Fly Fishing the Powder River

As I began my drive towards the Powder River I found myself peeking out the window to glimpse the scattered cloud cover above. With the forecast calling for chance thunderstorms and knowing eastern Oregon weather all too well, I was preparing myself for the likely scenario of being on the water when the storm hit. However, such thoughts were only speculation and I tried to enjoy the ride.

Pulling onto a stretch of BLM land my tires hit the dirt road, covered in rocks, and the dust begins kicking up well behind my bumper. Farley’s head is immediately brought to attention and he knows that wherever we’re headed it’s definitely going to involve some outdoor exploring. So I encourage him, prod him along, and before you know it he can barely keep his paws off the door handle; perhaps one of my most joyful sights.

Continuing down the road the sagebrush on either side of my truck begins to squeeze closer and closer and after driving through a cowboy gate (a mish-mash of barbed wire, old fence posts, and some locking mechanism, usually of chain and wood) I am faced with a steep downhill that will undoubtedly inflict some damage to my paint job. But I decided the drive is worth it and push on, sad to hear the scratching along my truck but knowing where the road will take me.

I, just like many others out there, have always taken great pride in caring for my vehicles over the years. I have washed them, vacuumed the insides, and avoiding any crazy driving, however, there comes a point when you don’t necessarily have to let go but, rather, accept that to do what you want to do and get to the places you often want to go, once in a while, the paint is going to take a hit. I mean, let’s be honest, hunting and fishing are not accomplished in urban centers or over manicured lawns; they are sought out in the forests, in the sagebrush, and along rivers that originate in the mountains and as such, often require some sacrifice to get to. So, while I still cringe at the thought of scratching my truck, I push forward, throw it into four wheel drive and start kicking up dirt.

When I finally arrive at the river the scenery is beautiful. The water level looks perfect and I can already begin to see the pockets and channels that will be the target of my fly. And with that thought already exciting me I begin to hear, before my feet can hit the ground, the sound that most drives me above all other sounds; it’s the “chuk, chuk, chuk” of chukar calling from high above. Calling down at me as if to laugh, knowing that I must still wait three months to chase them, but soon I will be after them…very soon indeed.

With my hip waders on I assemble my rod and pull out my new reel. It looks great and even with a little chaos that ensued the night before (attaching the line, leader, and tippet) I was nearly ready to go. Now, the only thing standing in my way was a little side canal but carrying the dog I am quickly across and ready to fish.

Farley, practically encompassed by the thick shoreline vegetation, stands and watches as I wade into the river. The skies are now splashed with summer blue and down deep in the canyon I feel altogether small in such an immense landscape. But despite my momentary infatuation I looked down to begin assessing the river and try to stay on my feet. Although the river was only knee high in most places the bottom was thick with underwater algae and made for some rather slippery foot holds. However, I pushed on and finally got to a place where I could send out my first cast. “Here we go”, I thought.

It didn’t take long before my thoughts of a smooth and glorious day of fishing out on the river were turned on their head. After only a few casts I found my line tangled at the end of my rod and before I could figure out what was going on the winds picked up and all was lost. “Here we go alright”, time to hone and sharpen my knot untying skills...ugh. It was almost comical, what a goof.

So, with no other choice I began to seek out the problem spot, moving line around, trying to get a hold of the right end, and all the while trying to keep my reel from smacking on the ground and the end of my rod from catching in the water. I began to laugh at the sight of myself, I mean, honestly, I hope no one is filming this right now. To see this sight you would think I could barely tie my own shoelaces. But I was not about to let some tiny line define my day out. So, as is customary when faced with an unsolvable knot, I cut it off and began anew; the prospect of which had me a little nervous. But I was determined to learn something on this day that was directly related to fly fishing, not untying knots; I can do that any time I want.

