Winter 2022 |Volume 20, Issue 1

is not an FAILURE

Amplitude TROPICAL/Jungle Titan Taper

“The Amazon jungle provides some of the very best sight fishing opportunities for top predators, but to close the deal you need to be able to put a big fly in front of them with minimal false casting, so quick rod loading is crucial. The Amplitude Tropical/Jungle Titan Taper is my choice for sight fishing in the clear waters of the Amazon.”

- Rodrigo Salles, SA Advisor

• High-contrast sighter to identify the back of the line when fighting fish on long runs

• Floating texture on the tip section for the ultimate in flotation

• Shooting texture running line delivers longer casts

• Powerful head loads quickly and delivers large flies to distant targets

• Built two line sizes heavy

• Tropi-Core technology remains stiff and slick in tropical environments

scientificanglers.com

Publishing Team

Chris Bird Jennifer Bird

Managing Editor Bob Covey

Editorial Team Derek Bird Gary Bird

Group Art Direction Terry Paulhus

Office Administrators

Kim Carruthers Kaylee Davis Websites Breeze Web

Department Editors

Derek Bird

Brian Chan

Dana Harrison

Jim McLennan

Derek Olthuis Jeff Wagner

Contributors

Frank Brassard Joel Clifton Kastine Coleman Dr. Brandon Finnhorn Matthew Komatsu Agnieszka & Arek Kubale

Riley Leboe

Nathaniel Wilder

Fly Fusion is published quarterly by Fly Fusion Ltd, a division of Bird Marketing Group Inc. 111, 7 Avenue S, Suite A Cranbrook, BC V1C 2J3 1-888-435-9624 info@flyfusionmag.com flyfusionmag.com

The current issue of Fly Fusion can be found across North America in specialty fly shops, sporting goods stores and retail outlets for $8.99. One-year subscription: $28.95. Two-year subscription: $49.95 Three-year subscription: $69.95. Add $12.00 shipping and handling per year for international subscriptions. Editorial submissions are welcome and should be sent to the address above attention to the Editor. Email queries can also be emailed to editor@flyfusionmag. com. Visit flyfusionmag.com for the full writer and photographer guidelines. Unsolicited submissions will be considered and must be accompanied by a selfaddressed stamped envelope. Fly Fusion assumes no responsibility for the return or loss of solicited and unsolicited material.

All facts, opinions and statements appearing within this publication are those of the writers and are in no way to be construed as statements, positions, or endorsements. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the publisher. Copyright 2022 Fly Fusion Ltd. Printed in Canada. Canadian Mail Publication Agreement #41202551. Return undeliverable Canadian addresses to: Fly Fusion, 111, 7 Avenue S, Suite A Cranbrook, BC V1C 2J3. Return undeliverable US addresses to Fly Fusion, PO Box 227A, Eastport, Idaho 83826. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.

© Photo Nathaniel Wilder

10 A SEISMIC SHIFT

Matthew Komatsu

After the 2011 tsunami devastated Japan, I began to claim my heritage. Among all the ways I built this new sense of identity, none was more fitting than becoming a tenkara fly fisher. But could the traditional Japanese rods be used in Alaska, where I lived?

20

BREAKING THE ICE

Riley Leboe

Like the ringing of a dinner bell, the sound of ice breaking underneath our oars was the sign of the stillwater season starting at Camp Scud, our home for three days of adventure deep in the British Columbia backcountry.

26

HIGH DRAMA ON HALLOWED WATERS

Frank Brassard

After battling 30 kilometres of trail, much of it overgrown and strewn with blowndown trees, our bags were at our feet. The water was crystal-clear, piercingly cold and perfect for sight-fishing the big brook trout we knew lived in its depths. Whoever said it’s about the journey and not the destination has clearly never hiked to Fortress Lake.

38

EDITOR’S CHOICE PRODUCT REVIEWS

Fly Fusion contributors

Over the past fishing season, we had our team log some serious miles in the selected boots and waders, put some serious strain on the chosen rods and reels, and hail some serious abuse on the packs, cases and organizers featured herein.

I’m always willing to share a few fly-fishing secrets. My favorite fly, for example, is the one the trout are taking. My favorite season is the one when trout are biting. My favorite stream is the one where the trout are plentiful and the anglers are few.

STREAM LINES

Sometimes the Streams Slap Back

There’s a scene from the original Men in Black that’s stuck with me. Agent K (Tommy Lee Jones) and Agent J (Will Smith) are sitting on a bench and J is trying to make sense of the alien activity he’s just witnessed. The seasoned Agent K says, “Five hundred years ago, everybody knew the earth was flat, and 15 minutes ago you knew humans were alone on this planet. Imagine what you’ll know tomorrow.”

I identify with this sentiment. The older I get, the more the ideologies I was certain about in my youth are crushed, like boulders into gravel. Over the years, I’ve had some of my fly-fishing foundations turned to gravel, too, none more deeply-rooted than my hatred toward wind and the greasiness of egg patterns.

I’ve despised windy days for the majority of my existence. I see them as the source of adjusted casts, tippet knots, and wayward flies. For many years, if I had my choice, I’d choose a calm day over a windy day every day on the water. But then something happened a few weeks ago that challenged my deep reservations. On a secluded stream, I saw a small group of trout feeding in a tailout. The glide was low and clear, and my first cast spooked them. I moved to the next run, and found the same thing: three good sized trout sitting in the tailout, moving methodically as they snacked on salmon fry. Even though I crouched down and made what I considered a good cast, I spooked them, too.

I hiked to the next run and found the same scenario. This time there were five or so trout feeding. I put my trust into persistence and peeled line from my reel, planning to cast even further upstream from the trout than I had done

on the earlier fish. I let my fry pattern stealthily dead-drift into their feeding lane before I started stripping.

I got one. Then another. And another. The rest of the day went that way. But not because of persistence, or being more careful, or casting well upstream of the trout. It was the wind that saved my day. After all these years, the wind decided to work with me by placing just enough chop on the water to provide a little extra camouflage, but not so much force as to make casting a challenge. It was such a good day after the wind showed up, I was forced to adjust my hatred. I had to give credit where it was due for transforming a frustrating day into a fruitful day.

I’ve learned to love happenstances like this, the situations that turn foes into friends. Scenarios that destroy my stereotypes, my hang ups, pet peeves, and self-limiting biases. The older I get, the less painful these events are.

Wind hasn’t been my only teacher. The rivers themselves have, as well. Admittedly, I’m a recovering dry-fly snob. On my East Kootenay home waters, I could almost exclusively dry-fly fish and most years I’d do so from the start of the season into October, if the weather allowed. As a last resort, to stretch out my season, I’d resort to nymphing. Nymphs kept me on the water for longer, but the drawback was the by-catch. Nymphs caught more whitefish than I thought acceptable. Even more embarrassingly, they also dredged up the odd pike minnow (sorry for the foul language).

Then, at the start of my teaching career, I moved. The streams in my new region required a different type of fly box…one containing more offerings for meat eaters. To get in step with the coastal streams, I had to learn new rhythms and accept new realities. I wish I could say I adapted quickly.

Derek Bird

“In this case, what’s better seems to be what I know, and what I’m used to. I guess I’ve made myself the centre of my existence. This is a difficult reality to face. If I’m honest, I suspect I’ve done that not just with eggs and wind but with politics, religion, art and science. I assume I’m right because of my limited understanding, because of a fragmented slice of education I possess, in the small cross section of time in which I live.”

In reality it was a painfully-slow evolution. My dry-fly snobbery extended a couple of seasons, with very limited success. Even though the unfamiliar environment was doing its best to teach me new lessons, I was doing my best not to listen.

Eventually I started to pay attention, not to what I wanted to happen but to what was actually happening. And that’s when I began learning. And that’s when I began catching trout. Most of the streams were not nutrient rich like the rivers in the Rockies. They didn’t have prolific summer hatches, so the trout followed a different calendar than the hatch charts I grew up studying. The summer hatches shifted from stonefly, to caddisfly and mayfly, to pink fry, coho fry, and chum fry. Then, towards the fall, the adult salmon returned to their natal streams to start a new cycle and the trout moved in behind them to eat…well…they eat…um…eggs (sorry again for the foul language).

So I started to fish egg patterns. At first I pretended I didn’t like it—as though I was forced to do it, like it was a matter of survival. In my mind, people who fished with egg patterns were one step away from anglers who used roe, and anglers who used roe were one step away from poachers who snag fish with triple prong hooks. It was a slippery slope I tried to avoid.

To my previous self, egg patterns were the antithesis of classics like the Parachute Adams and the Elk Hair Caddis. But my environment was turning that belief on its head. Now that I lived where I lived, I wasn’t so sure they were opposites. Sure, one is lauded by fly anglers while the other is often ridiculed; yes, one may be regal and dry, the other

may be dirty and wet. But maybe the patterns had more similarities than I was seeing. After all, they’re both imitating a stage in nature’s lifecycle. They’re both food. Perhaps the lowly egg pattern wasn’t as lowly as I once thought. Perhaps it’s even better than the dry-fly snob’s parachute because of what it represents: life created.

In this case, what’s better seems to be what I know, and what I’m used to. I guess I’ve made myself the centre of my existence. This is a difficult reality to face. If I’m honest, I suspect I’ve done that not just with eggs and wind but with politics, religion, art and science. I assume I’m right because of my limited understanding, because of a fragmented slice of education I possess, in the small cross section of time in which I live.

It’s not that I can’t ever know something to be true. However, I have to admit to myself the streams I walk beside are far deeper than I’ll ever fully understand. They run far longer than I can comprehend. For me it means an acceptance that in the truths I discover, there has to be room for greater truths, while at the same time, less certainty. It means my connectivity to what’s around is based on observation first and certainty a distant second. It means placing humanity before ideology. It means replacing dominion and mastery of my environment with awe-filled wonder. It means learning to wade through the mire of broken philosophies, political systems, religious ideologies, and scientific altruisms, to arrive at a place where a deeper truth resides. This place, like the streams I fish, is a place of overwhelming peace because the humility manufactured by my broken certainties is also the solution to that same brokenness.

I’m not sure if Will Smith fly fishes, but he probably knows what it’s like to be certain about a decision, only to find out later it was likely the wrong one. I assume he knows what it’s like to stand up to a rock and have that rock crush him into gravelly pieces. In Men in Black, when his character J finally makes the decision to be a special agent, he says to Agent K “You chose me, so you recognize the skills, so don’t go calling me sport [or] kid…”

K responds, “Ok Slick. But let me tell you something about all your skills. As of right now, they mean precisely nothing.”

If, like Agent J, I can accept that, maybe I’ll learn more than I possibly thought imaginable.

A Seismic Shift

Claiming my mixed identity with a tenkara rod

Matthew Komatsu

Matthew Komatsu is a writer and angler who lives in Anchorage, Alaska.

Beneath the hot gaze of an evening summer sun, I stand on a gravel bar of a backcountry Alaska creek running a half-foot low. My mouse, a modified Paul Noble Gurgler that I tied with a scrap of my daughter’s pink craft foam, dangles at my wading boots in the languid current. My fingers, thick with anxiety, curl around the damp cork of my tenkara rod.

