Essays & Opinion

Another Chinook on the way

I intended to fish today. I got up early this morning and walked dogs. The winds were coming strong from the south, but I was hoping they'd calm from the 20mph gusts at 5 a.m.and allow me to fish midges around noon.

After a long walk with Leksie and Finn I returned home. I went over a power point presentation I am scheduled to present in Phoenix and Salt Lake City during the next 10 days. I got caught up on some correspondence, tied a few Scotty's MIdges and when Jackie got up I helped her with breakfast, all the while keeping an eye on the trees above the house for signs the winds might drop. Their branches still waving wildly in the gale force wind I knew fishing would not be in the cards for me today when I looked last at 10 a.m. 

I sorted some hunting photos of elk season 2011. I remembered I'd forgotten to write a paragraph in our 2012 catalogue in my "Year in Review" portion on my 33rd elk season. Many readers have bugged me about not including an elk report in this year's catalogue. A few readers thought I'd finally struck out after 32 consecutive years taking that many bulls in a row. I admit, up until the last day of the season I'd been resigned that I was not going to score a bull; I was not going to take my 33rd bull in as many years. The 5 week long Montana elk season had been warm with little snow to move animals down from the high country. During the season I'd hunted as hard as I had ever hunted during those 33 years and I think I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for myself. I'd had a couple chances on bulls; one time my gun misfired when I had snuck up on 3 bedded bulls and surprised them in their day beds. Another time I bumbled into a couple bulls feeding in an open meadow just before legal shooting hours and watched them run off at less than 50 yards. And sadly, we lost our 13 year old male shorthair Taz early in the season and even though I continued to hunt hard I sort of muddled around in the elk woods all season missing the old boy and thinking of all the great birds hunts and times we'd shared over the years. When the last day of the elk season rolled around on November 27th I started up the mountain at 6a.m.determined to have a good day no matter what.

At first light I had a small bull at 200 yards. He disappeared behind a ridge before I could get set-up. At 9 a.m. I looked far down into an open meadow across the deep-dark canyon I was straddling and saw a 5 point bull elk with several cows and calves. I knew it was a steep-long trek down and across the canyon but it was looking like the only chance I might have on this last day of elk season. So, down I went. Half hour later I had snuck within 50 yards of the bull and 3 hours later I walked out of the woods with his antlers over my pack. 33 bulls in 33 years and we are enjoying elk steaks through the winter.

Back to today. Due to the huge winds ending my plan of an afternoon of fishing I decided to tie flies, all day. I selfishly tied for myself today, for my own fly boxes and not for the shop. I tied Nick's new PMD Soft Hackle Emergers, Soft Hackle Midge Emergers, Scotty's and Zelon Midges and Baetis Improved Sparkle Duns. I broke out a new piece of sparkle dun deer and a fresh Hungarian Partridge skin, some new zelon and a couple of our latest hen necks for more soft hackles. I had a fine day. Jackie and I ended it with a long-difficult cross country ski late this afternoon. 

Stay tuned here for midge fishing reports late this coming week. A Chinook wind is arriving by week's end and with it temps are forecasted to rise into the 40's and we will again be on the river, I guarantee!

Some Analysis of the Casting Stroke

Here’s a brief video demonstrating the fly casting stroke at two distances, approximately 20 feet and 50 feet. Following are some observations and analysis regarding a few aspects of the stroke.

Note the length of my casting stroke. It is a short stroke for the 20 foot cast, longer for the 50 foot cast. It is essential to understand that the length of the casting stroke is a function of the length of line being cast. The rule is this: Short line, short stroke. Longer line, longer stroke. (Most amateurs employ a one-length-fits-all casting stroke, which causes many problems.) Remember that any time you change casting distance, you must also change the length of your stroke.

The shape of the casting stroke—the path the hand and arm travel along—never changes. Ever. Only the length of the stroke changes. I cannot stress this enough: Short line, short stroke. Longer line, longer stroke. The shape of the stroke never changes.

My rod, hand, forearm, and upper arm are aligned in one plane, in this case the vertical plane. Form like this promotes accuracy and efficiency. If you have to drop the rod to the side—say, because of wind—that’s quite alright. Just be sure to keep your rod, hand and forearm in the same plane, at whatever angle is necessary to make the cast.

In a fundamentally solid casting stroke, there is no pushing or pulling motion with the hand and arm, and no excessive wristiness. You can see in the video that the casting stroke is really an up-and-down motion. The push-and-pull, parallel-to-the-ground movement employed by most anglers is less than ideal.

Along these lines, note the vertical movement of my elbow; it goes up on the backcast, and down on the forecast. This is an integral movement in all fly casts shorter than about 90 feet. (At extreme distances, the elbow moves up on both parts of the cast.) This elbow movement is more easily seen as I make the 50 foot cast (since the overall stroke is longer), but it is still present in the 20 foot cast. Look closely and you’ll see it. Strive to incorporate this up-and-down motion in your own casting. If you do it properly, you’ll eliminate tailing loops forever.

