The Flying Kayak

Hunting, Fishing, Rambling, and Complete Outdoor Hilarity

Category: Trout (page 1 of 7)

The Wrath of Rod #2

My excitement grew as we weaved our way down the dusty gravel road into the mountains. Window’s down, the cool breeze was a welcomed relief from the oppressive Florida heat that I’d become accustomed to. I was back in Montana and thrilled to be going to the same place I caught my last Montana trout. Long gone were the warm summer days that I got to experience the year prior. Instead, I was greeted with a breath of crisp, autumn air, and the multicolored sight of leaves changing before the onslaught of winter.

This time I’d come prepared. Last year I’d shown up with minimal gear, knowledge, experience with freshwater stream fly fishing. Being from Florida, my entire fly fishing experience had been saltwater. Redfish, trout, snook, tarpon, etc. Not Browns, Rainbows, Cutty’s and the like. It’s an entirely different animal and to me, and it came as a puzzle. An extra challenge, if you will. It was something to solve, and ever since catching my last Montana trout, it’d been an obstacle I’d been chomping at the bit to overcome. I wanted to get better at it. So this year I arrived with brand new waders, boots, landing net, and even a new 6wt rod to tackle the Montanan streams and rivers.

My first day in Montana last year consisted of tumbling down a cliff and snapping my fly rod in the process. Despite being mildly perturbed, I set about immediately replacing it. That new rod served me the rest of my stay out west, made it down to Utah where I caught several Browns with it, then did quite a bit of work down in South Florida chasing invasives in their myriad of canal systems. It was a good 3wt.

About an hour outside of town, we finally pulled up to the creek and I excitedly began getting everything ready. I threw my new waders on, laced up my boots, and grabbed my box of flies. With my rod still disassembled in its four pieces, my friend and I weaved our way down to the rocky creek bank.

It had been over a year, I had flown over half way across the country, and here I finally was. With the anticipation of landing another trout, I began assembling my rod. In front of us, fish were already rising, and each splash made me even more excited to begin slinging flies. Once I finally rigged up, I walked to the water’s edge, stripped out some line, back-cast and….

Something was wrong. My rod felt weird. It wasn’t loading right.

What in the…?

To my dismay I looked up to see my rod broken, just below the last connection point.

Contrary to what most might expect, I actually didn’t throw a fit. I didn’t go on a wild cussing rampage, or throw my rod into the water, or anything like that. I merely looked up at my poor rod as the last foot of it dangled in the breeze like a limp noodle, and I let out a heavy sigh.

“Shit.”

Of course I wasn’t pleased. But what could I do? It was the only rod we brought that day, and I’d have to simply grin and bear dealing with the return policy and replacing the rod once I got back to town. So rather than get upset, I calmly put the rod down, sat next to the creek, and cracked open a cold beer. Over the next hour we watched as numerous fish rose and fed, and I was forced to simply watch. Unable to do anything about it but enjoy the scenery and the pleasant day. Luckily the fish weren’t going anywhere, I had another month left in Montana, and I swore right then and there that the Montana streams and rivers would soon feel the wrath of rod #2.

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——

The looming mountains slowly passed by as we bounced our way down the Bitterroot Valley to the south. It was another perfect day outside, and with the windows down, I occasionally checked on the bright blue raft that was being towed behind the truck. I’m not exactly sure what it is about towing that makes me paranoid, but I constantly check to make sure the boat/raft/kayak/whatever is still secure. For some reason I’m just constantly worried, and today was no different.

My buddy Jeb and I were on our way to float and fish a river. This was especially exciting for me because the previous year I’d visited, Jeb didn’t have a boat which meant we were stuck to just wade fishing. Now we had access to -much- more water and I was excited to redeem myself after my last failed attempt to fish. My new 6wt was ready to sling some flies.

