Spring 2023 |Volume 20, Issue 2

FAIL is not an Amplitude TROPICAL/Jungle Titan Taper “The Amazon jungle provides some of the very best sight fishing opportunities for top predators, but to close the deal you need to be able to put a big fly in front of them with minimal false casting, so quick rod loading is crucial.

The Amplitude Tropical/Jungle Titan Taper is my choice for sight fishing in the clear waters of the Amazon.”

- Rodrigo Salles, SA Advisor

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Publishing Team Chris Bird Jennifer Bird Managing Editor Bob Covey Editorial Team Derek Bird Gary Bird Group Art Direction Terry Paulhus Office Administrators Kim Carruthers Kaylee Davis Websites Breeze Web

Department Editors Derek Bird Frank Brassard Brian Chan Kastine Coleman Jim McLennan Derek Olthuis Jeff Wagner Contributors Allen Crater Josh Darling Jeremy Davies Jake Dicks Peter James Glenn Dana Lattery Dylan Leeder Jim McLennan Jay Talbot Bo Wentworth

Fly Fusion is published quarterly by Fly Fusion Ltd, a division of Bird Marketing Group Inc. 111, 7 Avenue S, Suite A Cranbrook, BC V1C 2J3 1-888-435-9624 info@flyfusionmag.com flyfusionmag.com The current issue of Fly Fusion can be found across North America in specialty fly shops, sporting goods stores and retail outlets for $8.99. One-year subscription: $28.95. Two-year subscription: $49.95 Three-year subscription: $69.95. Add $12.00 shipping and handling per year for international subscriptions.

Editorial submissions are welcome and should be sent to the address above attention to the Editor. Email queries can also be emailed to editor@flyfusionmag. com. Visit flyfusionmag.com for the full writer and photographer guidelines. Unsolicited submissions will be considered and must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. Fly Fusion assumes no responsibility for the return or loss of solicited and unsolicited material.

All facts, opinions and statements appearing within this publication are those of the writers and are in no way to be construed as statements, positions, or endorsements. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the publisher. Copyright 2023 Fly Fusion Ltd. Printed in Canada.

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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.

© Photo Dylan Leeder

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6

The Soul of Fly Fishing

CONTENTS 10 DON’T MENTION IT Allen Crater

“My buddy was taking me to one of his top-secret fishing spots, a stretch he affectionately terms “The Murder Water.” I’ve never been entirely sure what that means but, coming from a cop, it doesn’t seem like a compliment.”

20 SNAP JUDGEMENT Dylan Leeder

Having grown up in lake-rich Ontario, photographer Dylan Leeder’s view of angling was that it was boring and banal. A decade of being in Canada’s west piqued his interest in outdoor sports, but never did he consider fly fishing to be a way to chase adrenaline. Until he met Paula Shearer.

26 CAN YOU GO HOME AGAIN? Jim McLennan

Fifty years after forming his first fishing memories there, Jim McLennan wondered if his nostalgic recollections of Jasper National Park, in Alberta, would be tarnished by the changes which must have surely transpired there. In the summer of 2022, he returned to find out.

38 FIFTY FLIES TO TRY, PART DEUX Jeremy Davies

Alberta-based fly tyer Jeremy Davis designs patterns that are simple and effective.

While he’s got plenty of tried-and-true nymphs, dries and streamers that catch fish, what’s holding his interest—and the trout’s—this spring are flies which incorporate new, innovative and bright materials.

8 40 46 52

Stream Lines Tight Loops Tight Lines On the Vise Long Lines

56 60 64 66

Wandering Currents Stillwater Secrets Water Marks End of the Line

© Photo Derek Olthuis | On the cover: Josh Darling

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STREAM LINES

The Green Gi and Me

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.

P

eace. Solitude. They often find me when I’m fly fishing. But not always. On rare occasions I leave the river wondering what just happened, like the time an elderly gentleman approached me while I was fishing and asked if I’d be willing to edit his book on overcoming stuttering. He said a lady in his complex just got rich on her crockpot recipe book, and he saw an opportunity to connect with the stuttering community.

Another time I was out on a lake, fishing with my wife and young children. We pulled over to shore to have lunch just as a middle-aged man canoed by us, completely naked.

I’m relived he didn’t stop to ask me to edit his book on canoeing in the buck. Inspired by the weirdness that finds me at times, what follows is a list of my top four fly-fishing head scratchers.

Number four: Shot at Mid Cast While fishing by myself on a remote stream (two hours from any paved road), I heard a gunshot. It sounded like it could be close. Strange… I thought to myself, but I did what any reasonable fly angler would do: I kept fishing.

Then a second or so after another shot rang out, a bullet ricocheted off a rock directly behind me. That momentarily diverted my attention from the trout! I reeled up quickly, crossed the stream to get out of the path of bullets, and stealthily made my way toward the origin of the gunshots. I arrived to find two “good ol’ boys” with high-powered rifles, target shooting against a stand of trees. One of the bullets had “miraculously” made its way through the trees and coincidently hit the rock behind me. I walked up with my fly rod and introduced myself as the guy they almost shot.

They were horrified and apologized profusely.

Number three: The Guy in the Green Gi Though I should rank this one higher, I’m a sucker for

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

rhyming. This was likely my most violent encounter where no actual punches were thrown. After a relatively unsuccessful day on the water fishing minnow patterns for coastal cutthroat, I waded across the river in an attempt to try one more run before packing up. About halfway across the river, I could hear some fussing coming from the bank behind me. I turned and there was a man in a green karate gi, yelling at me. I’m not sure what he was yelling about because I couldn’t hear him over the sound of rushing water, but his body language and his actions assured me he wasn’t asking for directions to the nearest dojo. He’d yell, then pause, then his hands would move in some type of kata formation—which appeared to be threatening based on the screaming and the gesture he made with his hand, inviting me to fight him. Unlike the guys with high-powered rifles, I did not feel safe to approach the guy in the green gi to find out what I was doing to cause him agitation. Some questions are best left unanswered.

Number two: The Karen and the COVID A few months ago, I parked at the end of a rural road, grabbed my gear and walked a couple kilometres of trail along one of my favourite streams. Even though it was not overly cold, a few hours into the day I started to get the chills. Because I could not stop my teeth from chattering, I reeled up and headed to my vehicle. As I approached, I noticed a middleaged woman with glasses and short hair walking my way.

She forcefully asked how fishing was, then she proceeded to say something to the effect of “I’m not sure how you do it where you’re from but out here we don’t park this way.”

Being from 15 minutes down the road, I assumed we parked the same but I decided to let that one go because of my chattering teeth and my non-confrontational personality.

“Ok,” I said. “I can park somewhere else next time.”

As she turned and walked away from me, she began to mutter, “Stupid @#@#$ city people…” I stepped out from

behind my vehicle as I de-wadered and said “M’am. You don’t need to be passive aggressive. I said I could find another place to park.” She picked up on the “passive aggressive” statement and barked “I’ll just be aggressive then” and elevated her verbal assault with a torrent of expletives and profanities salted with a few words such as “parking” and “fishing.” This Karen made it completely clear what she was upset about, but I’m really not sure why it was problematic to park on the side of a deadend-road where dog walkers, hikers, bikers, and anglers commonly park. I guess some questions—even with answers—don’t make sense. This happened to be the same river as the encounter with guy with the green gi. Coincidence? Likely. When I got © Photo Peter James Glenn @peterjamesglenn home, I told my wife about Karen and about how I had to leave the river early because of the chills. waiting to rent a vehicle, when I suddenly realized where She encouraged me to take a COVID test. Positive. Shoot. I recognized Mr. Dennis from. I pulled out my phone and Karened and COVID, all in the same day. At least I caught Googled the man whose hand I shook. I showed his image to some nice trout. my brother. He looked and said, “Hey, that’s the guy you were talking to back there.” Yes, it was the guy I was talking with, and no he didn’t have a son named Charles. I said, “It’s Willie Number one: The Case of Desjardins. The head coach of the Vancouver Canucks.” To Mistaken Identity Unlike the shooters, the Karen and the Guy in the Green my credit, he looked very similar to Charles’ father.

Gi, this one is on me. On a trip back from a fly-fishing trade With all these odd encounters I wonder if the guy in show in Florida, my brother and I got stuck in Calgary the canoe had it right. There’s a lot of weirdness out there, because of a flight cancelation on the last leg of our journey. so if you really want peace and solitude, it might be best to While we were standing amidst a hundred or so other paddle naked. If you came across someone paddling a canoe travellers, trying to figure out what to do, I saw someone in the middle of nowhere and they were in their birthday I recognized. I walked up to him, reached out my hand, suit, you’d likely turn away and pretend they’re not there. and said “Mr. Dennis. How’s your son Charles doing?” He I’m guessing Green Gi and Karen would have left me alone stuck out his hand to shake mine. Then he hesitated and had I not seemed somewhat normal. But maybe I don’t have replied with, “I don’t have a son named Charles.” To which I to be naked to be weird. I’m sure there’s two hunters who responded: “Are you sure?” as though it was more probable tell a story about a guy who approached them with a fly rod, that he had an illegitimate son he didn’t know about than mumbling something about how they almost shot him. I’m me being wrong about whether or not he had a son with sure there’s an NHL coach who got home and asked his wife that name. why someone would walk up to him in an airport and tell “Sorry,” I said. “I must have mistaken you for someone him he has a son named Charles? I guess it’s possible we all else.” He smiled and said, “No problem,” then wished me a have a metaphorical green gi in our closet, begging to be good day. Half an hour or so later, my brother and I were worn on our next wilderness adventure.

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Don’t Mention It Dredging the murder water for invisible threats Allen Crater

© Photo Josh Darling

“ Allen Crater Allen Crater is a husband and father of two adult sons that frequently out fish him. His work has appeared in several publications including Solace, Backcountry Journal, and Strung. He is the host of allenoutside.com, and author of Outside in Shorts.

14

The Soul of Fly Fishing

The first rule of this river is that you don’t talk about this river. At least by name.” That’s how the text read.

«Understood.»

This was starting to feel a little like “Fight Club,” the often-maligned late-90s flick where Edward Norton is beaten into a new, self-reflexive consciousness.

My buddy, Jon Osborn, was taking me to one of his top-secret fishing spots, a stretch he affectionately terms “The Murder Water.” I’ve never been entirely sure what that means but, coming from a cop, it doesn’t seem like a compliment.

Regardless, buddy or not, the message was clear: this is a place very few had been invited to, and I’d best keep it tucked well under my hat or risk losing my invite.

Permanently.

“You’ll want camo. These fish are spooky, and we’ll be right on top of them. Oh, and bring a handsaw. And a dry bag.”