So, using the knowledge of knots I had tried to gain from YouTube videos and the book James gave me I put it all back together in not an embarrassing amount of time and was soon back to fishing. I walked up and down the river, slipping here and there, but mainly focused on finding fish. Side channels and backwaters were all about and traversing the river bottom I soon found myself on the other side fishing in some little holes. Then, looking back I realized why I love my little brown dog so much. Not concerned with where I was going he simply sat on the far shoreline, basking in the sunlight, almost as if to say, “It’s okay, I can still see you”, and so went the afternoon; the little dog seemingly content with any situation and simply happy to have the sun on his back.

Working on my motion and technique I was forced to compete with the winds on more than one occasion. With gust upwards of 20 mph every ten minutes or so, I tried to fit my casting in between the waves. Watching my arm angle, taking my time, and trying to place the fly where I wanted it to go. I would say the overall display was suitable but I found myself again laughing with the thought that were James with me today he would have undoubtedly already caught a dozen fish or so, been weaving his way up river, and looking like the Brad Pitt in “A River Runs Through It”. But I had to keep working and with every change of my fly I could see myself getting faster and better at putting them on. The day was going accordingly to plan, at least somewhat.

It wasn’t long after this realization that I had what would be the excitement of the day when my first fish of the season grabbed hold of my fly and began to run with it. As I sit here on my couch I’ve concocted an elaborate story in my head of the struggle and mental fatigue that went into the battle. However, in the end it would only be a childhood exaggeration when in reality, the fish was no bigger than my hand, and the only struggle was me trying to figure out what I should do with the obvious excess of line I had out. But the fish cut me a break, stayed on the line, and after some rather awkward bending I reached down to pull the fish from the water. It appears that it was not only to my joy but to Farley’s as well as I could see him practically jumping in the river to get over to me. As such, the season’s first success was had and while the fish was most certainly caught with more luck than skill I was happy to have him under my belt and to have a story to take home with me.

The day would push on and I would find myself getting a feel for the rod and reel and working on my knots plenty. I would work on finding the right fishing holes, on manipulating the line, and trying to find my motion. Farley would decide at one point that he had had enough of this watching business and to my utter surprise, as he has never been known to enjoy water, he began walking out into the river, swimming at times, just to come over and check out the action. I do believe there are few times in my life when I have worn a bigger smile on my face. The day was beautiful, my dog was swimming, and I was fishing; not too bad if I had to say.

In the end I would find myself snagged in some twigs under the water and with a snap of my tippet I decided to resign for the day. I headed back across to the river side I had came and after listening to the chukar call once more I slowly packed up my gear and loaded everything up. As I drove out of the canyon I felt very good about my progress and am now more determined than ever to continue on this path. With some more days like this I suppose both Farley and I will be in our way in no time.

 

Let the Fishing Begin

Growing up I have vivid memories of my earliest fishing days. Some associated with my grandfather and others with my best friend of the time, Miguel. Both had their own variety of adventure and I cannot remember a single day where I wasn’t smiling and didn’t fully enjoy myself. Fishing it seems, is practically a universal childhood activity, requiring only a rod, bait, and a willingness to push through some rather tangled thickets.

My grandfather, an old Italian with the kind of knowledge that can only be acquired through a diverse and long life, has been many things for me, but above all, I always considered him a fisherman. There is nothing he seems to enjoy more than being out on the water and when it comes to fishing, it would appear there are very few things he doesn’t know how to do.

One of my earliest memories is being out on his boat, off the coast of Connecticut, watching him filet a flounder on his wooden cutting board with a worn down white handled knife. I remember thinking how incredible it was and what a passion he had for it. Looking back I can only assume that he got just as much joy out of watching my excitement as did I from watching him.

With my friend Miguel our fishing trips were never more than a quick drive out to one of our local reservoirs, stopping by the side of the road and running down to the water. Of course where grew up fishing on a reservoir, not exactly considered a hot spot, meant that more often than not we had the entirety of the water to ourselves; to this day I’ll never complain about that. And while we did catch many small fish I do remember Miguel, on a cool afternoon, caught the biggest fish the two of us had ever seen. To this day I cannot remember how big it actually was but as is typical for childhood stories, the size of the fish is now legendary and more than likely twice as big as it really was. But who cares, that’s what makes your childhood fun and what brings us together when we meet up many years down the road. Those were the days.

