Living in the state of Arizona, most people don’t think about trout fishing. Truth be told, there is more than rattlesnakes and saguaros in this desert state, and with a bit of work, some very respectable fish can be found.
The one key tool that any respectable fisherman needs when exploring in Arizona is a good map. A good map can take many forms, and often times, the best type is a topographical map. Topos are worth their weight in gold when trying to find an access points into the rugged canyons through which Arizona’s creeks flow. That same map that was beneficial accessing the creek can be a lifesaver when trying to get back out to the truck, as steep rock walls seem impenetrable.
Although the topographical map is arguably the most accurate, it may not be the best tool for the job. The most valuable maps are often drawn by hand and exchanged with a solemn oath to never spill their secrets. Typically, they include hastily scribbled odometer readings, forest road numbers, and notes that read “if you see burned tree next to the dinosaur-egg-rock, you’ve gone too far.” These hand drawn diagrams are treasure maps where “X” marks the spot full of hungry trout ready to gobble up a well-placed fly. Fly fishermen don’t share these readily and typically after a trip or two, they are left in a safe place at home, lest they fall into the wrong hands.
Every state and locale has their honey holes that only the locals know, but it seems in this digital age that more of these locations are being leaked. I married an Arizona girl and will likely be here for life, and I can tell you quite easily, those hastily scrawled maps are tucked away in the safe next to car titles, birth certificates, and the rest of the other valuables only to be passed on to the next generation of Smiths.
When I first started fly fishing I really didn’t have much use for a guide. Given my age at the time, my macaroni and cheese, top ramen budget would not have allowed me to hire a guide anyway. I learned how to fly fish using the scientific method; effectively identifying almost every way NOT to catch fish. My lack of stealth coupled with a tendency to always find myself standing in the place to which I should be casting, and using tippet heavy enough to reel in a Land Cruiser, often times left me wondering why on earth I had given up the night crawlers and Balls of Fire that were so successful in my youth. I looked upon guides as unreachable gurus who sold the experience that I so desperately pursued. On occasion, I would come upon a guide carefully instructing a client, and sit on the bank just within earshot hoping to poach a word of wisdom or two. While this made me uncomfortable, a feeling likely shared by the guide and his client, I was fascinated by a person who could verbally instruct someone from snapping flies off into the bushes all the way to the point of actually landing a trout. Typically, it only took one sharp gaze from the guide for me to get the message and move on. A couple of years later, a brother-in-law who was always gifted at catching a lot of fish became a guide.
Suddenly, I knew “one” which seemed to make them more human. He and a couple of other guys took me on trips to places like the Madison and the Green, etching indelible memories on my very being. Several years later I moved to Idaho and met a coworker who quickly became a friend. It turned out he was married to a guide who also became a friend. Fishing with him in his drift boat was akin to fly fishing graduate school. I learned how to read currents while floating on them, spot and identify raptors overhead, use the wind instead of fight it, how to row, the ever important skill of making a sandwich fit for a drift boat, and the value of a good straw hat. Slowly I began to realize that guides are not riparian leprechauns fleecing the dollars from the wallets of unsuspecting, yet all too willing Sports. These people are Sages of hard earned knowledge; passionate protectors of the very waters from which they have been taught so many valuable lessons. I recognized that they have forged a connection with the river that only dog owners can approach in understanding.
Most start guiding for a variety of reasons; the mystique, to get girls, chasing dreams, trying to find themselves, etc. Most only last a few seasons before they either accomplish their goals, find that there are not many girls to be gotten (re: MANtana), or just get sick of what ultimately is a lot of very hard work. Others find themselves watching the years blow by like exit signs on a kamikaze cross country road trip. I guess that is the point, they find themselves. They become part of an elite group of our species that “just get it”. No longer encumbered by the hollow or vain pursuits which infect and distract so many of the rest of us. They take great joy in helping their clients to feel the joys of angling; appreciate the precious resource that make the art of fly-fishing possible, and form a personal connection with those who will allow themselves to drop the firewall for a few hours.