Nathaniel, the photographer, lies prone in the brush on top of a spot that last year produced four fish in our first five casts of the trip. He’s waiting for me to send my mouse upstream, then twitch it across the current while it drifts down as if it were a flesh-and-blood mouse floundering across the water. In theory, this will entice a wild Alaska rainbow trout to dash from the shadow of its hiding spot to eat what it thinks is prey, but instead feel the bite of a size 6 hook behind an artificial fly. But drought has reduced the hole, an undercut bank encaged by tree roots reaching for water, from last year’s cavern of promise to today’s unlikely divot.

He can’t wait forever. A minute is a lifetime under a horde of Alaska mosquitoes. My friends Jeff and Ben are standing by. I lift and retract the rod tip with just enough speed to get the line and fly off the water, roll the line slightly behind me but in front of the dense brush that chokes the bank, and cast the Gurgler across the creek.

My journey to tenkara angler began with another kind of water.

On 11 March 2011, the Shishiori River in my father’s hometown of Kesennuma, Japan, ran dry. In the 45 minutes

that followed a 9.2 magnitude earthquake, the Pacific Ocean receded until the river’s fishing boats rested on slabs of the concrete channel that had replaced what were once the winding, riparian banks of a stream that emptied into Kesennuma Bay. The tsunami that followed, at its greatest height along Japan’s northeastern coast, measured 128 feet above sea level. The Shishiori reversed as the ocean roared inland, lifting the marooned boats with its swell, then overtopping its manmade banks and ripping homes from foundations.

Until it swallowed a rest home for the elderly not far from the river’s original course.

I grew up a half-Japanese kid in northern Minnesota, black hair in a sea of Scandinavian blonde. My father had raised me as his “All-American boy,” pushed to assimilate, never taught the Japanese language. I’d met my father’s mother as infant, boy, then young man. She was stooped that last trip to Japan, but still hale enough to prepare wriggling uni (sea urchin) in the family kitchen. She had smiled at me, and I smiled back. We could not communicate.

After the tsunami, we awaited news of my father’s family. I couldn’t complete a request on a website for the missing, because I couldn’t spell her name. I knew her only as “my Japanese Grandma.” Five days passed before a cousin in Tokyo called my sister and we learned she was dead. I volunteered to deploy with the US military’s relief effort.

In April, the annual sakura (cherry) bloom crept north across Japan. I went for a run around the Air Force base outside of Tokyo, where I worked as a planner. I jogged past the Applebee’s, through the military housing that replicated Anytown, USA, and on until I reached the other side of the airfield. Through the barb-wire topped fence, Mt. Fuji was pink in the sunrise. Somewhere beyond was the devastated region surrounding Kesennuma Bay. I wanted to climb over the fence and keep running north.

Drift. Epinephrine dumps into my body as the water behind my mouse burbles, but it’s a miss. The fish are here, even if the takes are sippy. Jeff is downstream, across from a dead tree trunk with good structure. God, his roll cast looks good. A splash, a cry, and his rod curves, his line taught in the sunlight and leading my eye towards the subsurface struggle at its end. Ben nets the trout swiftly. It’s a gorgeous

Matthew Komatsu

All images Nathaniel Wilder

16-inch rainbow trout, black spots and the telltale pink streak. It’s our first fish, and I’m tickled it was Jeff’s.

We move down the creek. At its widest, the creek is maybe 20 yards across. Its grade is gentle, but the inchesdeep water unnerves. When Jeff and I joined him last year, Ben had talked up the intensity of the fishing here, to the point that it seemed like anyone’s story about their secret spot—better in the telling than in person—and when we first emerged from the first of many of Ben’s “brushwhacks” through dense Alaska undergrowth, the creek gave no sign of the fish that lurked in its shadows. Our first casts, and many more over the next two days, proved us wrong. Impossible drifts of mice into branches, stripped at the last possible second; hisses of wait when a mis-cast fly ended up on top of a log: every time it ended the same. With an explosion of water, the disappearance of the fly, and a shout of surprise.

Another for Jeff, then it’s my turn. A 14 inch trout bends my rod and comes to net. The pace is off last year’s mark, leaving Ben to wonder whether the low water and heat aren’t working against us.

Then the sun drops, shadows intensify and cool. The rainbows come alive.

After what the Japanese call “3/11,” I began to claim my heritage. When I encountered an advertisement in a 2017 Patagonia catalog for a simple Japanese method of fly fishing called tenkara, I bought a setup. Since moving to Alaska, I had considered the sport, but never taken the

leap. The first time I extended the telescoping 8’6” rod, I had no idea what I was looking at.

According to Tenkara USA’s founder, Daniel Galhardo, tenkara’s reel-less method evolved to catch trout in the southern mountainous region of Japan’s main island, Honshu. To get started in the sport, Galhardo recommended using the longest rod possible, factoring for stream width and foliage. To the tip’s lillian, a length of tenkara-specific line, slightly longer than the rod, is girth hitched. At the end of the line, two-to-four feet of leader is connected. A reverse-hackled kebari fly is tied to the leader. The cast is mostly from the wrist, and looks a bit like you’re tossing a light ball. The index finger points up the rod. A quick back cast between 9 and 12-o’clock, a short pause for the loop to travel over head, and a flick forward. You can drift the kebari dry, or sink it wet in a hydraulic.

I asked Daniel whether tenkara rods could be used in Alaska. He said for trout, yes, but his rods were never meant for large salmon. To do that would require the incorporation of other methods and larger rods. His response was kind, but firmly established the boundaries of the tradition: What I wanted would be fly fishing with a tenkara rod, not tenkara fly fishing.

Ben’s rod goes white-hot, to the point that Jeff and I cast once, then get out of his way. He speaks to us as if we’re ghosts, never turning his head from his unseen targets.

After pulling a gorgeous 20-inch ‘bow from a slick pool beneath a log, he and Jeff pull me forward, positioning me so Nathaniel can capture some topwater action. My presentations are perfect. The fish takes my mouse drift after drift, and despite the urge to rip my tip skyward, I wait. But I’m missing the set. Each time I tighten the line, my mouse launches from the water, attached to nothing. I step out, and Jeff hands his rod and reel to Nathaniel, who promptly puts down his camera and lands a 16-inch trout.

I break the dry streak with a hand-sized rainbow. Ben remarks on the wide variety of fish we’re catching. One hole, a pour-over into a hip-deep pool bordered by a deep, fast moving undercut on one side and lazy waters on the other, produces multiples for each of us. Ten minutes, trout ranging from eight to 18 inches. The variety is a good sign for the fishery.

We trundle up to camp, collect water, drop gear. Out comes the Japanese whisky, and what’s left of the ice. I fill cups in the dying light.

I knew my grandmother died at the rest home, but nothing else. I needed more. In 2018, I travelled to Japan to write a series of 3/11 stories, enlisted my father as interpreter, and interviewed a cousin about our Obāsan. My cousin’s friend was at the rest home on the day she died. I asked my cousin to connect me. He refused. Later, I confessed my frustration to my father. “If you were Japanese, you would understand,” he responded, not unkindly.

My father’s response—like Daniel Galhardo’s—was required. I was not Japanese, and neither research, nor a tenkara rod could make me so. I would never be pure. I was “Hafu,” as some of us half-Japanese call ourselves. A hybrid identity was what I’d been building all along. In the brightening morning, Ben eyes my rod. It’s a Zen

Tenkara Suimenka Zoom, a stiff, 6-wt-equivalent that fishes at 10 or 12 feet. I give Ben the rod and set up my moreplayful Tenkara USA Rhodo, which adjusts to 8, 9, or 10 feet. Last year, I rigged the rod with 3.5 tenkara level line with a couple feet of 3x tippet as leader. But the persistent action had necessitated frequent changes of my lines. This year, I’ve opted for Tenkara USA’s 9-foot braided, furled, and tapered kevlar line. For leader, I consider 8-pound. Ben reminds me how an unchanged 3x leader cost me what would have been the biggest catch of the trip last year. I remind him that the lost fish is always largest, and go with the 8lb Maxima anyway. On its end, I secure a size six egg-sucking leech that I tied a few days ago. We make our way slowly, working off the whisky. The fish don’t mind. They’re tucked into the shadows of a tiny cut of brown earth. Beneath a drooping branch. Behind the waterlogged limb of cottonwood, long separated from its body. We can’t help ourselves. When one of us pulls a fish,

the rest of us stop. There must be more, we think, and we are frequently right, rewarded for our efforts with a grinning photo punctuated by a slash of scarlet. Ben catches all but two on my Suimenka.

Morimitsu Inawashir, the director of the re-located Shunpo rest home, slumped in his chair. My grandmother died on the second floor, he told me. They’d evacuated the residents there, instead of the roof, because the government’s initial tsunami estimates were low. When the sea rushed in, he and his staff treaded water, stood on tiptoes where they could find purchase. They tried to save the residents. Of those who survived the tsunami, many died that cold night. More succumbed later in the shelters. He would never forgive himself.

He produced a photo of my grandmother, Tokuno Komatsu. My heart stopped. There were my cheekbones, my jutting bulb of a chin. My American mother had always maintained I’d inherited them from her side of the family, but here was the possibility that they’d come from my Japanese father’s.

We awaken from our mid-day naps in camp at 7 p.m. As has become the ritual, the team turns to me for the tally. I’ve been recording every catch. The total is absurd, giving us the high ground we need to abbreviate the evening

wade, and abandon the plan to fish before striking camp tomorrow morning.

I inspect Jeff’s fly. He’s refused to fish anything but the Mini Mr. Hanky I tied from a Deneki recipe. It looks how you’d expect a foam mouse to look after dozens of trout have used it as a chew toy. Mousing is fun, but there’s something about tight-lining a leech with a tenkara rod. I switch to one of the red-heads I tied. I spot a cut the size of a basketball beneath a bank, defended by alders and cottonwood saplings. I’ve got the clearance for a full back cast and take advantage of it to land the streamer two feet upstream and six inches off the shore. When it passes the hole, I strip the leech. Within two twitches, the line tugs and I set the hook as the stream boils around it. Sixteen inches of wild fish doubles my rod.

The crew calls me to a hole. Nathaniel wants a shot of me releasing a fish with prehistoric-sized ferns as backdrop. The creek is narrow here, congested as always, turning beneath an alarming amount of alder in the water. Underneath, there’s sure to be eroded pockets of still, dark water for trout to predate from. I’m hoping to pull a big rainbow out of those branches, but fighting it across the main current and into the soft inside eddy will give it time to run back and break me off. Which is to say nothing of getting the fly there

Increased range-of-motion on the arms and side panels from 170g of stretchy PrimaLoft Gold Active insulation

in the first place. No room for a full backcast behind but plenty of freedom above: I’ll need one of my hybrid casts. Ben and Jeff wait downstream, landing net ready.

