewhere. Rest assured we fished it.

We might also plunge into the shadowy realm of podcasts, and yes — I am trying to find a sound commercial footing for the Trout Underground.

I love this blog and the community of seriously odd people that have gathered round it, but in truth, it’s hard to imagine any non-trust-funded writer generating original content at this pace without eventually burning out or enjoying some kind of financial return.

That’s the subject of another half-written post: The online fly fishing world — where it’s headed, and why it’s probably not sustainable in its non-commercial form. Stay tuned.

Of course, feel free to post ideas, suggestions and rants in the comments section.

Above All Else, Enjoy Fishing in 2008

That’s the bottom line. Fly fishing is simply an excuse to do something engrossing in a beautiful setting, and while there are a million and one reasons not to go fishing, they’re mostly bullshit.

Ian Rutter on Hazel Creek.

Each year gives us a handful of real memories, and while I’ve got a bunch tied up in the L&T that we’re not going to discuss, most of the others revolve around friends, trout, fly rods, and — in my case — some outrageously beautiful backcountry settings.

You don’t generate those memories from your office, and you won’t generate them doing something you don’t want to do, so here’s the Underground’s advice — get out and fish the way you want to fish, and to hell with all the folks who think you’re not being as “efficient” as possible when it comes to catching fish.

We really are here for a short time, so don’t waste it generating non-memories. That’s 2008 in a nutshell.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

 
Home, sweet home.

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The general trout season on the Upper Sacramento closed(along with most the other rivers in the state). For half the year, we were left to stare at a river we couldn’t fish (for what appeared to be no good reason).

For a few of us, the closing day gathering at Wayne and Myrna’s was more a wake than a party.

 
This was off limits during the winter. Now you’re free to freeze your ass off.

That was until Chris Raine spearheaded a drive to open the river to year-round angling, and now November 15 comes and goes like almost any other day (though if your home water was the McCloud, you probably feel differently).

The season opener also went the way of the homing pigeon, and though I was happy to see that wretchedly timed day die a quick death (the season always opened the day after the river blew out), I admit to missing the gradual, nervous buildup and all the anticipation.

Then again, if I really missed it, I could go stand in a closed river and not fish it. Since that hasn’t happened, I think I’m probably just being nostalgic.

Before the Upper Sac was opened year-round, what happened on the Upper Sac in winter tended to stay on the Upper Sac in winter, and like Las Vegas, you knew interesting things were going on, but you didn’t know exactly what they were.

More than a few times I’d take a walk along a high bank, and see trout eating BWOs in the kind of hard-clear water you only experience in the dead of winter.

Today, we have some idea what’s happening, though it’s a little like teenagers discussing sex; there are significant gaps in the knowledge base, and lot of guesswork and fantasy is involved.

What’s apparent is that the BWO hatches come and go with maddening irregularity. Three winters ago the hatches were regular and thick; the last two winters have been far more sporadic.

Midges? I was expecting serious midge hatches, and yet I’m still largely waiting. Damn.

A CDC BWO cripple, freshly dusted.

I’ve fished the river a couple times this last week, and not once did the hatch come off like I’d hoped. Nor did the fish rise like I so desperately wanted.

I managed a few grabs on the BWOs, but I’m pretty sure I’d have done a lot better on the big October Caddis dry. That’s on tap for my next trip, and naturally, I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, I wanted to share some important information — the kind of information that sets the Trout Underground apart from all those other fly fishing sites, which only offer you “How to Catch Fish” advice.

Here at the Underground, we go one step further by dispensing with irritating “how-to” advice, and moving right into “Where to Catch Big Trout” information. Behold:

A really, really big fish sometimes eats bugs only 1.5 feet from that small white rock barely poking its head out of the water.

There you go. Once again, no need to thank us. See you on the open-for-winter-fishing river, Tom Chandler.

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It’s the latest book by outdoor humorist Patrick McManus, whose hilarious essays about his hunting and fishing misadventures killed me when I read them in high school.

The rules are simple: post a comment here about the outdoor writer who first made an impression on you. We pick the winner at random based on the comment number (your first comment counts). You win, and everyone weeps bitterly. (Life is hard.)