“What the heck am I getting myself into?” I wonder aloud.

We waded this water once last summer with some success, but to get into the bigger fish, he assured me, we needed to float it. In a canoe.

Murder Water in a canoe? Perfect. Just perfect.

I may not have been completely forthright with Ozzy about my abilities in a canoe; the first and last outing dated more than 20 years back and nearly resulted in a swift divorce. “About as useful as snow shovel at a sidewalk cafe in Buenos Aires,” most aptly describes me in a narrow two-seater.

But I wanted the fish, so “fake it ’til you make it” is my mantra for the day. Buddy or not, I am not about to let a little thing like my complete and total inability to manage the required watercraft interfere with an opportunity at the giant trout this water supposedly held.

We pull up to the put in, and Dwayne (name changed to protect his identity) is waiting for us on the tailgate of a red Chevy. Dwayne is a retired local who knows these thorny bends like the back of his age-spotted hands. He offered to help us stage the vehicles.

“How’s it looking?”, Ozzy quizzes. “As tangled and tormented as ever,” comes the blunt reply that does very little to boost my snow-shovel-in-the-sunshine confidence.

“But she’s fishing well.”

A few small caddis flutter clumsily above the water, like overloaded airplanes struggling to clear the runway.

Not bad for a sunny early afternoon, I reckon. Dwayne catches my eye and chuckles. “You can save your energy, son. These fish aren’t interested in little bugs and fancy casts, they’re meat eaters. You’ll do best throwing brown or olive – something with some legs – in a size two; or anything that looks like a big juicy crawfish.”

Noted, Dwayne. Noted and approved.

The canoe, and mountain of gear, is quickly unloaded.

I’m left to sort it while Dwayne and Ozzy head down to spot the truck. Rods and reels, nets and packs, pipes and paddles; coolers and thermoses and an entire milk crate that’s stocked like the top shelf of a Roaring-Twenties speakeasy. It suddenly seems like significantly more than our meagre vessel is meant to manage, but I organize the best I can, line the rods, and slither down to the river’s edge to take a better look. It can’t be that bad, I assure myself.

Ozzy’s back, and we finally shove off. Gratefully, I’m in the bow, sitting on a freshly-rebuilt seat and working to find my balance while casting from a sitting position in the overloaded banana boat. Less than a minute in, we spot a riser and decide to post up, despite the formidable float still in front of us. The feeder isn’t super consistent, but consistent enough, so we watch and wait as the river slides past as tranquil as a summer moonrise. The mellowness of the moment is quickly interrupted by an ear-piercing CRACK! and I find myself sitting in the bottom of the canoe, surrounded by the splinters of the aforementioned new seat.

This is definitely not the start I envisioned.

I apologize, attempt to pull myself up, and nearly capsize the canoe in the process. “Whoa,” Jon cautions, “Easy.”

We empty the milk-crate contents onto the floor, flip it over, reposition it under the fractured remnants of the shattered seat, and call it good.

There’s a learning curve to this type of fishing. The shots must be fast and the body movements subtle, controlling our drift speed the best we can, while dodging trees and busting through deadfalls with a head-down, hang-on mentality.

My heart is pounding, this is it, we’re going over. I drop to my knees and grab the gunwales as we slam into the hidden obstruction. The boat lunges hard to port, hangs up, and spins in the awkward current. Miraculously, we are still upright. There’s momentary chaos before we realize we are still dry and in the boat versus under it.

But we are truly and hopelessly stuck. And every movement is precarious. We try to rock off the snag, but it won’t let go, and we nearly tip. We try shoving off with the paddles but that doesn’t work either. And it’s too deep to jump in; well over both of our heads. “You brought that handsaw, right?” Jon asks. Ah, the handsaw. It’s tucked tightly into the dry bag. I fetch it, and he goes to work on the branch. “Hang on,” he warns, “this dismount might get sketchy.” The boat shifts as the wooden fist slowly releases its grip. Then SNAP! we are off. Rocking violently, we manage to stay upright and take the wood pile backwards and then sideways before pushing off to safety.

And that is when we decide to take a riverside break.

Pulling over to a small knob on the bank, we mix cocktails, puff pipes, demolish smoked turkey from this season’s tom, and slowly unwind ourselves from the near miss.

© Photo Josh Darling

The most dangerous of obstacles, Ozzy warns, are the ones we can’t see: Slanted branches hidden just below the stained surface that threaten to throw the canoe catawampus. Those, he promises, will flip us, and goes on to share a story of one such instance waterfowl hunting with his buddy, Steener, that deftly deposited the contents of the boat into the deep and frigid fall water. All of the contents. The worst of the obstructions, when the entire waterway is blocked, require portages through thick, prickly vegetation; small, tightly bunched saplings; muddy, boot-sucking bogs; and old, fallen conifers that crisscross the way. There’s no chance of getting anything other than a canoe down this water. And it’s a challenge, even for Ozzy, who’s as comfortable in the battle-scarred Mad River Tahoe that he’s owned since graduation as the average person is on a leisurely stroll through the neighbourhood park.

But I’m finally getting a little bolder on the new perch, finding a rhythm with each cast that doesn’t portend the overt risk of a cold swim.

I launch a leggy brown streamer near a tangled log jam and the line tightens after a single strip. We’re finally into our first fish, a plump and feisty low-teener with a serious Napoleon complex. Not the specimen we came for, but an exciting warm up.

I release the trout and a tremor of dread ripples through my body; angling protocol dictates it’s my turn in the back.

It’s not that I don’t want to take my turn, or that I don’t want Jon to get into a fish, it’s that I’m just not sure I’m willing to die for the cause. That, and the fact that my canoe-confidence ruse is now going to be thrust directly into the blinding spotlight of truth.

I get ready to grab the paddle, but Jon waves me off.

Not yet. “I want you to get into one of the big boys.” I’m grateful, as much for the chance to keep fishing as for the delayed embarrassment that is sure to accompany my soon-to-be-obvious deception.

We paddle on, moving a few fish and fighting through the jumbles and portages. We’re heading into a sharp bend with another deep pool in front of a pile of trees and branches that looks like textbook trout territory, when Ozzy starts shouting: “Hang on and get low, we’re about to hit that submerged branch hot and at a bad angle!”

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© Photo Josh Darling

There are even more bugs now, caddis and a few Hendricksons. We helplessly watch fish rise in impossibleto-reach locations as the drinks are emptied and the virtues of the folding saw boldly extolled.

Warmed by the whiskey and calmed by the quick break, we press on. Jon paddling while I flip streamers into promising pockets, eye-catching cut banks, and the vast array of downed timber that provides perfect trout cover.

I hit the bank off the starboard side and see a flash. A big flash.

I watch my streamer disappear and get a full broadside glimpse of gold the size of a Wonderbread loaf.

“Fish, fish fish!” I’m screaming as he peels line like a locomotive tied to paracord.

Jon scrambles for the net in the jumble of gear lining the floor and momentarily stops steering. We are careening into a giant sweeper on the right. “Hang on,” he shouts – as if I have a choice.

He drops the net and digs the paddle hard on the left, straightening us through the tangle of trees. I take a branch to the face and rake the rod through, but somehow remain

16

The Soul of Fly Fishing

hooked up to the angry engine that’s gaining speed on the tracks. He’s running again, but we’ve made it through the pinch and find ourselves in a slightly slower, wider stretch of water. Jon maneuvers us toward shore while I fight to gain control of the runaway railcars.

“Oh gosh,” he exclaims as I start to bring him closer.

“Oh gosh!”

“Get his head up.”

I finally do, and Ozzy makes the heavy scoop.

High fives.

“Dude!” I can’t control my nerves or the exclamations pouring out of my mouth like heavy rain out of an overwhelmed downspout. I. Am. Rattled. Bad. I momentarily gather myself and heft the heavy, coloured-up brown out of the net. He’s nearly two feet of deep golden yellow with bright red spots, an angry looking kype jaw, and a sagging belly that looks like he hasn’t missed a meal in a decade.

Ozzy snaps a few pictures, and we send him back to the river.

“That is what we came for,” he says, more matter-offactly than seems appropriate in the aftermath. As if this was exactly what he expected.

It certainly wasn’t what I expected. I rifle through the gear, locate my flask, and take a long warm pull. Ozzy raises his and we “cheers” the moment. It doesn’t stop the shakes.

It would be impossible for this night to get any better, at least for me, but Jon has been sequestered in the back of the boat the entire float. The situation dictates that it’s well past time to come clean(ish) about my canoeing acumen.

We trade spots and I warn Ozzy that this river is a little above my paygrade and that I’ve never actually had an angler up front. “So,” I say, “my first goal is to not get us killed, and my second goal is to maybe get you a chance or two at fish – assuming that doesn’t conflict with goal one.”

He nods his approval.

We shove off and I’m as rough as tree bark. The water is quick and bendy and loaded with debris – the visible and the dreaded invisible. The term “Murder Water” is making a lot more sense now. It doesn’t take an overlyactive imagination to conjure up some poor gas station attendant floating face down in one of the black backwater bayous we’ve passed.

Mid-send on the full-send. Anita Coulten of Orvis-Endorsed Cross Currents Guide Service reaching for it.

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But Ozzy is good with the instructions, and I start to get the hang of it, sort of, though speed control in the canoe is much different than in the drift boats and rafts I am accustomed to. We clip past some prime spots without so much as a cast. If my shots needed to be quick, his need to be lightning fast.

I work to unravel the back-paddle technique and finally slow us, a little, and by some miracle Jon’s actually into a fish. I can’t believe it! But I’m still moving too quick, and he loses him. Damn it! Two bends later and he’s into another one, but the water is pushing into a narrow, tree-tangled chute about half as wide as our canoe. It’s the only way and I have one shot at hitting it in the fast current. “Hang on,” I yell, and we rip through. The rod gets tangled in the branches and the line wraps around an overhanging limb that pulls the fish up and out of the water, releases him mid-air, and sends him back to his home with one hell of a story to tell his buddies.

I’m oh-for-two as guide and feel horrible; I can’t even control the damn boat enough to let him land the fish he keeps hooking.

But Jon just laughs, “Don’t worry about it, dude, our night has already been made with that fish you caught.

This is all just a bonus.” It’s generous but does little to ease my anguish.

And then we round a bend with a little slack water. There’s a deep, nearly-black pool that extends across the entire river, and a trout-hotel-looking pile of debris just off the inside seam. I manage to slow us just enough for a shot. I’m holding my breath. This might be the chance. The moment is completely still and filled with anticipation.

