They'll Ruin Your Week-a

After we said our goodbyes to our hobbling, USA-bound friend, Les, we hopped in the Dirty Dog and headed west toward the coast.  Because we had had such an extensive sabbatical from fishing, I thought it would be a good idea to put in a couple days of car camping and fishing a few rivers on the way before we headed to the trailhead of our extensive hike into the Mokihinui River drainage.  We were recommended a few rivers near Lake Brunner, so we set up camp at a little turn off on the Orangapuki River, which is centrally located amongst several rivers and creeks that supposedly hold trout.

We began the monotony of assembling tents, blowing up sleeping pads, pillows and pulling out our sleeping bags when Zach yelled, "Holy shit!  Did you see that?".  Not sure exactly what it was, he said it looked like a cat of some sort.  I came over to investigate, only to see nothing and to become skeptical of Zach's sanity.  Just as I was about to really unleash a tidal wave of ridicule, we heard some twigs snapping behind us and spotted a brown tail end of a cat-sized animal disappear into the briars.  Still unsure of which branch of the animal kingdom this creature belonged, we looked into it further.

Previous to this mysterious encounter, we were at the visitor's center up on Mount Cook and were doing some reading on a problem with feral cats in the area.  Not your fluffy house cat named, Whiskers, but a big, "I'm gonna tear your face off", feral cat that I want no part of.  Having this in the back of our minds, we approached the situation gingerly.  As we crept up to this animal's den, we could see its silhouette in the shadows.  We sat and watched for a minute as it rustled around in the bushes when finally, it poked its head out and stared at us with a look on its face as if to say, "Do you mind? I'm rustling here!!"


It wasn't a cat.  It was a stupid looking flightless bird, about the size of a chicken, with red eyes, a long broad beak and a sense of entitlement written all over its face.  At first, we didn't mind the newly welcomed guest.  He would walk the perimeter of camp, displaying a boldness and curiosity not usually seen among normal, wary, skittish birds.  It wasn't until we began setting up for dinner, when my acceptance for this feathery asshole started to dwindle.  When food was presented, I swear I saw the bird's eyes get wide as it scurried into the bushes.

If you paid attention, you could hear the slow creep along the bush line nearing the bins of food.  Fully aware that the bird was coming, I stood there waiting both in preparation to jump and wave my arms like a crazy person to dissuade it from stealing our food and in curiosity, just to see what this bird was capable of.  Sure enough, without even acknowledging my presence, it appeared out of its cover, head bobbing like a chicken, fully preparing for unthinkable acts of thievery.  Before it was able to snatch anything, I charged it, removing the bird from its trance and scared it off.

I thought that, like most animals of instinct, this encounter would have triggered its survival lobe in the brain to say, "I just learned from this fearful encounter, that if I pursue that plastic receptacle filled with food, then that giant animal, which I believe to be a human, will attack me, causing me much stress, potential bodily harm or in worst case scenario, loss of life."  I'm sure those are the exact thoughts that flood an animal's brain when faced with a severe fight or flight situation.  This bird continued to pester our food stocks and tested our patience. Soon enough, Zach and I were forced to up the ante and tested our aim with rocks.  To my surprise, this bird wasn't fazed.  In fact, every time we missed it with a rock, he chased after the rock as if it were food.  I've never in my life seen an animal so instinctually lacking, that even after being struck with a golf ball sized rock, will continually present itself broadside and still think we're hucking food at him as hard as we can.

There was one encounter where this bird flanked us to the east, demanding both Zach and my attention.  With rocks in hand, we turned to follow to teach this bastard a lesson.  As soon as we were pulled from our posts near the food bins and engaging our new enemy, we heard the sound of rustling plastic.  We turned around only to see a second bird running back to its cover with ziplock bag in tow soon to disappear into the briars.  Since our food was latched in our big tupperware bins, I was confused as to what it stole.  I turned to Zach perplexed and all he said to me was, "shit shovel".  The asshole stole our spade that we use to bury our shit.  Even though that is a useful tool for us and we obviously use it everyday it was almost satisfying to know that the bird was eating our shit.  I think I even yelled it at one of the birds at least once, "Eat Shit, Bird!!!!", as I hauled a rock at its face.  And that's exactly what he did.  Good on ya, mate.

As soon as we thought we were finished with this pest, as I guess they return to cover come evening, we were startled awake, point blank by its squawking back and forth.  Normally, when you hear birds calling, it's in a call and response manner, usually from across a valley or a other great distance.  These birds were right next to each other, both essentially screaming in each other's ears as if it were a contest of volume.  It happened again at day break, right before it snuck under my vestibule and pecked at my face.  I've never wanted a gun more in my life.  I'd shoot that smug look right off its stupid, feathery face.  The problem is, if it didn't die or you missed he would've thought you were shooting food at him and continue ruining your life.

Oh, since this is a fishing blog, I should comment on the fishing.  It was marginal at best.  However, there is a spring creek that held some really spectacular fish, but it winds through a farmer's paddock and we couldn't find him to gain permission.  Hopefully, on our way back.

As we continued on our way to the coast, we stopped in Greymouth, enjoyed a beer at a local tavern and then ate at a place called Billy-O Burger.  Best burger by far in New Zealand.  We were directed to a campsite by some girls that worked at the restaurant.  The campsite was right on the beach.  There really weren't any good sites to pitch a tent so we decided to sleep in the front seats of the Dirty Dog.  It was pretty unbelievable to have a fire on the beach with good company, some beers and tunes.  Plenty of drift wood which made for a pretty stellar beach bon fire.

The next day, we got some breakfast and continued onto Westport.  This drive is unbelievable.  I've never seen to much virgin coast before.  In the States, every inch of beach frontage is built up with homes or high rises.  The west coast of New Zealand is untouched and goes on forever.  Truly stunning.

When was the last time you saw a road just continue right onto the beach?

Could have driven for a while before hitting anything.  And the funny thing is, you would probably hit a cow before a building.  Unreal.

We made a pitstop in PunaKaiki to see the Pancake Rocks and Blow Holes.

It was definitely a site to see, but let's get back to the devil bird I mentioned previously.  As I was walking back to the cafe from the bathroom to finish the rest of my delicious peppered steak meat pie, I noticed a piece of paper with a photo of this menacing bird that had been terrorizing our lives for the last few days.  Its called a weka (Week-a).  The hanger described the weka, its traits, behavior and characteristics.  It pretty much nailed this bird on the head with what we put up with at camp.  We had to laugh at this new information.