Digging a little deeper, you might notice that when I bring my wrist to bear it’s done so in the second half of the casting stroke (again, this is more obvious in the 50 foot cast). Good fly casters do this because it further accelerates the rod without requiring further acceleration of the arm. That contributes greatly to efficient (read easy) casting. For a more detailed look at this part of the stroke, see my earlier blog post titled, Using Your Wrist.

That’s a short look at some of the most important elements of the casting stroke. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them in the comments section and I’ll try to address them.

As a side note, some viewers may be struck by the apparent quick tempo of my casting, even in slow motion. It appears this way because the video was shot in a very strong headwind. Since the wind was helping extend my backcast behind me far faster than normal, I didn’t need to pause as long before beginning the forecast.

You can see the effect of the wind by looking at the difference in how my rod flexes on the backcast and forecast of the 50 foot cast. It barely loads on the backcast because the wind is aiding everything so much. But look at the bend in the rod (just above the grip) as I bring my wrist into play on the forecast. I am accelerating the rod with a great deal of force here in order to provide the line with sufficient speed to turn over into the wind.

For another look at a powerful, compact casting stroke, I suggest this video of Chris Korich.  Casting strokes are like golf swings—no two are identical, but the good ones all share the important fundamental elements.    

Exploring New Water

As another fishing season slowly winds down here in Yellowstone country, I’ve found myself thinking back over my two seasons here at Blue Ribbon. Of all the things I’ve enjoyed about being here, the one that stands out most is exploring the vast amounts of trout water that are so relatively close to home. Growing up in eastern Pennsylvania, I did a lot of trout fishing, but I was limited to spending most of my time on the same three or four streams in the Philadelphia suburbs. When I went to college in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, I was suddenly surrounded by dozens of beautiful mountain brook trout streams, and I loved having a lot more places to fish. Coming to Yellowstone for the first time last summer, I was blown away by how many fishing options exist here. So, I’ve made it a point to fish as many new places as possible each season, while still leaving time to revisit some more familiar spots as well.

We are lucky to have so many different types of water here, and consequently we have many different types of fishing. In my opinion, this is one of the best parts of the Yellowstone fly-fishing experience: being able to constantly experience new and different things. We have tons of backcountry water to explore, as well as hundreds of more accessible miles of rivers to fish. We have beautiful lakes, tumbling mountain creeks, meandering meadow streams, big rivers, and everything in between. Why not spend some time exploring these places?

I understand that not everyone is capable of walking five or 10 miles into the middle of nowhere to search out obscure, rarely-fished waters, and that’s fine. I’m not necessarily talking about extreme backcountry trips, but rather a more general form of exploration. Sure, for some people that is what exploring means, but for others, it may be walking a quarter- or half-mile downstream from access points to see some new water. For some fisherman, this may mean trying a new type of fishing, like renting a boat and fishing one of the local lakes for a day, or coming at a different time of year than usual. And for yet another group of anglers, exploring may simply mean parking at the next pull-out and fishing a few hundred yards up or downstream, rather than fishing the same few runs each day.

The bottom line is, fishing new water can be extremely rewarding. Don’t get me wrong; I have my favorite spots like everyone else that I keep going back to, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. And if, like many of our customers, I were only here for a few days, I would certainly want to stick with places that I know best and have confidence in. But next time you’re here, if you have some time to spare and find yourself considering something a little different, go for it. Stop by the shop and we’ll point you towards something new. Or pull out a topographical map, find a spot that looks interesting, and go see what’s there. Not every trip will be a resounding success, but then maybe with this sort of fishing (or any kind of fishing, really), success shouldn’t be defined just by how many fish are caught or how big they are. There is a certain satisfaction in checking out a new place or putting in a little extra effort to get somewhere that is off the beaten path. If you’re willing to explore a little, you may find a new favorite place or two that you’ll go back to for years to come. 

A Lesson From the Gibbon

Last Wednesday afternoon I went fishing on the Gibbon River. The day was vintage September, bathed in the warmth of Indian summer, rich with blue sky, and nary a breath of wind.

I had chosen the Gibbon for two reasons. One, I hadn’t yet fished it this year. Two, last week marked my thirty-sixth season of fishing Yellowstone Park, and I felt a need to contemplate that passage of time on one of the first rivers that I fished here. So off to the Gibbon it was.

Driving up from Madison Junction I saw few anglers on the river, and I stopped next to a stretch of pretty pocket-water below Gibbon Falls. I strung my rod, pulled on waders, and walked down to the water. It looked inviting alright, just as it did all those years ago. I thought briefly about my first trip to the Park, fishing with my brother and a close friend. We were young then—I was still in high school—and we lacked experience, but the Gibbon was a river that had graciously provided us a modicum of success.

