Fall 2023 |Volume 20, Issue 4

FAIL is not an AMPLITUDE INFINITY SALT with AST Plus “I know how hard saltwater guides work to put anglers on fish. The last thing I want to do is disrespect that effort by throwing a bum line that could mess up our chance at a great memory. I use Amplitude Infinity Salt because, when I’m in the client seat, showing up with the right line is the least I can do.”

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Executive Publisher Jennifer Bird Founding Editor Derek Bird Managing Editor Bob Covey Associate Editor Gary Bird Art Director Terry Paulhus Content Administrator Kim Carruthers Office Administrator Kaylee Davis

Department Editors Derek Bird Frank Brassard Brian Chan Kastine Coleman Jim McLennan Derek Olthuis Jeff Wagner Contributors Teddy Cosco Jake Dicks Fly Fishing Nation Peter James Glenn Aaron Goodis Brian Grossenbacher Julius Kogel Sarah Landström Emily Roger Luke Saffarek Laurel White

Executive Producer Film & Television Chris Bird

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.

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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada. © Photo Aaron Goodis

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8

The Soul of Fly Fishing

CONTENTS 14 LOVE AT FIRST STRIKE Laurel White

Getting to Patagonia isn’t necessarily easy. Falling in love with Argentina, on the other hand, happens quick. From spring creeks requiring stealth and patience, to chuck-and-duck fishing from a drift boat, the fish are plentiful and the views are intoxicating. Then there’s Juancho, which will literally blow you away.

22 COACH AND RELEASE Emily Roger

Endurance athletes are used to feeling the burn. On the hunt for the elusive Grand Slam—hooking a permit, a bonefish and a tarpon all in the same 24hour period—before she can hook up, angler, cyclist and ultramarathoner Emily Rodger has to learn to let go.

28 PISCATORIAL PRESCRIPTION Teddy Cosco

In the wake of a global pandemic, if they didn’t engage in physical and social activity, Canadians 45-years-old and older experienced more symptoms of depression and anxiety. Which is why standing waist-deep in a glacial river with the sounds of rushing water and the anticipation of the next cast is not just nourishing, but necessary.

34 TROUT BUM IN STEEL TOWN Bob Covey

In Steelhead Paradise, the rivers are wider, the rods are bigger and the required casts are longer. But for visiting anglers, there’s another context to learn: the Indigenous nations who call this area home have sovereignty, and much more critical than my desired battle with a salmon, they’re fighting for their home.

12 42 44 50 54

Stream Lines Profiles: Amie Battams Tight Loops, Tight Lines On the Vise Long Lines

56 60 64 66

Wandering Currents Stillwater Secrets Water Marks End of the Line

© Contents Jake Dicks | On the cover: Fly Fishing Nation

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Walk A Mile Derek Bird 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.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

The utility of wading boots and the usefulness of reserving judgement

D

on’t judge me. My garage has six or seven pairs of wading boots half-tucked under a storage shelf.

Right now I only use two pairs consistently, and one more than the other. When my wife asks me to clean them up and get rid of the ones I don’t use, I tell her I need them all for when someone might need to borrow a pair. I hate the thought of parting with them, even if they’re tattered and torn. I’m not sure why I’m averse to throwing them out.

Maybe it’s because I’m not sure what to do with them.

Can a person recycle a pair of old wading boots? I don’t know, so they sit in a line, in cobwebbed limbo, not being used but not heading to the trash.

I don’t have a boot fetish and I’m not purposely accumulating them. They’d be an odd piece of flyfishing gear to collect. Wading boots are the most abused item in my angling arsenal—even more so than my waders. Many pairs have torn stitching which separates the section between the reinforcement and the fabric.

Other pairs have rivets pulled out because they’ve been yanked on too many times with numb hands.

Then there are the the soles. Those usually falter first, little by little. The glue between the boot and the felt gives way—slowly at first, usually at the front but sometimes from the side. Then one day, if I’m not careful, if I’ve pushed it a little too far, I step into a river and feel extra drag on one foot and know this is the last time I’ll wear this pair.

Because even if one boot is still holding together, they both get shelved. They’re a team. They win together and they lose together.

Collection predilection Not to romanticize them, because wading boots are just something that shod my feet and help me to get from one run to the next, but I wonder if I shouldn’t enshrine them—like my son does his basketball shoe collection.

He buys and collects basketball shoes like a Royal watcher collects stamps of the Queen, or like my angling friend David collects fly rods and reels. That makes sense to me (not the stamp collecting). Antique fly rods and reels deserve a place on the mantle.

It’s easy to feel attachment to a fly rod. I remember my first fly rod, but I don’t remember my first pair of wading boots—certainly not with any nostalgia. If I try really hard, I can recall they were a pair of Hodgman boots in fecal matter-brown, with a translucent yellow strip which separated the sole from the felt bottom. That took a lot of effort. Much easier to bring to mind are the high school basketball shoes I wore: fourth generation Air Jordans, mainly white, accented with red and black.

Those shoes spoke loud and clear. They said I was serious about the sport. They said I could Be Like Mike.

The fact that wading boots are relatively forgettable speaks to their purpose—utility. There’s little about them which could be called fashionable, and there’s certainly no status gained by wearing them. Wading boot talk, if there is any, is usually reserved to how long they last. If they last a full two seasons and they keep me upright, they’ve done their job. Their telos is simple. Wading boot designers are doing what wading boot designers should do: Create comfortable boots that reduce slippage and that stand up to multiple seasons of abuse. Simple.

There’s something unifying about simplicity.

Complicating purpose has the opposite effect. In so many other areas of life we do what the old proverb tells us not to do: to judge others before we’ve walked a mile in their shoes. But it’s easy to judge a person based on their shoes because nowadays footwear is marketed to communicate more than its purpose. Footwear can communicate style, affluence, power, class or athleticism. But wading boots?

Not so much. How long do they last? How much abuse can they take? Do they keep me stable? Wading boots say it best when they say very little.

Sometimes I catch myself judging others, and when I’m healthy I remind myself to stop, but I’m not always there. The other day as I perused the fly selection in a fly shop a lady walked in headed toward the wading boots. Her outward appearance from her haircut right down to her shoes reinforced a certain stereotype I’d heard bandied about on social media, and within about a second I placed her in a category adjacent to mine. I’m actually embarrassed to be writing this. At my age, with the different roads I’ve walked down, some chosen and some forced, some assured of my direction and others ambling aimlessly, hoping I’d discover something along the way, I should know better.

I’d like to say that I caught myself, or that I thought, “Hey great, another fly angler enjoying the fly shop” but it was neither of those that reminded me I need to always be willing to walk a mile. When she turned to go to the counter holding her new wading boots, I glanced up again from the fly trays. That’s when I noticed a semicolon tattoo on her neck, just below her ear. I know enough people with semicolon tattoos to know that they often mean the wearer, or someone they love, has overcome some sort of hardship in their life. The semicolon has become a symbol of hope for people who have battled depression, anxiety, addiction, and other mental health issues. The tattoo is there to remind them there’s more that comes after the semicolon; it’s not an end but a pause.

Remaining upright The lady with the wading boots was just trying to make it through life. Just like me. She’s a fly angler. Just like me.

She wants to catch fish, just like me. And I assume she’d

rather people get to know her rather than judge her … just like me. If I had the courage to walk up and ask her what she wanted most from wading boots she likely would have said durability, stability and comfort. I think that’s what most humans want: a long life, to remain upright even when life’s murky waters are pushing hard, and a safe place to rest at the end of a long day.

Don’t judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes is a peculiar aphorism. It’s strange because it doesn’t say don’t do it, it says don’t do it before walking with them. But I know when I’ve actually followed this advice, I no longer feel the inclination to judge. Walking with another person does something. It stirs up empathy and compassion. In the wasteland of social media, often I look at a photo or hear an opinion and I think I’ve walked with a person, but I really haven’t. In the same way, I know nothing about a wading boot by simply staring at a picture. The wading boots I know best are the ones sitting in the line in my garage. And the person I know best—and who can always be better—is the guy who’s walked a mile in them.

© Illustration Peter James Glenn @peterjamesglenn

Still waters run deep

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Love at first strike Finding Patagonian paradise Laurel White

© Photo Fly Fishing Nation

D Laurel White Laurel is a registered nurse by trade but fly fishes as much as possible in her free time. Travelling has been her lifelong passion with fly fishing a very close second.

Her favourite species to target are brown trout, grayling and pike. Since moving to the East Coast she has also discovered a new appreciation for targeting striped bass.

All photos Fly Fishing Nation

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

isembarking from the plane, we were besieged with the heat and humidity.

My husband Julius and I were in Buenos Aires, Argentina, en route to the upper Patagonia region. We were with our friends Stephan and Marina and our destination was the incredible Carrileufu River Lodge, near the small town of Cholila. We planned to fish for the beautiful brown and rainbow trout which sip flies from the surface of the rivers and lakes at the foot of the Andes Mountains.

But first we had to get there.

Fast friendships Acclimatizing as best we could coming from a cold German winter, we were sweating through our t-shirts as we hit the money exchange and found a restaurant to partake in a famous Argentinian beef steak. We wanted to seek out Buenos Aires Anglers, one of Argentina’s oldest fly shops, but finding it was like going on a scavenger hunt. Tucked into what looks like an apartment complex, the doorman snickered as we asked if we were in the right place. Eight floors up, at the end of a maze of hallways, we were greeted by Marcelo, the owner, and his dog. The shop is well-equipped and the conversation with Marcelo—about the economy, the concept of his unique shop, and most importantly, the fishing in Argentina—was worth the stop.

A three hour flight the next day brought us to a tiny regional airport in Esquel, where we were picked up by a

driver whose name was Germán, but who is known to his passengers—and his lodge guests, and his clients on the river—as The Joker. We soon learned The Joker can fill any role at the lodge, including that of a fantastic fishing guide, but before we could see his skills in action, we had a slight problem at the airport: my rod tube, with all of my rods and one of Stephan’s, was missing. An angler’s nightmare!

Luckily, technology has taken the edge off of such anxious moments. The Apple AirTags Julius had smartly stuck to the rod tube told us exactly where it was. The airport staffer who we explained this to was surprised by our luggage-divining skills, but eventually another employee came walking in with the precious cargo. Hallelujah!

With Germán, it felt like we were old friends catching up after a prolonged absence. The drive to the lodge was over in a flash. There, Malbec in hand, we were welcomed by the staff, shown around the magnificent property and fed an incredible dinner. With a stunning view of the Andes mountains from the great room, we were excited

to see how the Cerro Tres Picos (Three Peaks) looked at first light—when we’d be eating a hearty breakfast before heading out on the water.