When we finally reached the town nearest the trailhead to the Mokihinui, we made camp at an established campsite about 15 minutes drive from where we begin our journey.  Once we had everything set up, we began packing our packs for the next days 8 hour hike in.  Packing strategically for a week in the bush is always a bit of a cluster and definitely takes some time.  Due to the fact that this area floods rapidly after a storm and usually takes a couple days to clear, we had to account for a few days of extra food in case we got stuck.  What looked like a small creek to cross on the way in, can very easily turn into an impassible torrent after a good storm.  Not much you can do until it clears.  Meanwhile, as soon as all of our food came out, you can guess who joined the party: WEKA.

In the middle of this process, there was an impressive sunset over the ocean.  Zach and I both grabbed our cameras to try and capture this unbelievable span of scenery.  When we returned to camp, we continued packing only to find that Zach's roll of summer sausage was missing.  We searched everywhere, but with no success.  There was only one explanation:  WEKA.

Can't beat this.

I often wonder how a bird like this can survive in such a harsh and unforgiving environment called Earth.  I would have put the weka on the extinct list right beside the DoDo Bird if I didn't know any better.  I guess persistence pays off in the end.  We could all learn a little something from our feathery little friend.  If at first you fail, keep trying.  And when this world begins to throw rocks at you, don't dodge them, embrace them.  When the world wants you dead and gone, just wait until a beautiful sunset, then steal its summer sausage.

WEKA:  They will truly ruin your week-a.

Three Men and a Tramp

They say that the only danger in New Zealand is yourself.  There are no natural predators, unless you are referring to possums or pack rats that prey on your food.  In Montana, there is always a lingering fear of grizzly bears, black bears, mountain lions and even rustling up a moose that sticks in the back of your mind while enjoying the great outdoors.  Every move, from making noise while hiking, storing your food in a tree 100 feet down wind from where you sleep, pissing on a rock so the salts in your urine doesn't sit in the soil and make a salt lick for a bear, where you spit your tooth paste, or wearing bear pepper spray or a side arm and more importantly how to react to an encounter is a necessity unless you want to end up in the latest mauling news.  In New Zealand, none of this applies.  There is nothing here that can harm you unless you decide to make every bad decision possible in the name of fishing.

We began our journey in high hopes of epic brown trout fishing on a tributary of Lake Monowai called the Electric River.  We heard from a guy back home as well as a couple locals that this river was on their "to fish" list and it was also circled in our atlas from a buddy of ours that had visited this area two years ago for a 5 month hiatus.  On paper, this place seemed like a gold mine and worth the extreme effort to get there.

We drove to the trailhead that began our hike or in Kiwi terms "tramp" and did our final check of our packs to ensure we had enough food and gear for what we planned to be about 5 nights in the bush.  Each of our packs, with our gear for camping and fishing weighed about 50-65 pounds, mine for some reason pushing that 65 lb. mark.  But, I've carried a pack that heavy before and what could possibly be different this time around?

The first lag was about a 4 1/2 hour tramp to a hut a little over half way to the final Lake Monowai hut where the trail ends.  Having not done any serious hiking as of yet, we were pretty beat after this first wave of hike, especially since we lost the trail at the end and ended up finishing the last kilometer in mucky terrain with briars the entire way.  There was one point where my feet got entangled in some of the weeds, about 100 yards shy of the hut and took me down, immediately jump starting a wave of cramps up my calves and my hamstrings.  While on the ground, I couldn't move my legs or my feet, so I couldn't relieve any of the cramps for what felt like minutes but was probably more like 30 seconds.  There were plenty of four letter words yelled at this point.  But, I recovered, finished the hike and we decided to stay the night at the Clark Hut.

We made dinner, had a fire and tried to recuperate our legs for what was going to be a much longer day the next morning.  Sleep came and we were on the trail again by 10 the next morning, feeling motivated for great fishing.  The next lag to the Lake Monowai hut was only 2 1/2 hours and we got there by about 12:30 pm, stopped to grab some lunch and stretch out a bit before the final approach to the Electric River.  We knew that the trail ended at that point and that bush whacking was in our future, but we had no idea what was ahead of us.  We threw the packs back on and entered what is essentially as thick of a jungle as you will find.  No trail.  No flat terrain.  Though we didn't want to admit it, we were entering hell on earth.

On my GPS, it said we were a shade under 4 km from the Electric River as a crow flies.  If you look at that as your local 5 km run at your "Santa Scamper" it would take you roughly 20-30 minutes to run.  It took the three of us 8 1/2 hours to travel roughly 5 km.  It was by far the sketchiest thing I have done to date and I can guarantee you that it won't happen again.  About two hours into the hike, I asked Zach if we had signed the Visitors Log at the last hut and he said, "Oh shit, no.  Did Les?".  We called up to Les with the same question and he replied "No, why?", knowing clearly why we asked.  If something would have happened to us, we essentially didn't exist.  If one of us had broken a leg, turned an ankle, or injured ourselves in a way that made it impossible to return, there was nobody coming to find us.  At that point, it got real.

The terrain we were hiking over with, let me remind you, 60 lb packs on would not be easy even without gear on your back.  After 4 hours of hiking we had only covered just under 2 km and were averaging about .5 km/hr.  The land from the lake shot up 3,000 ft in less than a mile so we were always walking on about a 60 degree side incline.  As soon as you thought you were making progress, you would run into a bluff that you had to back track and climb 100 feet up or down to pass over.  We would be climbing up and grab a root that happened to be rotten and it would tear away leaving you dangling by the one strong hold you had or tumbling down the mountain side.  We all took tumbles, but the scariest occurred when Les was descending down a bluff and attempted to swing down to a good foot hold.  When he began swinging, the momentum from his pack propelled him off the tree he was holding on to sending him into a creek that flowed off a 12 foot bluff onto a rocky shore.  At the last second, as he was about to shoot off the edge, he split his legs and caught himself between two rocks.  There were plenty of close calls, but no serious casualties, other than bumps, bruises and about as low of a morale as is mentally possible.

When we finally got there, my legs were about as exhausted as I have ever experienced and when we reached the beach where we were going to camp, I had career ending cramps in both of my hamstrings, causing me to essentially crawl the last 100 yards.  Setting up camp was not as fluid as it has been in the past.  We were all like zombies, physically and mentally exerted to our breaking points.

