Dogs “read” people with unnerving perfection. They usually expose me in public as “not a dog guy.” My brother, though, inhabits the other end of the “dog guy” spectrum. Enjoying dogs and recognizing a goodness in them that escapes me, he welcomes them with ready fondness. On this first morning of our week fly-fishing the waters near Red Lodge, one dog read us both like a radiologist seeing everything he needed to know in one glance at an x-ray.
Our host Will, my brother Dean and I stood together, ready for a day-trip southwest to the Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone River in northern Wyoming. As we talked over the day’s possibilities, a young, well-formed black lab scampered out of Will’s house toward us, and singled out not me, not Will, but Dean, nuzzling him like a long lost friend. Astonished, I guessed out loud, “You’ve been with this dog before.” Dean replied, “Never seen her before today.” I pondered that surprising display of instant affection, as dog, guys, and gear piled into Will’s quad cab. Towing an all-terrain vehicle on an ample trailer, we took off for Clark’s Fork. On arrival, all three of us rigged up quickly, stowed our rods, leaving room for Molly in the bed of the ATV and began our foray into the rugged Clark Fork Canyon over the rockiest trail in Wyoming.
Agreeing with Will that the fishing would be better farther upriver, we passed gorgeous pools, riffles, and runs, eventually stopping at an irresistible stretch of water. We spread out to secure for each other a semblance of solitude. Will went downstream; I went upstream, Dean headed straight for the water directly in front of us, slightly chagrined that Molly was following him, not Will. “It’s ok,” Will reassured him. “I’ve taken her fishing before. She’ll stay clear.” Accepting Will’s assurances, Dean ambled over the ledge and down the bank.
On Dean’s first cast a fine fish slammed his fly, then went ballistic—jumping, shaking and pulling relentlessly for deeper water. In the sudden commotion, young Molly apparently getting her birds and fish confused, leaped and bounded into the river intent on her perceived duty: capturing that fish.
It was not to be. With eerie swiftness the river overpowered her, swept her into deepening water, swiveled her hindquarters downstream, and jammed her backside in between two boulders. Then the river started taking Molly down. Dean watched as, in scarcely seconds, the dog was near drowning with the current pulling her swiftly, surely under. All he could see was her nose and eyes—filled with terror.

About fishing, John Buchan wrote,

“The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of the elusive, but attainable—
a perpetual series of occasions for hope.”

I don’t know where John does his fishing, but fly fishing the rivers of the West, requires relentless re-positioning on slippery, mossy, wet rocks submerged in swift, freezing, often treacherous water. Out here the situation is really more like this:

“The charm of fly fishing lies the pursuit of the elusive, but attainable—a perpetual series of occasions for cracked ribs, broken arms and legs, and chilling wetness or drowning, due to the life- and limb-threatening conditions of engagement—and sometimes catching fish while risking great bodily harm.”

It’s tough enough just trying to walk in, and alongside, these waters. Add in, “While you’re at it, dislodge a dog before he drowns,” and the risk factor goes way up while the charm factor goes way down.

But you can’t just watch the river take the life of your friend’s dog. So moving close to shore, Dean laid his rod down, and went in after Molly, trying not to get swept away by the deepening water. Drawing close, he spotted Molly’s bright blue collar under the dark water. He made one desperate grab, found the collar, held it, yanked hard to free her from between the rocks, and pulled her in close into his arms. Then he turned by cautious inch steps, and slogged back against the current into safer, shallower water, with a rescued treasure in his arms. Molly took it from there, wriggling out, and finding her way gingerly to dry land. After shaking herself to shed the clinging water, Molly ran off exploring—as if nothing had happened.
Watching her go, Dean found himself shaking: wet, cold, and wondering how his feet had stayed under him; why he wasn’t washed away. Deciding not to go down that mental road any farther, he picked up his rod, lifted it high just in case . . . and the fish was . . . still on!
With line tight and rod throbbing again, right then Will showed up. Over the sound of rushing water he called out, “Have you seen Molly?”
“Yeah . . .” Dean shouted back, still playing the great trout, “I just . . . pulled her out from between
. . . two boulders . . . she went in after this fish . . . I don’t know . . . where she is at the moment!” Seeming oblivious to the contest underway right before him, Will wondered out loud, “Well, did you tell her to stop?” Dean didn’t answer. He did land that fine fish, though, just to admire him for a moment, and then let him go to play again another day.