A precise roll cast. The streamer lands with a satisfying plop right along the cover. Strip, strip, tight. The seven weight folds in two, pulsing with an electric current.

“Holy heck!” I scream, while furiously trying to back paddle. “Good fish,” Jon manages to squeak out, as the rod continues to throb uncontrollably.

She’s diving deep and heading for cover. Ozzy manages to keep her out, but she’s still holding in the dark water, out of sight. The see-saw battle continues, and I finally see a flash. It’s a really good fish. I backpaddle as

18

The Soul of Fly Fishing

hard as I can, and Oz finally makes a little headway with the reel. She’s coming up. I manage to bring us back to what might literally be the only dock section in the entire river, hold on with one hand, and play net man with the other. Jon finally battles her close enough and I make good with the landing.

We both exhale, high five, and then whoop it up like we just won game seven of the World Series. We lift her out of the net for a few pictures – a beautiful light-gold female with heavy spots, and deep blue cheeks pushing past the 22-inch mark. I truly can’t believe our luck.

One fish like this makes a season, and we’ve managed to land two in a single night! Flasks are once again uncapped, and toasts are made. To the river, to the fish, and to the friendship.

But the sun is starting to dip low behind the trees and based on the GPS we still have some serious distance to cover before the takeout. So, much to my relief, we switch spots again and while I still make a few casts, managing to land one more respectable fish, we are pushing through with nightfall hot on our heels.

As dusk sets in, the Murder Water looks more and more murderous. We fight through another series of downed trees, a couple backbreaking portages, and a tormenting cloud of mosquitos that has emerged, ravenous.

We finally make it to the big hill in complete darkness and manage to drag the canoe up the steep bank. The boat bottom is a soaking pile of flotsam – standing water, bags, bottles, gear, flies, and assorted tree parts. We carefully tip the water out and unload by headlamp. My face and neck are scratched and bug-bitten, my body aches, my hands are bleeding, and I have branches down the back of my jacket, in my waders, and in the laces of my boots.

I’m spent.

The truck finally loaded, and canoe secured, we lean exhausted against the cab and take a pipe.

I fumble for the right words. “Hey, man, thanks for today. What an adventure and what a couple of fish. I really appreciate you showing me this place.”

He takes a slow drag and nods, aromatic smoke reflecting in the white beam of the headlamp.

“Don’t mention it,” he grins.

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Snap Judgement Flipping the script on a passive pastime Dylan Leeder Dylan is a photographer based in Calgary, Alberta.

He is a big fan of being outside and a strong advocate for the protection of our planet.

So much so that he created the environmental media project goodplanetproject.com.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

T

his was my first time fly fishing.

Having grown up on the St. Lawrence River and amongst the lakes of Ontario, I have spent plenty of time on the water with my father. However, before this day, I knew fishing as a somewhat plodding pastime. I had never appreciated the fast-pace, environmental challenges and exhilaration that fishing with flies and elegant casts can bring.

My view of fishing was shaped by the way my father taught me: spin fishing, from a small boat or from the shore. It was typically pretty boring, with a lot of standing around and waiting. Granted I was young, overflowing with energy and discovering skateboarding, so maybe it just wasn’t the right time to be introduced to the calming, peaceful benefits of fishing. I had adrenaline to chase.

A decade later, I have moved on from skateboarding and become passionate about any sport or activity that gets me outside. I surf the rivers of Alberta’s Kananaskis Country, run the trails of the Rocky Mountains, and spend my summers anticipating the next cold beer cracked in some location deep in the forest (some might also consider this a sport). I have become a selfproclaimed “outdoor enthusiast” and my life goals are increasingly-focused on how I can spend more and more time outside.

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This focus has also influenced into my professional life. I spent my early 20s in downtown Toronto, trying to become a commercial photographer in the hopes of photographing celebrities and big advertising campaigns. Now, my career has pivoted towards getting outdoors.

I get more excited to photograph trail runners and surfers than I do fashion models, and I much prefer a long, hard day lugging gear around outside than one spent in the comfortable studio, surrounded by product and production.

So I couldn’t have been happier, then, when at 6 a.m. on a cold fall morning, I found myself following a truck full of strangers and fishing gear to an unknown location deep in the mountains.

I’d get to spend another full day of work outside while exploring a sport I had been vaguely introduced to years ago, and since have been increasingly intrigued by.

From consuming a lot of outdoor media, I’ve noticed that a lot of brands and athletes I respect seem to gravitate towards fly fishing.

Brands like Patagonia advertise surfing gear alongside fly fishing gear, and show professional skiers spending summers on the rivers. It was a relationship I had difficulty understanding from my time spent fishing years ago; how are these adrenaline-driven athletes so captivated by the slower pace that fishing offers? I quickly got my answer, and was humbled by how wrong I was.

Let me state it clearly: fly fishing is not boring.

After our full day, my legs burned from the kilometres spent walking up and down river, through bush, and to and from the trucks. When the anglers were not catching fish, there was a constant mix of playful laughter with determined dialogue about their next locations, tried and tested techniques, and strategies. There was a constant buzz, with little downtime, highlighted by a peak of excitement every time time someone proclaimed “fish on!”

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

A week previous, after a successful test shoot, I had the honour of receiving a note from Bow River-based angler and guide, Paula Shearer. She and her two long-time fly fishing friends, Justin and Scott, were happy to help to satisfy my newfound curiosity for the sport and help me add to my image portfolio. I eagerly accepted. Being a “fly” on the wall while following the trio around, I was in constant admiration of their depth of knowledge—not just of the sport, but their hostenvironment, too. I could write an entire article about Paula’s ability to control her line inches from my camera, or my first experience hearing the captivating, laser-like sounds of a perfectly cast fly line, but their impressive technical abilities were understood once I learned of their extensive time spent on the water. What fascinated me about their abilities is the same reason I consider hunters some of the most skilled outdoor athletes out there: they are so knowledgeable about their surroundings. Their connection with the rivers and the landscape is ultimately what helps them connect to fish.

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During our drive back in the dark, having been out from sunrise to sunset, I laughed at the way perspectives change. Just the night before, although excited to photograph a highlyrespected athlete like Paula, I had imagined the day as a much slower-paced, landscape-focused shoot, with anglers accenting the view. I was so, fortunately, wrong.

Whether for work or leisure, my motivations for getting outside have changed. No longer am I chasing adrenaline; I’m seeking the whole spectrum of emotions and experiences that come with being outside. With this, my view of fishing has also changed.

Arriving home with the satisfaction of a tiring day on the river, I reflected on the increased pace and pressure of a working life, part of me appreciating the relaxing qualities my dad would have found fishing from a boat. Now, I look forward to putting my camera down and spending a day fly fishing—from a boat or otherwise—like my father once tried to show me.

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24

The Soul of Fly Fishing

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Can You Go Home Again?

Birth of an obsession: Part two Jim McLennan

F

ifty years is a long time, but that’s how long it had been since I’d cast a fly on the waters of Jasper National Park. These were the places I began fly fishing, the places Lynda first saw fly fishing, and the places that gave fly fishing a permanent residency in my thoughts, whether I was doing it or not.

For many years I’d wanted to return to these waters, yet I hadn’t, I was afraid my memories would be tarnished by the changes that must have surely come to those sacred places. But in the summer of 2022 I overcame my reluctance, and Lynda and I returned to Jasper to find out.

Jasper is a national park in the Alberta Rockies, immediately north of its more famous sister, Banff. The townsite has the usual amenities of a modern, accessible mountain park, yet a number of locals and visitors believe that it’s not quite as “commercialized” or highly developed as its neighbour to the south, and remains more the “way it was when we were kids.” Still, I was skeptical, for when I consider a trip to the town of Banff these days my first reaction is, “Will I even find a place to park the car?”

The town of Jasper appears much the way it was in the ‘60s and ‘70s, but with more hotels, B & Bs, and trendy

restaurants. A layer of more recent development encircles most of the old town, but the Canadian National railroad tracks and the Athabasca River on one side, and steep hills on the other help limit future expansion, at least in those directions. Some of the landmarks I recall are still there: the circular drug store, the elegant lobby of the Athabasca Hotel with staring elk and sheep heads, fancy chandeliers and charming furniture that seem cast from Hollywood’s Golden Era, and the automated cash machine in the middle of the room that doesn’t.

Standing watch over the town of Jasper and the park’s three-valley confluence is Pyramid Mountain, which for me symbolizes the heart of my experience there. This blue and purple chunk of pre-cambrian gritstone dominates the skyline north of town, a series of lesser peaks inclining toward the highest one, as if practicing for the climax, the main peak that lost 30 feet of its summit to a microwave tower in 1963. The tower is now gone, decommissioned in 2004.

On our 2022 Nostalgia Tour we roamed around town and had a look at the places we used to frequent. The campground my parents and I occupied for several weeks each summer has expanded, massively, of course, and the

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.

All photos Bob Covey

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arrival of mountain pine beetle in the early 2000s required culling of many trees, leaving it familiar in name only.

Of course we visited some of the favourite places I used to fish. One of these is a hike-in lake on a timbered bench, west of town. The trail and the lake remain charming and familiar, but the rainbow trout are long gone.

We made another hike into a trail system well-known for it’s hiking appeal: Valley of the Five Lakes. It’s a pretty name for a pretty chain of small lakes that I used to fish.

The trail-head then was a sign and a wide spot on the highway; now there’s a dedicated parking lot, which this day had about 50 vehicles, mostly day hikers, dog walkers and families in questionable footwear. There are rowboats available for use at a number of Jasper’s hike-in lakes and to use them you go to a tackle store in town and exchange some money for a key to unlock a boat at the lake. Oars are not left at the lake and must be carried in. Enter Bob Covey, a fly-fishing friend and fellow word-geek who happens to live in Jasper. It’s important to have a companion who’s young, fit, knowledgeable and generous with his time. He carried the oars.

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We went to the fifth lake in the chain and Bob rowed us as we cast small nymphs and retrieved them back to the boat. When we neared the small island at the far end that marks the spot where, 50 years ago, I caught the biggest brook trout of my life, Lynda hooked a fish. It was a brook trout.

In the mid-1970s Parks Canada made the controversial decision to stop stocking trout, so the only lakes that have trout today are those with native trout (not many examples); those with tributaries flowing in or out; or those with brook trout. Brook trout, which are native to eastern North America, are considered an invasive species in the west.

In places where they share the water, they out-compete and displace native rainbow, cutthroat and bull trout. In many of these mountain lakes, however, there are no native fish to displace, and the brookies hold on because in the right circumstances they can reproduce in still water. So the brook trout are still here: for now at least: taking care of themselves and bothering no-one, native fish or human.

