summertime, and the livin's easy

It must be full-on mid-summertime, daytime highs have been over 90 degrees for almost all month, bugs all over the windshield...  I ain't bitchin' though, I'll be shoveling snow before I know it.  For now I'll kick back, enjoy the heat and the long days.

Fuck yeah.

Another sure sign of mid-summer, foam hoppers on the visor.  I know what you're thinking "Really dude?  Really?  Flies on the visor?  Don't be that guy!".  Trust me, the extent of douchery this tactic exudes is not lost on me.  It's just sooo damn easy and handy!  Get back to the rig well past dark after an evening of fishing, you're tired and probably have to work the next day, whaddya do?  Clip the fly and stick it to your visor, voila! Plus if you forget your shit the next time out, and by shit I mean your fanny waist pack and your fuckin lanyard (I don't think I can pull it off so I'm not on the lanyard bandwagon.....yet.  So for now, on certain people, in certain circumstances, I'm calling the lanyard a douchy move.... refer to next paragraph)

So the lesson learned here is (pay attention Brooks Jessen) even though people may do douchy things (i.e. the flies on the visor) doesn't necessarily mean they're douchebags.  On the other hand, someone can just be a douchebag and not necessarily do douchy things - You keeping up?  Wait, maybe I'm not even keeping up.

Actually, (and most of those that know me personally will attest to this), I'm a nice-as-fuck guy, and only refer to people (mostly some of my friends) as douchebags, out of pure love. 

Well..... fuck it.  Enjoy the rest of the summer.

Stealth Mission

Every year I look forward to the summer full moons.  It's become somewhat of a tradition for me to hit my home waters late in the evening of a full moon.  I usually get on the water an hour before sunset or so, the magic hour when the sun is off the water and the bugs are popping.  I start off with a small dry, maybe a purple haze or an x-caddis.  I work my way upstream throwing to risers, my anticipation level rising in direct correlation to the sun setting.  Soon after the sun sets, the full moon climbs over the mountains........

I'm not necessarily out there fishing after dark to become a bona fide night fisherman, from what limited knowledge I have it seems that they typically wait for the dark of a full moon, many of them throw mouse imitations in hopes of very few but very large fish.  I'm there as much to enjoy even more solitude than usual, and to immerse myself in the river and bond with the fish in a different level as I am to catch more or larger fish.  I typically continue to throw dries as long as fish are actively feeding on the surface.  As corny as it sounds, something changes after dark, my senses heighten.  My vision becomes crisper, my hearing sharpens, etc.  Another transformation also takes place.....the feeling I have that the rod, line, leader, tippet and fly are an extension of my hand and arm increases along with my senses.  I lay out a cast and even though I may catch a fleeting glimpse of the white parachute of my #16 purple haze, it's quickly out of sight.  I instinctively move my gaze downstream as though I can still see the fly.  When my timing is really good, I lay out a cast in cadence with the rising fish, I track the drift without seeing my fly, and everything comes together and the fish rises on cue.  I lift the rod and feel the familiar heft of a fish.  It truly is a zen-like experience.

Once the surface activity begins to die down (which in my experience and in my neck of the woods usually happens to be somewhere between 10:45 and 11:15) I switch to an unweighted muddler minnow, one of my go-to flies, especially for evenings and after dark.  This particular night I go with a #4.  I begin working my way back down to a favorite run.  Two casts in with the muddler and I'm tight to a scrappy 14" brown.  Halfway to the run and a dozen casts later I have another brown to hand, this one in the 17" range, a respectable fish on any Montana river and especially on my rather small home river.  As I approach the top of the run I want to end up on, I miss what seems to be a rather small fish.  Typical.  (One thing that I've grown accustomed to whilst fishing a muddler is a fair number of fish, especially smaller fish, short-stroking my fly as the swing apexes, or after I've begun to strip the fly back upstream).  I methodically work down the run-nothing.  I move back up to the middle of the run and mix things up-stripping speed, casting angle etc.  After a good ten minutes of working the run over I lay a cast downstream at approximately a 45 degree angle and almost immediately as the fly begins to swing i feel the tug of a good fish.  I set the hook with a downstream sweep when all of a sudden the world erupts.  Before I know it the fish is in the middle of it's third jump, easily clearing the water each time by three or four feet.  After a few strong runs I have the broad shouldered rainbow to hand.  It stretches just beyond the 21" mark that was hastily made on my rod with  hemostats a couple of years ago (another story).  I snap a couple of quick pictures without completely removing him from the water, after all it's late July and the water temps are hovering in the mid 60's even at 11 pm.