Candy land Our first float was on the Rivadavia River in the Los Alerces National Park. Julius and I were rendered speechless by the turquoise waters, framed as they were by the rocky Andean peaks. It was hard to believe we were there during the lowest water levels—and apparently the most difficult fishing—in the last 20 years, because the amount of trout we saw in the river was unbelievable! Trout rose all around the drift boat, and we could see fish on the river bottom inhaling nymphs. Deciding where to cast was almost overwhelming.

I felt like a kid in a candy store, and when Julius landed the first trout of our trip on a dry fly—a beautiful, feisty rainbow with gumball-pink cheeks—and then I caught its double, it was game on. I caught myself forgetting to admire the surroundings because the action was so hot.

We stopped at a spring-fed creek for lunch, but the break only served to whet our appetite for more fishing— the creek was full of trout! Our guides beckoned us back to the barbecue, assuring us we’d return to the honey hole the following day. And we were glad we got moving: not long after we were introduced to the angelic setting at the creek, we were acquainted with Juancho—the hellish winds that Patagonia is infamous for.

Precious gems, valuable lessons The next day, when we found our way back to the creek as promised, we discovered there was good news and bad news when it came to enticing a trouty take. The good news was there was a secret nymph that these trout went crazy for. The bad news? There were only four of these little gems left. The four of us—Julius, Stephan, Marina and I—received one each. No pressure. Almost immediately, Stephan and Marina lost theirs. Knowing the value of this golden morsel, I was being as careful

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© Photo Julius Kogel 18

The Soul of Fly Fishing

as possible with my casts when I spotted a trophy-sized brook trout, right in front of me. With my nerves trying to foil my cast, I placed the fly right in front of its mouth. We saw the take and strike! It was on, but as quickly as there was tension on my line, the rod went limp. Tippet fail!

Before I could mourn my loss, Stephan’s unsympathetic giggles rose from behind me. I had to laugh with him, but deep down I was gutted. It hurt to learn the hard way to let the fish run, to not put too much pressure on the fish, to not grip the line too tight. It hurt when I had to learn it a second time, too, but when I finally brought a fish to hand the pain was relieved—at least until that evening, when the one that got away haunted my dreams!

Redemption was readily available over the next few days, however, on different sections of the Carrileufu River, with Germán. The rainbows weren’t shy to take dries, nymphs or streamers. The brown trout were more apprehensive and elusive, hiding in and below the plethora of vegetation, but good casts—on the edge or just below the willows—were rewarded. Early into one of the floats, I tricked a beauty of a brown into slamming my fly, but by the afternoon, those deft placements were harder and harder to make as the Patagonian “breeze” picked up. Germán might be the Joker, but Juancho is no joke. The gusts were strong enough to blow the drift boat upstream and several times we were almost tossed right out of the watercraft. The skilled guides were adept at turning the boat so each angler had a good angle to cast, even in the wicked winds, but let’s just say we got used to the good ol’ chuck-and-duck.

© Photo Julius Kogel

Battle stations Streamer fishing the Arrayanes River was incredible for the views, and the number of young browns that we landed (and the handful of heart-pounding follows we got from some big bucks which never fully committed). However, it wasn’t until we had a couple of days of long-overdue rain did the brown trout fishing really turn on. In the wet, streamers were choice, but once the rains subsided, the fish keyed into surface action. That said, it wasn’t until our last day, on a section known for its large browns, that we saw the true potential of the Carrileufu River.

Julius had first cast. As soon as his streamer touched the water, WHAM! Something hit his streamer at the surface with force—but didn’t connect. Next cast: WHAM! Fish on! This fight was something else, something different.

Our minds were blown when we saw the fish jump—it was a landlocked Atlantic salmon! We learned these fish slam streamers like torpedoes—the suddenness of the take and the thrill of the fight was euphoric. After releasing Julius’ salmon, I cast to the same spot. Letting my streamer sink for several seconds, I stripped in line. Strip, strip, nothing.

Strip, strip, nothing. Then: strip, strip, WHAM! My heart nearly stopped! Excitedly, I played the fish, but when I lost it right at the net I was devastated! Still…what a way to end our trip!

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When we return next season to find out how a “normal” year fishes, I’ll be sure to bring a 5 weight rod as well as a 6 weight for when the afternoon winds pick up. In my dry box I’ll pack parachute Adams, ant patterns, beetles, Chubbies, Chubbies and more Chubbies. My nymph box will include scuds, pheasant tails and red tags and along with my fastsinking line I’ll pack a variety of streamers, including black and purple and bright red.

The guides who work at Carileufu River Lodge have the utmost expertise and knowledge of the area’s rivers and lakes.

They will tell you to cast to spots you would never dream of catching a fish—let alone a giant brown trout—and laugh knowingly at your incredulousness when your fly elicits a strike. From spring creeks requiring stealth and patience, to chuck-and-duck fishing from a drift boat, the fish are plentiful and the views are intoxicating. The staff are genuinely invested in making sure you have a great experience—from Pancho, the owner, and his beautiful family, right down to the massive black Mastiff, Gori, who thinks she’s a lap dog as she greets you enthusiastically upon your return from a therapeutic day on the water.

Getting to Patagonia isn’t necessarily easy. Falling in love with Argentina, on the other hand, happens quick. Just like streamer fishing for big fish: you make the cast, let it sink, then all of a sudden: WHAM! It’s love at first strike.

20

The Soul of Fly Fishing

© Photo Julius Kogel

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

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Coach and Release Chasing a Grand Slam while learning to let go Emily Roger

T

here are those days out on the water when you just know you’re going to catch what you came for.

It’s the same feeling I had on some race days as a cyclist—lining up my bike, anticipating that starter’s gun, and knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that the race was mine to win.

That certainty was as physically palpable as the ocean and the boat and my guide for the week: Eddie, who stood beside me now as I embarked on my fourth day of fishing off Turneffe Island Resort in Belize. I was chasing down the elusive “Grand Slam”—hooking a permit, a bonefish, and a tarpon all in the same 24-hour period— and I knew, with a feeling I couldn’t shake, that I would do just that.

Eat, pray, shoot line Back in 2019, when I first glimpsed Belize’s clear, turquoise waters, I was positive it was a place I would eventually return to. Having goals to work towards keeps me motivated, even when I’m not 100 percent sure they’re possible. But after a global pandemic-induced hiatus, I made the journey back in the spring of this year, intent on landing a permit, and, eventually, achieving that elusive Grand Slam.

Belize, I thought, was a country best known for its honeymoon-destination-level grandeur, so taking an hourand-a-half boat ride to a remote island on the Caribbean Sea sounded more like the opening lines of a travel memoir rather than the reality of my life. And yet, here I was, gliding through the resort’s crystal-clear waters in search of exotic fish.

In my work as an executive coach, I talk to my clients a lot about the “be, do, have” mentality popularized by American author and motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar. As individuals, we tend to think about the “have.” What do I have, or what do I want the outcome to be? But in order to achieve the “have,” or the outcome we’re hoping for, it’s necessary to break the process down—how am I showing up (be)? And what am I doing (do) to achieve the desired result (have)? We need to keep it simple—be-do-have—instead of getting it backwards and letting what we don’t have dictate how we show up in the world. Belize let me experience this concept in action.

This trip to Turneffe Island Resort was such a stark contrast from my last trip to Belize, not just because I was now a more proficient angler, but because I knew myself so much better this time around. I believed in myself in a way I hadn’t four years earlier, and more than that, I was now self aware enough to accept the coaching I needed—and to express what I needed. It seems counterintuitive, but to me it makes sense: I was more confident this time because I knew I couldn’t accomplish my goal of landing a Grand Slam alone. I needed a team, I needed a coach, and that’s exactly what I got in my fishing guide, Eddie, and the rest of the team at Turneffe Island Resort.

Heavenly hideaway The resort at Turneffe Island is the definition of private.

Spanning only 14 acres, the island is a tiny blip off the Belize coast, with no one around but your fellow resort residents.

There’s only one main resort on the pristine property, and each night of your stay, everyone shares a family-style dinner around the table. Particularly as a solo female angler in a male-dominated sport, feeling safe and trusting my hosts and team is paramount. At TIR, from the first time I set foot on the resort, I knew I would be taken care of, even beyond the physical needs of food and a place to stay.

Emily Roger As a world-class athlete gripped by two catastrophic accidents, Emily Rodger is a testament to the power of courage, resilience and the human spirit. Her remarkable journey is chronicled in the documentaries Chasing the Current and Cadence. Today, Emily is an internationally accredited executive coach, public speaker, athlete, travel host, and co-founder of a youth leadership program.

All photos Brian Grossenbacher

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Making connections The ability to get to know my fellow anglers—having those deeper conversations around the dinner table after a long day out on the water—is so important to me. Not just on this trip, but with every fishing experience I’m part of. Yes, I love to make connections with the fish, but during the entire week I was also making connections and learning from everyone I met.

I learned, for example, that Eddie was following in his father’s footsteps and that many of his fellow staff members at the resort were representing their families’ second or third generation. And I also learned how crabs behave in their natural environment. When we arrived to the flats in search of permit, Eddie picked up a live crab. Carefully displaying it to me, he then dropped it into the water so that I could see its movements, and thereby get a better idea of how to present my fly and strip it in.

As anglers, so often our expectations hinge on the fish’s willingness to take the fly—to be where we want them to be.

But what am I doing in that same moment? How am I rising up and meeting the situation in the same way I’m expecting the fish to?

Anglers in arms Right from the beginning of my time in Belize, I expressed my desire to Eddie that I wanted to achieve that storied Grand Slam. He and I were on the same page from the get-go. It was

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

my goal for the trip, but I was also okay if it didn’t happen. I wasn’t as frozen in place as I was in 2019. I felt more free, and in turn, more relaxed to let the outcome be what it would be.

The communication between the two of us would be crucial.

I wanted Eddie and I to be a team, to tackle this like I would a race.

From my experience competing in endurance events, when it comes to sport, I am acutely aware of my own strengths and weaknesses. One attribute I have developed over the years is performing well under pressure. Whether it’s that split second I have to pass another rider on a bike; choosing to push through a painful leg of a run, hours into a race; or shooting that one cast in exactly the place where I’m aiming to intercept a fish, under pressure, I can rise to the occasion.

But those moments are still the result of teamwork. And on this trip, I needed Eddie to push me to be my best self.

Someone to support and encourage me… Someone to guide me, yes, but even more than that, a coach to be there in the moment with me and help me achieve what I’d come to Belize to accomplish.

A guiding light The best guides are more than just guides. Anglers who are fortunate enough to hire or otherwise benefit from a fishing guide might sometimes not appreciate all that can result from being part of a guide-angler team; being open,

and willing to be coached, can precipitate powerful life moments.

