Silhouettes

How many big bass can a guy lose in a season?  And why does each large lost bass take the time to pose, briefly yet clearly, for the angler to see what's getting away?  And why does that silhouette burn its way deep into one's memory?

Earlier this season, Katie spent a full day of bass fishing with me. We were both under the tutelage of a local guide, and Katie was doing pretty well on topwaters and jerk baits, even though it was the first time she'd ever explicitly targeted bass.  While she was doing OK, I was getting much more action, and larger bass to boot, while slowly fishing black rubber worms.  After I caught what would prove to be the largest bass of the day, she decided to try worming, too.

In short order, she got bit.  I'm not sure either she or the bass knew they were connected at first, but when it became apparent to both me and the guide that she had a fish on, we were all paying attention.  The bass came to the surface right beside the boat, jumped and flared, giving all three of us a perfect view; and calmly threw the hook.  We all were in shock at the size of the bass we'd just seen; but she was gone, and there was little to do other than continue on.  Katie redeemed herself shortly there-after with a solid 3-pounder, but I think we'd all agree that the even more solid 5-pounder we'd just seen was the Fish of the Day.

From the web - but if this guy showed a little more tail, it would be a ringer for Katie's lost bass.

But how many times can this same scene be repeated?  I've a spot on a local lake that doesn't yield a lot of bass; but the bass I encounter are always large; all 4-to-6 pounders so far.  So of course I visit this location, at least briefly, during every bass expedition on this lake.  Shortly after my trip with Katie, I was just about to leave this spot, empty-handed, so to speak, when I made a long cast and then felt a slight "tap" on a slow-rolled chatterbait.  I swung and came tight, briefly, only to have to race to keep a tight line.  I caught up with the bass at about the time she broke the surface.  She was definitely my biggest of the season, and we went through the required choreography: present broad side; flare gills; (I swear, make eye contact!); tail walk; nod head; throw hook.

From the web.

And it's not just largemouths.  On my first trip this fall to my stretch of "rediscovered" Grand River, at just about the time I was ready to write off the trip, I caught a real nice smallie.  A few casts later, I set the hook and a much nicer smallie literally went ballistic and launched herself above eye-level.  She was perfectly back-lit, perfectly silhouetted, definitely the bass of the day, and probably the smallie of the year.  Of course, she returned to the water's surface unhooked, having tossed my senko aside during her flight.  But that's OK; she's the reason I went back the next day, only to lose a similar-sized largemouth in much the same manner.

From the web - based on the style of art, it looks like this has been taking place for quite a while!

So how many big bass can a guy lose in a season?  Unless I'm in a tournament, I guess I don't care.  So long as I occasionally bring one to hand, "As many others as possible!", I propose, would be the best answer.  These are powerful fish, the ones that keep me coming back for more.

"Fishing with John" Lurie

I received a gift from my brother in the mid-1990s; a set of VCR tapes of the one-season show "Fishing with John".  I had never heard of it, but I had limited access to television, never mind cable, at the time, and I love a good fishing show, so I received the gift with enthusiastic appreciation and started watching it right away.  

It appeared that  John and his friend Jim Jarmusch were going shark fishing out of Montauk.  Cool!  My daughter was way into sharks at the time, so I got her up on the couch to share.  A few minutes into Episode 1 and one of the guys asks the other, "Do you want to see my penis?"  It was clear that this was not an ordinary fishing show.

I'm not the hippest guy, and I didn't know much of anything about John Lurie or his guests at the time.  But I enjoyed the tapes enought to send them off to friend; and he did the same, and so on, until I lost track of them.  Fifteen or more years later, I recently rediscovered this show on Hulu plus, and I've enjoyed revisiting this show.  I can't believe it didn't get picked up for subsequent seasons!

But before I delved into the show this time, I did a quick Google search on John.  Let's say it appears that he was All That in the mid-1980s in the NYC music and film culture of the time.  Reportedly, everybody wanted to kill, marry, f@@@, or otherwise work with him or be part of his world at the time.  And it's obvious he likes to travel and fish, so I guess his show was inevitable.

And while the show is fairly ridiculous, and can barely be considered a fishing show considering the general lack of fish or fishing information, it offers a few worthwhile thoughts.

Why am I here?  This is a recurring theme throughout the episodes.  Of course there's no single, correct answer, especially within the context of the episodes' adventures.  But there's a certain philosophical thread running through the shows that indicates perhaps the question is being asked in a more general sense.  In which case, perhaps the best answer is "I'm here to fish!"

It's a Wonderful World we live in.  Life is so beautiful.

Real Men doing Real Things.  Whether it's circumnavigating Jamaica in a canoe because they've destroyed the car, gathering local debris in order to construct a shelter against the elements, or communing with Squid Monks and confronting Pirates in search of the Giant Squid, there's no doubt that these are indeed, Real Men doing Real Things.