Still strolling memory lane, I began casting to a juicy-looking run that shelved off into a pool of some depth. My fly of choice was a big beetle, given to me by a friend some years prior, and as yet unfished. I made eight or ten casts into the teeth of the run, each drift ripe with expectation, but moved no fish. Wading upstream, I suddenly spooked a sizable brown from alongside a log near my feet. He had been lying in roughly a foot of water.

At that moment I snapped back to the present, and I remembered something I’d learned about the Gibbon over the past thirty-six years. It is this: Rarely is the best-looking water the most productive. Odd, I know, but that’s how it seems to be here.

I think one reason for this is that the Gibbon is essentially brown trout water. And brown trout by their very nature like to feed in off-beat lies. Not bad or second-class lies, mind you, but simply the less-than-obvious spots that frequently get overlooked by anglers. Since the Gibbon has plenty of irresistible textbook runs and pools, it’s easy to fall into a routine of fishing just those spots. But the attentive angler will also fish the shallow pockets formed by rocks and/or weedbeds, the grassy banks where the water appears too shallow (it isn’t), alongside the many logs that grace the banks, and all side channels no matter how tiny.

For the next couple hours, that’s exactly what I did. I probed every obscure, out-of-the-way lie I came across with that big black beetle. A number of them gave up beautiful brown trout. (I still fished the deep runs and pools, too—they’re so seductive how could I not, even knowing better—and I had my usual success. Which is to say very little.)

So the next time you find yourself on the Gibbon, you might think about working all the possible lies, if you’re not already doing so. If your experience is anything like mine has been over the years, you’ll be glad you did.

Incidentally, when I was done with my day and reflecting back on what had transpired, it occurred to me that the biggest fish I’d seen was the one I spooked at the start. Despite the accumulation of thirty-six years of experience and (I hope) knowledge, some things in fishing never change.  May it always be so.

Click on view full post to see a couple photos from the day.             

How to Cast 15 Feet

The Federation of Fly Fishermen just wrapped up their annual conclave here in West Yellowstone, and among other activities, there was a lot of fly casting going on. Never one to ignore such a thing, I watched the proceedings with great interest. The wide variety of casting skills I saw on display reminded me—as they always do—that one of the most difficult things to do in all of fly fishing is to cast fifteen feet.

Fifteen feet? Am I kidding? No. And I’m not being snide, either. I’m simply talking about casting a fly accurately to a target fifteen feet away from where you stand via a tightly driven loop of line and/or leader. (Actually, we could extend this distance to 20 or 25 feet and for the majority of anglers it would still remain one of the hardest casts to pull off.)

Try it yourself. If you find that you can cast fifteen to twenty feet—including leader—repeatedly, accurately, with a tight loop, in the presence of wind, congratulations. You know a thing or two about fly casting. Indeed, you are casting better than 98% of all fishermen.

What makes the short cast so difficult? There are a variety of reasons, but the primary one is the use of a casting stroke which is too long for the length of line being cast.

For maximum efficiency and effectiveness, a given length of line requires a given length casting stroke. When the length of the cast changes, so too must the length of the stroke. There is a simple tenet regarding this concept that every angler should know.  It goes like this: Short line, short stroke. Longer line, longer stroke.

Here’s how it works in practice. When casting, if you find your line and/or leader turning over in a wide, lazy loop and piling up in a heap (when you don’t intentionally want it to), odds are good that your stroke is too long. Shorten it until you find yourself forming a nice, tight loop that drives the fly to the target. Conversely, if you find that your line and/or leader are crashing onto the water before they unroll completely, lengthen your stroke. (Virtually every student I’ve ever instructed to cast short has needed to shorten their stroke; look to that first if you try this.)

Ultimately, we’re seeking the stroke length that delivers the fly to the target with a tight loop, turning over a foot or so above the water. In this way we can achieve great accuracy and also render irrelevant any wind that may be present. Watch your line unroll as you cast—it will always tell you whether you need to shorten or lengthen your stroke. Importantly, one thing you will never need to do is use more effort. Casting short is not about effort; it is about finding and using the right length stroke.

Of course, both the adjustments I’m suggesting assume that our other casting fundamentals are fairly solid. Most important among these is that the elbow of the casting arm moves up on the backcast, and down on the forecast. (In the near future, I’ll try to post a video showing all these concepts in action.)

Casting fifteen feet should not be one one of the most difficult feats in fly fishing; it should be among the easiest.  You can make it that way by remembering to employ the right length casting stroke.

Notes on Fiberglass

For some time, Bucky has been asking me if I’d write a blog post about the Hardy and Diamondback fiberglass rods carried by Blue Ribbon. He is quite a fan of both, and regularly fishes a Diamondback. I’ve been putting him off for a while now, but for no reason other than to spend a little more time evaluating the various models and collecting my thoughts. Ordinarily, I’d prefer to write complete evaluations about each of the following rods, but for the sake of brevity I’m going to limit myself to a few comments about each rod.

