WestCentralFisher

The new fly rod came in the mail, and naturally I had to test it out on the little creek just down the road. Not a serious fish catching operation, but I tried out some grayling dry flies I bought at the same time for the Alaska trip, practiced my mending a little, and caught this little guy who is almost as pretty as the target species of the fly pattern.

I mean, it's not as if I threw my spinning rods in the trash or dropped them off at the goodwill when I got home. Even when I was very into fly fishing and did it a lot, I was never a purist. In certain prescribed situations it just feels right; small stream trout, catching bluegill and little bass with poppers at sundown on a farm pond. I don't ever remember having it be my primary method of smallmouth bass fishing, though I did use it sometimes, and it occasionally went well. I also never hesitated to ditch the fly rod at record speed if I was on a lake where fish were holding deep, or it was too muddy, or there were big catfish. When I go trolling for silver salmon in Prince William Sound, I have zero intentions of inquiring about a fly rod. All things have their place. I think the proper way to look at it is that it's all additive. There are days like that one where all I want in the world is little wild rainbows on a dainty fly rod. On another I might wake up and want to chuck a huge crankbait a few miles down the same river for smallmouth bass or maybe to try to find the odd giant rainbow that may or may not be there. It's all good and I figure if one takes away from the other that's an unforced error.

Thanks! I had it pointed forward when it broke...always had been taught to carry it the other way around. Just got careless.

Somewhere around a week ago, something dangerous happened. After a morning of catching and carefully releasing what felt like more wild rainbow trout than I deserved on spinners, I picked up a fly rod. I always keep the little 3-weight in the car, but of late it has gotten little use. While I've dabbled with it occasionally, it's been years since I've been what I'd call a proficient fly fisherman. First, I drifted away from fishing entirely for a few years, and unthinkable symptom of misplaced priorities. Then, when I got back into it in a serious way a few years ago, I reasoned that my free time was too scant and too precious to waste on relearning fly fishing. Spin-fishing isn't exactly easy, but it doesn't require too much reintroduction to reach basic competence. And it's been great. I followed the usual progression. The first few trips back, I dunked worms or Powerbait. Even that wasn't always easy at first, but eventually it became too easy. Then came the boxes of spinners, little crankbaits, and jigs. I have had some great times with those, and caught more trout and smallmouth bass and had more associated adventures than I ever expected when I got back into this. And yet, that little 3-weight beckoned. So I got it out. I reasoned that I'd already caught a good number of fish, including one about as large as I'm likely to catch here, so what does it matter if this is a struggle? And then there is the planned Alaska trip and the little grayling I'd love to fly fish for. A little practice now would be wise. But of course more than anything, it just sounded like fun. I wasn't prepared to fly-fish. I had no leaders, tippet, or strike indicators. I did have a small fly box stowed away with a few #16 Hare's Ear Nymphs, along with some other patterns more suited to bluegill and bass. I used bits of line from the medium action, light action, and ultra-light I had stowed away to build a surprisingly acceptable leader. A guy who looked like he stepped out of the Orvis catalog was sharing the parking lot with me, and observed me building a fly leader using line from 3 different spinning set ups. He looked at me like I had just lobbed a wicked insult at his puppy. I'll recognize it's non-standard, but I worked with the materials available and found a solution. And it did work, well enough, anyway. The lack of strike indicators proved more problematic than anything, but I made do. I quickly remembered that if you watch the fly line carefully enough, it can be an indicator of sorts. Though the number of times I lifted the line up for another cast and it came up unexpectedly tight communicated the number of strikes I was likely missing. In the end, I set the hook on 6 or 7 wild rainbows, and landed two, both parr-marked 7 or 8 inchers. There was one clean break-off that felt like a really nice fish. The rest of the lost fish were the result of rust and trying to remember how all this worked. But the two I caught were enough. It was clear I'd started back up with something that will now be difficult to stop. Even breaking my rod tip on the way back to the car didn't make a dent, though it did remind me how to properly carry a fly rod through the brush. It's replacement is in the mail already.