We woke up the next morning to the sounds of a helicopter and immediately we thought that some assholes had come to fish the water we had fought for.  On any other day, we would have sprinted out of our tents to wave them off, but our bodies were too sore to move and there were clouds of sandflies around our tents.  If you have never experienced sandflies, or as the Maori call them Te Namu, they are, in large numbers the most evil creature on earth.  The have the stinging effect of a mosquito, but the swarming effect of killer bees.  When I first stepped out of my tent, I was wearing a t-shirt and my arms were more black than skin colored, and every fly that was on me was biting me simultaneously.  Every morning, it is like gearing up for war and if there is any exposed skin on your body, Te Namu will find it.

 

We soon find out that the Electric River doesn't have a single brown in it.  But, instead, on the stretch we fished, which was maybe a mile long that is eventually stonewalled by a waterfall and can't be reached by foot, there were about 10 rainbows all averaging about 15 inches long.  Zach did however rope into a nice 3 1/2 pound rainbow, but overall, shit for fishing.  We came all that way, battled through jungle and had 4 full days of hiking for a half day of mediocre fishing.  Pretty heartbreaking.

We ended up hiking out the next morning through the same bluffed out forest we came in through and pushed through to the Clark hut, signing every visitor book along the way.  When we made it to the car, all of us almost had tears in our eyes, overjoyed by the fact that we made it out alright and that we could finally take the packs off after essentially spending the last 5 days with them strapped to our backs.

We learned an incredible lesson and will sure as shit not try anything like that again.  Our blisters and sores will heal, but that journey will forever stay with us.  It made all of us stronger mentally, but also made us realize that sometimes it's just not worth the risk.  I thank God that we all made it back alive and I look forward to a really nice hot bacon and egg meat pie tomorrow morning in Te Anau.

 Pictures don't do the carnage justice

You live and you learn, but you only learn if you live through it.  Not a bad motto to keep in the back of your mind.

 

NZ Fish Porn

Here's a little string of photos for your viewing pleasure.  There will be more to come.

Epicness

You ever have those days when everything seems to match up right, the stars align, you can do no wrong?  Today was all of that and then some.  Last night, we just happened to meet back up with the girls in Twizel and had a pretty fun night at what the kiwis call a holiday park, which is essentially a New Zealand version of a KOA.  We bought some wine and the makings for burritos and had a relaxed, fun time.  We also randomly met up with a guy we had been emailing back and forth with for the last few weeks named George.  He’s a buddy of a guy that Les and I know from Steamboat and he just happened to have hitchhiked his way to Twizel and just happened to be staying at the same campsite.  Weird.  After a few glasses of wine and possibly a pull or two from the bag of wine, we ended up inviting him along with us for the next few days while we fished some rivers near Twizel and Lake Tekapo.  We didn’t really think this one through considering we can barely fit the three of us in our car with all of our gear.  But, we couldn’t back out on our invite and the next day, rocking a brand new headache from the cheap wine the night before, we somehow made it work.  There honestly wasn’t an inch to spare in the Dirty Dog and for the hour so drive, Zach and George got real intimate and shared a seat in the back.

Now, on the map, it showed that the road we were to take to get to these rivers as a legitimate, maybe gravel road.  However, from what we’ve read about this road, we were in for a treat.  About 20 miles or so after starting our trek down what turned out to be a road cobbled with river rock, we remembered that we forgot to buy a tire iron in case we got a flat.  We have a perfectly good and sound spare, but no way to change it.  We’re slowly finding out why we got this vehicle for so cheap.

We finally got to the river only to find an RV and an SUV parked at the campsite and what appeared to be a solid baker’s dozen of chairs set in a circle around the campfire.  We saw a husband, wife and their son unpacking some gear, so we pulled in to see if they were fishing.  Of course they were, but they didn’t mind if we worked around them and fished different water.  By the look of them, they didn’t worry us too badly as far as them catching fish.

We found a spot for us to camp, set up our tents, rigged up and were gone.  We walked up the main body of water, but the lighting was a little weird and spotting fish was a challenge.  We looked to the east and noticed another line of willows that will usually signify another stretch of water.  We hike over to the tree line and found this gorgeous piece of river.  I jumped in below the other guys and immediately started spotting fish.  I lined up one solid, maybe 2.5 pound brown and stuck his ass on the first cast.  I saw a second fish and made a cast with the same Amy’s Ant pattern & stuck another one of similar size.  This went on for three more fish and after 5 casts, I had 5 eats and 3 fish to hand.  It was definitely one of those special moments on the water that you can’t necessarily put into words and give it the justice in deserves.  Being out here with 2 other guys doesn’t allow for you to have that time alone that sometimes as an angler you crave.  As fun as it is, fishing these waters in a group and having the camaraderie and support of a couple buddies, those times spent alone on a river is very refueling and meditative time.  It is a time like this, which completely rejuvenates my soul.

 I ended up meeting up with the other guys and we continued having the best day of fishing I have seen for a long time.  Today also put Zach on the board after landing a beautiful 3.5 lb brown on a dry.  He was pumped and we were really excited for him.  Hopefully today got him over the hump, and built a foundation of confidence, so we can now just fish.  The pressure is off. 

We were trying to count, and overall we had to have had at least 20 opportunities for gorgeous fish, all ranging from 1-5 lbs.  The stars were definitely aligned for all of us today and the best part is, we’ve got two or three more days of it. 

Starry Starry Night

I'm lying here in my tent, trying to find the best position to write in my journal.  It turns out that lying on your side, journal to your left seems to be the best.  I had a funny, yet sobering realization tonight while sitting around the camp fire.  I was gazing up at an almost unfamiliar night sky, full of flickering specks of light.  You become accustomed to seeing your world in such a particular way that as soon as your surroundings change, no matter the circumstance, your world can immediately seem flipped upside down.  In my case, my world literal seems upside down.  As I lost myself in the starry night, as I often do on beautiful nights such as this, I became transfixed on Orion's belt.  I got a little excited, as this was the only constellation I recognized in this foreign place, only it looked a little different.  It was upside down.  Even though I have fully embraced the fact that I am almost 10,000 miles from home, Orion hammered that fact home tonight.  I'm not home sick, but it does make me miss the ones I love and care about, knowing that they (though at a different time) are gazing at those same stars, only from a completely different perspective.

Oh... yeah... and I caught a five pound brown today.  Damn you Orion for making me so damn sentimental.

More pictures and stories to come...

Tight Lines and the Art of Farming

We finally got out on the water to see how our skills match up with with what is called the "Upper Graduate" type of fly fishing in New Zealand.  Through the conversations we've had and the literature we've read, we had mentally prepared ourselves for a tough road of humbling failure.  New Zealand is a place where the conditions are always difficult, requiring long casts, impeccable accuracy, long leaders, lots of wind and rain, and maybe most importantly, stealth.  Having not experienced the fishing and all of the factors that go into it, we didn't know exactly what to expect.  The anticipation of actually driving to a river was unbelievably great.