The decision to fly fish without a reel required synthesis. The tenkara cast Daniel and his mentor Dr. Hisao Ishigaki developed was born in the tight confines of Japanese mountain streams. It was never meant for Alaska, where alders and trees choke the banks of our creeks and rivers. My first casts here snagged leaf and branch, repeatedly. To account for my typical surroundings, I learned the western roll cast, then hybridized its D-loop with the overhead tenkara to produce a clean-running line as effective at avoiding snags as it is at keeping the beaded nymph or dropper running true.

While I’m not to the first, or only, angler who’s combined tenkara and western methods, what it means to me transcends angling. Every cast, every fish, is a constructed identity, something I’ve built with my hands through wit and determination.

This summer, I began to teach my eight year-old son, who’s a quarter Japanese, to use my old Patagonia tenkara rod. I keep a length of tenkara level line attached to 3x leader in his little treasure box of dry and wet flies. He’s still learning his knots. On a recent trip, he stood in his waders in the shallows of the Russian River while lines of combat anglers flipped streamers for sockeye. I attached a bugger, promised rainbows were hiding in the pockets nearby. I tried to teach him my tenkara roll cast, but it didn’t take. Instead, at the end of each drift, he snapped his rod tip back, and in defiance of fly casting logic, somehow landed the worm back upstream.

A hybrid cast of his own design.

I flop a false cast out upstream, and when the fly is in line with where I want to begin my drift, I flick my rod tip back up to the 11-o’clock position and pause it

there. The egg-sucking leech explodes from the water and shoots safely up at a sixty-degree angle, out of the way of the branches behind me at head-level. Then I flick the rod from the wrist, forward and just so, my hand remaining at the same height. The yellow line shoots across the stream, depositing the streamer so that it’s drifting straight for the alder branches.

I’m taking little half-breaths now, everyone quiet. My flesh is thick with hormones. Index finger on the cork. The fly is nearly to the branches. Wait. Wait.

It’s under, in the shadows of the alder. Now.

I drop my rod tip until it’s inches off the water and sweep it downstream, the line stretched and pointing at the quarry I can not yet see. And now I’m stripping the leech, dancing the black marabou and red chenille in six inches of water, less than an inch beneath the alder’s tentacles. It doesn’t even make it out of the dark. A tug. I set sideways and the rod bends. Splashes erupt from beneath the leaves.

“Fish on!”

Now the game’s afoot, the electricity running. I had to set horizontally, rod low, and I can’t raise it until the fish is clear of the branches. Ben’s net is ready. It’s coming out now, clear and in the current; I can lift my rod to apply more power. But I’ve let down my guard. The trout turns and runs back for the branches. It uses the play of my tenkara rod against me, bends it more. It threatens to break it, or wrap the line around a branch.

I curse. Switch the rod to my left hand. The maneuver buys a couple feet of space and few more pounds of pressure. I shuffle left, arm reaching as far as what’s available. The living roil approaches the branches, but stops short and, finally, turns back across the creek, into the soft water.

It’s exhausted, so I rest the net in current before removing my fly from the corner of its mouth. I admire this wild trout, half in the water, half out. A momentary collision between two worlds, heavy with meaning. I grip the tail, cradle the belly and place it into the creek’s main current. I hold its tail as it wriggles, slowly at first but building until it slips my grasp with a splash indistinguishable from the sound of moving water. It’s gone.

Riley Leboe

Riley is a professional skier and adventure filmmaker from Squamish, BC. You can find him chasing anadromous fish on his home river, enjoying the interior stillwaters, or on a backcountry skin track near you!

Breaking the Ice

Storms, sight-fishing and the cycle of seasons

All photos Joel Clifton

Crack, crack, smash! Like the ringing of a dinner bell, the sound of ice breaking underneath our oars was the sign of the stillwater season starting at Camp Scud.

Deep in the British Columbia backcountry, my brother Jess and I had rallied my truck through snow, mud and washouts to access our basecamp. Downed trees and overgrown trails couldn’t keep us from chasing that magical moment when the last remnants of ice disappears from the interior lakes outside of Kamloops, B.C.

Camp Scud would be our home for three days of adventure. We hoped the fish would be as eager to feed as we were to cast to them. Those last weeks of winter had us anxious to get the boat out, and we knew that, after a winter under the ice, eager trout would be roaming the shoals and shallows, anticipating their first big feeds.

But perhaps they weren’t as eager as we’d hoped. After chopping out a watery passage for our vessel, we anchored in eight feet of water, casting along the receding ice line, where the trout regularly move from deep water cover into the shallows. The action started slow, but we eventually found success using an attractor pattern.

A throat sample told us the trout were not feeding heavily—it seemed the menu was limited to some small scuds and daphnia. But the information we gleaned was still valuable; Jess switched to a scud pattern and was rewarded for his meal-matching.

The fish were cruising, which was exciting, but also frustrating. Sight-fishing to them had us gripped, then gutted, when they followed our flies to the boat before turning away at the last moment. It was great to see these healthy fish moving but tough to see our presentations refused. With persistence, switching our flies and varying our retrieve speeds, eventually we had some hook-ups.

When we did connect, we got a true sense of the trout’s power. Jumps, huge runs, deep dives…the hard pulls were exactly what we’d been waiting all year for. The motto at Camp Scud soon became quality over quantity.

In the mood to explore, we branched out to nearby stillwaters, the steep, narrow roads putting the truck to the test. One higher-elevation lake was still frozen over, but we figured that unless we saw the hard water for ourselves, our curiosity wouldn’t have been satisfied. After bringing some fish to hand at another pair of lakes, as we headed back to Camp Scud, we were pummelled by a spring storm. Snow, rain, hail and wind reminded us to be prepared for all weather at this time of year.

Then the sun came out again. Bugs and wildlife revealed themselves. More of the lake ice receded. With our gear drying beside the wood stove and the BBQ warming up, we tied some flies, relived the moments we had shared on the water and eventually tucked into a big meal.

Now, months later, those early season bugs are gone, and the nights are getting longer. Soon enough, the hardwater will start to form on the shoreline and the stillwater fishing season will be sealed over.

Until next spring, that is, when we chase iceoff again.

High Drama on Hallowed Waters

Serendipitous storms in the remote wilderness

Frank

Bassard

As Dylan and I finally got our first glimpse of the lake, we dropped our packs and stared in awe.

“We’re finally here,” murmured Dylan. “Here,” was deep in the Canadian Rockies backcountry, on the shores of hallowed waters, an impossibly emerald lake surrounded by imposing peaks with imposing names: Dragon, Catacombs, Siege. Our own battle with 30 kilometres of trail—much of it overgrown and strewn with blown-down trees— had been undertaken with bikes, inflatable boats and 70-pound packs. We had crossed two rivers, including the historic Athabasca, where a washed-out bridge has been completely removed by the Canadian national parks service. Now our bags were at our feet, and 12-kilometres of glass-like water reflected a cirque of snow-capped peaks. Avalanches rumbled in the distance, reminding us that the lake was only recently thawed. The water was crystal-clear, piercingly cold and perfect for sight-fishing the big brook trout we knew lived in its depths. Whoever said “it’s about the journey, not the destination,” has clearly never walked to Fortress Lake.

Certainly not everyone who fishes it does walk. Most Fortress Lake anglers fly in as guests of the backcountry lodge which operates there. A fly fishing bucket list trip if there every was one, it doesn’t take much imagination to see the allure in chasing big, eager brook trout in such stunning surroundings, and at the end of the day retiring to chef-prepared meals and a hot tub.

But there were no swim trunks in our 90-litre packs. Our meals were freeze-dried and if we wanted to make it to the massive lake’s secluded bays and creeks, our packrafts weren’t motorized; we’d have to paddle there ourselves. For now, we still had to make camp. Scurrying down the steep lakeshore, blowing up our boats and launching them towards the setting sun, we peacefully closed the last five kilometres to our campsite. Our home for the next three days was on the lee side of a small, treed peninsula. We went to bed listening to the thunder of the shifting mountains, dreaming of fish to come.

Stocked in the early 1900s by an overzealous park warden, Fortress Lake boasts a healthy population of Great Lakes brook trout. Landing a five pound fish at Fortress Lake (the record is 11 lbs) is not a rare occurrence. Typically

Frank Brassard is a fly tyer and fly fisher based in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta. When he isn’t chasing trout in cold, glacier fed streams, he enjoys taking traditional nymph and dry patterns and giving them his own twist. Frank’s flies can be seen on Instagram at @frank. brassard

Frank Bassard

targeted by stripping colourful streamers or fishing a leech under an indicator, Fortress Lake brook trout are often found hiding under logs and fallen trees, or stacking up along the lake’s drop-off, a cast’s length from the shoal.

I had been telling my friend Dylan about one particular honey hole for months now, a place where, far beneath the square cut rock of 3,000-metre Chisel Peak, a plume of opaque teal silt flows into the lake’s jade-green depths. The roiling water where the current feeds the lake had occupied a fairly spacious spot in my memory since my last trip to Fortress Lake and I couldn’t wait to get back there.

Unfortunately, the wind had different ideas. The next morning, we woke to the sound of a whipping rain fly and beyond the shelter of the bay, whitecaps were developing. We observed ducks seeking protection on shore. We realized that pushing further down the lake was out of the question, however, there were still plenty of fishing opportunities near camp. When the conditions later worsened, we reluctantly decided to double-back on the previous day’s paddle, making our way to a bay near the east end of the lake. Although we both would end up with our rods bent, I was soundly out-fished by Dylan, and later, when a storm suddenly moved in, we were forced to battle 40 km/hr winds and barely made it back to camp.

The start of day two was more of the same: high winds, unpredictable showers and avalanches thundering down the slopes all around us. We fished near camp again and once more were in disbelief as the more extreme the weather became, the hotter the fishing seem to get. Determined to make it to the outlet of Chisel Creek, we took advantage of a sudden break in the skies. We boarded our rafts and embarked on the one-hour paddle across the

lake. As we neared the last bend, our paddle strokes became faster, as we anticipated getting to the beach. Seeing no distant whitecaps and figuring the weather was going to hold off, I was about to ask Dylan what fly he was planning on using. I was about to suggest that now we were really at our destination. “We’re finally here,” I started to say.

Suddenly, Dylan’s paddle strokes stopped. His boat began to drift. Puzzled, I stopped too, and strained my eyes until I could see what he had spotted. Then I located it. A group of people. Five people, all with fishing rods. After not seeing a sign of life for three days, we stared in disbelief as two anglers cast to “our” spot. It appeared that Chisel Creek was occupied. We were crushed. And then, everything changed. One of the anglers, wading out on the gravel bar, ventured too far. The ground beneath him gave way and his feet were swept under him by the current. He fell backwards, the creek carrying him out into the frigid lake. As he flailed hopelessly, my

came to his friend’s aid, however, my greedy assumption evaporated. In an attempt to reach the fallen angler, the second man extended a landing net. But the gravel bar soon disintegrated under his boots, too. Now both men were in the water, their friends looking on helplessly. It took Dylan and I a few seconds to understand what was unfolding. As swiftly as possible, we paddled toward the gravel bar. “I’m going for the guy on the left!” I shouted to Dylan, who called back that he would attempt to reach the other man. As I approached, I was wary that in his desperation to grab my raft, the man could unwittingly pull me in. His head was barely above water, his lips were blue, but he understood my command to not climb aboard. Because of their small load capacity, their lack of hand-holds and general flimsiness, packrafts are anything but sturdy rescue vessels. Although I was wearing a life vest, I knew capsizing in four-degree water would be potentially life-threatening. But I also knew this man was

bow. Unfortunately for us both, his submerged body now acted as a drogue, the current pushing us ever-deeper. Getting out of the creek’s flow and making progress toward the beach was painfully slow. I paddled with everything I had. Vision narrowing, lungs burning, the next few minutes were a flurry of strokes, shouting and confusion. Eventually, we reached his group on shore. Dylan, towing his own hypothermic passenger, pulled in beside me. When the men had been dragged to higher ground, we had an anxious wait for the fishing lodge’s jetboat. When it arrived, after blurting out nervous words of gratitude, the group sped off, leaving us alone with the wilderness’ sudden silence.