I think a lot of people really underestimate the effects of extreme altitude and how insane of an undertaking these extremely high peaks are. I am not particularly predisposed to altitude sickness, but even 14ers and high 13ers in Colorado take a toll. For reference, two of the more serious mountaineering types I know attempted Aconcagua, the tallest peak in the Western Hemisphere, but still far lower and less technical than any of the significant Himalayan peaks. They had done most of the more challenging 14ers and saw this as the next step. It was not what they expected. By the time they made the challenging trek to base camp just above 14,000 feet, they were already on the ropes, and their attempt ended when they turned around before reaching the next camp at 16,000 feet. It turned into a borderline survival situation by the end, and they were both sick for weeks upon returning. They both relayed that there is an inflection point somewhere between 14 and 15,000 feet where even the most basic tasks become vastly more challenging. Now, they'd both admit they didn't acclimate anywhere near long enough, and unlike trips on the high Himalayan peaks it is not standard to supplement oxygen there. But the magnitude of taking on anything in the 20,000+ range is pretty much unimaginable in that context.

Had a wonderful day on the river yesterday. Fished at an access a ways above Bennett, right near the confluence, and a number of miles below. I did reasonably well everywhere. Rainbows were fairly easy to come by everywhere except above the spring branch. Also got a couple small browns, a few smallmouth, and a whole bunch of very fat goggle eye. River was up and dark green to tan but far from muddy/blown out. I waded a good distance at each access, not because it was necessary but just to see as much river as possible. Some places that had been real slow much of the last year fished well. Good to see. I mostly used a little ~2" white soft plastic swimbait bounced on the bottom. Worked well for all species and elicited vicious reaction strikes from the stocker rainbows especially. A new technique I stumbled on out of curiosity. A tiny Panther Martin spinner was also effective, especially for the little browns. Just overall a real good day. Never non-stop action, but never too slow either.

That's an incredible river and looks like you had a great trip. There are better places to catch fish in Missouri, but dang few that are wilder and prettier. I have largely switched to single barbless hooks on my trout spinners, and it's about 50/50 for my own safety and that of the fish. Those tiny treble hooks are a menace. On a float on the Niangua last summer I had to do some fairly major league self-surgery after removing a Panther Martin from a trout directly into my finger. Resulted in a nasty infection, and soon after that I started switching away from the treble hooks lol

I've never been assaulted by a turkey, but 20 or so years ago when I was a kid, I did once kill a deer in what I'd have to describe as self defense. My dad and I were deer hunting together, each sitting at the base of trees a few hundred yards apart. It was a warm, comfortable day, and nothing was happening, so at some point in late morning I allowed myself a little nap. It abruptly ended when I heard a loud bang. Good deal, I thought. My Dad shot a deer, meaning we'd have venison later and most likely a good celebratory dinner in town today if we handled the post-hunt business quickly enough. Except, I looked up, and the deer (a large doe) was very much alive, and in fact, running directly toward me at alarming speed. To say it was charging me would imply intent that almost surely wasn't there, but it was hauling butt, and I was directly in front of it. I managed to raise my rifle and shoot it at a distance of somewhere between 8 and 9 feet. There is almost no question in its blind fear it was about to run right into me. I have zero idea how exactly that would have played out, but I imagine it would have hurt.

Yeah, I mean all of this is completely subjective. But I get more satisfaction from catching a fish that has been a stream resident for at least awhile than a fresh from the truck hatchery fish. And a little more satisfaction yet if the fish is stream-born. To wit, last week, I fished the whole continuum, ranging from fresh stockers at Montauk to resident stocked trout in the upper Current and stream born rainbows, well, somewhere else. They all fought well and were fun to catch, but the resident fish on the Current felt like they fought little harder. That part might have been in my head, but the stream-born fish in the other creek definitely jumped a lot more, and I also think they fought a lot harder. And the feeling of satisfaction I got when I caught them was much greater. That might be silly, but that's how it is. Now, one could take this to a logical extreme, and say there is no objective difference between those stockers at Montauk and anything short of a native trout in its original watershed. But I guess I don't care to live in a world where I can't view the cutthroat I caught in a mountain stream (or even those stream-born Missouri rainbows) as special, because they're the wrong strain in the wrong watershed, or hell, the wrong state. It's possible to set your definition of "good enough" so high it's impossible to be happy, and that's a bad business. All I really know is the longer they've been in the stream, the more I like catching them, and I'd rather be fishing for any of them, even a neon-yellow monstrosity, than sitting here typing this.