Eddie was much more than my guide. He was absolutely my coach, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from coaching clients myself, it’s that we can all use an advocate—someone to help us persist in our process, to keep our goals in our sights.

Our goals. That’s how Eddie came to view my desire to achieve a Grand Slam. He wanted me to land those fish as much as I did—which is exactly the same mentality I have with my clients: I’m invested in seeing that they achieve what they set out to do.

Think about the last time you accomplished a goal, fishing or otherwise. Who were the people beside you cheering you on, offering you advice, coaching you? Were they any less important to the outcome than what you yourself were doing in that moment?

The joy in the possible “Permit. Permit coming at 10-o’clock. 50 feet. You see it?”

I saw it.

“Go! Perfect! Strip, strip, strip, strip, it’s coming…agh, it turned away.”

On my third day out I had numerous shots at permit, but all of them rejected. I was making the cast to them, everything I could control was coming together, but the permit just weren’t taking the fly.

I went back to the lodge that night, but when I chatted with my friend and Turneffe Resort’s fishing manager, Greg Bricker, instead of reporting a fishless day, I expressed to him that it was one of my most memorable and meaningful days on the water. Sure, it felt like the fish were snubbing my presentations out of spite. But yet with Eddie there as my guide—as my coach—I was still having a blast! I was learning.

I was being mindful and present on the beautiful Caribbean Sea, and ultimately it didn’t really matter if I got a fish or not.

I was reminded that sometimes the experience itself is the achievement. I was in love with the process, the anticipation of what might happen. I was finding the joy in the “possible.”

out of the gate I was able to land a tailing permit that we spotted on the flats. With the hot start, I started to feel the adrenaline that usually accompanies race day, but I didn’t let it distract me. Eddie and I were next on to the bonefish, which, fortuitously, we found and landed almost as quickly as the permit.

Two down. One to go. We stopped and had lunch on the boat, recounting the incredible morning we’d just had. And then began our search for a tarpon.

Earlier that day, while on the hunt for permit, I was using my 9wt G.Loomis NRX. When we switched to bonefish, I switched to my 7wt. For the tarpon, I was using my 12wt, throwing a fly that was gifted to me by a friend and tarpon fanatic, Rell Tipton. I met Rell at a lodge in Brazil a few years prior and it was his love for chasing migratory tarpon and the way he spoke of it that first ignited my interest in the same.

Eddie knew a spot. Although they weren’t as numerous, I really wanted to land a big one and was willing to take my chances searching for a migratory tarpon, rather than a juvenile.

Suddenly, we saw a fish roll. It was 150 feet out, at the 9-o’clock position. It was big. I made a cast, and the next thing I remember was a wake—as wide as a powerboat’s— stretching out in front of me. But this was no boat.

Bow to the king A flash of sliver, like a starter’s pistol going off, signalled the fight was on. The fish was as big as I was. Every muscle in my

Race Day And on day four, we discovered what was possible. The morning dawned bright and expectant, and practically right

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body was on fire as I balanced myself on the bow of the boat and tried to control the fish. In an ultramarathon, usually it’s between kilometre 45 and 60 where I think to myself ‘this is the feeling I came for.’ It’s as if the race really only begins in that moment. Now, feeling the tarpon vibrating through my rod, I dug deeper. But as I brought the fish close to the boat, it bolted underneath, smashing my rod against the hull and snapping it in two.

Half of my rod tip was now dangling on the leader. It was the equivalent of having a jammed cassette in the last kilometre of a bike race. I had to keep pedalling, to keep fighting. Somehow I managed to maneuver the fish with the butt section of the rod while Eddie got into the water. As we landed the silver king, I immediately began shedding tears of joy. The race was over. The gold medal was ours. And had I not surrendered—to being coached, to being humbled, to the process—we wouldn’t have finished the Grand Slam. And neither would the Grand Slam have mattered as much as it did to me in that moment. Everything prior—knowing that I was capable, deserving and coachable—was building up to this outcome.

Better Belize it At the resort, we were met with jubilance. The Grand Slam was a win for the entire resort. Everyone there wanted me to

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

succeed, and when I did, it was a group celebration.

To me, landing the Grand Slam was equivalent to winning any of the biggest bike races I’ve won in the past.

I was equally as excited. I was equally as proud. But what set this win apart was getting to share it with a team. I’ve been in situations where I’ve been racing all alone—in a foreign country, with no teammates behind or beside me.

Even when I’ve earned the top place on the podium and held up the winner’s trophy, without a team, it was a lonely experience. This was different.

Ultimately, Eddie and I knew achieving the Grand Slam wasn’t up to us. We were persistent, we had the passion and drive, but at the end of the day, I knew I had to give up control and let the outcome be what it will be. When I finally landed that tarpon, it was a surreal feeling of letting go while simultaneously holding on for dear life.

Ultimately, what I’m chasing is not a permit, or a tarpon, or even a Grand Slam. It’s that feeling of being able to meet the outcome—wherever it may land—by being prepared, executing, and simultaneously letting go when it happens.

But if I’m not mindful of how I am showing up, I won’t ever achieve the desired result.

Be. Do. Have.

Zig Ziglar and Eddie would probably get along just fine.

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Piscatorial Prescription The rejuvenating power of the river Teddy Coseco Teddy Cosco is a Chartered Psychologist (British Psychological Society) trained in epidemiology (PhD, University of Cambridge) and demography (Postdoctoral Fellowship, University of Oxford). He is a passionate outdoorsman, enthusiastic home cook, and sometimes-lucky fly fisherman. Exploring the tundra via floatplane, fishing off the coast of Alaska and camping throughout Western Canada, this Yukon-born British-Columbian grew up with the outdoors in his blood. Follow @castandiron for adventure and recipe inspiration.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

F

all is a season of change and a time of renewal. As the days become shorter and the air turns crisp in anticipation of winter, there is no better place to experience the remarkable circle of life than on the banks of a river. Anadromous fish making their pilgrimage from the oceans to the spawning grounds of the rivers and tributaries in which they were born capture this spirit. Pacific salmon runs are a testament to the resilience and determination of nature.

Net gains As fly fishers, we are privileged to bear witness to this extraordinary spectacle. Standing on the banks of a river, we have the unique opportunity to encounter these autumnal changes uninhibited, which, I think, provides a unique perspective on how incredibly small we are in the grand scheme of things. These salmon are quite literally fighting for the survival of their species, evading nets and seals in the ocean and bears and eagles in the river in order to pass on their genetic material to the next generation. In the background of this life-ordeath migration, it seems a bit silly to be standing in the water waving a piece of graphite around, hoping to entice a fish that is not hungry to eat some scraps of fur and feather tied to a sharp piece of metal. It begs the question: why do we do it in the first place?

flyfusionmag.com

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Everyone has their own reasons for spending time chasing salmonids. For some it’s about visiting the places in which these fish live, others enjoy the people that are drawn together by angling. Fishing, for many of us, is a reprieve from the day-to-day grind. For me, there is no better way to prioritize my mental health and wellbeing than to spend time on the water

Piscatorial prescription In my day job, I am the director of the Precision Mental Health Lab and an associate professor of Mental Health and Aging, so I have both personal and professional interests in the link between mental health and fly fishing. There are strong links in the literature between spending time outdoors, having strong social connections, and enjoying a greater quality of life and a high level of wellbeing. Moreover, as we get older, maintaining a high level of physical and social activity becomes even more important. Recently, my colleagues and I published a paper which demonstrated that during the COVID-19 pandemic, Canadians aged 45 and older experienced greater symptoms of depression and anxiety if their ability to engage in physical and social activity had worsened.

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In my opinion, standing waist-deep in a glacial river with nothing but the sounds of the water rushing by and the anticipation of the next cast being the cast, is about as good as it gets. Tack on a few folks that like to laugh as much as they like to fish, some hot grub and cold beverages on the river, and that’s about as good a prescription for mental health as you can get.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Photo: Mark Seacat

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Trout Bum in Steel Town

Lessons learned on Widzin Kwa Bob Covey

“

Fishermen coming up at 32.”

A thick cloud of dust obscures the next bend in the forest service road. Out of the smokescreen, a pair of taillights appear.

“Got a couple recreationals coming at you Tiffany.”

The pickup lets us pass. We nod our thanks.

Soon the dust turns into ricocheting gravel, then big, irregular stones. Eventually we can make out a pair of taillights, higher off the ground and further apart than the last pair. Between those, a dozen huge trees, stripped of their massive limbs, lurch toward our windshield. This must be Tiffany.

“Go ahead,” cracks the radio.

Speeding into the debris, Jake lurches his pickup truck around and past the enormous vehicle.

“Thanks Tiffany,” we wave.

The night previous, after humping my four-cylinder rental car down the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains, across the great table top of British Columbia’s interior plateau and into the lower reaches of the famous Skeena watershed, I spied the first of several roadside reminders of the region’s greatest asset. In the fading light, the torpedo shape of handcarved signs, framed by the very river we’d soon be floating, convinced me that on this trip I was going to hook my very first steelhead.

Now our rods are rigged and our rafts are piled ridiculously high on Jake’s Toyota Tundra and we are bouncing our way toward the put-in of our four day float.

Twelve dusty, bumpy kilometres after Tiffany lets us by her 18-wheeler, we’re slowing down again. But this time it’s not for loggers.

Eroding trust Kilometre 63.5 of the Morice Forest Service Road, outside of Houston, British Columbia, was the site of violence 13 months earlier, when RCMP raided the cabins of the Wet’suwet’en, the Indigenous Nation who call this place home. The Wet’suwet’en’s lands have never been ceded to the government, and a landmark 1997 Supreme Court decision, which recognized that aboriginal title is not extinguished in these 22,000 square-kilometres, agrees with them. The November 2021 clash at “Coyote Camp” made national news.

When we passed kilometre 44, another camp— known as Gidimt’en Checkpoint—was empty, as far as we can see. I can’t help rubber-necking at the sheet metal and plywood structures as we drifted by. In graffitied all-caps, the encampment shouts its opposition to industrial development.

Soon, we come upon the kilometre-marker where an alignment of earth moving machines—three dozers, four excavators will soon drill underneath the sacred spawning habitat of four different kinds of Pacific salmon. I know in the silence that all four of us—Bryce, a fisheries biologist working for the Tsay Keh Dene First Nation; Tom, a fish biologist working with the Toquaht Nation; Jake, a filmer, communications strategist and fishing guide, depending on the day; and myself, a writer and editor for a fishing magazine—are all, in our own ways, torn by the facts at hand: That our chosen place to look for steelhead is in distress.

We rumble by, cognitive dissonance working its magic.