At the end of a day with a good guide, you feel like you have made a friend; having shared something that is truly special. Good guides seem to have achieved something that is truly God-like; the ability to enjoy the very passion that drives them, vicariously. To laugh, cry, cuss, and rejoice with a client as if they were the ones holding the rod is something that I am only beginning to understand as I guide my family in their angling experiences while seated on the sticks of my own drift boat.
To Mark, Ed, Leslie, Brian, Monty, Mike, Jimmy, Pete, Shawn, Marc, Steve, Dustin, Dave, Brian, and Craig; I thank you for your guidance both on the river and off. My angling journey continues to be a source of strength, humor, and inspiration as I navigate the turbulent waters of life.
The mend. A correction of the fly line as it is impacted by different currents in the stream. I am not the greatest at this, yet it is vital to obtaining the perfect drift…and the reason for my blog name. Underneath the surface of any given trout stream is a flurry of activity. Trout and other aquatic creatures move and dance with a current that is constant yet ever changing.
The need for the mend in your drift is to keep the fly line from presenting the fly in a way that does not look natural. For success in most cases, the drift is the single most important and often overlooked portion of a cast. Get it right and success is at hand, botch it and your fly either skitters across the surface like a water skier or jumps over every fish in the stream.
Each stream in any particular area has multiple hydrological issues that the fly line is moved, bellied, bowed, or in some cases, sank completely. It is the Zen of the angler to detect these things and move in accordance to what the water dictates. This is a part of our craft that never changes. We are always in hot pursuit of the perfect drift.
Life is much like this. As our life moves downstream, we are often impacted by currents that are not under our control. Frustration comes easily when we do not read the current of our days leading to an unsuccessful attempt or missing the mark. Often we dream of victory that seems to be right under the surface, but we go dancing unnaturally across the surface leaving these amazing life events behind.
I am often very opinionated, most likely a habitual offender of faithless living, and assuredly a man who allows his pride to block obvious blessing. All of these occur because I have lost the drift. I have not allowed myself to relax, see the flow, and make adjustments as needed. But thankfully I now recognize the correlation and have reached the point where the light bulb is flickering.
John Buchan is quoted as saying, “The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.” Much like the rest of our lives isn’t it? The big hurdle comes when we are faced with actually making life application out of our sport.
You may not agree…and I am fine with that, but I firmly believe that every area of our lives is intertwined to the point that one part will teach us something about another. That there actually are life lessons that can be learned in everything from a person we work with, watching a football game, or standing in a river waving a stick. It is all about how we choose to perceive small snippets of our lives.
So, in light of what I know to be my own shortcomings, and the desire to reach that unattainable thing we call perfection, I will try to learn from the river; that babbling cacophony of change and potential. I will seek to apply elsewhere that which I have gleaned from time spent watching a floating line being moved by a current that was moving before I was born, and which will be moving long after I have gone. Maybe, just maybe, I will have learned enough to get a few other things right. I can’t ask for much more than that.
The passage of time is a peculiar thing. It seems that if we are involved in something we don’t particularly like, the seconds pass thick and slow with now rhythm or pace, everything is laborious and clunky. Then there are days when we are so full of what we enjoy and what we love that it is as if time were racing away at warp speed. It was with this thought in mind that I found myself looking square into the last two days of the tour. I had completely abandoned any concept of time to the point that most days it could have been Tuesday or perhaps Sunday and it would have made no difference. Light and dark, awake and asleep…that pretty much summed up existence in Yellowstone, and by the time I had realized what was happening, I was looking into the face of the one thing I hadn’t taken into account. The trip was coming to an end.
After leaving Slough Creek, we drove across the amazing chaos that is Yellowstone and up into Montana. One thing that never ceased to amaze me about this National Park was the quick change of the geographic, geologic, and topographic nature of the landscape. Drive a few miles in one type of terrain, cross a hill, and it is as if someone has plucked you out of one place on the planet and deposited you in another location thousands of miles away. Surreal would be an easily overused word here in this majestic location.