The first river we fished was the Broken River, a rainbow trout fishery notorious for 1-3 pound fish.  We figured it would be a perfect warmup for us and it was relatively close to where we have been staying for the last few days.  The girls joined us as well and all five of us piled into their Toyota Vitz, which you could equate to a two door speck, only this one has four doors.  Needless to say, it wasn't the most roomy vehicle to ride a decent distance in.  On top of the long drive, we soon find out that there is a 20 km dirt road that leads to the river.  In most situations, this road would had been fine.  As far as gravel roads go, it was in great shape.  The Vitz, however, has the clearance similar to a wet piece of toilet paper.  We were going roughly 10 mph the entire way and bottomed out when straddling golf ball sized rocks.  Each way tacked on another 2 hours each way, which definitely cut into our fishing time.  But, sure enough, slow and steady wins the race and we got there.  After another mile and a half of easy road hiking and one decently lengthy and steep decent down to the river, we removed our rods from their tubes and began rigging up.

The Broken River was gorgeous.  It definitely had some glacial melt as could be seen by the cloudy, turbid waters.  It definitely remained mostly clear, but gave us a bit of an advantage, as we could stand a bit closer to the fish when stalking them.  It didn't take long for us to start hooking fish, however, these fish were averaging around 10-14 inches.  I have to give them credit, though.  They were strong, healthy fish that thought they were twice as big.  I'm not sure I have ever fought a 12 inch fish that has ripped line from my reel in this manner.  Though, these weren't the fish we had come to New Zealand to catch, we got a good warm up, shook off the rust and, if anything, built our confidence a bit.  Between the three of us, we probably brought around 20 fish to hand.  Not too shabby for the first outing.

We spent the next couple days searching for a vehicle to buy so we could begin our journey.  After searching online through multiple websites and visiting a couple car dealerships, we finally found what we were looking for.  A really cheap vehicle, with 4 wheel drive with a diesel engine.  We were soon introduced to our Nissan Torrano, or better known as: The Dirty Dog.  It could definitely be classified under the "beater" category, however, it runs and I guess that is all that really matters.  One draw back is it doesn't have a stereo, so we will either have to warm up the vocals or more realistically, will rig up a mount for Les' iPod speakers on the dash.

About a month or so ago, I contacted Chappie Chapman, who is a well known guide in the area.  He was referred to us by our buddy Jesse Robbins, who we are finding out is a legend around these parts.  We felt is was important to have a day with him to learn how to spot fish and any techniques that we were not familiar with in the States.  He picked us up on Thursday and we headed south to the Ashburton River.  Chappie is definitely a character.  He has a story for any situation and is just an overall great guy.  We picked his brain on the hour and a half drive to the river and learned quite a bit just in the car ride.  When we got there, we rigged up, I strapped on the pack with all of the lunches and water and started walking.

It was amazing watching Chappie work.  His ability to spot fish is unbelievable.  It definitely taught us to take our time and really scan a piece of water.  Most of the fish we actually spotted and fished to, we probably would've walked right on by had we been on our own.  The next thing we learned and kept learning throughout the trip was, in the words of Jesse Lance Robbins, to "wait longer" on our hook sets.  There is a phrase in New Zealand that is famous for anglers to say when a fish eats your dry fly.  "God save the queen".  In theory when a fish comes up and eats your fly, and you say this phrase, it will allow for enough time for the fish to close his mouth around the fly and ensure a successful hook set.  I was the first out of the three of us to get an eat and I think I got to "Guh" when mentally saying "God save the queen" and ripped the fly right out the fish's mouth.  I don't think the fish even broke the water's surface before I violently pulled the fly off the water.  This happened two more times and a couple of times with Les and Zach before we finally got our first fish.

The major difficulty, on this particular trip, was the wind.  The "Norwesters", which is a wind that parallels the rivers, making it extremely difficult to cast accurately, were in full force.  We've all casted in the wind, but normally, it is the type of wind that may die down after awhile.  This wind was relentless.  If anything it progressively got stronger and more mischievous.  Les hooked the first fish after waiting for what seemed like an eternity to set the hook.  It was a nice maybe 2-3 pound brown.  It felt good to actually see a quality fish in the net after missing so many previously.  I was really pumped for Les.  It was amazing how much fun it was to see the fish spot the fly, engage and engulf.

As soon as the winds got almost unfishable, we back tracked, hopped in the truck and rerouted to a different creek that holds an impressive amount of big browns.  Chappie wouldn't disclose the name of the creek, however, when they get this good, I probably wouldn't tell you anyway.  Ha!  We walked upstream for a bit and started spotting fish.  It took another little bit to get the fish to eat or to not spook the fish we were fishing to due to inaccurate casts caused by rusty casting and fierce gusts of wind.  Les hooked his second of the day, which was a beauty.  Right around 5-6 pounds.

The day concluded with another gorgeous fish rising in this little slick behind a submerged branch.  The sun was right in the fish's eyes, so we were able to sneak in pretty close.  It took a solid 30-40 minutes to entice this fish with a good half dozen different flies.  On the sixth presentation, the fish followed it down stream and ate.  In my head, I was screaming, "DON'T FARM IT!! (For the non fisherman, To Farm is to set the hook too early and miss the fish) DON'T FARM IT!!! WAIT LONGER!!! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!!!"  Sure enough, with what seemed like 5 seconds after the eat, I set the hook, only to find my line tight and alive.  The fish was much bigger than I thought he was.  I got him to the net and Chappie estimated him to be roughly 6.5 to 7 pounds.  The adrenaline rush of catching something like this, especially after working so hard to get him, is unlike anything you can ever imagine.  It was a beautiful thing.

The day ended with a beer for each of us by the truck.  We shared some stories, had some laughs and reminisced on a great day on the water with a great guide.  Hopefully, what we learned from Chappie translates to the water for when we venture on our own.  We leave this morning to head south.  We will soon learn whether we know anything about catching trout in New Zealand.  My confidence is high, however, I am mentally prepared for a humbling learning curve.