There’s a twisted irony to the fact that the only fish that make these lakes fishable are fish that aren’t supposed to

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

be there. Though the “natives or nothing” movement has not targeted these fish yet, my simple mind wonders if it’s coming. Aren’t harmless fish better than no fish?

We visited these places in June and had anticipated a hike to another lake that was my favourite of the bunch.

But spring runoff had flooded the trail and it was closed.

So we returned in August. The trail was open, and once again Bob lugged in the oars, along with his float tube, cameras, and lunch, snacks and water for the three of us. I pitched in eagerly and carried a fly rod and a life jacket. We were joined by Bob’s friend from Jasper, Taylor Blackstock.

The first glimpse of my favourite lake comes as you approach its narrow south end and its appearance was exactly as I recalled. The lake is a couple of kilometres long, mostly shallow and presided over by a particularly dramatic inclination of the Queen Elizabeth Ranges. Clouds moved in and out all day, and the light was changing such that every time I looked up from the water, something about the picture was different—blue sky peeking through clouds, green slopes lighting up, showers threatening.

Something else that was different was the fact that I looked

up more frequently than I did 50 years ago. Then, though I appreciated the aesthetic perfection of the place and thought the lake’s beauty was perfectly okay, I was most interested in the fish.

I rowed along a favourite shoreline where fallen spruce trees lie in the water, while Lynda gathered photographs.

I cast to the woody debris and retrieved small nymphs the way I used to, quite sure I was remembering specific fish from specific fallen trees. No takers. Plan B was to row down the lake to a place where there was a small “hole” in the lake bottom—a deeper spot supposedly created by beavers, where I had also caught good fish. I thought I knew where it was, but I couldn’t find it, and by this time Bob and Taylor had settled more or less in the middle of the lake, close enough to Lynda and I that we couldn’t miss the fact that they were catching fish…with slightly annoying regularity.

Once we had horned in on them as much as we thought acceptable, we saw some pale mayflies on the water in numbers, and cruising brook trout eating them.

I didn’t remember seeing these flies in the past and

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they seemed to defy the common belief that the only mayflies important to lake fish are Callibaetis, which these definitely were not. I tried to spot the cruising fish before they rose, but their mottled olive backs and the mottled olive vegetation on the bottom were too close a match.

Instead, it was a matter of seeing a rise, then casting to one side or the other of it, guessing at the direction the fish had gone after taking the fly. The one place a cruising fish will not be is in exactly the same place it rose last.

The fish were mostly smallish, but a couple topped out at around 15 inches, which in brook trout terms on a small mountain lake is very good.

I missed a number of strikes because I wasn’t watching my fly, happily distracted by the sky, the mountains, the far end of the lake, the loon, the kingfisher and a dark moving object on the far shore that was either a grizzly or a moose.

I didn’t mind missing some fish because it seemed that this day I was there on a higher calling. I thought briefly, and with pleasure, about the fact that I was catching direct descendants of the fish I had caught in my teenage years.

How many generations of brook trout ago was that? And

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

I realized with even greater pleasure that I had returned to this place and found it much as I remembered it to be.

I had come back for sentimental reasons, thinking this might be my last time. Now I’m not so sure.

But why had this carried such importance to me? Is it because the passions that seize us lead to things beyond themselves, providing the incentive to get on the trail to something bigger? Fly fishing has led me to cherish and, in a small way, understand the ecosystems where it takes place. Writing about fly fishing has taught me to dig deeper, to see more clearly, to understand more fully what makes these places, and indeed myself, tick.

In a speech he delivered at The American Museum of American Fly Fishing in 2005, Ernest Schwiebert, one of our sport’s giants, described his first encounter with fly fishing as a young boy in Michigan. He concluded with these words: “People often ask why I fish, and after 70odd years, I am beginning to understand. I fish because of Beauty.” After 50-odd years I believe I do too.

Can you go home again? I think the answer is Yes, sometimes you can.

Go where the fish are.

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Fifty Flies to Try Before You Die: Part Two Innovative yet simple nymphs, dries and streamers to help you hook up Jeremy Davies

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

© Photo Nathaniel Wilder

I

spend much of my time on the water between May and August, thus many of the flies that I create are designed for success during this time period. I have plenty of patterns that I have fished successfully for many years, but I am always looking for new materials and techniques to improve my arsenal. I hope you will be interested in some of the new materials that I have incorporated into some of my new patterns, including the somewhat hard to find rainbow bead. Below are 25 patterns that I have been using in very recent years.

Spring and summer are such an exciting and diverse time to wet a line. There are opportunities to fish nearly every fly in your box. It is also a great time to experiment with new materials for creating cutting-edge patterns.

This past winter I took advantage of many new materials, including hooks and beads, and I found effective ways to combine them. I have always been amazed by what attracts trout as I traditionally thought natural colours such as olive, brown, white or black worked best, as these were what trout are used to seeing. Today, however, I am finding that bright orange, blue, purple or rainbow can be very effective in the right situations. Now, more than ever, I am pouring through company catalogues looking for new materials that trout haven’t seen before. This is key to designing flies, in my view: to be on the cutting edge. Not only does it keep fish guessing, but coming up with new, innovative patterns keeps my creative juices flowing and gets me excited to experiment on the water.

Nymphs Several of the nymphs below are recent additions. Even in a short time, these flies have already caught some decent trout— both as part of a nymph rig and tied in tungsten, as a dropper.

A partial theme in many of my recent nymph creations has been mixing things up by using wildly coloured beads, bright bodies and wings. In the fall, I tend to create stealthy flies but in higher, dirtier water I like to try pink, chartreuse and even fluorescent fire-orange.

Alive Worm (Improved)

An extremely juicy looking worm with a marabou tail that comes to life in the water.

Hook: Scud sz 6-12 Thread: Uni-Thread red 8/0 Bead: Red Body: Red D rib Tail: Red Marabou in back, red chenille in front (lighter to taper)

Pink Lady Weevil

I tend to try this nymph when other flies are not working. It really stands out and has produced a few productive days.

Hook: Scud sz 10-18 Thread: Uni-Thread Black 8/0 Bead: Black Nickel Body: Ice dubbing Pink Thorax: Ice dubbing purple Wingcase/Shellback: Uni-Mylar Pearl Legs: Grey goose biots Tail: Female Ringneck pheasant fibers Rib: Purple wire

Ice Weevil

A great searching pattern for early summer when the water is a bit murky.

Black Widow Weevil

A very popular weevil variation that mimics any dark nymph or insect that trout may come across. I have had success in lakes and rivers and I particularly like using it for Arctic Grayling both on northern streams and local stocked ponds..

Hook: Scud sz 10-18 Thread: Uni-Thread Olive or Black 8/0 Bead: Black or black nickel Body: Arizona dubbing black peacock Thorax: Red/black dubbing Wingcase/Shellback: Uni-Mylar Pearl Legs: Black goose biots Tail: Black schlappen fibers Rib: Red wire

Hook: Scud sz 10-18 Thread: Uni-Thread Black 8/0 Bead: Gold or copper Body: Ice dubbing caddis green Thorax: Ice dubbing UV Brown Wingcase/Shellback: Uni-Mylar Pearl Legs: Brown goose biots Tail: Female Ringneck pheasant fibers Rib: Gold wire

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Coffee PT

A brand new variation of the pheasant tail that is a very effective imitation of mayfly nymphs in both spring and summer.

Neo Twenty Incher

I have had awesome results with this generic stonefly pattern from April through July, when fished under an indicator on medium and larger rivers. When tying, make sure that it is properly weighted as it’s best fished along the stream bottom. I recommend that you tie several spares because you are likely to lose a few to snags, but as the name hints, for me, it’s worth it.

Hook: 3x long nymph hook sz 4-12 Thread: Uni-thread 8/0 black or olive Bead: Black or Black Nickel Body: Arizona Dubbing Natural Peacock Thorax: Simi Seal Dubbing golden stone Wingcase: Thinskin Mottled Oak Legs: Female Ringneck Pheasant, brown rubber legs Rib: Gold wire Tail: Brown goose biots

Hook: 1x long nymph hook sz 10-18 Thread: Uni-thread 8/0 black or red Bead: Copper Body: Ice dubbing rust Thorax: Dark Rainbow scud dubbing Wingcase: Pheasant wing Rib: Red wire Tail: Female ringneck pheasant

Rainbow Sow Bug

I was into fish with this pattern in a few rivers in the U.S. I doubt the fish knew they were south of the 49th parallel; it will most likely work well in Canada, too.

Hook: Scud hook sz 12-18 Thread: Uni-thread 8/0 Tan Bead: Rainbow brass or tungsten Body: Light Rainbow scud dubbing Shellback: Uni-Mylar Pearl Rib: Red wire

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Evil Weevil

I tend to fish this stone when the water is on the murky side from rain or at the end of runoff. Like the Neo Twenty Incher it must be well-weighted for best results.

Hook: 3x long nymph hook sz 4-12 Thread: Uni-thread 8/0 black or olive Bead: Gold Body: Arizona Dubbing golden stone Thorax: Simi Seal Dubbing golden stone Wingcase: Prismatic Pliable Sheetback Wings: White goose biots Legs: Female Ringneck Pheasant, brown rubber legs Rib: Gold wire Tail: Brown goose biots

Glass Slipper Midge (Red)

Wagler’s Water Boatman

Hook: Scud sz 14-16 Thread: Uni-Thread Red 8/0 Bead: Red Glass Body: Red thread/clear D-rib Thorax: Ice dubbing UV red Gill: White Antron

Hook: 1x long nymph hook sz 10-16 Thread: Uni-thread 8/0 color to match Bead: glass Body: Ice dubbing color to match Shellback: Swiss straw Legs: Uni-Flexx color to matchRib: Black thread Tail: Olive antron yarn

A great new lake midge pattern that is best fished in tandem with a heavier pattern, such as a leech. Also works well in rivers behind a heavy large nymph or worm.

An extremely popular lake pattern for both spring and late summer. Tied in several colours, this is a very light fly which is fished just under the surface.

Glass Slipper Midge (Olive)

A great colour alternative that might even out fish red from time to time.

Hook: Scud sz 14-16 Thread: Uni-Thread Olive8/0 Bead: Green or Olive Glass Body: Olive thread/clear D-rib Thorax: Ice dubbing UV Olive Gill: White Antron

Rainbow Hares Ear

A wild and more colourful version of one of the world’s most popular searching nymphs. I had some awesome hookups with this fly tied on a tungsten bead as a dropper.