Eventually Molly reappeared. She stayed out of the water all the rest of the day, even when we caught and released nice trout right in front of her in the clear water of this remarkable river. Hours later, as if someone had flipped a switch, the fish stopped feeding. By mutual consent we crawled back in the ATV for the joint-jolting journey back to the truck, not stopping even a single time to give it one more try.
With all gear stowed or strapped down and Molly feasting on Kibbles, our own hunger and fatigue showed up. We agreed to stop in Red Lodge for dinner. The whole way, though Will sat within easy reach as he drove, Molly rested her head on Dean’s leg. Pulling into Red Lodge we left her in the cab, and she seemed actually at ease with her assignment.
How long we lingered in Bogart’s, I don’t know. Sharing a fine meal and good conversation we lost track of time, as one should on vacation. While we ate and talked, darkness descended outside. Eventually, we paid the bill and walked out into a cool Montana night, sauntering slowly past the quaint but mostly closed shops of Red Lodge.
Back at the truck, the opening doors filled the cab with soft light, revealing Molly—right where we left her, happy to see us—her tail thwap, thwap, thwapping against the back of the front seat. I climbed into the cab’s back seat. Will and Dean slipped into the front on either side of the delighted dog. Will started the truck as Dean stroked the top of Molly’s head, speaking to her with genuine fondness. He looked up, and said to Will and me: “You know, if you took a woman fishing all day, then stopped to eat and left her in the truck, when you came back, she wouldn’t be wagging her tail.”
As the laughter exploded Will pulled away from the curb and drove back to our temporary digs, where three men fell fast asleep and dreamed of the women awaiting their return home.

Trout poppin' like popcorn on the Stillwater

This great spring weather has offered great fly fishing and floating on the Stillwater. The March Brown hatch has transitioned into the start of our Mother’s Day caddis hatch. Scott and Kat from Texas fished to risers in this beautiful run yesterday.

The Yellowstone last week was pretty much the same as above. Great nymphing with a little bit of dry fly thrown in.

Best Producers: prince nymph, hare’s ear, olive parachute, olive woolly bugger.

“Mm maybe we should get you to the emergency room”, the client stammered. I just walked away.

We got to the truck and I removed the hook using the tried and true monofilament method. It didn’t even bleed.

As I explained to the client, it wasn’t his fault, really. It was the fault of the damn-fool clerk who sold a beginner a seven foot four weight rod in the first place. Nice rod, probably cost around $500. But definitely not a beginner rod.

As the holidays approach, it occurs to me that much pain and suffering could be avoided if folks knew what to purchase for that fly fishing loved one. Not only my personal pain, but the loved one’s pain at not being successful at a new sport. Or an old one, for that matter.

The perfect beginner rod is a nine foot six weight. Many shops and fly fishing professionals would argue that a five weight is more versatile. While that may be true, a heavier rod is usually easier to learn to cast. Most beginners rush the back cast and overpower the forward cast to compensate. The six weight rod is more forgiving, allowing the form to be imperfect and still get the fly out there. I also like this rod for kids. Even if they have to use two hands they’re generally more successful with a long, heavy rod. Remember, Mom, that hook will be nine feet from their eyeballs!

For the intermediate to advanced fly fisher, more specialized rods may be in order. The lighter the rod, the more delicate the presentation. A common mistake by many clerks in the big sporting goods stores is to try to match the rod to the water you will be fishing. Small stream, small rod, yes? No. The method of fly fishing dictates the rod. I sometimes use a 10 foot four weight on the West Fork of Rock Creek. I can reach completely across the stream with it, keeping all my line out of the current. That rod is also a great light tackle nymphing stick. It mends line like you wouldn’t believe. Still, it’s not a rod I use a lot. You sacrifice a little accuracy for the extra foot of rod, and it’s not so good in the wind.

Usually, I consider anything under a five weight nine footer a dry fly rod. The smaller the fly and the spookier the fish, the lighter the rod needs to be. That’s because the fly line matches the rod weight. A lighter line won’t throw big, heavy bugs. It will, however, make a smaller impression on the water as it lands. Great when you’re fishing flat water to spooky fish. I also find that shorter rods are more accurate.