With the raft in the water, Jeb, his dog Sage, and I loaded up and took off down the river. This would be my first time fishing from a raft and it took a little getting used to. Fly line has the incredible ability to become impossibly tangled on any item that’s laying around in the boat. A net, water bottle, fly case, shoe lace, etc. You name it, fly line will -always- get tangled on it, and this day was no exception to the rule. But I fished as Jeb rowed, and Sage sat quietly waiting with almost as much anticipation of landing a fish as I had.

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We passed fishy looking spot after fishy looking spot, and with the exception of one little dink trout, nothing I threw seemed to work. I tried streamers, various types of dry flies, droppers with nymphs. Nothing. I began to get a little frustrated. This was almost exactly like my last experience in Montana. Fish everywhere, but I can only seem to land tiny little baitfish sized trout. Annoyed, I decided to pass the rod off to Jeb. After all, I actually wanted to try my hand at rowing.

For the last 6 months, paddling has been my job. After a recent move to Saint Augustine, Florida, I quickly landed a job as a kayak guide leading eco-tours. This put me paddling around for a few hours a day at least five days a week over the summer. And on days that I wasn’t working, I spent them fishing out of the kayak as well. So I actually consider myself pretty damn good at paddling. But rowing?

Never done it.

One would think that rowing and paddling go hand in hand. And that kind of do. But rowing is, for lack of a better term, opposite of paddling. It literally is opposite. Backwards, even. So it took a little bumping, scraping, and spinning uselessly in circles for a while before I finally began to get the hang of it. But since more technical parts of the river were quickly coming up, and I’m sure Jeb didn’t want me to pop a hole in his brand new raft, we opted to switch again.

Around midday we stopped to eat some lunch. A grocery store in town made us a few sandwiches that I’d been dreaming about ever since we bought them in the morning. But, as my luck holds true, we opened the cooler to discover that the melted ice had soaked almost every inch of bread for my sandwich. Each bite squirted water and the soggy Italian sandwich was anything but satisfying. To add to our troubles for the day, we’d forgotten an important item to bring along: Water. In our rush to get out on the water, we grabbed everything we could think of. Oars, life jackets, fly rod, flies, sandwiches, chips, beer, ice, everything. Except water. So rather than go thirsty, we simply opted to drink all the beer we brought along.

Back on the river, the day began to wane. Low clouds rolled off the mountains to the west and occasionally shaded us from the sun as it dipped lower in the sky. While passing through a relatively slow moving, shallow part of the river, Jeb finally piped up.

“Fish just rose, 11 o’clock”, he said as he made a small adjustment with the oars.

I could clearly see where the fish had made rings on the still surface of the water.

“Got it…”, I whispered as I began to cast.

My caddis fly landed just upcurrent from where the fish had risen, and it took only about two seconds before the same fish came up and swallowed the fly.

“There he is!” I exclaimed as I confidently set the hook and felt it sink in. The hook set had been one of my biggest problems last year, and I feel as though I finally figured it out. I used to think freshwater trout are these dainty, fragile fish. A saltwater hook set on one would surely catapult the poor fish into orbit if I really put my heart into it. And so I kept under-setting the hook. I’d gingerly raise my rod in anticipation of actually hooking the fish, but to no avail. But eventually I got the hang of it. They certainly aren’t saltwater fish, but they aren’t all that dainty either. You can set the hook like you mean it. Just don’t do it like professional Bass fishermen and you’ll be good to go.

After a brief fight, the fish found its way into the net, and I landed my first Montana Brown trout. The fish also proved to be relatively camera shy.

Brown Trout

Whoops

A little while later and I soon found myself hooked up again with a nice Rainbow trout that actually put up quite a fight. It was at that moment I wished I’d had my 3wt with me, but I couldn’t complain. I was finally catching fish, and this was what I’d ventured all the way across Florida to find. The rainbow was soon netted, unhooked, and sent on its way before I even thought to get a picture.

The sun was beginning to set as we approached our get-out point. The last hundred yard stretch of the river was ahead of us and we could already see fish rising everywhere. This would be my last chance for the day, so I needed to make it count. A large boulder jutted out from the bank and around it swirled a deep eddy where the fish were rising. I took aim, cast, and watched as a trout gulped at my fly. Excitedly I set the hook and…

Nothing. Swing and a miss.