So with the disorientation of time and the sensory overload of the terrain, Bruce Smithhammer and I drove west…our destination was to be the last stop on the trip. We would be spending the next two days in Big Sky Montana and fishing the Gallatin River. Basing my expectations of Big Sky upon what had transpired throughout the week was not wise. Every second of rustic living, every moment of wild and unpredictable environments, every old building and historic structure were in another world altogether upon our arrival in this small Montana locale. We were staying for two days in a two story penthouse of Big Sky Lodge, a place in which the President had stayed a few months earlier. I don’t know the exact square footage of our sky high lodging, but I feel very safe in guessing that we had at least three thousand square feet of living space to enjoy. But, just so we didn’t think we were completely removed from the wild, a big bear was wandering around the parking lot as we were unloading our things. It is moments like these that will enamor you with this part of the world.
After gawking at our dwelling for a while, I hit the rack and fell into the kind of sleep that can only come when the perfect bed meets unreal fatigue. It seemed that I had only closed my eyes and it was morning, and with the rise of the sun we headed out to fish the Gallatin.
The Gallatin is a meandering river, much smaller than I pictured it, but an excellent fishery…with one problem…the fish were nowhere to be found. Six anglers, all accomplished in their craft, were pretty well skunked. My only fish on this day was a complete accident. I was fishing a hopper up against the far bank without luck. I misjudged my distance; hit the bank, pulled it free, and bam…a ten inch rainbow smacked it as soon as it hit the water. My only fish.
Back to the lodge. We were all beyond tired. The week that was had begun to catch up with us. Gathered around the television that evening, we watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, laughed, and told stories until late into the night. We had started the week as strangers, just names, people who for the most part only knew of each other from what we had read. I looked around the room and was amazed at who I was with. Kirk Deeter, Chris Hunt, Bruce Smithhammer, Rebecca Garlock…Field and Stream, Trout Unlimited, The Drake, Outdoor Blogger Network. Wow. But the cool thing about it is that the accolades and accomplishments of these people were secondary to the fact that Steve Zakur and I were hanging out with friends.
Often on trips like this, when the people don’t know each other, the potential of a train wreck of interpersonal issues is always a potentiality. However, on this particular trip, we just hit it off…everything meshed. It was as if we had done this trip together for years. To say that lifelong friendships were formed would be a gross understatement.
The last day of the tour started with a trip to a local fly shop and an event that will forever define the attitude of Big Sky Country in my memory. After a night of libations and more than one David Allan Coe song being sung loud and out of key, I was parched. Just as you walk in the door of this particular fly shop, there is a soft drink machine. So I stopped there and started digging in my pocket for a buck to feed. I drop in my money, select my favorite citrus laden beverage…and out came a Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was then that the guy behind the counter told me that he could not remember the last time that machine had soft drinks in it. I looked at him and smiled, then I spotted some fly shop hats…one had a PBR style logo with the fly shops name on it. Sold. I still wear it with pride.
Another tough outing on the Gallatin as storms moved in from the west with a ferocity that put every fish in the river down for the day. So we spent the remainder of the morning just hanging out by the truck and talking. Perhaps that was the best way for things to end. In conversation with people who had become friends and may see years pass before their paths would cross again.
This trip and the amazing events that I experienced have forever changed me. It did not make me a better angler, but it did change the way that I go about the craft. The skillset remains, but in some ways the philosophy behind it has been forever altered by this great bunch of people.
Roughly five months have passed, and I am still in consistent contact with these folks. Sometimes it is business, and sometimes it is just to say hi. In the early part of the fall, Steve found himself in my neck of the woods and I took him to the South Holston. I told him where the trout would be, and what they were likely to be keyed on, then I stepped back, cast into water that has never yielded fish, and watched as he pulled multiple fish from the water. It made me happy to play guide for my friend, and in a way it was my gift to him. As we left that afternoon to once again go our separate ways, we said goodbye as if we would be together the following week…because we both knew that eventually we would meet again on a river somewhere.
