Andrew Marshall Wayment's Blog, page 19

BAD LEROY BROWN

In my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith, I wrote about one of my favorite secret fishing spots in Idaho, ”The Mini-Madison.”  I named it this when I first fished there because it reminded me of my favorite river, the Mighty Madison in Montana, except instead of being a 50 mile riffle, it is only 100 yards long.  Over the years, the Mini-Madison has afforded me excellent fishing for alligator browns, chunky rainbows, and beautiful cutthroats.  I have been spoiled.

GIRTH!!!

However, for the last couple of years, I have really struggled at this beloved spot.  Last year, I only caught five fish at the Mini-Madison.  Granted, some of them were real dandies, but in years past, I could expect to catch a twenty-inch fish every time I went there and that was at least once a week throughout the summer.  The fish used to hammer big streamers–like the Circus Peanut–with reckless abandon, but lately, they have been hitting short, refusing at the last second, or ignoring them altogether.  There have been times when I thought to myself: The fish just aren’t here anymore!  And then came last night.

Last week, I fished the Madison River in Montana and, as usual, I stopped by Kelly Galloup’s Slide Inn and picked up some new articulated streamer patterns, an olive and yellow Barely Legal and a brown S. Dungeon.  I hoped some new patterns would pull out the stops on those wary Snake River browns which had eluded me for so long.  Since my vacation, last night was the first time I could get away for some evening fishing.

Upon reaching the Mini-Madison, I started off with the Barely Legal but only had one strike by a 15 inch brown that hit short avoiding the hook.  I tried every likely looking spot believing that there had to be something lurking in the pockets and deeper lies, but I did not see another fish in the lower runs and riffles of the Mini-Madison.  I even switched my fly over to the S. Dungeon with no results.

Galloup’s S-Dungeon.

My desire to catch a fish drove me towards some of the swifter, deeper water at the head of the Mini-Madison.  I wrote in depth about this particular area in my book.  I named the two main holding lies ”the Courtyard” and “The King Hole.”  You have to cross the heavy current to get to the Courtyard and there are often nice fish in this calmer water behind a series of mostly submerged boulders, but the bigger fish are consistently upstream in the King Hole, a long deep run below a falls and adjacent to a Russian Olive-choked bank.  This is big fish water if ever I saw any.  In fact, in my book, I wrote about catching two of the biggest browns of my life, “Buster Brown,” and “B.B. King” out of this hole.

So, last night, I braved the heavy current to fish the Courtyard and did not move a single fish.  The King Hole looked a little too high for good fishing, but I sent a token cast into marginal water adjacemt to the King Hole only to have it hang up on a rock just below the surface, which was serendipitous for me.  With a $6.50 fly at stake,  I was not about to let it go.  So I waded up to the rocks and freed the fly while standing upon my rocky perch where I have stuck so many nice fish in the past.

I was now in perfect position to fish the King Hole.  I cast up near the falls into what I like to call, “the Sweet Spot” and stripped the fly down towards me without any follows.  At the foot of the King Hole is a new small log jam and just above it was a piece of calmer water that looked fishy,  I cast about five feet above the log jam near the bank and stripped the fly cross-current towards me.  All of the sudden, I witnessed a flash, a huge swirl, and something slammed the S. Dungeon so viciously, it hooked itself.  To say I was excited is an understatement.

What a slab! The photo is a little blurry because I was shaking with adrenalin.

When the monstrous fish realized he was hooked, he flipped up out of the water like a rainbow and I instantly realized this was the biggest brown I have ever had on my line.  I shook with adrenalin as my 6 weight rod doubled over.  The tug is the drug, my friends!

Having forgotten my net, the gravity of the situation instantly struck me: I have this fish hooked solidly, but how the heck am I going to land him without a net?  My mind started reeling with scenarios:  I can’t land him in the Courtyard because I’ll never get him close enough to tail him.  I can’t take him to the bank on the left because that fish will plow into that big logjam downstream and bust me off.  What am I going to do?    

As I surveyed the surrounding landscape, I realized that my only chance to land this bruiser was to get him to the grassy bank 75 yards downstream.  But to get him there, I would have to maneuver around an obstacle course consisting of a huge log jam and multiple rocky plunge pools.  I understood it was a long shot, but I had to try.