A fish out of water For more than 80 kilometres, the Morice River—or upper Widzin Kwa, as it’s known to the Wet’suwet’en—tumbles in glacial teals and blues from its headwaters at Morice Lake (Widzin Bin) to join with the Bulkley River, near Houston.

From there it links to the mighty Skeena River system, which eventually dumps into the Pacific Ocean, south of Prince Rupert. We are here in October for the fall steelhead season, when the biggest fish are just showing up.

Bulkley River steelhead are renowned for their aggressive nature, and Jake, for one, is itching to skate a bomber over a prime lie, à la Roderick Haig-Brown, to achieve one of fly fishing’s most sought-after prizes: a steelhead on a dry fly. I’m just hoping to land a fish, and it’s easy to convince myself that the rainbows in the river would be a worthy target, too. But Jake’s sights are set.

“Leave those in the truck,” he says to me as he spots my box of hare’s ears, prince nymphs and copper Johns. “You can fish for trout in Jasper.” Coming from a trout town, here in salmon and steelhead country, I am truly a fish out of water. In the Skeena watershed, the rods are bigger, the rivers are wider and the required casts are longer.

Born and raised in nearby Smithers to teacher parents, Jake is active in his communities—the local fishing community, the broader environmental community—he

Bob Covey Journalist, editor and photographer Bob Covey grew up near the tannic tributaries of the Red Deer River, but it wasn’t until he moved to the Rockies that he picked up a fly rod.

Of course he was never the same. When he’s not stepping on lego or white-knuckling deadlines as Managing Editor of Fly Fusion Magazine, he’s dowsing for trout and dreaming of powder days in Jasper National Park.

flyfusionmag.com

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has plenty of experience connecting with nature. Intention matters, Jake says, when anglers demonstrate respect—for the nations whose territories they plan to fish, and critically, for the fish themselves—it goes a long way in alleviating any potential tension.

“I think whatever your background is, one thing we can all agree on is the need to take care of our rivers and take care of our fish,” he says.

Steelhead Paradise That perspective is shared by the local fly shop, Oscar’s Sports, where owner Alex Bussman chats up anglers looking to make their steelhead dreams come true. Oscar’s is something of a gateway to Steelhead Paradise, as the region has rightfully branded itself; Bussman spends most of his time talking to residents and visitors about local water conditions, which fish are running and what flies are working. Every so often though, he gets a question about fishing in Wet’suwet’en territory—or in Gitxsan territory, where the famous Kispiox and Skeena Rivers cut through the landscape. He and his team advise folks going on the

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

river that if there’s mutual respect shown, there shouldn’t be any issues.

“It’s tough because First Nations are our neighbours, our friends, we do business with First Nations,” Bussman says. “I understand their frustrations. I wish we could work together a bit more, to understand each other a bit more.”

According to Jennifer Wickham, a member of the Cas Yikh (Grizzly Bear House) in the Gidimt’en Clan of the Wet’suet’en people, some Wet’suwet’en echo those sentiments.

“My experience with people wanting to be on the river and fish has always been really positive,” she says. “I imagine we share a lot of the same values and appreciation [with anglers] around Widzin Kwa,” Our first camp is at the outlet of the lake. I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of line being stripped from a reel. Opening my tent flap, I catch a glimpse of Tom heading to the water. Thick fog blankets the lake, and before the October sun can burn it off, and before I can finish my first java, I hear Tom whoop—he’s hooked a small steelhead; he is officially on the board. Later, after breakfast, it’s Bryce who has the bent rod. This fish, which is also a juvenile, has tell-

tale scarring from gill nets, but appears no worse for wear as it shoots from Bryce’s hand back into the run. Eagles soar overhead. I want badly to connect to the river’s power.

Trouble is, I’m undergunned. I have my single-handed 7-weight rod, a fast-sinking tip connected to the end of my floating line and at the end of the rig, tied to a non-slip mono loop knot, Jake’s version of a poacher—an essential Bulkley Valley fly. But when I watch my friends manipulate their 12foot, 10-weight spey-style rods, and see how much further they can cast their flies and how much longer of a swing they can achieve, I realize I can’t reach the same seams, riffles and potential salmon lies as they can. Shifting into guide-mode, Jake senses my frustration before I think I’m showing it. He puts his spare spey rod into my hands and takes 10 minutes to show me the basics: the Snap T for fishing the left bank and the Snake Roll for fishing the right.

“You’ll figure it out,” he winks.

If I want my own steelhead dreams to materialize, I’m going to have to.

Camp packed and piled onto the rafts, we float contentedly down the river. Jake mans the oars, I’m perched

on a pile of gear up front and Jake’s dog Atty is settled in a furry heap on the raft’s stern, obviously used to this mode of transport. As we spill over rock ledges and wash around whitewater-strewn corners, Jake tries to describe what he’s searching for in steelhead holding water. Adjectives like “nuggety” and “tankish” don’t quite spell it out for me, nor do I get a clear picture when he says he’s looking for depth, pace and structure—plus a “reason for fish to be there.” Only when he whistles upriver to our rafting mates and points to a wide, deep, blue trench, with boulders and shade and a gravel bar extending from its tail end, do I start to comprehend what makes one particular run fishier than another. Wanting to accelerate my angling education, I figure that instead of flailing 40 feet of line at the pool which lies 60 feet from the bank, I’ll get out my camera and watch Jake work this pool.

The slurp of his line ripping from the water as he launches a tidy roll cast is therapeutic. It doesn’t take long before his line goes tight.

“There’s a bump!” Jake cries as the fish burns line and soars into the air. The flop of it landing on the surface is loud enough to produce an echo in the canyon and even

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Addie seems to know this is a big, strong steelhead. The pup whines anxiously as Bryce mans the net; we all want to meet this specimen.

“She’s proud of me,” Jake says, letting the dog sniff the bright buck.

Our second night will be spent on a sandy clearing above a beach of round, slippery rocks. In wet boots and low light, getting to and from the river is a hazardous endeavour, but we lug our gear to the site of what looks like a perennial hunting camp and erect our tents in a hurry, because the guys have a feeling about the water next to where we’ll build our fire.

I’ve been working on my spey technique, but this run doesn’t call for a particularly heroic cast; I can reach most of the prime lies with my single-handed setup. Because the flow is quite fast, Jake picks out for me a poacher with dumbbell eyes—to help it get down—and sure enough, on my first cast, I feel the heavy pull of a big fish.

The lads make their way to where I’m breathlessly watching my reel sing, but with no trademark aerial displays, there’s speculation on what’s taken my fly. Sure enough, a darker, greener shimmer than the red and chrome flashes which we saw earlier in the day hints at something different.

It’s not my first steelhead, but it is my first coho. Its kype is dinosaurian and its skin is like polished opal. It won’t be in such fine form for long—the journey to its natal stream will eventually take its toll.

The unique catch makes it all the easier, 20 minutes later, to once again swap the rod for the camera and Jake Jake launch cast after cast to the far bank. His dry fly makes a V-shaped wake on the nervous water and suddenly a silver back breaks the surface. Fish on.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

But it’s not to be. After a powerful run, as he tries to turn its head toward the net, Jake’s rod springs straight. His leader and fly dangle limply. To his credit, he laughs, admonishing himself for losing focus.

“I was trying to horse it way too early,” he says. “Recipe for failure.”

After a protein-heavy meal of fire-grilled pork tenderloin, plus a celebratory drink or two for a threespecies campsite (Bryce hooked into a bull trout just before dark), there is some empathetic chatter about the “fish of a thousand casts,” as steelhead are known (with apologies to muskie anglers). Tom relays his travails of trying to find chrome on Vancouver Island, Bryce chimes in about long, lonely days on the lower Bulkley, and Jake lets me know it took his dad two years to catch a steelhead when he first started out. I appreciate what they’re trying to do, but the more I see of the Skeena system, the more I come to terms with where I’m at as an angler. Despite being fairly obsessed with the sport for the better part of a decade, it’s become readily apparent that I still have a lot to learn. My expectations are tempered, but as I zip into my sleeping bag, listening to Widzin Kwa flow by, I wonder if I’ll be able to decipher its language any more clearly tomorrow.

Lift. Sweep. D-Loop. Shoot.

I’m starting to find my form with Jake’s spey rod, but I’m still unable to shoot much line. Even so, it’s progress, and if I make a good cast, invariably, when I sneak a peek to see if Jake noticed, he gives me the thumbs-up from wherever he and Addie are stationed on the bank.

On our last full day, the guys are doing their best to give me a chance to connect to a fish, giving me first dibs on gorgeous stretches of water that just have to hold fish.

On one such run, where a big island divides the river in two, I send out my best cast of the weekend. As the fly starts its swing, through the leader and the line to my hands and my body comes an enormous jolt. I set, but the weight is no longer there.

“That was a fish!” I yell over the tumble of the current.

“Try again!” comes Jake’s response.

I reset, but now that I’m feeling the pressure, I can’t get my fly to the same seam, some 50 feet away from me. I can’t wade in any further, so I focus on my routine: Lift. Sweep.

D-Loop. Shoot.

Another good cast, and another good bump, and then another! But again no payoff. I thoroughly work the run until I’m at its end. Now I’m wondering if I was just snagging bottom. I reel in to inspect my fly and to my devastation, I see the poacher’s stinger hook has been broken off. Playing back the last 45 minutes in my mind, I reckon that first big jolt was what snapped the steel shank and those subsequent bumps were probably fish that could merely gum the fly’s pink fibres.

I’m mad at myself, but I have to laugh. I remember doing the same thing, 10 years ago, trolling a hookless wooly bugger across Maligne Lake and back, wondering why the trout were being so mealy-mouthed.

As if to punctuate my hard-earned lesson, Jake steps into the water and, near the run’s end, from a seam at least 20 feet further than my best cast could reach, hooks a bullet of a fish.

It discharges from its lie like a pinwheel firework and hurtles downstream. As Jake skillfully brings it to hand, Addie springs from her shady spot, barking her excitement for her master. I can’t be sure, but I think I catch a glimpse of her side-eyeing me—the hapless trout bum, overwhelmed and unequipped in steel city. A dipper dives into a nearby whirlpool, emerging with a tiny minnow. Maybe I need a beak, I think.

The trip’s last day starts cold. Rain and sleet chase me back into my tent after a pre-dawn bathroom break, but before I can fall back asleep, I hear Tom’s tent unzip and the rustling of waders being pulled on. I can only imagine how numb his feet must feel as I hear him crunch his way to the water. When I finally muster up the motivation to crawl out of my warm cocoon, my two other angling partners are also in the river. The scene is how I always imagined steelheading: grey and moody. Anglers in the mist. Rod butts tucked under

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

their arms, they blow on their hands with each side-step downriver.

