We’re pretty sure we saw a few BWOs hatching out in one of the video’s evening sequences, but that’s not important now.

What’s important is the conclusion any reasonable person would have to draw from this video:

The Trout Underground is – on a global basis – making trout cool.

See you in all the hippest places, Tom Chandler.

(found via AdFreak)

(via the Underground Department of Perspective)

There’s been an avalanche of fly fishing movies the past couple years, and while it’s generally a good thing for the industry, I have some questions about the financial model supporting fly fishing’s movie producers. This one, however, looks pretty damned interesting: A Year in the Life of a Trout

A Question for the Undergrounders: Have the fly fishing movies of the past 4-5 years changed the way you view/practice the sport?

See you underwater, Tom Chandler.

Brownliners contend most fly fishermen unnecessarily limit the species they pursue. Suddenly, the Underground’s inclined to agree.

(photo from the Medusirena: the Fire-Eating Mermaid site)

While the weather was unseasonably warm, the river had a Fall’s-over feel; most of the leaves were down or headed that way, and summer’s lush habitat is a memory.

Wally the Wonderdog is always happy to go fishing.

Despite the blanket October Caddis hatches of a month ago, the year’s best October Caddis dry fly fishing often comes later in the year – long after the river’s been largely abandoned. Some speculate it’s because the bugs are dying in greater numbers, and that trout “know” dead bugs don’t fly away at the last minute.

Others think it’s simply a matter of supply and demand; the trout are used to eating the big bugs, but fewer emergers and far fewer adults come between big trout and your fly.

Rather than enter into the debate, I simply fish a big dry, and marvel at the size of the fish I sometimes catch.

Last night, happily, was no exception.

In about two hours of fishing a relatively hard-fished stretch of the river, I hooked ten fish, the smallest of which went a foot.

The biggest was bigger than my net and both ends stuck out, and once I eased the hook out, he simply straightened out and fell into the water.

Powerless

And yes, I’d have photographic evidence, yet somehow managed to remove the good battery and insert the discharged battery into my old Pentax digital, so I fired off exactly two frames of the Wonderdog before the dreaded “battery discharged” warning popped up.

So much for the digital age.

Still, I got the important picture; when I fish with the Wonderdog and don’t post a picture of the brave-but-dumb pup, I get emails.

Irritated emails.

Thus, do I bow to the will of the people.

Trout Where They’re Supposed to Be

The best fishing wasn’t in the longer runs; it was the seams and short slots often found in rock gardens, and hooking big fish in conditions like that reminds me of the lessons I’ve already learned – but always forget.

Like – when you’re chasing a good fish downriver, you need to keep reclaiming line – or that fish will always remain the same distance away.

Or that steering fish into quieter water and running down is a hell of a lot easier than winching them through faster water. Stuff like that.

After a long stretch off the water, fly fishing the big dry was reviving: the trout were still where they were supposed to be; the 8′ Upper Sac Special bamboo fly rod cast like I was throwing darts (yet handled big fish brilliantly); and I wasn’t weighed down with any deadlines, staying and fishing exactly as long or as short as I wanted.

Winter’s approaching, and the small meadow I call “Bear Meadow” was filled with bear scat, courtesy the bears eating apples off the old, old apple trees.

I always call a warning when walking through that meadow in the late fall, and yes, I did once startle a bear (me more than him, I think).

You feel a little foolish doing it, but I’d feel a lot more foolish trying to dial 911 after having both arms pulled out of their sockets by a drooling carnivore who only wanted to eat green apples in peace.

And yes, you can’t embrace nature without arms.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

fly fishing, fishing, trout, october caddis, upper sac, upper sacramento river

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Here’s something for Desolation Wilderness hikers who also like to fish. The Forest Service is removing non-native trout from seven lakes to protect the mountain yellow-legged frog, which the trout have been gobbling up since the fish were introduced to the lakes in the 1950s.

The yellow-legged frog has been at the center of controversy for some time, and yes, I’d love to speak authoritatively about the effects (or lack of them) a trout population might have on the frog’s populations, but I’d be blowing smoke.

Like any fly fisherman, I hate to see trout populations removed. But then, like any person, I’m not too excited to see native species disappearing due to the introduction of non-natives.

More on this as it continues.

Yesterday evening – in the grip of some irritating work details – I found myself headed for a stretch of water where the rocks were big, the rock-hopping hard, and the trout very small.

There I’d meet the absolute minimum of humanity (which was sort of the point).

Tiny flows, little trout, zero civilized veneer.

The beauty of fly fishing is that life recedes; at some point it becomes just you, some water, and a few trout, who may or may not have any interest in what you’re doing.

That’s a far simpler equation than what you experience in your everyday life, and it might explain the hold this sport has over some of us.

At this time of year, small-stream trout are spooky; the low water levels mean they’re extremely vulnerable to predators, and the “wander up to a bubbling run and catch a trout” stuff that worked in the spring is a sure-fire recipe for an unslimed fly by late August.

Two things I like: Parachute Hare’s Ears and classic fly reels.

My two best fish came on casts made from my knees – casts you’d normally say were far too long for a small stream.

Since I made them and caught the trout (a pair of 7″ fish – big for this tiny stream), it’s a story that nicely illustrates the relativity of phrases like “too long.”

Small freestone streams tend to strip away all of fly fishing’s civilized artifice; you do what you have to catch fish, and sometimes that means duck walking behind a boulder and dapping the fly from the tip of your $500 fly rod.

In other cases it means making long casts from your knees, and the trout judge whether you got it right or wrong – not some writer sitting in an office a continent away.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

fly fishing, fishing, small stream, trout

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If nothing is done to reduce human-produced greenhouse gas emissions—the primary culprit behind global warming—trout habitat throughout the Rocky Mountain region could be reduced by 50 percent or more by the end of the century.