To this end, I began to slowly wade through the heavy current directly toward the log jam with fish in tow.  My strategy was to try and pull him towards the log jam so that the fish would want to go anywhere but there.  It worked.  When I climbed up on top the jam, the fish hopped the heavy current to the right of the jam and was quickly below it.  First objective accomplished!  But the fight was not over.  More than once, the brownie tried to burrow beneath a rock below the plunge pools and each time I had to wade right over to and ferret him out of thehole.  To my relief it worked.

With my rod doubled over, I slowly backed up to the grassy bank.  The only way I could see to land him was to drag him quickly up onto the bank.  When I lifted the heavy fish out of the water, however, the hook finally came loose and the fish dropped into the shallow water.  In desperation, I lunged, snatched the fish, and threw him onto the grassy bank.

“HOLY COW!!!” I exclaimed as I shook with adrenaline.  No question, he was the biggest brown I have ever landed.  I quickly placed him back in the water, pulled out my iPhone and began taking photos to commemorate this feat.  But the pictures do not do this leviathan justice.

Check out that kype!

As I contemplated a nickname for this fish, only one made the final cut: ”Bad Leroy Brown” after Jim Croce’s song of the same name. Like the song, this trophy fish was badder than old King Kong and meaner than a junkyard dog.

I thought about taking him home to hang on the wall next to Buster Brown, but quickly dismissed the idea.  Leroy belongs at the Mini-Madison.  I love the thought that a fish of this caliber (or even bigger) still swims these secret waters.  Maybe some day our paths will cross again.  I sure hope so!

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.

      

Paying it Forward (or Even an 11 Bravo can be Taught to Fly Fish)!

The week of Independence means a great deal to me.  We live in the greatest country on planet Earth, and our freedoms are worth any sacrifice in my opinion.  On July 3rd, I decided to drive down to my favorite spot on the Arkansas River.  I was a little hesitant that morning about going fishing cause I was a little under the weather.  However, I decided to go cause the fishing had been epic, and I was hoping to entice a few browns to take my ugly flies on the surface.

When I pulled into my usual spot, there was another truck there which surprised me.  I usually have the river to myself…most people forget that the Arkansas exists once the Mother’s Day caddis hatch is complete.  People fail to see the other epic events on the river like when the edges clear during the run off and the mayfly, stone fly, and caddis fly hatches that continue all summer long.   I got out of my truck but left the Avett Brothers blaring away on my stereo.  I got my gear together and noticed that the young man associated with the vehicle was still standing there.  What’s the deal with this guy?  Was the thought weighing on my mind.   I was curious which direction he was headed, and I’d fish the other.  I walked over and asked noting the tattoos on his arms.  He was waiting to see where I was heading.  I asked him if he’d ever fished this stretch of the Ark and he said no.  He’d recently cut ties with Ft. Bragg’s 82nd Airborne Division which got me excited.  I had spent 3 years with the division in the late 1980′s.  In fact, I love the 82nd Airborne Division.

Phil was this young paratrooper’s name, and he plans to attend MSU in Bozeman, Montana this fall.  Wants to be a nurse.   Oh course I asked him to join me on the river to fish.   We strolled down the river’s edge to get where I wanted to start.  I rigged his fly line in a similar stimulator/ice nymph fashion as mine, and we began to hit the pockets where the fish are cached.  Phil did great and he landed several very respectable browns.

Phil playing a nice brown

Phil and I spent the majority of the morning smiling, laughing and high-fiving over the nice fish we landed.  I ribbed Phil by proclaiming that I could teach even an 11 bang bang how to fish!    We ended the day with lunch at Barry’s Den and vowed to fish together a few more times this summer.  Thanks Phil for your service to our country!  You’re a great man and will succeed in any endeavor!

Cholla in bloom

Phil with a nice brown

Phil with a 17″ brown

ANOTHER SHORT, BUT SWEET, REVIEW OF WAYMENT’S HEAVEN ON EARTH

It has been a long while since I posted anything regarding my first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun and Faith.  That’s because I’ve been busy working on two new books . . . and fishing, of course.  It is that time of year after all!