Jake, who’s closest to camp, can see a fish, but he’s not able to move it. Later he tells me it’s a situation he’s become all-too-familiar with.

“Sight fishing for steelhead will drive you crazy,” he says.

“Just cast, move through the run, and pretend they’re not even there.”

The Skeena watershed is one of the few places in the world with a magnificent bounty of wild rivers, wild fish and so few people. The Wet’suwet’en, whose health, culture and identity are inextricable from the “Yintah”—the land and the rivers contained within—are merely asking for the protection of their home. According to the Skeena Watershed Conservation Coalition (SWCC), sediment releases, which can bury salmon habitat and suffocate salmon smolts, have been documented on a neighbouring salmon river, the Clore (Lho Kwa), and this past spring, amid a heavy seasonal snow melt, workers on the Morice were overwhelmed by slope failures and flooded worksites, leading to more sediment entering wetlands and waterways.

As we pull the rafts up onto shore and load them onto the vehicle that we left here four days ago, I feel a sense of melancholy that I don’t usually experience when a hot shower, a cold beer and reuniting with my family is imminent. It’s not that the trip is over. It’s not from anticipating a deluge of emails once we get back into cell service. And it’s not even the fact that I didn’t hook a steelhead in four days and at least a thousand casts. It’s something to do with the David and Goliath moment in time taking place all around us. An hour ago we floated by a group of cabins, tiny homes and a modest feast hall.

As we did so, I considered the drill sites, pipelines, and layers of government, seemingly working against the best interests of the resources its departments were created to protect. Like a trout bum trying to land a chinook salmon with a 5-weight, the people who call this place home, are severely under-resourced.

But that’s exactly why it’s so important for people who love rivers and fish and clean water to lend their support, Wickham says. That includes anglers.

“Let’s look for ways to work together,” Wickham urges.

“Everyone has a role to play.”

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Amie Battams Interview by Bob Covey

A

mie Battams, is taking the flyfishing world by storm. Or a storm sewer, anyway—the 31-year-old’s language can be as coarse as the fish she catches. But as 41.4 thousand Instagram followers cheer on Battam’s unique and hilarious fly fishing journey, where she’s gone from catching small chubs to breaking her rod off on huge pike, Battams’ fresh voice and ludicrous wit are simultaneously knocking down barriers in fly fishing.

Battams came to the sport not quite out of left field, but after her first taste of fighting a fish, she was intrigued. A few weekends later, when she caught her own while exploring what would quickly become her home waters—a right-bank tributary of the River Thames in south London—she “went absolutely bonkers.”

And soon enough, so did the internet. Battams knew about as much about fly fishing as she did about Instagram, but on her wife-to-be’s recommendation, she started a social media account and three years later, from that platform, built a loyal following. Not all of the feedback is kittens and rainbows, of course, but when you’re dressed in a Wonder Woman outfit and “mad as a furry stick,” as one commenter typed lately, kowtowing to keyboard trolls isn’t in your constitution.

Bob Covey: What was the motivation to hop on Instagram and what exactly propelled you from that moment to 42,000 followers?

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Amie Battams: I didn’t have Instagram and didn’t really know what it was. My wife said, “Well, basically, it’s just a memory book. It’s just a big memory book of things that you do.” I was like okay, well, I’ll do that. I started with a bit of gardening but when I got into fishing, it just sort of went from there.

I found fly fishing such an amazing sport, and such an amazing community. I was like, “Why don’t people know about this. Why do women not know about this?

Why didn’t I know that this was so accessible?” Because it is. The blokes I was meeting were absolutely lovely.

I know a lot of people are sort of like, “Yeah, right, male dominated.” But they’re the most lovely blokes I’ve ever known.

BC: How much of your content is scripted and how much is improvised?”

AB: I don’t know how I come up with these ideas.

They just shoot into my head, and I think ‘why not?’

Sometimes it might be a bad idea. Sometimes it might be a good one. But I’m only having a laugh.

BC: It seems like you have a laugh at your mom’s expense sometimes.

AB: Who doesn’t terrorize their mum?

BC: It’s true. Tell me about her.

AB: She’s just such a simple little woman and very easy to wind up. She is also quite funny. I find her funny and she’s up for a laugh. At some point I’m going to take her fishing. I’ve got a load of questions members of the public want me to ask her.

BC: Your fans in North America are many. There are still, however, plenty of commenters and detractors that either don’t get your sense of humour or can’t cope with your outspokenness.

AB: In life, if you don’t like someone, you might say,

“You know, you’re not my cup of tea,” and move on. Or you might not even talk to them, just distance yourself.

But online, I think people can become quite wicked.

BC: What you would tell others who get that kind of hate speech directed towards them?

AB: Just carry on being yourself because it will resonate with the right person. There will always be people in life that will try and bring you down for whatever reason. It’s not you. It’s something that you are that just ignites something in them, that they feel uncomfortable with. That’s something that they need to figure out. As difficult as it might be, don’t take it personally.

BC: Let’s jump over to the other kind of barriers that it looks like you’re breaking down: fishing private water.

Help me understand your thoughts around private beats and private water.

AB: I’m trying to legally fish premium chalk streams, as they call them, that are inaccessible to people who do not have the money to get access. Some clubs, it costs just over 3,000 pounds to become a member. That is if they accept your membership. There is a popularity competition. If they don’t like you, you’re not getting in.

Yes, there is a lot of free water. There are a lot of other places you can go, but I just think it’s quite unfair that a lot of these waters are inaccessible to local kids. You can’t call children poachers. They’re not. They just want to access the sport of fishing.

BC: Do you think you’ve taken on sort of these bigger picture issues in fly fishing because you’re so new to it?

AB: I think it’s that and I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m not sponsored, and I don’t wish to be. I tried it once.

I had a nice time. People I met were lovely. But now, because I’m not sponsored, I can say how I feel and say what I see.

BC: Are you noticing waves that you’re creating in the industry? Do you feel like change is imminent on some of these fronts?

AB: I don’t. I don’t. I mean I think a lot of people feel the same about the access to fishing in the U.K., but they’re powerless to do anything about it or they can’t articulate. I’ve got the gift of the gab and fortunately, I can edit! But that’s my way of raising awareness, whether it be pollution incidents or whatever.

BC: Were you a conservationist before you started fly fishing?

AB: No, I didn’t even know poo went into rivers until I tasted it one day. I mean, it didn’t go into my mouth, it’s just the smell was so strong. As soon as I found out about caddis and I seen one for the first time, I absolutely lost it because I didn’t even know there was a whole underwater world.

BC: You mentioned that you’re taken with the idea of fishing in North America, but where would you bring an overseas guest in the U.K. if you wanted to encapsulate the Amie Fly Fish experience?

AB: It would be urban fishing in the River Wandle, for coarse fish, not for trout. Because I didn’t know what a trout was the first year I was fishing. Didn’t know that existed. Yes, it would be a coarse fish in the River Wandle, wading, doing a bit of litter picking whilst you wait because that’s always helpful.

BC: You answered one of your followers recently and said that the chub is your favourite species to target. Is that still the case and why chub? What’s the allure?

AB: Chubs, they are common and so am I. It’s the first fish I ever caught. I have a soft spot for them. Also, nobody really cares about them. They’re quite obliging in the sense that they’ll take anything most ways, most methods. I just genuinely think that they’re beautiful.

They’ve got a good fight on them, and they interest me. I love all fish, but chub, I relax when I’m going chubbing.

Can’t beat a chub.

BC: Count me in. Where do you want to take your fly fishing social media?

AB: I don’t have an end game. I don’t know why I’m doing this really. I just thought it would be titillating.

But what I am enjoying and what I will continue to enjoy is filming, meeting new people from everywhere I possibly can, and just fishing. That’s what it’s about for me, free information, me and like-minded people from different backgrounds and sharing moments. I know that sounds cheesy because it is, but before fishing I never had genuine experiences with other humans that are so kind. That’s what I want to put out there. It exists, and I can’t believe people don’t really know that this is what it is.

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TIGHT LOOPS, TIGHT LINES

Waking Life Chasing dreams in Atlantic Canada

Kastine Coleman Kastine Coleman is a Fly Fishers International casting instructor, a two-time IGFA world record holder for Atlantic salmon, fishing guide and co-owner of Tight Loops Tight Lines with her partner Terry Byrne. She is a director with FFI and the Atlantic Salmon Conservation Foundation and a SPAWN board member. She resides in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, with her three children..

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

T

he sun has not yet risen over the vast landscape of Newfoundland, Canada, as I pull on my waders and prepare for a day of fly fishing on the mighty Humber River.

With the scent of damp earth and the promise of adventure in the air, I know that this early morning expedition will be one to remember.

The Humber River, renowned for its pristine waters and abundant Atlantic Salmon, is a fly fisher’s paradise.

At dawn With fly rod tucked under my arm, I carefully tie on a dry fly. I’ve got an Orange Bomber and I watch Terry rig up, making sure we don’t pick the same fly. The flies, though meticulously chosen, rarely imitate the

natural prey of the Atlantic Salmon, as the salmon are not feeding in the river systems. Just the same, we hope they prove irresistible on the river’s surface.

As I finish securing the fly with a modified clinch knot, the first rays of dawn paint the horizon in hues of pink and gold.

The soft purr of the motor brings us up river, still within view of our accommodations at Marble Inn Resort, on Newfoundland’s west coast. We position ourselves at a spot where the river forms a deep pool. I drop anchor and it slips quietly into the water, grabbing hold of the river floor below. This is a favourite haunt of the salmon, where they gather to rest before continuing their arduous journey upstream.

© Photo Jake Dicks

People travel from far and wide to cast their line in these majestic waters. We’re lucky to call this our home, and we revel in the challenge of enticing the elusive salmon to take the fly, their shimmering bodies carving through the heavy current. We love the variety here—anything from a grilse to a 40-plus pound mature salmon. You never know what’s going to break the surface and take your fly.

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Sweet and salty The water rushes past the sides of the boat with a soothing melody, and I take a moment to absorb the tranquility of the surroundings. I breathe in the crisp morning air, tasting the faint hint of salt that the wind carries from the nearby ocean. It’s a reminder of the salmon’s remarkable journey as they navigate the treacherous currents of the Atlantic Ocean to their spawning grounds.

With a swift movement of the forearm, I send the line soaring through the air, unfurling over the water. The fly awkwardly drops to the surface, unsure of its direction.