Cheese.  A surprisingly recurring theme, whether it's for food or bait, or simply a matter of survival.  Although Tom Waits has caught all of his bigger fish on cheese, he still has to wonder, How often does a fish have the chance to try some of the finer cheeses?  It just doesn't happen.

Possibilities.  Willem Dafoe realizes that the best thing about ice fishing is that it is filled with possibilities.  I can relate; and not just with ice fishing!

In actual fact, the Giant Squid might not actually exist.  But whether or not there is a Giant Squid, Life is Beautiful.  

Finally, may I offer a tip of my cap to narrator Robb Webb?  This might be a pseudonymn; Mr. Webb's voice seems more familiar than his IMDB credits would indicate.  This might have been a calculated career move.  Regardless, his recognizable voice provides credible authority to the videos and juxtaposes with the incredible statements emanating from his mouth.

• When it comes to sharks, Man is on his menu.
• Life is so beautiful; for some, more than others.
• Here, the simple saga of life and death are the reality.
• Lon has wooden legs, but real feet!
• It's not likely the Giant Squid inhabits these parts, but one never knows.
• The Giant Squid is incredible!  It's the largest, fastest, strongest, cruelest and most cunning creature in the sea.
• The Giant Squid has the power to hypnotize most mammals.
• John and Dennis (Hopper) have been hypnotized!  The experience is completely pleasurable, though they won't remember any of this...Perhaps just some euphoric inkling as they complete their search of they know not what.

But most importantly,

Every Breath, Every Day of our Lives....Ahhhhhhh, Fishing!

Bait

Bait

Most of my current fishing does not involve bait, but that’s where I started, and I return to it as often as I need to, or choose to.  Bait fishing can be as relaxed or as precise as you’d like, and a good bait is always working for you.  Some have a sense that fishing with bait isn’t as sporting, or doesn’t take as much skill, as fishing with artificial lures or flies.  I’ll simply disagree; you can botch, or master, any technique to your own particular level.

Certainly fishing with Spam, cheese, dough-balls and worms qualifies as bait fishing, but I guess I’m generally thinking “finfish” when I say “bait”.  Given a lively finfish of the appropriate species and size, I’ll have confidence that I’ll get bitten by an appropriate gamefish.  Such live bait is not always available (or even the best choice), so I’ll resort to other baits when I need to.  But use of such bait just isn’t as exciting to me as presenting a livie, watching it react to the presence of the predator, and ultimately seeing the bait get engulfed by my quarry.  So given a choice, I’ll go with a finfish.

I really started fishing when my Dad introduced me to golden shiners.  To his credit, Dad enjoyed watching the float react to the shiner’s struggles as much as actually catching a bass.  He could be mesmerized by the float’s dance over calm waters, and on more than a couple of occasions, he chose this over more productive fishing in deeper, exposed waters.  As I grew up, that drove me nuts (especially when it involved Stafford’s Pond smallies!), but he really enjoyed his chosen style of fishing; that is, shiners under floats in calm water.

I'm not a finfish fanatic, though; I will resort to other baits.  My book knowledge of fishing was rapidly outpacing my actual experience on the water (my Stream Cred?) when I was young teenager.  But I once scored a warm summer’s day of wet-wading a pretty decent trout stream in southern Rhode Island when I was about 14.  I first became aware of the surprising number of trout present that day through my clumsy, hurried wading techniques; I saw dozens of legal trout fleeing my approach.  Once I got that aspect of my efforts under control, I was chagrined to find that the trout wanted nothing to do with my arsenal of lures, flies, and dead baits.  In desperation, I turned to my book learning; I started sifting the stream bed for invertebrates.  When I finally captured a hellgrammite, I lightly hooked it through the collar and made an upstream cast alongside a log shading some deeper water.  I was amazed when a lit-up rainbow charged out of the hole, followed by others, and engulfed the free-drifting nymph.  Shortly thereafter, I strung up my biggest ever (at that time) trout; all 15 inches of it.  So long as I could capture and present a hellgie or stonefly I was golden for the rest of the day.  This day fostered my life-long interest in aquatic ecology; and on a more practical level, it showed me the power of presenting what the fish want to eat.

Hellgrammite - from the Web!

You’d think that years later I would have gotten the message.  I took a family fishing trip to Canada; my youngest was only a few months old, and so we chose a convenient drive-to resort destination on a chain of lakes with actual Canadian residents living on the water.  So it was, by definition, a Canadian fishing vacation, but it wasn’t wilderness fishing; and while the fishing was OK, it wasn’t great.