I’m excited to share with the followers of Upland Ways that another short, but sweet, review of the Heaven on Earth was just published by Kyle Graf of the Sleep When You’re Dead Blog.  For the last couple of months, I’ve enjoyed reading Kyle’s blog as he writes about many of the same topics that I do including fly fishing and bird hunting with Brittanies, a man after my own heart.  I was grateful when Kyle agreed to review my book on his blog.  Here’s a little excerpt from the review:

This book, titled Heaven on Earth is a glimpse into his personal life and how, through the tough parts of his life, he found little slices of heaven through faith and fly fishing.  My favorite line of the book describes how Andy coped with a busy schedule and demanding law school.  On page 57, “I later learned, however that after the first semester I was second in my class.  I am confident that this result was because of hard work, fervent prayer, and last but not least, finding reprieve from the pressure in the outdoors.  This is a trifecta for success that I would recommend to anyone in almost any situation.”

The book is not a hard read and I recommend it to anyone who fly fishes and feels run down at time by the demands of life.

For those interested, here is the link to the rest of Kyle’s REVIEW. 

The only place to obtain signed copies of my book (or paper copies for that matter) is through the following website: www.heavenonearthbook.com.  There are only about forty copies left of the first edition.  After these sell out, I will seek a new publisher for the book.  For you techies out there, the book will continue to be available on KINDLE and NOOK.

Thanks for stopping by!

Keep fishin’ with faith!

Andy

WHEN LIFE HANDS YOU LEMONS, SHUT UP AND FISH!

You ever had one of those fishing trips where everything seems to go wrong?  I had one of those days yesterday.  To begin with, it was hotter than Hades and all I wanted to do was escape to the mountains in my car while cranking the AC.  So at 2:00 p.m., I grabbed my fly rod and loaded up my French Brittany Sunny Girl and we headed for the hills.

However, as I drove up the canyon dirt road to get to my destination, my Honda CRV started overheating.  I bought this car back in April because my ”trusty” Subaru Legacy wagon blew a head gasket, which, as a result, caused it to overheat.  I thought to myself: Here we go again!  I turned off the AC and turned on the heater (in the 95 degree weather, mind you) and the temperature needle dropped immediately, but admittedly, the car trouble put a little damper on the excursion.

Brother Jake fishes Trickle Creek during the Summer of 2012.

Upon reaching my destination, a tiny creek I lovingly call, “Trickle Creek,” I decided that since I was here, I was going to fish anyway.  I put together my four piece, TFO, 3 weight rod, which is perfect for this little stream, and then realized that the reel was at home in my backpack.  “Dumb Dora!”  My first impression was to call it quits and get while the getting was good.  But I looked through the back of the car and spied a 5 Weight Orvis Clearwater Reel and threw that on.  This ought to be interesting, I thought to myself.

With the oversized line strung through the rod, I tied on a Chubby Mormon Girl, which is a fly tied by my brother, Shawn.  Regarding its name, I think brother Shawn should have a little more respect for his roots.  But I will say that the crazy foam fly is perfect for western waters as it could represent a Yellow Sally, a stone fly, or a grasshopper.  The cutthroat of Trickle Creek went after the fly like gang busters, but, to my chagrin, I kept missing them.  “Man, I am stinking up this joint!” I exclaimed in frustration as I wiped the sweat from my brow.

After missing five fish in a row, I realized something had to be wrong.  So I pulled the fly up to my eyes and noticed that the very tip of the hook was busted clean off!  Argggh!   It was as if the elements were conspiring against my humble desire to catch a fish.

I disgustedly clipped off the fly and looked through my fly box for something to fix this fiasco of a fishing trip.  I tied on a Yellow PMX too big for this water and drove down the road to some other prime stretches of the creek.  Without the AC on the car did fine.  So my attitude improved some.

I parked, climbed a barbwire fence, and fished some of my favorite holes and, despite the oversized PMX, the Cutties attacked it with a vengeance.  Soon fish started coming to hand regularly and my earlier stress began to dissipate.  It was so hot that Sunny Girl mostly watched me fish while laying in the stream, which looked refreshing and tempting.