The brookies went quiet, too. I apprehensively asked Dylan if he was still into fishing, and we spent the next four hours unsuccessfully trying to land something. It was difficult to rediscover the optimism of the afternoon, but when the lodge owner came to express his thanks for our help and extended an invitation to dinner, plus a powerboat-ride back to our camp, our spirits lifted significantly. We were thankful—and somewhat incredulous—that our journey had put us at

our destination at the exact time the group’s accident occurred.

For the remainder of the trip, we had more of the same from our first two days. No rescues, thankfully, but plenty of terrible weather, combined with plenty of outstanding fishing. Each evening was punctuated with a bonfire and a flask of whiskey and soon, it became time to bid Fortress farewell. As if on cue, as we packed our bags for the long hike and paddle home, the skies cleared up. We bobbed along the Athabasca, not far from the headwaters of Alberta’s longest river, the Chisel Creek episode still rolling around in our minds.

Sometimes life is about the destination, not the journey. With its distinct lack of views, washed-away bridges and kilometres of unmaintained trail, I was sure the trip to Fortress Lake could be summed up as such—especially considering the payoff once you get there. But after the trip we had and the experiences we accrued, I’m starting to second guess that logic. Maybe it is all about the journey. Maybe it is about what you learn, how you grow. Maybe, despite us being able to put our packs down, or set up camp or reach our hallowed waters, we’re never “finally here.”

Go where the fish are.

That moment when the planning and hard work pays off because you just landed the fish that no one else could reach.

Connecting anglers with fish for over 25 years. Learn more at watermasterrafts.com

Shooting the Breeze

Putting fly lines head to head

Kastine Coleman

Full disclosure, when I first started fly fishing and it came time to select a fly line, I ignored the line’s weight, density, head length and whether or not it was made for cool or warm climates. All that mattered to me was that it matched the accent colour on my waders (baby blue, if you’re wondering).

These days, choosing what type of line I use is a much more rigorous process. As a casting instructor, fly fishing ambassador and self-proclaimed gear nerd, not only do I love to deliberate about what type of line will work in which situation, I also find it valuable to consider what line will work for others. As such, alongside my partner, Terry, I headed to the river recently to put an assortment of lines to the test. Our experiment consisted of testing 5-weight floating lines, 8-weight floating lines and a handful of 5-and-8-weight sinking lines.

When you’re selecting a line, check the head length, be honest with your casting abilities and use our reviews below to inform your decision. Fishing is better when the casts are easy!

Kastine Coleman

Kastine Coleman is a conservation-minded angler and teacher, a FFI casting instructor, two-time IGFA world record holder for Atlantic Salmon, fishing guide, owner of Tight Loops Tight Lines, and host of a fly fishing television show of the same name, currently airing on Sportsman Canada and the World fishing Network. Kastine is the Canadian Ambassador for Fly Fishers International (FFI), a director with both FFI and the Atlantic Salmon Conservation Foundation, a SPAWN board member and a freelance writer. Kastine resides in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, with her three children.

Five-weight floating line

Rio

Products: Elite, Specialty Series Indicator

This line was a pleasure to cast. Even at 90 feet (the full line), the line felt effortless. It loaded the rod perfectly, performed exceptionallywell on short casts and roll casts, and had a soft presentation at all distances. This line has a low stretch core, and is smooth and quiet through the guides. The 50-foot head made casting flies into the wind a breeze.

Cortland:

Indicator Trout Series

The indicator Trout series also allowed us to make a near-effortless cast at 90 feet. The 48 foot-head worked to its advantage with casts at all distances, loaded the rod nicely on roll casts and was great in the wind.

may appeal to a wider range of anglers. Marketed as a half-size heavier the Amplitude MPX has a wonderful feel and loads the rod well. It performed well for short casts, roll casts and made delicate presentations a cinch.

Monic Fly Lines: Henley Phantom Tip

The Henly Phantom Tip by Monic is unique in that it has a clear head, potentially giving small streams anglers an advantage in some applications. Its 36-foot head performs well at short distances, for roll casts and has a soft presentation at all distances. The colour change on the head is deceiving because it doesn’t match with the diameter change, so you’re retrieving based on feel, rather than sight. Time will tell if the welded loops, with their plastic sheath coverings, will create a hinge point or not.

Monic Fly Lines: Icicle

Cortland: 444 Classic Series, Modern

Trout

The Classic 444 felt like a light line, however, it loaded the rod well. A 90 foot line with a 48’ head length, this line performed well on short casts, roll casts, presentation and into the wind. While we had no problem shooting line to 7080 feet, the last 10-20 feet was noticeably harder. The line’s solid colour-scheme occasionally made it tough to quickly determine the head length when retrieving for the next cast. Anglers should also note the 444 has a front-welded loop only.

Scientific Anglers: Amplitude, MPX

This 90-foot line casts great up to 70-75 feet. The textured line does let you know it’s shooting. With a head length of 35.5 feet, this line

This line is 90-feet in length and to about 75-feet, casts effortlessly. With a head length of 36-feet it performs well with short casts, however roll casts didn’t want to lay out with ideal presentation. The line has some stretch in the core and tends to hold a bit of memory.

Cheeky: All-Day Freshwater Fly Line

This Cheeky line has a non-stretch core and the line shows immediately that it doesn’t hold memory. It is a 90 foot line with a 40-foot head length. It performs well up to 50-60 feet and can hold its own in the wind at these distances. It is a light-feeling line; we had to work to get the line to load.

All photos Jake Dicks

Eight-weight floating line

Cortland: PikeMusky Float

At 100 feet in length, this line made for effortless casts at full distance. The 39foot head worked well at casts of any length, and facilitated roll casts easily. This is a well-rounded line for anglers of varying skill levels. The line loads the rod well and getting a soft presentation was natural.

Scientific Anglers: Amplitude, MPX

This line is 90-feet long and makes for fluid, graceful casts at this distance. A 41.5-foot head length is good for casts of all lengths as well as roll casts. The line has good presentation even casting in the wind. This line is a half-size heavier than standard, which gives it nice tactility and which also helps load the rod. The welded loops appear to be well balanced, the core of the line has minimal stretch and the line doesn’t hold memory which

will help reduce coiling off the reel and subsequently help the line shoot clean.

Airflo: Superflo, Flats Universal

At 100 feet with a 43-foot head length, this line cast well up to 75 feet and was smooth through the guides, quiet with a good core, and loaded the rod fast

Cheeky: All-Day Freshwater Fly Line

This 90-foot line with a 40-foot head performed well on short casts and roll casts. Longer casts required some effort. The line casts smooth through the guides and presentation on short casts was quiet with a soft landing.

Sinking Lines

Scientific Anglers Sonar Sink 25 Cold; 150g (5-wt)

At 105’ this line was lightweight and effortless to cast. With a 25-foot head length and smooth feel, this line is quiet in nature and it was a joy to cast on a 5-weight rod. The 8-weight line is also great for both short and distance casts. It was smooth coming through the guides, able to cut through the wind and delivered flies at any distance with minimal effort.

Cortland Pike Musky Sink 4

This Sink 4 line is 100-feet long with a 45foot head. It had some noticeable memory out of the box but worked itself out during use. The line performed well for short casts as well as at distance, with a quiet presentation.

Line ‘em up

When picking a fly line, consider your casting environment. If you’re typically fishing streams where you only need a 30-foot cast, a line with a 50-foot head is going to be overkill. You should also be honest with yourself about your casting abilities. The line has optimal performance when you retrieve it to the head length to make your cast. This means that you should be able to carry and cast the entire head length without breaking a sweat. If you can cast 40 feet comfortably but not 45, look for a line that has a 30-40-foot head length. Doing so will mean you’ll have easier casts, shoot more line and get more out of your fishing experience. If you’re looking to increase your casting distance, grab a lesson (Fly Fishers International is a good place to start) and practice, practice, practice!

TIME-TESTED GEAR

GLoomis NRX + Rod

Derek Bird

I was dragging my feet a little bit when it came to testing the new NRX+. Not because I don’t like GLoomis rods but because I have a favorite 8wt that I can’t help comparing every other rod to. So as I strung the NRX+, I thought here we go rather than I wonder what this rod will do. Right from the first cast, however, the rod surprised me. And not just a pleasant surprise, but an “OK, wow” kind of surprise.

If I had only one word to summarize the rod, it would be stability. The rod has no detectable lateral sway, and has lightning-fast recovery so it loads and shoots line effortlessly. It’s an absolute joy to cast. The NRX+ quickly became the rod I’m reaching for first in my lineup of 8wts. There’s something about the way the NRX+ casts that makes me think GLoomis rod designers incorporated some of the technology they put into the Asquith, as there are only a handful of rods on the market that offer the same stable feel and the Asquith is definitely one of them. The NRX+ reminds me that the industry is making advancements in rod technology and not simply repackaging existing technology. To this point in my life I’ve tested a lot of rods, and the NRX+ is undoubtedly one of the best 8wts I’ve ever cast. The NRX+ was my favourite product through the testing period. gloomis.com

Simms G3 Guide Stockingfoot Waders

Bob Covey

The first pair of waders I owned were objectively hideous. Scrambling up the bank at the end of the day, I looked like a shivering, dishevelled MC Hammer, parachute pants snagging broken willows and thorns as I swished my way back to my car.

My second pair of waders were a gift from my dad, who must have noticed my blue countenance from the fishing photos I was sending him. But thick neoprene made anything more vigorous than a 1 km stroll along a gentle grade a hot, sodden slog. Eventually, I found my way into a pair of Simms G3s. I coveted these waders. I drooled over the three-layer Gore-Tex around the chest and four-ply Gore above the gravel guards. I was curious how handy the features would be to store flies and hang a net off. Turns out: pretty darn handy. Since using the G3s, I’ve found they’re as good as the 5-star customer reviews testify. I love the fleece-lined warming pockets and removable tippet-tender. Because the G3s fit so well, they facilitate natural, intuitive movement when navigating rocks, roots and slime; I feel safer in them. And since they’re eminently breathable, I’m not a steaming, sweating mess by the time I call it a day.

