Why don't you come down here and chum some of this shi...

Enough of this trout nonsense. I wasn't leaving the creek yesterday until I caught a salmon. So I did, then I left. Being Sunday and rather nice out, every goon with a rod was out flogging the water into submission. Not surprisingly, nobody that I saw was catching much of anything in the way of trout. It seems that when they get pounded over the head all day they stop eating. Imagine that. It was time to up the ante. Launching my own shock and awe campaign, I swung giant streamers at the chums that have moved up until I connected. For the unfamiliar, nobody fishes for chums. There's a number of reasons for this: they're not lively fighters, they don't strike often, and they're no good eating. Hence the name chum. As far as I'm concerned, they're 20 times bigger than any of the trout in there, they're actually challenging, and they're gorgeous. Maybe it's the carp chaser in me, but it just had to happen, even the losers need some lovin from time to time. After working this fish for a good twenty minutes, he finally got agitated enough and slammed his jaws shut on my fly. He then proceeded to take off downstream and made me chase him a good hundred yards or more, right through the hole that a couple of dudes were letting tiny trout embarass them in. One of them got quite a kick out of the fact that I'd actually gotten a chum to eat, let alone land the thing. The other dude seemed a bit miffed that I wrecked his hole. What he didn't seem to realize was that he had no chance to begin with, being the 4th person that I'd seen pound that spot in the last hour. He didn't look like he had a clue what he was doing anyway, when I interrupted him he shot me a nasty glare and simply turned around and started casting his dry fly straight downstream. Awesome. Sorry pal, I'm not breaking my rod for you and there was no way I was going to break off that fish for your sake. Combat fishing rule number one: there are no rules. My only problem at this point: one handed camera work with a seriously pissed off fish in the other.

Rock Fish

The salmos (ok, oncorhynchi technically) are still being stubborn and not coming in so I headed out this afternoon with Lance (Minnesotean extraordinaire) in his Zodiac to go find whatever we could find. We motored a few miles up the coast to check out a creek that I'd eyeballed on Google Earth and proceeded to find nothing but crab pots. Being in a clump of islands, we figured there had to be fish around somewhere and utilizing the latest in ultra techy fish finder gear we were able to find fish of some unknown species in 60 to 180 feet of water. Yesssssss. I know what you're thinking, and yes, that's a hell of a lot of water to drop a fly down. Lance had no qualms about dropping a big fish-shaped chunk of lead or something and proceeded to nail what we think is a Quillback Rockfish.

The AK G&F rockfish ID guide is pretty poor, so "we think" is about as close as we're getting on this one. Not to be outdone, and of course packing my arsenal of piscatorial terrorism for the trip, I rigged up the 300 gr. sinking line and started plumbing the depths. In a matter of a few minutes we BOTH limited out. Yep, you read that right, I used the phrase "limited out" when referring to myself. Unfortunately for us and the fish, the rules up here require you to keep all non-pelagic rockfish because of a fun little physiological quirk. The swim bladders in these guys don't adjust very quickly, and when you bring them up they tend to experience a bit of decompression, aka internal hemmoraging from which they probably won't recover. Soooo legally you've got to keep them. The only real problem, as I later discovered, is that being a non-resident, I can only keep, and therefore only fish until I catch two. Yep, two. This is a problem for three reasons. One: It makes me stop fishing. Two: They're damn good eating and I want to eat more. (I'm of the opinion that AK just hates non resident types. Don't believe me? Check out the regs some time.) And three: It's going to take me a long ass time to catch all the different species of these things if I can only catch two fish on any given day. Laaaaaaaaame.

Another fun factoid: Rockfish are equipped with spines on their dorsal fin which pack a nice little surprise. Not only are they extremely sharp, they have a nice toxin in them that burns like a bastard if you get stuck. They're also equipped with spines on their other fins and gill plates that don't pack the same punch but will tear you up.
Tomorrow's plan: rock fish.

Let the chaos begin....

It's officially guide season here and the past week has been going pretty well. Well for the salmon not being in yet, that is. It's been trout for the time being, with a fly out and some on-island trips this past week. Native cuts and rainbows are smashing flies and I've had the pleasure of getting some rookies hooked up for the first time. It's business as usual in the fly world here, man does this job suck. I just hate playing with fish in some of the coolest settings on earth. Hehehe. Come on out and play, the only way to get 'em is with your fly in the water.

Oooops..

Ok, so the mottled green and brown thing in the picture from the last post that looks a lot like a sculpin is actually.....a sculpin. Apparently they do get that big. So congrats to me, I got a couple bigass sculpins. Oh well, it was fun and they wiggled, so take that, naysayers. Enjoy your mockery while I'm beating up on Coho tomorrow.