Yellowstone Cutthroat are simply beautiful.

After busting the PMX off on an overhanging tree, I tied on a “Mother Chukar,” a fly much like a Stimulator tied with chukar feathers and legs in the shape of an X (I know, I know, this fly’s name is as bad as the Chubby Mormon Girl, but I didn’t make it up!).  In one particular plunge pool, I cast my fly, a large fish pounced on it, and I stung him but missed.  I thought: That’s it for this fish and this pool.  Notwithstanding, I gave it one last token cast and, against the odds, the big fish just couldn’t resist.  Upon landing this beauty, I realized that this was the biggest fish I had ever seen from Trickle Creek.  When the time came to head home, my whole attitude had improved significantly.

The big beautiful cutthroat from Trickle Creek.

As an attorney, I deal with difficult situations every day.  So I keep the following quote from Charles R. Swindoll posted on my wall at work to remind me of the importance of a positive attitude:

The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life.

T he remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past… we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude… I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.

And so it is with you… we are in charge of our attitudes.

And so it is with fishing.  Through all the little setbacks on this fishing trip, I learned an important lesson: Every single second we fishermen spend on the water is a gift and our attitudes should reflect this.  So when life hands you lemons on a trout stream, shut up and fish! 

Thanks for stopping by.  If you like this post, check out my book: Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.  I’m sure you’ll love it!

FROM DAWN TO DUSK

This past weekend, I was blessed with the opportunity to fish two days with my brother, Shawn, on the Arkansas River in Colorado.  In fact, my good brother gave me the airplane ticket as an early birthday present.  It just so happened that our trip fell right on the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year.  What better day could there be to go fishing?

When we arrived at the river early Friday morning, we drove across a bridge to scope things out.  Upon seeing the river’s conditions, Shawn excitedly stated to me, “The river is perfect!  The runoff is almost over and the fish will be stacked up in the clear water right along the banks.  We are in for a banner day!”  Shawn first learned this fact from Bill Edrington, the man who wrote the book, Fly Fishing the Arkansas River: An Angler’s Guide and Journal.  With this information, Shawn soon learned firsthand that Edrington hit it right on the mark.  We had been listening to the new Barenaked Ladies’ song, “Odds Are” that morning, and Shawn jokingly changed the lyrics to “Odds are that we will probably be on fish.  Odds are we gonna be on fish, Odds are we gonna be on fish tonight.”

Brown trout in boulder strewn runs.

After an excellent breakfast at a nearby diner, we drove across the bridge to a sportsman’s access and parked.  I rigged up my three weight TFO with a Stimulator as the lead fly and a Gold Ice Nymph as the dropper.  We first fished a stretch above the bridge.  Right off the bat, we were into trout.  Shawn was right: The fish were all within 1 to 4 feet of the bank in the clear ribbon of water, especially around the bigger boulders.

After fishing this area, we walked downstream through a cactus-covered old homestead along the banks of the river.  Shawn wanted us to fish this side channel of the river so we bush-wacked our way through the willows to an  awesome boulder-strewn stretch.  The character of the river in this area reminded me so much of the Madison River below $3.00 Bridge, except in a desert setting.  Like the Madison, the boulder bottom is super slippery and some areas were harrowing to wade.  Like the Madison, the river is stacked with brown trout.

Shawn fishes the river of his heart.

Shawn knows his river well and with his help, I was hooking into browns regularly.  The Ark holds about 90% brown trout and 10% rainbows, but I hooked no rainbows that first day.  Shawn and I fished together and took turns.  With the strong headwind, I was at a disadvantage with the 3 weight rod, but the number of fish and their willingness to bite made up for my handicap.  There were multiple times when Shawn and I had on doubles.

