Instead of clogging this fly fishing blog up with non-fly fishing related outdoor adventures, I have started a new blog to write about "other" outdoor activities.
http://www.crossingopenground.blogspot.com/ will be a place for musings about hiking, mountain biking, running, and wandering and wondering about nature. It's in it's infancy; you are welcome to watch it grow.
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All Content © Robert Williamson
Saturday, October 31, 2009
A Nice Note about the Chain-stitched Mayflies
"I've finally had a chance to fish them now that fall is here. I used them on the south fork of the snake recently with good success. Couple notes: Being comparadun style, I had much better success in the run out of riffles where the water was calmer. They would sink in the rougher water of the riffles. In areas where they would float, however, fish took them willingly, sipping gently and not suspecting a thing. It was a lot of fun. The only thing I might do differently is the tails. I'd consider something stiffer, like microfibbetts. The tails on the fly (not sure what they were made of) tended to stick together when wet. All in all though, a great imitation and a lot of fun to fish. Thanks again." :)
-Mike Silver
Thanks for the report Mike. I sent patterns out to several individuals each year and rarely do I hear back. Nice to get a report. This pattern was created for smooth water. I was trying to get something that would imitate the silhouette of the naturals for picky trout. As for the tails, I have noticed the same thing. The tail fibers are made from the same material as the body. I have started to stiffen them up and make the split more distinct by running a little super glue up them. I use a small amount on the end of a bodkin so my fingers don't stick together.
-Mike Silver
Thanks for the report Mike. I sent patterns out to several individuals each year and rarely do I hear back. Nice to get a report. This pattern was created for smooth water. I was trying to get something that would imitate the silhouette of the naturals for picky trout. As for the tails, I have noticed the same thing. The tail fibers are made from the same material as the body. I have started to stiffen them up and make the split more distinct by running a little super glue up them. I use a small amount on the end of a bodkin so my fingers don't stick together.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Saying Goodbye!
I peered through the willows that lined the bank of a small, clear creek and watched as a 12-inch cutthroat trout moved from side to side, picking small dark mayfly nymphs from the current.
I was rigged with a brown stonefly imitation which had proven effective on this creek for years. I found a small opening that provided enough room to cast and crawled hand and knees up next to a sizable tree. I slowly stood up keeping my left shoulder snug against the tree; blending into the setting as best I could. I lengthened my line with false casts to allow the fly to float down into the trouts feeding lane.
The cutthroat continued to sip nymphs as my stonefly landed about ten feet above him. The fly drifted down toward the trout as I mended line to keep a natural float. The fly was right on target and came directly into the trout's view. My arm became tense in anticipation of the fish's strike. The cutthroat did not move as the fly passed his snout. I let the fly continue to drift past the fish and began a slow hand-twist-retrieve so I could cast again.
I didn't want to disturb the water by a quick pick-up and risk spooking the cutthroat, so I slowly worked the line in and brought the fly up into the shallows on the creek edge. Suddenly, I noticed a flash of color a few feet below my fly and watched wide-eyed as a different trout raced toward the fly. The fish slammed into the fly with its back exposed, out of the water, producing a wake that sent the cutthroat trout racing upstream for cover.
I set the hook and stared with amazement at the 18-inch brown trout thrashing up and then down stream. This was a powerful fish and was not interested in giving up. Again, the fish tugged line as it tried to head down the creek putting pressure on my shoulder.
I held the brown for a second to admire its length and girth. It was a beautiful trout. I sat it in the shallows and watched as it caught its breath. I was doing the same. It moved toward the middle of the creek and deeper water. I thought I saw it roll its eyes back and pause for a second--maybe not. I waved goodbye anyway.
I was rigged with a brown stonefly imitation which had proven effective on this creek for years. I found a small opening that provided enough room to cast and crawled hand and knees up next to a sizable tree. I slowly stood up keeping my left shoulder snug against the tree; blending into the setting as best I could. I lengthened my line with false casts to allow the fly to float down into the trouts feeding lane.
The cutthroat continued to sip nymphs as my stonefly landed about ten feet above him. The fly drifted down toward the trout as I mended line to keep a natural float. The fly was right on target and came directly into the trout's view. My arm became tense in anticipation of the fish's strike. The cutthroat did not move as the fly passed his snout. I let the fly continue to drift past the fish and began a slow hand-twist-retrieve so I could cast again.