The “Trout in Trouble” issue paper was written by the NRDC and Trout Unlimited’s Montana State Chapter, and is available in two different formats.

A four-page summary paper is available here (.pdf alert), and those wishing to read the full paper should point their browsers at this address (another .pdf document).

Rather than speaking in generalities, the paper looks at the probable effects on eight different Western trout rivers, including Gila, Green River, Fraser River, the Bighorn, the Big Hole, and others.

Will we all be fishing tailwaters in a few decades? And are those even “climate change proof?” (hint: not really).

Even if you’re willing to wave good-bye to a large chunk of our trout populations, the economic impacts are clear:

In Colorado alone, sport fishing in 2002 had a total economic impact of more than $800 million and supported nearly 11,000 jobs.

Sadly, you don’t get a lot of attention from politicians until you start talking pocketbooks. In this case, somebody’s pocketbook is going to take a beating.

The good news? The West is rich in sustainable resources like wind, solar and geothermal, and could actually stem the tide of climate change by developing those resources.

See you in the reading room, Tom Chandler.

Rock Creek from the “Hogback” overview. Lots of stones – and trout.

The first stop on the Underground’s Tour of Montana’s Fishy Fleshpots, my fly fishing host [name redacted] and I arrived on Saturday for the last three days in the drift boat season.

Last three days?

On July 1, drift boats are banned from Rock Creek (flows are typically too low to comfortably float anyway), and the river becomes a playground for wading fly fishermen.

Yes Undergrounders, the wildflowers are out. You almost don’t need trout.

While I was just in time for the end of the drift season, I should have been several weeks too late for the stoneflies.

Helpfully, a late winter intervened in my favor, and the salmon flies and Golden Stones were out in force (given all the “you should have been here last week” stories I’ve heard, I’m accepting this as my due).

The stoneflies were late — good news for me.

In simplest terms, we arrived in big bug heaven.

[name redacted] and I broke out our big bug fly boxes, argued that the other guy’s patterns were obvious crap, loaded [name redacted]‘s small Santiam Drifter, and pushed off.

I wasn’t really ready for what followed.

Rock Creek flows like the government spends. It was the fastest float I’ve ever experienced, and there were few places to pull over and take a breather.

And while you wanted to drop the big Golden Stone dries right next to the willows and overhanging branches, breaking off a fly meant missing a hundred yards of good trout water – a heartbreaking thought even now.

God help you if you broke off a chunk of leader.

The result was an ongoing exercise in Risk Assesment; bigger trout would come to tougher casts, but no trout were caught if you were tying on a fly and the bank wizzed by.

While the bite varied over the three days, it was almost always good, often crossing the line into great.

Browns by the dozens jumped our dries (mostly Golden Stones as the Salmon Flies weren’t working as well).

Other patterns worked better, but the Stimulators worked (and floated) well.

In one side channel, we stopped and I caught my first pure strain West Slope Cutthroat, though it turns out the things are hard to hold and we didn’t get a picture.

Most of the fish we caught were Browns, the biggest of which might have pushed 16”.

A fair number of Cuttbow hybrids also made an appearance in the net, though true Cutts were rare.

Neither [name redacted] or I are exactly fish counters, but I’d guess our best day resulted in several dozen hookups (and a bunch of misses).

[Name redacted] and a rare cast delivered outside the drift boat.

The pace of the float was intimidatingly fast; I took damned few pictures on the water, unwilling to sacrifice a shot at prime holding water (I’m greedy that way).

And nobody was surprised to hear we’d broken a rod setting the hook into a big Brown Trout. Manly stuff, but not unusual given that Rock Creek claims a couple drift boats and rafts every season.

These things were big enough to skewer and eat (we didn’t).

It’s a nice place to fish, but don’t show up thinking you’ll learn to row on the river. You’ll mostly learn to hit things.

The Camping Comedy Twins

We camped at the Stony Creek Campground, were we lived through the Harrowing Blown Radiator Hose Nightmare and also found trip mascot Stony: a roadkilled, dehydrated snake.

When a whole day’s float is at stake, you fix stuff.

It’s frightening to contemplate, but [name redacted] and I share a similar sense of humor, so the off-river time passed quickly.

In short order, we solved the fly fishing industry’s woes, heaped piles of scorn on those responsible for our environmental troubles, speculated as to Martha Stewart’s sexual potential, and yeah – managed to squeeze in a little talk about fly rods and bugs.

Trip Mascot Stony. Say “Hi” to everyone, Stony.

The culinary highlight of the trip (the lowlight comes in a later report) was [name redacted]‘s Dutch Oven Pork Chops, which combined simple ingredients into unbelievably tasty camp food, all cooked in a single pot.

Why it didn’t attract bears and other wild animals amazes me still (when we cooked it at our next stop, fly fishermen poured out of the woodwork looking for a free meal).

Meet your campground — and its friendly inhabitants.

Despite the great fishing, we broke camp and moved onto our next stop; Georgetown Lake.

You’ll hear about those adventures (including a new entry in the Ultimate Hot Dog Wars) when I get them written.

Lots of interesting pictures too (the lake moves considerably slower than Rock Creek).

A side channel; sometimes these fished better than the river.

Until next time, see you in Montana, Tom Chandler.

In this case, we’re talking Spicy Tamarind Trout from the Chile Underground — a recipe that would wake up the flavor of even a stockie trout.

The Chile Underground? Name aside, get ready to lick those chops.

It’s widely known that fish is a "brain food" — and if it’s one thing the Underground’s Director of Chronic Underachievement Needs (that’s me), it’s brain food. Lots of it.

See you licking my fingers, Tom Chandler.