Over the course of the week, the lodge owner re-iterated his faith in live bait.  He had various stories of Bass Pros who had visited the lake and had broken down, dropped their professional tournament techniques, and resorted to crawlers.  This fell on my deaf ears for most of the week; but later in the week, feeling the sands of vacation time running through the glass, I started drifting crawler harnesses.  My catch rate improved, the diversity of my catch increased and now included consistent walleyes and pike, the fish were bigger, and the fishing was just, simply better.  It still wasn’t fantastic, but it was pretty darn good for the last couple of days, when I relented to the use of bait.

(Let me defend my honor here and state for the record, that this week of fishing was plagued by strong mid-day winds.  Boat control became impossible (except for trolling), and I’d been smart enough to include my riggers, a couple of rigger rods and an assortment of trolling spoons for lake trout.  This mid-day trouting really iced my cake for the week, because I stayed on a consistent, quality bite all week.  In fact, I caught the largest laker of the year for the lodge.  At 10 or 12 pounds, it wasn’t the biggest ever, but I’d say that this, too, was pretty darn good; as was the feeling of bringing a couple of older gents aboard the boat (Mrs. Paul, at the time) and watching them catch a couple of lakers apiece.)

Now the only thing worse than paying for bait, is not purchasing enough; or chincing out and buying inferior bait rather than prime bait.  As an outsider, I’m told that live bait is pretty scarce in Palm Beach during the winter.  This coincides with the area’s best sailfishing of the year, and so bait is pricey.  Let’s say $100 -120 a dozen for goggle eyes (prime) or maybe $50 a dozen for blue runners (still expensive, but the choice for chinces.)   After a couple of trips where we nursed our bait supply through the day, or watched only the gogs get hit, for my last trip I decided to “go big.”  On the way out to the channel I authorized the purchase of 18 gogs; it was, in fact, a small expense in comparison to the effort and expense of actually getting on a boat in Florida at the right time.  It was simply insurance against another dud of a day.

So of course we set up in the thickest congregation of king mackerel I’ve ever seen, while still hoping for a sail.  Kings are very cool fish, and they provided some super surface strikes; but for the most part they were slashing our baits, missing hooks, and slicing mono.  It was a day of lots of action, and not so much catching, although I was pleased to catch a nice one off the kite (rigged with a wire leader, by the way.)  I mentally tallied the bill and the tilting odds with each missed strike; meanwhile I could tell from the radio that the bulk of the sails were 60 miles north.  A few days later, I was on those fish, but I’d simply traded a live bait bill for a hefty gas bill (we were trolling brined ballyhoo.)  There’s no free sailfishing experience!

King Mackerel off the kite!

Trolled Sailfish on!  In rough seas!

A favorite way of mine to fish is to work the Food Chain.  I love to catch my bait on hook and line; and then use it later that trip for the predator of choice.  So whether it’s maggot-smelt-lake trout; pimple-perch-pike; worm-bluegill-catfish; or Kastmaster-mackerel-striper, I get a kick out of climbing this ladder, especially in the same trip.  I’m always on the lookout for these opportunities, and the best part is, your bait is guaranteed fresh!  On the other hand, if you struggle to make bait, you’d better have a viable Plan B.

Smelt eat maggots; lakers eat smelt.

Stripers love the right size mackerel!

My striper fishing in Maine has become very bait-centric.  While I’ve tried to break my reliance on bait here, I’ve just had too many visible, outright refusals of my lures to warrant use of anything but live bait.  I can see the bass following the lures, but they won’t commit.  My water is extremely calm and quiet, and I guess the stripers are either on "High Alert" or can otherwise be choosie; but other than the occasional Kastmaster Surprise, lures just don’t seem to work (consistently) for stripers here.  At least not to my satisfaction.

My method of choice would be a live mackerel of appropriate size; but these can be scarce, and keeping more than one at a time in reserve on my dock is problematic.  Reliance on these baits could mean a lot of bait fishing (which is fun enough), but little striper fishing.  The sandworm is more consistent; but these require a trip to town, storage in the fridge, they’re fragile, they attract pesky herrings, etc.  Plus, they’re fairly fearsome creatures with internal chitenous jaws (visible only when threatened!) and slime.  But they are virtual Striper Candy, so I’ll put up with them; and they seem to work the best when other options are limited. But they still don’t offer that finfish dance, that frenzy that announces the appearance of the striper, the visible anticipation of the strike.  On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the take of one of these worms by a full-grown bass can be as dainty as a mackerel’s nibble, so you just never know what might be jiggling your float.

Sandworm!