Before I start there’s one point I’d like to make. The recent resurgence in fiberglass rods has once again got people talking about “fiberglass” action, just as they often talk of “bamboo” and “graphite” action. There is no such thing. Not for fiberglass, bamboo or graphite. A rod’s action—the bend it assumes under load—is a function of design, not of material. In the hands of a knowledgeable rod designer, any of the aforementioned materials can be used to make rods with any kind of action. (Bamboo and fiberglass weigh more than graphite, and longer length rods built with these materials often exhibit a degree of self-weight momentum. This is often confused with—but is not the same as—the action of the rod.)

There are three models of Hardy fiberglass in the shop: 7’ - #3, 7.5’ - #4 and 8’ - #5.

The 8’ model is a superior rod, and I think the best of the three. It demonstrates excellent communication in close, it’s silky smooth at normal fishing distances, and when asked to go a bit long easily incorporates the butt section to carry the extra load. There is never a need to modify your casting stroke or to exercise care in where you place the casting load in this rod. It manipulates line easily, and can protect fine tippets as well. Rod material notwithstanding, it’s one of the best designed rods available today.

The 7.5’ rod is excellent, too. In close and at normal fishing distances, it is the equal of the 8’ model. For casts longer than 45 feet you will have to exercise some care with this rod, as the tip and middle are not as accepting of the additional load. (But casting over 45’ is really outside this rod’s purview anyway, so I don’t consider this a problem.)

The 7’ rod lacks the in-close communication of the other two models. In a rod designed for close work, this is a real negative. Owing to its relative stiffness, it is also not nearly as easy a casting rod as the other two. (I put a #4 line on this rod and it was much improved in this regard. So, to me, this is a #4 rod, not a #3.)

Blue Ribbon carries two models of Diamondback fiberglass rods: 8’ - #4 and 8.5’ - #4.

The 8’ rod lacks communication when used with a #4 line, especially at close and mid-range. At distance it’s a bit better in this regard but, truth be told, for efficient casting this should really be considered a 5-weight rod. With a #5 line on it this rod is excellent at everything short of distance work. I rank it just a hair behind the 8’ - #5 Hardy (because the Hardy requires no care in casting, even at distance). The overall appearance of this rod is not as aesthetically pleasing as that of the Hardy, but that’s at least partly due to the fact it’s $125.00 less expensive.

The 8.5’ Diamondback is really a #5 rod masquerading as a #4. If you use this rod with a #4 line—which you can do—you will end up expending more effort in casting than would be necessary if the rod were truly a #4. But as with the 8’ model, put a #5 line on this rod and it is much improved. The rod contributes more to the cast, and the in-close feel is far better. At 8.5 feet, the weight of this rod is noticeable during casting, as is the self-weight momentum (a feeling of heaviness in the hand, as the already slow action is somewhat exacerbated by the weight and length of the blank itself).

In summary, the 8’ Hardy and 8’ Diamondback (both used with #5 lines) and the 7.5’ - #4 Hardy are superior rods. Not superior fiberglass rods, mind you, but superior rods regardless of material. If the lengths and weights of these rods suit your needs, I strongly recommend comparing them to any of today’s graphite or bamboo rods.

Amateurs and Experts:  Exploring the Differences between them

Virtually every summer weekend it’s possible to turn on the television and watch a PGA golf tournament. By and large, these tournaments feature the best golfers in the world. The skills these golfers demonstrate are numerous, impressive, and subject to endless analysis. If you play also, it’s easy to see how your game stacks up against theirs. And after watching the professionals hit the ball, I’m very much aware that I play the game nowhere near their level. Striking the ball cleanly—time and again—is but one reason they’re professionals and the rest of us aren’t, and this can be seen clearly during every telecast.

Things are a little different in the sport of fly fishing. Opportunities to watch expert fly fishermen are scarce. Not only because real experts are a rare commodity to begin with, but also because there aren’t any readily available forums for watching them. Forget the TV fishing shows and almost all fishing videos—they seldom showcase expert anglers. Even when they do, it’s tough to truly appreciate their skills. Too much of what separates the expert from the amateur doesn’t translate well to the screen.

To gain appreciation for the skills of an expert, I think you pretty much have to stand alongside one, watching as he or she fishes. Of course, this isn’t easy to do either. But not having the chance to watch an expert has never kept the amateur angler from wondering, how do they fish differently than me?

Here are a few thoughts, based on observations I’ve made over the years. (Incidentally, I know the terms “amateur” and “expert” aren’t exactly opposites and that they’re also subject to definition. Let’s just say the experts are those operating at the highest levels of skill with respect to knowledge and ability, and that the amateurs are somewhere beneath that—usually quite far beneath. In golf terms, think pro golfer versus a 15 handicapper.)