So get your entry in by Midnight Saturday.

See you giving away the free schwag, Tom Chandler.

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I have no idea what the author’s bio says about me. Could be that I’m kinda grungy.

I’d wax positively rhapsodic about the quality of the translation and the editing, but since I can’t actually read a word of the article, I’m reduced to looking at the pictures I sent along, which frankly, don’t measure up to the quality of the rest of the mag.

I’ve gotta say, Fly Fisher magazine (not available in the USA apparently) is a pretty piece of work; wonderful art direction and a lot of pretty damned attractive photos.

Get a load of their seductively interesting take on the standard cover “hero shot.”

My favorite English-language headline? “Equipment Breakdown on Fifteen Fisheads.“

I assume “Fishead” is the equivalent of our trout bum (or perhaps a guide, and you can’t ignore the olfactory similarities), but frankly, I like the sound of it.

After all, damn near everyone claims to be a trout bum, but hardly anyone admits to being a “Fishhead.”

So there it is: For the record, I’m not just a “Goddmaned Fin Hugger” — I’m also a “Fishhead.” It sings.

See you in Japan, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, fly fisher magazine, japanese fly fishing magazine, bill phillipson, phillipson bamboo fly rods, fishhead

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It’s not true (today anyway), but spring days like this should provoke a little daydreaming, if only to prove to yourself winter didn’t kill off your imagination.

The River Report I mentioned in the headline? I’ve been back from Tennessee less than a week and the weather is absolutely beautiful.

Temperatures are perfect, hummingbirds throng the backyard, the landscape is carpeted with that bright, livid green of spring, and you know you’re living the days you dream about during the winter, when it’s dark, claustrophobic, and snow blankets the landscape.

Usually, this kind of weather goes hand-in-hand with a blown river — the snowmelt pushing the Upper Sacramento to its banks and limiting the fly fishing possibilities.

This year, that didn’t happen.

The snow’s mostly gone, the river never really got above 1,000 cfs (it’s below 700 and falling), and most of the backcountry is (reportedly) already open.

I’m hoping to fish some of the hatches I normally miss due to high water, though that means getting out instead of sitting around typing.

With that thought in mind, I’ll get back to work. But not before thanking all my readers, who keep coming back (in ever-increasing numbers), leaving comments, and just generally making the Trout Underground a great place to be when I’m not on the river.

Now get out and fish. Tell your boss your imagination said it was OK.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

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

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According to Flyfishmagazine, another windstorm hit last night:

Anglers preparing for a trip to fish the Great Smoky Mountains National Park should be advised that last night’s windstorm brought down large numbers of trees around the park. According to this Charlotte.com article highway 441 which runs over the mountain between the town of Gatlinburg, Tennessee and the Cherokee Indian Reservation, is blocked with over 200 trees down.

I won’t be there for a couple weeks, so the Newfound Gap road — a pretty drive and my route to a fun brookie stream — will certainly be open.

Yet it’s intriguing to wonder how many formerly upright trees are now face down in the park’s rivers and streams — providing choice new habitat for both bugs and trout.

In fact, one of my best “big fish” stretches of the Upper Sacramento River contains several downed trees.

Just by looking, you can tell there are big fish in there, but few fly fishers bother with it.

Risk & Reward

It’s difficult to nymph the fallen tree in question, but it’s one of the first places I go when big bugs are on the water — and big trout are looking up for them.

You can drift a big dry way, way back into the wood (though floating a dry fly in doesn’t mean you can get a big fish out), and it’s one of the most nerve-wracking forms of trout fishing I know.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware that the closer that fly drifts to the wood, the lower the chances you’ll actually land any fish that takes the fly.

Pulling the dry under the surface at the last second (to lengthen the drift a couple inches) is a neat trick (and it does work at times), but now we’re talking about reducing the chances even further.

Naturally, an accurate cast and heavy tippet are handy, and the bugs must be large — the big fish typically won’t come out of their wooden strongholds for little bugs.