“Sometimes I caught fish – sometimes I didn’t. …….I lived merrily, mindlessly, uncomfortably on the fringe where fishing bleeds into madness.” – Nick Lyons, The Intense Fly Fisherman
There was a time in my youth when I chased fish with all the passion I had within me – with all the force and vigor and excitement I could muster. I would get up two hours before dawn and drive four hours just to reach the first available trout water. I’d fish all day, stopping only to eat a quick lunch or move to another spot on the river. When darkness fell, I continued to fish – pushing the limit of effective fishing and the legal limit of fishing regulations. A four hour drive back home would end with me dragging myself into the house, leaving all my gear in the truck to be cleaned out the next day, or the day after that perhaps. I was “on fire” for fly fishing and I ate it – drank it – obsessed over it – loved it – was consumed by it.
This went on for some time. Years passed, then decades and then one day I experienced a great tragedy in my life when my father passed away suddenly. At the same time, I lost my job. I was devastated. I stopped fishing almost completely. I think I may have spent time fishing, just a few hours each time, only twice that year. In my salad days fishing happened every other weekend for years and years. I fished only twice in that most terrible year and thought several times that I might give it up altogether. Over the next few years, there were times when I felt like flinging my rod and reel into the lake or river. No, I’m not kidding. I just couldn’t get that passion back, even though when I wasn’t fishing it was still there and as strong as ever.
I still consumed fishing articles, photos and chat like they were going out of style. I loved to talk about bass on poppers and trout flies that sit just so, right in the film. I’m still a sucker for hearing another angler talk about a river that’s new to me. Last year I even took my very first trip out west to fish in Montana and Wyoming. I’m fishing more now – probably twice a month or so when I can get away and I’d fish more often if I had the time and money. So, I had to ask myself – what happened? How did I come back from the brink of leaving the sport behind me for good?
I think what it all came down to, was that I had to realize two things: that I didn’t have that 24-hour-7-days-a-week passion that I had in my youth, and that not having that passion was OK. Once I stopped worrying about the fact that I didn’t go fishing as much (and frankly didn’t catch as much either) I was able to begin to enjoy my time outdoors again. These days it’s not so much about the fishing. It’s more about being outside and enjoying time spent around the water. It’s the feel of the river on my legs and the fleeting glimpse of a deer on the drive home. Now that I’ve had a couple of years of this relaxed fishing life, I think I rather prefer it to living on, as Nick Lyons so accurately put it “…the fringe where fishing bleeds into madness.” Maybe someday you’ll be there, too. Maybe you already are?
In July of 2012, I was selected to join Chris Hunt and Kirk Deeter of Trout Unlimited, Rebecca Garlock, Bruce Smithhammer, Steve Zakur, and several representatives of Simms, The National Park Service, and The Yellowstone Park Foundation in a tour of Yellowstone. We were directly involved in removal of the invasive lake trout from Yellowstone Lake, stream study on Soda Butte Creek, and stream recovery on Specimen Creek. This is the third of a six part series recounting my adventures. This was my first trip to Yellowstone.
In part two, we saw how involved and messy gill netting for the small lakers can be. But what about the big boys? What about the mature adult that is actively reproducing? Obviously the whole gill netting thing will not work on a fish that size. So instead of the spider web analogy, lets switch over to the corn maze. Easy to get into one…not so easy to get out.
What happens is this. A huge live trap net is set in the lake. This massive enclosure has a series of extensions on it that are like long hallways. Hallways that are hundreds of feet long. Big guys swim in, hang out, can’t find the exit. And then the men on the boat go to work.