One of the most significant differences between expert fly fishermen and amateurs lies in the level of respect they accord their quarry. Not respect in the conventional sense of, say, honoring and appreciating fish as symbols of the wild (I would hope anglers of all skill levels bring this to the sport), but rather respect in the sense of understanding that the fish they’re trying to catch are wild.

Most wild animals, fish included, possess formidable survival instincts. Instincts that in varying degrees make them difficult to find, approach, fool, and capture. Expert anglers understand this completely. Indeed, their approach to fishing is deeply informed by the knowledge that in order to capture a wild trout (especially a larger specimen), an essential first step is respecting its wildness.

In that regard, amateurs generally fail. They don’t fully appreciate the fact that wild trout behavior is all about survival, and not about offering themselves up for our angling pleasure. Because of this amateurs end up committing many errors in their fishing, including but not limited to questionable tackle choice, careless approaches, and poor fly presentation. Though it may seem as if respect has nothing to do with this, on a very fundamental level it has everything to do with it.

Expertise can be thought of as a combination of knowledge and ability. In an expert angler knowledge is multifaceted. There is the conceptual knowledge of fly fishing itself—understanding the various methods and tactics that may be employed, equipment theory, etc. There is specific knowledge of fish species—where they live, how they behave, when they feed, what kind of food they eat. Also, there is a deep knowledge of additional factors that affect fishing such as weather, water conditions, insects and/or other food items.

This knowledge base is sometimes overlooked as part of the expert’s skill set. This is due partly, I think, to the fact that you can’t see it. And owing to individual personality, there’s often no inkling of it even when talking face to face with an expert. It’s always present, however, and before their first cast is ever made this knowledge has been brought to bear in deciding where to fish, when to fish, and how to fish. That’s why more often than not an expert ends up in the right place at the right time.

Ability can entail many things. It can be a physical skill, such as superior casting. It can be manifested as a mental skill; the capacity for long periods of intense concentration is an example. Often, an expert ability includes both mental and physical aspects. The power of observation is one of these.

Experts are observant by nature. They’re in touch with their surroundings. They consistently see things that escape the notice of the amateurs. One reason for this is that the best anglers have exceptional eyesight. Another is that they possess the cognitive ability to interpret the significance of what their eyes see—around the water, on the water, and in the water. Add together good eyes, strong cognitive powers and many years of experience, and you end up with powers of observation that vastly exceed those of the amateur. Specific examples of skillful observation can include spotting fish underwater, correctly interpreting fish behavior, observing subtle rises and other signs of feeding activity. In the case of selective feeding, it can mean figuring out which particular food item the fish are taking.

Stealth is another skill with both mental and physical attributes, and it’s one that experts possess in spades. Stealth can take many forms—crawling unobserved through minimal cover to approach a fish, wading a pool without disturbance, remaining motionless for minutes at a time while stalking fish. Different kinds of fishing often require different degrees of stealth. The ability to recognize this and employ just the right amount in any given situation is another quality that separates the expert from the amateur.

Closely related to stealth is patience. I consider patience primarily a mental faculty, and the ability to incorporate it to the degree required is a hallmark of the expert angler. Like stealth, patience can be manifested in many ways. Maybe it’s in waiting on the weather, or waiting on a hatch. Maybe it’s in waiting for a big fish to establish a regular feeding rhythm before casting to it. Patience also plays an important role when it comes to fighting fish—especially big fish.

When it comes to employing the right amounts of observation, stealth, and patience, amateur anglers frequently come up short. Some of this is due merely to inexperience. A large part of it, however, appears bound up in the all-to-common notion that if we’re not standing in the water actively casting, then we’re not fishing. But here the expert can teach us a valuable lesson: observation is fishing. How much is necessary may change with every situation, but the need for it never—I repeat, never—goes away.

Casting is perhaps the most important physical skill in fly fishing. (There is a mental aspect here as well, but for our purposes we’ll ignore it.) That the expert casts better than the amateur is a given. But what, exactly, does “better” mean? There isn’t a simple answer here, since a number of interrelated elements are always involved in casting. Let’s look at a few of them.

When it comes to the mechanics of casting, the expert’s form is generally faultless. Their casting strokes are built from fundamentally sound, repeatable movements. Good casting fundamentals are important because they allow complete control of the fly line—from altering the size and shape of the casting loop to adjusting the line’s speed, direction, placement and manipulation on the water. Experts can perform all the necessary casts and line maneuvers required for effective fly presentation. On the other hand, amateur’s strokes suffer almost universally from any number of technical flaws.