I’ve caught one adult menhaden (pogie, bunker) on hook and line in Maine, and although it seemed way too big for my local stripers, I set it out under a float.  In very short order the bait exploded and line was zipping off my reel.  I fed as much line as I dared, given the moorings, pots, anchors and pier supports surrounding my fishing position.  I came tight, got a short run from an apparent sizeable bass, and the hook pulled.  But I could tell I still had my bait, and so I let it flutter in place; and before the bait settled down, it got taken again.  This time I got a better hook-set, but there was no stopping this striper; and I ended up breaking it off before it spooled me.  This was probably a mistake, because the line I saved was worthless from having rubbed a mooring, anyway.  But this brief encounter gave me an idea of the pogie’s power over bass.

This past summer I had the chance to snag some bunker on Narragansett Bay, and that was fun in its own right.  I had to acknowledge that I was using a snagging hook that would be illegal to possess in Michigan, but which was recognized as an indispensable tackle item in southern New England. The first bass of the day took a pogie right off my snagging hook and provided an excellent fight on the bunker tackle.  I thought that was a fluke until I caught a beautiful blue later on the day, when I purposefully dropped a snagged pogie down to a visible chasing bass.  Meanwhile, most of the bunker we dropped to the bottom of the bay that day got bit; unfortunately, mostly by one-bite blues.   This provided me a hint, however, in the allure of the pogie head for bass; the blues eat the meat and lose interest, while the bass eat the crumbs dropping through the water column.  I’ll remember this the next time blues are plaguing my baits. 

Bluefish are present!

This blue caught my treble-snagged pogie.

Bluefish are present!  I should drop this head down to the bottom for scavenging bass!

What’s this leading up to?  I’ll continue to make use of bait.  And one of my goals for the future goes something like this:

• Catch a mackerel on light tackle.
• Live-line the mack, on appropriate tackle, for a yellow-eyed demonic bluefish.
• Pop this blue in a livewell (preferably on my own boat) and find some likely Bluefin tuna habitat.
• Successfully deploy the blue and convert it into a tuna.

My biggest quandary is the deployment; simple live-lining?  Slow troll?  Off an outrigger?  Off a kite?

Until then, I’ll play with my worms, macks, shiners and dough-balls.

Hand-Lining

When I was a young wart hog; excuse me, I mean, When I was a young fisherman; I learned the ropes with rods and reels.  But there have been times when I’ve had to resort to the old hand line.

As a college student abroad in Costa Rica, my group was staying in a slice of Heaven (by which I mean undeveloped Corcovado National Park), but we were slowly running out protein.  We were all set on beer, coffee, and rice, but we had no beans, no meat, no peanut butter.  Park Officials graciously lent us their fishing equipment.  This consisted of a pair of bleach jugs wound with heavy monofilament, rigged with a couple of nuts for weight and a hook.

A jungle river dumped into the Golfo Dulce near camp, and at a morning’s low tide, a few friends and I went fishing.  We scavenged for bait; the beach was covered with hermit crabs, so that’s what we used.  We threaded a few on the hook and quickly found out that a cowboy-esque, lariat-throwing cast wasn’t going to work; the crabs were too soft to stay on the hook.  We learned to peel off some line and then throw the baited hook and sinkers like softball into the surf.  But the surf was too heavy, we had no contact with our bait, and we were running out of time.  So we re-located a pool or two up the river, and here things came together.  We quickly caught a couple of snappers in the 3-pound range.  These were a blast on hand lines, but they were overpowered by the brute strength of our line.  A third food fish was within our grasp when suddenly we were literally sharked; and we were fast on to a four or five-footer.  That’s a pretty exciting fishing experience!  The shark had no-where to go, we had no way of controlling our drag, and mostly I just remember slapping tails, white water and froth.  It ended when a companion “harpooned” the shark with a stick, it erupted into flight inspired by frenzied terror, and our mono parted. 

Snapper memories - from the web!

We returned to camp triumphant (we were bearing food, after all), but we had to endure some mild scolding for having damaged some line and losing some gear (especially the hook.)  I guess, as American college students, we didn’t appreciate the value of (or the difficulty in replacing) the hook, here in this setting.  That night, the fish were presented to us, roasted whole, and even though I’m not a huge fan of seafood, I recall them as being delicious.

In 2001 I participated in a work-inspired “Hobo Rig Hand-Line Tournament” on the Grand River in downtown Grand Rapids.  This was a month-long event with a co-worker, conducted on a daily basis based on availability during lunch breaks, weather, conditions, and the quality of the bite.  While I defeated my co-worker, E., 4  “Fish Captured” to 1, and I did capture and register a Michigan DNR Master Angler red-horse sucker (taken on a Mini Wheat!), I’d say that this experience is best summarized by the following contemporaneous account:

“While E. demonstrated the pioneering instinct of Ray Scott in bringing carp hand-lining tournaments to America’s Working Class, the debate will rage for some time as to whether Steve more closely emulates Woo Daves or Kevin Van Dam in his performance under pressure.”