Reels are a nice gift, but remember that the reel must match the rod and line. I often hear people talk about fly reels as if they don’t really matter. “Just a place to keep your fly line” they say. While it’s true that the reel doesn’t play a role in casting, it does play a big role in landing fish. A smooth action is key when using light tackle to land big fish.

Durability is also a consideration when buying a reel. Machined reels with disk drags and sealed bearings will cost more, but they last a lifetime. Your fly fishing loved one will probably be passing it on to the next generation.

Now, let’s talk value. There are fly fishing packages available for a wide range of prices. These packages also range from unusable to very adequate. You get what you pay for. Most packages include rod, reel, line, backing and a few flies. You can plan on the flies being useless and the line being all but useless. Even with the more expensive packages, the fly line is where the manufacturer saves money. No matter how good your rod is, a bad fly line will ruin your day. A decent fly line will cost at least $40. I’d rather cast with a broomstick and a good fly line than with a $1000 bamboo rod and a cheap line.

These days, fly fishing gear doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg. Temple Fork rods are a great value. You’ll pay $90 (Series One) to $150 (Pro Series four piece) for a very good quality rod. Another of my favorites is G. Loomis. An Experience rod will run you $325. Very durable and a great rod for beginners to advanced fishermen.

Never buy a rod that doesn’t come with a lifetime warranty. Ever.

I like Ross Reels for their durability and craftsmanship. Their entry level reel, the Flywater, goes for $60. A decent reel, but that’s all. The Cimmaron goes for $150 and is machined aluminum. Good stuff. Sweet drag, very durable reel.

My friend Kory,former owner of The Otter’s Den Fly and Tackle in Columbus, likes to use this analogy: “Buying a cheap rod to find out if you like fly fishing is like buying a rifle with a bent barrel to find out if you like hunting.” If your equipment doesn’t work well, you won’t like the sport. Period.

My best advice to you as a potential fly fishing gifter is to buy from someone who knows the sport. Most big sporting goods stores and all department stores do not have knowledgeable clerks in their fly fishing departments. This makes a huge difference. I’ve had clients come to me with all sorts of equipment problems because of inept sales people. These range from not putting enough backing on the reel (or none at all) to way too much. One client was having such trouble casting that I took his rod and tried it. Turns out the fly line was spooled backwards. He was casting with the wrong end. Reels have to be set up for right or left retrieve. I had a client this summer who had a line spooled for right hand, but the reel mechanism was set up for left. That means the drag worked in the wrong direction! Buy your gifts from a fly fishing shop. Chances are the guy working the shop this time of year is the outfitter, or at least an avid fly fisher.

A few red flags to look for in a store clerk are:
Showing you the $600 rod when you’ve already said you’re buying for a novice.
Acting like your questions are a waste of time.
Not being able to answer your questions.
Being a “know it all”.
Trying to talk you into spin fishing gear (yikes!)

You’ll know a good one if he opens up to you, talking avidly about the sport. A good sales person will make you feel welcome, not like you’ve interrupted his day. He’ll also listen to you and will just try to sell you what you need, not everything in the store.

Another great reason to buy from the smaller shop is loyalty. You’ll have a better chance of getting your problems rectified, getting better deals in the long run, and getting insider info from your local fly shop than from a catalog. Building a relationship with a local will always pay off in the long run.

One last word – Gift Certificate. (Wait, that’s two words!). There are so many trinkets, tools, goodies, flies, vests, chest packs, waders, etc. that you probably won’t want to mess with it. All this stuff is very specific to the situation your fly fisher plans to encounter at a given time. A gift certificate provides flexibility. And saves your fly fisher from the embarrassment of re-gifting!

Trout Scout December Fly Box
Girdle bugs size 8
Yuk bugs size 6
Red brassies size 16
Zebra midge size 20
Kaufman’s emerger size 20
Single midge parachute size 20

by Bomb Snow Magazine
Photos: Axel Peterson Words: Henry Worobec
The early season conditions for the Rocky Mountains are the worst they’ve been in years. Tired of long ascents to low angle wind slabs or lapping one of the two rock studded groomers at the local resort, we clung to the rumor that Red Lodge Mountain had twice the base of our surroundings. Naysayers jabbed, “Yeah, have a fun time at Rock Dodge,” but Bomb Snow sent it and can now retort, “Suck my rooster tail!”

Here’s to Montana Skiing, Pure and Simple.

