mlk weekend.

Air temperatures were above freezing for the first time  in two weeks, and the four to six inches which had been hanging around on the landscape retreated, holding on only on the north slopes and ditch bottoms, under cedar trees and clinging to steep bluffs.

 

I had been invited to a friend’s cabin, about a half hour from a very popular Ozark spring branch.  The good-weather weekend brought anglers out of the woodwork, and finding a spot with any decent fish and some relative solitude was damn near impossible.  It didn’t help that there were eight or ten people I already knew there with me.

 

I got out Friday afternoon and fished.  Second cast produced a solid 17 inch rainbow, but I LDR’ed it at five feet, fumbling for the camera.  I did get to touch its caudal peduncle, though, and it was a pretty fish.

Next cast produced a chunky footlong smallmouth, who rose up three feet from the bottom to smack at my mohair leech.  The smallie fishing was far more consistent than the trout, and I wound up with three more, the biggest around fifteen inches.  I did see a few bigger fish deep down in the slower holes, and a few were probably in the three to four pound range- solid fish.  Although they’d move for the leech, they wouldn’t accept my offering, and I couldn’t convince them with larger flies. 

I met up with Jake around three, and he fished upstream, catching a few fish on nymphs in a shallow riffle.  I wandered up there later in the afternoon and caught another rainbow, fifteen or sixteen inches, on a small orange egg.

 

Around dark the two of us headed back to the cabin, started a bonfire, and drank far too much.

 

************************

 

An early-morning hurt combined with a slew of eggs, potatoes, and sausage meant we didn’t get on the water until eleven in the morning.  I again caught got into a big rainbow within my first ten minutes on the water, and was content with the fish.  Caught a few rock bass, and hooked three or four more smallmouth before lunch.  I spent a bit of time below the suspension bridge, hooked two, but it was crowded and I got bored quickly.

 

Walked upstream with Jake to the same riffle as the night before, and caught three in quick succession, one on an egg, another two swinging mohair leeches through the fast water.  Nothing really huge, all the fish were around fifteen or sixteen inches, and gorgeously colored.  I did hook a bigger fish, nineteen or twenty inches, but the hook pulled out during a head-shake.  It was a pretty fish too, and Jake got a nice video of it.

 

 

Twenty-six on the tenth.

I caught part of the weather report- a windchill advisory for tonight and tomorrow.  They explained the symptoms of frostbite, specifically numbness in the extremities, and that those most susceptible were the homeless, the elderly, and the mentally disabled.

 

**********

  I’m generally a pretty hectic angler- I tend to throw things  together at the last moment.   I’m frequently tying flies until 2 am before a trip, and rarely make checklists.  I’ve been known to leave valuable patterns at my tying desk instead of setting them carefully in my boxes for an upcoming trip.  I have trouble keeping track of things- floatant in particular.  I can lose a brand-new bottle of floatant in less than fifteen minutes.  Worst is, I’ve tried to remediate it.  I tried consciously putting it back in the correct pocket each and every time, but it still disappears.  I even bought one of those caddies.  The tube kept slipping out, and eventually the bead chain holding the thing together broke.  By the end of the fishing season I generally find a half-dozen partially used bottles of floatant in my vest, car, and other gear. 

 So it should come to no surprise that I left my box of dries on the dresser at home, two and a half hours to the northeast.  I cussed and thumbed through my box of nymphs, coming across a small handful of CDC emerger patterns that would adequately work.  And they caught fish. 

 The action was steady, though I missed more fish than I’d like, I managed climbing into the double-digits.  Nothing huge, the biggest to net was maybe fourteen inches.  I did miss one big rainbow, somewhere between eighteen and twenty inches, on a San Juan worm.   The fly was in and out of the fish’s mouth before I realized what had happened.

 

I was fairly content though- some fish brought to hand, the first fish of 2010, and I basically had the place all to myself.  No really outstanding wildlife, I had a pleated woodpecker buzz by me, as well as some cardinals and typical songbirds.  There was a group of three folks with binoculars and a telephoto lens, so I imagine there was an eagle around somewhere, though I didn’t see it.  No deer, mink, beavers, muskrats, coyotes, or the other critters you’d typically see out, though.

 

Beer Buzzers

Wednesday brought four inches of snow, which in turn brought boredom.  I’m not big on snow.  It’s pretty for about a day, then gets old.  And it’s bright. 

I was thumbing through old magazines, looking for ideas of what to tie, and wound up revisiting the newest issue of Fly Tyer I’ve picked up.  The main article was about “Superhero flies,” attractor nymphs based off comic-book characters.

  I never got into comics, but I thought the concept was pretty interesting.  I’ve been getting into midges and buzzers lately, and instead of using a superhero theme, I figured I’d try something nearer and dearer to my heart- the small handful of microbreweries I’ve visited, enjoy, and have fond memories of.  Hence, the Beer Buzzers.

