A Morning on the Henry’s Fork

It’s Green Drake time on the Henry’s Fork. This year they are running a little behind their normal schedule, but better late than never. A couple days ago my brother, Tom, and I walked into the Ranch with hopes of discovering some of this Drake activity. The day was a warm one—the warmest of the year—and the skies were clear. At ten o’clock sharp, the mayflies appeared. Fish began to rise.

But that was just one part of an interesting morning. For it wasn’t only Green Drakes that were on the water. Alongside them, emerging en masse, were Hydropsyche caddis. As I watched both hatches unfold (all the while casting to feeding fish), the caddis began stealing more of my interest. That’s because it was apparent that this wasn’t some ordinary, run-of-the-mill caddis hatch. This was different. This was a monster emergence; a river-blanketing phenomenon. The kind of emergence the Henry’s Fork used to experience regularly (and which we took for granted). The kind of hatch I hadn’t seen in years.

This was heartening, because for quite some time I've been noticing (as have other area anglers) a decline in caddis activity in many Yellowstone area rivers.  The great caddis rivers—Henry’s Fork, Madison, Yellowstone—seem to be living with reduced numbers of caddis. (The one exception I know of is the Firehole, where Nectopsyche populations—a warmer water caddis—have exploded. Unfortunately, their blossoming runs concurrent with the decline of Hydropsyche. It’s as though one species has simply replaced the other.)

I know that witnessing a caddis hatch like this one likely means nothing as far as populations go. Still, it was a great hatch. If you’re wondering how the fish reacted to it, well, they could not have cared less. Never appeared to even give the Hydropsyche so much as a glance. No, it seemed that the Henry’s Fork rainbows had appetites for one thing only: Green Drakes.

Well, sort of. It wasn’t the clumsy, hop-scotching Drake duns that the fish were after (those fell victim—in droves—to the gulls and blackbirds). Rather, the fish wanted Green Drake nymphs. Nymphs and nothing but nymphs, for the entirety of the hatch. So that’s what we gave them; nymphs in the film. Cast after cast after cast. I don’t know how many casts we had to make for each of the fish we caught, but trust me that it was plenty. In the end, I thought it was some of the most difficult Drake fishing I’d ever seen.

Our problem lay not with our flies—these were proven imitations—but rather with the way the fish were feeding. They would rise once and then move. Then another rise and another move. Rise, move. Rise, move. That’s how it went for over two hours.

So we cast and recast, never really knowing for sure where the fish were, but always knowing where they weren’t (the spot of their previous rise). From experience we could tell which direction the fish were moving when they rose (see a blog post on this subject earlier this year) and that at least helped us narrow the possibilities for our casts. Whether that made a difference or not, I don’t know. I like to think it did.

The fish we landed were not exceptional by Henry’s Fork standards. At least not exceptional in size. But that couldn't have mattered less. They were still wild and hard-won. Trout which took some real catching. The kind of trout which, in our minds, will always be trophies. Especially on the Henry’s Fork.

(Click on View Full Post to see photos.)

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Wild Trout Lose Again

Last month the National Park Service released their Native Fish Conservation Plan, a document that will guide management of the fisheries in Yellowstone Park. Prior to the adoption of this plan, public comment was sought through a variety of venues. Of the thousands of pieces of correspondence received by the Park Service, less than 3% of them objected to the proposed plan. My comments were among those.

I objected to the plan, in part, because one of their projects proposes the eradication of rainbow trout from Trout Lake, a small lake in Yellowstone’s northeast corner that is also home to a fine population of Yellowstone cutthroat trout. This eradication would take place under the guise of “native species management”, that trendy management principle currently running amok in seemingly all agencies that deal with natural resources, fisheries in particular. In the Park Service’s judgment, the rainbows of Trout Lake present an intolerable threat to the genetic purity of the resident cutthroats. Therefore, in the name of native species management, they must be eliminated.