Red Lodge Mountain Resort prides itself on its value, guest service and 50 years of great skiing and snowboarding. Along with the historic town of Red Lodge, it offers a big mountain experience without the big mountain crowds or prices. The resort’s terrain offers fun for the entire family, from the beginner slopes to the terrain park and advanced chute skiing. Red Lodge Mountain Resort offers more downhill for the dollar than just about anywhere else in the Rocky Mountains.
Red Lodge Mountain Resort is proud to be celebrating its 50th anniversary in February 2010. The resort’s storied history will be celebrated with events and festivities. Please visit our website for more information.

I try to qualify clients before I take them out into the great outdoors without a net. I like to get some idea of what their expectations are. One couple told me “We don’t want to learn to fly fish, we just want to catch a fish on a fly rod so we can tell all our friends.” When I told them that isn’t how fly fishing works, that you have to be actively involved in the catching, they acted like I must be incompetent. A good guide would just leap into the water and put a fish on the hook, I guess. I referred them to my competition.

Another potential client asked that, if her children didn’t catch enough fish (enough?), could I take them to another location where the fishing was better? How do you explain that driving all over the country isn’t going to help? Learning to fly fish and be patient until you achieve proficiency is apparently not an option. Little Johnny might get bored. It’s not polite to tell someone that his or her child has the attention span of my Welsh Corgi.

We live in a society that expects immediate positive results. No longer can the vagaries of nature be tolerated. No longer can people be expected to accept failure as part of learning. Our children must be protected from adversity and disappointment at all costs. They might be scarred for life if they didn’t catch a fish every five minutes. I can’t imagine the cost of counseling if they didn’t catch any fish at all.

Any activity that relies on nature is going to be unpredictable. There are no guarantees that you’ll have fresh powder to ski every day, wind free days to bike, or mosquito free days to hike in the high country. Especially if you only have a couple of days a year to enjoy these activities. It’s the adversity that makes things interesting, and makes you better at your chosen sport. If you caught a 20-inch trout every cast, you’d soon get bored. (OK, maybe not “soon”.) There’s a world of truth in the old saying “you can’t appreciate the good times without experiencing the bad times.”

Upon arriving at the river, the wind began to blow about 20 miles an hour, straight upstream. It was cold for early July, maybe 45 degrees, and overcast. Rainsqualls were moving through, defining the weak fronts passing. The barometer must have been doing quite a little dance. We donned our raingear over our waders and dropped the boat in.

Fishing was slow. We entertained each other with jokes and stories, mine all based on fishing and the outdoors, her’s based on city life. By lunch we had caught a few small fish and a small understanding of each other’s experiences and motivations. I began to understand that, placed in the client’s big city environment, I would be the one asking seemingly stupid questions. Left alone in New York, Boston, Chicago or any other metropolis, I would have been almost as helpless. Good public transportation suddenly became very important to me.

Late in the wet, windy afternoon, I changed her fly back to the streamer that had been so unproductive all morning. I can’t help it, bad weather and slow fishing makes me want to throw something big and ugly. If we aren’t catching fish anyway, we might as well not catch big fish.

The client bravely punched that giant yuk bug through the wind. It turns out she could really cast a fly rod. She also had the drive to keep casting without complaint all day. About a half mile from the take out, her perseverance paid off in spades. She pitched the fly up into a small eddy. Two short strips of line, and wham! The fight was on. That trout put on a show of aerobatics that would make the Flying Menendez trapeze act look weak. Then it headed straight upstream, the client’s reel singing the big fish song until only backing showed above the water. She kept her cool like a pro, letting the fish run ‘till he couldn’t run no more. Then began the long process of getting back all that fly line. We fought the fish for the better part of 20 minutes. The adrenalin pounded in my veins like an illegal drug, every heartbeat dealing a fresh dose. When the fish finally rolled up next to the boat, presenting itself to my net, I was exhausted and exhilarated. My client’s face was flushed with the concentration and exertion. We both had to rest a bit before taking the “hero picture”. The fish taped at just over 23 inches. Easily five pounds of wild rainbow. Whew. Just writing about it makes my heart race!

On the drive back to town, we laughed and talked like we’d known each other all our lives. I can’t remember one thing we said, but a bond had been built through triumph over adversity that will always be strong, even if we never meet again.

I was devastated. Refused! Suddenly, the fish came straight up in a classic mayfly take. Nerves stretched to the breaking point, I swept the rod tip skyward. No tug. I looked at Bucky.