Left column, top to bottom:  Black Butte Buzzer, RLA Midge, Bayern Buzzer, Black Butte Buzzer.  Right column:  Bitterroot Buzzer, Quarry Midge, Blacksmith Buzzer, Stag Nymph, Left Hand Midge

The Left Hand Midge- Left Hand Brewery, Longmont, Colorado

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Thread: Red 8/0

Bead:  Glass Crystal Bead

Body: Pearl Midge Braid

Rib: Small Ultra Wire, Hot Orange

Thorax: Red Thread, Built-up to form a distinct thorax.

 

RLA Midge- Red Lodge Ales, Red Lodge, Montana

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Thread: White 8/0

Bead: Silver Tungsten bead, corresponding to hook size.

Body: Pearl Midge Braid

Rib: Small Ultra Wire, Gunmetal Blue

Thorax: Gunmetal Blue Ultra-wire built up to form a thorax. 

 

 

Quarry Midge- Quarry Brewery, Butte, Montana.

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Thread: Gray 8/0

Body: Gray 8/0

Rib: Ultra wire, Hot orange

Shuck: Gray aftershaft feather

 

Bitterroot Buzzer- Bitterroot Brewery, Hamilton, Montana

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Thread: Light Olive 8/0

Bead- Ruby red glass bead

Body: Built-up light olive thread.

Rib: Gold ultra-wire

Counter-rib: gunmetal blue ultra-wire.

 

Stag Nymph- Stag Beer, St. Louis, Missouri

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Thread: Red 8/0

Bead: Glass crystal bead

Body: Gold ultra wire

Thorax: Red thread

 

Black Butte Buzzer- Deschutes Brewery, Bend, Oregon

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 # 18

Bead: Clear crystal glass bead

Thread: Red 8/0

Body: Red Thread

Rib: Black ultra wire

 

Blacksmith Buzzer- Blacksmith Brewery, Stevensville, Montana

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Thread: Black 8/0

Shellback: Black flashback sheeting

Rib: Black Thread

Body: Gold ultra wire

Head: Built-up black thread

 

Bayern Buzzer- Bayern Brewery, Missoula Montana

Hook: Dai-Riki 060 #18

Bead: Glass crystal bead

Thread: Red 8/0

Body: Black flashback sheeting, wound around the hook shank.

Rib: Gold ultra wire

Thorax: Red 8/0 thread

 

 

I’ll probably keep toying with them.   It’s more just for fun, toying around, bored when the outside temp is hovering somewhere around eight.  But tomorrow’s supposed to be in the twenties, and I may throw a few at some trout….

Janus

 

It’s that time, to reflect on the year past, the highlights and low-lights, and to look forward to the year which is upon us.

A fair chunk of my 2009 was spent chasing sturgeon, hellbenders, catfish and carp, on the Missouri, on the Gasconade, and elsewhere, and that was a ridiculous amount of fun.  Watching 65 pound flatheads roll, or getting hit in the leg with flying asian carp, or catching a 20 inch salamander that’s a solid decade older than you.  I learned a lot.
I fished a fair bit, too, about a month and a half total.  Lots of time this spring spent on the Current River, during the big spring caddis hatches.  Wheat-colored bugs, about a size fourteen, which cluster over all the water and make even the bigger fish rise.  Several days there where I was well into the double digits.  Biggest fish was a seventeen inch brown.

The North Fork of the White River treated me well.  Late March was the first time I’d really fished it, and only the only time I’d been there previously was on a float trip in college.  I caught a fair number of smallmouth and goggle-eye in the upper stretch, then was stricken with an appendicitis and had to be rushed to the hospital in Springfield.  Good story. 

This time, though, I caught a half-dozen wild rainbows and a pair of pissed-off browns between fourteen and sixteen inches, as a blizzard of sooty-winged caddis buzzed along the stream, resting and laying masses of gelatinous green eggs on my waders.

I caught a channel catfish on a fly, the first time I’d done that.  Six pounds, out of my grandfather’s farm pond, on Easter.  On a white sex dungeon, the first time I’d used that fly, as well.

If there’s one thing I truly regret, it’s that I didn’t do enough smallmouth fishing.  I’ll have to mend that next year.  Part of it is that many of my favorite streams were trashed well into June after ice-storms and high winds had knocked down a ton of trees.  That should be remedied though, as long as our winter and spring isn’t too tough.  I did manage to make it out to the Maries in July, but only caught a scrappy ten inch spotted bass, and a handful of green sunfish and longears.