(Note, Ray Scott founded BASS and made high-stakes bass tournaments a reality; Woo Daves had just won the most recent BASS Bassmaster’s Classic on Lake Michigan; and Kalamazoo native KVD might simply be the best bass fisherman, ever.)

Master (Hand-Lining) Angler!

I still get a kick out of my trophy from this event.  It was hand-made by a co-worker, and it still stands in my office.  Maybe part of my enjoyment is from the resemblance of the “hobo” atop my trophy with an actual co-worker of that time.

With all due respect - The Hobo Rig Hand-Line Tournament Championship Trophy!

I recall with pride our efforts to increase effectiveness by customizing our rigs with bottles of different shapes, diameters, smoothness and color; our debates as to the merits of mono vs. braid; drift fishing vs. bottom fishing; and even the introduction of floats and artificial lures into the mix.  I would also be remiss if I didn’t say I didn’t learn something about sight-fishing through these efforts.  Mostly, however, it just boiled down to pure fun, and that’s what fishing should be all about.

In Appreciation of Local Waters

In Appreciation of Reeds Lake and other local waters

Reeds Lake is Kent County, Michigan’s largest body of water, and I live just a few hundred yards away.  It’s got a beautiful public boat ramp, but the parking situation is typically horrendous.  It’s “The Jewel of East Grand Rapids”, but it’s still an urban lake; and it gets pounded!  From shore, from boats, through the ice, tournament bassing, catch and release, catch and keep; amidst the water skiers, wake boarders, pontooners, kayakers, and paddle boarders; it gets fished hard. 

And while I largely avoided the lake for many years based on launching logistics, crowds and aesthetics, in recent years I’ve grown to truly appreciate this lake.  If you pick your time wisely, launching and parking aren’t so bad; it’s quick and super convenient, being so close; it’s largely “weather-proof” in that it remains fishable except in the worst conditions (in which case it’s no big deal to just skip the trip or go home).  It provides multi-species opportunities over the course of the year, and sometimes I just like to capitalize on the “easy fishing” at hand.  Finally, it provides a “Safe Harbor” for sharing the fishing with others or for exploring new techniques. 

Spring panfishing means lots of action, even for kids!

But perhaps most importantly, Reeds keeps kicking out the fish, including quality fish.  In fact, it’s on a very short list of waters (for me) that have yielded both a 6-pound bass and a 10-pound pike.  Given the opportunity, I’ll fish all day for a chance at either of those fish, so I always feel like it’s worth the effort out there; I know that a very nice fish is always possible.  I like Reeds enough that I told a friend, whose dream it was to own a house on this lake, “You buy the house, and I’ll buy the boat.”  I’d gladly share a boat in exchange for quicker and easier access to the lake and its fishing.

Quality bassin...

...or quality pike.  Your choice!

I’m somewhat disappointed in myself for having reached these conclusions over such a long time period.  I missed out on a lot of launches and fish over the years by overlooking this lake.  I’m reminded of this when I reflect on my “personal discovery” of the Grand River this month for quality bass.  What have I missed over the years?

Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’m sure I’ve not experienced some situations that would have made fine memories.  Beyond that, I just have to remember that I was busy making those elsewhere, and so I’m willing to call it a draw.  A trip to Reeds may lack the glamour and excitement of a trip to Lake Michigan, a drowned river-mouth lake, or Northern Michigan’s big inland trout and smallmouth waters; but it sure is a lot easier, cheaper, and more likely to happen.  I simply have to remember to paraphrase Stephen Stills; “If you can’t fish on the lake you love… love the one you fish!”  I promise, I love Reeds Lake.

Not giant, but big enough; a beautiful top predator.

Out West

I’m no expert on the American West, but I have to say that my “Out West” experiences are way over-represented in my memories and stream-trout resume.

“Out West” here means Yellowstone, Glacier and western Montana, although the Black Hills (and a lot of South Dakota, actually) captured my interests.  As I approached the “real” west for the first time in 1989, I was compelled to stalk the first antelope I encountered, only to find them to be as common as cattle later on.  I tried to avoid this same enthusiastic mistake with elk and bison later on, but I couldn’t.  It was literally thrilling for this guy from Rhode Island to have finally found his way into the company of these animals, in a variety of such grand settings.

1989 was the year after Yellowstone burned.  There was also talk in the popular media of the day that Americans were in the process of loving their national parks to death.  My college education was still fresh in my mind in 1989, and the questions posed by Barry Lopez in “Of Wolves and Men” were still with me.  And so I approached Yellowstone with low expectations; between fire damage and crowds, I didn’t want to ask too much of the trip.  I did, however, set the single goal of catching, holding, and releasing a cutthroat trout.  So after provisioning in Cody, Wyoming, having picked up some flies and some tips on fishing the park, we made a bee-line of sorts to Yellowstone’s less-visited Northeast section.  We made camp on the banks of Pebble Creek, and I still had some light to work with; so why not go fishing?  Within my first couple of casts, my goal was complete, with a small but wild cutthroat in hand.  Little did I know how much more Yellowstone still had to give me that trip. 