I look at my phone and it is only 11:10.  I have brought a total of 7 fish to hand and farmed a few others, a decent night in anyone's book.  After a moment of reflection, I decide to clip my fly and head back to my rig.  Every so often there are obvious signs that it's time to call it a night......

I might fish a night or two on either side of the full moon but it's not quite the same, enjoyable regardless though.  One thing is for certain, even though my home river is not crowded by most people's standards, I'm beginning to run into quite a few more people lately.  It probably sounds ridiculous, but even if I can just see someone else while I'm fishing, they're too close!   Luckily I've yet to run into anyone else after the magical time-after the sun sets but the west sky is still pink and the full moon ascends in the east.

Another summer full moon stealth mission accomplished!

Hiatus

So I've been on an unannounced, self-imposed and indefinite hiatus.  To both of you that enjoy read my blog, I apologize.  Rest assured I plan to continue writing, albeit at my own leisure.  I didn't want my blog to turn into one of those blogs that posted every week for the sake of posting.  You know, posted every week on a Wednesday in the afternoon, since statistics show that is the prime time to create a new post so it is most likely to be read, or some bullshit like that.  Regardless, I didn't want my blog to turn into that (don't get me wrong, there are plenty of blogs that post weekly, if not multiple times a week, and many, many of them are great reads).  I write this blog first and foremost for myself.  I don't censor content, I write about whatever the fuck I feel like (for the most part it is flyfishing), I post pictures I like and I am unapologetic about any of it.  The second I began to feel the slightest bit of pressure to post, I quit.  Granted it was a knee-jerk reaction but I feel it was the best one for this situation.  With that being said, I welcome you back to my realm.

Meanwhile, the dude abides....

fine cigar by Arturo Fuente

This is a shot from early this spring on the Bitterroot.  Photo courtesy of Joe Cummings from Classic Journey 

I hope everyone is having a great summer so far.  Rest assured the writing bug is hitting me again so I should be posting on a quasi-regular basis.

Of shorter days and longer trips

It seems that October has lasted about all of a week.  I've been fishing a fair amount and writing very little.  A couple of weeks ago I made a quick trip to the upper Salmon.  No steelhead were harassed during my short stay but I had a good time fishing new water.  Last week the plan was to head back to the Clearwater for a couple of days then meet up with my buddy Mike on the lower Salmon for a couple more days.  The weather had taken a turn for the worse and with falling snow and rising rivers, I hoped this would be the trip that would turn my steelhead luck around.

