Page 10 • The Nickel • JuNe 13, 2018 • 2701 FooThills Blvd, klamaTh Falls, oR 97603 • (541)883-2292 • Fax (541)882-0454
Time for the big reveal: I have started ... The longtime followers of my column should brace themselves because I’m about to reveal something about myself that goes against everything I’ve always stood for. It’s not the first time I’ve seen the light and changed my mind, but this might be the most traumatic to my readers. (Clears throat). I, Luke Ovgard, have officially started … (Draws in breath sharply). I, Luke Ovgard, have officially started fly fishing. Why, you ask? I know. It’s shocking. It’s scandalous. It’s out of character. After years of watching some of the worst attitude and superiority complexes fishing has to offer, I finally joined the smug minority of anglers born as a spinoff of ribbon dancing that use animal hair and feathers to attempt to catch fish. It’s out there, and I thought everyone should know.
This spring, I practiced hooksets by fishing for crappie and pumpkinseed (fly species No. 2 and No. 3) at Topsy with nymphs and San Juan worms, the fly that flyfishermen barely acknowledge as a fly at all. Then, when I was finally ready, I joined my friend Mark Doolittle to chase trout for the first time.
Coach Mark is an expert angler. He’s fished all over the world, and I always learn something new fishing with him. Perhaps the reason we get along so well is that we both love to catch fish.
Though I have the gear, I assure you it won’t change me. I won’t look down my nose at spinfishermen throwing lures or sitting on bait (where legal). I won’t try to make waters “flyfishing only” despite the fact that flyfishermen pay no more to maintain public waters than spinfishermen, and I’ll continue to find that “King’s Forest” management wrong. I won’t complain about how much my gear costs in roundabout, less-thansubtle brags. And I certainly won’t replace tools in my fishing toolkit; I’ll simply add to it. That’s ultimately why I joined the highhanded (this one has double-meaning, now that I kind of know how to cast) elite: I wanted another way to catch fish.
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Mark Doolittle
The method is secondary to the fishing.
Fish No. 2 came shortly thereafter, and it was about 21 inches.
I played the fish to Mark who scooped it up with the net.
He’s not a flyfishing elitist, though his results prove he is among the flyfishing elite.
Within an hour or so, Mark and I had combined for four fish.
At 25 and 1/4 inches and 5 1/4 pounds, it was the largest Onchorynchus mykiss (rainbow trout) I’d ever caught that was neither a redband nor a steelhead.
Further, he’s likely the best troller in the Klamath Basin and catches more big trout in this fashion than anyone I know.
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Easing in This winter, I practiced fighting fish on a fly rod by catching tui chubs under “indicators” (that’s erudite for “bobber”), and I know I just made some flyfishermen cringe by sharing that.
His broad skill set made him the perfect flyfishing coach because he’s still in touch with spinfishing and can draw parallels while understanding what areas of the flyfishing game are hardest for a spinfisherman to pick up. Though I’d had a rod for awhile, he set me up with an extra and walked me through the basics before our boat left the ramp in a small lake way out in the Oregon Outback.
Trolling We were trolling a two-fly setup on sinking line, and I picked up my first trout on the fly less than five minutes later. I knew trolling flies was far from the heart of flyfishing purity, but it helped me learn how to fight a fish on an absurdly long rod, taught me how to sway this way and that and how to bring a fish to net from a boat with a 9- or 10-foot rod. The trout wasn’t big, but it was a respectable 15 inches or so. Not bad.
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Then the trolling bite died completely, so we switched to casting.
Casting Rather, he switched to casting, and I switched to an egregious flailing motion that probably caused at least one pilot think I was signaling for help. Up to that point, I’d spent a total of 15 minutes casting a fly rod. The one time I’d done it, I had been alone, bored out of my mind while fishing for hybrid bass at Ana Reservoir, and I decided to try for a hatchery rainbow trout. They didn’t oblige, and, after hooking my fifth sagebrush, I met my monthly profanity quota and put the rod away. That was two months prior. He coached me along, and I picked it up faster than I’d have expected. Just as we prepared to pull anchor and try another spot, a long strip pulled the line taut, and I knew I had a fish. The fight was on, and I realized why people flyfish. At least, why the true fishermen in flyfishing culture flyfish. It was a blast. The fight was entirely different than a big trout on a spinning or casting setup, and I was hooked as solidly as the fish.
It would also be the largest trout I’d land that day, though I lost a fish that would’ve easily topped 8 pounds later after it dove under the boat and popped the fly free leaving me reeling in more ways than one.
Odds and Ends We landed a number of crappie that day, including my longest to-date (14 1/2 inches) that would’ve been pushing 2 pounds before the spawn. Mark and I combined for nearly a dozen trout and as many crappie. Mark foul-hooked a massive, strangelyshaped trout while trolling, and it livened things up late in the evening. We released the fish after popping the tiny fly free and shook our heads a bit. Content with my first real day flyfishing, we changed gears and pulled out spinning rods to chase bass with the last hour of daylight. In no way will flyfishing displace spinfishing, but I must begrudgingly admit it has earned a place in my heart. I’m even beginning to understand the glorified ribbon dancing side of the fishing world now, and although it will be a slow learning curve, I’m always up for a challenge.