First Striped Bass

If you read my blog throughout 2008, then you are aware that I spent a fair amount of time chasing various warm water species. A lot of that time was spent below Chickamauga Dam on the Tennessee River searching for striped bass or whatever else would hit. I always had to settle for the "whatever else would hit," and while it was great adding several new species to the list of fish caught, I really wanted to get that striper.

Recently I had a buddy call me up and tell me that he had caught his first and that I should try it out. At first I hated the thought of making the drive from Crossville, but subsequent stories of nice fish and a few pictures to back them up convinced me that I had to try. Earlier this week I headed out in the late afternoon for an evening of fun, fishing, and hopefully my first striped bass. The drive went by fairly quickly in my excitement.

I rolled up to the river just ahead of my buddy and started rigging up as I waited for him. When he got there, he took me down to the water and showed me the good spots. We started to see the occasional boil that told us something was chasing baitfish. I couldn't wait any longer and started casting.

After what seemed like only a few minutes but was probably more like 20 or 30, I felt a hard bump and set the hook with authority. Immediately I knew that whatever I was attached to was much stronger than 99% of all other fish I've ever hooked. I was fishing my 7 weight, and the fish was still very much in control of the situation. Minutes later I finally saw the fish and realized that my long search for a striper was over.

Throughout the evening, we both caught and released several stripers along with some hybrids and yellow bass. I had an absolute blast and will be back soon for more...before I do though I will be tying up a few more flies. One turned out to be killer, but naturally I only had one. This was the perfect fishing trip to break in the 7 weight. We never caught any big fish as far as stripers go but even the 5-8 pound fish wore me out. I can't imagine what the 20 and 30 pound fish would feel like...

Here's a few more from the evening including my largest that hit just before we decided to call it a night...

One of Trevor's fish...check out how fat the fish is...

My largest fish...

Presidential Fly Fishing

As I was checking in on the daily news, one particular story caught my attention. The title was "Obama's fly fishing trip is apt metaphor." I'm not interested in bringing much in the way of politics to this blog (other than conservation issues) so I won't get into the rest of the story. You can check out the story for yourself in the link above. Anyway, the interesting part is that this is apparently the President's first fly fishing trip. Relaxation is probably hard to come by when you are the leader of the United States so maybe this is just the hobby Obama needs. Regardless, I hope he has a great trip and catches a few good fish!

Etiquette: Where Did It Go?

As a kid with a Zebco rod and reel, I used to read everything I could that involved fly fishing. My interest in the sport was originally piqued when my family was driving through Townsend, Tennessee. In the middle of Little River were two guys, probably a guide trip. One was casting while the other seemed to be giving directions as to where to cast. Watching that guy cast was like watching poetry in motion, and although I only saw a few seconds, I knew that one day I would be out there fly fishing for myself.

Over the next few years I never forgot that moment. Every time our family would go to the mountains I would long for a fly rod. Eventually I saved a little money and bought a cheap $20 fly rod and reel at Wal-Mart. Looking back it is amazing that I ever caught anything on that rod. Even now it is definitely not the easiest casting rod. Thankfully regular practice in the backyard allowed me to progress to the point where I could catch a fish every now and again.

For several years I was completely self taught. I can't remember how many trips it took before I caught my first trout. Something motivated me to keep on though, and I eventually caught one. Being self taught was a challenge. Many anglers have the benefit of a teacher, either a friend or family member, that helps them along the road to being a competent fisherman. Usually the teacher will impart most of the traditions of the sport along with the wisdom they have acquired from many days on the water.

Since I had no one to teach me it would seem that I would be clueless as to etiquette and some of the traditions of the sport. This was not the case though. Even before I started fly fishing I read about etiquette from time to time in magazines, and even occasionally the subject would appear in books that I would read. The fly fishing was not the main point of most of the books, but I soaked up every bit of knowledge that I could.

Early on I learned that it was rude to crowd other anglers, and I was very conscientious to observe this guideline. Generally other anglers were polite to me as well and gave me plenty of room when I fished in the Smokies. I didn't start fishing tailwaters until much later.

