Peter's Fly-Fishing Adventures

this wordpress thing didn’t work out

PJY — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 16:23:55 +0000

so I am not using this site. find me back at blogger.

The Florida Keys Yoder Men’s Fishing Tournament, Day 2

PJY — Sat, 30 May 2009 06:19:03 +0000

Even after a great first day of fishing, a remnant of the saltwater jinx remained. I still hadn’t landed a bonefish. In the time between my first encounter with the ghost, this mysterious fish had become much more than just an underwater animal. It was a wall-of-sorts, standing between my life as a child and my life as a man. Ahhh, who am I kidding? I just wanted to prove I actually could catch one of these rascals.

The second day began with an hour or two of casting to tarpon around the Ocean Reef area before we moved up to Elliot Key. Arriving around 2:30, it seemed like the bonefish were everywhere. On my first cast to an approaching pod I hooked one, only to have it snap off. My line got caught on the front of the boat, and I wasn’t able to fix it before the fish darted into the distance. “Oh great.” This was not the way to start the afternoon. “Here we go again,” I thought. But only a few moments later, I was casting to another swarm of bonefish, and all at once four or five fish rushed at my fly. BAM! The ghost was hooked and running, taking off yards of backing at what seemed like the speed of light.

Wow, what an exciting fish! They don’t fight in the same manner as tarpons (size being an obvious reason), but their paniced sprints are truly wild.

With the bonefish landed, I passed the rod to my dad. The “tournament” was pretty much wrapped up with that last fish of mine, and we sons really wanted to see our father catch a fish.

For that to happen, we decided to net some bait fish and duck back into a cove near the dock to my brother’s house. I jokingly protested that the use of bait offended my ethical and moral values as a fly fisherman, but we all knew there were sure to be snook and snapper in that area. And, I’d much rather see my father smile than have my way. Fly rod or not, reeling a fish in is fun, and a few snapper can brighten anyone’s day.

The Florida Keys Yoder Men’s Fishing Tournament, Day 1

PJY — Fri, 29 May 2009 06:03:28 +0000

This may be the only thing I have in common with John Madden: I hate flying. I don’t imagine I’ll ever get over the unnaturalness or soulish discomfort of the event. Although, it definitely helps to fly on a good airline (like Delta or American) and have a window seat on an exit row.

Interestingly, it was while I stared out my window seat on the flight from Moline to Fort Lauderdale (where my dad caught up on some lost sleep in the parking lot) that God caught me off-guard. Staring out that window 30,000+ feet above the surface of my known world, I caught a glimpse of another world. Much like the underwater world, of which we often forget, there is a world in the clouds that provides a heavenly imitation of our landscape. The clouds stretched across the sky like a snow covered plain, interrupted by ice-like chasms and towering mushrooms. All I could think of was how limited my perception was. I enjoyed the ground because it was familiar, but maybe, just maybe, the world of the clouds—unknown to generations before me—spoke of the dramatic reality of the heavens. A reality I used the world below to cover over. Maybe.

Okay, back to the fishing. The flights down to Fort Lauderdale were otherwise uneventful, and my dad was awaiting me in his truck when I arrived in Florida. After a quick stop at Burger King, we made it to Key Largo in time to fall asleep. The “tournament” would begin tomorrow.

We got out of the house around 8:00am on Monday and headed south to Big Pine Key. The palolo worm hatch had started on Saturday, and my brother wanted to experience it for the first time. Once out on the water, we started poling ocean-side for tarpon.

Big Pine was new territory for the three of us—that meant we were sure to be welcomed by some of the local guides who had stakes in the territory. It wasn’t much after Dave began poling on a corner spot that a guide and his friend cruised over to tell us we were interfering with their fishing. Ahhh, the pleasantries of the sport; they were determined to make us feel uncomfortable, so Dave wisely offered to switch spots with them. Disarmed they motored off and left us where we originally were. Then it happened. The jinx was ended!!! I spotted, casted to, and “landed” a 100+ pound tarpon. (My brother and I both agreed upon the weight.) After a thirty minute fight, we got it next to the boat (leader in the rod) before the bent fly slipped out of its mouth. Four jumps and a whole barrel full of tired later, I was giving my brother high-fives.