Lolo pass was covered in a blanket of fresh snow and as I crested the pass and began my descent into the Lochsa the ever present and all too familiar obsession for steel and the draw of the Clearwater became almost overwhelming.  Damn Idaho and it's 50 mph speed limit on highway 12! 
Having packed the GoPro, the olympus waterproof digital and the trusty iphone, I originally planned to document the entire trip, complete with the campy travel scene video cruising down the highway with the soundtrack straight from my stereo blaring in the background (did I seriously just admit that in writing?  Fuck it, I'll still include it when I get around to making my "movie").  I had visions of self-shot GoPro video of the sloppy spey casting, the hookup, the fight and the release.  Some artsy abstract closeup stills of the tail, maybe the eye (wait wasn't that in the last post?  Again fuck it, this would be a steelhead so I would pull out all the stops)  Splash in some scenery and mood footage and maybe a short bit about Poppy and the Red Shed, hell I might even post it on vimeo and who knows, maybe it would end up on Moldy Chum but I digress.
The longer I paralleled the Clearwater and finally rolled past Kooskia, nearing the first run I planned on fishing, I began to get the feeling that the steelhead gods may not appreciate my greed for glory and recognition.  It harkened back to last year and how after pampering ourselves with soft beds at hotel rooms and promptly getting skunked, Marshall and I decided it was time to suffer a little and see if it would please the steelhead gods.  On the very next trip and after an uncomfortable night in the back of the 4runner, I raised a steelhead to a skated fly and although I didn't hook the fish, I was hooked and consequently knew that our bit of sacrifice the night before appeased the steelhead gods.  With that thought in my mind I pulled over, got ready and promptly left all of my camera equipment (even the iphone) in the 4runner on purpose.
As I hurriedly walked dashed to the river, my excitement was palpable (hell maybe it was the gut-bomb burrito from the convenience store in Lolo, steelheading requires sacrifice and sensible eating habits when you're hurrying to the Clearwater is one of them!)  Regardless I was excited to once again be plying the waters for steel. 
Being fairly new to steelhead fishing and having never fished this run, I guess I started at the top of the run and was mildly impressed with my ability to "read" steelhead water.  As I fell into the familiar rhythym-cast, mend, swing, two steps- I found myself waiting for that tug.  It's absolutely true; The Swing is the Thing and The Tug is the Drug!  Every cast brings another fresh batch of anticipation, and when the din of monotony and repetition begins creeping in a muffed cast is surely a sign from the steelhead gods.  The sign manifests itself as a voice inside my head "wake up, you're about to hook a steelhead" and my anticipation is full-on once again.  A few casts later I recognize a slight change in the run, a slightly different chop, perhaps a tiny change in pace and my excitement somehow elevates another notch.  I'm into what I'm pretty sure is the "bucket" of the run.  At least it's where I feel that if I'm going to feel a tug, this is the place.  Sure enough, some words of advice from Poppy, Dale and my buddy Mike creep into my head "slow down, pull with the bottom hand, make a good stop" and I manage a decent cast in anybody's book and one I'm downright proud of.  Midway through the swing I feel "the tug" and I undoubtedly have a steelhead that not only has hooked itself, but has gone well into my backing on the take and subsequent run downstream.  I somehow manage to make it to the bank without swimming and begin following the fish downstream.  After I get back to my fly line and almost parallel to the fish, I start to lean on it a little to gain more line.  This prompts a scorching upstream run and some impressive aerial displays and I am once again into the backing.  After what seems like an eternity but in reality is probably no more than 10 minutes or so I am now charged with the daunting task of trying to land what I guess to be 3 feet and 14 lbs. or so of a bright Clearwater b-run hen steelhead that is thrashing near my feet.  Before I get to make myself look like too big of a dumbass trying to land the fish, she manages to spit the barbless hook and defiantly fin back to the comforts of her run.  I sit down and spend a couple minutes replaying the whole scene in my mind. I'm completely in awe of the sheer power and beauty of this fish and although I didn't handle it, I'm satisfied in knowing that I hooked the fish on my terms.
Although this is not the first steelhead I hooked this year (I hooked up twice in one day on an earlier trip) this is by far the closest I have come to getting one to hand.  It is still satisfying to know that I have brought each one of the magnificent fish to my fly on my terms. 
Even though I haven't fished the entire run, I decide to call it good for now and head back to the rig.  With only a little daylight remaining I drive downriver and make it to another run in time to fish part of it before darkness settles in and I call it a day.
While I don't know for sure, I like to think that I played a small role in my success by my conscious choice to not bring a camera to the river with me, that I made yet another sacrifice and was therefore rewarded by the steelhead gods.  More than likely I luckily bumbled into a player and somehow put the fly in the right spot at the right time, but who knows?  Not to worry, I'm not swearing off of pictures and I fully intend on one day posting some hero, grip and grin shots, if and when the opportunity arises.  I'm just happy that I don't need that justification.  For now, I know, and that's good enough for me.
 After a celebratory dinner out and a cramped night in back of the 4runner, circumstances arise that preclude me from finishing my trip so I pack up and head back to Montana the next day.  Although I am truly happy with the trip and my obsession is once again satiated for the time being, I know it won't be long until I make plans to return and search for steel and feel that tug of a fish that has come to my fly on my terms.... 