Another major tradition I quickly learned was that you fish upstream if possible. If you want to fish downstream, you always yield to the upstream angler. One time I was fishing Abrams and figured that I didn't have any company. I leisurely worked my way downstream hitting each good pocket and run and catching a few rainbows. As I came around a bend, I saw another angler working his way upstream. Immediately I reeled in and moved to a rock on the bank to let the other fisherman have all the water. As he came up even with me I apologized for moving down on top of him. My politeness earned me a friendly chat with a really nice guy who wasn't upset at me. We talked fishing for awhile, and he even offered a few words of advice, all because I followed a basic rule of etiquette.

Somewhere around this time I had the good fortune to spend a half day fishing with Walter Babb. This was the only time during my formative years that I fished with anyone that had a clue what they were doing. I specifically wanted to learn to highstick nymphs, and Walter did a splendid job of teaching me the fundamentals of nymph fishing. Still, everything I knew about etiquette I had learned on my own.

As I started fishing tailwaters, I began to realize that not everyone adhered to the same old traditions of the sport. Among spin fisherman it seemed perfectly acceptable to fish close to one another although many of them were fairly polite and gave me room. Fly fisherman puzzled me however. I never had anyone to tell me how I should act as an angler, but had figured it out on my own without too much effort. On tailwaters it seemed that fly fisherman fished downstream a lot. I couldn't understand this because I usually worked my way up and either fished across or up and across. The downstream guys caught some fish but often not as many as I did.

Even more recently I learned a little more about the guys that were fishing downstream. Several fly fishing forums have had some vigorous debates about the "San Juan Shuffle" where an angler moves downstream shuffling their feet. Any fish downstream immediately goes on the feed as the mass of food tumbles downstream in the current. The angler then casts their flies down and hopefully catches a fish. To me this seemed completely unethical. If I was going to do that why not just toss a can of corn in? I would never do that so how was the "Shuffle" any different? Also, when I do fish downstream or let my flies drift down below me, it is much harder to get a good hookset. When a fish takes it is too easy to yank the flies out of the fishes mouth if you are pulling them back upstream.

Over the last few years all of this observed behavior has gotten worse. Boaters are a completely different story that I shouldn't get started on. Most of them have no clue how to be polite. The ones that really annoy me though are the ones with fishing poles in the boat that will float literally on top of the fish I'm casting to. Some have been lucky that I didn't have a big streamer on. I'm not a great caster, but I'm pretty sure I could knock someone on the side of the head given the opportunity. Wade fisherman seem to have no clue as to how to behave on the stream. I have had people slowly move downstream towards where I am fishing upstream. When they get close they'll just stop and wait for me to go around them. What has happened to the traditional etiquette that has been in place for so many years and worked very well for so long?

On my recent trip to Yellowstone, my buddy Joe and I spent a day on the Madison. It was refreshing to have boats (rowed by guides) go out of their way to avoid messing up the water I was fishing. However I was surprised by the lack of etiquette of the wade fisherman on the Madison and also on other park waters. We were fishing Slough Creek when several fly fisherman came walking downstream slowly, fishing as they went. One guy wearing a particularly bright and obnoxious shirt (do people really have no clue that what they wear will spook fish?) kept moving closer and closer towards me until he was no more than a hundred feet above me, spooking every fish along that bank for a good ways upstream as he went. Need I mention that he wasn't catching anything? Finally, when I realized that he was not going to politely yield to me, the upstream angler, I waded across and moved up above him. As I passed I had to refrain from saying something that I would probably have had to repent for later.

On the Madison we continually ran into anglers fishing downstream or jumping in immediately upstream of us. I experienced the same thing on my recent trip to Colorado. Invariably, the downstream anglers give me a dirty look like I'm encroaching on their water. The ones I really like are the ones fishing downstream, but as soon as you get out and move upstream of them, they glare at you and start fishing upstream.

Generally none of this is a problem when fishing in the Smokies. Maybe everyone that fishes up there actually has a clue or maybe they are just naturally nicer people and assume how to be polite. I have puzzled over the problem trying to figure it out. There seem to be two possibilities. Either people just don't know and no one is explaining proper etiquette to them or they just don't give a damn. I have a hard time believing the first explanation. Tradition is such a large part of the sport that it would be difficult for the majority of fly fisherman to never hear the general guidelines that make up standard etiquette. The other explanation seems a lot more likely and that is that most people just don't care.