If you, as a wading angler, are honest enough to admit that buying quality gear will save you money in the long run, the G3 Guide Stockingfoot waders by Simms are a great investment. simmsfishing.com

Abel Rove Reel

Chris Bird

ROVE: /rōv/ - travel constantly without a fixed destination; wander.

I just got a new reason to wander. Built to fish anywhere and everywhere, Abel’s ROVE reel is perfectly suited for fishing the rivers and tribs of the Rocky Mountains’ western slopes, where I call home. It performed flawlessly as I made casts to willing cutthroat, and it handled with ease the mighty tug of our neighbourhood bull trout.

The ROVE is not your delicate, ultra-light, classically-elegant reel. This is an ultra-tough, ultra-reliable, high capacity, beat-meup adventure reel. It will go where you want to go, handle most any type of fish you target, and in doing so, give you confidence to travel without the need to have a backup reel in your limited carry-on space. After a season of use and creating new fishing memories created with my boys, I am drawn even more to the significance behind the name. Not all of those who wander are lost, and with the ROVE I’ve found a new reason to put that principle in practice.

Water Master Kodiak Raft

Derek Olthuis

There are few items that I have ever tested that stand out more than the Kodiak raft made by Water Master. With close to a decade of testing, this raft has proven itself time and time again. From tackling rapids, to shuttling gear and people across stormy arctic lakes, this raft has taken a beating and done so in style. It is my most tried-and-true piece of equipment, and has allowed me to access water that others, without it, could not. It is eminently packable—fine for tossing in a trunk or checking as baggage for travel. Yet the Kodiak is tough. It had to be, when it was being dragged across lava rocks in Iceland, for example. In all the years of service, my Water Master has held up, and still gets me into water that would otherwise be inaccessible. bigskyinflatables.com

Searun Riffle QR Daily Case

Jim McLennan

When I got my first look at Searun’s Riffle QR Daily Case, my initial thought was that it was overkill for a guy like me who is pretty much restricted to vehicle travel for fishing trips. The Riffle QR Daily is an extremely durable, Italian-made, lockable hardshell case that accommodate several four-piece fly rods up to 10-and-a-half feet long, several reels, and a bunch of the other stuff I need to have handy when I get to where I’m going. It’s marketed as the perfect case for flying, but it turns out that these features are exactly what makes it extremely practical for us terrestrial travellers, too. When I go to fish for a day or a few days, the less tackle sorting I have to do, the better. The case is ready with the essentials and I know everything in it will be completely safe and easy to get my hands on. I grab the case, throw it into the vehicle and go. The Riffle QR Daily is bombproof, comes with a lifetime warranty and if I ever become a jetsetting fly fisher I’ll be ready for what the airlines can throw at it, too. searuncases.com

TIME-TESTED GEAR

Compass 360 Point Guide Jacket

Brian Chan

The first thing I noticed about the Point Guide Wading Jacket was the soft and quiet texture of the fabric. This jacket is made of Nanotex, a durable, water resistant and breathable material. During this past summer and fall I spent more than a few long, wet and windy day on the water and was glad I had this jacket on. It has proven to be a great rain and wind blocking garment. The fleece-lined high-water pockets have been used several times to warm my cold hands and I know they will get a lot more use during future early spring and late fall seasons. The four zippered chest pockets allow for quick access to my phone and other smaller items. Another great feature are internal and external neoprene cuffs, effective in keeping unwanted water from getting past my wrists. I have several favourite fishing hats and the attached hood provides ample head room for them all. sjkgear.com

Yakoda Supply Gear Transport Drifter

Derek Bird

This Colorado-based company is a gem and one you’ll want to check out if you haven’t found them yet. I’ve enjoyed testing a number of Yakoda’s products, right down to the RiverCamo Guide Laces. The product which has seen the most use and abuse from me, however, has been Yakoda’s Gear Transport bag. The Drifter eliminated the multiple trips to and from the garage when packing up or unloading the vehicle. With a 95L capacity, it fits everything from rods and waders to gear bags and nets. This bag allows for a tossit-in-and-go scenario. On top of that, if your vehicle functions as more than just a fishing truck, the bag also keeps the trunk area tidier—with any angling mess confined to the bag. The stiff side design is also a bonus. The sides remain upright when pulling out gear so there is less rifling around aimlessly and more pulling out what I’m looking for. Perhaps the most innovative part of the bag is the removable, cushioned changing mat, a very helpful feature when an angler is switching from streetwear into wading boots, and vice versa. The bag is durable, from its side walls all the way up to its sturdy rope handles. Yakoda’s Gear Transport is a great buy. It’s the accessory you didn’t know you needed. Once you have it, you’ll wonder how you ever got along without it. yakodasupply.com

Orvis Pro BOA Wading Boots

Jim McLennan

These are the latest in the evolution of wading footwear from Orvis. The Pros utilize the BOA wire-and-dial lacing system that’s been around for a few years, but carry significant technical improvements such as molded insoles, improved abrasion resistance, improved heel and toe protection, and more. But here’s what I like about them: They are light and don’t seem to gain much weight after being wet; they are extremely comfortable, opening wide to accommodate the bulk of neoprene wader feet; and, they have a sizeable pull tab at the heel that makes them easy to put on. These boots come with rubber soles designed in collaboration with Michelin, and will accommodate optional screw-in studs for added traction. orvis.com

Sightline Provisions Bracelet

Dana Harrison

As someone who rarely even wears a watch, I wasn’t sure if I was going to get along with a bracelet. But after this bracelet from Sightline Provisions spent the better part of the day underwater, as we netted fish after fish, I felt like we were going to be just fine together. Can bracelets bring good fishing luck? Not sure, because my girlfriend snagged it soon after (nice for her that it’s adjustable). She loves it for the same reasons as me: the blend of leather and stainless, the fit, the unique design. But…lucky? I guess if I get it back, I’ll endeavour to find out. sightlineprovisions.com

Cheeky Fishing Limitless 425 Reel

Derek Olthuis

I believe reels fall into one of two categories: Essential or Jewelry. Let’s be honest, most trout will never test your drag to its limits, however, plenty of saltwater species, steelhead or muskie can expose the flaws in your gear. The Cheeky 425 reel is for both looks and work; fashion and function. Sure, its vibrant colours make the Cheeky 425 seem practically bejewelled while fastened to your rod of choice, however, once you hook into something that pulls you into your backing, the drag—built to put the brakes on—demonstrates its essentialness. When the battle eventually slows, the reel’s large arbor picks up line in a hurry. Fully-sealed, the dust, debris, slime and salt stay out of the working elements. And fully-living up to its namesake, you can feel confident—and perhaps a bit Cheeky—that your reel will make your fishing friends jealous, especially after it helps you tire out a big fish. cheekyfishing.com

TIME-TESTED GEAR

SIMMS Flyweight Boots

Bob Covey

My rocks are slipperier than your rocks.

I wouldn’t make that bold claim on B.C.’s Thompson River, where many-a-day has been cut short by the Thompson’s legendarily-greasy shoreline, but on the freestone streams I frequent, where a thin layer of slimy growth gives the rocks a beautiful but deceptively-dangerous teal tinge, I’m looking for any advantage I can get to stay upright. Felt’s not allowed in my region, which is fine, and I don’t love hiking with cleats—they tend to fall out, in my experience, and I find they dampen the “feel” of finding a secure foothold—so when I saw the Simms Flyweight Wading Boots received an industry award for their slipresistant soles, engineered as they are with a softer, grippier, rubber compound, I was curious if they would be able to hit that sweet spot of stability, sans-studs. For me they have. Being on solid footing was particularly reassuring when I was ferrying gear down a dew-slickened dock ramp recently, and because they’re cleat-free, I was granted passage in my friend’s cedar strip canoe without a worry of scratching the boat floor. As the name suggests, the Flyweights are lean and light, but in my experience they incorporate just enough ankle support for some requisite boulder hopping, even while laden with a full backpack, inflated bellyboat and two tallboys. Lighter and softer always comes with some tradeoffs; I’m probably not going to use them to hike, bike and paddle into some far-flung lake with Frank Brassard, and Simms has other models for those who prioritize sole durability. For myself, however, they’re the perfect boots for almost all of my fishing situations, and if I need more rugged footwear for a long trip in, for example, I can easily pack the Flyweights in my bag with no discernible weight difference—particularly if I leave the tallboys at home. simmsfishing.com

Catchflo Browntown Smooth Slip On Shoes

Dana Harrison

I’m not afraid to throw a bit of flash in my fly patterns, and I don’t mind a little flash in my wardrobe. I spent the summer in Catchflo’s Browntown Smooth Slip-on canvas shoes. I wore them about town during our summer trip through Montana and into Yellowstone and these conversation-starters broke in extremely quickly. But people weren’t asking how comfy they were. They were asking after the two buttery brown trout patterns I was sportin’ on my stylin’ steps! I may have stuck out as a tourist in fishy Missoula, but if I had trout on the brain, I figured I could have them on my feet, too. My partner received even more compliments on the women’s Brookietown Smooth Sneakers that she enjoyed wearing all summer. But I had to remind her: mine were bigger.

catchflo.com

Fishpond Cutbank Gear Bag

Brian Chan

My first introduction to Fishpond products was a travelling fly tying kit bag that I acquired a number of years ago. I was impressed then with the quality of that bag and I am pleased to see the company has continued to lead the industry in the development and manufacturing of premier products for the fly fisher and outdoor enthusiast. The Cutbank Gear Bag and Thunderhead Submersible Backpack are two of the latest products I have had the chance to put to use and both have proven to be extremely functional and totally bomb proof. Both products are made from 900D TPU coated Newstream fabric which is created from 100 percent recycled plastic water bottles. The gear bag, measuring 17”x 10.5” x 11”, is designed to organize and keep your gear dry. I found the overall size was big enough for all my stillwater fly boxes, tippet material and other necessary gear for a day on the water. The gear bag also features Fishpond’s signature molded construction and welded design. Inside, are three adjustable dividers and two removable clear zippered pouches. Two Velcro patches placed on the top of the gear bag accept silicone Tacky Matts, making them the perfect place to store the flies used that day. YKK water resistant zippers, adjustable strap for shoulder or top-carry, and several accessory attachments finish off this well designed boat/gear bag. fishpondusa.com

Yeti TBA Cooler

Chris Bird

The Hopper M20 is the soft cooler that goes where hard coolers can’t and we put its comfort, durability and coolness to the test. We all have that favourite mountain stream, just beyond the reach of comfort, where the trout seem more willing. Always worth the effort, it is there after a long hike in the mountains where a cold drink and cool lunch is most appreciated. This hands-free hauling tool is designed to get cold provisions deep into the backcountry and passed our field testing with flying colors. Functionally speaking, the MagShield Access uses powerful magnets to create a leak-resistant shield that stays open for easy loading and seals closed, keeping cold locked in, with an easy push. The DryHide shell is made from a high-density fabric that withstands punctures and UV rays. The M20 is easy to use and comfortable to wear with plenty of space for a full day on the river. When the snow clears this coming spring, put the day on your back and head out deep into the backcountry to fool some fish in a place where the phone doesn’t ring and the drinks are cold. yeti.com