Guess my hook set isn’t -quite- right yet.

I stripped in some line as we got closer and prepared to make another cast. Focused on where I wanted the fly to land, I quickly began casting, only to suddenly feel a tug mid-back cast.

“Aww shit..”, I muttered as I turned around to see my fly stuck in the bushes of the river bank. I’d managed to make it an entire day without losing a fly, and on my last cast, with fish rising , I successfully sacrificed my caddis to the bush God’s.

It’d been an awesome day and a huge learning experience for me. We couldn’t ask for better weather, I got to row my first boat, and we managed to survive solely off of beer for the entire day. I really feel as though I’m beginning to figure these fish out a little more, and landing fish (even small ones) is satisfying enough to keep my interest. I received word today that my 3wt is repaired and on its way back this week. With any luck I can break it in soon. Well…Maybe not break. Maybe…Well…You know what I mean.

Fly fishing

Rain coming over the Bitterroots

**You may have noticed a major lack in posts the past few months. That comes from a combination of a heavy work load, as well as other projects I’ve been working on. Details to come soon though, and I’ve plenty more to write about in the coming months. Stay tuned!**

Outgunned With the Ghost of Fly Fishing Future

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As far as days go, you couldn’t ask for much prettier. The clear blue Utah skies let the sun shine uninterrupted over the river valley, and the occasional breeze kept the temperature in the comfortable low 70’s. Nearby, the soothing sounds of a softly flowing river weaved their way through the trees at the water’s edge, and each gust of wind made the grassy fields sway in waves, sending clouds of freshly hatched Caddis flies airborne. In an adjacent field, a herd of Alpaca grazed silently. Their methodical feeding halted only occasionally as they raised their heads to see where the one unnatural sound was coming from. Somewhere in the field ahead of the herd, violent coughing and hacking, with an intermittent gurgle was erupting from the grass.

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MY violent coughing an hacking.

One of the billions of Caddis flies had managed to find his way straight into my lungs while I was walking across the field. Dressed in full saltwater fishing apparel (I own nothing else), I crawled around in the grass in a futile effort to hack up my lungs. Tears began to stream down my face as I struggled to breathe and eventually an Alpaca came near the fence to see what all the commotion was about. He silently chewed his cud and with an unblinking stare, he watched me struggle on the ground for a few minutes.

A fitting end, I suppose. Who would have ever seen this one coming? Slain by a rogue Caddis in the Utah desert, with no one to witness it except an emotionless cousin of the camel from the Motherland (my mother is actually from Peru). It’s a death none of my friends could have predicted, although…Now that I really think about it…I doubt any of them would have been -that- surprised by the event.

But as you may have guessed since you’re reading this, I eventually managed to dislodge the foul beast from my windpipe, wiped the tears from my face, and thanked my Alpaca friend for the help. I then grabbed my fly rod and set off to do what I’d intended to do all along: Fly fish for Brown trout.

Having lost my shoes in a fly fishing success story a few weeks prior, I was still running around barefoot. And by running, I mean carefully and deliberately taking each step, only cursing wildly every once in a while when my foot found a thorn. The river I was fishing -looked- fishy, but at this point of my trip I still had no idea what I was doing. None. My only real hope was to just get out there and try it. So I cruised the bank until I saw a decent looking hole, and walked down to begin casting from a rock. Almost immediately I noticed fish rising. BIG fish. Every once in a while it seriously sounded like someone dropped a bowling ball into the water when I fish hit something on the surface. Now remember, I’d spent the past 4 weeks fly fishing Montana in a very long trout lesson that resulted in only a handful of fish. So imagine my surprise when I big brown took my dry fly on the 3rd cast.

The fight was on and I immediately realized something: I was outgunned.