Now it was my father’s turn. The tarpon were still running, but my dad couldn’t get the fly in front of the fish. His weak back casts, inability to double-haul, and slow stripping plagued him the whole trip. There is a huge difference between casting with a four weight rod to some rising trout and finessing an eleven weight to oncoming tarpon. But as the Lord would have it, a small group of tarpon got it in their minds to ram our boat. Or at least, it appeared that way, and during their approach Dad was able to flip the fly in front of them, lazily twitch it, and evoke a hard take by a nice-sized tarpon. Unfortunately, (and I made the same mistake with a bonefish a few years back) Dad didn’t allow the fish to run. As quickly as it was hooked, the tarpon broke off, and left Pops with a rod in hand and a flyless line in the water.

From there we motored up to the next flat and waited for the worm hatch. This migration of worms occurs once a year, and my brother had heard tales about the eating frenzy that came with it. A few skiffs already stood anchored when we arrived. By 5:00pm there seemed to be as many boats in the water as circling tarpon. Not true. Once the worms appeared, scooting across the surface of the water at 5:45, the massive amounts of tarpon appeared too. It amazed me to see fifty or more tarpon rolling and hitting the surface like it was an evening caddis hatch on the Colorado River—it just blew my mind. The even stranger thing was that barely anyone could hook them. In the hour we spent casting to those behemoths, only three were hooked: one by my brother and two by the boat next to us. None of them were landed. We think the reason was twofold: first, our flies were off (they swam too deep, were too large, and were off-colored) and second, you need to strip the flies like you would during striper fishing (tucking the rod under your arm and using both hands in a pedaling-like motion to strip in the line). Regardless, it was a sight to see, and we made sure to catch a few worms for “analysis. (Note the video below of the worms.)

And “Day One” is over: Peter 1, Dad 0. And the jinx is over: I caught and landed a tarpon!

Trout Fishing and Richard Brautigan

PJY — Tue, 19 May 2009 06:58:00 +0000

About three weeks ago I finally finished an old copy of Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America. My advisor came across it in a thrift store and thought I should have it. Wow, what a waste of time. The alternate title I’d suggest for this work which “catapulted [him] to international fame” is A Bunch of Meaningless Crap in the Form of Tiresome Similes. Seriously, if I had to read “was like” in this book one more time, I would have started using the remaining pages for toilet paper. The only problem is that there would have barely been enough for a clean wipe. I am willing to admit that some of this frustration is because there’s practically nothing about trout fishing after the title page. Although, I was forewarned about this by a reviewer’s comment on the back cover, it still frustrated me. Most of all because I can’t seem to leave a book unfinished; even though this one deserved that fate. And as much as I would like to believe that he represented “the emerging countercultural youth-movement of the late 1960s,” associating his writing in this book with that movement is tragic. I don’t think anyone can take enough drugs or smoke enough dope in order to justify the publication of this thing. The inartistic, uncreative overuse of similes in Trout Fishing in America actually makes me feel sorry for the drugged-out hippies of the free-love Sixties. I mean, they were forced to explain themselves in the context of this complete waste of paper. It’s pretty hard to climb out of a hole that deep. Oh well, the book is closed now and will be quickly donated to the thrift store. Or, as good ole’ Richie might say, my disposing of this book was like the vicious flushing of a dead goldfish down a toilet bowl.

The Search for Iowa Trout 5: The Little Turkey River and Elk Creek

PJY — Wed, 06 May 2009 02:07:00 +0000

I never thought I would start one of these blog entries with this but, the crotchety old people who play cards at the gas station on the Turkey River near Garber, IA are evil. In fact, if you read this, do not give them your business!!! I’ll explain this later….