Andy battles a nice brown in the fast current

As Shawn had earlier predicted, the fishing slowed in the early afternoon.  So we drove to a small creek in the Sangre De Cristos Mountains that Shawn has lovingly dubbed, “Can’t Tell Ya Creek.”   The alpine scenery was very beautiful, but the forest was way too mature and unhealthy in many areas.  As soon as I saw the creek, I knew we were in for some serious bush-wacking and mountaineering.  The creek is surrounded by every obstruction imaginable and makes for tough casting and even tougher hiking.  Shawn then told me that I should have worn pants because my legs would get shredded by the end of our time there.  Admittedly, pants would have been nice, but fortunately, I didn’t shed too much blood that afternoon.

Shawn at Can’t Tell Ya Creek.

The bulk of the fish we caught were brook trout, which were more colorful than any I have ever observed.  But I did catch one gorgeous native Greenback Cutthroat that was as beautiful as any fish I have ever caught.  I also caught a weird silver brook trout that had no spots or typical coloration.  At first, I thought it might be a bull trout, but then realized that there are no bull trout in Colorado.  Whatever it was, it was weird.

Native Colorado Greenback

 

At one point, Shawn snuck up to a hole on his hands and knees through the tight surrounding trees.  He then cast and caught a fish.  When it came my turn, I crawled into a little divot, sat on my rump, and had to do a short, ridiculous side-arm cast to get my fly out on the water to hopefully hook what we thought would be a nice cutthroat only to find that it was another brook trout.  Shawn was really concerned about the cutthroat because the stretch we fished usually holds Greenbacks.  Shortly thereafter, we decided to hike out of there and get back to Barry’s Den, a restaurant at Texas Creek, for a brisket dinner, which was a great call.

Weird Brook Trout with no spots or typical coloration.

After dinner, we fished a different stretch of the Ark with some success.  Shawn let me use a 5 weight Winston rod, which is much better suited for this river than my three weight, especially in the wind. To get out of the wind, we drove back downstream and fished another stretch of river that was sheltered by the surrounding landscape and large cottonwood trees.  I used a foam body Yellow Sally pattern invented by Shawn and the trout absolutely loved it.  We named it, the “Mustang Sally” and I had to sing the song in a growly voice as I hooked into so many fish.  In a shallow area around a willow-lined bend, I hooked this 18 inch brown trout that put on a show of acrobatics like a rainbow.  “That’s a monster!” Shawn said with eyes the size of dinner plates.  I fought the brownie all the way to the bank and tried to beach him when he came unhooked.  Shawn lunged to try and bring the fish to hand but it quickly escaped.  Heck of a fish!

The smoke from the surrounding Colorado fires caused the setting sun to shed a blood red light on the river and the surrounding desert landscape .  It was quite stunning.  And the fishing that evening was simply phenomenal.  I can see why Shawn loves this river so much.  We caught brown trout all day primarily on dry flies.  There’s not many places where you say that.  Shawn fittingly posted on facebook: “Colorado may be burning, but the Ark is on fire!”  It was truly one of the most memorable days of fishing I have ever experienced.  Not just any day mind you, but the longest day of the year.  We literally fished from dawn to dusk.

The blood red sunset.

From dawn till dusk.

Smoke on the water. . . And fire in the sky!

FULL CIRCLE

Next month I turn the big 4-0.  Where does the time go? I have been an angler as long as I can remember and a fly fisherman for 18 years now.  I have fished more in those years than most people do in a lifetime and I have truly loved it.  I can attest that fly fishing has greatly enriched my life.

The author shows off a nice cutthroat.

Many have written about the progression of an angler, but I think the following quote from Bob Knoebel, a Guide at Silver Creek Outfitters in Ketchum, probably sums it up best:

“The progression is a rather natural one:

Stage 1: I just want to catch a fish!

Stage 2: I just want to catch a lot of fish!

Stage 3: I want to catch big fish.

Stage 4: I’m just happy to be out fishing.

Stage 5:  I want to pass on my knowledge and passion for fishing.”

(“Five Stages of a Fisherman’s Life,” Sun Valley Magazine, Mike McKenna).