AK

It's June in southeast Alaska and it's a bit of a change from dusty Wyoming. As I sit and eat breakfast I can look out the window and watch the cruise ships rolling into the harbor. Pretty soon the float planes are buzzing about and the docks are crawling with tourists despite the intermittent rain showers. I'm able to see all this because the house I'm in is on a really steep hill. It's so steep in fact, that our "street" is actually just a wooden staircase that runs several hundred feet up from the bottom of the hill to our parking lot at the top. We have intersections on this street, other similarly styled "streets" with mailboxes and trashcans and such, complete with street signs and everything. It's a bit of a departure from what I'm used to, as I said.

With the shop getting geared up for trips as well as our private areas opening up soon I've been prepping base camp, repairing gear, getting licenses sorted out, and checking out new water. Somewhere in all the chaos I've found the time to get into some coastal cutthroat and even a few gigantic sculpins. Actually they're saltwater rockfish, but they look just like monstrous sculpins if you ask me. The trout are keying up on the salmon fry that are recently hatched as well as a variety of stoneflies. The rockfish seem to be more interested in whatever furry bunny strip concoction you can put in front of them on a sinking line. Finding time is a bit of a joke around here, with somewhere around 19 hours of light to work with you can get a hell of a lot done in a day. Like fish in the rain or eat crabs. Lots of crabs.


The Cohos are staging in the creek mouths and it'll just be a few days now before the first fish make their run up into the fresh water and all hell breaks loose. Until then, I'm going to try to catch as many different species of rockers on a fly as possible. I know once the salmon really get thick I'll forget about the saltwater species for a while so now's the time. There are lots of them, so it could be interesting.

A Little Piece of Paradise

I know of a place that is the stuff of legend. I often think of it when I’m fishing my usual waters, wondering how it is. Surely, I’d be doing much better if I was there. After a long day on the river I sometimes yearn to get back there and redeem myself for my mediocre performance today. The water is clean, cold, and gin-clear. Stalking the banks holds endless sight-fishing opportunity with hordes of rainbows and browns in every riffle and pool. You’ll rarely find yourself crowded, in fact some times of the year you can be the only soul for miles on this beautiful river. Sheer red walls plummet hundreds of feet to meet the deep emerald water. Monsters lurk in the shadowy depths and even in the coldest months countless noses lazily sip insects caught in the surface film. It may truly be a trout angler’s paradise.

Preparing for a trip there involves checking every piece of gear, tying a bunch of new flies, and setting the coffee pot for some ungodly hour. The pre-dawn departure is accompanied by hushed excitement, the anticipation of epic fishing growing with each bleary-eyed sip of coffee. The dog knows something good is coming, she can feel it. She may not know where you’re going, but she knows the truck is full of gear and that can only mean one thing.

With an arsenal of rods, flies, and other miscellaneous gear strapped all over, you’ll head down the footpath to the water and suddenly remember just how damn hard this place is. In all the daydreaming, planning, and driving you somehow forgot how badly you were beat down last time. Those hundreds of fish sipping lazily didn’t want anything to do with whatever you were throwing. Every fly you had with you was ten times too big or too small, too flashy or too dull. Every piece of fishy-looking water produced nothing but frustration, tangles, and lost flies. Your footsteps on the bank spooked fish from forty yards. You fell in the thirty-seven degree water miles from the truck. You went through every dry, nymph, and streamer on hand and the one bug that consistently got takes failed to hook up every time because the hook had broken and you never thought to check it.

Never mind all that, you think, this time it’ll be different. I’m ready for it now, bring it on. So you creep along the bank, keeping the dog far from the water. You spot the day’s first rises gently breaking the surface long before you notice any bugs. You can make out the shapes of trout just below the glare, feeding on nymphs or the occasional dry. So you’ll tie the smallest emerger you’ve got onto the longest, lightest leader you can put together and pray that just one of those fish wants it. Moving ever so slowly, you’ll creep up to the edge and make the most gentle presentation the world has ever seen. The drift will be perfect, right down the alley. And that’s how it will go all day; creep, cast, curse, repeat.

Eventually you’ll have to sit down and ponder just what the hell you’re doing here. It’s frustrating, demoralizing, and enough to drive you mad. But sit long enough and at some point you may realize that this truly is a trout angler’s paradise. Not because you can go and beat up on fish all day but because you’ve got to be dialed. This isn’t the stocked pond behind the golf course. It’s unforgiving and will shut you down more often than not if you let it. But the more you fail, the more you learn, and at some point the 7x doesn’t look so small, the micro currents become more obvious, and the 14 incher is every bit as rewarding as the 22. Well, almost.

I won't be able to get back there for a long while, Alaska is a bit too far to drive from. While I'm sure the ridiculous fishing up there will be a ton of fun, I'll be looking forward to another beatdown when I get back.

Small Fish, Big Attitude

I met up with Colter Bennett today to head down to Fontenelle Reservoir and stare at water all day. We did eventually get into a bunch of smallies that put up an insane fight for their size which was a nice bonus to add to the nice weather that has finally arrived. Aaaah yes, there aren't too many things I enjoy more than hammering fish on the 7wt. Hopefully I'll have time to get back out before heading north, but we'll see.