I needed to get out. With two days before the final portion of my comprehensive exams, I just need some fresh air. This stress of preparation turned this whole school year into one gigantic study session, and Saturday stood as the first glimmer of the normality I had before all this. So, my good friend Andrew Rampey and I packed up my truck and headed up to find the Little Turkey River.

The process of “finding” felt like it took up the whole morning…and maybe it did. From the standard issue Iowa trout map, the Little Turkey River was somewhere near Colesburg. But, for a time Colesburg seemed like it was as close as we were ever going to get. My trusty Garmin Nuvi 360 guided us into the town, where we stopped to grab some sandwiches and to ask for specific directions. The young lady behind the counter apparently didn’t hear me say “Little” before “Turkey River,” and thus began are chase down the rabbit trail. She sent us north out of town and toward the general direction of Osterdock and Garber. For at least an hour after that we seemed to be driving in one huge circle.

And here is where the evil card-playing elderly of Garber come into play. We stopped at a gas station right next to the Turkey River to get directions and the inhospitality of the dying in that hole-of-a-gas-station was immediately evident. Well, let me be kind, maybe they had just lost their minds and actually weren’t intentionally trying to get us lost, but from our perspective each person gave us purposefully obscure directions which were in the complete opposite direction of where we needed to go. Note to self: never start a conversation with “We’re from the Carolinas” in Garber, Iowa.

We finally decided to get back into Colesburg and start over. Andrew was able to make out a road heading directly east out of Colesburg on the map, and after a few turns and the kindness of a mother with her defenseless child strapped to a stroller, we were on our way to the Little Turkey. (The road out of Colesburg, by the way, is Hubbard St./Voyager Road.)

The night before I had decided to try this river because it had a put-and-grow section which in my mind was translated, “big fish”. (Had I forgot I was in Iowa?) Initially, I mistook the put-and-grow section for a beautiful stretch of the river running through some cattle fields about 3 miles out of town. We stopped at the farmer’s house and the sweet “Aunt Edna” who answered to door let us know the “boys” catch some fish from the river on the property, and we were welcome to give it a try just as long as we shut the gates behind us.

Man! This stretch of river is absolutely beautiful: clear, deep, and surrounded by rising hills. The water had this aqua-blue tint that almost reminded me of New Zealand. Only one problem: no fish. We slung our flies into several “juicy” holes without even a glance or flash at our flies. My best estimation for the absence of trout was the recent water levels of the river. From the mudded sides of the river, it looked as though the recent winter snows and rains had caused some sort of massive wash-out through that portion of river, and anything living in that portion either moved down- or up- river to compensate. For our sakes, we hoped it was up river.

Andrew was keen enough to realize that we were downstream of the state-managed section of the Little Turkey, so we threw our stuff back into the truck and headed upstream. There is a small park (Ram Hoffman Wildlife Area) which provided a place to leave the truck, and from there, Andrew and I hit the river. Water flow was considerably less in this section, but it was clear the DNR regulated this portion. We came across a few fellow casters who weren’t having any luck, and other than some overly-active spawning bottom feeders, I began to question whether there were fishing here either.

Until…. I decided just to casually stroll up the river and plop my wooly bugger into the deeper pools. In one of the most unexpected spots this lonely rainbow decided it was time to make a new friend, and, well, I landed the largest Iowa trout I had caught to date.

With the bow as a memory I decided to hike up to the put-and-grow-section. By this point the river had divided, and turned into a creek. Nevertheless, I expected there to be some hungry little fellas willing to jump out of the water for a small car. The stocked fingerlings were ever-present, and their coloring was a reminder to the beautiful artistry of the Lord.