“Premature ejerkulation?” I asked.

“Yup”, replied The Buckaroo.

Bucky describes the Shoshone as “a big aquarium”. Somehow, that makes sense. The turquoise water isn’t clear down to the bottom. There’s a definite depth where the water becomes opaque, then another division where the water is completely impenetrable. When a fish comes up from the bottom for your fly, she seems to start as a hint, then a shadow. Suddenly, you can see every detail of the rising fish.

There’s a fish slurping down your fly! Either you jerk too soon or too late. No in between.

Ain’t fly fishing grand?

The Shoshone is my favorite place to service my dry fly habit in winter. The Sh’Shone is clear (sort of) in February. Certainly no ice. The hot springs keep the water above freezing. Bugs start hatching early. Midges all winter, baetis and even caddis before any other area stream. Best bet for a dry fly fix year ‘round.

The only (moderately) bad thing about the Shoshone is it’s accessibility. In this case, too much. Not too little. There’s nothing scenic about the stretch at the bridge going into Cody. The access road begins in a subdivision and ends at a parking lot next to the bridge abutments. There’s a big cinder block building at the far end of the lot. Some kind of pump house, I think. Tall chain link fence around it, big pipes running every which way. Downstream is the “trailer park hole”. Literally right below a trailer park. Upstream, the banks are littered with chunks of concrete. At one spot, liquid concrete was dumped down the cliff and forms a ledge just above water level. There’s another access upstream that the Buckaroo has dubbed “Suburbia”. The trail down to the water begins at a lot in the middle of another subdivision, high above the river.

Needless to say, weekends are not a good time to fish these spots. Every Tom, Dick and Harry (no, not Holman) fishes here on his or her days off. There are even a few lunch-time fishermen. I only fish it on weekdays to avoid the rush.

Dealing with crowded waters requires some patience. For an Okie from Muskogee like me, fly-fishing etiquette had to be learned. I grew up fishing in heated “fishing docks” where you sit in a chair right next to someone else. If the guy across the well from you caught a fish, everyone moved to that side of the dock! Like moving twenty feet would suddenly open the crappie flood gates!

I often see fly-fishers fishing within casting distance of one another. I’m only willing to do that with a few of my best fishing buddies. If I’m standing at the top of Suburbia and see two guys fishing down below, chances are I’ll forego the scramble down to the water and seek a more secluded spot. If I can avoid infringing on another fisherman’s space, even visually infringing, I will.

Here are a few fly-fishing no-no’s. Any of these acts will get you more bad looks than farting in church.

• Never wade across, stand in, or fish water within 100 yards upstream of another fisherman. I always assume they are fishing upstream and I don’t want to spoil their “beat”.
• Don’t fish a hole that another guy is “resting”. Sometimes, a fisher will catch a few rising fish in a hole and put the rest down. Then he sits on the bank, possibly drinking a cold one, and waits for the fish to begin rising again. If he’s a polite guy, he might just move on and leave the good hole to the next guy, having caught some good fish already.
• Passing a fisherman on a high bank may get rocks thrown at you. His fish can see you up there and will probably run for cover.
• Keep your dog out of the water. Period.

Unfortunately, our area waters are becoming more and more crowded. Near Red Lodge, this means you may see a couple of other fishermen in a day’s fishing. Not so in more populated areas or famous streams like the Big Horn. You may need to be patient and creative. Walk a little further or otherwise change the precious plan built up in your brain on the drive to the river. There’s plenty of water for all!

Craig Beam
Montana Trout Scout
855-3058
montanatroutscout.com

Ever since construction crews first granted access to this high country in 1931, skiers have flocked to its steep headwalls and narrow chutes to make the most of the late-season snow.

In the early ’30s, the favorite spot was above Dead Man’s Curve, overlooking Long Lake. (Skiers now use this point to access the legendary Reefer Ridge.) Later, a primitive tow rope was installed on Gardner Headwall, which is still one of the favorite spots for getting in some quick turns. If you’re willing to hike it out, that is.

But if you’re not a hiker the Red Lodge International Ski and Snowboard Camp, with its permanent lift at Twin Lakes Headwall is the place for you. For less thank $50, you can ski all day from mid-May through July 4th, conditions permitting. But when making your plans, take note: they don’t rent equipment or sell food, so make sure to bring your own.