Looking back, I can attest that this is true to my experience.  I struggled for years to learn to fly fish and the goal at first was to just catch a fish or two.  Then, as I learned a little, I wanted to catch as many fish as I could.  Size did not matter as long as the fish were biting and I was hooking them.  For the last ten years, I have primarily hunted big trout in bigger waters with streamers and if I hooked one trophy fish per outing that was enough.  But admittedly, in the hunt for big fish, I felt that something was missing.  I lost some of the joy and sense of adventure that drew me to fly fishing in the first place.  But in the past few years, I have rediscovered that joy by returning to small creeks where I first cut my teeth as a fly fisherman.  Truly, I found that it was fun just to be on the water and the size of the fish did not matter so much anymore.

I love big native cutties!

And lastly, I can honestly state that I now find as much (or maybe even more) excitement and joy in teaching others about fly fishing and seeing them experience success.  Don’t get me wrong.  I still love to catch a lot of fish and big ones if I can get them, but I now find that my love of fly fishing involves so much more than just catching fish. I truly love to share my passion for fishing with others.  That is one of the main reasons I wrote my first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.

Last Saturday morning, a good friend, Scott Johnson, and I went to a creek near the Wyoming/Idaho border that I had only read about but never fished.  I picked Scott up at 5:32 a.m. and he gave me a hard time about being two minutes late.  When it comes to time on the water, as a newcomer to the sport, Scott doesn’t want to miss a second.  As a fellow incurable Mad Trouter, I get that passion.

We arrived about 7:30 a.m. at our destination and quickly found a turn-out to get us down by the ”creek.”  They call it a creek, but anywhere else, it would be considered a river.  This tributary to Palisades Reservoir is almost as big as the Big Wood River that I love so dearly.  However, in Eastern Idaho, the multiple tributaries to the world-renowned Henry’s Fork, the South Fork of the Snake River, and Palisades Reservoir often get lost in the shadows of their bigger relatives, which is perfect for the adventuring angler with a bit of wanderlust.  In other words, there are literally hundreds of miles of rivers, streams and creeks that hardly ever see an angler for those willing to get off the beaten path.  The past few years, I have had so much fun exploring and fishing as many of these waters as I can.

Scott plays a nice cutty from out of the Shadow pool.

To Scott’s chagrin, I already had my 5 weight rod rigged up with a two-nymph rig before we even arrived and, by the time Scott was ready to fish, I had already landed five fish and lost two others.  I stated to Scott that ”The secret to catching more fish is to have your fly in the water as much as possible.”  I also explained that when I fish I like to cover as much ground as possible to find the river’s most prime lies as that is where the majority of the fish hold.

Dang Tree!

Scott and I fished together that gorgeous morning and it wasn’t long before Scott started hooking many beautiful trout himself.  Together, we caught numerous cutthroat, browns, rainbows, and cutbows, some of which were surprisingly big for this river.   The best spots were in the deeper runs where the sunlight could not penetrate all the way to the depths, leaving the pool a darker, turquoise blue.  It was fun to see the flash of the trout striking our nymphs before the indicator showed any sign of the take.

Scott Johnson casts into a nice run along side a 100 foot cliff.

All said, we probably only fished a half-mile stretch of the river before we had to leave by 12:00 p.m..  It was that good!  We both hated to leave.

After all these years, my passion for fishing still burns, but, along with the graying of my hair, it has changed some, but not in a bad way.  In rediscovering smaller waters and sharing my passion with others, I have regained that sense of adventure, enjoyment, and awe that was missing for so many years.  It kind of feels like I have come around full circle.

Yellowstone Cutthroat have the most beautiful maroon gill plates.

CONSIDER THE LILY

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

Matthew 6: 28-29

My wife, Kristin, and I named our fourth daughter, “Lily,”  after one of my favorite scriptures in the New Testament, “Consider the lilies of the field . . . ” (Matthew 6: 28) and we’ve been considering her ever since.  She makes sure of it! You see, Lily is what we like to call, “sweet and sour.”  Sometimes she can be so cute and sweet it melts your heart and other times she can be so sour, it causes your face to pucker like when you eat “Atomic Warheads.”  Either way, we love her dearly and we take the good with the bad.

Lily is now four years old and is at the point where she loves to go fishing with her Dad.  Last Friday night, I tried to get the whole Wayment Clan to go fishing on the South Fork of the Snake River, but my son Ben didn’t feel well; so Kristin declined on the family fishing outing.  That night, I promised Lily I would take her fishing Saturday morning and we would get treats at the gas station.