Not quite as much grace as I had hoped for; early morning dry fly fishing requires extra coffee. After some messy casts I take off my dry fly. Terry patiently persists, casting his fly with precision, his eyes never leaving the water. Suddenly, a familiar rise. The hook is set, followed by a tug on the line and an explosion of energy that sends my heart racing. The line whizzes through Terry’s fingers as the salmon makes its first run, its sheer power and determination evident in every surge. Terry fights against the young salmon’s strength, skillfully maneuvering his

fly rod to maintain control. The salmon fights valiantly, leaping out of the water, its silver scales glistening in the morning light. Terry overpowers the line ever so slightly, and the grilse breaks free just before the net.

Quiet water, rowdy fish We continue fishing, dropping down the shoal a bit, and Terry hooks up again—this time into a really nice fish. I pull my line in immediately, knowing we’ll need to move the boat to get out of the main current. To land it as quick as possible we’ll use the quieter water. Terry hands me his rod to play the fish as he starts the motor and pulls the anchor, but the fish takes off down-river, bringing me down to the backing. I’m sweating. The battle is a dance of wills, a test of endurance. With every tense moment, the connection between the salmon and I grows stronger, deepening my respect for its power. We touch shore, Terry takes the rod back, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

He guides the feisty fish toward the riverbank, where I’ll have my chance of redemption with the net. The fish is begging for freedom, throwing its weight around crazily.

I’m also unbalanced, but I focus to steady my legs and position the net. Breathing again, with the job complete, I point the nose of the fish upriver and we both calm down. I lift her gently out of the net. In my waders I’m able to move deeper into the river than Terry can in his rubber boots. Gently cradling the salmon in my hands, I marvel at its beauty and strength. She is a magnificent specimen, its colours vibrant and its size impressive. It is a testament to the grandeur of nature and the rewards that await those who dare venture into its depths.

Elbow grease I release the salmon upstream, watching as it disappears into the tea-stained water. It’s a bittersweet moment, a farewell to a formidable opponent and a reminder of the delicate balance of nature. I quickly snap out of my reverie, realizing that I had dipped down past my waders in the water, and that my arms are now wet up to my elbows. Giddy with endorphins, we climb back in the boat. I remove my coat and wring out my sweatshirt as we move back upriver.

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As the sun climbs higher in the sky, we continue our pursuit of the Atlantic Salmon, casting once more and letting the current carry our hopes and dreams.

The Humber River, a timeless tapestry of wilderness and adventure, has etched another unforgettable chapter in our fly fishing journey. As long as the salmon swim these waters, we know we will return, time and time again,

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

to chase the thrill of early morning fly fishing on Newfoundland’s west coast.

Season 2 of Tight Loops Tight Lines is available to watch on the Sportsman Channel Canada, World Fishing Network, and on FlyFusionMag.com. The episode “Chasing Dreams” was filmed on Kastine & Terry’s Atlantic Salmon fishing adventure at Marble Inn Resort, in Newfoundland & Labrador.

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ON THE VISE

Betwixt and Between Frank Brassard 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

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Emergers: The minivans of flyfishing patterns

O

pen your fly boxes. What do you see?

Depending on the season, mine usually contain a semi-organized assortment of nymphs, dries and streamers. Historically, in the corner of the box, or squished next to the hinge, I might find a squirmy and perhaps an emerger or two. But lately, my emergers are starting to line up right beside the dries.

Until recently, I hadn’t given much thought or attention to emergers. When I’m on the river I’m either nymphing or fishing a dry fly. Emergers, to me, were those things in between. In vehicle terms, I saw emergers as less attractive than the trucks of my flybox, the dry flies, and less efficient than the cars: my nymphs. Perhaps emergers are the minivans of fly fishing? Works for me.

Because just like those soccer-mobiles, emergers get a bad

rap, but ask anyone who drives them and they’re viewed as the most utilitarian ride around.

Emerging clarity Due to exceedingly-dry spring weather in Alberta this year, I stayed off my local rivers until late June. Consequently, this season, I’ve spent much more time on the region’s lakes. One thing about lake fishing is it gives you a lot of time to sit, observe and think. The shallow, crystal-clear lakes of the Rockies are favourable to sight fishing, and this clarity leads to the ability to study fish behaviour vis-à-vis one’s fly selection and presentation. All that sitting, fishing and watching has led me to some new opinions regarding emerger patterns.

Fish are lazy. Ok, maybe lazy is the wrong adjective.

Fish are energy-efficient. Most of them won’t go after a

food source unless the expenditure of energy is less than the caloric gain from eating the prey. For that reason, larger specimens will often eagerly chase a streamer for many metres because the reward for all that chasing is potentially very great. In the same way, small trout in rivers will typically not move more than 30 centimetres for passing morsels. The prey’s mobility also plays a crucial role in the fish’s decision whether to pursue or not. The more vulnerable and immobile the target, the more appetizing it becomes, as a positive outcome is more certain. One must only think of those warm summer evenings when the spinners fall and unabashed feeding frenzies explode at the back of a pool. Equally important, although not as visually stimulating as the “All you can eat spinner dinners,” are the low-key emerger buffets. This stage of the hatch is harder to detect, but it’s important to identify the arrival of emerging insects and have the appropriate patterns ready.

Caddis caravan As I boated around an area lake on a warm sunny morning earlier this summer, I watched multiple fish rise around me. I was fishing an Elk Hair Caddis, and while I was staring at it, I got a great look at a beautiful specimen which took something less than a foot from my fly. Nothing was visible on the surface, so thinking the fish must have eaten a terrestrial bug, I tied on a small ant. Still no takers.

Frustrated, I stared at the fish swimming just below the boat. As my eyes switched focus, I saw something small in the water’s film. It was a small caddis, struggling to poke through to the surface. Now it made sense! The fish were keyed onto helpless caddis emergers which I had failed to detect. I immediately tied on a size 14 Sparkle Dun, or, as I’m now calling it, a size 14 Dodge Caravan.

What are emergers? Most aquatic insects, or at least those we are interested in for fishing purposes, go through four stages of life: egg, nymphal, emerger (pupae) and adult. The emergence stage is the most vulnerable period in the life cycle of most aquatic insects. The mortality rate of chironomids, for example, is astronomical. They rise very slowly through the water column, making them easy pickings for any roaming trout. What they lack in speed, however, chironomids make up in numbers; they hatch by the thousands. Other insects such as mayflies and caddis

Snowshoe Emerger Hook: Ahrex FW521 Wing: Snowshoe Hare Wing: Deer Hair Thorax: Vicuña Dubbing Gold Body: Goose Biot Shuck: Semperfli Polyyarn Textreme 50D

are much better swimmers and thus rise faster, but coming out of their nymphal shuck and drying their wings, they are stuck in the slow lane. For a few tense seconds, they are powerless and vulnerable in the water’s film.

New info surfacing Just like I looked closer at those emerging caddisflies, let’s take a closer gander at emerger patterns. To simplify, we’ll break emergers into two categories: “subsurface” and “onsurface.” Imitations of midges, chironomids, or buzzers are the most popular type of subsurface emergers. They aim at representing midges which are slowly making their way up the water column. These patterns tend to be buoyancyneutral or ascending very slowly and are fished lower in the water column—typically from 30 cm (12 inches) off

Barr Emerger Hook: Ahrex FW541 Body: Vicuña Dubbing SLF blends Legs: Whiting’s Hackle Tail: Golden Pheasant Tippet Textreme Powerthread 50D

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Sparkle Caddis Emerger Hook: Ahrex FW503 Body and Tail: Antron Yarn Wing: Deer Hair Body: Nature Spirit UV Tracer Dubbing Thorax: Vicuña Dubbing SQD Textreme Powerthread 50D

the bottom to just below the surface. In lakes, midges can be fished all spring and summer with great success as they are readily available and constitute the main diet for trout, grayling and whitefish.

On-surface patterns imitate insects that have made it to the top and are entering the final stages of transformation: from the pupae to the adult. For these pattens, adequate buoyancy is required to hold them in the meniscus. Top water emergers are fished like dry flies, with a lighter nylon tippet and delicate presentation.

The patterns I am discussing here sit low, with a large portion of the fly presenting underwater. A shuck is also a great addition to modern surface emerger patterns. The

3 Dollar Dip Hook: Ahrex FW525 Wing: Deer Hair Wing: Crystal Flash Rib: Silver Wire Body: Textreme Midge Thread Olive Grey

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

material of the shuck can be modified to add or reduce buoyancy, and to achieve that realistic imitation of an insect climbing out of its nymphal stage. To be clear, the purpose here is not to sit high and dry. We are looking for a lot of water surface contact and marginal surface penetration.

Calm before the swarm Identifying when to tie an emerger on the end of our leader is important. Clear signs to do so are when fish are delicately slurping something from the surface, when their backs are barely breaking through the surface, or when they are keyed in on the surface, but you can’t put your finger on what it is they’re taking. Think of emergers as the pre-hatch, the calm before the storm. Being able to understand and react to this phenomenon can greatly increase your dry fly-fishing window and success.

Additionally, I find that if you miss this early portion of the hatch, fishing an emerger immediately after the main show is often just as productive.

For years I have refused to purchase a minivan, opting instead to cram my three boys in the back of my Tacoma.

Call it stubbornness (as they grow, their complaints get louder) but I don’t want to give up my truck, even if I can see how handy a soccer-mobile is to haul kids while being easier on fuel. When it comes to fishing, however, I’m not quite as rigid. I’ve learned that even if they don’t have the clearance of a dry fly or the efficiency of a nymph, emerger patterns are useful in many situations. Which is why my flybox now contains a decent selection of those “in between” patterns.

Open the sliding doors of your mind and give these minivans a try: Subsurface patterns: · 3 Dollar Dip · Barr Emerger · RS2 Surface patterns: · Clark’s No Hackle Emerger (Mayfly) · CDC Bubble Emerger (Mayfly) · Snowshoe Emerger (Mayfly, Midge) · Sparkle Dun (Caddis)

LONG LINES

Evolution and Adaptation

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.

E

ssence is defined as the “inherent nature of the thing.” In other words, the thing cannot exist without its essence. To many, this extends to fly fishing; it cannot exist without fly casting.

“Fly casting is the essence of fly fishing,” Mel Krieger claims in his still-relevant video, Essence of Fly Casting, which he produced almost 40 years ago. Over and over again in the 1985 video Krieger makes reference to this point and many, including myself, have adopted this idea as central to fly fishing.

Long before Mel stated it, fly fishing was defined by this belief. As Paul Schullery states in A History of American Fly Fishing “Thanks to the arrival of heavier silk lines in the 1870s and 1880s, the fly fisher of a century ago had a reasonable array of techniques in his casting repertoire.” The weighted fly line moving the weighted fly, culminating in fly casting with the use of a fly rod, is what gives fly fishing its rhythmic poetry, entomological proximity and contemplative solitude.