Andrew wasn’t as fortunate on the Little Turkey, and this only his third or fourth time fly fishing a river, I decided we should pack up and head down the road. One of the anglers I ran into mentioned a good section regularly stock in the Twin Bridges area. So, we again jumped into the truck and drove about 12 miles directly east on Route 3. We came to the Twin Bridges campground, ate some lunch on the riverside (while watching an over-equipped gentlemen fling a dry-fly around), and jumped onto the river.

Elk Creek had a decent flow for an Iowa stream, but the pressure it receives appears to be over-the-top. On a Saturday evening, still early in the spring, there wasn’t a hole or run not being dredged with a spinner by some camouflaged sportsman, who’d look a lot more comfortable sitting in a john-boat on some reservoir. This gave me hope that Andrew would catch a trout, but it also dampened to exoticness of the task of fishing.

I began with a brown that challenged (in length) the bow I earlier caught. And shortly afterward Rampey caught a smaller bow. Both were taken on buggers, but there was a decent amount of activity on the top of the water–a dark cream-colored caddis was beginning to come off. Unfortunately, these trout were stocked only a day or two before, so they hadn’t become acclimated to their new source of food.

With the oral defense of my exams looming in the back of my mind, I fished into the early evening and then went back to my truck to review for the tests. I left Rampey to himself and the river. I don’t think he landed anything else, but neither of us could complain about the day. We caught fish, enjoyed the warm outdoors, and saw some beautiful Iowa scenery. And, I can mark the Little River and Elk off my list.

Oh, and it wasn’t all a loss… Andrew recovered a nymph fly from the fish he caught!

Winter-time on the Nantahala

PJY — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 22:32:00 +0000

I failed to write about a short day-trip I took during the Christmas season with my brother to the Nantahala section near my parents place. So, I’ll just post some of the pictures. The fish loved green-bodied nymphs. Too bad I left a lot of mine on submerged rocks and tree limbs.

The Search for Iowa Trout 4: Turkey River

PJY — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 04:06:00 +0000

I suppose it doesn’t bode well for me to be an avid fisherman and a horrible morning person. If it’s a fault, I claim my father’s genes, but I hate mornings and anything pertaining to mornings (with the exception of cereal bowls filled with more marshmellows that flakes). So when Randy emailed and invited me to join him for a day on the Turkey River near Elkader, Iowa, my mind immediately began to calculate how early I’d have to wake up to meet him. Not to mention that my good friend, and fellow church plant participant, Andrew Rampey was going to join us. That meant an even earlier departing time than the original. …it better be worth it!

The forcast was pefect; wait, more than perfect. Weather forcasters correctly perdicted temperatures in the high sixties. A sixty degree November day in Iowa. I must be dreaming.

Before the sun had even opened its eyes, I picked up Rampey, and we headed up past Cedar Rapids to meet Randy at the Walmart parking lot near Independence. Andrew and I passed the time talking about anything and everything before the rising sun caught our eyes. It’s those constants in life, the span of the sun across the sky and the changing of seasons, that always recall my mind to the promises and faithfulness of God.

At Walmart we jumped into Randy’s subaru and made our way to the Turkey River. The Turkey is unique in that its banks are home to one of Iowa’s major hatcheries which diverts water from large, nearby springs to sustain fingerlings in their holding pens. The spring water being forced through the rearing pens is then dumped into the river from three parallel pipes that stand about a hundred yards apart. The spring water significantly decreases the river’s water temperature, allowing trout to survive downstream year-round. The river actually reminded me a lot of some of the rivers in Maryland. It doesn’t run clear, and there is a distinct smell to the water, but the bug-life is significant enough to sustain trout populations.

The area around the pipes where the spring water flows into the Turkey has become a dream spot of bait fishermen, and Randy had mentioned earlier that the floods in May forced thousands of rainbows into the river. If the bait fisherman hadn’t caught all of them, we might have a chance.