Roots

I know I've been relentless not only in my pursuit of steel, but also in rambling about it.  Don't worry the dude is still obsessed.  However I have recently felt the need, not the desire but the NEED to ply the waters closer to home, to re-connect not only physically but spiritually with my home waters.  So with a sky firmly in the grips of autumn and the trees in all their colorful glory I found myself slipping back into an old rhythm, one that I had, dare I say, neglected as of late.  I brought my 5 wt. and a few streamers to my little home river and I have to admit, it all fell into place.  With perhaps an hour of daylight left I walked the tracks to a favorite run.....

Upon entering the water I got the feeling that the river was almost welcoming me home.  I assured the river and it's denizens that I would not forget my roots, no matter how much time I spent elsewhere.  I am connected to this land and these waters.  With the sun setting in the southwestern sky and the leaves in all of their brilliant hues, I knew the time of year had come when one can toss caution to the wind, put away the delicate dry flies and tie on a big gnarly streamer (not that there is no more hatches, just that one has this option and I for one look forward to it).  Sure enough, halfway through the run I got a violent take at the apex of the swing.  After a spirited battle I brought this beautiful brown to hand, 17 or 18", a nice sized fish on most any water and a great fish for this river.  After a quick picture I wiggle his tail once and he disappears to the depths....

My reconnection complete, I sat on the bank and watched the sun dip behind the mountains, completely satisfied with the one fish and truly happy in that particular moment. 
As I walked back to my rig in the dark my thoughts drifted down to the Bitterroot, up Lolo Creek and over Lolo Pass, down along the Lochsa until it meets the Selway and becomes the Clearwater.  At that moment I realize that is the same path my Ancestors made from time immemorial, to ply the same waters and trade with our friends the Nez Perce, and that I am following in their footsteps.  The realization hits me that although this is my home, and these are my home waters, I also have deep physical and spiritual ties, I even dare to say (albeit somewhat shallower) roots in Clearwater country...

As I write this I am preparing to once again retrace the steps of my Ancestors to satiate my obsession in my continued quest for steel....

Still chasin' steel

It seems lately every weekend is another trip over Lolo pass to the Clearwater, I guess that's because every weened in September so far has been a trip to the Clearwater.  Admittedly it's been a difficult year for most people I've talked to.  To say this year has been difficult for Marshall and I would be an understatement!  Every trip we learn something though, and every trip we're confident.  With each trip so far proving unsuccessful, we know that we have banked more credit in the steelhead karma bank and it's only a matter of time before we can cash in on that!

Marshall skated up a boil in this run as the sun peeked over the ridge through the smoke, what a rush!  It was Marshall's first experience with a steelhead on the surface and he was STOKED!!

Another bright note was this stick was incredible!  There were numerous tasty stogies enjoyed on this trip, thanks Mike!

This was also the last trip that I used my single-hander, but that's another story I'll share soon....

It has served me well.... I also met a guy that had quite an interesting story on the green pack.  Saturday afternoon I decided to try a promising run we liked to fish.  After we crossed the side channel and crossed the island we found a couple of guys already working the run.  Oh well, who could blame them?  Just as we approached one of the guys decided to take a break.  After exchanging greetings we sit down to shoot the shit with the guy.  Turns out fishing had been very slow so far this year for them as well.  The topic went from fish to gear, and finally to my pack.  The guy commented that he used to have a pack just like that but one of his kids had lost it.  I admitted I found the pack on the Clearwater last year, that definitely piqued his curiosity.  He asked where I found it, I told him ironically just about where we were sitting, under the power line.  He asked what kind of gear was in it but he already knew, it was his pack!  I offered it back to him but he declined, stating that I had a new pack and he had a great story!  What a good guy!  I offered him to at least take some flies in return which he also declined.  He was glad a fellow fly flinging steelheader had found it and was putting it to good use!
I'm  hoping this only adds to the steelhead mojo, but for now we are still just chasing steel.....