This is where the action really picks up. We left the gill net boat feeling pretty satisfied with what we had just participated in, but we literally had no idea as to the massive undertaking necessary to get rid of the Lakers. Yellowstone Lake is big and very deep which is perfect for Lake Trout. They are literally in Laker Valhalla in this majestic body of water, and they do get big.
The crew starts out by retrieving the net. I never quite figured out if the net was stationary and we were moving or vise versa, but either way, we were in for the surprise of our lives when the catch started revealing itself.
There are some fish that get caught in the net, but most are still alive when the crew started hoisting it aboard. But the big show was the huge net enclosure that held numbers of biblical proportions. The sheer number of big fish was astounding. To compare what we were seeing to the 167,000 plus that had been retrieved up to that point just blows your mind. I caught myself looking out at the lake an just trying to grasp just how many leviathans were swimming in those waters.
In the picture below you see a tub full of dead Lake Trout. To get an idea of how large these fish were, the box they are in was about two and a half feet by twenty inches by two feet. Just about every fish we brought to the boat would be grip and grin status.
There were several tubs stationed at the rear of the boat. By the time our work was done. Every tub would be full. It bears mentioning again that this operation is taking place, every day for at least ten hours per day.
Tracking devices are placed in some of the Lakers. The use of these trackers is to identify movement of the fish throughout the lake. Listening stations placed in various locations in the lake will monitor movement of the fish as they go about their day. The hope is to positively identify spawning locations so that they can begin the arduous task of killing eggs. There is still an ongoing discussion as to how they could best accomplish this. Everything from UV rays to a vacuum system has been brought to the table. The Park Service, Trout Unlimited, and The Yellowstone Park Foundation are actively pursuing their options with a hope to tackle this next battlefield soon. The telemetry study was started in August of last year. 141 tags and 40 receivers were implemented. As of this writing, there are 221 tags and 55 recievers on and in Yellowstone Lake. This is not a cheap undertaking either. Trout Unlimited purchased 153 tags at a cost of 85,000 dollars and the National Park Service purchased 68 tags at a cost of 25,000 dollars.
And yes, some of the Cutthroat are caught. Here is the statistics as best as I can recall. In a day when we caught probably close to 1,000 trout. I only saw two Cutthroat dead at the gill net boat, and I think there were maybe five live Cutties on the live net boat.
The large holding net is brought to the side of the boat and there are literally hundreds of fish swimming around. A long net is used, and you simply lean over and scoop up a net full of fish. It is really quite amazing. And keep in mind that you are scooping netfulls of 20″-30″ fish. Exhilarating to say the least. There were a couple that were to big to fit into the net. You would scoop through the holding net, get the bruisers head in it, and that would be all that would fit. That is when the crew stepped in and gilled them to the boat.
After the fish are caught. They are cut, identified as male of female, and the air bladder is ruptured. A lot were full of eggs. Thousands of eggs. This is the point when it all started coming together for me. We caught and killed a multitude of these fish, but if you also take into consideration how many eggs we removed form the life cycle of the species in this lake, the numbers were staggering. I really felt like I had done something that was good, worthwhile, and important. Important to more than just the Cutthroat. It was important to the total ecosystem of the park. And that is a very good thing.
Though Lake Trout are a very good food source, and plentiful, these fish are not put into the food market. My thought was that they could be used to feed the homeless, needy, mobile meals, but the logistics and cost of doing this are just not feasible at this time. So much would be involved in trying to get this idea off the ground, and the amount of money it would require prohibit it.
So we left that afternoon feeling very good about what we had done. The conversation among us was like that of a team after winning the big game. We recounted the events, smiled, shook our heads in disbelief, and made our way north to the Lamar Valley.
*Photos by Rebecca Garlock, Chris Hunt, Steve Zakur, and Marc Payne
In July of 2012, I was selected to join Chris Hunt and Kirk Deeter of Trout Unlimited, Rebecca Garlock, Bruce Smithhammer, Steve Zakur, and several representatives of Simms, The National Park Service, and The Yellowstone Park Foundation in a tour of Yellowstone. We were directly involved in removal of the invasive lake trout from Yellowstone Lake, stream study on Soda Butte Creek, and stream recovery on Specimen Creek. This is the second of a six part series recounting my adventures. This was my first trip to Yellowstone.