TIME-TESTED GEAR

Umpqua Feather Merchants Phamtom X, Perform X Tippet Material and Premium Fly Boxes

Brian Chan

2022 marks the 50th anniversary of Umpqua Feather Merchants. This company has been an industry leader in the production of quality, hand-tied flies, designed by respected fly fishers and tiers. Umpqua has gradually expanded its reach into the fly fishing market and today offers such products as leaders and tippet, tying materials, hooks, tools, streamside accessories, fly boxes and packs. This past season I fished the Phantom X Fluorocarbon Tippet in 4X and 5X during some pretty intense chironomid pupal emergences and it performed flawlessly. Phantom X is made from 5 layers of Ultra Fluoro creating a very sensitive, abrasion-resistant tippet that has low stretch and visibility in the water. I was also able to fish the Perform X nylon tippet material while drifting big stimulators over wild rainbows on one of our local rivers. This nylon tippet is composed of a co-polymer core and two coatings, resulting in a soft, flexible, high-floating tippet material that is perfect for dry fly fishing situations. Umpqua also offers a wide selection of premium fly boxes. I loaded up the LT Standard – Foam box with a selection of bloodworm patterns for late summer use. The FlyTrap foam grips hooks securely and the see-through lid makes this selection of flies easy to find in my gear bag. Magnetic closures compliment this lightweight storage box. umpqua.com

ReelFlies

UltraRealistic Trout Flies

Dana Harrison

Like me, you may have seen ads for ReelFlies UltraRealistic Trout Flies and wondered if this nontraditional style of flies would be effective on the river. Yes, ReelFlies’ flies were disarmingly cool-looking, but as someone who ties—and nearly exclusively uses— his own flies, I wasn’t sure what to make about such modern, detailed patterns. Upon initial inspection it was obvious they were well-made, and true to the advertisement, they are indeed ultra-realistic. Uncannily so. Of course I had to put them to the test. Bringing them to my local streams containing rainbows and westslope cutthroat, it didn’t take long to confirm both species of trout agreed: the flies looked good enough to eat. Numerous times, in fact. Importantly, the flies stood the test of time. Being so detailed, I was concerned they’d be delicate, but the pattern I was fishing held up, fish after fish—or at least until I lost it in a tree. Ultra-realistic, indeed. reelflies.ca

UNI Products

Uni Thread, Axxel-Mini Flash and Uni Mylar

Dana Harrison

Uni Products have been a staple in my tying arsenal for a long time, so when I had the chance to try some of their new offerings I knew I wasn’t going to be disappointed. The new colour of Uni Thread is Pumpkin and of course I used it to fill out my October Caddis collection for this season. As you would expect, the 8/0 72D thread was perfect for tying flies in the #10-16 range, with the strength to keep the materials where you want them and not create unwanted bulk. I also got to check out the Axxel-Mini Flash, as well as the UNI-Mylar, in black and white. I enjoyed using the Axxel-Mini for the ribs on both dry flies and nymphs, and tinsel users will appreciate the choices available in UNI-Mylar. uniproducts.com

Simms Roll Top Pack

Derek Olthuis

I am a sucker for roll-top packs. The bag is lightweight yet durable, with well-thought-out storage. As a photographer, having a bag that is truly waterproof is absolutely necessary. Carrying around thousands of dollars of gear on the water can be a risky business and this is the insurance. Roll top bags not only provide great waterproofing and security but have the ability to be adjusted—the size of the pack is based on how much gear you are carrying that day. The strap and buckle system on this bag makes toting heavy loads more comfortable and the size of the pack makes it a perfect day bag, with room enough for a rain jacket, lunch, camera gear or extra fly boxes. simmsfishing.com

Korkers’ River Ops wading boots with BOA Fit

Derek Olthuis

The ability to switch out your traction system, depending on the water you’re hitting, makes the River Ops Boa boot by Korkers a game-charger. There are times that I prefer felt and other days which demand a Vibram sole or studs. Having the ability to decide on the fly means when you’re casting your fly, it’s much easier to feel secure on your feet. The BOA Fit System’s obvious advantage is efficiency, but it also wins for fit. The system ensures consistent pressure, so that no areas of your foot get are over-tight, and an improved, more-durable design means more confidence, more miles and (theoretically) more fish. Korkers has a reputation for making quality products and I’ve often been impressed by them—my main fishing partner has been rocking Korkers for years. korkers.com

Dana Harrison

Dana feels that he is not just a fly fisher and tyer, but a steward for the streams and lakes we enjoy. He is passionate for positive change in our industry, with a focus on preserving our environment for future generations.

ON THE VISE

Iceman Cometh

Auger into the allure of hard water

Living in Canada means that the winter’s icy grip is inevitable. But do we, as northern-climate fly anglers, need to be frozen to the assumption that with the commencement of cold comes the curtailment of our fishing? Must we wile away

the winter with our only fishing-related forays being those at the tying desk and via YouTube? Do we have to hibernate?

I know the answer that many gear anglers will give, and it has something to do with when hell freezes over, they’ll ice fish there, too.

Balanced Leech

Hook: Umpqua UC655BL-BN #8-14

Bead: Oversized slotted tungsten bead to suit

Thread: Semperfli NanoSilk 18/0 - Black

Tail: Marabou Feather - Olive

Body: Canadian Olive Simi-seal in a dubbing loop

Cheesy childhood

Unlike many of us fly anglers, spin casters relish the solidifying of the water’s surface. And why shouldn’t they? Fish still swim in winter. They still eat. They still can double-over a rod. Fly anglers ought to remember those facts. Too many purists are all-too-quick to dismiss hardwater fishing and the joys that can come with it. Maybe the idea of ice fishing conjures up the smell of rancid bait—combing through the cheese drawer for the funkiest fish food, or smushing year-old shrimp onto a treble hook. Maybe it’s the memories of frozen feet, or getting sick from auger fumes, which trigger such a strong response from fly folks. If that’s the case, I suggest we get over those presumptions. Though many ice fishing fans do indeed carry a “flip and clip” tackle box full of spinners, spoons, bait and worse, many are open-minded enough to take along a box of flies, too. Fly fishers should be likewise accepting of angling styles that ultimately get a fish on the line.

Confession time

Admittedly, it’s not that hard for me to heed the call of the ice shack. It’s not that I have a soft spot for interminable jigging, or love the smell of mixed gas—it’s more that I simply don’t want to not fish for months on end. The call of the water is too strong. The tug is the drug. All that stuff.

And it’s not like I don’t enjoy showing up bait chuckers. While a common refrain may be that more gear catches more fish, I can’t count the number of times I have been approached by a bait fisher who couldn’t figure out how to get a bite while I had a bend in my rod all day. I remember telling one skeptical spin caster I was finding success on the water using green shrimp. I could tell he was wondering if he could get a bucket at Superstore.

Fly time you tried it

If you are a fly angler in a static-enough state to have been convinced to leave your warm bed for a windy snowscape; if you decide to forgo frozen toes and fingers just to feel a fish; or if you’re simply the type who gets a kick of staring at a murky aquarium through an icy hole, there is help

Freshwater Shrimp

Hook: Umpqua XC300BL-BN #8-14

Thread: Semperfli NanoSilk 18/0 - White

Body: Hareline Scud Dubbing - Rainbow

Shell: Waspi Thin Skin - Mottled Brown

Rib: UTC Brassie Wire - Amber

available. I offer the follow pattern suggestions to get you into the ice fishing game, without smelling like Velveeta: Pike Bucktail

Pike are typically viewed as an exciting, ultra-aggressive fish. However, I’ve been hole-hoppin’ plenty of times where a pike inspects a piece of bait for a few minutes before turning its nose in rejection, or sits idle as a herring spins by on trebles, only to smash an undulating, flamboyantly-coloured bucktail. Sonar users, mark your pike and my words: the Pike Bucktail also works great for picky walleye.

Balanced Leech

When we’re talking trout, one of the most successful summertime stillwater flies is the balanced leech. Disciples of Brian Chan will be happy to know the balanced leech is extremely successful under the ice as well. These patterns often mimic more than just their namesake, representing accurately enough a minnow or other aquatic insect that may be finning by in the frigid water column.

Pike Bucktail Recipe

FEATURED RECIPE

Recipe

Hook: Bass Bug #10

Shank: Spawn Flyfish Twitch Shank

Thread: Semperfli NanoSilk 200D White

Tail: Saddle Feathers - White Flash: Polar Flash - Gold Body: Buck Tail or Predator Fibres - White

Step One: Place your favourite bass bug-style hook onto the Spawn Flyfish Twitch Shank and secure the shank into your vise.

Step Two: Start your thread behind the head of the twitch shank and work your way backwards to cover the shank. Ensure you close the gap on the shank securely.

Step Three: Strip the fluff from two streamer saddle feathers and secure them on either side of the shank.

Step Four: Cut a small clump of polar flash from the hank and secure it in the middle of the material behind the saddle feathers. Pull one half of the polar flash down one side of the shank and the other down the opposite side. Secure in place with a few thread wraps.

Step Five: Cut a pencil-size amount of predator fibres from the hank and secure them in the same fashion as the polar flash, right in the middle of the material, but on top of the shank. Pull both ends of the material backwards and secure it in place with all the material on top of the shank.

Step Six: Cut another pencil-size amount of predator fibres from the hank and secure them in the middle of the material on the bottom of the shank. Pull the fibres rearward and secure in place with the material on the bottom of the shank.

Step Seven: Whip finish the fly into oblivion! I usually do two rounds of 7 or 8 then cut the thread free. Finish with your choice of UV glue or lacquer.

Prince Nymph

Hook: Tiemco TMC113BL #10-16

Bead: Tungsten Size to hook - Gold

Thread: Semperfli NanoSilk 18/0 - Red

Tail: Goose Biot - Brown

Body: Peacock Herl

Rib: UTC Small Wire - Gold

Hackle: Partridge Feather

Wings: Goose Biot - White

Blood Worm

Hook: Tiemco TMC200r #12-18

Thread: UTC 70D - Red

Bead: Tungsten Size to hook - Black

Body: Semperfli Mirror Flash - Red

Rib: UTC Brassie Wire - Red

Freshwater Shrimp

Shrimp are found in fishy waters throughout the year. I know this because I have pulled an ice auger out from a freshly-drilled hole, only to have thousands of shrimp erupt from the water onto the hard surface. They are certainly a staple of a trout’s summer diet; on some days, only a shrimp imitation will elicit a strike. Same deal in the winter—maybe more so, in fact, because of their importance as a food source.

Prince Nymph

A classic fly that produces time and time again for summer anglers, the Prince Nymph can also be an excellent choice for ice fishing. Though it does not represent a specific aquatic insect, it acts as an attractor pattern. I believe this fly being mistaken for a boatman or back swimmer—a food source that trout absolutely love—is behind the vicious strikes I’ve felt when fishing it, even if those particular food sources aren’t about.

Blood Worm

I’ve pumped fish that have been absolutely stuffed with blood worms. Fish will spend their days digging through the weed line in search of these chironomid pupae. Fished close to the bottom, from a boat or from an ice shack, the blood worm will often invoke a fast and ferocious strike.