Wyoming and Montana, far and away, was the most fun I’ve ever had.  Two weeks to myself, and a week with some of my best friends and greatest fishing partners in Yellowstone National Park.  I caught my biggest fish of the season, a Yellowstone Cutthroat just a hair under 20 inches, thirty miles from anywhere in Wyoming.  For the first time in nearly a decade I fished west of the Continental Divide, and managed a native, pure-looking Westslope Cutthroat.  I caught a grayling in southwest Montana.  I caught my first fish out of Slough Creek.  I subsisted for nearly a week on a steady diet of brook trout, dark beer, and granola bars.  

I fished more wild trout water in the Ozarks than I ever have, and caught some gorgeous, if small, fish.  And I was alone, except for the otters and hawks and herons.  I went back to North Fork and caught more trout, including a brace of fifteen inch browns, and broke my lovely rod, Victoria.  I fished for stockers in lame urban creeks, and caught plenty of non-game species in a big spring branch.

But the new year also brings promise.  It’s currently eight degrees out, not to warm up until next weekend.  I’m dying to get back on the water.  There’s already a few trips planned, to the Meramec, to the Current, and back to the North Fork, perhaps with stops at some more small wild trout streams.

I want to visit Crane Creek, one of those places I should’ve fished by now but never have.  I want to try the warm-water arm of Thomas Hill Reservoir, for outsized crappie and hybrid striped bass.  I want to check out a few of the muskie lakes.  I need to build some more rods- definitely an eight weight, another five or six, and a dainty little two weight would be nice for small streams.  There’s rumblings of a trip to the salt in early March, but that’s far off on the horizon- Florida or Louisiana or Texas.  Perhaps back to the North Fork again late in that month.  And definitely more time this year on smallmouth waters, if and when I get the opportunity.  A job would be nice, regardless of how steady it is, and who knows, in a few months I may be in North Carolina, or Utah, or Oregon, or Arizona.  Plans may change.  That’s life.  It may not work out the way you thought it would, but it always works out.

Solstice

Nothing spectacular, but I had the time.  It was solstice, and it was in the low thirties, but I decided to head south to a spring branch an hour and a half from the house.  It’s liberally stocked with rainbows and browns, and winter is the catch-and-release season here, plus the spring water is 58 degrees, warmer than the water of the main river, and smallmouth, rock bass, and other assorted warm and coolwater species move up into the branch for the winter.  There’s a decent chance of catching a bigger-than-average smallmouth.

The water was, naturally, extremely clear, and the first fish I caught was a rock bass of six or seven inches, which rocketed up from deep within a weedbed to inhale a small wooly bugger.  I hooked a few trout, mostly on WD-40’s and caddis pupae stripped under the surface. 

Over a mile and a half of public access, two cars in the parking lot, and a pair of jokers still managed to set up and begin fishing all of fifteen feet off my right shoulder, spooking the pod of fish I was working.  He’d start there and work his way downstream until I’d hook or snub a fish, then would saunter back up to me and do the same beat, over and over again, ten or fifteen times.  Finally he went downstream and waded across, then came back upstream and started off directly in front of me, ensuring every fish which could possibly see my fly was thoroughly spooked.   Fucker.  I wandered off.

Had a decent smallmouth chase a white streamer farther downstream, but no take.  Other than that things were awfully slow.  Biggest excitement was an undersized, mangy looking deer which didn’t much care about my presence, so I wandered up and took some photos.  Other than that, a muskrat, a bald eagle, and some mink shit, nothing too terribly eventful.

I wound up back where I started and the pool was vacant.  Hooked a decent trout on a small parachute emerger in the surface film, and out of nowhere my friend popped back out and began doing the same thing.  Disgusted, I went and ate a late lunch.

I couldn’t bring myself to seriously fish any more, I was so ticked.  I mulled around and watched fish sip midges, cast to a few, rose none.  No trout to hand, just some goggle-eye, striped shiners, and something big and ugly whose identity is unknown to me.

Introduction

 

Hi there, I’m Tom.  I’m twenty-four, currently unemployed, a college graduate with a degree in Fisheries and Wildlife Management and another in Forestry. 

I didn’t go into this field because the work was easy and I’d make lots of money.  I went into it because it allowed me to do something I’m passionate about, it gave me the opportunity to make a career out of something I enjoy doing anyway, and it allows me to see the things others won’t- be it a colorful species of crayfish which only exists in a half-dozen places on the planet, to a four-foot long, fifty pound lake sturgeon, to a twenty-inch long eastern hellbender that’s a solid decade older than I.   It’s fun, and so far I wouldn’t trade it to a higher pay grade and job security.

I began fly-fishing around the age of nine or ten.  In truth, I began tying flies first, lashing bits of hair and feather to hooks with my mom’s sewing thread.  Fishing them became a natural extension of that.  I began taking formal fly-tying classes at a local shop in middle and high school, and spent a great number of Wednesday nights there, learning to tie and listening to stories.  I learned the importance of reading, and the first books I read were by Robert Traver, Lee Wulff, and John Gierach, and those stories colored my own approach to the sport.