Meanwhile, Back At the Upper Sac

It’s been windy the last couple days, and we’re in the part of spring where the temperatures are literally freezing at night, but can rise into the low 70s during the days.

Overall it’s been a little colder than that, so the river flows have fallen to very, very low levels.

Sure, I should be out fishing, but I’m trying to get a lot of copy written for several long-suffering clients.

In essence, The Mad Rush to Finish Everything Before Going Out of Town is just beginning.

Don’t expect a sane blogger by the end of it.

See you at the looney bin, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, gsmnp, smokies

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On your living room table, a map is a completely different animal.

I’m killing a lot of time fantasizing over Ian Rutter’s GSMNP fishing map.

It’s not a guide as much as it is an icon of possibility; a window to what can be, if only you had the time, the weather and the legs.

In simplest terms, a map is hope in print form.

With careful planning and a cup of coffee, you can take upwards of a dozen fishing trips — without ever leaving your living room.

Return on Investment

A map offers an exceptional payback for the minimal time invested, and that’s ignoring the trip you actually take.

For the last week, I’ve been jumping between Ian & Charity Rutter’s map of the GSMNP and the stream descriptions in their Smoky Mountains Guide Book.

I’m having a hell of a lot of fun.

It’s blue-lining — but without the sweat, aching feet or 30 pound pack. Sure, it’s nothing like actually being there, but I’ll only get to do that once.

Those who see a map as nothing more than lines and directions might want to rent an imagination prior to planning their next trip, if only to see what they’ve been missing.

Fly Fishing Tennessee’s Backcountry

This year’s trip to Tennessee begins with a half day in the park with Rich Margiotta (the first half of the day will be spent getting a license, etc), followed by a drift trip with Ian and Rich on one of Tennessee’s tailwaters.

Next comes my 3.5-day backpacking trip in the Hazel Creek drainage — and there’s plenty to see and fish there — but Eagle Creek beckons too, though the six-mile one-way hike means an early start and late arrival back at camp.

It also means I’d miss some intriguing blue lines on Hazel Creek.

Decisions, Decisions…

After the backpack trip, I’ve got a half-day to get organized for the final two days of fishing.

I’ve never fished Abrams Creek, so I can’t catch the flight home until I fish what some have described as the crown jewel of the Smokies.

My final day of fishing could end up like the past two years; on the Little River above Elkmont.

In fact, the smaller, upstream version of the Little River could become a last-day tradition, but in this case, it means passing up the tiny, overgrown brookie stream I fished last year (and want to fish again this year).

Can I do that?

Ask me in a couple weeks.

Until then, I’m studying the map. Wonder where I’ll go tomorrow.

See you at the cartography desk, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, map, blue lining, smokies, gsmnp, great smoky mountains national park, ian rutter, backpacking

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Enjoy it, and know I haven’t abandoned Bill Phillipson. With snow still on the ground from yesterday’s storm and the temperatures hovering below freezing, I’m writing all day long.

Ranch ponds are the about only over-looked trout resource left here in the Big Sky state.

That’s true because any angler with the ability to distinguish water from sagebrush and the dexterity to tie their own knots can effectively fish the things.

As a result, ponds aren’t on the receiving end of much attention from the magazine/guide cabal, so there’s little danger of an elbow-to-elbow fishing experience.

The big trick, of course, is gaining access. (Good luck with that, and please, no pleading e-mails).

Last Saturday, a friend and I found ourselves on an artificial piece of water on the windy side of the mountains.

The excavated pond’s aesthetics range from the non-descript to the downright ugly. The water is cold.

The owner informs us that the ice hasn’t been off long- we’re the first people to fish it this year. This, of course, is by design.

We fully expect gloating-quality fish, so we come equipped with tape measures and Tony’s little digital camera.

We both rig up 6-weights with clear intermediate lines, the better to beat the omnipresent wind and countdown to the fish if the occasion requires.

I tippet a Big Fly leader with 2X. That’s right, 2X. See, I’ve been to this pond before.

I tie on a size-6, 3-X long bright orange streamer of the J. Fair type; unweighted, long marabou tail with matching length wing.