Pitch your preconceptions

Although jigging from a frozen lake isn’t the same as casting on a freestone creek or dangling a chironomid under an indicator, there are times where the notion of simply playing a fish on a rod is undeniably awesome. Fly fishing purists who are unaccustomed to angling after the mercury drops will do well to open their minds (and close their zippers) to ice fishing.

No need to use bait that will turn a fly angler’s feeble stomach. Neither spoons, nor marshmallows nor powerbait is required. The winter can be long and foreboding, but it does not mean fishing with a fly must stop. In a few short months those hatches will start up again and the hard water will eventually turn soft.

In the meantime, pitch your preconceptions at the entrance to the ice shack.

LONG LINES

Pride on the Line

Searching for the keys to egoless angling

Jeff Wagner

When he’s not fishing or casting you’ll find Jeff hiking or biking the back country with his family. They also volunteer their time to conservation efforts with groups such as Fly Fishers International. Oh, and during business hours Jeff does business stuff.

Have you ever wondered what might happen if you couldn’t get into your rooftop rod carrier? Wondered what lengths you’d go to if this took place on your first day off after eight straight weeks of work at your new job, in a new community? What you’d do if you had just driven through rush hour traffic to waters that you were excited to explore for the first time? What would happen if, after researching a stretch of stream that had few people, fishy-looking water and fertile hatches, you arrived at the river and realized you were locked out?

I don’t wonder about any of that. Anymore.

Gut check

We recently moved, again. Although moving has many challenges, for a fly fisherman, it’s undoubtedly an opportunity to explore new waters. There is a trout stream only 100 feet from my new office, but recently I wanted to find somewhere a bit more remote to stretch my legs and, more interestingly, to stretch a fly line.

After interminable delays—getting gas, getting lost, getting more and more frustrated—when I finally arrived at a new piece of water on a Friday afternoon, I winced as I spotted another truck in the parking lot. I mumbled to myself that I should have picked a better spot, but the day was wasting. I decided to stick around and make a few casts.

Easing down the tailgate and pulling open the truck topper, I slid out my cargo boxes and wadered-up. I grabbed my fishing pack, subconsciously considering which rod I’d use to fish. Fumbling my keys in my hand and motioning to the roof rack, my gut seized with the instant realization that I wasn’t carrying the key to the rod carrier. I was no longer mumbling. It was probably good that I was alone.

Dinner and a show

As I was cursing my forgetfulness, I noticed a silhouette in the trees. Normally, I’d be delighted that the other truck in the parking lot was reconnecting with its owner—more space on the river for me to wander about. Now, however, I was dreading the fact that my misery would soon have an audience. On cue, four smiling fisherman and a dog scrambled up the bank and set their rods by their vehicle, opened up the back of the truck and pulled out sandwiches and beverages.

By this time I had pulled out my tools and was deep into the process of trying to break into my rod carrier. I had decided I wasn’t about to head back into town and back—a one-and-a-half-hour round trip—simply because I forgot a key. Traffic may have lightened up by now, but there was another, unnavigable roadblock: my pride. I had four bolts loose and was working on pulling the entire reel storage area away from the rod tubes, which themselves were still attached to the truck. My sense of dignity, apparently, was also firmly attached to my new project.

As I puzzled over the half-disassembled carrier, the rods and reels still unretrievable, I suddenly became keenly aware of how suspicious I must have looked to an observer. Sure enough, the other anglers were watching me dismantle my rod box, whispering who-knows-what to each other and smirking behind their beers. That proved to be too much for me. I’m not normally a selfconscious person, but suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to slink into the truck’s cab. I turned on the radio and acted like I had important business to wait for, all the while agonizing over the fact that these guys couldn’t leave soon enough. I badly wanted to fish, but pride was getting in my way again.

In rod we trust

Finally, after an excruciating 20 minutes, they pulled away. I told myself the water needed that time to rest and that all the good fish were most likely still waiting for me. I even convinced myself the smiling fishermen’s gear was probably inadequate.

But at least they had their gear! Mine was still stuck inside the rod holders, which were, by now, halfdeconstructed, unattached to the roof mount, yet still holding my equipment hostage. While I had the rods free of the tubes, I was utterly locked out of the reel storage; I could neither get to the reels nor remove them from the rods.

Demoralized and dejected, I slid the four rods, held together by the detached reel holder, into the back of the truck. I started to pack my gear. Then, opening one of my cargo boxes to return my fly boxes, I noticed a loose reel, with a new fly line, staring up at me. A light went on. I had leaders in my sling pack and plenty of flies, I just needed a rod. I knew I couldn’t get an entire rod loose from the locked carrier, but I could remove the top three sections of one of my favourite sticks.

My pride was no longer an issue. Shoving the reel into my pocket and grabbing the three-quarter-piece, I beat a hurried path to the river. The trees were dense— no problem whatsoever for a seven-and-a-half-foot rod to

negotiate—and the water was low. Having the reel in my pocket gave a whole new meaning to the concept of fishing an ultra-light set-up. I got into a nice little run, strung up my rod (more quickly than usual) and tied on a fly.

Keystone pieces

A few casts and I was into fish. Although the awkwardness of being observed at my most hapless was behind me, as soon as that first trout rose to my offering, the entire episode changed from being one of the more frustrating fly fishing days I’ve had, to one of the more fulfilling. I will say that holding a rod next to its stripping guide, then casting a line and fighting fish with such a grip, is less than comfortable. But they don’t ask how, they ask how many, and the fact that I was finding success, after all of the day’s failures, made all the stress I had felt earlier melt into the river rocks beneath my feet. As I cast my unconventional rig, I realized how futile it was to get so worked up. How over-analytical I was being about my gear. How I had been missing the point about fishing—a simple task that we alltoo-often complicate with our own expectations.

I couldn’t unlock my carrier, but thankfully, I could still find the real key to what makes fly fishing so important to me: getting on the water, feeling it rush around my legs and watching my casts come together.

Derek Olthuis

Derek loves researching and exploring new places to fish–the more remote the better. He is obsessed with sight fishing; to him there is nothing more enjoyable than stalking a fish and watching it eat a fly.

Hard to Top

Arctic char at the edge of the earth

The pilot set down so smoothly it was hard to tell if we had hit the water.

Earlier, prisms of light had shone softly through the window of the small float plane as we crossed the glowing tundra. Winter was coming and the arctic landscape was preparing itself for the months of darkness that lay ahead. For now, though, the sun’s weak rays illuminated the shoreline as we glided silently toward it.

It had been a long journey. Two days of travel to arrive in one of the most northerly communities on the planet, and now we were pushing further north. Our basecamp was on lands which had for years been untrodden; even the Indigenous People of the Arctic, the Inuit, for several seasons hadn’t led their dogsled teams here.

Evidence of former camps lay scattered across the tundra, however—wooden shards from long-departed sleds, rings of rocks that once kept tents from blowing away. Their quarry was caribou and arctic char—a species so emblematic of the north and so prevalent that to to the Inuit, they’re simply referred to as iqualuk. Fish.

That’s why we were here, of course. To fish. Unlike the local hunters, our survival wasn’t dependent on our success, but for a group of anglers who’d saved, schemed and sacrificed a fair amount of relationship collateral to get here, we felt like our mission was almost as critical. We had 12 days to catch late-season char before the lakes froze and the iqualuk went beneath the ice to spawn.

With our bear fence electrified and camp set up, we lay on our backs in the tundra, hurriedly pulling our waders over our hips, anxious to make our first casts. It’s impossible to say who hooked up first; everyone’s line seemed to pull tight simultaneously. But these were not the vaunted char we

had been dreaming about. We had found a pod of lake trout, the residents of which were more than happy to eat our streamers. The sheer numbers of these fish was astounding; it was hard not to get an eat on nearly every cast. Amused but not content, we pushed down the shoreline looking for the flash of orange. The iqualuk remained elusive.

Day two was the same. As was day three. And the next. Day after day we hiked, rafted, portaged and fished, searching out new waters in pursuit of arctic char. We were experiencing the arctic—powerful, surreal, barren, rugged— but we had yet to experience the char. After more than 100 miles of scouting, and hundreds of three-to-five pound lake trout desecrating our streamers, frustration began to replace incredulity.

We were getting numb to catching lakers, but we were also just getting numb. Wind and snow battered our tents at night; every morning it took longer to warm up. One night, huddled around a map, we offered up a group prayer, professing our gratitude and asking for help.

The next day we hiked to a new lake. Four of us spread out along the shore, looking for points, changes in depth, or anything—structure, shoal, shallows—that might hold fish. We were spread more than a mile apart, but there was no mistaking the sudden shrieks of joy coming from Phil’s end of the beach. He was motioning towards Cort, who was even further away, and soon I was reeling in, straining to make out their words, running over the spongy shoreline towards the commotion.

Sweating and panting for breath, I arrived to hear Cort describing an absolute monster char that had broken him off. Is this how it would end? We stood on a small hill, overlooking a small bay. Then we saw them; right off the point. It looked like a dozen road cones had been dropped into the water. Orange-coloured char—so bright, so obvious, so Arctic—were moving with the wind-born current.

We strategized our attack, each of us targeting individual fish. Pink, chartreuse and purple streamers piqued their interest. Someone got a follow. Someone got an eat. Someone else was into their backing. Finally, at the edge of the earth, we had found our polar treasure.

Every iqualuk we landed was precious. Big, kyped-out and coloured-up in full spawning regalia, they were fish that made your hands shake as we steered them toward the net. Cradling a perfect specimen, I took in the wildness of the landscape and considered the efforts it took for us to arrive there, let alone the struggles to locate fish. Later, Sam hooked into a nearly three-foot-long male, and after it made run after run, spraying us with water and flashing his hunting vest-hued shoulders before finally turning into the net, we knew that this was the fish of the trip.

The fish of a lifetime, now that I think back to it. Which I do, often. For even in my mind’s eye, the Arctic is hard to top.

STILLWATER SECRETS

The Leading Edge

Selecting the right leader for the right situation

Brian Chan

Often referred to as “Dr. Chironomid,” Brian has always viewed stillwater fly fishing through the lens of a biologist. Lakes and their inhabitants are always changing–no two days are ever the same–and that’s what Brian finds so fascinating about fly fishing in still water.

Thanks to an advanced, innovative and responsive fly fishing industry, beginner anglers can now start their fly fishing journey with properly-balanced rods, reels and fly lines. They can get speciality equipment designed for specific fisheries. And quality, commercially-tied fly patterns are readily available for just about any fish species being targeted worldwide. However, having the best equipment still needs to be paired with the knowledge of how to make an effective presentation. No matter how cutting-edge your gear, having a good understanding of the life cycles of the food sources being imitated—and spending valuable time on the water to apply that knowledge—is the best way to get those rods bent and reels screaming.

A leading role

Stillwater fly fishing is all about presenting the fly at the depth at which fish are feeding.