The truth is probably somewhere between the two extremes. Honestly there is also a third possible explanation. There are probably a lot of newer fly fishers that honestly don't know. Still, based on all the rumblings on various message boards involving confrontations over etiquette issues and my own observations, I have to conclude that people don't observe the traditions of this sport nearly as well as I would like.

This summer has been great because I have been able to fish mainly on weekdays. The tailwaters are still crowded but nowhere near as bad as on the weekends. On Smokies streams I can always find solitude by walking a few miles. More and more I find myself wish that I lived a little closer to the mountain streams. I have to consider the cost of each fishing trip and a 40 minute trip to the Caney is definitely cheaper than a 2 hour trip to the Smokies. If I had my way I would fish the park probably 75% of the time but sadly it is probably just about the opposite.

The question that I have to face now is do I embrace the new trends by fishing downstream and crowding other anglers or do I stick to the high road? Personally I will always be a fisherman that prefers moving upstream as opposed to down and doing my best to not crowd other anglers. If the accepted norm has actually shifted then I'll be the rebel that sticks to the old ways.

So what do you think? Am I completely crazy and off base or is this type of behavior by fly fisherman becoming the norm on our streams? What is the best solution to these issues?

The Elusive Salmonfly Hatch

Any fly fisher that has been in the sport long at all has heard of the legendary salmonfly hatch. Often short in duration and hard to pin down, the mother of all hatches can produce the type of fishing that we daydream about while sitting behind a desk at work. The largest fish in the river will come up for the juicy two and three inch morsels. However, for every angler telling of those perfect days, there are another hundred fishermen that have tried unsuccessfully to hit it exactly right. Most of the time you can find some fish that will rise to the big bugs if the naturals are around, but the perfect day where every fish in the river will attack your fly is hard to come by.

During this year's trip to Colorado, the main goal was to fish big bugs. We hoped to hit the cicada hatch on the Green River in Utah and the salmonfly hatch on the Gunnison in Colorado. The Green was okay but definitely not everything we were hoping for. This left the Gunnison as our best chance for throwing big nasties to hungry trout. Back camping at East Portal, Trevor and I made daily trips to the lower end of the canyon in the Pleasure Park vicinity searching for big fish. The bushes and trees around the river were loaded with bugs. It was only a matter of time before the big event happened.

A buddy of mine wanted to try fly fishing and came to meet us for a couple of days. I was really hoping that the hatch would get going while he was there. Before his arrival, the first couple of days after we got back from the Green produced similar results. Lots of bugs in the bushes and an occasional fish slashing at something on the surface, but overall we had to throw nymphs deep to catch fish. Our top producers were little stonefly nymphs and caddis pupa. Probably the fishing would have been good in the evening, but the incredible numbers of mosquitoes chased us off the river by 7:00 each evening. Never in my life have I quit fishing because of bugs until this year's trip to Colorado.

When my friend J.R. arrived, we had to tell him that the fishing wasn't quite what we were hoping for. Still, I was confident that we could put him on a few fish somewhere. The next day we did something completely different, but on day two we took him to the Gunnison. The time that elapsed between our outings on the Gunnison contained some hilarious moments that I will share later as well as J.R.'s first trout on the fly rod. His first trip to the Gunnison resulted in a slow day in which the local wildlife was just as interesting as the fishing. In particular the lizards were downright intriguing. After the slow day, I figured that if we could get him away from the pressured water he might do better. Accordingly we all agreed to make the trek into the canyon on one of the BLM trails.

The Duncan trail is not a long one. The river is around one and a half miles from the trailhead but the 800+ vertical feet included in the descent makes this a tough one. Really it is the climb back out that is unpleasant. The drive is not for the faint of heart and honestly not for passenger cars. The trout mobile came through with flying colors though and made it without a problem.



Upon arriving at the river, we saw a few guys with backpacks and fly rods preparing to climb back out. Asking for advice, we soon learned that the big bugs were on the water, but the dry fly action was best early and late. We walked a short distance up the stream and sat down to rig up. While tying on some flies for myself and J.R., I saw a large fish flash behind a bankside boulder.