Hook: 1x long nymph hook sz 10-16 Thread: Uni-thread 8/0 Tan Bead: Rainbow brass or tungsten Body: Light Rainbow scud dubbing Thorax: Dark Rainbow scud dubbing Wingcase: Pheasant wing Rib: Red wire Tail: Female ringneck pheasant

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Dry Flies My mission for creating dry flies recently has been to make intelligent yet simple patterns.

The “dot” patterns below exemplify this; their tiny hooks have great hooking power while mimicking tiny insects. I don’t even use the entire hook shank, thus a sz 16 light wire scud hook can produce a fly as small as a sz 20 on a standard dry fly hook, but with far more hooking power. In the past, I have raved about the Fat Albert and how great it floats; my new Swarm Humpy and Beetle patterns are a cross between the Fat Albert and Humpy.

The combination has proved magical as they are easier to tie, have a better profile and float slightly better.

The Stalker

A buoyant and visible attractor that mimics hoppers, salmon flies and adult flies very well on medium to large streams.

Hook: 3x long dry flyhook sz 6-12 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Olive Body: Antron yarn yellow or chartreuse Thorax: Olive antron dubbin Eyes: Plastic black eyes Wing: Elk or deer hair Overwing: Orange foam Rib: fine gold wire or black thread Legs: Yellow or Chartreuse rubber legs Tail: Red evasote foam

PMD/ Caddis Thorax

An extremely versatile summer dry that mimics both a PMD mayfly and an adult caddis.

Hook: Light wire scud hook Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Tan or Olive Body : Olive dry fly dubbing Wing: Elk hair Hackle: Grizzly or brown Tail: Olive antron yarn Rib: Black thread

Swarm Beetle

A beautiful high-floating beetle imitation that works very well in mid-to-late summer.

Swarm Humpy

One of the best attractor dries that I have ever tied, and not that difficult to re-create. This fly absolutely crushed some of my favourite cutthroat streams this past summer.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Hook: 3x long dry flyhook sz 6-12 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Body: Antron yarn Hump: Two layers of foam Wing: White antron yarn Indicator: Bright colored antron yarn Hackle: Grizzly Legs: Black or brown rubber legs

Hook: 3x long dry fly hook sz 10-14 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 black Body: Uni-Mylar peacock Hump: Loco foam Emerald Wing: Fl Orange antron yarn Hackle: Black Legs: Black rubber legs

Jeremy’s Floating Nymph

Crowsnest Trude

An excellent pattern when trout are feeding on insects in the surface film.

Hook: Standard dry fly hook sz 10-20 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Tan or Olive Body : Olive dry fly dubbing Thorax: Arizona dubbing Natural Peacock Tail: Olive antron yarn Rib: Black thread

Black Dot

A very simple and effective pattern for mimicking midges and tricos.

Hook: Light wire scud hook sz 14-22 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Black Body : Black dry fly dubbing Wing: White Antron Hackle: Black Tail: Black antron yarn

A very visible and buoyant small attractor dry that I use on small to medium streams which contain cutthroat and rainbows.

Hook: Standard dry flyhook sz 10-14 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Olive Body: Ice Dubbing Caddis Green Hump: Tan Foam Wing: Tan antron yarn Indicator: Orange foam Hackle: Grizzly or brown Tail: Elk or deer hair

Henneberry Hopper

The most realistic—and unsinkable—hopper pattern that I have ever used.

Hook: 3x long dry flyhook sz 6 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Body: MFC Hopper body Wing: White antron yarn Indicator: Bright colored antron yarn or foam Legs: Black or brown rubber legs

BWO Dot

Extremely simple and effective imitation that improves hooking power on a scud hook.

Hook: Light wire scud hook sz 14-20 Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Olive Body : Olive dry fly dubbing Wing: Dun Hackle Hackle: Medium Dun Tail: Olive antron yarn

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Streamers Streamers can be effective any time of year, but late spring into early summer is probably my favorite time of year to fish them in my favorite small to medium sized streams. I like this time of year for streamer fishing because the water is often stained or a little dirty and a pattern with a good silhouette and a bit of flash attracts attention.

Simi Seal Rust

Extremely effective and easy to tie, another great colour option that works well in lakes and rivers. I tend to fish it in smaller sizes than the black or olive colours.

Hook: 3x long streamer hook sz 8-12, lead Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 Red or black Bead: Copper or red Body: Rusty brown Simi Seal dubbing Tail: Rusty brown marabou, krystal flash

Evil Weevil Leech

This new streamer is a rare beast: it is two toned and has great contrast, a great combination for attracting trout.

Hook: 3x long streamer hook sz 6-12, lead Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 black or olive Bead: Gold or Copper Body: Arizona Dubbing Light Olive Thorax: Simi Seal Peacock Tail: Olive Marabou with Krystal Flash Legs: Brown goose biots or rubber legs

Peacock Bugger Jeremy’s Collared Bugger

The antron collar on this streamer helps it move water, which helps it be seen by trout in fast moving rivers. I tie this in several colours including black, olive, purple, tan and white.

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

Hook: 3x long streamer hook sz 2-10, lead Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 olive Head: Nickel or Black Nickel cone Body: Olive Chenille Hackle: Olive, grizzly or Black Tail: Olive Marabou with Krystal Flash Collar: Olive antron Rib: Gold or copper wire

A very popular bugger variation that is extremely effective fished under an indicator in the spring and early-to-mid summer. I tie more of this streamer than all other streamers combined.

Hook: 3x long streamer hook sz 6-12, lead Thread: Uni-Thread 8/0 olive or black Bead: Black Nickel Body: Arizona Dubbing Natural Peacock or peacock herl Hackle: Brown Tail: Black Marabou with Krystal Flash Collar: Olive antron Rib: Gold or copper wire

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TIGHT LOOPS, TIGHT LINES

Letting Go On salmon, s’mores and the spreading of wings

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.

All photos Jake Dicks

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

W

e have been fortunate in this beautiful life to have friends that share our passion for fly fishing.

With our short fishing season and busy work lives, meeting up for an adventure isn’t always the easiest thing to do. Yet, each spring, we find ourselves standing in our home waters of the upper Humber River in Newfoundland & Labrador with our friend Jeremy Charles and his son Hank. With a few promises of s’mores, campfires and a

couple days out of school my three kids will happily join us—immediately making our quiet fishing party of two jump to eight, counting our videographer, Jake. Which is fine. On this visit we’re filming, and so we know, if anything, that many friends and family will mean even without fish, it’ll be entertaining.

I’m not the best planner. I empty the contents of my fridge into the yeti cooler and grab every piece of camping and fishing gear I own, throwing it all into the back of the car. It’s a drive-in campsite, so there’s no need to leave

things behind. With the idea of having everyone on the water at the same time, it will be tough to share some equipment and now I realize I’m a pair of boots short. I’ll need to make a quick trip to the fly shop before leaving town. In my mind I justify the purchase by knowing I have a summer’s worth of clients who will arrive, without equipment. Surely one of them will need these exact boots.

I’m just being prepared for the upcoming guiding season.

We pile the kids, and the dog, into the car. A doublecheck to make sure everyone has their fishing license, and we set off on the highway. One short hour later, we roll into the campsite. It’s unseasonably warm, and the black flies are out of control. Bug jackets are donned and we begin setting up tents. It’s 30 degrees Celsius in the campground and the thought of putting on waders right now is less than appealing. But with the snow runoff the water will be cold.

We quickly suit up and make our way towards the river, collecting Hank and leaving Jeremy to set up his makeshift kitchen in peace.

We breathe a sigh of relief as we step into the river.

The strong, cold water rushes over our legs, bare inside the waders. Many years, the month of June is met with icy rain. For the kids’ experience bright sun is welcome, but for the health of the rivers I know the wet is preferable.

The falls are roaring today and a push of water knocks me slightly off-balance. I look around at the four children that raced me to the river’s edge and am met with a wave of panic. Can I keep them all safe? Perhaps I didn’t think this far ahead. My heart is suddenly pounding. But then I remember: they are no longer young; this is not their first time on the water. I compose myself, remembering the camera is rolling. I tell them to trust themselves. I tell them to call for help if needed. Have I just pushed my little birds out of the nest?

Certainly they’re taking to the roll cast. Today’s plan was to get the kids on the water, teach them the roll cast, and hopefully share in the joy of playing and releasing fish.

With so many people around, roll casting would be more controlled; no worries who was wading through the safe zone of a back cast. As it turns out, the roll cast prepares the kids for the rest of the trip. We are fishing runs with little room for backcasting. Eventually, they are able to pick up a rod, stand three feet off shore—with cliffs and trees behind them—and without hardly a flinch, break out a roll cast. Their ability to pick it up so readily convinces me: I guarantee this will be the first cast I teach to new clients.

What’s not guaranteed is fish. But the salmon gods must have enjoyed the scene because we have plenty of opportunities to show the kids how to properly play and release a salmon. We teach these techniques, deliberately, so that when our kids, or our guests, fish on their own, they do so with confidence.

Finding that confidence means sometimes walking a fine line. My youngest discovers that the river isn’t the place for a Tiktok dance, but we all make it out alive— fish included—and if I am to measure the success of the day based on laughter, we are definitely coming up aces.

As I climb the stairs from the river back to the campsite, the tension in my shoulders relaxes. Soon we are feasting; along with being a dedicated father and avid angler, Jeremy is an acclaimed chef. From the east coast of the island, he has helped put Newfoundland & Labrador cuisine in

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The Soul of Fly Fishing

the international spotlight. We are fortunate to sit, laugh and share fishing stories into the starlit night, while kids make s’mores over the campfire. These moments are what dreams are made of.

Soon we will be dreaming in our tents. As will others.

Big Falls, being surrounded by a provincial park and campsite, can be a tough spot to get prime fishing grounds.

The early-morning shift is typically steady, water occupied by people who happily, naturally, wake before the crack of dawn, peacefully sip their morning coffee and efficiently get to the river, the first pair of tracks in the dew. I’m not one of these people. And I’m ok with that. If my head is on a pillow, I’m happy to take the second—or hell, even the third—rotation in the pool. However. On the second day of filming, our videographer requests (insists?) fishing the “golden hour.” I give him an evil eye (bless him), but agree to the early wake up call. When my alarm sounds, I

roll over, pull up my waders and head to the trail. We leave the kids and dog sleeping peacefully. There’s no need to punish them.

It’s a sunrise that almost makes me a morning person.

On top of that, the fish are coming up river, fast and furious. We film for hours, enjoying the peace on the river, only to be interrupted by big, beautiful silver Atlantic salmon, rising to dry fly after dry fly. I am surprised that my reaction time is on point for this hour of the day, but I do lose a large one by holding it too hard. It starts as a well-timed dry fly set at around 75 feet; I stay tense with excitement as the salmon makes its first run and jump.