My 3 weight fly rod simply didn’t have enough *umph* to get these fish out of the current. The fight honestly took over 5 minutes before I managed to get the fish to the bank. And it was then that I realized I was missing a vital piece of equipment. No, not my shoes…ok…Yes my shoes…But something even more important: A landing net. I splashed around barefoot in shin deep water for what felt like an eternity before FINALLY grabbing hold of the fish. I honestly couldn’t believe what I was holding.

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My first Brown! I’d fished so long and hard for trout the past few weeks that this just seemed…Easy. Maybe it was just a combination of things. Higher water levels. Different fish. Different river. Different hatch. Shoot, even I can admit I’d learned what to look for over time. Maybe I was actually getting the whole “trout” thing down pat? Regardless, I soon revived the fish, and started fishing again. With the same result. Just a few casts later I was hooked up. To an even bigger one.

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Given that I barely landed the last fish, I pretty much had no chance with this one. He bulldogged his way into the current, and then just sat there. Had it not been for him slowly moving further up current, I would have thought I’d hooked bottom. Sadly, my hook eventually pulled, and he swam off. But was it really this easy? It was only 3 in the afternoon. Was this about to keep up the rest of the evening? Excitedly, I stripped out some more line, and executed a flawless cast about 8 feet up a tree on the far bank and broke my fly off.

Fantastic…I thought to myself as I began to dig through my fly box for a clone of my lost fly. And it was then that I realized…That was the only one of it’s kind that I owned. Nothing else I had was even -remotely- similar to it. I tried everything. Nymphs, hoppers, you name it. Nothing was working like my long lost fly.

So I sat there on a rock and drank some water. All the while contemplating what I should do. Busily watching fish feed in front of me, I was startled by the sound of something crashing through the bushes behind me. Suddenly a man came staggering out of the bushes. An old man. A REALLY old man. Dressed in waders and a wide brimmed hat, he was toting around a 6 weight fly rod and had the overall look of an old fly fisherman. The creases around his eyes and forehead showed the signs of a man who’d probably seen it all, and slightly crazy from it. Not from life in general, but from fly fishing too damn much. It’s estimated that every three hours spent fly fishing is frustrating enough to take a week off of your life expectancy. Given the man’s limp he was sporting, as well as his overall appearance, I would have put him somewhere between 80-127 years old. But he crashed out of the bushes as gave me a big smile as he approached.

I was surprised to see someone there since I hadn’t seen a soul since I arrived, but we began to chat and he told me that he’d been fishing just about all day and hadn’t had the first ounce of success. I told him about my varied luck and he commented about how crazy I was for swinging just a three weight on this particular river, but congratulated me on actually landing a fish with the thing. He gave me the usual old man banter about better rivers elsewhere and the whole “it’s not what it used to be” schpeal, and then said he was  giving up for the day because he was sore. Why was he sore? This ancient guy had undergone double knee replacements, double HIP replacements, and a shoulder replacement. And here I was complaining about sore bare feet and a throbbing knee from an ACL tear in highschool.

Before he left, he asked me what I’d been using and I answered as honestly as I could.

“Just this little…brown dry fly thing…”

“Oh, like this one?”, he responded, holding up his rod to show me the fly. “I’ve been throwing this all day and haven’t caught a thing yet”

That was it! That’s the same fly I’d been using!

“That’s actually the one!” I told him.

“Well here…maybe you’ll have better luck with it than I did”, he finished, and snipped the fly off to give to me.

I thanked him profusely and he said he needed to get going. I told him bye and he wished me good luck before disappearing back into the bushes. Quickly I tied on the new fly and walked up to a fence that overlooked the field with the Alpacas in order to get further down the river. This field was the only point of access to this river, so I expected to see the man walking back to his truck. But it was then that I realized something…There were no other cars when I parked. I was alone out there. To add to the mystery? The man was gone. Like, GONE, gone. As easily as he’d appeared, he’d disappeared.

Was he even real? It was like the Ghost of Fly Fishing Future. If I kept fly fishing like this, I was assuredly going to end up just like him. Was that what I have to look forward to?

Regardless…The fly was very real. And I proceeded to slay the fish with it.