Temporary reprieve

So I admit that since my burgeoning steelhead obsession is slowly taking over my flyfishing life (which is a very large part of my overall life!)  I have spent less and less time plying the waters of my home state for resident trout.  Last week I decided it was time to rectify the situation, as short-lived as it may be.  Never the less I managed to get out for an afternoon/evening of what I cut my flyfishing teeth on, trout fishing in Montana.

Just as I suspected.  I missed the intimacy that comes with fishing for trout in smaller waters.... waters that are easily read and dissected-no guesswork here.  No surprises, just straight forward trout fishing.  I spent the first part of my trip just observing, looking for rising fish to cast to.  Other than a couple of tiny fish smacking caddis emergers I didn't see much surface activity.  So as the sun dipped behind the ridge I decided to try an old standby of a fly and hit a favorite run.  It wasn't long before I was rewarded with an ambitious take as my muddler skated along the foam line on the far bank, soon I brought the scrappy 12 incher to hand.

 

At that moment I realized what I had been neglecting and missing out on.  I realized that regardless of the amount of difference between this and chasing steel, they were both fun....not only fun but I'll stop just short of saying they're both necessary for me.....

With balance brought back into my life i let the fish slip back into the stream while my thoughts already  began drifting downstream like the yellow cottonwood leaf floating by, downstream to where steel lurks and I once again feel the inexplicable tug in the bottom of my gut.  The obsession grows...

Steelhead Obsession ver. 2.0

So it's been awhile since my last post.  Sorry about that, but since it's my blog deal with it... Shit happens and life happens and blah blah blah....

I have now officially entered my 2nd year of Steelhead obsession.  To be more precise-Surface Steelhead Obsession.  To be even yet more precise, Single-hand Surface Steelhead Obsession. Apparently I couldn't have picked a more fickle, yet more rewarding river to feed my obsession on than the mighty Clearwater in Idaho.  Had I known going into this I may have chosen a different river, perhaps the Ronde, promised by many to be as easy as a drunken somphmore prom date... or perhaps the Methow, with fish as willing as any in the lower 48 to grab a skater.... Alas the Clearwater and all her glory caught my fancy.  The proximity of the Clearwater to Western Montana where I call home, the possibility of her giving up a magnificent 20 lb. b-run steelhead, whatever the reason matters little.  I am in too deep now. 

Many factors pointed to last weekend not being the best time for a steelhead trip; less than stellar steelhead counts, the fact that not many had gone over Lower Granite dam yet, flows still in the 10,000 cfs range (not exactly ideal), forecast for hot and sunny weather.  Ultimately none of it mattered when the calendar rolled over to September and the ever-intensifying burning in my gut took over, a trip to the Clearwater was the only way to satiate my almost-out-of-control habit.

It took hardly any convincing and I had suckered my son Marshall into making a weekend trip.  The stage was set.....

Upon topping Lolo Pass on highway 12, we were promptly greeted by a thick haze of forest fire smoke.  Descending into the thick of smoke was almost a trial in itself.  Almost ritualistic, descend the depths of fire and smoke to reach the steelhead oasis that was the Clearwater. 

A quick stop by the world-famous Red Shed Fly Shop in Peck is always in order.  Poking our head in the door, Poppy, the junkyard spey guru himself, was nowhere to be found.  A good omen perhaps that there were enough steelhead in the system to tempt Poppy into an afternoon swinging jaunt.  The report was just as expected-not many fish in the system, probably only worthwhile staying below the hwy 95 split and really the lower the better, hot and sunny weather making it pretty much a very early morning and very late evening type of affair.  Nothing we weren't expecting anyway.

We made it to the "Hippie Camp" hole, as we've come to know it by (actually a whole story in and of itself, replete with a broken down van and an armpit hair rockin' hippie chick that informed us, among many other amusing factoids, that she was packin and knew how to shoot) by about 4 0'clock.  Just as we were wadering up, a guy pulls up all ready to go and promptly headed for our run.  Well fuck.  What do ya do?  We give the guy a half-hearted wave and bid him good luck anyway, you never know when the steelhead karma gods are keeping points....