Randy hadn’t explored much of the river downstream of the pipes, and the alure of a few rising trout put all three of us in two pools just below the pipes. Andrew quickly caught one on an Adams, I had a strike on a large black ant, and Randy was flinging a blue-winged olive around; but, after being reared in the ways of fly-fishing by my older brother, I new the best fishing involved “distance.” So, I left Randy and Andrew in the pool and headed downstream.

After about a quarter mile of slow moving water, the Turkey widens out creating nice rifles dumping into sizable pools. Tempted by some rises in the section of slow moving water, I slid down the steep bank and cast a wooly bugger through the current. To my surprise I pulled out a smallmouth bass! After a few more strikes without any hook-ups, I made my way down to the pools swallowing up the riffle water.

Jackpot! Cast after cast my bugger was hit by rainbows. They struck at the fly in an awkward way that felt like they were still learning how to eat larger prey, and by the time I had developed a technique for setting the hook, I’d missed dozens of fish. Nevertheless, I was into double-digit catches when my stomach let me know it was lunch time.

I packed up my gear and headed upstream to the guys via cattle tracks alongside the bordering corn field. They were catching fish (they claimed), but not in the numbers to which I testified. So, after a lunch of roast beef sandwiches, chips, and Randy’s home brewed beer, we made our way down to the lower section.

Nothing had changed. Randy was catching most of his trout with copper-johns and Andrew and I worked black wooly buggers through the deeper sections. With the sun setting, wet nets, and a few fish for dinner, we packed up and headed home.

It was a great day on the Turkey River – enough said.

Western North Carolina: the North Toe and Watauga Rivers

PJY — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 00:17:00 +0000

It’s hard to drive through western Carolina without pulling off the road and jumping in a mountain stream. Unfortunately, the streams are more like trickle this summer, but I wouldn’t let that keep me from getting in my trout-fix before I headed back to Iowa.

On the way up to Boone for the weekend, I stopped into Rivers edge Outfitters, the fly shop in downtown Spruce Pine, seeking some advice in exchange for the purchase of a few flies. The store owner, Chris, recommended I fish the North Toe River near Spear. I took him at his word and headed up 19E, but passed through Spear (it’s pretty easy to miss), and found myself turning around at Plumtree. Instead of heading back, I dropped into the river next to the Vance Toe River Lodge. (The proprietors of the business were kind enough to allow me to park my truck in their lot.) I worked about a mile-and-half of the river before heading back. The few trout in the river were mixed in with over-anxious bottom-feeders. Nevertheless, I was able to pull a few small rainbows out of the deeper pools and faster water.

Sunday, on my way out of Boone I spent an hour-or-so on the Watauga River. I fished from the bridge at Hounds Ear up to the no trespassing signs crossing the river. Just like the Toe, the Watauga was extremely low, but the trout were still plentiful. With little success beforehand, I was able to hook a large rainbow out of the pool before the trespassing sign. The bow took a large black ant (I think… or an imitator), and it gave a good fight (a couple of runs) for the size of the river.

Now for Iowa.

Colorado Fly Fishing Adventure, Day 3

PJY — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 17:45:00 +0000

Sleeping next to Willow Creek was exponentially more restful. Granted, sleeping next to a well traveled road made me a bit more concerned about the possibility of some psycho chopping me up in the middle of the night, but nearness to a maintained campsite gave some relief.

I slept in a bit later than the previous morning, packed up the campsite, and headed for Buchanan Creek, which feeds Monarch Lake. The fellow at the sporting shop in Granby assured me this was a “secret” spot with the occasional large fish. Wrong. Once driving into the Monarch Lake region, I hiked around the lake to the creek. (I’ve failed to mention my amazement at the mass amounts of dead pine trees in the region. The park service blames beetles, but I’ve heard that the beetles are thriving due to the lack of a cleansing forest fire—ironic…. but that is just hearsay.)