Separation Anxiety

We got to the Christchurch airport on a Friday.  Since our flight landed at around 1 am, technically it was on a Saturday.  But who really cares what day it was.  Since the very beginning of our journey overseas, we have had issues with our luggage.  Immediately, when we pulled up to the airport in L.A., we were told by the lady at the front desk that we could only have one carry on and that we couldn't bring our fly rods on board the plane.  I've never seen this policy and, to be honest, it scared the shit out of me.  For all of you non fly fisherman, your fly rod is your most precious item you own.  Without actually having any children, I could compare it to the love of a child.  You protect it.  You nurture it.  You never let it leave your side.  When someone tells you that you can't bring it with you, it feels like you've just been told that your kid can't join you on your flight and that he must be checked plane side in a crate.  But don't worry, they have their own special cubby in the cargo space.  That makes me feel a lot better.

Anyway, since all of us had two carry ons, we had assumed that we would have to check one and pay the outrageous baggage fees in order to do so.  We ended up switching some things around and checking our bags, which turned out to be free.  Jackpot.  However, all of us stood there, glum, with a bit of separation anxiety as we watched our rods drift away on the conveyer belt of doom.  Aside from the sentimental value that a fisherman has with his rod, essentially it is also very similar to watching a stack of hundred dollar bills equating to $4,500 disappear and hoping that throughout its journey, the baggage people handling that stack doesn't have sticky fingers.

We were told that after we plane-side checked our fly rods that we would be able to pick them up as soon as we exited the plane in Brisbane and then carry them on for our next flight to Christchurch.  So, when we landed in Brisbane, we waited around the skyway for our rods to arrive.  No rods.  We tried to find the baggage claim, but that required us to go through customs and we heard that Australia is very strict on the smuggling of illegal guns, drugs and immigrants.  So we decided to hold off on that one.  Ha!  We then went to the lady at the transfer desk and started bombarding her with questions about our predicament.  She called to somebody with her two way and told us to wait until she heard a response.  We waited for about 40 minutes and finally went up to check in again only to find out that she forgot about us and needed to check again.  Long story short, we found out that the rods would be transferred onto our flight to Christchurch.  I just hoped they were given a special cubby to fly in.

Once in Christchurch, we waited for our bags like normal at the baggage claim and they were getting plugged out in a consistent timeframe.  Everything was going great until the bags stopped moving and the tram stopped.  As you could have probably guessed.  No fly rods.  We worked with a gentleman, whom I approached due to his official suit and tie look, to try and figure out our rod situation.  Of course, in an english speaking country I found the only guy in the airport that didn't speak a lick of english.  How he got hired to handle a stressful job like dealing with lost baggage of mostly english speaking patrons is beyond me.  He spent a good 45 minutes cross checking to make sure we had all of our checked baggage, when we clearly, over and over again explained to him that all of the bags that we had checked at our arrival in LAX, the bags that were clearly stacked in front of us, that we could physically see, smell and feel were all accounted for.  For some reason, he continued to make sure we had all of our checked bags.  He was very thorough, which probably scored him points with the boss in the interview process listed under his strengths.  However, his common sense lacked a touch.  Finally, we got through to him that the baggage stubs for our checked bags were different in appearance than the baggage stubs for our fly rods and he didn't have to continue to check to make sure we had all of our checked baggage because he could trust us that all of them made it.  Unbelievable.  Finally, even though we weren't quite on the same page, I could safely say we were at least on the same chapter and were able to start the process of filling the paper work for a safe delivery of our precious fly rods.  You can imagine how well describing rod tubes and fishing gear went with this guy and we began to mentally prepare ourselves that we may not have rods for this 3 1/2 month long fishing excursion.  I was tempted to purchase a how-to DVD on the art of noodling.

A couple days went by and still no emails, phone calls and most importantly, fly rods.  We ended up going to the airport to check on their status because the phone number wouldn't let me through.  We kept following signs for incorrect areas and at one point found ourselves up in an administrative office with a key pad security entrance and cameras everywhere.  We spun around, in fear of being tackled and arrested by TSA and finally found the right area and arrived at a window for Air New Zealand, which is not the airline we flew from America.  We acknowledged that we understood they were not who we needed to talk to, but we needed to know who we should talk to.  They told us that the airline we flew only flies into Christchurch at 5:30am and at midnight and when they aren't flying in, are not present at the airport.  Lovely.  So we exited the airport, head down and talked of bleak scenarios of a fishing trip with no means of catching fish.  When we pulled up to the house, we walked inside and sure enough, in the back room, Les screamed like a girl and sprinted out to us, fly rods in hand.  Trip saved.

I can't explain how much of relief it is to know that I wasn't going to have to resort to noodling on the most elusive and difficult trout in the world.  Let the fishing begin.

Heading Down Under

Well, the time has come.  After months of preparing myself mentally for this seemingly mythical trip, it is here.  I thought that after purchasing my plane tickets for New Zealand, it would become real in my mind, but for some reason, it hasn’t quite sunk in as to what I am actually about to do.  I procrastinated for a week prior to my departure, saying initially that I would have my bags packed and ready to go by then.  I had all of my gear in a corner of my room taunting me and beckoning me to act, however, it didn’t end up happening until late the night before.  It took all of a half hour to organize my clothing and gear on my bed, constantly downsizing and objectively predicting what I would actually need.  I am notorious for over packing and in this case, that option isn’t an option.  One pair of pants, a few pairs of skivees, a few pairs of socks, a couple t-shirts, rain jackets, two pairs of wading shorts and pants, camping gear and of course, my fishing gear.  Two packs and two carry-ons later, I had what appeared to be an overwhelming amount of stuff packed tightly into the chosen bags.  It was a strange feeling lugging all of the bags down to the front hall to await being loaded into the car for my drive to the airport the following morning.

I left early, being driven by my sister in law, Christine, on Monday morning to drive the two hours to Milwaukee airport to get to my 12:55 pm flight to Los Angeles.  What I didn’t realize when I booked my flight, was I chose it due to its cheap price and not by where the flight passed through.  I ended up having to fly from Wisconsin to Atlanta to then fly all the way across the country to L.A.  If anyone can tell me how that makes a lick of sense, please feel free to let me know.  Instead of having two potentially shorter flights, I ended up willingly signing myself up for a three-hour flight followed by as long of a domestic flight as they come at around 6 hours or so.  That’s ok though, because I love flying so much.  (Insert sarcasm here).