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Still outgunned, I only managed to land two other fish, and lost another 5. Oh, and of the ones I landed? Thanks to not having a net, I managed to finally bare hand a fish before he flopped from my grip, and snapped the line…Money Fly in tow. Just as easily as that fly had entered my world, it was gone. And as far as I was concerned, my day was over.

I learned a lot from my time spent out west. As a die hard saltwater guy, I’d always kinda poo-poo’d coldwater trout fishing. It was something that never really interested me because it was something I knew -nothing- about. Having lived and breathed it for over a month, I can say that it’s something I thoroughly enjoy. It’s extremely technical and challenging. No two rivers are the same, nor are any two days. What worked yesterday won’t necessarily work today. And it’s details like this that keep the game ever changing and keep the angler on his toes. Of course I love paddling out a giant bloody piece of bait for shark fishing here in Florida, but western trout fishing has managed to find its way into my heart, and I’m sure I’ll be back sooner or later to get that fix. Maybe next time I’ll get to run into the Ghost of Flyfishing Future again and thank him, and maybe next time I won’t be outgunned in the desert.

 

Full Blown Fishing Bums

When you think of a fisherman, what pops into your mind? Is it Ol’ Bill Dance, falling backwards off his boat? Maybe it’s that dad with his sons on their way to the lake on an early Saturday morning, or even that part-time guide who owns the fly shop down the street?

Or maybe…Just maybe…It’s one of these guys. One of MY guys…

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The fishing bum.

We’re an odd breed of fisherman. We aren’t professionals. We’ll never be the ones to win tournaments or start making a living off the fish we catch. We rarely land the biggest fish of the day and getting skunked is certainly not unheard of.

Our gear isn’t the best. Sure we’ll have a few high end rods and reels, but our matching Simm’s outfit is far from complete. If it’s warm enough and we can get away with it, going barefoot is just part of the attire. Few of us own boats, and those that do certainly don’t own the nicest, or newest, or even most seaworthy of them all.

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We’re a step beyond the avid fisherman. Sure the weekend warrior gets out there each Saturday and Sunday, but we won’t hesitate to go fish at 11, or even midnight, regardless if we’ve work the next day or not.

Speaking of work, we’re (for the most part) perpetually broke. Hence the term bum. We work random jobs to feed our obsession. Contrary to popular belief, most of us are educated. A bachelor’s degree is almost a prerequisite before one goes full fishing bum. But a career? Those are few and far between. Restaurant jobs, Exotic reptile farms, Lawn and Garden stores. You name it, we’ve, at some point, done it.

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The obsession runs deep. It’s absolutely consuming. Dining room tables aren’t used for eating. They’re for fly tying and all the materials that comes with it. Freezers don’t have Hot Pockets or frozen ground beef. They’re full of dead Cigs and Chum. Closets refuse to give up a single article of clothing until you’ve cleared at least two rods out of the way. Your work vehicle has a breakdown rod and reel for lunch time (who needs to eat?), and damn near every article of clothing you own has a little fish blood on it. You’ve spent more time looking at maps and weather forecasts than all the cartographers and weathermen in the world combined, and losing a big one keeps you up at night for weeks.

We’ve an intense passion for beer. Call us…Enthusiasts, if you will. Beer makes the stories better, the spots fishier, and the fish bigger. Plus, there are few things better for a fisherman after either a successful day, or a skunking, than a tall cold one. Seriously, if you don’t enjoy a good beer, you’re to be untrusted and your fish tales are unbelievable.

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There’s no such thing as “unreachable” waters. So what if it’s hard to get to? That just makes for bigger fish. There’s not a single fish bum out there who hasn’t hopped a fence, waded through waist deep mud, or bush wacked their way to a fishy spot at one point or another. No vehicle? Not a huge issue. I’m personally guilty of stuffing my fly rod into a backpack and peddling a bicycle across town in the rain -just- to get to a fishing hole. If there’s a will, there’s a way. And laziness is hard to come by with a fish bum. Well…while fishing, of course. Otherwise yeah…we’re total bums.