With palpable anticipation we wet set out for our re-baptism.  Upon arrival at the run we noticed the guy had chosen to start about halfway down, leaving us the top of the run.  Either he's a hell of a guy or he figured we would low-hole him and beat us to the punch.  I like to think it was the former, besides the run is plenty big for the three of us, things were starting out ok after all.  We were wading the hallowed waters chasing steelhead after all weren't we?  Shit was starting to feel right in the universe at that moment....

Having been a few months since I tossed my 8 wt., the first few casts were clumsy and unnatural feeling.  Before long I was into the rhythm... cast, mend, skate, wait, step, step, repeat. Marshall fell right into the groove as well...this was going to be a good trip, I could tell. 

To fish for steelhead, one must have the right mindset, or at least it helps a helluva lot.  Steelhead fishing is tedious.  They're not called the fish of a thousand casts for nothing.  To flick flies for steelhead is even more a cast of eternal hope and almost complete disappointment.  To flick floating flies with a single-hand rod in the Clearwater seems it's own special kind of crazy.  Regardless, as I continue my cadence, the constant thought running through my mind finally seeps completely into the conscious part of my brain.  I actually expect a take on every cast.  So much so that i find myself narrating the take.  First I imagine a take the second my fly hits the water.  Soon it changes to different points during the skate, natural progression lead me to imagine a take on "the dangle", and finally I imagine taunting a steelhead into a take by "popping" my fly just before I strip to make my next cast.  The funny thing is, even though I honestly anticipate a take on EVERY cast, my imagination even knows better than to land anywhere near 100% of these fish that take my fly.  In fact I realize that I've only imagined landing maybe 3 or 4 of these out of probably 150 casts that I made that evening.  Even funnier is that fact that Marshall informed me on the walk back to the parking lot, well after dark, that he imagined a take on every cast...interesting.  I confessed how my imagination had taken the same liberty with me.  Alas our imagined takes never materialized and we were left to spend the night dreaming of our first steelhead take on a dry. 

Dawn broke earlier than expected the next morning and we got a later start than we wanted.  Admittedly the enthusiasm factor was low from the start and with not a cloud in the sky, the opportune time to skate up a steelhead passed quickly without so much as a boil.  Shitfuck, with morning one in the books we decided to retire for a short nap before grabbing lunch.  Over lunch we decided to try "Hippie Camp" hole again.  One thing we've been told again and again, whether it's skate, swing or nymph,, fly selection or run selection, one of the most important factors is do what you have the most confidence in.  Even though we have yet to skate up a steelhead this particular stretch of water is the one we gravitate to early in the season when the fish are down low.  Any little bit of confidence can be a game changer. So we arrive quite a bit earlier than the day before and find we are indeed first in.  Oddly we feel like starting part-way down the run, whether it's again a karma related decision or simply where we subconsciously think we'll have the best chance or a combination of both we just kind of silently decide to start near the power line.  Again we slip into a comfortable rhythm and again I imagine a take on every cast.  Again we are left to wonder what that first surface take will be like...

Oddly enough, after about an hour of cast, mend, skate, dangle, step, step, repeat we are broken from out trance by voices.  Sure enough, near the top of the run, 3 have fallen into the same cadence, only they are actually talking with one another, perhaps they're alot more seasoned than we are.  Who knows, but for whatever reason and without really discussing it, Marshall and I tend to remain silent while we work a run waiting for that boil.  Maybe subconsciously we feel that talking will affect our focus and that we need every bit of Jedi mind power we can muster as we try to WILL a steelhead to grab out skater.  Anyway, another session of skating dries had yet to yield any results and we are left to deal with an ever-growing obsession.  I did manage to snap a nice photo during a quick break at sunset, sometimes it's the little things that add to the experience and ultimately help ensure that a return is imminent.

After dinner and another discussion of the imagining a take on every cast, the endless scenarios that played out from a mere boil, to losing one at hand to finally hoisting a giant b-run triumphantly for a quick photo op before releasing it back to the depths, we decide to arise considerably earlier the next morning to ensure maximum opportunity to skate up our first steel....talk about a fitful night.