Against the grain When we think about fly casting and the simple physics of it, casting a weightless fly (the lure) with a weighted fly line makes sense. Of course “weightless” is not literal, but in comparison to the fly line, it is a relatively accurate term. The fly, usually weighing only a few grains in most trout applications, is one-one hundredth the weight of a standard fly line in the first 30 feet alone.

This is underscored by the line rating system which defines line weights. A 5 weight line is not some random characterization, but a standard. A 5 weight line is 140 grains (+/- 6 grains), and as there are 7,000 grains to a pound. The numbers really put into context how light even our heaviest-weighted lines are. While the system is not perfect and many desire to change it, no viable replacement has been brought forward.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

This system emphasizes the need for a line to be weighted enough to bend the rod and ultimately, cast the fly. Contrary to the belief of many, the weight of the rod and the corresponding line should be chosen, principally, by the weight and wind-resistance of the fly being cast. The lighter the fly, the lighter the line.

The heavier the fly (or line, when using a sinking line) the heavier the rod. The goal is to counter the weight (resistance) of what’s being cast with the weight (energy) of the line. Of course, conditions, distance, and fish fighting prowess are also extremely relevant, but these factors do not change the inseparable nature of the weight of the fly line, the fly and the physics to present the fly to the fish. This is, the definition of fly fishing.

Opposites attract (fish) By contrast, in conventional fishing, a weighted lure with a seemingly weightless line is used to cast. For example a lure might be half an ounce, or roughly 220 grains, while 30-90 feet of monofilament would weigh only a few grains. This presents the inverse of the fly fishing ratio, where the line is one one-hundredth the weight of the lure.

Casting style between the two types of fishing is also different. Whereas in conventional fishing the cast is unidirectional, meaning the power application is only on the forward stroke (generally speaking), the fly cast is bi-directional and requires energy transfer on both the forward and back cast (save for the roll cast). This is due to the weighted line and need to extend in both directions. To get to the heart of the matter, if I were to cast a nymph rig on a conventional outfit, even using flies, it ceases to be fly fishing.

But the recent surge of nymphing techniques has given us reason to question fly fishing’s “essence.”

Many of the new strategies featuring lead or tungsten-

weighted flies are used with a “Euro Nymphing” line.

These lines are essentially level lines, with minimal weight. No longer are we casting the weight of the fly line, but using a hybrid approach of lobbing the heavilyweighted flies and slinging the line. Suddenly, there is not enough weight to overcome the energy of the flies, making the fly line mostly irrelevant.

Quintessential questions Not one to erode the tradition of fly fishing or contradict the words of Mel, I believe in evolving without alienating. To me, rather than fly casting being the “essence” of fly fishing, it should be considered the “quintessence.” Quintessence is the purest form of something, not an inseparable characteristic. And in its purest form, fly fishing involves fly casting—and this requires a weighted line that minimizes the impact of the fly.

As we have seen a surge of interest in fly fishing in recent years we are left with a question. Do we blur the lines between angling styles and attempt to retain new fly fishers at the expense of the historical definition of

fly fishing? Or do we believe that having beginner fly fishers learning a technique which requires less skill but (arguably) brings more fish to hand is the pathway toward success?

Maybe we should emphasize the quintessence of fly fishing, its purest form, while not disparaging a proven fishing technique. Nymphing techniques are successful.

There is no question about that. But is catching fish the only goal? What are we gaining by minimizing the thing that defines our pastime? Can both worlds exist simultaneously?

It is important to grow and adapt. And, it is ok to nymph with weighted flies and mostly unweighted lines!

However, let’s be sure to emphasize our quintessence.

Fly casting is beautiful, striking, and when done properly, feels like poetry in motion. It’s the thing that evokes day dreaming and movie highlights. It’s the anchor defining and separating our sport.

Let’s revisit our roots proving that the epitome of fly fishing is floating lines and dry flies, cast with perfect presentations. Let’s get back to fly casting as the quintessence of fly fishing.

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WANDERING CURRENTS

Arctic Explosion Violent rain, vibrant fish

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.

A

s a kid, I dreamed of fishing on the Lewis and Clarke expedition.

Imagining myself hooking into cutthroat that had never seen a fly would occupy my mind for hours.

This is the exact thought that brought me to the Brooks Range, where millions of roadless acres along the Alaskan coast melt into the mountains. I was seeking a place that was still pristine, seeking fish that were still untouched. But after six days of rain, we weren’t sure if the status of those untouched fish was going to change. The rivers were swelling and fishing was becoming more and more difficult. The water had changed from gin clear to mud brown. We had our work cut out for us.

Yurt feelings The trip had started off with a weather delay; we waited out heavy cloud cover in a small airplane hanger. When the visibility finally improved, the skilled pilots were able to safely taxi us into the remote drainage which we had pegged as our starting location. Asking around town for any available lodging, we were happy to set up camp in a yurt in a local paramedic’s backyard. Careful not to disrupt the construction of a dog sled that was in-progress, we threw our cots around a table placed in the middle of the room and proceeded to hurry up and wait.

The next day we walked around the town, without much hope of flying. But then we got an anxious call to pack up and get ready. In a matter of minutes we were chucking gear into the back of the plane. Piling in to our seats, the doors slammed closed behind us and the engine fired up. The wheels of the plane left the ground so effortlessly it was hard to tell we were airborne until the town’s houses began to shrink below us.

The engine hummed as we headed towards the mountains.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Distant peaks expanded in the cockpit window until we finally circled around a gravel bar and touched down. Other than the initial bump and bounce of touching down, the river rock was nearly as smooth as the runway at the airport.

Camp cloudburst We tossed gear onto the river’s edge and hopped out. After the aircraft circled into the wind and took off, the only sounds came from the water working its way to the ocean and a slight breeze rustling through the brush. The vegetation spread across the tundra like a gigantic red and orange blanket. We also spread out: setting up camp, we stashed everything in our tents and cast a wary eye at the darkening skies. The rain would come and go for the first few days, but by day two or three we were in the middle of a 60-year rain event. A steady mixture of rain and snow, heavy at times, was a nearconstant in the background of our casting, cooking and catnapping.

Fishing was never easy but we managed to find pods of large dolly varden moving upstream to spawn.

Their bright colours—blazing orange, red and turquoise against the rocky river bottom—betrayed their location.

Annoyed that any smaller subordinates would have the audacity to swim amongst them, the apex of the species, the big fish angrily chased our streamers, headshaking in violent fits once stung by the imposter sculpin and baitfish patterns. Once a hole slowed we moved along the banks, searching for fresh fish. And so the cycle continued: locate fish, catch a few and move on once the action calmed.

Untamed, untapped, unsympathetic Fishing slacked off as the rain gauges filled and by the end of the trip, angling was mostly an afterthought. The

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Arctic has a way of surprising you, no matter how many times you’ve visited. Weather, animals, hidden relics from the past left undisturbed for countless years; you simply never know what you will discover. In that way the Arctic speaks to my soul. It is still untamed— without roads, bike trails or ski lifts.

To get around, there are really only a few ways to travel; fly, hike or raft. The wilderness remains raw and untapped.

The fish that live in such harsh and remote places don’t have the experience of being hooked. They haven’t been educated by anglers’ offers to become selective. Few people have even had the privilege of seeing these wild species, let alone fishing for them. As such, they were willing to attack our presentations without hesitation. Targeting that quarry, in that location, was a childhood dream brought to life. That thought of gratitude permeated my mind, even as the rain poured down. The other competing thought was that we would find another pod of fish—their clownish colours donned to attract a spawning mate—and temporarily trade the silver of the silent ocean for the rainbow of a raucous encounter.

Depth of field On one of our last days, we hiked up a tributary of the main river. The bank was littered with tracks— among others, we spotted wolverine and bear markings. The water looked promising but nothing materialized. We pushed upstream until the pools

58

The Soul of Fly Fishing

became larger, deeper and full of debris. These basins surely must hold fish, we hoped. Eagerly peeking over the bank, we spied the telltale colours of several fish holding around a submerged tree. A few looked large—easily more than 30 inches from nose to tail. We cast into the pool, holding our breath in anticipation and the first angler came tight. The fish swirled and dove for the mess of woody debris pulsing mid current. Dave somehow managed to keep the fish out of the sticks and steered it downstream. This was the fish of a lifetime and I nervously awaited the right moment, net in hand. As the fish’s head broke the surface I scooped from underneath, feeling the weight of the catch hit the bag.

A few pictures and a splashy release sent the monster back into the depths. The group managed several more fish from this holding pool before heading back to camp. We spent the night telling fish stories in the group tent and the next morning we packed up, heading downstream. The river had surged, rising another few feet, and we knew our chances of finding a fish amongst that terrible turbidity was unlikely.

But we were at ease: our goal of finding and connecting to big, wild, coloured-up Arctic fish had been realized.

Lewis and Clarke, eat your heart out.

Derek is planning several trips to the Arctic for 2024.

Trips vary in options, from basecamps to float trips to packraft expeditions. If you are interested in joining Derek on a fishing trip to the Arctic, contact him for more details at derekolthuis@gmail.com.

STILLWATER SECRETS

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.

Colder Water, Bolder Fish Trustworthy patterns for fall fishing

W

hen I refer back to my fishing diaries, I am continually amazed at how much our fishing and tying techniques have evolved.

While much has changed in the 40-years I’ve been keeping a journal, the past 15 years have seen a proliferation of improvements. Much of this exponential evolution is due to the refinement in rods and specialty fly lines, plus the ongoing creation of unique (often synthetic) fly tying materials.

Ol’ reliable But some things haven’t changed: the biggest fish of the season are usually caught during the late fall period. This

Flash Back Scud Hook: Daiichi 1760 (2X nymph) in Size 14, 12 Bead: Gold brass in 7/64th Shellback: Upavon XO Shrimp Back Pearl

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Body: Semperfli Olive Straggle String Rib: Gold wire - small

makes sense. Having fed well during the spring and summer months, entering fall, trout and char are in prime condition.

For many productive stillwaters, the last month of open water stimulates aggressive feeding behaviour as the fish are focussed on gaining as much body fat as possible to help carry them over the long and cold winter months.

Late fall feeding is focussed on readily-available food sources including scuds, leeches, overwintering damselfly and dragonfly nymphs, and, if present, forage fish. As well, clouds of zooplankton can provide a quick and easilycaptured meal for feeding fish.

Golden holding Because feeding is concentrated in shallow water, the

Midnight Fire Leech Hook: Daiichi 4640 (60° jig hook) in size 12, 10 Bed: 1/8th Gold Tungsten Head Turner Thread: 8/0 Black

Tail: 50% mix of Black & Red Arizona Simi Seal and Hareline Ice Dub Midnight Fire Body: 50% mix of Black & Red Arizona Simi Seal and Hareline Ice Dub Midnight Fire

opportunity to hook your biggest fish of the year is made easier during the late fall period. If you’re like me, much of your angling effort will be expended in water less than 15 feet in depth. And as water temperatures continue to drop, the five-to-eight-foot range becomes golden.