First Ever Pebble Creek Cutthroat

For my liking, Pebble Creek was a little too small.   I loved its upper meadows, and I was surprised at the quality of the cutthroats once I got away from the campground.  I appreciated, too, the very fresh bear scat I encountered on the stream-side trail.  It was a reminder of my setting, as well as to make some noise!  But the stream itself was simply too small; it couldn’t hide its secrets.  So eventually I made my way to the Lamar River.  Here I enjoyed the room to back-cast and the open scenery; but this river was too big for me, even with summer’s low water flows.  I couldn’t safely see enough of it.  But between Pebble Creek and the Lamar runs Soda Butte Creek; I found this stream to be “just right.”

• Scenery; perfect.  
• Wildlife; plentiful.  
• Wadeability; couldn’t be better.  

In a couple of days, this stream pretty much ruined my interest in stream fishing for trout in Michigan, since if I properly executed a cast, I’d get bit.  The fish were all beautiful, and a few of them were bigger than necessary.   It was tremendously satisfying to get this much positive feedback from the fish (something I wasn’t quite used to), and I learned more about stream trout fishing in a week than I had previously in my entire life.

Yellowstone’s Grebe Lake offers a great day-hike experience and an alternative to stream fishing.  After a lengthy stroll through the woods, with generally flat terrain, the trail opens up to Grebe Lake, affording a great view of mountains in the background and meadows and swamp in the foreground.  Meanwhile, the lake contains grayling, rainbows, and (reportedly) cutts. 

I’m not above noticing an attractive woman, and in 1989 I was probably even more enthusiastic about such things.  As I fished the shore of this lake, I crossed paths with an “Orvised-out” damsel.  I continued to fish, perhaps occasionally thinking of this woman, but when I checked in with my wife (who preferred to relax the day away with a good book) a couple of hours later, she had a story.    Apparently Miss Orvis had crossed paths with Amy, too, and when she saw Amy reading, she announced “That’s what I used to do before I learned how to fly fish!”  Amy was kind enough to refrain from the only worthy response; “That’s what I used to do before I learned how to read!”

My actual Grebe Lake fishing had gotten off to a slow start, with just a few small rainbows and a beautiful grayling encountered.  But as the day progressed, I noticed an abundance of blue damselflies.  There was an increasingly fair amount of near-shore surface disturbance, too.  I found a small, silver and blue Kastmaster (made in RI!) in my limited tackle selection, and I have to believe that the trout were keying in on blue, because that lure was on fire.  Like a switch, the fishing became superb; and most casts were interrupted with chunky 12-14 inch rainbows.  The switch flicked “off” when I set the hook into yet another trout; only for it to go ballisticly airborne, giving me a perfect view of the 4-pound-class trout that was simultaneously breaking my line and stealing my only blue presentation. 

 

Next up on this trip was Lincoln, Montana and the Little Blackfoot River.  Here we enjoyed a few days of municipal camping (but it was still a quality experience, because nobody else was there!) and low-key fishing.  The river was wadeable with summer’s low water flow; and whitefish, cutts, brown trout, grayling and a single, bejeweled bull trout came to hand.  I especially recall a specific, wondrous, red-spotted brown trout I pulled from a log jam after carefully wading into the one spot from which his lie was accessible.  While only 14 inches or so, this trout looms large, both in my growth as a fisherman, but also in my collection of fond memories.   Meanwhile, a Laundromat and dirt-cheap but real western steaks for the grill made us temporarily wonder “Why don’t we live in Lincoln, Montana?”

We made our way up to Glacier National Park.  I knew the fishing probably wasn’t as good here, but the scenery would make up for it.  However, a weather pattern of dreary rain and closed-in foggy conditions settled in.  We backpacked all the way across the park without seeing much.  On the second night in, the weather was less miserable, and I was able to fish Lake Ellen Wilson.  Here I encountered some beautiful brookies.  These were old, eager fish with giant heads and lean bodies.  They didn’t seem to have enough to eat in their alpine lake.  How brookies ever got into that lake, I’ll never know.  But they were a wonderful complement to the lake’s surroundings, and I’m glad we met.  The next day, leaving Glacier to the east, I was stunned as we suddenly plopped out onto the prairie.  That different, mountainous world now existed only in my rear-view mirror.