I didn't want to disturb the water by a quick pick-up and risk spooking the cutthroat, so I slowly worked the line in and brought the fly up into the shallows on the creek edge. Suddenly, I noticed a flash of color a few feet below my fly and watched wide-eyed as a different trout raced toward the fly. The fish slammed into the fly with its back exposed, out of the water, producing a wake that sent the cutthroat trout racing upstream for cover.
I set the hook and stared with amazement at the 18-inch brown trout thrashing up and then down stream. This was a powerful fish and was not interested in giving up. Again, the fish tugged line as it tried to head down the creek putting pressure on my shoulder.
I held the brown for a second to admire its length and girth. It was a beautiful trout. I sat it in the shallows and watched as it caught its breath. I was doing the same. It moved toward the middle of the creek and deeper water. I thought I saw it roll its eyes back and pause for a second--maybe not. I waved goodbye anyway.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Fly Fishing and Thoughts of Thoreau
"The lesson he (Thoreau) had taught himself, and to which he tried to teach others, was summed up in the one word "Simplify." That meant simplify your needs and your ambitions; learn to delight in the simple pleasures which the world of Nature affords. It means also, scorn public opinion, refuse to accept the common definitions of success, refuse to be moved by the judgement of others."
---Joseph Wood Krutch (part of the introduction to "Walden and Other Writings by Henry David Thoreau.")
When I started fly fishing as a young thirteen year old kid, I used a very simple way of angling. I was introduced to it by my father. He was a wet fly fisher who only used a couple of patterns and always fished them down and across. These patterns were hair flies (Fizzle and Rockworm) as tied by the late Franz B. Pott of Missoula, Montana. These flies were tied onto the end of a seven to nine foot tapered leader which was tied onto a floating fly line. The flies were cast down and across stream and them allowed to swing with the current. They were manipulated into the proper seams and runs and then slowly worked upstream with a hand-twist-retrieve. Trout would either hit the fly on the swing or grab it as it was worked upstream. It was an effective method and a very simple method. I used this method for thirteen years.
When I married and decided to take up fly tying as a hobby, I originally wanted to just tie the Pott flies, but as I subscribed to the popular fly fishing magazines and bought fly tying books, a whole new world of fly patterns and fly fishing techniques was opened to me. I tried all the techniques which were new to me, nymphing, streamers, emergers, and dry fly fishing. I spent time using all of these methods and would find myself switching from one method to another during my outings.
Several years ago, I decided to simplify my angling again. I grew fond of dry fly fishing and found that it was my preferred style. With experience I found that at almost every month of the year, I could catch fish on top if I understood the hatch and was on the water at the appropriate time of day.
I have not lived in the woods as Thoreau did, but as I look back on my life, I realize I have spent a great deal of time wandering in the woods. My fly rod has been, and is, a magic wand. I wave it and it carries me to beautiful places. Wave it again and the scenery changes. My favorite rod is a seven foot, six inch paint brush that helps me create the paintings of my mind. Sometimes, it is a pen that helps me write the beginning and ending of my life.
Life is full of rivers to cross. I have for a long time felt I crossed these rivers alone. I prided myself on doing this. I, as Thoreau, sought for solitude:
"I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by the sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to forsee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattern of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since."
I wonder if Thoreau is right? He also said, "I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers."
For years, I believed and pointed out the above quotes as my justification for spending time on solo fly fishing trips. Like I said, I was proud of my ability to wander up streams and creeks alone, to cross rivers alone, and to spend time in the woods alone. I like Thoreau, felt I only needed "three chairs in my house; one for solitude, one for friendship, three for society."
I'm beginning of late to understand better things of solitude, but also of my need to have friends. But that is really another story. What I want to do is get back to my original thoughts on simplicity. I've decided that the pursuit of trout through fly fishing can be very simple, especially, if you are fishing waters that are not what I call technical waters. These are waters with shorter growing seasons, waters that are typically smaller, and where the type of water is more turbid, with lots of riffles, seams, pockets, and sometimes gradient.
In my neck of the woods, this is what I've discovered over the past 30 years (I know, that 30 years just keeps on finding its way into my writing).
December, January, February: Midges. Small nymphs and dries. Hatches occur the warmest part of the day.
March, April: Midges, Blue-winged Olives. BWO nymphs, emergers and dries. Usually between 10:00 AM and 2:00 PM.