Prime fish foraging zones can exist from the water’s surface to the deepest parts of the lake, which is certainly why a variety of fly lines—including full-sinking densities, sinking-tip and floating—are all important tools within the tackle bag. But don’t forget about another critical piece of your fly fishing kit: your leader. Choosing the right leader, both in design and length, for specific stillwater fishing situations, is an oft-overlooked part of an angler’s process.

A sinking feeling

When fishing sinking lines, the general rule of thumb is that the fly needs to track in the same path of the fly line as it moves through the water column.

Sinking lines of various densities are used to present flies along the bottom of the shoals and drop-offs. They can also be used for straight-vertical, dangling presentations. A common mistake when rigging a sinking line set-up is using an overlong leader. Too-long of a leader can result in the fly being retrieved above or below the intended depth zone.

For the majority of sinking line presentations, nine to 12-foot long, tapered leaders are adequate. However, a much shorter leader becomes important when fishing buoyant patterns such as boobies, blobs and floating dragonfly nymphs. A short leader (4 or 5 ft) allows the fly to track directly behind the fly line and respond quickly to the starts and stops of various retrieves. Dangling or deeplining with chironomid pupa or blobs can occur in depths in excess of 75 feet. Here again, a short, four to five-foot leader maximizes bite detection, ensures the fly is sitting at the selected depth, and reduces the likelihood of it being

affected by current which can move across the lake bottom.

Surface surfing

Floating lines are an essential tool for fishing lakes. They are the obvious choice for imitating caddisfly emergers and adults, mayfly duns and spinners, adult chironomids and adult damselflies that have been trapped in the surface film. A tapered monofilament leader, 12 to 15-feet in length, is ideal for such presentations. Monofilament is more buoyant than fluorocarbon, which makes it perfect for presenting floating flies—as well as those fished within inches of the surface.

Naked lunch

Floating lines used in combination with sinking leaders, with or without strike indicators, are an extremely effective and popular way to present a wide variety of stillwater f ood sources.

Casting and retrieving floating lines and long sinking leaders is commonly referred to as fishing naked. To account for the angled-descent and retrieve of the leader

and fly, overall leader length should be at least 25 to 30 percent longer than the depth of water being fished. As an example, if fishing 15 feet of water, the total leader length should be a minimum of 20 feet. This allows the fly to reach the bottom zone prior to beginning any retrieve. Mature caddis pupae, mayfly nymphs and damselfly nymphs are swimmers that begin their emergence ascents from the lake bottom. The longer leader allows you to imitate these angled migration paths. A regular tapered monofilament leader that is 12 to 15 feet in length, and ends in 3X or 4X, can then be lengthened by adding more tippet. I like my last piece of tippet material—which could be 36 inches long—to be fluorocarbon, which is less visible and more abrasion-resistant than monofilament.

Vertical integration

Leaders for fishing floating lines with strike indicators are different again than those used for the naked setup. Indicator fishing allows flies to be suspended directly vertical, in water that could be anywhere from five to 30-feet in depth. Indicator fishing is extremely effective

during chironomid emergences but it is also a proven method for presenting other important food sources such as leeches, mayfly and damselfly nymphs, and blobs. We want a leader that will hang as vertically straight as possible for ultra-sensitive bite detection, as well as to ensure our fly is suspended at the chosen depth. This means using as much uniformly-thin leader material as possible.

Tailored-tapers

Fishing in water less than about 15 feet deep can be done by using straight 3X or 4X fluorocarbon, looped to the end of the fly line. However, in deeper water it helps to use a leader with a short, tapered butt section so that when you’re casting, the tapered butt section helps turnover the longer leader, indicator and fly. Scientific Anglers and RIO both manufacture “indicator leaders.” These leaders consist of a three-foot, fast-tapered butt section, followed by between six and nine feet of (same diameter) monofilament. These are available in 2X through 4X tippet strengths. For deeper water fishing, I like to use a 12 foot “indicator leader,” ending in 3X. I then add more monofilament tippet to get

within a couple feet of the final leader length. My last piece of tippet is always fluorocarbon to the fly.

Got you pegged

The downside to a regular, 12 or 15 foot monofilament, tapered leader, is that it has an extremely long, thick tapered butt section—which prevents it from hanging in a true vertical position. It is also hard to set, or “peg,” a quick release strike indicator on such thick leader material. An “indicator leader” allows the indicator to be pegged on fine-diameter monofilament, right up to within three feet of the fly line—a necessary advantage when adjusting to deeper fishing. Additionally, having the indicator pegged as close to the fly line as possible helps to eliminate a hinged effect, created when casting such setups. Without the knowledge of how to make an effective presentation, innovations in fly fishing gear will only take an angler so far. Selecting the right leader for the various fly lines we use in lake fishing is an often-overlooked process that, if considered carefully, will go a long way in improving our stillwater success.

Jim McLennan

Jim McLennan has been fly fishing and writing about it since sometime in the last century. He continues to indulge his passions for fly fishing, bird hunting, writing and music. His latest book is Trout Tracks, Essays on Fly Fishing

WATER MARKS

Not Lonely, Just Alone

Acasual fishing friend and I had a little phone chat the other day, and as a way to make conversation I asked him if he been fishing recently.

He said something like, “No. I was going to on the weekend but I couldn’t find anybody to go with.” I didn’t say it, but I thought, that’s a pretty lame reason not to go fishing. But after he hung up I realized that quite a few people feel this way and it’s not lame at all; it’s just not me. I believe some folks find that the pleasure of a day on the water is lessened when there’s no one there to share it with. Or maybe for them the camaraderie is more important than the fishing. These are legitimate reasons, but they don’t seem to apply to me. I enjoy fishing alone and I understand that this fact reveals not only my introvert side but quite possibly my selfish side as well.

Perhaps because much of my life has been spent in one facet or another of the “fly-fishing business,” I’ve always looked forward to times when I could remove my guide hat, my sales-rep hat, my fly-fishing instructor hat, my shop-keeper hat or my fishing-writer hat and just relax and bumble my way along a trout stream. It’s a strange thing to feel you have to “perform”— or at least exhibit a reasonable degree of competence—for someone else. When I fish alone, that obligation is pleasantly absent.

There are other reasons. Continuing with the selfish theme, there are no negotiations required about where to go, when to go, where to start, who gets first shot at the best water. If the fish are rising, they’re all mine; no real or feigned grace required. If the fishing is lousy I can leave and go somewhere else. And if I’ve been gifted with directions to a great secret spot, protocol demands I go there alone, so it’s good to be comfortable about solo outings.

For these reasons and others I find myself looking forward to time on the water alone, but pulling it off can get tricky at times. Say a companion invites me to go fishing on the same day I plan to fish alone. Now what?

This person could be someone I fish with frequently— even someone in my starting lineup of favourite fly-fishing companions. But maybe I prefer to be alone that day. What should I do? I could accept the invitation and enjoy the day with them, and push the “me” date back. Or, I could lie and tell them I simply can’t go that day, before sneaking off to fish by myself. But I’d feel guilty doing that, and what if strange co-incidence led us both to the same spot? I’d have some explaining to do. I guess as a last resort I could try telling the truth, but it would probably come out something like this: “I’d love to go with you but I’ve had that day marked on the calendar as a day to fish alone, which I like to do from time to time. It’s not that I don’t want to fish with you—you know that, right? I know it seems strange but I hope you, uh, understand, and will invite me again sometime, if you’re not upset. Ah, you know what; never mind, what time should I pick you up?”

When I’m on my own for a day, things are different. The solo drive and hike to the water, the time spent sitting or lying on the streambank looking and listening can reveal thoughts, ideas and insights I didn’t know I had. Some of the thoughts are about the fishing of course, but some them aren’t. And they’re not necessarily deep or revelational; they’re simply allowed to rise to the surface where I can notice them. Contemplation seems to be intensified by the presence of water.

Some people prefer to fish with a companion or two for safety reasons, and that’s sensible. If something goes wrong it’s especially good to have someone with you to help clean things up. In that regard I’m starting to get the feeling that my solo trips might become a little more difficult as I get older. I have no plans to resign from the program voluntarily, but certain friends and family members may begin asking more direct questions than they used to:

“Where exactly are you going?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What time will you be home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you have your phone with you?”

“Yes.”

“Will there be cell coverage?”

“Probably not.”

“What about lunch, and your pills?” “Got ‘em.”

“Baby aspirin?” “Yes.”

“Do you know where the jack and tire wrench are in the truck?”

“No.”

Like a lot of things I expect these will best be addressed with some sort of compromise. So how ‘bout this? I’ll decide in advance exactly where I expect to be fishing and I’ll phone when I’m starting the drive home. I’ll carry bear spray. If I have to I’ll buy and carry one of those Satellite/GPS/messaging gizmos that always know exactly where the person is. And I’ll even do my best to learn how to use it - as long as it doesn’t broadcast my exact location to social media.

© Photo Dr. Brandon Finnhorn

Agnieszka & Arek Kubale

Agnieszka and Arek Kubale own and operate Tuhola, a company which supplies anglers across Europe with high-quality trout and saltwater flies. Agnieszka is renown for her UV resin flies and clean tying technique. Arek is a fly-fishing photographer and journalist. They share their time between the small fishing village of Junoszyno, on Poland’s Baltic coast, and the Torne, a salmon river in subarctic Sweden.

END OF THE LINE

Tying the Knot

Agnieszka & Arek Kubale

Waddle Shrimp

Hook: Ahrex NS122, size #4 (bent with pliers)

Thread: UNI Mono Thread, med. clear

Body: SLF Saltwater dubbing, pearl gray

Mouth part & shell back: mallard flank feather, fluo fuchsia; UV resin clear

Legs: silicone jewelry thread 0,6 mm (clear), painted with permanent marker (blue & fuchsia)

Eyes: UV resin, black

Tying tip: To get desired shrimp shape, apply UV resin layer by layer

Bead Eye Chillimps

Hook: Ahrex HR410, size #4

Thread: UNI-Thread 6/0, black

Tail: rooster neck feather, fluo orange

Ribbing: Uni French Oval, medium gold Body: UNI Yarn, red Hackle (palmer): rooster neck feather, fluo orange Eyes: bead chain eyes, silver (3,2 mm)

Front hackle: hen neck feathers, fluo orange Tying tip: Consider using UV resin to secure bead chain eyes and the thread between them

Black Head Sandeel

Hook: Ahrex NS172, size #4

Thread: UNI Thread 6/0, white

Wing and body: rooster saddle feather (1 x white, 1 x grizzly); H2O Fish Scale, sea blue; bucktail (blue and white), covered with clear UV resin

Eyes: 3D epoxy eyes 6 mm, silver

Head: UV resin, black

Tying tip: Cover the fly body with clear UV resin along the hook shank length, leaving the rest as a wing.

Mirage Minnow

Hook: Ahrex NS172, size #8

Thread: UNI Mono Thread, fine Wing and body: H2O Brush ’n Wing Fibre, rainbow & peacock Eyes: 3D epoxy eyes 5 mm, silver

Head: UV resin, clear & fluo orange

Tying tip: Make many small cuts, to get the proper minnow shape. Long bladed, very sharp scissors are beneficial

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