My flights were uneventful, however, I do have an unbelievable knack at booking seats next to large individuals.  Being a larger guy myself, there isn’t a whole lot of flexibility when it comes down to extra space on airplanes.  I am usually one of the last people on a flight, simply because I could either sit and wait in the tight, constricting space of an airplane seat or I could sit and wait in the luxury of the airport seats with legs stretched out in luxury.  The departure time won’t bump ahead if I board early or late.  When I board a flight, since most everyone is seated ahead of me, I am intently scanning ahead to see who will be my future seat buddy for the next X amount of hours.  I got a little excited when I saw the crown of a white haired lady that looked to be small and compact.  When I reached my row, I immediately noticed she was a little wider in the hips and in addition to that extra width was wearing an aggressively large ankle length puffy winter coat that cascaded into half of my seat.  I assumed she would remove the coat, however, most likely due to her older age, and being cold by nature she remained content with her outer wear choice.  I sat down next to her, passed her the awkward half grin, signaling “hello” and took my seat.  I searched for my seat belt, which she was inevitably sitting on, and pursued to gingerly search until I had to ask her to lift a cheek.  Once I was belted, I felt the pressure of confined space and realized that her coat felt as though its pockets were stuffed with multiple pairs of down mittens, causing an uncomfortable pressure in my side.  Luckily, this occurred on the shorter of the two flights and I wasn’t stricken with claustrophobia for too long.   

I got into Los Angeles that night and was greeted by Les, Zach and my buddy Alex who was nice enough to house us for two nights while we waited for our flight out of the country.  My arrival was met with nothing else but Wild Turkey whiskey, which I haven’t been too accustomed to drinking in the last four months while living at home with Mother.  Needless to say, my brain became a touch fuzzy resulting in a glorious first day in California.  (Insert sarcasm here). 

We didn’t do a whole lot very quickly on Tuesday morning.  We got some breakfast at the Firehouse, which is maybe just under a mile from Al’s house in Venice.  After devouring some chicken fried steak even though the gravy tasted exactly, in my opinion, like Shark Bites fruit snacks, we “rested” a little more once we got back to the house.  We then ventured to Venice Beach, which is a spectacle in itself.  Lot’s of crazies.  I haven’t heard so many people so angrily talking to themselves in such a short amount of time.  There was once guy yelling about a “F#CKING REBATE CHECK!!!”, another woman really angry at something (couldn’t make out what exactly that was), and another guy who was really fed up with his “F#CKING PHONE CHARGER!!!” that was dragging in the sand behind him.  I can totally understand that one.  That damn phone charger dragging like that?  Totally unable to be picked up to prevent the damn thing from dragging in the sand?  “F#CKING PHONE CHARGER!!!” is right.

The rest of our stay in L.A. was fun.  It was pretty relaxed.  We went out to eat a few times, had some laughs and ended our interim in California on Wednesday night.  Our second wave of flights from L.A. to Brisbane, Australia and then Brisbane to Christchurch, New Zealand were a little more eventful.  First of all, the alcohol was free for the entire flight.  We didn’t get out of control with this, however it made the flight a little more doable.  After watching my third movie in a row, I got a little restless, rallied the troops and headed to the flight attendants area to inquire about beer orders.  After grabbing a VB (Victoria Bitter), we went to mess with Les, who was doped up on Ambien and then resided in the galley area between sections on the airplane.  We stayed there for at least 3 or 4 hours, hanging out with various other passengers and conversing with all of the flight attendants.  At one point in the flight we had the curtains closed on both sides, while the flight attendant poured us a shot of rum.  It truly was a different plane experience than anything else I had ever experienced.  When the pilot turned the “Seatbelt” sign back on, we returned to our seats and slept for the remainder of the flight. 

We spent the next 12 hours in the Brisbane airport, being harassed by ridiculously inflated prices.  We bought a sub from Subway and started singing the song, “14….14 dollar….. 14 dollar foot long…..  Pretty depressing.  Other than sit at a food court table, and stare at floor, we spent the rest of the time sleeping on the couches at the terminal.  For some reason, that second flight, which was only three hours long, felt like an eternity.  The anticipation and the fact that we were going on hour 30 of our travel day, made the last lag seem longer and more drawn out.  But, we got to Christchurch safe and sound and were ripping and roaring to start our adventure.  New Zealand, here we come!!!!

Jitters

It is about a week away from my departure to New Zealand.  Anxiety is at an all time high.  I know deep down that I am excited, but my nerves and the overwhelming feelings occasionally mask my excitement.  I have all of my gear in organized chaos in the corner of my room.  In the next couple of days I hope to have all of my bags packed so I can leisurely get myself out the door and gone.

It is a strange feeling knowing that I will be abroad for 4 plus months doing nothing but traveling, sight seeing and most importantly, fishing.  I have never in my life had this opportunity nor will I ever get it again.  I am privileged to be able to just drop everything and go and I do look forward to taking full advantage of it.  It's times like these that you truly feel blessed in life.  And I'm sure I'll feel even more blessed hoisting a 15 pound brown in a river somewhere down under.

I look forward to being able to share my experiences with everyone.  I'm hoping for luscious scenery, luscious rivers and luscious wi fi.  Until next time.

A Sad Day

It was a sad day today...

The Montana era has officially ended.  Back to being from Sconny...

Wedding Woes

After graduating college, it is an inevitability that the love birds that were once soaring up and out of our male comprehension, come crashing down to earth like a peregrine and begin their feast upon the hearts of men everywhere.  The "ring by spring" mentality held true for quite a few of my comrades in college.  At first, I welcomed the idea.  Standing up in a wedding as a 22 year old is something special.  First, it most likely is a new experience, so whether you enjoy broadening your horizons or not, that could always be a plus.  Second, you don't care as much about the price of the tux, but are more concerned with the fact that you actually get to where one.  Third, everyone you know most likely lives in one area.  There aren't any plane tickets, rental cars or crazy hotel accommodations.  Everything is cheap and convenient.  And lastly, the celebration includes loads and loads of single, eligible ladies that are down to have a good time on the dance floor.  There wasn't much working against weddings at that time.  If anything, it was a recommended activity among friends.

Now, at age 26, I am cursed by weddings.  I am happy to take part and support whatever friend it is getting hitched, however, they have an uncanny ability to lump together like pudgy kids around a cake.  A wedding here and there is fun.  They're usually expensive but manageable when faced individually.  But, when you start piling them atop of one another, instead of focusing on the couple at the altar and demonstrating your love and support, visions of dollar signs starting dancing through your head.  And, because I am older and most likely the bride and groom are older, inevitably the entire friend base is older, meaning not too many ringless fingers in the crowd.  I often find myself alone on the dance floor, usually two sheets to the wind, uncomfortably sweaty for me and everyone around me, doing some attempt at a C-walk or performing hip gyrations that should be illegal in multiple states.  