Big sister Nessy poses with Lily’s catch on an earlier fishing trip this year.

And, after she awoke first thing Saturday morning, she came into my bedroom and forcefully reminded me of my promise, “Daddy, today I want you to take me fishing so that I can catch a fish, you can take my picture, and you can post it on Facebook.”

“Sounds like a plan!” I replied with a laugh.

When the sun was high and bright, my wife Kristin and I loaded up our three youngest kids, Eden, Lily and Ben and we traveled over to my favorite fishing spot on the South Fork.  We couldn’t get our three older stick-in-the-mud kids to go with us.  With such a beautiful day, the river was busy and many of the places that I wanted to fish were already taken.  Notwithstanding, we decided to give the river a try anyway.  Although it is so much bigger, I love this particular stretch of river because it reminds me of the Big Wood River with all the river’s channels and the surrounding cottonwoods.  So my nickname for this treasured spot is, “The BIG Big Wood.”

I put Ben in the toddler backpack and Lily stayed near my side as we worked some marginal-looking areas of the river.  Meanwhile, Kristin helped Eden fish with an Ugly Stick rigged with a Rapala.  We worked our way downstream to a prime lie along a slight bend in the monstrous river, where a fisherman had just fished through.  Hoping to get Lily into a fish, I decided to try it anyway while Lily patiently waited on the bank.

After about five minutes of fishing, the strike indicator jolted under the water and I set the hook.  I then hustled back to the bank and told Lily as I handed her the fly rod, “Here’s your fish, now you get to reel it in.”  The struggling trout was the perfect size for a four year old and, to my relief, stayed hooked.   When we finally got it to the bank, I took the obligatory photo of Lily with her catch on my iPhone.  Lily’s smile was unforgettable.

Lily struggles to reel in a nice South Fork trout.

Lily poses with her rainbow trout.

By this time, Ben was done riding in the backpack.  I asked Kristin if I could fish my way back to the car, to which she graciously agreed.  And I was glad to find that the fish were biting in this deep eddy, where I brought a few beauties to hand.  On the way home, we stopped by the Sinclair where Lily chose a Bug Juice and some Cheetos to celebrate her accomplishment.

Ben admires Dad’s nice cutty.

Later that day, as she had instructed, I posted the photos of Lily and her fish on Facebook.  I’m so grateful that we got to spend some time together on the river.  You know, the scripture sums up perfectly my sentiments on my daughter:  “Even Solomon and all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

For those of you who enjoyed this post, check out my book: www.heavenonearthbook.com.

KEEP FISHIN’ WITH FAITH!

Andy

THE K.O.D. OF TURKEY HUNTING

I have a confession to make.  When it comes to turkey hunting, I am the K.O.D. (the “Kiss of Death”), and that’s not a good thing.  I don’t know what it is, but I haven’t killed a turkey since law school, which was over ten years ago.  And it ain’t for lack of trying either.  I have hunted all over Idaho for turkeys and I even made a trip to north-central Kansas this past April on a hunt that I thought was sure to break the curse.  To my chagrin, I was plagued with bad luck the whole trip, but let’s start from the beginning.

On Wednesday, April 17th, at 3:00 a.m. in the morning, my good friend, Scott Johnson, his son, Brigham, and I headed from Idaho Falls towards Kansas.  We did not even make it to Pocatello in my “trusty” green Subaru before the car started overheating something fierce. I had never experienced this problem with the car before. Upon reaching Pocatello, we realized that my car would never make it to Kansas so we opted for Plan B and called and begged our wives to bring us Scott’s truck to make the journey.  This was at 4:00 a.m., mind you.  Most wives would tell you to go jump in a lake before making such an inconvenient journey, but not our ever-supportive wives.  Man, I love my wife!  With the diesel Chevy Truck, we were back in business and resumed our journey east towards Kansas.  But the worst was not behind us.