I understand and appreciate the value and role in the world of fish such as the Yellowstone cutthroat, Westslope cutthroat, and Grayling (three species of concern to the Park Service). But that doesn’t mean I will blindly accept actions proposed on their behalf that ignore the realities of the world as they are today. More tellingly, I will not support policies that refuse to acknowledge the arbitrariness of the decision-making process used in establishing management directives.

You see, a species is native only by definition. A point in time is selected—invariably the one which coincides with the appearance on the scene of Euro-American man—and lo and behold, everything in place prior to that is “native”. Okay. I suppose that’s a convenient way to look at it. But it’s also an arbitrary way, one which strikes me as somewhat arrogant. That’s because a definition like this places the human species front and center in the discussion, while at the same time attempting to leave us out of the picture entirely. I don’t think we can have it both ways.

There are other problems involved with this line of thinking as the basis for defining nativity. Using the arrival time of Euro-American man implies that at that point the world was perfect. And that, naturally, this is the state to which we should strive to return. Well, alright. That’s a philosophical issue; no right or wrong here. (I may believe we should strive to return Yellowstone to a point millions of years ago when there were no fish, period. You may favor returning it to, say, 1970, thus defining nativity in yet another way.) The important thing is to acknowledge that whatever choice we make, it’s arbitrary. A value judgment. Because of that, we need to be exceptionally careful when we consider how best to manage a resource.

With respect to Yellowstone’s fisheries, the return point in time selected by the Park (the 1800’s, it appears; the public was never invited to this discussion) also assumes a static world. But we all know the world is ever-changing, with or without us. The existence of a time when all was right with the world—a time that would endure ad infinitum—is fantasy. In the case of the rainbow trout, it’s likely that they would have made it here on their own, given enough time. Just so happens we got here first, and brought them along with us.

Which raises another important matter: the presence and activity of man. Our role in the world—good or bad, like it or not—is as an agent of change. We alter virtually everything in the world we come into contact with. It’s what we’ve always done. If history is any indication, it’s what we’ll always continue to do. Changes we have wrought include, obviously, the relocation of fish species from one place to another.

Back to Trout Lake. Wild rainbow trout have been living there since the 1950’s, ever since it was used as a hatchery for their propagation. Throughout that time, cutthroat have also been present in the lake. To this day—some fifty years later—both the cutthroat and rainbows remain genetically pure. The question naturally arises: Why, then, must the rainbows go? Because in the Park Service’s estimation, they now present a threat to the genetic integrity of the cutthroat. Which is to say that in someone’s opinion, the threat is so serious that every rainbow must be killed. In this day and age, with wild trout populations under fire from many directions, that’s a pretty serious thing. At least I think it is.

So forgive me for objecting to this part of the Park’s plan. But I’m siding with the evidence on the ground as it stands today—that both species of trout in Trout Lake are genetically intact. This, after better than fifty years of co-existence. Yeah, I’ll take that over the all-too-sudden appearance of an opinion crying “serious threat”.

In today’s “enlightened age” it’s unlikely we would plant rainbow trout where cutthroat reside, or stock brown or brook trout where none existed before. But the fact is, that’s what we did. And if these other species aren’t truly “native” to Yellowstone, they are at least naturalized. They’ve now been in the Park longer than any human has been alive. In many places, they are supremely adapted to current environmental conditions—conditions, it’s worth noting, that are significantly different than existed one-hundred-plus years ago. These fully functioning wild trout populations—and they are numerous—are not worth sacrificing for the sake of policies buttressed with suspect philosophical underpinnings. Attempting to turn back the clock to some idealized time in history by the substitution of one species of fish for another is, in my opinion, misguided.

I think a more sensible approach, one which respects our role in the world, is to recognize the value in all the trout species in Yellowstone Park. By all means, let’s take care of the “natives”. But not at the expense of other trout species (exception noted below). Sentencing to death wild, self-sustaining populations because they fail to meet today’s standards of “nativity” resists justification.

I only wish it wasn't too late to chart another course. 