Where I find myself today is trying to tap back into those fishing roots. For years I have neglected to get out with friends or relatives and now, living here in Oregon, I can’t find any excuse not to get back at it. There are rivers and streams painted across the landscape and plenty of fish running their waters. It’s about time that I begin putting in the time once again and James, a fly fisherman at heart, has inspired me to do just that.

A man of many talents I had no idea that James had such a drive for fly fishing until the spring of last year. When brought up in conversation his description of casting a line out and the thrill it gave him was almost poetic. He obviously had a passion and it would appear that any chance he has to get out is taken without question. And so we began to talk more and more about what was involved; James eventually loaning me a book and some verbal advice. I would end up buying a road and reel that year and head out into the woods in search of water and fish.

The beginning was rough going to say the least. Within the season I had cracked my rod in half and my reel had lost a spring and was basically useless; I’m not sure my grandfather would be too impressed. But this year I am back for more, buying a new rod at the end of last year and purchasing a reel online this week. I am pushing to try even harder this season to get out and practice; work on my technique and refine my motions. However, I have to admit, some things are coming easier than others.

Without question, making time to get up in the woods is the easiest part of this whole deal. The motivation to be out and about has always driven me. But there are other aspects of fly fishing that are more difficult. Growing up I spent most of my days “Bubba” fishing as many like to call it. It was not the most refined of activities but it was fun and there was hardly a day that we didn’t head back home with some fish. The process was simple, more enjoying your surroundings and waiting for something to tug on your line than anything. Which brings us to fly fishing, a type of fishing requiring a great deal more concentration, attention to detail, and patience, all of which I believe I possess, but to a varying degree.

Above all I believe my biggest trouble comes with knots. Not actually knowing the steps to tie the knots, but physically tying them. Tiny line (and I must make sure not to call it string, as I found out quickly one time, is not at all acceptable vernacular), tiny knots, and big clumsy fingers are not really the best combination. I’ve tried at home, in the truck, and on the water, all attempts met with failure. And then there is casting, in small spaces, along small streams, in small pockets of water; I’m starting to wonder if a guy like me was meant for such a refined world. But I am not deterred, not put off, just determined to keep working, keep pushing, and hope that I can figure it out. I know that I have great attention to detail and in the end, I am sure that this activity and I are compatible.

For now, I wait for my reel to come in and then, with some free time on my hands over the next few weeks I will hit the rivers and continue to practice. I will practice my knots, my casting, work on reading the river, and ask James endless questions.

Last year I would call my fishing trips more misadventures than anything else. Hopefully, with a little more time on the water and a little more knowledge, I can actually go fishing this year.

A Youth Movement

It has been just over two years since I heard a speech at a local National Wildlife Refuge that included a quote of the most telling kind. The speech was an original but the quote was taken from a book portraying the story of America’s youth. It talked about where our children stand today, how they interact with the world and what the value. The excerpt, pulled from a conversation between a mother and child was simply this:

Walking into her children’s room a mother looked down and said to the boys there, “Why don’t you all go outside and play?” One of the boys quickly replied, “Why would we want to go outside? There aren’t any outlets out there.”

Hearing this I was quite saddened because it was at that exact moment that I found myself and many others standing at the edge of a beautiful lake, the sun shining down, and waterfowl as far as the eye could see. How could anyone not want to be outside? Who wouldn’t want to enjoy all that this world has to offer? With fresh air, blue skies, and all their benefits, it is practically inconceivable to believe anyone could say such a thing. But the next day, it did get me to thinking about today’s youth.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not here to go off on some political or societal lecture, but it did force me to wonder why one might say something to that effect. It began me on the road to ask why are youth are more inclined to say yes to video games than to a hike through the mountains. Perhaps, in the end I decided, it wasn’t a question that I should be asking them, but rather a question that I should be answering for them…”Where do I start?”