We were sitting close to where I saw the fish so I had everyone move slowly back so we would not spook the fish. I quickly finished tying a pair of nymphs on for J.R. and instructed him to lob the flies and split shot upstream of the pocket. On the second drift the indicator twitched imperceptibly simultaneously with a vague buttery brown flash underneath and I hollered incoherently. Unfortunately J.R. couldn't translate my babbling into "SET THE HOOK" and missed out. After several more casts he did manage to catch his first brown trout, but the little guy was much smaller than the one he missed.

Moving upstream, we all were dredging nymphs right on the bottom. Here and there we would get a fish on, but overall it was somewhat slow. J.R. had to drive back home that afternoon so he finally called it a day and headed back out. Trevor and I kept moving upstream. I now had two rods to keep track of and rigged one with a salmonfly dry and the other with a pair of nymphs. This actually worked out pretty good. If I saw a rising fish or a spot that just begged for a dry, I would lay down the nymph rod for awhile. After convincing myself that nothing would rise it was time to dredge the bottom. Subsurface flies still produced the best although a few micro trout rose to the monster dry.

Finally my buddy Trevor and I set up on a nice deep run with a big back eddy. We started working the water, and it wasn't long before Trevor hollered, "Fish!" The words were barely out of his mouth before my indicator dove under, and we had a double on. Both of us fought the fish intently wanting to land our first good double of the trip. Finally we got both of the fish in my Coho Ghost Net. One picture of the fish in the net and one picture for each of us with our fish and both were released for another day.




We moved a little farther up the river, but the sun was sinking low in the west. Neither of us wanted to hike out after dark so we called it a day. The hike out was rough. With a pack it would be even worse, but honestly I would prefer to camp in the canyon so I could enjoy the late evening and early morning fishing.

The highlight of the day for me was just before tackling the steep climb out. We stopped at the first pocket again, and I told Trevor that I was going to try for the good fish. No one else had positively seen the fish, but I was thoroughly convinced it was in there. I crept up to the pocket and started highsticking my double nymph rig literally underneath my rod tip. On the third cast I saw the same hint of a fish flashing and my line ticked just a little. Careful not to react too strongly, I set the hook and was immediately attached to the best brown of the day.

The fish was in a shallow pocket on the edge of a rapid with a nice pool beneath. Trevor warned me not to let the fish run into the fast water, but I had no choice. Peeling line it negotiated the fast water and then ran into a huge back eddy in the pool. Finding myself with the sudden advantage, I worked hard to keep the fish from running for an undercut bank. Trevor grabbed my net but had a hard time getting a good angle as the fish stayed in deep water. Finally I had it close and asked him to toss me the net. He made a good throw and for a change everything went well and I caught it. The fish had its head up, and I lunged before it made another run. The day seemed much better as I now had a net full of big wild brown trout. Trevor kindly did camera duty, and then I released the fish, hopefully to be a 20" plus fish by the time I arrive next year.

Over the course of our last couple of days in the area we hit up some other water, but in the end the anticipated salmonfly action never developed. Now I fully understand how others feel who have chased this hatch for years without nailing it down perfectly. Naturally I'll continue trying to hit the hatch perfectly, maybe even next summer...

Too Much Fishing

There's probably no such thing as too much fishing, but I've been getting close. In the last few days I've fished the catch and release water in Cherokee, North Carolina and also spent some time on several streams in the Smokies. Naturally I've had a great time, but all the fishing has cut into my blogging time.

The Cherokee trip was a strange one. I honestly expected to have a killer day over there and probably could have by getting there earlier in the day and moving around some. Despite only fishing for a few hours, I did manage a few nice fish as did my buddy Trevor. Late in the evening we switched to streamers and caught a few more as the light was rapidly waning. The pictures turned out a little grainy because of the low light conditions and the fog on the water. You should get the general idea though...

Sunday was a fun day of something different. I was supposed to meet some guys from New Mexico and show them some of the streams in the Smokies. They had fished here in east Tennessee once before and were excited about trying some new water. Unfortunately the water situation was a little sketchy to say the least. Because of all the rainfall lately, the tailwaters were mostly pushing a lot of water. Originally I had hoped to take them to the Caney to chase some good browns but that idea was definitely not going to work. Plan B kicked in which involved fishing in the Smokies. Having fished up there for many years, I can usually find some fish even with high water conditions.