The following five patterns have accounted for some of the largest rainbows and brook trout that I have been fortunate to fool. While I feel these patterns shine during the later weeks, they are always close at hand throughout my fishing season.

Flash Back Scud There is no question that a heavy diet of freshwater shrimp or scuds equates to major weight gain by foraging trout and char. Scuds are the staple food source in almost all of the best trout lakes. Competing against the huge numbers of real shrimp can be daunting, but a flashy pattern, combined with a continuous, quick, two-to-four-inch strip retrieve, will attract the attention of big fish. The Flash Back scud is tied to represent a swimming (fleeing) shrimp.

Pink Butt Blob Hook: Daiichi 4640 (60° jig hook size 12 Thread: Pink 8/0

Bead: 7/64th Hot Pink Tungsten Head Turner Tail: 15 to 20 strands of Competition Pink FNF Block 30 Body: Biscuit FNF Slush Jelly

Midnight Fire Leech When it comes to the fall season, both trout and char are opportunistic feeders and leeches are at the top of the menu.

At this time of the year I like to use a leech pattern that is a bit flashier, which may pull in a fish from further distances while they cruise that shallow shoal zone. The Midnight fire Leech has the right blend of colours to make it a very

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consistent pattern. The use of a tungsten Head Turner bead allows the pattern to sit in a more balanced position when drifted under an indicator.

Pink Butt Blob Many stillwater fly fishers underestimate the effectiveness of blobs. Like many other creative fly patterns, this tying concept came to us from the U.K. and was designed to represent a small cluster of zooplankton. Daphnia is the most common zooplankton species found in North American lakes; they flourish in our small, nutrient-rich stillwaters. Daphnia vary in colour, from almost-transparent, to light olive/green, to orange and lighter shades of red.

Colour is directly related to daphnia’s diet—one comprised of microscopic phytoplankton. There are a wide variety of blob materials to choose from but my preference is Slush Jelly, a very soft, short-fibered chenille. Adding a short tail made of a brighter material amplifies the attraction of this pattern. Whether suspended under an indicator or casting and retrieving on sinking lines of various densities, blobs catch fish!

Annaconda Booby The colour white is a prominent feature of some of the bestknown flies for targeting big fish in rivers. White Zonkers, Spuddlers and Buggers attract their share of trophy-sized rainbows and browns—fish which only get that big by

Annaconda Booby Hook: Daiichi 1530 - heavy nymph hook size 8 Thread: Red 8/0 Tail: White Semperfli Synthetic

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Wabbit Zonker Strip 4 strands of Mirror Pearl SemperFlash Body: red tying thread Head: 5mm dia white booby foam

being cautious of imitations. In lakes, boobies have proven themselves as big fish finders. Combining qualities of these various styles led Dave Burns, angling guide and owner of the The Golden Gillie, to create the Annaconda Booby. Dave introduced me to this fly, which features white foam eyes and a white rabbit-strip body, several seasons ago while exploring some of his local stillwaters in the east Kootenay region of B.C. Fast-stripping this buoyant pattern in both deep and shallow water produced some very large fish on that fall trip and continues to impress on my home waters.

Deer Hair Dragonfly nymph Spending five years in the nymphal form exposes dragonflies to many foraging trout. These fish are exploring the vegetation tucked into the shoals and drop-off areas of the lakes they inhabit. But by late fall, the oldest dragonfly nymphs are also actively hunting down scuds and mayfly nymphs to feed their growing bodies. Casting and retrieving large dragonfly nymphs over the shallow water can result in some very hard strikes and explosive runs by large fish. A buoyant pattern tied with spun and clipped deer hair—or with foam—creates a dragonfly nymph that can be stripped over the bottom vegetation without getting snagged up.

Connected to a full sink line, use a short leader of no more than five or six feet (so that the fly tracks closely to the path of the fly line). To allow even more undulating motion on the retrieve, tie the fly on with a non-slip loop knot.

Deer Hair Dragonfly Nymph Hook: Daiichi 1760 – 2XL nymph hook size 8 and 6 Thread: Olive Green 6/0 Body: natural or dyed olive green

deer hair spun, stacked and shaped Legs: Cock Ringneck Pheasant tail fibres Marking Pen: Panatone waterproof in light to dark olive

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gaspefly.com @gaspeflyco

WATER MARKS

Spilling the Beads Top 10 fly shop stressors 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

I

spent 18 years in a fly shop (I mean working in a fly shop, of course) and now 20-some years later I’ve healed enough to reveal some of the “real stories” of what goes on in such a place.

So here, in no particular order, is a mostly upto-date list of 10 “stressors” that can contribute to a shop-keeper’s anxiety. These are the dark secrets you wouldn’t know about if I weren’t spilling the beads… er, beans.

Stressor No. 1: The Landlord Unless the shop owns its building there’s probably a landlord hiding somewhere in an office tower. Maybe he or she drives past the shop one day on the way to a pedicure appointment and notices a number of expensive cars in the shop’s parking lot. Mistakenly (and somewhat hilariously) the landlord assumes the cars’ owners are in the fly shop spending big money, which prompts a sizeable rent increase.

Later, during a heavy summer thunderstorm, the shop owner notices a significant amount of water flowing straight down from the ceiling into the fly bins.

The landlord is called, numerous times, before getting through: “Sorry, they can’t fix the leak in the roof while it’s raining.” They converse again a few days later: “Sorry, they can’t find the leak in the roof when it’s dry up there.”

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that day. Guess whose spouse gets to make that drive at about 9:30 in the evening?

Stressor No. 3: Customers - “I lost my rod overboard. Does the warranty cover it?”

- “I know you ordered that really expensive reel for me that you don’t normally stock but now that it’s here I don’t think I need it. But I wouldn’t mind looking at the same reel in a different colour.”

- (In January, in the northwest) “How come you don’t have many dry flies?”

Stressor No. 4: Customers with the Internet “Hi. I was just on-line and saw that a shop in Japan is selling old-stock Sage rods for $35. Do you pricematch? Do you charge for shipping?”

Stressor No. 5: Waders Suggesting a customer’s wader size is both tricky and dangerous. If you suggest a size that turns out to be too small, you’ll have to shift the customer to a larger size, which could be embarrassing or insulting. However, if you start by suggesting a size that turns out to be too large, you may find that you’ve already insulted them.

Thankfully neoprenes are no longer as common to further complicate things.

Stressor No. 2: Guides

Stressor No. 6: The phone

Guides are an important part of a fly shop’s operation, but sometimes stuff happens—stuff like forgetting the lunch, forgetting the oars, and everyone’s favourite: forgetting to call in the vehicle shuttle for the float trip

“Hi, is Jack there?” “Nope, he’s off today.” “How ‘bout Terri?” “She’s with a customer at the moment.

Anything I can help you with?” “I’m not sure. How late are you open?” “Oh sorry, you best call back later and ask Terri.”

Stressor No. 7: Back Orders The shop is advised by its fly supplier that there will be a slight delay in delivery of their spring order. The order booked to arrive in May containing Pale Morning Duns, stoneflies, and damselflies is now expected in October.

The fall delivery of ‘hoppers and streamers will follow shortly in December.

Stressor No. 8: Fly-Tying Magazines Especially when they run a feature cover-story about a hot new fly-tying material that nobody’s ever heard of, and which can’t be found in any of the suppliers’ catalogs.

Stressor No. 9: Fly Tiers Especially the ones who are slightly ticked off to find that the shop doesn’t yet have the hot new fly-tying material they just read about in a magazine.

Stressor No. 10: Customers (Once More With Feeling)

© Illustration Sarah Landström @sarah_landstrom

“Can you suggest a few flies for your local streams?” says once-a-year-stocked-pond-fly fisher.

“Sure, happy to,” replies shop-gal. “There have been great hatches of small blue-winged olive mayflies and tricos the last little while. Here are some flies that have been working well,” she says, showing some #18s and #20s.

“Oh, those are too small. But give me a half dozen of each in size 10.”

“Uh, but sir, you see, the reason these flies are small is because the real bugs are this size and we’re actually trying to imitate the real flies, so if the real flies the fish are eating are small then the imitations should be the same size… but hey, wait! I just remembered we’re also having excellent hatches of size 8 Purple Chernobyl Ants right now too! They’re right over here…”

flyfusionmag.com

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Packing for Steel Luke Saffarek Luke Saffarek lives in northern British Columbia and is an avid steelhead angler. He has flyfished for and guided for many other species, including Tigerfish on the Okavango Delta. Anytime he packs for any trip a fly rod is the first thing in the bag.

Freight Train

Electric Leech

Hook: Size 2 Heavy Salmon Hook Thread: Orange Tail: Purple Saddle Hackle Fibers Body: Orange Floss, Pink Floss, Black Seal Dubbing, Mylar Tinsel Hackle: Purple Saddle Hackle Wing: Natural White Calf Tail, Pearl Crystal Flash (optional)

Shank: 25mm shank Loop Material: Trailer loop material Hook: Size 2-4 Barbless Stinger Thread: Orange Tail: Black Rabbit Strip

Skeena Spey Shank: 25mm shank Loop Material: Your preferred trailer loop material Hook: Size 2-4 Barbless Stinger Thread: Orange Hot Spot: Fl. Fuschia Laser Dub Body: Blue Steelie Ice Dub, Fl. Fuschia Saddle Hackle

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Beaded Leech Body: Kingfisher Blue Rabbit Strip Collar: Fl. Fuschia Rabbit Strip Flash: Electric Blue Flashabou, Fuschia Flasabou

Hook: Size 4 Heavy Salmon Iron Bead or Cone: 5mm Flourescent Orange Thread: Black Wing: Black rabbit strip Collar: Laser dub or similar in dubbing loop

Fritz Mouse Collar: 2 wraps Kingfisher Blue Marabou, 2 Wraps Fl. Fuschia Marabou Feelers: 4 pairs of Fl. Fuschia Ostrich Herl, 4 pairs of Lady Amherst tail pieces Wing: Blue Krinkle Mirror Flash

Hook: Size 2-4 Extra Heavy Thread: Match Body Down-Eye Tail: Orange Rabbit Strip tied in Thread: Match Body upside-down Tail: Orange Rabbit Strip tied Body: Sunrise Yellow in upside-down Gel-Core Fritz Body: Sunrise Yellow Gel-Core Fritz Back: 6mm Foam Back: 6mm Foam: Size 2-4 Extra Heavy Down-Eye

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