We aren’t purists. We’d never look down on someone for using “spin to win”, or something along those lines. Hell, half the reason we use fly rods is because it makes the story better at the end of the day and makes an already difficult task more difficult. Sure I love to fly fish, but I’ll never hesitate to throw on the snorkel and mask and go spearfish something. An obsession is an obsession. And we’ll do just about anything to get our fix and our fish.

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A bolt of lighting ripped across the dark gray sky amidst the alpine riddled mountains, and the inevitable report of thunder sent small rocks skittering down the slopes and into the clear waters of a swiftly flowing creek below.

“Great”, I said sarcastically as I took a sip of beer and looked out across the creek as the rocks began to splash. It’d been a crappy day, and I was crouched underneath a small fir to try and avoid the rain…and lightning. With a heavy sigh, I pointed my 3-weight fly rod out at the creek. “Shall we? We’re here already”.

Jeb and Trent, the guys I was with, agreed and despite the cold, light rain and distant lightning, we proceeded to try and make the best of the situation. Water levels were low here in Western Montana, and this creek was no exception. Just a few fishable holes were available to us, and it made for an aggravating time. As the only decent fishing around, these holes got hit by everyone. Every day. And the fish in these holes had seen it all. Despite all of this, Jeb managed to luck out and land a nice Cutthroat.

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Eventually, however, I got frustrated and left the others to the hole. I wanted to find something different. Explore some new water. Maybe, if I was lucky, I could find a new hole to fish.

So down the creek I walked, slipping occasionally as my Crocs were quite possibly the worst footwear choice for Montana. Soon I was forced to cross the creek and waded across the mid-thigh high, swiftly moving water to a nice rock bank on the far side. Up ahead, I spotted out a blown down tree that was situated near the center of the creek.

Well…It certainly -looks- fishy…

A combination of high brush along the bankside as well as the direction of the current meant that I had to stand in the water to cast, but the big tree did have a good looking hole on the down current side. So I found a suitable rock to place my IPA and proceeded to cast into the hole.

I should note that at this point I had still yet to catch a decent trout in Montana. Or ever, for that matter. All of my fish so far had been so small that I back cast them into the bushes behind me by mistake. I really didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

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So I threw a big fat grasshopper patterend fly that my dad had tied years ago just to see what happened. The fly landed gently at the base of the log, and the swift current soon pulled it into a small eddy on its way down the creek. Suddenly, the water erupted around my fly.

No way…a fish?!

I tried to set the hook to no avail. In my excitement, my fly was immediately back-cast into the bushes behind me, and I was forced to plow my way through them in order to retrieve my fly. After what seemed like an eternity, I got my fly back, and gave the hole another cast.

This time it was even quicker. The fish exploded on the fly, and unlike last time, I set the hook on the fish.

I felt that addictive pull, I knew the fish was on, it pulled out of the hole, into the current, and that was it….

The hook fell out.

The whole thing lasted less than two seconds, but it was enough to get me overly excited. I certainly never thought that a little creek trout would give me the shakes, but this had been a three week long quest at this point, and all I wanted was to land a decent fish. I immediately made another cast and…

Nothing.

Another. And yet again, nothing. I cast for another hour before finally switching flies and continuing. But still. Nothing. I’d missed him.

I walked back to Jeb and Trent completely defeated and totally distraught. What was I doing wrong? How was everyone else catching fish and not me? Was it my gear? Was it my honed offshore/saltwater hookset method? Was I just freakin’ unlucky?

I didn’t know, but here’s where the true fish bum in me shined through. I became obsessed. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t…actually. All I could do was think about that fish under the log, what I’d done wrong, and what I needed to do to land it. Come hell or high water, I was getting back to that creek, and I was going to land that fish. I just needed a way to get back there. A spot 45 minutes from town when you have no car is technically impossible to get to. Unless, of course, you’re a fish bum.