I met Phil and the other guys at Little River Outfitters and we headed up into the mountains. Little River was pretty high even for someone that fishes it a lot so we decided to try some smaller streams. This proved to be a good idea for the most part. We fished one of my favorite small stream rigs which is a Green Weenie and a hard-bodied ant. This is deadly during high water episodes because a lot of terrestrials are getting washed into the streams. The fish were enthusiastic although a bit less so than I expected. Thankfully everyone was catching at least a few and were also getting used to the tight casting conditions and continual mending that is required in the mountain streams.

After fishing up through some of the better pools, we opted to break for lunch and then try something else. After a quick trip back into Townsend to grab some Subway, we got back on the road and headed just over the ridge to the North Carolina side to try for the Smoky Mountain Slam. This was not as good of an idea. While we did catch a few the action was definitely slower. I was surprised to see that the water was higher on that side of the park. Often the Tennessee side gets more water but apparently not this time.

Finally we decided to finish the day by chasing some specs. None of the guys had ever caught a southern strain brookie so we stopped on the way back over the ridge to catch a few. None of the fish are big in this water, but each one is still special. Phil was the lucky one that caught some brookies and one of the other guys managed a few rainbows. It was fairly slow here as well though. I dredged a few fish up on a Tellico nymph including a beautiful brookie. We finished up around 6:00 as the guys needed to head back to Knoxville. A big brown sounded like fun so I went over to Little River to finish my evening.

I have not fished streamers enough and decided to dedicate the last couple of hours to ripping streamers in the slightly stained water. Despite 3-4 hits and moving a few others, I just could not hook up with any browns. Finally I decided to grab the camera and spend a little time documenting the beautiful evening. The light was perfect and the stream looked great after several years of drought.

A big surprise was in store though. The evening was still young, and I wanted to make one last stop on the river. The lower portion of Little River has a few smallies. I've never caught one in the park, until Sunday evening that is. I had cast my streamer to some dead water near the back of a large pool when suddenly the line went tight. The fish felt small and I figured that a little brown had impaled himself on the streamer. When I landed the fish I was shocked to see a little smallmouth. I also caught a decent rainbow on the streamer before I called it an evening. Overall I had a great day. It is always fun to show my favorite streams to other people although they didn't fish nearly as well as I would have hoped. Still everyone caught a few so it wasn't too bad of a day.

Hopefully these guys can make it back to fish again when the water conditions are a little better. If the generation schedule is favorable, we'll hit a tailwater or two next time!

I still owe you a lot of reports from out west as well as a couple of product reviews. Please check back soon for more. I'll have those up as soon as possible!

Slough Creek Cuttfest

Taking a Yellowstone trip close on the heels of another major fly fishing trip is a recipe for blogging disaster. I have enough material to start a couple more blogs, at least for a little while that is. I'll do my best to not keep you in suspense for too long. Just know that there are big fish to come...

Our first full day in Yellowstone country was supposed to be an easy day of catching cutthroat trout in an idyllic meadow stream. We hit the Slough Creek trailhead just ahead of an army of backpackers and hustled to stay ahead of them. During the initial climb over the ridge to the First Meadow, I came across a beautiful rack of elk antlers. My buddy Joe and cousin Nathan took a few pictures to document what I would look like as an elk. Deciding that antlers would be too heavy to carry around on one's head, I put them back and continued up the trail in search of the beautiful Yellowstone Cutthroat.

Our goal was the Second Meadow, but it was difficult to pass up the First Meadow. Our sights were set though and we pressed on. Finally we glimpsed water again through the trees and quickly veered off towards the stream. The hike in had made us hungry so we paused for lunch. As soon as he finished, Joe tied on a fly and started searching for that first fish. He caught the first and several more while Nathan and I watched. Finishing our own food, we both couldn't wait any longer and moved on up the stream looking for risers.