The first fish isn’t difficult to locate. While Tony is still wadering-up, I stand on our host’s lawn and make four casts. The first cast provokes a large form to move. Casts two and three are off the mark (see “wind” above).

Cast number four is on target, and the big fish gobbles the fly just as it reaches the edge of the water. It proves to be a 22-inch brown: a heavy golden fish. (Editor: if you’re counting, you’ll notice that’s 5.5 inches of brown trout per cast.)

Slightly miffed that Tony hadn’t wandered over with the camera, I continue to walk the bank looking for targets.

Sizable fish bask in shallow water, apparently trying to absorb some heat. The orange fly moves fish, but most stop just short of the fly.

Since it’s a bright, blustery day I decide to tone down the look and try a black streamer with hints of metallic red and blue in the body. The Kamloops rainbows (averaging about 21-inches and pundit plentiful) love the streamer.

Meanwhile Tony has working similar magic with visible fish. He fishes one of Denny Rickard’s black and purple seal buggers, slightly smaller than what I’m using, but similar in appearance.

Somehow during the proceedings he finds a 26-inch brown trout attached to his fly. A terrific fish by anyone’s reckoning.

Because we’re fishing along and came armed with measuring tapes, no adrenalin inches or guide enhancement factor are being applied. Too bad that Tony had failed to check the batteries in his little camera, eh?

After a bit I catch a 24-inch brown. Normally a source of jubilation, and possibly the largest trout I’ll land all year, this husky two-foot long spotted monster slips into the wan also ran category as a result of Tony’s more significant catch.

Believe it or not, I’ve volunteered to undergo similar psychic strain at the pond again this fall. They should be big by then.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, montana, brown trout, rainbow trout

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In this post, he sits at the campfire and pokes a stick at the fire that is his fly fishing obsession, looking to uncover the reasons why his love for the sport continues to grow.

Many ”writers”  attempt this piece, yet most fall into pointless navel gazing, leaving behind no insight save one suggesting narcissism.

Here’s a passage from Mike’s shot at it; judge for yourself:

I think that fishing fills a role in my life a little bit like religion. I realise this might sound a little bizarre. Obsessive, indulgent even. That’s fine, I’d pretty much agree. But that’s perhaps one of fishing’s greatest attributes. All things to all men. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the casual angler’s attitude. Fishing is just something to do, a way to pass the time every few months. But for some folks it becomes a bit more. Fly fishing seems to act like a filter on life. A lot of your thoughts and opinions seem to be affected by it. This doesn’t mean imagining politicians heads as trout heads. It’s much more subtle than that.

Read the rest of his fine past at: Tamanawis: Never Bored

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, meaning, writer, writing

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Trout

To think that I shall never shout
A poem lovely as a trout.

A trout whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the creek’s sweet flowing crest;

A trout that looks at God all day,
And lifts her pearly fins to pray;

A trout that may in Winter sleep
With nests of nymphs down in the deep;

Upon whose side the stripe is red,
And pearl-green cheeks about the head.

Small trout are caught by folks like me,
While bad poems are read by thee.

—— (With apologies to Joyce Kilmer)

Still smiling? Enjoy other bad trout poems at: Trout Worship

Technorati Tags: fly fishing, trout, poem, poetry

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For those who have been living in caves - or playing Nintendo non-stop - Harrison is one of the Trout Underground’s favorite writers, whose credits include the novella Legends of the Fall and True North.

It’s a worthwhile interview and includes the following quote, which intriguingly includes the words ”Hollywood” and “suckhole.”

“Writers go out to Hollywood for the same reason stockbrokers go into business, and that’s greed,” Mr. Harrison said, adding, “Even when they’re cheating you, they’re cheating you at a level that’s unheard of in academe, say. But I finally quit because I didn’t want to die in that suckhole.”

Someone said that Hollywood considered writers only first drafts of human beings, and I admire that quote enough to trot it out in all sorts of inapplicable situations.

Harrison’s the real thing; the hard-living, hard-drinking, hard-eating outdoor writer writing about hard-living, hard-drinking characters. Great stuff.

See you at the New York Times, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: jim harrison, new york times, ass hooked whitey, suckhole

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