With only the early portion of the next morning to fish (real world dictates that we get back home before too late Sunday) sure enough we are teased with a cool, partly cloudy morning.  As ideal of conditions as you can hope for this early in the season.  I can't think of many better ways to greet a sunrise....

We stayed longer than we originally planned because the conditions were so good compared to the previous two days...still to no avail.  Our fist steelhead on the surface will not come on this trip and that only serves to intensify my desire...

By the way, the three guys from the night before turned out to be from Bozeman in our home state of Montana.  We had a nice chat with them and learned that one had indeed caught a steelhead the day before, on the surface skating dries.  Turns out he was not actually one of the group originally.  The other two guys happened to make the almost mandatory stop at Poppy's and turns out the third guy's car had broken down just a little earlier when he stopped by to say hi to Poppy.  How cool is that?  The guy left his broken-down car to hop in with a couple of kindred spirits, choosing to deal with real-life shit later on... Fuckin A, I like his style.  And then how sweet is it for the two guys to offer this other guy a spot in their ride, to share their camp and to fish together for the weekend... I imagine that was a rather large deposit into their steelhead karma bank account, right on guys......

Hello Kitty

So one day this past winter my buddy and I were getting cabin fever.  It was February, the days were getting longer and the temperature was in the double digits, pretty decent conditions for February in Montana.  Even though the days were getting longer by the time I threw my shit together and picked my buddy up we had maybe 3 hours of daylight left.  No problem, we probably wouldn't want to wade more than a couple of hours anyway.  When i got to my buddy's house (he only lives about 10 minutes from our home waters) i opened the trunk to the trusty dudemobile (the 4 runner was in the shop) to load my buddy's junk.  Upon closer inspection I noticed my wading boots were nowhere to be seen.  Mother....fucker.   That moment of realization hit me.  Driving back to my place wasn't an option, waste too much daylight.  On a winter day like this not going was not an option, we were itching so bad it was worse than a case of crotch crickets (not that I know personally, strictly for effect!)  My buddy come through with some winter pac boots.  Fuck it, I thought, I'll make them work.  So it was down the road for the short drive to our home waters.  Once there i realized maybe they weren't such a good idea after all, rubber bottom boots, in a freezing ass river, not a good sounding combination.  Upon closer inspection of the trunk, I managed to find a pair of insoles from some tennis shoes.  Hey, these just  might work for some traction.  Now if I could just find something to secure these to the bottom of the boots, I would have some decent makeshift wading boots.  What transpired would have never found it's way onto these pages had I not taken photographic evidence.  My buddy delved into his fishing tote and as you can see, produced a roll of duct tape.  Not just any duct tape either.........

Hello Kitty

What kind of guy carries Hello Kitty duct tape in his box o' fishing shit?  Well wonder no more....

I think we even caught a couple of fish that day.  By the way, the tape only lasted half hour tops.  I didn't fall in though thanks to my superior wading skills!

Dude schwag!!

I apologize, it's been quite a while since I've posted.  Even the dude has to deal with real life issues occasionally.....
Fortunately, I'm back and proud to unveil the dude's first official logo....

To celebrate this momentous occasion, the dude will hold a small contest to get some official flyfishdude stickers in the hands of my faithful readers. 

The first ten people to comment with the correct answer to the following question will become the proud owner of a flyfishdude sticker, sure to dirtbag up your favorite drift boat, laptop, toyota, coffee mug, toilet bowl and any number of other items that just generally are too squeaky clean looking and/or feeling.  So delve into the archives and answer the following question:

Which fly did the dude use to pop his cherry on surface steelhead?

Good luck!

btw if you REALLY want a sticker and you are too lazy to look for the answer or too late, comment anyway and if I like what you have to say I may still send you one.  Make it amusing!

For now I'll give away these first ten or so and the rest will go to close friends who have put up with the dude over the years.  Depending on demand I will consider printing up more and charging just enough to recoup costs, probably $2.

One last thing, Dave from pilecast.net and Cameron from Fiberglass Manifesto, your stickers will be on their way soon, and thanks again for sending the dude some schweet schwag!