Coming up to a perfect bend pool, I saw a good fish rising against the far bank. This pool was one of the larger on the stream and I wasn't sure how my accuracy would be at that distance. The water was perfectly flat and I didn't want to spook what appeared to be a nice cutt. Stripping off plenty of line I started casting. Finishing off with a good double haul, I let the line shoot through the guides, and the fly plopped onto the water a few feet above the fish. The fish was anything but selective and inhaled my offering. Everything worked out perfectly from the hookset to controlling the last run just as I was about to net the fish. Finally I had the fish in the net and ready for a couple of quick pictures. Joe and Nathan both snapped a few for me, and then I released the healthy fish for someone else to enjoy.

We all moved on up the stream catching fish in just about any good looking spot. Later in the day we started sightfishing to the bank feeders and fooled a few good fish that way as well. Terrestrials accounted for most of our fish. I had been looking forward to a solid hatch but it wasn't meant to be. The bright sun kept the fish hunkered down and spooky for the better part of the day. Cutts are not known for their intelligence and this reputation came through as we all did well under what would be tough conditions on my home waters.

I should mention that it was Joe's birthday and he caught plenty of birthday fish...definitely not the worst way you could spend your birthday.

Nathan had a tough time that day because he forgot sunscreen. By the end of the day he was a crispy red and experiencing the chills that can accompany a good sunburn. He was a warrior though and caught his share of fish. Thankfully he started feeling better after resting for a couple hours back in camp.

We definitely had a great start to the trip but things would only get better. Fittingly the very last day of the trip was the most memorable for both my friend Joe and me. Unfortunately my cousin couldn't join us for the whole trip but his second day was unbelievable. In fact, my second day wasn't too bad either. Rumors of salmonflies on the Yellowstone had us planning on fishing there for day two. We were all tired after the long hike up Slough Creek and hit the sack with dreams of the mother of all salmonfly hatches...

On The Trail of Butch Cassidy

My ability to blog has recently been limited by my Yellowstone Trip. There are still plenty of stories from Colorado 2009. The last I shared from that trip was about my first time on Utah's Green River. Unfortunately the fishing was off there due to the crazy generation schedule. We were able to salvage a couple of days there by trying some different areas which included an interesting opportunity for me.

One of my major interests is history. I almost majored in History in college but ended up with just a minor. All history fascinates me, but in particular I enjoy early American and frontier history. When my buddy first mentioned going to the Green River, my thoughts turned to Brown's Hole. Now referred to as Brown's Park, the Hole was originally a rendezvous point for mountain men exploring the region in search of beaver furs. After the railroad came through the region to the north, the safe haven in the mountains became an outlaw hideout. I have read of the exploits of Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch and recalled that they often hid out in the vicinity of Brown's Hole. There were so many outlaws in that area that officers of the law generally would not even consider entering the Hole in pursuit of any of them. Since fishing was the main point of this trip, I did my research and discovered that Brown's Hole comprises the "C" Section of the Green River, known for fewer fish than in the other sections. The silver lining was that the average fish was supposed to be larger than anywhere upriver.

After fishing "B" Section hard for a day and not exactly killing the fish, I convinced my buddy Trevor to take the long journey around to Brown's Hole in search of larger fish and maybe the ghost of Butch Cassidy. From Flaming Gorge Dam, it takes persistence to reach the Hole. There are a couple of options for getting there but both involve a long trip including many miles of gravel and dirt roads that can get sketchy quickly after a good rainstorm. Since the guide trips were launching far up the river, we hoped that we might have a few hours of fishing before the boats started coming through and spooking our fish.

After winding around somewhere north of the river for many miles we finally saw the Green in the valley below. A quick and very steep descent soon had us cruising along the valley floor. We consulted the map and decided to head for the point as far upriver as possible. There was a campground there and a boat ramp with a large parking area. We parked the car and then strolled down to the river to see what was going on. The water was off color but still had fairly good visibility. Knowing the habits of larger browns, I figured the water color would maybe give us a little cover from the fish. I've caught nice browns from water the color of chocolate milk so I had no concerns that the fish would actually be feeding. A couple of small rises sent me back to the car for wading gear, fly rod and all the other necessities for an afternoon on the stream. Heading back down I decided to just start right at the boat ramp and go from there. Working up the bank I managed to get a few smaller fish to rise but overall was unimpressed.