The reason for my rant, is this fall alone from September thru the beginning of October I was in three weddings.  Two groomsman and an usher.  One in Seattle, one in Montana, one in Chicago.  I don't know if you know this, but the three places are not close to each other.  Two of them were back to back weekends.  My stamina isn't what it used to be.  All of the rehearsals, dinners, need to be here, need to be there.  It's exhausting.  And most importantly, I needed to conserve myself for all three dance floors.  Because everyone knows, that is where I shine.  Ha!  

The wedding extravaganza began in the middle of September in Seattle.  This was still within the fishing season at the ranch, so I only got three days for travel and the wedding before I had to head back to work.  Needless to say, it was fun but abbreviated.  I never felt quite settled.  Like I was in a rush the entire time, which, as it turns out I kind of was.  The second lag of weddings began immediately after Vegas.  We hadn't made the Vegas plan until towards the end of our time at the ranch.  So, like a grown up, I planned ahead and booked my flights for Montana well in advance so I didn't suffer the financial toll that procrastination tends to deliver.  I bought the ticket for the morning of October 5th at 8:30 am from Denver, which is a solid 4 1/2 to 5 hour drive from the ranch.  What I didn't know was that we were soon going to make a plan to travel to the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas on October 1st and returning on the night of October 4th.  In hindsight, I should have scrapped the Vegas plan and leisurely arrived in Denver a day or so in advance.  But that would be too easy.  Instead, we left from Vegas at 8:00 am on October 4th and drove the fourteen hours back to Creede, CO arriving at around 10:45 pm, obviously losing an hour along the way due to the change in time zone.  Lovely.  After returning, we then had to empty my truck of everyone's gear and fill the back of my truck with all of my belongings to make my final departure from the ranch for the season and make it to Denver with plenty of time to get to my flight.  I ended up leaving 4UR Ranch at roughly 11:45 pm and disappeared into the darkness.  

I knew I was in bad shape when at 25 minutes into my 5 hour excursion my eyelids began to feel heavy.  I remembered I had one adderall left and immediately started popping pills to stay alert.  When that started to fail, I stopped for a coffee and a coke.  Once caffeine started to slip, I started packing my tin of Copenhagen.  On top of all of these stimulants, I had a steady flow of Eminem blasting on repeat over the speakers.  Finally, after driving straight through the night, I made it to Denver around 5 am and parked my truck in front of my buddy's house who said he would drive me to the airport so I wouldn't have to suffer weeks of parking fees.  Great guy.  Anyway, I made it to the airport with plenty of time only to realize after 20 minutes of arguing with the lady at the United Airlines desk that I was on the 8 o'clock flight to Missoula, that I was actually flying Delta.  Give me a break... I blame this mishap on sleep deprivation.  I got to Missoula, and was picked up by the groom.  We got burgers and beers at the favorite Missoula Club, or "Mo Club" in downtown Missoula, MT.  I immediately vanished to the river and fished for the rest of the afternoon.  I was reminded again how much I love Montana.  There really is nothing like it.  It's hard to explain unless you have ever lived there.  But I digress.  I didn't end up getting to bed until almost 1 am that night meaning that I was officially awake, aside from the unproductive sleep on the plane, for roughly 43 1/2 hours straight.  A NEW RECORD!  I didn't even reach this total from my all nighters in college.  From my understanding, if I would have made it to 48 hours I would have been clinically out of my mind.  Too bad I didn't push through the extra 4 1/2 hours. I hear crazy people have way more fun than us sane brains.   

Overall, I had an awesome time at the weddings.  All three were very good friends of mine and I wouldn't have missed them for the world.  It is fun to bad mouth weddings, however I do it in good fun.  If anything, I am reminded by weddings that I remain a bachelor and to be honest don't see wedding bells anywhere in the near future.  For the time being, I throughly enjoy my freedom as a single guy.  I guess I'll just have to continue to rub it in to all of my married friend's faces that I am having the time of my life and chipping away at my retirement bucket list at age 26.  I'll make sure to send them some post cards.  

 

Life After the Ranch

Since leaving 4UR, life has been an absolute whirlwind.  You work your tail off at the ranch and then nothing.  No immediate responsibilities, nowhere to be, the world is your oyster.  Part of you wants nothing more than to throw on a pair of sweats (shirt optional), find a couch on a Sunday and do nothing but sit, lay down or a combination of both and watch football from noon until the late night game ends, unable to distinguish between meals because you have been in a constant state of grazing on snack food for the entire day.  However, another part of you wants to spend this time exploring, taking advantage of this "free" time to do whatever it is you wanted to do but couldn't due to work.  I chose the latter.

My month long hiatus began with me getting a tattoo.  I'd show a picture, but I don't have any.  A.J. and Zach got ink as well, adding to the tat fest.  The following day ten of us from the ranch ventured to the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas for a few days.  We left early to 1. Get to the grand canyon in plenty of time to get to our camp site, do some sightseeing, make a fire and inevitably have a few beers in the process and 2. Avoid the giant cross country meet held at the ranch that supposedly hosted every high school in the entire southwest corner of Colorado.  In other words, an absolute fiasco that we wanted no part of.  There were five ladies and five guys going on this trip and obviously we segregated the two cars by sex.  We also utilized the bed of my truck (which has a topper) as both the luggage and gear area as well as the sleeping and entertainment zone.  First off, we loaded the girls' SUV with as much stuff as we could cram, and then organized our gear on either side of the truck bed with my memory foam mattress pad unrolled beneath everything, leaving an alley of comfort for the passenger's movie watching or sleeping pleasure.  Regardless, the car ride was made that much better leaving only four guys up front and the fifth thoroughly enjoying himself in the back.

We had a little scare about two hours shy of the grand canyon.  At the time, without going into the boring details as to why, my truck was unregistered and uninsured.  Pretty much we were riding dirty.  I'm not sure what the consequence of this broken law is, but I can't imagine there's anything good that could come from it.  As we rolled into a gas station to refuel, get snacks and relieve our bladders, some of the crew started talking to this homeless man who asked for a cigarette or change or something to aid his bad habits.  He told us that there was a fugitive on the loose that had broken out of a nearby prison and stole a car.  We didn't think much of it until he continued to say that there was a road block up ahead on the highway we were on where police officers were checking cargo, I.D.s and vehicle REGISTRATIONS!  I wasn't sure what to think of this.  We had already come about six hours and I wasn't about to make the decision to turn back.  I tried to act as cool and collected as I could but inside I felt like I was going to puke on my shoes.  And they weren't even shoes, they were sandals and God knows I didn't feel like puking on my bare feet.  I told everyone that we should keep going.  I figured the police were only looking for names to match up on the registration not for expiration dates and license plate tags.  So we pressed on.  We reached the intersection of the highways the bum had described and... no road block.  Surprisingly, it felt bitter sweet.  I was all amped up, mentally preparing myself to deal with cops.  After we saw that there were no cops, I wanted to head back to the bum and mention to him that his information was false and to take the cigarette back that he obviously did not deserve.  Obviously, we were thrilled to be able to continue on our journey without any hiccups, but you have to wonder whether that guy actually thought there was a road block or if he intentionally was toying with us.  I guess we'll never know.