The creek was beautiful. It reminded me at moments of New Zealand’s rivers—extremely clear, extremely cold. But, alas, no fish. I suppose my fishing advisor in Granby was referring to spawning season. I am sure when the trout are running up out of Monarch the fishing can be amazing. So, I walked and fished about a quarter mile of the creek before turning around and heading back to the car—my sporty-sports car.

I had decided earlier that I’d fish the section of the Colorado River between Shadow Mountain Lake and Lake Granby. Thankfully, the parking permit I used for Monarch Lake was also good for parking in the Green Ridge area. When I arrived at the parking lot there was a large moose chowing down on some nearby vegetation. He presence drew a crowd—and I joined in at the gawking for a moment or two, but my mind was elsewhere. This was my last day on a Colorado river, and I needed to catch some fishies!

What a way to end the trip! It seemed like every section of pocket water had a hungry fish waiting, in front of a boulder or at the end of a run. The royal wulff I tied on coaxed fish after fish from their underwater shelter. The fishing lasted until the thunderstorms chased me back into my car, and eventually back into Denver.

While fishing down the river, I noticed a gentleman taking pictures of me. (Talk about pressure! All I could think was, “Oh great! Right when the camera’s on me, I can’t hook anything!”) Fortunately, I got into a nice brown while he was shooting. After landing and releasing the trout, I yelled across the river as to whether they had email. When I heard a faint “yes,” I made my way across the river and laid out my situation to the budding photographer. I had destroyed my camera and relegated to a measely camera phone, and I’d love pictures from this trip. No problem, they said, and a few days later these pictures found their way into my gmail inbox.

(Thanks Mike and Pat Cotton. Enjoy your retirement! …but remember you can’t retire from life with others—that’s the beauty of the Gospel.)

Colorado Fly Fishing Adventure, Day 2

PJY — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 19:27:00 +0000

On the docket for Tuesday: fishing the upper section of the Big Thompson and the headwaters of the Colorado. The early bird catches the worm. Right? Right! Awaking before dawn allowed me to get into the park by seven in the morning (before the rangers were posted at the gate collecting money), and by nine I was pulling brook trout out of the Big Thompson. I drove into Moraine Park and parked at the end of the dirt road. About a quarter of a mile into the trail I jumped onto the river and fished a really deep hole. I pulled a large brown out of the back end of the pool but destroyed my camera while trying to take a picture. As I was stepping away with the fish, I failed to notice the fly-line wrapped around one leg of the tripod, and in a split second the camera was underwater. The Sony Cybershot had lasted a while, but this plunge was to be its undoing. Zapped by the water, the poor camera never recovered Even after a week of drying, the camera only took black shots. So, I was to spend the rest of the day mourning my loss and looking ahead to the next riffle.

In the Park, the Big Thompson is a great pocket water stream. I don’t think I made a cast over ten feet, and in front of and behind every rock there seemed to be a fish. What I appreciated most about these little guys, was that every fish fought more than any creature I might get into in the Midwest. There is something to be said about the tenacity of a Colorado brook trout mentality: too many flies in the future to give up the ghost now.

After walking back around midday, and passing a Russian on his cell phone and a baby dressed in only a diaper, I slipped into my temporary sports car and drove Trail Ridge Road to the Colorado. I decided to fish down near Green Mountain Trail only to find that the trail marked on the map leading to the Colorado River didn’t really exist. So, I stepped into the river near the bridge at route 491. I was surprised to find absolutely no action in this area, aside from the Moose and her child. I couldn’t even spook a trout.

With a bit of the evening left I made my way to Granby and stopped at Budget Tackle. The man there gave me some tips as to camping (for free!) the next day’s fishing, pointing me up route 125 to Willow Creek in Arapaho National Forest. There I set up camp and fished. I was able to coax a few browns and rainbows out of the stream before heading back to camp. Right above an official National Forrest campsite was a great car pull-off beside next to the creek. I made a fire, cooked hotdogs, and smoked a cigar—a good finish to a successful day. But, this would only be a precursor to what lie ahead.