Okay, how many mornings have you awoke, and over breakfast said to yourself…”yep, today I think I am gonna kill a thousand trout. That is the goal. Not gonna eat em, not gonna sell em, just gonna kill em, cut em, and dump em in the deep water. Then maybe call it a day.”
Lets just settle on agreeing that lake trout aren’t baby seals. Soft fluffy white fur and big watery eyes will trump a cold slimy fish any day of the week, but still…the wholesale slaughter of a trout seems antithetical to the mantra that we catch and release types chant each time we head to the river. We will pass someone who is leaving with a stringer full of trout and we assess them as if they are pariah; an unclean blight on the angling world.
I speak somewhat in jest, but it is honestly a very strange feeling to know that your goal is a mix of trout and death. It just doesn’t roll off the tongue very easily…until you actually do it.
Here is the situation. At some point lake trout arrived in Yellowstone Lake. I say “at some point” because no one is really 100% certain when it happened. Yellowstone Lake is a Cutthroat lake, end of story. The population of this amazing body of water has changed dramatically in recent years, and it has become quite frightening on more than a fishing level. This issue literally effects every creature in the massive Yellowstone that has Cutts as a food source.
Try wrapping your mind around this statistic. In or around 1978, 70,000 Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout were recorded in Clear Creek. In 2008, the number had dwindled to less than 500. You read that right…500. Keep in mind that we are just talking about one creek, God only knows how many feed into Yellowstone Lake. You start running the numbers and it doesn’t take a lot of thought to determine that Yellowstone is in trouble.
Lake Trout live and spawn in Yellowstone Lake, they access no tributaries, they live in deep water, and they eat a bunch of Cutthroat which do access the tributaries to spawn. This leaves only one viable solution. You must get on Yellowstone Lake and kill a bunch of Lakers. Each female Lake Trout is capable of laying thousands of eggs, and with each passing season, these hungry invasives feast on the Cutts.
HOW IT IS DONE
We were blessed with the opportunity to travel out onto Yellowstone Lake and take part in the removal of the Lakers. After a coffee and a danish at the boat dock, we gathered round and Todd Koel gave us the rundown thus far.
When you can tally up 167,703 lake trout caught thus far in 2012, and your work is no where near done…you have got a huge task in front of you.
There are two primary methods that are being used in the eradication process. Gill netting and trap nets, and our merry band of anglers, bloggers, and industry folk embarked on what would become one whale of an adventure.
Gill netting is not pretty. It is a messy, smelly, methodical task that takes a strong constitution and a certain degree of speed to do the job well. So, imagine my surprise when we pulled up to the gill netting boat, and a young blonde coed climbed out and welcomed us aboard. I envisioned a crew of bearded and somewhat scruffy fishermen using foul language, smoking filterless cigarettes and drinking coffee from an old rusty percolator. This boat had two gentlemen who were very polite and soft spoken and a crew of nothing but girls.
With my personal stereotypes completely shattered we put our hands to work. Gill netting was the focus of this boat, and though it wasn’t Deadliest Catch it was pretty intense at first. The best way to describe gill netting would be to envision a massive underwater spiders web. These nets are dropped or “soaked” for several hours and basically the fish entrap themselves within the holes of the net, struggle, tangle, and die. Then comes the dirty work. The net is retrieved and it is the task of the deck hands to extricate the fish from the nets. I knew this was gonna be messy when the captain of the boat handed out blue rubber gloves. Sometimes this involved actually pushing the internal organs of the lakers from one part of their bodies to the other just so they would go through the holes in the nets. This procedure can also cause what the girls on the boat called “poppers”, I won’t go into details, but imagine a balloon that is squeezed just a tad to much. Only this balloon wasn’t full of air….