The rest of the trip to the Grand Canyon was pretty uneventful.  The canyon was really cool.  Bigger than I could have imagined.  The camping was fun.  And the next morning we got up early, bought some breakfast and began our journey to Vegas.

Vegas, for those who haven't been there, is an unbelievable place.  It is definitely somewhere that everyone should visit once in their lives.  However, for me, it might only be once.  I hate Las Vegas.  Yeah, it's unbelievable, overly extravagant, and impressive, but it is like a giant leech.  It almost literally sucks money right from your bank account, it sucks your energy due to lack of sleep, it sucks your sobriety away from you, and sucks the fun out of you due to all of the above.  I was never quite sure what time it was, for the three nights I was there I amounted to about 10 hours of quality sleep, and I never quite knew whether I was drunk or hungover.  It is the only place that at 4:30 am you think it is a good idea to go gamble some more.  The spectrum of emotion that I witnessed and endured is beyond anything I had seen to date.  So again, Las Vegas is an unbelievable place, but it is one that I don't feel a drive to visit again anytime soon.  Maybe when I am a millionaire and losing 50 bucks doesn't hurt as bad as it does now.  Until then, I am just a down and out fisherman who was swallowed up by a beast called Vegas.

More post ranch saga to come...

It's Official

So I have been on the road for awhile and haven't had a whole lot of opportunity to blog, but I promise I will bring everyone up to speed as I become more settled down and inevitably more bored.

A quick but exciting thing has happened in the last couple days.  I bought my tickets for New Zealand!  It's official.  We're leaving on January 11th and returning May 1st.  It feels good to get that done.  A huge relief.  In less than two months, we'll be standing in a river in New Zealand with the opportunity to hook into the fish of our lifetime.  Not too many people get that opportunity.  

I can't put into words how excited I am for this next adventure.  

Celebrations, farewells, anticipation and fishing

It's amazing how much happens here at the ranch.  Consequently, it is difficult to keep up with the documentation.  For example, I neglected to write about our awesome trip to Santa Fe to see a James McMurtry concert or our many floats down the Rio Grande, our excursions to Trout Creek and Red Mountain Creek or our awesome weekend at Lost Lakes.  Anytime we are not working, we try to leave the ranch and experience Colorado like it should be experienced.  I'll do my best to try and keep up with all of the travels we experience.

There have been some notable updates on the ranch.  My good pal, roommate and fellow guide, Jesse, accepted an unbelievable job in Seattle working for the company that umbrellas Sage, Rio and Redington products.  He was flown to Seattle for the interview, nailed it and was called the day after returning to the ranch with the good news.  Unfortunately, he will be leaving us earlier than expected in August.  We rallied the other guides after stopping at the liquor store to pick up some nice whiskey and ventured to the top of our property on Goose Creek to celebrate and maybe do a little fishing in the process.

We iced Les at fifteen bridge.  He wasn't pleased.

I told Les to hijack four whiskey glasses and some ice from the bar to better our whiskey drinking experience.  It seems much more classy and better tasting out of a good glass with a cube or two instead of passing the bottle around and inevitably exchanging saliva from a saturated spout.  After bringing in a half dozen fish from under the bridge, we built a fire and clinked our glasses in Jesse's honor and simply enjoyed each other's presence.  It is amazing the direction conversations take when a flame is the centerpiece of a circle of friends.  A certain truth and comfort is unearthed, reaching depths within that are rarely revealed.  Whether it is jokes, pain, religion, politics, struggles or triumphs, our words are sincere, spoken within this steadfast circle of trust.  Even though we are all excited for Jesse, it will be difficult to see him leave.  He's a strong part of the team and a good friend to all of us.  We wish him the best as he turns the page on this next chapter.

The crew.

The nice whiskey glasses lasted for about two rounds and then the inevitable passing of the bottle occurred.  I figure you should always at least make the effort to start classy.  Whatever follows is neither here nor there.

Another bit of news that has been lingering for quite some time is I'm headed to New Zealand in January for three months with Les and a buddy of his from North Carolina.  We had been talking about this for awhile now, but finally bit the bullet and committed.  We are awaiting a good deal on flights and as soon as it comes along, consider it booked.  Jesse did this trip two winters ago and said it was the most unbelievable experience of his life.  He has been showing us the ropes with where to go, what to see, what to bring, etc.  He also has a few connections down there for us to take advantage of.  The nervous excitement is overwhelming, however, I know it is the right thing to do.  When else am I going to be able to have an experience like this?  Never.

Last weekend, we went to a creek, which is only about a half hour from the ranch.

A great start to the trip.  The joys of 9,000 feet.  You should have seen the other guy.

We spent most of the day leap frogging all of the water.  Between 5 guys on a small creek, you cover a lot of water very quickly.  It's an absolutely gorgeous little body of water that holds a decent amount of fish in the 10-14 inch range.  They were a little finicky at first, but once we switched to an ant pattern that Les tied up, we started getting into them pretty consistently.  I was throwing a pretty large hopper pattern with the ant off of the back and ended up catching the fish of the day and probably the most memorable fish of the season for me.  We were sitting down along this run that ran right along a huge cliff.  It was pretty sexy water, but after fishing it pretty thoroughly, it didn't produce.  Above the run, there was a large foam back eddy that looked about as good as it gets.  The term "foam is home" comes to mind.  I drifted my double dry rig through the foam eddy probably ten times before I saw a giant nose break the surface and my fly disappeared in a toilet bowl fashion.  I set the hook to find a large chunk of a rainbow thrashing the surface and attempting to throw my fly.  After a few impressive runs, I finally got his head up and out of the water and dragged him to hand.

It definitely wasn't the biggest fish I have caught this year, but it was one of those fish that from the time you casted your flies out there, to the eat, to bringing him to hand and finally being able to admire its beauty, sticks with you.  It isn't always the largest fish that make the biggest impact.  When I think back to this summer of fishing, that rainbow will be the first memory that surfaces and the first story I'll tell.

Until next time...