Long ago I learned that one should never give up too soon on new water so I decided to start moving upriver until I either found fish or got tired of fishing. With me, option B really is not an option in the first place so I started trying to figure out the fish. The Green is one of the premier terrestrial streams in the western United States so I decided to go with a large green hopper that I had tied the day before in camp. When the fishing is slow, one of my strategies is to just sit on or walk the banks and try to observe fish. Sitting did not sound like fun so I opted for walking upriver. One long flat got my attention after I saw a very large rise. Going through the whole routine of positioning myself and casting to where I thought the fish was did not produce anything so I continued up to the top of the flat into a nice run with a picture perfect riffle above it.

As I was slowly working out towards the heart of the run, a large brown suddenly crushed the hopper. Sadly the "fish aren't biting" syndrome severely hampered my hookset. This condition manifests itself by slowing your reflexes to the point of being almost completely useless and usually results from an extended fishless streak. One positive side effect of the syndrome is that the hook set usually happens slowly enough that the fish are not stuck at all and will often hit again given the opportunity.

Casting out again I watched in anticipation until the dark shadow ghosted up underneath my fly. The first time must have been enough to convince the fish of the fraud I was presenting and it refused a few inches under the surface. Several more casts did not even produce a look so I moved a few steps upstream. My first cast over new water produced another look. The fish rose up from the bottom and after a close examination sipped the big hopper. Again my hookset was off but not as slow as the previous fish.

The next fish was not so lucky. Finally a good fish managed to find the hook and I corralled it long enough for a quick picture.

The next fish was better and hit under rather strange circumstances. I was wading upstream letting the hopper drag through the riffle behind me when the line tightened. Apparently these fish aren't the most clever. A fish is a fish though and this one was rather nice. A couple of pictures later I had more memories stored for the future. Immediately after releasing this fish my buddy showed up to see what the deal was. He had stayed downriver and finally figured out that the fishing was probably pretty good. Normally I'm pretty good at not disappearing for too long unless the fishing is decent. I explained about the nice fish all on big dries and he quickly started probing the riffle.

Continuing up the river, I finally hooked another good fish, this time on the dropper. I led it gently back downstream to the vicinity of my buddy Trevor so he could do the picture duties. This fish was the largest I would catch on the Green and measured 18 inches. The first picture attempt produced the classic "Oh Sh!t" picture...

The next one came out a bit better thankfully.

We continued on upriver together for a good distance but the fishing slowed as the wind started kicking up and the guide trips started coming down. Finally we called it a day. My trip to Brown's Hole was memorable for both the size of fish I was catching and for the historical significance of the place. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk back to the car taking time to photograph some of the cactus and the landscape in general.

Back Home

Wow...what a trip! This summer has been incredible and my recent Yellowstone trip was no exception. My buddy Joe and I covered a lot of water, caught some great fish, and just generally had a good time. Also my cousin Nathan was able to join us for a few days which was awesome since I have not seen him in a long while. I will start getting some pictures up over the next few days along with some of the stories that made this trip memorable. There are also still stories and pictures from Colorado and a few other odds and ends to share.

Recently, I was contacted by OverShoesOnline about reviewing one of their products and just before leaving for Yellowstone received a pair of the NEOS River Trekker Hipper Overshoes. Over the next couple of weeks I hope to get these out on the stream to see what they can do. The concept is definitely intriguing. You get to wear your regular shoes, be that hiking boots or tennis shoes and these hippers just fit right over them. Since they are hip waders and not chest highs, I probably will be using them on the smaller streams but may wet them in the Caney or another tailwater as well. More on that to come as I try them out...

In addition to all of this, it is time for me to start getting ready to teach yet another year so I will be swamped for awhile. I promise to get some updates out soon however, perhaps even this evening so check back often...

Off To Yellowstone

Once again I am heading out of state, this time to Yellowstone National Park. I'll be gone for a little over a week and hope to return with lots of pictures and exciting stories. There is still plenty to share from Colorado as well and I'll continue with those stories when I get back... Until then, I hope you all are able to get some time on the water for yourself. All of the Tennessee tailwaters are fishing well right now and it is prime time for small stream fishing in the Smokies!