For ten hours a day, six days a week these co-eds place nets, pull up nets, removed dead fish and repeat, and they actually seemed to be having fun doing it.
So where are all the big lake trout? This particular process is used to remove the smaller fish. On the next post we will take a look at how the big boys meet their maker.
In July of 2012, I was selected to join Chris Hunt and Kirk Deeter of Trout Unlimited, Rebecca Garlock, Bruce Smithhammer, Steve Zakur, and several representatives of Simms, The National Park Service, and The Yellowstone Park Foundation in a tour of Yellowstone. We were directly involved in removal of the invasive lake trout from Yellowstone Lake, stream study on Soda Butte Creek, and stream recovery on Specimen Creek. This is the first of a six part series recounting my adventures. This was my first trip to Yellowstone.
There is always a slight risk involved in dreams. So often we paint pictures in our minds about these enchanted desires, thoughts that grow, doubling each time they wander across our mind. Then we are somehow placed in a situation in which we can actually see this dream come to pass and it feels empty, shallow, and unfulfilled.
Thankfully, this was not the case in my dream of Yellowstone.
My friend Steve Zakur didn’t touch down in Jackson until late in the afternoon/ early evening which gave me time to soak in the Tetons in their glory. When his plane landed and we shook hands, the dream which I carried for so long gained life. Go time had arrived.
Steve has visited the park several times. He knew what to expect. So that evening over drinks we made a plan that in retrospect was quite ambitious. We were going to start at the south entrance and head northeast before meandering our way around and back to the south entrance. I had no idea just what I was in for.
The next morning Steve and I took off from Jackson on a grand tour de force of the park. It was a complete mind blower. Crazy as it may sound, you literally cannot look in any direction without a photo op. This place is a photographers Valhalla.
We had not even entered Yellowstone yet, and all I kept saying was “wow”.
Steve, being a seasoned vet of the park, graciously played tour guide for me and just let me gawk at the shear majesty of the place. It just overwhelms everything about you. I had thought of this place for so long and had focused so much on getting ready for this trip that it just left me numb.
In the center of the park there is a road that basically is a loop. That was to be the focus of our day as we worked around toward our final destination which was Flagg Ranch (more about them later), and our rendezvous with the other folks that would be on tour with us for the week.
But of course, Steve and I being anglers, there came a point in which we could wait no longer and fishing became the focus. Saying fishing became the focus in Yellowstone is almost a misnomer. There are so many places to ply the angle as they say that you literally are overwhelmed in trying to find a spot. We settled on the Gibbon which is a smaller river that joins the Firehole to become the Madison.
It was a warm afternoon, the water was perfect for wet wading, and the little browns that call this particular body of water home were willing to at least give Steve and me a taste of just how good it could be. We ended the afternoon with three small browns each. Nothing worthy of the grip and grin that is almost a mandatory validation of success (to which I strongly disagree), but we felt the drug that is the tug, and that was quite enough to settle the spirit.
We finally made our way back to Headwaters Lodge at Flagg Ranch and met those who were to be our companions for the rest of the week. (More on that next time.)
The Umpqua Magnum Midge Fly Box is one of my new favorite fly boxes to own. Its slim design is nice so you can stuff more boxes in your pack. This box has so many slits in the foam it’s hard to fill the box up with all your small dries. This box has 2 large magnet spots to through your old flies or really small flies that you can’t pick up out of the foam.
The pros to this box is simple. Thin, see through sides, Zerust strips, water proof, magnets, and its fly capacity.
The cons to this box is I don’t own more of them. I haven’t found any cons to this box yet, other than if I get another one I would like to buy it in other colors to tell the two apart from just looking in my pack.
I would give this box a 5 out of 5 because for a small dry fly box, or very small nymphs, and emergers. This is the box to own.
Once you own this box look into the other great Umpqua boxes they have to offer for every combination you can think of.