Notes:  Examples of other Park projects that I objected to are the construction of a barrier on Grayling Creek and the poisoning of the Gibbon River system above Gibbon Falls.

I do support all efforts of the Park to remove Lake trout from Yellowstone Lake. This is a special circumstance because of the predator/prey relationship that exists between the Lake trout and Yellowstone cutthroat (as opposed the the situations in Lewis and Shoshone Lakes, where brown trout and lake trout simply co-exist).  

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Using Your Wrist

Yesterday at the Railroad Ranch on the Henry’s Fork, I had the opportunity to watch upwards of forty people cast all variety of bamboo fly rods. Their skill level ranged from average to expert. Since I’m very interested in the mechanics of fly casting, it was a good chance to study a wide range of casting strokes. In the process I couldn’t help but notice—as always—the different ways in which the wrist was employed during the casting stroke. Typical for these gatherings, some folks made more efficient use of their wrist than did others. Proper use of the wrist is an important aspect of an efficient fly casting stroke (the wrist’s purpose is to accelerate the rod), yet it’s a topic not often talked or written about. I hope my thoughts on this might be of interest.

First, a bit of terminology. Hold a fly rod in your hand, thumb on top of the grip. Position your forearm roughly parallel to the ground. Point your rod so that it too is parallel to the ground. Notice your wrist position. This is the “closed” position.

Now raise your arm as if making a backcast of thirty feet or so in length. Your upper arm should be almost parallel with the ground, and your forearm should be vertical. Your rod should be pointing backwards, between the ten and eleven o’clock position. This is an ideal backcast position, one we should all strive for on average length casts in normal circumstances. Look at your wrist. This is the “straight” position.

A simplified description of a fundamentally solid casting stroke goes like this: Begin with the wrist in a closed position, line in front. As the backcast is made, the wrist moves to the straight position. The forecast follows, with the wrist returning to the closed position by the finish of the cast. (Note that most casts start and end with the rod pointing anywhere from the two to five o’clock position, but always with the wrist closed. My description of holding forearm and rod parallel to the ground is only to define the closed wrist position, not to describe the casting arc. On the other hand, my description of the backcast position holds.)

At this point, astute readers and fellow students of casting might be wondering about exactly when the wrist changes positions during the casting stroke. Should the change from closed to straight and then from straight to closed be metered out to occupy the entire length of the stroke? Should it happen in the beginning of the stroke? During the end? This is a critical element regarding the use of the wrist, and it’s here where things get interesting.

One hallmark of the expert caster is efficiency. Toward that end, any given casting movement is best accomplished by employing the largest muscles possible. Therefore, if we restrict the use of the wrist to the beginning of the casting stroke, we are in part using small muscles to accelerate the rod—acceleration that could be accomplished more easily by the larger muscles of the arm. Likewise, if we meter out the use of the wrist throughout the casting stroke, we run into a similar situation. In effect, we “waste” the wrist early on by using it to achieve acceleration that, again, could be done with the larger muscles of the arm. But if we “save” the wrist until the second half of the casting stroke, we can further increase rod acceleration without increasing our arm speed. And that’s efficient. Unsurprisingly, it’s also what many experts do.

Two important points. One, when the wrist is brought to bear during the second half of the stroke, it should be done so in a gradually accelerating manner. In other words, the wrist starts slow and finishes fast (the same way the arm moves during the casting stroke). Second, when final acceleration is achieved by using the wrist as opposed to the arm, ceasing that movement abruptly—as we must for an efficient cast—becomes much easier. This is because it requires less effort to stop our wrist than it does our entire arm (which is what we would have to do if we relied only on the arm for all acceleration). It’s a little discussed point in fly casting, but deceleration can be as important as acceleration in making the efficient cast.

Amateur anglers employ their wrist in various ways. Mostly though, they seem to spread the effort of the wrist over the length of the stroke. While less than ideal, this is not a fatal casting flaw. It’s just a bit less efficient. For many fishing situations, you could even say it’s inconsequential. But it is one of the many refinements that separate the amateur from the expert caster.