Another part of expert-level fly casting is the ability to maintain an awareness about what’s occurring in the space between the fisherman and the fish. Experts pay close attention to the water and its movement, always considering the effects it may have on the line, leader, and fly. They’ll note the presence of wind—its strength, direction, consistency. They may consider such factors as the angle of the sun in relation to the fish. These things are taken into account before the first cast is made, because they serve to inform about exactly what kind of cast will be required.

Experts will ask themselves if a straight-line cast is okay, or whether slack is necessary. If slack is called for, how much and where in the cast should it be positioned? How much line speed is needed to achieve the correct distance, or to counteract the wind? Should the fly land hard to the water? Softly? Is there a risk that the rod or line will spook the fish? Whatever the situation, experts are always thinking ahead. If several different kinds of cast could work, the expert invariably chooses the easiest one.

In contrast, amateurs all too frequently cast first (from wherever they happen to be standing at the moment) and make adjustments later, after the need for them has become obvious. Even when the subsequent adjustments are correct they often come too late to matter. The fish have already been alerted to the angler’s presence, put down, or spooked completely.

Accuracy is a critical element of casting. Unsurprisingly, experts exhibit a substantially greater degree of it than do amateurs. Put simply, they can deliver the fly where it needs to go. More subtly, they can put the fly where it needs to go on the first cast. Most fishermen know that the opportunity to catch a fish is never better than on the initial cast, which is why the experts are always working to make their first cast their best cast.

Let’s remember, however, that no one is perfect. We all make errant casts. It’s just that when the experts err it’s generally done in a way that doesn’t cost them a chance at a fish. For instance, when casting to a rising trout the expert typically misses short or wide, keeping the fly and leader away from the fish. He’ll also miss with delicacy, avoiding crashing the line or leader on the water. Done this way it’s possible to get numerous chances at a given fish. Amateurs often lack the ability to make repeated casts close enough to a fish to catch it without alerting it to their presence or spooking it outright.

The ability to cast long distances is commonly held as a quality that separates experts from amateurs. But I don’t think you have to be able to cast long distances (for discussion’s sake, say over 80 feet with a 5-weight outfit) to be considered an expert angler. Distance isn’t everything. Yet the creme de la creme of experts certainly can cast long, and in the right place at the right time they benefit greatly from that ability.

It’s sort of like the pro golf tour. Every player on the tour is an expert golfer, but not every one of them will be a tournament winner. That’s because they often lack one or more of the little extra skills that puts a player on top. For fly fishermen, the ability to cast extreme distances is one of those little extra skills. While it guarantees nothing and isn’t required often, when it is required nothing can replace it. So while anglers that can’t cast long may still be experts, they’re a definite notch below those who can.

Another difference between experts and amateurs lies in their understanding of tackle. Experts own and employ the right equipment for the type of fishing they’re doing. That means the right rod, reel, line, and leader. They know how it functions together and they also know its limits. This is important in every step of the fishing process, but especially critical when it comes to fighting fish.

Knowing the maximum amount of pressure that can be applied to a fish, and knowing when and how to apply it are subtle skills that the experts have acquired and refined. Amateurs generally lack knowledge about the limits of their tackle and the physical feeling of operating at the edge of those limits. Consequently they frequently make mistakes when fighting fish. Perhaps the most common is that of underplaying the fish—failing to push their tackle near enough to its breaking point. This unnecessarily gives fish more time and opportunity to escape and also adds to the physical stress they must endure.

Of course, there are many other differences between the amateurs and experts. It’s unfortunate that we lack better opportunities to watch the experts in person, because that’s the one place where you can gain an appreciation for what’s really possible in this sport. Should you ever have the chance to watch or fish with an expert, I’d recommend jumping at it. Pay close attention to what they do, and I’m certain your own fishing will benefit tremendously.
 

Pick A Hopper, Any Hopper:  Why The One You Choose Doesn’t Matter

 

A widely held belief in fly fishing is that fly pattern matters. Matters in the sense that success is dependent on having the right fly. In fact, an unwavering belief in the importance of fly pattern is practically a given in this sport: Tie on the right fly and you’ll catch fish. Not catching fish? Obviously, you don’t have the right fly. But considering the myriad of other factors involved, the premise that the fly makes the difference, that it alone determines whether or not we catch fish, is suspect. And never more so than when it comes to grasshopper patterns.

Ah, yes, hoppers. Favorites among anglers, those. After all, they come in limitless shapes, sizes, and colors. They appeal equally to our inner shopper and our sense of hope. Who among us hasn’t salivated over the variety of patterns available in fly shops and catalogs? What fly tier hasn’t spent time devising his or her own hopper, all the while envisioning boundless success? If only we can see our way to choosing or tying the right pattern, no trout anywhere are safe.

Well, not to rain on anyone’s parade, but it doesn’t really work that way. At least in my experience. Here’s why I think the hopper we choose is irrelevant to success.