In the early part of the twentieth century the United States saw a revolution. Bridges were being built, cities were getting taller, and there was opportunity in business, away from the hardships of the agricultural world. And so the story went, our cities grew, our population exploded, and now we currently have cities with millions of people living together. Suburbs are filled with homes and neighborhoods that house many good people but unfortunately, those same people have been disconnected from nature; their few encounters each year being a trip to a National Park, driving along a road, taking pictures out their windows. So what about a young boy or girl, a product of this day and age, wanting to get more involved? What if they are searching for an outlet, yet don’t have anywhere to go, anyone to turn to? Where do they start?

When I started college in northern New England I began to meet many people that had grown up in an entirely different world to me. People who had a whole different perspective on what it meant to be outdoors and much of that perspective I came to find, was associated with hunting. So, as I got to know these people, I was introduced into their world and having never given hunting much thought up until that point in my life, I quickly found myself wanting to know more. These men and women seemed so foreign to me; I wanted to speak their language.

Alas, years would go by and while I would be enveloped in a world I had always wanted, one that led me on adventures through picturesque landscapes and encounters with wildlife of all sorts, I never ventured into the world of hunting. I suppose I was looking for someone to guide me, to show me the way, which I believe is what many young kids are looking for today. They are looking for a teacher, someone to introduce them to this world. However, the one thing that I never considered back then, and which only recently was shown to me was simply, to teach myself.

Moving to Oregon I had never hunted a day in my life. I did not own a gun and even with all my progress towards becoming an outdoorsman, I still had many miles to go. But I did have the will, the desire to pursue something more. For James, his father’s books on bow hunting and old shotguns were a guide for him, as living in New Hampshire was for me. Those were the objects and places that planted the seeds for future exploration and when James finally decided to put his mind to it, he did something that few of us are rarely willing to try; he taught himself.

There is no doubt that I have had James to help me figure this world out. He has showed me many things that I would have never thought to try and places I never would have imagined I’d go. But more importantly, he instilled in me the idea that even without guidance I could delve into the world of hunting just the same. I remember early on when I met him he told me a story about the first elk he ever field dressed. A guy who had never taken a knife to such an animal but who, with the aid of printed directions and pictures, cleaned his animal in the middle of the woods. Even now I have this comical picture of the winds blowing papers around and bloody fingerprints speckled about their edges. It was the attitude that the only thing preventing him from doing it was him; that with a little bit of knowledge and common sense one could find himself anywhere, doing anything, at least remotely well.

As I have evolved as a hunter I have tried to maintain that same attitude; that there is no one stopping me but me. And sometimes it is when you are out by yourself, through trial and error, that you learn more than you ever could with somebody else. Sure, someone else can tell you how something is done or even show you, but when you’re sitting in the woods, all alone you are forced to think that much harder, to push yourself to notice the small details that can ultimately make the difference. It is when we learn on our own that we truly change and challenge ourselves.

For me, it has been a combination of learning on my own and having others there to help me along the way. From our friend Mike teaching me how to clean a bird to James teaching me how to read the landscape, the collective has put me where I am today. For those experiences, on my own and with others, I can honestly say I am eternally grateful.

However, the real point I wish to emphasize here is that while it is great to have someone guide you along the way, our youth cannot be afraid to get out and try things on their own. It’s a big world out there and if there is anything we can believe in this country it’s that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Your life of hunting doesn’t need to start off with some six day adventure to the wilds of Montana; it can start right at home, flipping through the pages of a magazine or a book. Reading is exciting and when you find the right subject matter, the stories read and knowledge gained are more real than anything you could ever find within the screen of a television. Through this knowledge you can begin to enter this foreign world, speak their language. And if there is any will at all to hunt, don’t think you can’t because there is no one there to teach you. Make it happen for yourself.