You can analyze how you use your wrist by paying attention to it as you cast, by video analysis, or by having someone knowledgeable watch you cast. Often, a combination of these works best. If becoming a more complete fly caster (especially at distance) is important to you, this is one detail that deserves your close attention.

(As a side note, I have purposely avoided discussion about “drift” and the role the wrist plays in it. I’ve done this to keep the article simpler. Perhaps more on drift another time.)

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A Rod for Distance

It’s a widely held tenet in fly fishing that most fish (especially trout) are caught at fairly close range. Say, somewhere between fifteen and fifty feet from the angler. I won’t quarrel with these figures and I don’t know too many other anglers that would, either. But as fly fishing is such a varied pursuit, exceptions exist to almost every truism. Naturally, the distance at which we catch fish is among these. There are times when the ability to fish at great distance is critical, times when success is more a function of distance than anything else.

Real distance work (casting over eighty feet) requires special tools, none more important than the rod. Since most fly rods are designed—rightly so—to fish at much closer range, it’s not all that easy to find a great distance rod. (It’s a thin market to begin with, so it’s no fault of the rod companies in failing to address it.) Nevertheless, what if you need, or simply want, a rod capable of great distance? Here is one I can recommend unequivocally: the Sage ZXL 9’ 5-weight.

This particular rod is not designed specifically for distance casting (not many five-weights are), but in my opinion it has no higher use. Yes, it will function acceptably at normal fishing distances, better than most even, but it lacks the in-close feel (like most modern rods) that would make it truly noteworthy. This isn’t a surprise; no one rod can be expected to do everything well. But if this model isn’t quite the cat’s meow at twenty feet, well, it certainly is at one hundred feet. It’s not just good at this distance, it is superb. (Anyone who knows me knows I don’t offer up this adjective lightly. In fact, for many folks this will be their first time seeing me use the words “superb” and “rod” together.)

It’s unfortunate that a fluke of design is likely responsible for the ZXL’s distance casting ability—an unintended byproduct in the pursuit of another agenda—but, well, that’s the way it is. What matters more is that this is a superior distance rod; the best I’ve seen in a long, long time. Intentional or not, I’ll take it.

What is it that separates this rod from others, especially other Sage models? The difference is this: the ZXL has tremendous power. Power that is fully developed at distances over sixty feet. Now, if you’re like me and read the advertising copy from Sage and various other rodmakers, you might surmise that there are, in fact, plenty of powerful rods being made today. There are not. Most of today’s rods lack power; they are merely stiff. (Here, it is critical to understand that stiffness and power are not the same thing. But conflating stiffness with power is such a common mistake among amateur and professional fishermen alike that I feel it necessary to point out that they are not the same thing. On this subject, more in a future article.)

The action of this ZXL is extremely smooth. The designer has shaped the bend nicely throughout its length, though again this isn’t wholly apparent until casting sixty feet or further. When subjected to the stresses of casting a long line, the upper third of the rod takes a backseat to the middle and butt—precisely as it should. (This is where most rods fail; they are built with butt sections that refuse to accept their share of the casting load, pushing it up the rod to sections that cannot handle it.) The feeling the ZXL delivers is one of a rod loading where it should, when it should, and to an ideal degree for a given length of line. By contributing substantially to the cast, the rod minimizes the effort required from the caster. And that’s exactly how a fly rod should work.

So if you need extreme distance from a five-weight fly rod, be it in your fishing or on the practice field, this is one rod that will deliver it. In this day and age, I think that’s a feat worth talking about.
 

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A Trophy of a Different Sort

My brother, Tom, caught this magnificent sucker specimen yesterday while braving the spring runoff. Unfortunately, my sucker identification skills have lapsed, and in the process of photographing this fish I didn't look at it closely enough to gather the details important in determining the species.  But based on its large size and what the photograph does show, I believe it to be a Utah sucker.  In any event, ain't it a beauty?       

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