Let’s assume that we’re hopper fishing on a popular river like the Madison. Let’s also assume that being preoccupied with watching our hopper drift along on the current leaves us unaware of events taking place beneath the surface. Say now that we catch some fish. Enough to give us confidence that the hopper we used was the right one—a real killer, indeed. Afterwards, we tell all who will listen that we’ve got the must-have fly, the hot fly.

But I wonder if you’d still feel that way if you knew that only one out of three or four fish that showed interest in your fly actually took it? I know I wouldn’t. I’d be questioning my choice of fly. Yet, refusals are inevitable when hopper fishing. They’re an everyday, common occurrence, and they always outnumber takes.

How do I know this? From spending lots of time sight-fishing. Some forty years worth, actually. (I offer this not by way of braggadocio, but merely to point out that, as Yogi Berra so famously remarked, you can observe a lot by watching. And observing underwater events—a necessary part of sight-fishing—can change the way we think about this sport and influence the conclusions we draw about it.) What my experience shows is that for every fish that takes a hopper, as many as three or four will refuse it.

I like to think that if most anglers were aware of this, their enthusiasm for particular patterns would diminish quickly. Mine certainly has.

When we fail to see refusals to our fly, we often end up drawing conclusions about fly pattern based only on those fish that rise and take. We don’t know anything else because we can’t see anything else. So we catch some fish and assume blithely that we’ve got the right fly. But our successful day (insert your own number of fish caught) doesn’t look quite the same if achieving it requires three to four times as many fish looking at our fly. Evaluating hopper effectiveness isn’t about the absolute number of fish caught, but rather the proportion of fish that took versus those that just looked. (It’s not my intention here to slight any degree of success. Catching fish is still the point, regardless of how many refusals we might incur in the process. I’m just saying that whether you’ve caught two fish or twenty-two, a particular hopper pattern isn’t responsible.)

Indeed, since a trout can only take the fly that’s tied to our line, belief in that fly as the limiting factor becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s only when we become aware of the refusals as well as the takes that we can begin to judge fly pattern fairly. In my own fishing one thing I always try to do is be cognizant of matters above and below the water’s surface. Consequently, I’ve become acutely aware that no matter what hopper I fish, refusals aplenty will result. Refusals that run the gamut from the briefest nod or twitch of the fins to those where a trout drifts backwards for several feet, mere inches from the fly, inspecting and finally dismissing it.

Because of this experience, I consider all hopper patterns to be equal. They all work and they all fail. Which is exactly why I don’t think it matters which one you choose to use. Of great interest to me is why this is so.

One possible explanation may lie with the natural hoppers themselves. They’re good sized insects, and rainbow and brown trout often develop caution towards big, floating flies like hoppers and stoneflies. Even though they eat them both, it is seldom with abandon. (I’ve said for years—only half kiddingly—that trout actually hate salmonflies. Given a choice between a salmonfly and a smaller food item like a caddisfly, they’ll almost always choose the smaller fly.) Certainly there are times when trout do feed avidly on stoneflies and hoppers, but it seems that those times are more the exception than the rule. All of which suggests that catching fish is dictated by something other than fly pattern. Interestingly, cutthroat trout seem to have an innate attraction to large floating objects, which renders fly pattern immaterial to them as well, but from a completely different perspective.

Something else I’ve noticed is that once a fish has refused a hopper imitation, changing patterns seldom elicits further interest, let alone a strike. It seems to me that, on any given day, fish are either hopper takers or not. This again points to something other than fly pattern as the determining factor in whether or not a fish takes a hopper.

Another observation: After spending a fair amount of time guiding on the Madison River and even more time listening to other guide and angler reports, it seems to me that when hopper fishing is good, it’s good for everyone. And that when it’s bad, it’s bad for everyone. Hopper pattern doesn’t seem to matter, nor does the skill of the angler. (With hundreds of anglers a day fishing the Madison, we can be certain a variety of hoppers are getting a workout, with varying levels of expertise.) And though a skilled fisherman invariably catches more fish than an unskilled one, success—or lack thereof—seems to remain relative. I admit that this good-for-all, bad-for-all assertion may be seen as pure conjecture, but you’d be surprised at how often this scenario plays out. Not just on the Madison, either.

Concerning angling skill, if hopper pattern was in fact responsible for our success, we should see it manifested in the results of anglers with dissimilar skills. For instance, an average angler with the “magic” hopper (one capable of actually attracting fish) should be able to out-fish an expert who lacks the same hopper. And a rank beginner should catch more fish than someone of moderate ability. But this isn’t what happens. Ever. What does happen is that over the course of a day fish are caught in direct proportion to an angler’s ability. Similarly, in the hands of an expert the “magic” hopper should never fail. But at various times and for whatever reasons, all hoppers do.