May, June: Pale Morning Duns, Caddis and Stoneflies. Evening fishing starts to warm up. PMD hatches most afternoons in June.
July, August, September: Hoppers and beetles. Afternoon and evening caddis
October, November: Still some hopper action, Blue-winged Olives are back. Swinging and stripping streamers.
Yes, there is the specific hatch of this or that, which you may have to figure out, but the above is a simplistic approach to most of the Intermountain areas regular hatches.
I wonder if Thoreau ever considered taking up fly fishing? Probably too busy writing about solitude and civil disobedience.
---Joseph Wood Krutch (part of the introduction to "Walden and Other Writings by Henry David Thoreau.")
When I started fly fishing as a young thirteen year old kid, I used a very simple way of angling. I was introduced to it by my father. He was a wet fly fisher who only used a couple of patterns and always fished them down and across. These patterns were hair flies (Fizzle and Rockworm) as tied by the late Franz B. Pott of Missoula, Montana. These flies were tied onto the end of a seven to nine foot tapered leader which was tied onto a floating fly line. The flies were cast down and across stream and them allowed to swing with the current. They were manipulated into the proper seams and runs and then slowly worked upstream with a hand-twist-retrieve. Trout would either hit the fly on the swing or grab it as it was worked upstream. It was an effective method and a very simple method. I used this method for thirteen years.
When I married and decided to take up fly tying as a hobby, I originally wanted to just tie the Pott flies, but as I subscribed to the popular fly fishing magazines and bought fly tying books, a whole new world of fly patterns and fly fishing techniques was opened to me. I tried all the techniques which were new to me, nymphing, streamers, emergers, and dry fly fishing. I spent time using all of these methods and would find myself switching from one method to another during my outings.
Several years ago, I decided to simplify my angling again. I grew fond of dry fly fishing and found that it was my preferred style. With experience I found that at almost every month of the year, I could catch fish on top if I understood the hatch and was on the water at the appropriate time of day.
I have not lived in the woods as Thoreau did, but as I look back on my life, I realize I have spent a great deal of time wandering in the woods. My fly rod has been, and is, a magic wand. I wave it and it carries me to beautiful places. Wave it again and the scenery changes. My favorite rod is a seven foot, six inch paint brush that helps me create the paintings of my mind. Sometimes, it is a pen that helps me write the beginning and ending of my life.
Life is full of rivers to cross. I have for a long time felt I crossed these rivers alone. I prided myself on doing this. I, as Thoreau, sought for solitude:
"I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by the sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to forsee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattern of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since."
I wonder if Thoreau is right? He also said, "I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers."
For years, I believed and pointed out the above quotes as my justification for spending time on solo fly fishing trips. Like I said, I was proud of my ability to wander up streams and creeks alone, to cross rivers alone, and to spend time in the woods alone. I like Thoreau, felt I only needed "three chairs in my house; one for solitude, one for friendship, three for society."
I'm beginning of late to understand better things of solitude, but also of my need to have friends. But that is really another story. What I want to do is get back to my original thoughts on simplicity. I've decided that the pursuit of trout through fly fishing can be very simple, especially, if you are fishing waters that are not what I call technical waters. These are waters with shorter growing seasons, waters that are typically smaller, and where the type of water is more turbid, with lots of riffles, seams, pockets, and sometimes gradient.
In my neck of the woods, this is what I've discovered over the past 30 years (I know, that 30 years just keeps on finding its way into my writing).
December, January, February: Midges. Small nymphs and dries. Hatches occur the warmest part of the day.
March, April: Midges, Blue-winged Olives. BWO nymphs, emergers and dries. Usually between 10:00 AM and 2:00 PM.
May, June: Pale Morning Duns, Caddis and Stoneflies. Evening fishing starts to warm up. PMD hatches most afternoons in June.
July, August, September: Hoppers and beetles. Afternoon and evening caddis
October, November: Still some hopper action, Blue-winged Olives are back. Swinging and stripping streamers.
Yes, there is the specific hatch of this or that, which you may have to figure out, but the above is a simplistic approach to most of the Intermountain areas regular hatches.
I wonder if Thoreau ever considered taking up fly fishing? Probably too busy writing about solitude and civil disobedience.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Natural Relationships
The meadow looks different in late Fall. Waist high grasses of green are now horizontal mixes of brown, tan, and yellow.