Taking me down to my backing, it flees downriver. Before I can stop myself, I clamp the line tight on a jump and the salmon releases itself. Ten pound test is no match for a salmon if you use the wrong technique. Holding fish like this has often been my downfall when playing a salmon.

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Terry knows it’s happening before I do. He’ll start to laugh, predicting what’s coming, yet I can’t seem to stop myself.

Looking forward to the release, I attempt to play the fish too fast and end up losing it. I have a full blooper reel of these moments. Now there’s another clip. Telling myself this outcome is best for the salmon’s natural release, I shake my head and make another cast.

Several casts later, I step off the river to go check on the kids. I am greeted with smiles and dirty cereal bowls.

They even fed the dog. As they enter their teenage years, their independence and freedom is a frequent, pleasant surprise. They have an announcement. With another 30 degree-day, instead of coming fishing, today they are going swimming with Hank. To the creek. I pause, then accept, grateful it is the dirt roads and fun of the campground that has won their attention, rather than the X-box. I make my

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way back down to the team with supplies to brew beach coffee and we head back out into the water, determined to take advantage of our new-found freedom. A few casts later, however, there is splashing and laughter behind us; all four kids are dressed in waders, rods in hand, walking towards us and wondering where to fish. We happily trade our peace and our places with them. We collectively breath in our success. There is no greater joy as an angler and a parent than having your kids choose to share your passion on the river. ~ Two episodes, titled “Lighting the flame” and “Fish & Feast with guest Jeremy Charles” were filmed during this Atlantic Salmon fishing adventure in Newfoundland & Labrador. Season 2 of Tight Loops Tight Lines, which airs on WFN, Sportsman Canada and can be found on the Fly Fusion website now.

ON THE VISE

Hare, Hare 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

Endless configurations on a classic pattern to fish any situation

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or many anglers living in the northern hemisphere, spring signals a longanticipated beginning. As the tilt of the earth gradually softens, the days get longer, and the steadily-warming temperatures are met with excitement. Spring is a blank slate on the upcoming season. It is the season of unabashed hopes and expectations. Slowly but surely, slumbering creatures, including fly anglers, crawl out of their dens and back into

Beaded Hook: Ahrex FW501 Tail and Legs: Mallard Flank Rib: Sabai Flat Wire Body: Vicuna Dubbing Hare Sub Thorax: Vicuna Dubbing Hare Sub Wing Case: Pheasant Tail Thread: Textreme Powerthread 50D

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the wild. Although Mother Nature is often finicky early in the season, the tilt will soon favour the northern latitudes, and in the process will trigger an abundance of plant life, followed closely by insects and finally, hungry fish.

Many of us have been preparing for months now, tying dozens of elk hair caddis and parachute patterns in all sizes and variations; filling up our boxes with highfloating flies to match those hatches that are so ingrained in fly fishing culture. I’ll be the first to admit to favouring

dry flies over other types of patterns (large streamers being a close second). But, depending on where you live, these anticipated hatches won’t happen for another few weeks, at least. Until then, the subsurface is where the action is.

Published figures on trout diet are clear. An estimated 75 to 90 per cent of what they eat either crawl, swim, or float under the surface. The immature forms of aquatic insects are called larvae, nymphs or pupa. Some insects, such as stoneflies, can remain in their nymphal stage for up to three years. What this all says is that immature insects are a food source available year-round and play a critical role in sustaining fish populations over the winter months and early spring.

Understanding what is on a trout’s menu, and the timing of each course, has a direct correlation to one’s success on the water. Since nymphs are available all year, it makes sense that nymphing is the most productive form of fly fishing. There are many ways to fish a nymph (Euro, Czech, indicator, swing, etc.) and mastering—or at least committing to practicing—one or more of these techniques should come before figuring out how to dead-drift a tiny

mayfly through multiple seams. It is said that fishing a bad fly properly is better than fishing a good fly poorly. I’m not able to dispute this claim but will argue that fly selection is also an important part in catching fish.

The decision of what to tie onto your tippet should be informed by three fundamental criteria: what you you are trying to imitate; where in the water column you want the fly to travel; and how you would like that fly to swim.

To help you understand these three fundamental criteria of fly selection, I will later showcase an iconic pattern, the Hare’s Ear.

Location, location, location.

Water column real estate is at a premium. Getting your fly where it needs to be (i.e. where the fish is feeding) is of utmost importance. Ensuring that it gets there quickly increases the time it spends in “the zone” and thus improves the chances that the fly will be getting attention from any fish that might be living there. There are two proven fly tying techniques to influence the sink rate. The first is density (weight) and the second is hydrodynamics (water resistance).

Natural-Hare Hook: Ahrex FW501 Tail and Legs: Mallard Flank Rib: Sabai Flat Wire Body: Textreme Bug Wool Thorax: Textreme Bug Wool Wing Case: Pheasant Tail Thread: Textreme Powerthread 50D

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Increasing the weight of a fly usually translates into a faster sink rate. To increase the weight, patterns incorporate lead-free wraps, wire, or beads. Heavy-gauge hooks are also a great way to add weight to any pattern without having to tie in any additional materials.

Sink rate is also influenced by the materials used in the body of the fly. Some materials, such as deer hair or CDC, tend to capture air bubbles and float, while wool or fine fur will soak up water and sink. The fly’s profile is also an important factor to consider. The “buggier” the fly, the more water resistance and thus, the slower the sink rate.

Be cognizant of this when dubbing your beaded nymphs.

The increased sink rate of a heavy fly may be mitigated by a heavily-dubbed body. At the top of the list for fastsinking flies is the Perdigon Nymph. No coincidence it has become such a popular fly for Euro-nymphing. It is heavy and streamlined, which helps it cut right through the water column and down to the fishing zone.

The drawback of heavy flies is that their fast sink rates come at the detriment of a natural-looking swimming pattern. Rogue nymphs and freely-floating insects tend to

move at the whim of the current rather than steadily, just above the stream bed. Having a selection of unweighted patterns or perhaps some smaller, scruffier flies will help imitate a more natural looking swimming action. A double nymph rig (if allowed by local regulations) with one of each could be a good compromise.

Know your audience Before you decide what to tie on, look under your feet. Flip a few rocks and see if anything is moving. If you discover insects, it will make your fly selection easier. If not, no sweat, there is a category for that.

Nymph and pupa patterns come in three different flavours: the attractors, the generalists, and the realistic.

Again, choosing a pattern that will help nail down the size and colour, desired fishing depth and swimming action should be top of mind when choosing a fly. The “nicest” looking fly in the box might not be the one that will put fish in the net.

Attractors: Attractor flies don’t look like anything in the river. Their goal is to stand out and get the fish’s

attention. Many of the flies used for Euro-nymphing will fall into that category (think of the Perdigon, Blowtorch or Frenchie). So will some more classic patterns, such as the all mighty Prince Nymph and Rainbow Warrior. These are usually, but not always, weighted flies. Tie on an attractor pattern when you can’t figure out what the fish are eating.

Generalists: Stripped of many details and dressed in drab, natural colours, generalist patterns aim to imitate a wide variety of insects. The key here is that they resemble some of the food found in the stream, river, or lake. Some star members of the generalist category are the Pheasant Tail, the Copper John, Spiders, and the Hare’s Ear. With these four patterns, we can imitate mayflies, stoneflies, and caddis during various stages of development. When you flip a rock and find something crawling under it, choose a generalist that will closely match the size and shape of that insect.

Realistic: Then you have what I call the 30-minute nymphs—those which usually take longer to tie than to fish. That perfect Instagram-worthy stonefly or cased caddis, complete with the exact number of segments, legs

www.revolutionsadventures.com

and eyes. These are flies that will fool even the pickiest of trout, or at the very least, spark the interest of a dozen new followers! Assuming that these 30-minute nymphs are tied properly, they could be your best bet to match the hatch. That being said, snagging one of these flies on a stick or a tree might cause a higher-than-expected level of frustration. You have been warned!

The Hare’s Ear Nymph The history of the Hare’s Ear is a bit unclear. Some sources claim that it originated in the late 1600s, others say that it was first cast in 1910. Nevertheless, it has aged well and deserves to this day a prominent spot in any self-respecting fly box.

In summary of the discussion above, here are a few variations on this timeless pattern to illustrate how the choice of tying materials can influence the look, sink rate and swimming action of a fly.

Beaded Hare’s Ear Adding mass to anything and will make it sink faster.

250-688-7616

Unweighted Hare’s Ear Variations

Textreme Hook: Ahrex FW501 Tail and Legs: Mallard Flank Rib: Sabai Flat Wire Body: Vicuna Dubbing Hare Sub Thorax: Vicuna Dubbing Hare Sub Wing Case: Pheasant Tail Thread: Textreme Powerthread 50D

This is one of the reasons why the gauge of wire used on some nymph hooks is thicker than that of those designed for dryflies. But adding lead wraps or a bead also promotes finding the bottom of the creek or lake quicker. Keep in mind that while adding weight helps, reducing water resistance is also significant. There is one main way to reduce resistance: use materials that have less bugginess to them. Motion through water is like motion through air. Keeping this in mind, which one of these two planes would have better aerodynamics: the plane with smooth aluminum wings, or the plane with a wing covered in rabbit guard hair? Since aluminum is not the easiest material to work with when tying nymphs, consider constructing your fly’s body with something densely spooled, such as Textreme Bug Wool or similar. These spooled products are tightly woven and won’t create much resistance, while maintaining a natural look. Building bodies from thread or tinsel is also a great option, and covering the fly with a UV resin will make it as slick as the hook itself.

And of course, there is the bead. A rule of thumb is bigger is heavier and tungsten is denser than brass. You can go too big with a bead, so be mindful to maintain proper clearance for the hook gap.

Whether slotted, regular, or offset, adding a bead to your nymphs is guaranteed to help it sink.

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By modifying the Hare’s Ear’s body and thorax material, you can change the water resistance and thus affect the sink rate and swimming pattern. Below are three slight variations on the original unweighted Hare’s Ear pattern. The first uses Textreme Bug Wool, the second uses an alpaca dubbing from Vicuna and the last pattern uses traditional hare’s ear dubbing. As you can see, each produce a gradually-larger profile and buggier texture. The larger and buggier the pattern, the more resistance it will offer, the more it will trap air and the slower it will sink. Consequently, the same relation is associated with the swimming pattern. Buggier flies tend to look livelier in the current and swim more naturally.