———————-

So for a full week I stewed. I told buddies and strangers at the bars about the fish and about what happened, but was careful to never give away exact locations. And it wasn’t until the following week that a chance to redeem myself finally emerged.

I was happily sitting on the couch with my friend Alaina, watching the Big Lebowski, and enjoying a beer when the topic of conversation turned to fishing. I described my lost fish to her and explained how badly I wanted to redeem myself.

“Game to give it a try this evening?” I asked, praying she’d agree.

Without hesitation she responded. “Yeah…Absolutely”

I’ve always driven either a truck or a Jeep. So it honestly felt a little weird to begin loading fishing gear into a bright blue, late 90’s Honda Civic hatchback, but at that point I didn’t care. I was about to get another chance at this fish, and being a true fish bum, I literally bummed a ride out there.

After winding our way down a dusty, gravel mountain road, Alaina and I arrived at the spot. I cracked a beer and weaved my way down the poorly traveled trail through the thicket to the water’s edge. Unfortunately, upon walking out onto the edge of the creek, we discovered two other fly fishermen had beaten us to the the first hole. But to be honest, I couldn’t have cared less. I had a hot date with that log farther down the creek. So we politely walked past the two men, weaved our way down the bank, crossed the swift creek, and made it to the tree.

Once there, Alaina gave me first dibs. Using the same grasshopper fly, I cast below the log and…

Nothing….

I tried again. And still again, nothing. I cast for about a half hour before finally giving my friend a turn. She too was using a grasshopper fly, but a slightly different pattern, and part of me dreaded the idea that she might catch the fish I was after.

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Eventually, however, she broke her tippet off on the log and that meant I had another chance at the hole. By this point, the sun had begun to dip below the nearby mountainside, casting us in its shadow, and I’d made the decision to switch up flies. Obviously the hoppers weren’t working, so I threw on a sinking nymph and began casting.

It should probably be noted that as a born and raised saltwater fly fisherman, I’ve never been in the situation where a strike indicator/Bobber/Thing-a-ma-bobber is necessary. So I’m not sure if it was pure Floridian fisherman speaking, or lazy fish bum, or beer, or what, but I opted to just tie the nymph on with no indicator and see what happened.

By this point I’d caught onto the whole “current’ thing. Your fly line pulls at the fly and makes it look absurd to a trout. So I made a cast underneath the log, held my fly line out of the water, and guided it carefully down current.

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I’ll be the first to admit; It was subtle. I barely saw the line twitch. But twitch it did, and with the grace of a newborn giraffe, I set the hook into a fish, and the fight was on.

At first I thought I’d hooked another little guy like I’d done countless times beforehand. But soon it began pulling out line on my 3-weight and got caught in the current. Immediately I knew I was outgunned. 4X tippet and a fish in the current meant I was just a hiccup away from losing the fish, so I did the next reasonable thing; I started running. Down current I chased the fish, trying the whole time to reel in at least a few inches of fly line at a time. Instantly I felt the Croc on my right foot slip off.

No time…Can’t…Retrieve…Shoe…

I passionately wish I could describe how painful it is to run along slippery river rocks barefoot, but I haven’t the words in me to give it justice. It’s like someone hitting the sole of your foot with a wet baseball bat. But I honestly didn’t care. I soon realized that this was the fish. This was the one that had haunted my dreams for the past week. My only goal was to land this fish.

With no net and only one shoe on, the landing was sketchy to say the least. But by the end of it all, I looked back to discover I’d run about 80 yards down current to land this fish. I’m usually slow to excite, but as a fish bum, this did it for me. It’s a miracle I held the fish still for the picture, and Alaina just laughed at how hard from excitement I was shaking after finally having landed my first…Real…Montana fish.

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Obviously not the biggest in the world, but this fish made my entire trip. I’d never been more thankful to have put forth the effort and time into chasing a fish before. I just hope my Croc is out there somewhere, floating around with my other lost Crocs, waiting for the day that my adventures lead to their colony. Maybe somewhere near Fiji. Or New Zealand. Who knows? Only time will tell.

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