New structures are in place
. Beaver at work shoring up dams and lodges against impending winter snows. It is beaver, I suspect, who muddied the water of this small creek. Above their dam, the water is clear. I have to have clear water. My mind is muddy. I can't think straight. I come to clear water to be cleansed.
. Beaver at work shoring up dams and lodges against impending winter snows. It is beaver, I suspect, who muddied the water of this small creek. Above their dam, the water is clear. I have to have clear water. My mind is muddy. I can't think straight. I come to clear water to be cleansed.It's early afternoon and hot. Ten degrees warmer than usual. It's been a dry summer and as mentioned, the grasses show it. I hear the crackle of dehydration with each step.
Low water produces skittish trout, yet I see shadows in the deeper water. Silhouettes rise, turn, then flash. Reflectance of sun and color spark towards my eyes before sinking to shadows again.
I stand still, a heron watching. Two small trout swim behind a larger one. If I cast a fly into the area chances are the smaller trout will rush to the fly and if hooked will scare the larger trout away. I wait. I need a curve cast with the line to the left of the trout. The leader and fly must curve to the right. The cast must be long enough to give the larger trout first chance at the offering. I cast. Another flash of fish; another flash of time. The large trout takes the fly quick. I pull back and watch my rod tip bend, then gaze out at disturbed water and spinning trout. The same joy and adrenaline is released to my heart and brain that has been released with this same scenerio for over thirty-five years. I wonder: why does the pursuit of trout never get old to me? Questions again!
I place my hand down to grasp the trout. It's skin is slick and moist. Gently, I remove the hook from its jaw and slide it head first back into the water. The trout bolts for its sanctuary of deeper water and over-hanging brush. Another circle is complete: stalk, cast, rise, lift, play, land, admire, release, breath again.Natural Relationships Continued
Standing in the meadow, and thinking like I do, I realize there are relationships in my life that others would not understand. My relationship to nature through the vehicle of fly fishing is as hard to explain to others as the relationship of two kindred spirits lost for a season then connected again.
I look up from the water and see a coyote in the middle of the meadow. Our eyes meet. I look down for a place to sit. When I look up again, the coyote is gone. I look up the ridge for a glimpse of the coyotes departure but see nothing--no movement--the coyote has disappeared. A different type of catch and release. Friendships can sometimes be like that. 
I look up from the water and see a coyote in the middle of the meadow. Our eyes meet. I look down for a place to sit. When I look up again, the coyote is gone. I look up the ridge for a glimpse of the coyotes departure but see nothing--no movement--the coyote has disappeared. A different type of catch and release. Friendships can sometimes be like that. Time and friendship is sometimes measured in seasons. I sit here remembering. The thing that stands out in my mind right now, this very instant, is how short life is. What do I take and what do I give in my flash of time? What do I miss? Am I brave enough to think and feel? Am I brave enough to connect deeply with nature? Am I brave enough to connect deeply with those I call friends?
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Mountain Bike Ride Logan Canyon into Bear Lake Valley
This was my third time riding this dirt road on my bike. The two previous times, I had to dismount on the climb out of Egan Basin. Mentally, I vowed that I would conquer the climb the next time I attempted it. I started to refer to the trip this year as "The Ride." I started to train for it in the winter by doing some treadmill work after the holidays and then started some serious outdoor training in June. After the holiday season, I had put on a little extra weight and wanted to lose about twenty or thirty pounds for the ride. I figured that the hills would be a little easier if I wasn't lugging the extra pounds with me. In June, I started a running routine to cross train and help with the lung capacity
. At 6:00 AM I was up and out for a morning run and actually got to the point where I could run 3.5 miles fairly easy. I even did an eight mile run one night to see how far I could push. When I was done and felt like I could still go farther, I felt I was getting ready. In the evenings I was putting power to the peddles doing some distance rides and hill work. I was able to drop the thirty pounds and look forward to the day of the ride. Labor day ended up as the day for the ride.