While I sat there at the Wildlife Refuge, listening to that speech, I wished only that I could show everyone this world. Hopefully through this blog we can convince others to strike out on their own. I’ve been blessed to live in many places, meet many great people, and explore many cultures. As I sit here tonight the hunting culture is one I've found myself drawn to. From here on out I have made a promise to myself to keep exploring, to keep seeking out new opportunities. Along with James we are, as is plainly out for all see here, a couple of east coast boys learning to hunt out west; really learning to hunt because, when all is said and done, this is something we will never master but pursue with fervor and learn from everyday.

I hope that if there are any youths out there looking for adventure, looking for a test, they will challenge themselves to get outdoors and try something new. A high score on a video game or catching the latest episode of your favorite television show will never compare to the feeling you have on your first successful hunt. A man or women, lying on their deathbed, could die happy with those kinds of memories.

A Storm Approaches

Perhaps there has never been a greater equalizer than Mother Earth herself. She has the ability to provide you with some of the most glorious hunting days you could possibly ask and then, in a flash, take them away. Looking forward we are painfully aware that no matter how effective our modern day clothing and gear is the continuous pounding of bad weather can make even the most dedicated of hunters question themselves, their dedication. Tonight, walking around my small town I was reminded of one of her most refreshing and demoralizing tricks…the rain storm.

With a turn of my doorknob I am instantly tossed into here dark world. As I gaze up to the heavens I can only see the gray clouds rolling in over the mountains and there is little doubt as to what is coming. Her soft rumblings can be heard in the distance and you quietly pray to yourself that the lightning stays far off, beyond the horizon.

The raindrops are heavy, falling by the millions. What once started as a spring shower is now a spring storm. The tire marks down my grass driveway are hidden beneath deep puddles and the dirt that was blowing with the slightest wind yesterday is now a caked, greasy mud.

Farley is quickly off to explore his new world and it only takes a few minutes before he is well soaked through. My oiled slicked jacket does its best to fight of the onslaught of water as I walk down the street. Without gloves I can feel my hands already loosing heat. I glance up to see the raindrops are now collecting on my hat and drip, drip, drip, they fall off the sides.

The gutters around the local mercantile are rushing with water to the point of overflowing, dumping into the streets. Puddles form and collect water at every turn and you quickly realize the boots you’ve worn may not stand up to the test. Looking around, clouds weave in and out around the town giving only passing glances of the mountains to the west before closing in again. The streets are empty and everyone has returned to their homes to weather the storm. Nobody likes to be wet.

For hunters, it is no different. There are endless elements to overcome but the two that are possibly the hardest to deal with are wind and rain, the former being worthy of post unto itself. Hunters can overcome incredible odds, brave through endless days and nights in the wilderness and be in peak physical condition, but rain has a way of putting all that to an abrupt halt.

As the moisture penetrates your every layer and your boots and gloves begin to give way you can feel the moment coming; the moment when you stop avoiding the rain by ducking under trees as you move through the woods and just accept your fate. Your gun is also fully soaked and your grumble a little knowing you will have to take it completely apart when you get home.

And then there is the matter of wildlife and, just like us, they choose to remain as dry as possible, as often as possible. While I am quite sure there isn’t a deer or elk in the woods that can read they no doubt have an intimate knowledge of just how quickly rain can make life incredibly difficult. In this weather they make their way to the thickest timber and brush groves to wait out the dark skies.

Perhaps there are days when a light rain coming down is nothing to stop anyone with an ounce of dedication but heavy rains, will drive almost anyone home or back to camp. As such, we wait for the good days; the days when the sun returns or the clouds at least hold their moisture. However, any hunter worth their salt has more than likely been out on one of these rainy days and to those of you that have gotten completely soaked, head to toe, we tip out hat. It’s making it through those days that makes the good days, all the better.