I hope this breakdown helps you visualize the influencing factors of tying materials on the swimming performance of nymph patterns. Although I have my favourites, I haven’t yet found a standard option for getting my flies in the feeding zone. The combinations and situations are endless, making fly tying and fishing not just a wonderful hobby, but a lifelong experiment and learning opportunity.

Vicuna Hook: Ahrex FW501 Tail and Legs: Mallard Flank Rib: Sabai Flat Wire Body: Natural Hare from Hareline Thorax: Natural Wing Case: Pheasant Tail Thread: Textreme Powerthread 50D

LONG LINES

Curve Casts 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.

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When fly fishing throws you a curve, throw a curve cast

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rock protrudes from the water’s surface, just upstream of your position. Fish are rising there, in the hydraulic cushion. To your right is deep water. To your left is a shallow ledge that would expose you to the rising fish. Your only option is a cast that avoids the fast water to the right, placing your fly just upstream of the rock. A viable option in this potentially frustrating scenario is to throw a horizontal, overpowered negative curve cast.

This begs some questions, starting with what makes a curve, a curve? Sounds simple. And, in general it is. To many, if the fly line curves during a cast, it’s a curve cast.

But, those of us in the nerdy world of fly casting, we like to complicate things. We like to add another layer or two…. or three… or maybe keep going until we lose everyone in the room.

To not lose every reader in the room… let’s simplify things. We can break this into two broad definitions of curving fly line: an aerial mend —a curve in the line initiated before the stop of the rod; or a curve cast—a curve in the line initiated after the stop of the rod.

A curve cast is an intentional deviation from a straight-line cast. Let’s say, for demonstration purposes, we are attempting to make the line, leader and fly form a 90-degree bend and to have no slack in the line, leader, or fly. Essentially it would look like an “L.” Before we dive into how we put down different types of curve casts, let’s first go over a few more definitions: A positive curve is a curve cast in toward the caster. This may seem abstract, but if you are right handed this would generally be a cast to your left. A negative curve,

is, of course, the opposite: a curve cast out away from the caster. Over-powered means adding additional power to generate the curve cast; under-powered is reducing power to generate a curve. When I discuss the casting plane, I’m talking about the orientation of the rod in space; and when I say loop plane, that refers to the orientation of the loop in space.

With these definitions we can describe a few curve casts. We can make an off-shoulder, over-powered, positive curve cast. Or, a vertically-oriented, negative, underpowered curve cast. You’re probably saying, what the hell, I just want to catch fish! So, let’s get to it.

Off-Shoulder Over-Powered Positive Curve Cast While it sounds complex, this cast is probably the most common curve cast we throw, and most-easily created. You have probably already performed this cast many times, albeit unintentionally.

1. Begin false casting off-shoulder. As much as possible, make your casts parallel to the ground— for both the casting plane and loop plane.

2. Every few false casts, increase the power and stop hard. The objective is to get the fly line, leader and fly to continue after the stop and after the line straightens. If the cast’s energy has not been fully dissipated and the line has nowhere to go, you will notice a “kick” in the line. The direction of the kick will be in the natural direction of the loop unrolling.

For a right-handed caster, casting off-shoulder, that will be in the “positive” direction, or to the left.

Curve Cast: Right Handed Caster Negative Curve Cast Rock

Rock

Current Direction

Current Direction

Positive Curve Cast

Caster Position

3. On the delivery, over-power and stop hard—once you have attained this form in the false cast, commit and make this in the cast’s final delivery.

4. As the loop unrolls and “kicks” to form the curve, drop the rod tip.

Done properly, you will find the line curving as it lays out on the water (or grass, when practicing). Variables you can play with here are energy (force, power, speed), elevation, and trajectory.

Vertical, under-powered, tailing-loop, negative curve cast This is possibly my favorite cast. That may have something to do with my contrarian nature or perhaps it’s just the fact that it is a challenging cast to nail. Either way, it takes the normally deleterious idea of a tailing loop and turns it into a controlled method of performing a cast that can be very effective. This cast also emphasizes how a perceived negative can become a positive and in rare form.

1. This cast is best done off shoulder. If right handed,

perform it at approximately 15 degrees. The goal is to just separate the top and bottom legs of the loops.

2. Make multiple false casts at a slow speed, with the loops unrolling, but not touching the water.

3. Every few casts make a tail; this sounds easier than just saying it. The best way to do so is by stopping early in the stroke, or even pushing the tip up and stopping short. Remember, we are purposefully trying to create an exaggerated tailing loop.

4. On the final delivery, the goal is to make a very slow and exaggerated vertical tailing loop. You will want the leader, fly line and/or fly to catch the water and then stop the power. This will cause the cast to die and a curve to form.

Given that the tail forms prior to the stop, this cast may be a bit of a hybrid between a curve cast and a mend.

However, the rest of the cast happens after the stop. I would also contend that very few curve casts are solely curve casts or mends. In other words, the best manipulations of fly line are using all of the caster’s tools.

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Modifications on the theme of curving are many. This is where, like the tailing loop curve, you will find a merging of mend and curve. Here we take the strict concept of the curve and of the mend and marry them in a way that allows us to get a usable cast. The following are some of the tools used when modifying casts.

Trajectory, or the angle of attack/approach of the cast. With a curve cast, trajectory can dramatically impact the amount of slack and the amount of speed of the cast.

For example, in the over-powered curve cast, if the trajectory is going up it will slow the speed of the cast.

If the trajectory is steep enough, it can cause the curve to “slide” back after the energy is dissipated and create more slack.

Speed greatly affects slack. More speed can cause a bounce and more slack but less speed can delay turnover and cause more slack. The key here is knowing it is a variable that can be modified and using it to your advantage. In windy conditions, more speed is generally better, especially for over-powered casts.

Perhaps the most powerful method of accentuating a curve

is to add a mend. This generally looks like some kind of manipulation of the line after the stop. For example, in the over-powered curve, if you pull the rod away from the curve cast after the stop of the rod, it will exaggerate the turnover of the loop and increase the size and intensity of the curve.

Another tool anglers have available is the degree or severity of the cast: essentially, how much you make the curve or the amount of power you use. The harder the stop and the more power you have, the larger the curve in an overpowered curve cast. In a tailing loop curve cast, the slower and more defined the tail, the larger the curve.

All of this said, nothing replaces the accuracy of a curve cast. With practice, you’ll learn not only how to hit a target, but how to hit a target using a curve cast around an obstruction.

I use curve casts almost every time I am fishing, but especially on small water, with dry flies. I hope if you’re in a situation which calls for creative, curved casting, you’ll remember that although these techniques sound complex, they’re easily broken down and applied.

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WANDERING CURRENTS

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.

Float Planes and Diesel Engines Fly fishing fit for a king

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ew things symbolize Alaska better than small aircraft, and few things get me more excited to fish than the dull roar of a float plane, growing louder and louder as it glides nearer. This time we were on a dock, waiting to be shuttled out to a remote river where we would be targeting king salmon.

As our water taxi approached, everyone shifted excitedly, including me. I had never targeted kings for an entire week and had little combat experience in this vast arena.

On a previous trip to British Columbia, a guide had told me a story about king salmon stealing entire fly lines. As he checked my knots, he recalled finding a line drifting in the current. He jumped in his boat and hand-lined it; while his buddy drove, he eventually discovered a king salmon attached to the other end. Tales like this had my head buzzing. What would it be like to hook a dime-bright king, fresh from the salt? Would it live up to the hype? Or were the fish stories just that, stories? We were about to find out.

Timing is everything As we strung up our rods, every cast was sent flying with high hopes. From what I had heard, fishing for kings is usually slow. It’s a game of persistence and only those who stay in the grind are ever rewarded with the prize.

Today, fortuitously, the game was different; the fish were more than willing to play. Our timing was just right; we were intercepting a fresh wave of fish as they pushed up

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from the ocean. We were catching kings, and lots of them.

The fish ranged in size from five to 30-plus pounds; they averaged 15 or so. Connecting to one of the bigger ones on the fly was like attaching yourself to a freight train.

Chugga Every fish fights a little differently. The last time I had been in Alaska it was on the Naknek river, chasing late-season rainbow trout on the swing. Those fish are like miniature Ferraris, using the current to rip downstream the way a sports car speeds past less-capable vehicles. Dollies are more akin to bulldogs that pull you around a hole, digging deep and trying to wrap you up in any sunken debris.

Grayling are aerial masters, jumping every few seconds, flipping and throwing water droplets across the surface as they struggle to break free from a meal gone wrong.

But hooking into a king is on another level. They’re more diesel locomotive than Ferrari; more team-of-huskies than bulldog; and their jumps are much less acrobatic than that of a grayling. They leap almost in slow motion, but as they thrash wildly on the surface or breach themselves like a whale, the power is unmistakable.

Net losses and gains As they regain their composure, a king salmon often turns downstream, with no sign of stopping. Your backing almost immediately appears. If you plan on landing a fish, chasing after it is a necessity. Trying to turn a king or stop one mid-

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run has only one result: a snapped line. All you can do is keep your drag tight and let them wear themselves out—if you try otherwise, heartbreak is almost always inevitable.

Head shakes send tremors up the line, creating massive pulses that bend the rod to the cork. Their fighting style is not nearly as fast as a rainbow or as dirty as a dolly, but the raw power is extremely effective at shaking a fly loose.

Putting a king in the net, even a smaller one, takes some skill and plenty of luck. It is nearly impossible to keep up with one when it goes on a long, deliberate run. They motor downstream as though they are heading back to the ocean. It really boils down to keeping the fish on the line long enough to wear it down, enough that you can turn its head and slip a net underneath it.

King maker The trip was an unbelievable success, we landed several great fish. But as it often goes, as much as the successes were sweet, the lost battles hurt even more; several giant fish simply got the best of us. In a particular run, one we had fished multiple times already, I cast to the middle of the river, counted to five and started my swing. The line immediately went tight. Knowing it was one of the many sunken logs strewn across the bottom, my heart sank.

Suddenly, without warning, the largest king I had ever

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seen erupted from the surface, jumping directly at me.

Scrambling to get the line tight, the fish turned and headed downstream, with us chasing behind. A few more long runs and seemingly lazy jumps—where the fish struggled to even leave the water—and the fight was starting to turn in my favour. When it jumped again and thrashed on the surface, the fish was close to the net. Then the line went limp for a second, tightened back up, and then…nothing.

As the king rolled around the surface like a chrome-bright alligator, the fly dislodged and the line became wrapped around its muscular body. As it began swimming, the king somehow freed itself and left me standing, waist deep, with a mess of line hanging from my rod tip.