It’s often thought that fishing pressure is a factor in the productivity of fly patterns. The point generally raised is that hard-fished trout, having been caught and released a number of times, become wary of certain flies and learn to avoid them. While I think this is possible, I don’t think it’s the case with hoppers. That’s because, as I alluded to earlier, hopper fishing success seems to run on a much broader scale. It’s less about an individual fish taking or refusing a hopper, and more about how a population of fish feel about hoppers on a given day.

If we accept the premise that pattern doesn’t matter, what then? Do we simply pick a favorite hopper and fish it exclusively? Sure, we could do that, but I can think of several reasons why we shouldn’t. None that pertain to the trout, mind you, but rather ones that have everything to do with us as humans.

For starters, carrying a number of different hoppers allows us to change patterns when the fishing is slow. Even though I believe this doesn’t matter to the fish, switching patterns is still useful because it serves to reignite our interest. Suddenly, we fish with more concentration. Our casting has renewed purpose. Our presentations improve. And lo and behold, quite frequently we catch a trout.

Catching a fish right after a fly change may be seen as a direct repudiation of my premise. We changed flies, caught a fish, ergo the fly mattered. But I contend that what caught that fish was not the new fly, but a better presentation aided by renewed focus. We can never know for sure, but the weight of evidence over my years of fishing suggests to me that the act of changing flies, far more than the specific fly we change to, is what’s important.

Another reason to carry different kinds of hoppers is to help cope with visibility issues. Not visibility of our flies to the fish; they don’t need our help. Rather, visibility of the fly to us. As water and light conditions change, certain hopper patterns are more easily seen than others. Being able to see our fly allows us to know where our casts land, where the fly is at any given moment, and how it’s drifting. When the fly is visible, our presentations almost always improve. Which leads, of course, to more fish caught.

Owing to basic human nature, carrying a variety of hoppers also provides a certain psychological comfort. After all, as humans we generally enjoy having choices in life. Why treat fly patterns differently?

So feel free to tie, buy, carry and use all the different hoppers you like. Just don’t try to convince me that one is any better than another—at least when it comes to catching fish.

Note: Late in the process of writing this article, I was struck by an additional thought: What if we simply haven’t yet devised the hopper pattern that does make a difference to the trout? It’s an interesting notion. While observation and experience tell me it’s not going to happen, the fisherman inside me is willing to hold out hope. If you happen to discover a hopper that does indeed matter to the fish, I’d love to see it. Please send one along. Post-haste.
 

Notes on Two Fly Lines

In a previous blog post on fly lines, I mentioned that I was just beginning an evaluation of an Airflo Ridge Line—Tactical. Here is my assessment of that line, as well as some early thoughts on the Scientific Anglers XPS line.

I began using the Airflo line in April, when winter still prevailed in these parts. Right out of the package this line exhibited serious memory. It was akin to coiled spring steel, which made for poor handling.  It also twisted severely during casting. The net result of these two qualities was one line tangle after another. That's unacceptable. (The Airflo website claims this is a very supple line, which made me wonder if I did indeed receive the right line. Assuming I did, I sure don’t want any part of a line they consider stiff.)

The taper on the Ridge Line was adequate and the line cast alright, but the ridged structure added no discernible benefit. In fact, the ridges provide more surface area on which dirt can accumulate, and the line did seem to require frequent cleaning to maintain its slipperiness.

Despite its apparent flaws, I continued fishing this line as I wanted to see if more use and warmer weather conditions would aid its performance. They did not. (To my dismay, it took until early July for warmer weather conditions to arrive, so I ended up fishing this line far longer than I would have liked.)

My summation: You can fish this line if you must, but it probably won’t be a pleasant experience. If you do use one, keep it clean.

 

For a few weeks now, I’ve been testing a Scientific Anglers XPS line. This line has been around for awhile—I fished one a number of years ago—so I was curious to see how this incarnation compared to the earlier version.

Current S.A. advertising says that this line is for “exact” presentations. I don’t know exactly what those are, but I assume they must be better than “inexact” presentations. (Actually, as I think about it, “inexact” doesn’t sound too good at all. It probably isn’t. I guess I should be glad I now have one of these lines.) S.A. also claims this line has the “lowest memory for cold water use”. Well, low memory in a fly line is an admirable quality, indeed. But it should never be limited to cold water situations. All fly lines should be low memory. Alas, that’s a topic for another post.

S.A. was right about one thing. This line is supple. Really supple. It handles beautifully—the way every fly line should. There is almost no twisting of the line during casting, and I’ve yet to experience a single tangle that wasn’t of my own making. The line casts well and shoots okay. The taper is fine, though I wish S.A. would see fit to add a little longer tip. It also feels to me that this line might actually weigh what it’s supposed to weigh (I can't locate my misplaced scale). All in all, this line is a winner—so far. Certainly it’s better than the old XPS line. In fact, I’d say it’s the best S.A. line I’ve seen in quite awhile.

Time will tell whether it remains so.

     

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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