. At 6:00 AM I was up and out for a morning run and actually got to the point where I could run 3.5 miles fairly easy. I even did an eight mile run one night to see how far I could push. When I was done and felt like I could still go farther, I felt I was getting ready. In the evenings I was putting power to the peddles doing some distance rides and hill work. I was able to drop the thirty pounds and look forward to the day of the ride. Labor day ended up as the day for the ride.The actual road is not what hardcore mountain bikers would consider difficult, but for an older man it is somewhat of a challenge. The road is about 17 miles long and has a gradual climb right at the start that follows a tumbling, crystal clear creek.This section gets the blood circulating and the legs burning. About two miles into the ride it flattens out and winds through some neat meadows. The creek is backed up with numerous beaver dams and the water is mirror smooth. This part of the ride is very pleasant. About six miles into the ride, the road starts a gradual climb out of the meadows and up into the aspen and pines. Like I mentioned, it's not a major effort for the young and seasoned rider, but us older guys with aging bodies and eighteen year old brains--it can be a chore. The climb is gradual and just when you think it might level out around the corner, you hit a little stiffer climb to the summit. I tried to stand on the peddles at one point but found I lost traction with my rear wheel so I geared down and stayed in the saddle. I have to admit that at one point my mind was telling me to just dismount and walk up the hill--something about people would understand that a 50+ guy would get enough validation from friends for just being out doing such a ride. Just as this thought went through my brain and started to drain down into my legs, I thought of the training and the weight loss, and friends that knew I wanted to conquer the hills. Those thoughts made me stay with it and grind it out. As I came up the last incline, I spotted my wife (she was the support vehicle and photographer) up the hill. Her instruction was to park at the summit and wait for me to arrive. When I looked up and saw here, I knew I must be close and dug in for the final push. Finally, with a few more stern pushes on the peddles, I made it to the top.
Now the fun could begin! The last nine or ten miles of this road is downhill for the most part, right to the town of St. Charles, Idaho and the Bear Lake Valley. The first drop off the summit is steady and such a welcome relief to all the hard peddle pushing. I felt like I was flying as I looked at the speedometer and hit 18 mph. The second downhill area gets a little steep and I rode my brakes trying to stay in control. When I hit some of the downhill straight sections, I hit my top speed of 26 mph, which seemed fast as I flew through the aspen and pine lined roadway. I tried to be as safe as I could watching up ahead for any obstructions or change in conditions. I jumped over the three cattle guards and continued the descent. My only scary moment was hitting some looser gravel and sliding toward the trees. I had to brake and put a foot down to keep from mingling too close with mountain timber. The vibration from the rough road transfered from my hands, up my arms, and into the shoulder blades and neck. I could feel the muscles right between the shoulder blades starting to tighten from all the bouncing and rattling. It was okay. I had conquered the hills and I was almost to St. Charles. I was a little worried that being Labor Day weekend, I might run into the company of ATVs but I had the road almost to myself. I think I saw maybe five wheelers the whole day.
Now the fun could begin! The last nine or ten miles of this road is downhill for the most part, right to the town of St. Charles, Idaho and the Bear Lake Valley. The first drop off the summit is steady and such a welcome relief to all the hard peddle pushing. I felt like I was flying as I looked at the speedometer and hit 18 mph. The second downhill area gets a little steep and I rode my brakes trying to stay in control. When I hit some of the downhill straight sections, I hit my top speed of 26 mph, which seemed fast as I flew through the aspen and pine lined roadway. I tried to be as safe as I could watching up ahead for any obstructions or change in conditions. I jumped over the three cattle guards and continued the descent. My only scary moment was hitting some looser gravel and sliding toward the trees. I had to brake and put a foot down to keep from mingling too close with mountain timber. The vibration from the rough road transfered from my hands, up my arms, and into the shoulder blades and neck. I could feel the muscles right between the shoulder blades starting to tighten from all the bouncing and rattling. It was okay. I had conquered the hills and I was almost to St. Charles. I was a little worried that being Labor Day weekend, I might run into the company of ATVs but I had the road almost to myself. I think I saw maybe five wheelers the whole day. I rode alone with my thoughts and with the coolness of the shadows. I took in the green of the aspen leaves and the whiteness of their bark. I breathed in the mountain air and listened to the quiet. Every now and again I could hear the crunching of the gravel as my wheels turned and slid.
Back in one of the side canyons there used to be an old cabin and mine. My great uncles and grandpa built the cabin and worked the mine many years ago. The cabin was bulldozed and the opening to the mine closed by the Forest Service. My grandpa and great uncles traveled this road a lot. They travel it now as ghosts. "The Ride" was for them.
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