All’s fair Heartbreak wasn’t all bad. Arguably, it made the fishing even better. It kept us casting, full of hope that someone would land a giant. Knowing we might be hopping aboard a roller coaster made each hookup exciting. We never knew what was on the other end of the line until the fish jumped. And heartbreak makes us hungry for redemption.

Personally, I can’t wait to get back for mine.

trip with Derek Olthuis hosted oking now! e bo Katmai Trophy Lodg vel-alaska ra flyfusionmag.com/t

STILLWATER SECRETS

Expect the Unexpected Adapting to change on our favourite stillwaters 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.

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n an average year I spend 80-plus days in search of stillwater trout. I don’t often get stumped as to what to do to catch a few fish, but lately for me—and many other seasoned anglers—tough days seem to be occurring more often.

I believe part of the reason for having more frequent days of challenging fishing is related to environmental changes that are occurring within the lakes.

Much of these impacts can be directly related to our changing climate and the resulting wildly-fluctuating weather patterns that are becoming more common in our world. And through much of western North America, large scale forest fires are impacting the ecology of entire watersheds, the recovery of which will take countless years.

were historically algal-free. Insect emergences that were very reliable for so many years are now happening over much shorter time frames, or are almost non-existent, until sometimes months-later than the norm.

The interior regions of British Columbia are home to some of the best stillwater trout fisheries in North America.

This past summer, like that of 2021, was very hot. Those unseasonably warm temperatures extended well into late October. This kept many lakes from cooling down until very late in the fall. By the time water temperatures were getting low enough for fish to feed comfortably in shallow water, we were hit with an arctic front that in less than a couple of weeks saw many lakes freeze over. Needless to say, our much-anticipated fall fishing season was short, with an abrupt ending.

New normals

Depth perception

Changes in water quality, seasonal lake temperature profiles and spring runoff patterns are having a direct effect on insect hatches and trout behaviour. On numerous lakes I frequently fish, blue-green algal blooms are becoming more intense. They are also now appearing on lakes that

The summer doldrums used to refer to the hot days of August, when the majority of aquatic insect hatches have been completed. During the past few years this doldrum period on many lakes has extended well past the traditional summer months. Warm water forces the trout to leave the shallower shoal zone in search of cooler and better oxygenated water that is found in the deeper depth zones.

As anglers, we have to be prepared to adapt our fishing strategies as the ecology of the lakes respond to changing environmental conditions. It seems the phrase “expect the unexpected” is coming into play more often. A prime example are hatches of mayflies and chironomids occurring well past their normal seasonal emergence times. Some of my best chironomid pupal fishing this past season occurred in late September and far into October. Keep in mind that all aquatic insect emergences are driven by water temperature,

so seeing such hatches months later than normal suggests that these are delayed emergences, as temperatures earlier in the season were not conducive to completing nymphal development, or larval to pupal transformation. This is why being observant while on the water, regardless of the time of year, is so important. Seeing nymphal or pupal shucks floating by in the surface film is your clue as to what is happening in the depths below you.

The use of a depth sounder will confirm the presence of fish that are targeting the hatch. If the sounder is marking fish tight to the lake bottom regardless of depth and there are pupal shucks on the water, then it is almost assured those fish are feeding on the emerging or staging chironomid pupa. Similarly, fish being marked higher in the water column while mayfly shucks are present in the surface indicates nymphs are being eaten—most likely while those nymphs are on their angled ascent to the surface, to emerge into the dun stage.

Zoo-topia During these extended warm periods, we have to consider

other food sources that are available to the trout. Zooplankton immediately come to mind as they are often present in large numbers and easily fed on by trout.

Daphnia are the most common species of these members of the crustacean family. Zooplankton gather in large masses or layers, typically in the deeper areas of the lake. They are an easy meal for trout and other species of fish as the daphnia are simply filtered through their gills and swallowed. These tiny crustaceans feed on phytoplankton, microscopic organisms not visible to the human eye. The colour of the daphnia and other zooplankton species varies with the variety of phytoplankton being grazed upon. Although blob patterns don’t look like anything imitative of a real food source, they do work, and at times they are extremely effective at catching trout. Suspending blobs under an indicator, or casting and retrieving them with various sinking lines can

salvage a really tough day. Here again your depth sounder becomes a valuable tool as it will identify where in the deep water the fish are most concentrated.

Slow searching, quick to dangle While we are always watching the surface of the lake for fish or signs of a hatch, to potentially find more active fish or even an unexpected insect hatch, we also need to be prepared to pull anchors and move. When out searching the water, it pays to travel slowly. Watch your depth sounder for presence of fish, and if several fish are marked in a short distance do a search of a couple hundred feet around those markings. It is not uncommon to find groups of fish in isolated areas but once located, you have to determine what flies might interest them before they move on, or lose interest in feeding.

Remember their relative position in the water column offers a great clue as to what those fish may be willing to feed on. If the fish are glued to the lake bottom, regardless of depth, I’ll first try chironomid larvae and pupae—often fished on the dangle (vertically presented, on a type 6 or 7

full-sinking line). If that does not produce, I’ll try dangling various colours of balanced micro-leech patterns. More often than not, one of these two tactics will produce results, and also an opportunity to get a throat sample to furtherrefine pattern selection.

Smaller flies, bigger picture I also prescribe to the theory of offering down-sized— rather than oversized—patterns to picky fish, or to fish encountered during non-hatch situations. Trout in many of our more popular lakes see a lot of flies and could potentially have already been caught once or twice. Microsized chironomids, mayfly nymphs, damselfly nymphs and leeches are prime examples of very effective patterns that even the most jaded trout find hard to resist.

As our weather patterns continue to change it is important as ever to keep an open mind when on your favourite lake. Spending time on the shallower water of the shoals may not be as productive as searching out the deep water, especially if we are experiencing abnormally-warm summer and fall seasons.

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WATER MARKS

Slow Your Roll The natural cadence of bamboo 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

64

The Soul of Fly Fishing

T

he genealogy of the fly rod goes something like this: A wood called greenheart begat a wood called lancewood; lancewood begat split bamboo (also called “split cane”); bamboo begat fibreglass; fibreglass begat graphite (also called “carbon fibre”); graphite begat boron; boron was smote and conquered by graphite; boron rose again; fibreglass rose again. Graphite retains its domination from a heavily-fortified citadel on a hill.

With the arrival of fibreglass, rod-making yielded to mechanization. While the rod guides and reel seats still have to be installed by hand, the creation of rod “blanks”— the hollow tubes to which these were attached—from fibreglass and its descendants is a complex process involving combinations of chemicals, extremely hot furnaces, and the weaving of individual fibres into cloth.

But a cane or “split bamboo” fly rod was, and still is something one person can make in their home garage or shop. It’s not easy, requires some proprietary tools and serious dedication to learning the art, but many of the bamboo rods created today come out of these kinds of places.

When I first looked at a bamboo fly rod I thought the bamboo probably grew more or less in the shape of a rod. Not so; far from it. The process starts with hollow “culms” of bamboo or cane from the Tonkin Gulf region of China. When the rod builder gets them they’re in their natural state, a couple of metres long and three-to-five centimetres in diameter. These are graded, and the best ones are split, then cut into five or six tapered triangular strips that are glued together. Each strip of bamboo must be cut and tapered to an accuracy of about 1/1000 inch.

This produces the blank to which guides, ferrules and “A wood called the reel seat are attached.

There are many more steps greenheart begat a and variations possible, wood called lancewood; such as “flaming” the lancewood begat split bamboo to make it harder, or soaking the bamboo bamboo (also called strips in resin to strengthen “split cane”); bamboo it, and applying finish to it. begat fibreglass; When you look closely at a well-made bamboo rod, no fibreglass begat evidence of all the finely- graphite (also called detailed work is apparent. “carbon fibre”); graphite No glue-lines between strips are visible. A quality begat boron; boron was cane rod is a work of art and smote and conquered a product of 40 to 80 hours by graphite; boron rose of precise hand-work.

The details of a again; fibreglass rose rod’s taper are critical to again. Graphite retains its length, line-weight designation, “action,” and its domination from a intended purpose. There heavily-fortified citadel are formulas for the taper on a hill.” profile of particular rods, many of which came from the pioneers of bamboo rod building—E.F. Payne, Paul Young, Everett Garrison, Lyle Dickerson and others. Rods built by these men are rare and expensive today, but current builders often use their tapers. Additionally, new tapers are being developed in many parts of the world by today’s keepers of the craft.

But just because a rod is made of bamboo doesn’t mean it’s valuable as a collectible. In my fly shop days it was almost a weekly occurrence for someone to bring in or call about a bamboo rod they had encountered, and ask if it was valuable. Almost always the answer was “Sorry, no. It’s a mass-produced rod of low quality. But if the rod has sentimental value to you, hang it on the wall above the fireplace.” There were far more low-quality bamboo

rods made than valuable, collectible ones.

This might not come out the way I intend it, but the nerdiest of all fly fishers might be bamboo rod builders (though steelheaders and some fly tyers compete well in the category). They hold gatherings in various places to compare rods, discuss principles of rod construction and generally geek out together, thereby preserving an art worthy of preservation.

If you’ve grown up using a graphite or carbon fibre fly rod and you’d like to try bamboo, you need to prepare yourself. It will not feel like a graphite rod and shouldn’t be judged against one. A bamboo rod will be heavier and “softer.”

It will require a slower, deliberate and more fluid stroke and won’t respond well to quick, jabbing casts. If you expect it to feel and cast like a graphite rod, you’ll be disappointed, and this probably means you’re not a candidate for bamboo. As veteran Alberta rod builder Don Andersen says, “Bamboo fly rods are about cadence—the cadence of life itself. Each cast is slower and deliberate, forcing you to slow down and become one with the setting around you. But if your temperament is running and gunning, bamboo isn’t for you.” If you’d like to try one, do it for the right reason, which is to engage in and appreciate an important part of our fly fishing history.

I have two bamboo rods, both gifts. I fish the seven-foot, four-weight about once a year, usually casting dry flies to cutthroats on a small stream. When the rod is in my hand I think about the person who built it for me and how pleased he would be to know it’s being used in the way he intended.

I’m thankful for the bamboo nerds.

© Photo Jay Talbot jayboart.com @jayboart

flyfusionmag.com

65

END OF THE LINE

In the Elements Bo Wentworth Bo Wentworth Bo Wentworth is an artist, photographer and fly tyer from Northwest Pennsylvania.

He values fly fishing’s ongoing process of learning, understanding, applying and starting over. He shares his processes, experiences, and life as an artist and as an angler at bowentworth.com and on Instagram at @bo_wentworth.

66

The Soul of Fly Fishing

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