   

A second trip to Yellowstone took place in 1991.  With a little more knowledge and experience, I had some definite ideas on where to spend my time.  I’d loved the park’s northeast section, and so back we went, but this time to Slough Creek.  This trip was more about the park’s back country, and Amy and I day-hiked way back to the stream’s upstream meadows.   The cutthroat fishing was too easy, but you shouldn’t snub 16+ inch wild trout in any way.  One particular highlight was the explosion of a giant cutthroat trout, in clear view, on one of my smaller fish.  I hastily free-lined my trout-as-bait and gave the predator time to eat.  When I came tight, I briefly felt the weight of my prize-to-be.  Unfortunately, the hook didn’t stick; I retrieved only a badly scaled, traumatized small trout.  While I was disappointed at the lost opportunity, I guess this is a better outcome than a gut-hooked patriarch.   And as fantastic as this fishing was, it was (amazingly enough) probably even better in the back-country stretches of Pelican Creek.    Finally, at the time, I was pleased to catch a Slough Creek “Cutt-bow,” a hybrid of rainbow and cutthroat trouts.  This fish was uniquely colored and fought a lot better than the typical cutthroat.   Little did I know that this fish was a vanguard of the unfortunate rainbow trout invasion of Slough Creek; rainbows have now reportedly completely replaced cutts in many sections of Slough Creek that I’ve fished.

 

Day-Hiking Slough Creek

My third and most recent trip “Out West” took place in 2008.  This trip was a little different; we took the train and our kids.   When I woke up in Grand Forks, North Dakota, I relocated to the Viewing Car, and I spent the next 18 hours watching Dakota and Montana roll by.  I was enthralled with each water body, animal, and geologic formation.  The optional, boxed chicken dinners from the stop at Havre, Montana weren’t really all that great, but I recall them with fondness.  Meanwhile, Amy, the kids and I spent a ton of time together, we had constant conversation topics at hand, we played a few mean games of Bananagram, and all in all, I can’t say enough good things about travelling on the train.

After a few days of grandeur in Glacier (including some unexpectedly good fishing for rainbows and brookies at Two Medicine Lake), we set off for Yellowstone.  Arriving near the North Entrance as daylight waned, tired and hungry, I fretted about where to stay.  But as subs were purchased and I gassed our rental truck, I noticed a sign across the street.  The sign was in “Federal Government” brown with white lettering, and with lots of relief, I saw that it pointed to an undeveloped federal lands camp site.  We set up camp before dark, surrounded by not too many neighbors and a herd of elk.  Unbelievable.

Next morning, we broke camp, entered Yellowstone’s North entrance, and made another “bee-line” to the Slough Creek Campground.  We still had to admire every new animal (it was the first time for the kids), but we were able to secure a camp-site for the next few days.  And while Slough Creek was running too high and too cold for good fishing, I did catch a beautiful rainbow (albeit in the wrong drainage system); and our campsite provided an excellent base of operations for our subsequent explorations.

Glacier's Two Medicine Lake yielded this finely camouflaged Rainbow Trout

Camping with Elk!

Yellowstone's North Entrance

A Pure Slough Creek Rainbow

One of those trips was to Grebe Lake.  While the fishing wasn’t fantastic, there was another damselfly hatch; and the rainbows were still there.  I’d go back, any day, for more and better chances at them.

I spent an evening and the next morning trying to catch a Yellowstone Lake Cutthroat.   A good chunk of the evening session was spent finding the right spot; I needed access, but I didn’t want crowds.  And the wind was howling (like it seems to every warm afternoon in Yellowstone), so I slowly whittled down the spots.  I finally settled on a western shore spot that involved a short hike, a muddy wade, and a walk down a long sandbar.  There was an Old Salt fishing, and I suspected he wouldn’t be there if he didn’t have information or experience.  His probable grandson gushed about the three fish caught so far.  The waves were churning up the lake, and visibility didn’t seem great; it was almost like surf fishing on Lake Michigan.  Not much good happened, but in the hour and a half I actually fished, I did have a solid swing-and-miss, and the wind was dying down.  Given Amy’s permission, how could I not be there for the following sunrise?  All it cost was sleep!

I was in position the next morning before first light, and as the sun awakened the day, I was stunned by my surroundings.  And when I let the Thomas spoon flutter just a little deeper than the previous cast, and I felt that “thump!” I was looking for, I was immensely pleased to be connected to a chunky, 18+ inch, bright silver Lake Yellowstone Cutthroat.  My picture does not do this fish justice; have I ever caught a more significant or beautiful fish in a grander setting?

Sunrise on Yellowstone Lake

Yellowstone Lake Cutthroat Trout

But please realize that this fish is in ecological danger from the introduction of Lake Trout.  I’d really rather not think this is the case, but it seems to be.  Hopefully some stable coexistence between the species will develop, but to date, the expansion of the lakers, and the inability of the cutts to tolerate the char, both seem to indicate an unfortunate end to this story.