Yeah, technically speaking, the two biggest trout I've ever caught were almost certainly brood stock fish, on on the catch and release creek at Montauk (likely), and one from a winter pond (certainly). But I struggle to fully count either one. I still consider the 22" brown I caught on the Niangua several miles below the designated trout water to be the largest trout I've ever caught, even though it was a full two inches shorter than the two aforementioned fish. A stocked fish still to be sure, but after likely 12 inches and several years of growth. The difference in how it fought from the brood stock fish was night and day.

Very impressive catch. But yeah, I guess I just don't fully get the golden rainbow thing. They look like what I'd expect trout to mutate into after the nuclear apocalypse. Now actual golden trout on the other hand...

The primary purpose of this week's trip was to fish the trout factory that is the upper Current River. And we did, to great effect. My dad's leg is mending from an ever-lengthening string of surgeries, so we sat at the social hole in Montauk and caught what he'd so poetically call snot rockets on Powerbait. He's a fly fisherman, and an excellent one, so this was a ding to his pride, but it beats the hell out of not fishing. We then went down to the "real river" as he calls it at Baptist Camp, and we did get to catch fish on a fly rod, albeit from lawn chairs. The pool right at the access usually looks good but comes up blank, but in high and dark green water it gave up its secrets more readily. I would like to say the river saw our situation and threw us a bone, but rivers in my experience tend to be pretty apathetic to our day to day concerns. He's a tough guy and he'll surely bounce back, but it's tough to see him like that. So when we parted ways, I needed a little more time before returning home and checking emails and doing the dishes. So I stopped by my favorite little wild trout creek. Well, it's usually little. At twice its normal flow, it was running dark green in the riffles and tan in the deep holes, and you'd stand a fair chance at getting a jon-boat down it without incident. I immediately knew the fishing would be good. These are the conditions you always hope for, but dare not expect. The first fish was the regulation 6 incher at the head of the first good pool I came to, a beautiful, obnoxiously colorful fish that lept twice but was ultimately limited in the fight it could put up even against ultralight tackle. A few casts later and in the deepest part of the pool, the line stopped. It was a feeling that is so similar to snagging the bottom that it almost feels the same, but is just noticeably more alive. Soon, a fat 16 or 17 inch rainbow was leaping in the air, before submarining back down and doing its best impression of a smallmouth bass, trying to wrap me around a log. This was a borderline trophy on this creek, and things were quickly getting hectic. Naturally, I noticed that the one other guy within a half mile was up on the far bank, watching the whole thing. But somehow, I didn't bugger it up. There was drama at the net, with a flubbed attempt that will so often knock the hook out, but this time didn't. After I finally netted him, the little barbless single hook I'd put on my Panther Martin fell out. I admired him for a brief, happy moment, then flipped the net over and let him swim away. It was the largest fish I've ever caught on this little creek, and a memory that won't fade for a good while. I was just feeling like everything was going to be alright when the guy on the far bank, seeing the fish swim out of the net yelled out "oh no, you lost him before you could get him on the stringer!" I don't know if he was serious or poking fun, but either way it snapped me back to reality, and I took it as a sign that the trip was at its natural conclusion.

Sometimes pictures are better than words. Love this river.

A rather forbidding looking Mark Twain Lake, the morning after a storm. Met my brother for an attempt at his maiden voyage on the used Boston Whaler he recently purchased. The motor never quite got around to turning over, but I got to see a new place and spend a day outside, which is always worth doing

I have never officially participated in the slam, but I think I am just missing the North Fork of the White, which I have somehow still not fished. My advice for the smaller creeks is timing is everything. Go when the water is up but not blown out. The places you will have sworn are empty in dead low water suddenly tend to come alive. Not as important for the larger creeks and rivers. And just float the Eleven Point. It's possible to catch them wading, but that river can only be experienced really in some form of a boat. I see so many people complaining that they couldn't catch any under the 19 Bridge and therefore don't see the appeal of the river. I'm a bank and wade fisherman at heart, but that's just not the right way to fish that one.