The One That Got Away

Fish stories seem to revolve around the "one that got away" and yesterday I lived that story to the fullest. Being close and accessible, I've been fishing the Caney quite a bit lately. I would prefer to fish in the Smokies or perhaps some of the other east Tennessee tailwaters, but the convenience factor has overruled those desires for the most part in the last couple of weeks. The river is in a state of flux right now and is fishing differently than it has in the past. The numbers of brown trout seem to be up while the rainbows seem to be down.

I've been enjoying the experience of trying to figure out what the fish want which often turns out to be a dry fly! Yep...you read that correctly, a dry fly... Before you take off for the river immediately, I need to make myself clear. The fish can be taken on a dry right now and most days have produced some good hatches of midges and blackflies. However, actually catching them on dries seems to be difficult at best and requires very light tippets and tiny dry flies. The dedicated dry fly fisherman will find some success but probably just using standard Caney techniques will help you catch more fish.

My standard dry/dropper rig has changed to a much smaller dry, but that is not always the answer. Yesterday I was working a favorite stretch of water where I caught a good fish last week. Moving slowly up the river, I watched for tell-tale signs of feeding trout. A very slight boil on the surface alerted me to the presence of a trout holding in a big hole in the weedbeds. I carefully stripped enough line off the reel to make the cast and started false casting, working out the line as I developed a nice rhythm with my casting. Shooting the last 15 feet of line, the tiny dry and midge dropper gently dropped to the surface 5 feet above the feeding trout. As the flies drifted over where I last saw the fish, I waited expectantly but nothing happened. Then, just as I was about to pull the flies out to cast again, the dry slowly sucked under. "Probably snagged the weeds" I thought to myself but dutifully set the hook anyway just in case.

I have never hooked a freight train but if I did, I think it would probably feel about like that fish. "I've got a big one!" I hollered to my buddy. Upstream, across the river, downstream, back towards me, there was not a single direction that the fish did not run in the course of the next 10 minutes. My three weight fly rod was getting the workout of its life and I think I might have as well. I chased this fish up and down the river unlike any fish I've ever hooked. Eventually the fish started a determined run towards the far bank. Throwing all caution to the wind, I charged across the river after the beast. At this point I was going crazy shouting again that I "have a beast on." My buddy had long since reeled all his line in and was watching me from shore.

Finally the fish seemed to slow down but my concern started to rise as I saw the huge weedbed it appeared to have vanished into. Slowly, I stuck the fish again and again trying to encourage it to come out. The fish materialized out of the weeds right before my eyes and I realized how big it really was. Just as I thought it might be tired enough to come to the net, the fish took off again into a deep hole just below the weeds. I figured it would be just fine if the fish wanted to run around in there for a little while but what I didn't figure on was the next big weedbed that was closer than I realized. Again I felt the dead weight that signals the fish has immersed itself in the weeds. I went through the routine of sticking the fish in an effort to get it out of the weeds but this time nothing would budge. A dark cloud of doubt loomed on the horizon as I tiptoed through the deep water. The cool river was lapping at the top of my waders before I felt the bottom coming up to meet me again with another close call under my wading belt. Pulling straight up with the rod, I still could not see any sign of the fish so I grabbed the net and scooped it through the weeds were my leader and tippet disappeared. Nothing...sadly I pulled my flies out for inspection and both were just fine. The fish had outsmarted me...

As many fish as I have lost over the years, I probably should be used to it by now, but that is not the case. Still, I know where the fish lives and can always try again. Honestly I would not trade the experience for anything. Some of my most memorable fish are the ones that got away. If I hooked and landed every single fish I try for, the sport of fly fishing would get boring soon. This fish will join a parade of other fish stored safely in my memory from past years including the monster brown on the Frying Pan, the huge rainbow on the Gunnison, and an unbelievably large Caney Fork brown, all of which outsmarted me and left me wondering what had just happened. Some break me off and even more threw the flies. In the end, the ever changing face of the river along with the puzzle of discovering the "flavor of the day" is what keeps me coming back. Each fish lost is knowledge gained. One of these days the stars will align and I'll catch that fish....