Our trip concluded with a return to Glacier and a 3-day rafting trip down the North Fork of the Flathead River.  We were treated too well by our guides, the scenery was nice, and the trip was a ton of fun.  It wasn’t a fishing trip, but I’d brought a few rods, and I was allowed by the guide to fish whenever we were not floating.  I spent a good portion of the first day looking into the water.  While conditions were clear, I didn’t see many trout.  However, when we pulled the rafts to shore for the first night’s camp-site, I saw several sizeable fish scurry from the shallows.  They sure looked like trout (actually, they looked like char with light spots on a dark body), and I briefly allowed myself to think that they could have been bull trout. 

Before dinner, I fly fished.  I wasn’t expecting much, because I hadn’t seen much.  I also wasn’t feeling much, because I was wet-wading, and Glacier is aptly named (or at least was as of 2008.)  On about my third cast, before I’d found any rhythm at all, my drifted fly stopped; I struck and promptly broke off an athletic cutthroat of 16 inches or more.  Pleasantly surprised, I started to focus, and I caught several more cutts, but none as large as that first one.

My guide congratulated me for my casting abilities and self-guided skills.  I accepted these gladly.  On further thought, I probably should have questioned the value of these compliments, however, because this same guide later claimed to have been attacked by a mountain lion.

 

After an amazing dinner, I returned to the river, this time equipped with light spinning gear and my favorite trout lure, an S5 sinking Rapala with one hook removed and the other crimped barbless.  On my first cast, I was disgusted with myself for getting hung up, but then the bottom just barely moved; and I realized that I was hooked up to a nice fish.  It took awhile, and while the fight was unspectacular, it was dogged; but I was ultimately awed to be in the presence of a 4- or 5-pound bull trout. 

I caught another before I stumbled off to bed, seriously hypothermic.  I thawed off enough to get another the next morning.  Each was a treat, but none was as special as the first.

The next night, we camped near the confluence of a feeder stream.  I quickly caught a couple of nice cutts, but the next fish was another bull trout.  Farther downstream…bull trout.  Bull trout are a federally threatened species, and one can’t target them in Montana.  If you catch one, fine; let it go and proceed.  Just don’t target them.  Yet, about all I could catch…was bull trout!

I awoke the next morning, my last chance to fish for the trip, prepped with a fly rod.  I wanted to target the larger cutts I knew were available, and I love swinging streamers.  I hoped the cutts would like feathers more than the bulls had liked hardware.  First cast, first swing, first twitch; the streamer was pounced on by a nice bull in the 4-pound class.  It was quite a treat on my 5-weight, and it was released unharmed, like all the others.  Next cast; bull trout!  I moved downstream to the next hole and went 3-fish-for-3-casts with bulls from 15 to over 20 inches.  At this point, I had to ask myself; was I really fishing for cutts?  Or was I, empirically, fishing for bulls?  Without an answer, I simply stopped fishing and enjoyed the morning’s double rainbow.  It was possibly the best fly-fishing of my life; but I had to cut it short, because who’d have thunk that I was a Bull Trout Savant?  And I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a curse to be gifted with some taboo skill.  Here I am, over fours years later, and I haven’t touched the fly rod since.  I know there’s nothing comparable for me here.  I need to let that rod cool down a bit before I start anew.

Glacier's send-off included this Double Rainbow and 5 Bull Trout on the fly; in 5 Casts!

So I’ve enjoyed my time Out West and I suspect I’ll go again.  I’d love to spend some time out there “off season.”  I could swing some streamers for fall-spawning browns, or catch the Lewis River laker run.  I’d love to visit Yellowstone Lake’s Thoroughfare region, and if I were to visit, say Fernie, British Columbia, I could fish for bull trout legally.  There’s a lot left to be experienced.

I hope I’m able to do so, and I hope these opportunities are still there.  I've some doubts for the latter.  Just in the course of this essay, I’ve touched upon cutthroats threatened by rainbows and lakers; bull trout threatened by everything, but especially lakers and loss of habitat; and I haven’t even mentioned the loss of glaciers in their name-sake park.  Because those glaciers feed the streams that I was wet-wading.  It was clear to me that these waters were icy cold, even at the height of summer.  The bull trout need that water; the bull trout are the Numenon of these streams, just like the Yellowstone Cutthroat is for the Yellowstone watershed.  I’d hate for these streams to become simple, picturesque rainbow trout streams.  I’d hate for Yellowstone Lake to become a laker destination.  Nothing against rainbows or lakers (I certainly love them here in Michigan!), but won’t something have been irrevocably lost at that point?