When we reached Rawlins, Wyoming, we found that Interstate 80 to the east was closed and we could not get a variance with the Wyoming State Police to keep traveling eastward by another route.  We ended up having to get a hotel room for the night in Rawlins.  I can honestly say that I have seen more of Rawlins than I ever cared to see and I have eaten at almost every single restaurant in that Podunk town.  I will say that, despite our predicament, we all kept a positive attitude and kept a smile on our faces.

While in Rawlins, we even visited the old Territorial Prison and Scott took this picture of me in the museum. How fitting, given our predicament!

Fortunately for us, the roads again opened at 8:00 a.m., Thursday morning, but the roads were super icy and dangerous as there were countless semi-truck drivers that were also glad to finally be on the move.  We were relieved to have Scott’s four-wheel drive diesel truck instead of my little Subaru for this harrowing leg of the journey. We proceeded with caution to Laramie to find, once again, that the Interstate to the east was closed.  Argghhh!  It was as if the elements had combined against me in getting a turkey.

We had no plans to drive through Colorado, but in desperation to get to our destination, we backtracked and took Highway 287 south to Fort Collins, Colorado, which was open . . . but just barely.  Only a few miles down this road, we hit total whiteout conditions.  I promised Scott, “It won’t be like this the whole way.  Once we get into the canyon and the trees, we should be able to see better.”  After a few more miles of white-knuckle driving, we made it to better roads and bluer skies.  The trip to Kansas thereafter was uneventful, but long.

Shawn’s unofficial world record Rio Grande Turkey. This bird had three beards with the total combined length of 22 inches. I’m telling you, this bird should be hanging on his wall!

We finally arrived at our destination–our friend Sterling Monroe’s home–that evening and went to dinner at the local diner.  Although we had lost a whole day of hunting, we were still in good spirits and excited to hunt the following day.  That night, as we waited for Brother Shawn to arrive, Sterling showed me an article in a hunting magazine reporting that the world record for the length of a turkey beard was 22 inches.  The bird in question had three beards, the lengths of which, when added together, equaled 22 inches.  Sterling then said, “Shawn’s turkey that he killed here last year–the first hour of the first evening–also had three beards and the total length of them was 25.25 inches.  It would have been the world record.  I tried to get Shawn to mount that bird, but he wouldn’t do it.”

“Are you kidding me?  That lucky sucker!  What a knucklehead!” I said with a grin.

The proof is in the pudding. These are the three beards of Brother Shawn’s unofficial world record.

After a tiring day on the road, we all hit the sack around 10:00 p.m. and Shawn arrived around midnight.  The following morning we all awoke to a solid breakfast prepared by our gracious host, Sterling. We discussed our plans for the hunt that morning.

Shawn and I were assigned by Sterling to hunt one blind set in the corner of an agricultural field next to a finger of trees and plum thickets with a hayfield on the opposite side of the woods.  Before we left, because of my back problems, I thought to ask Sterling if there were chairs in the blind, but then thought that this was a given and did not raise the question.  BIG MISTAKE!

Upon arriving at the tent blind and looking inside, we found no chairs in the blind. Now I don’t mean to sound like a wuss, but since my back surgery, I don’t do so well sitting and kneeling on the ground as my legs go numb.  Shawn and I chatted quietly and passed the time and tried to call in a bird. We had one gobbler in the field behind us respond to our calls, but he seemed to be going away from us rather than coming in.  Shawn and I talked about how he harvested and ate that world record turkey last year.

Shawn tried to do a gobble with this call and the rubber piece flew out the window of the blind. We had a good laugh over that one.

After about two and a half hours of sitting and kneeling, I was in terrible pain, and I finally said to Shawn, “Brother, I’m sorry to be a wuss, but I can’t sit on the ground anymore.  I need to take a break and stretch my legs.  Give me your keys so I can go sit in the truck for a minute.”

Shawn handed me his keys and I quietly walked back to his truck.  I left my shotgun with the thought that I would return in a while.  When I got the truck, I pulled out my iPhone and began to answer a few emails. I couldn’t have been there five minutes when I looked up and right in front of the truck was a long-bearded gobbler heading right for the blind.  If I had my gun, he would have been a dead bird!

I instantly started texting Shawn to let him know that a strutter was coming his way.  I just knew this was a dead bird and I waited with anticipation to hear the report of the shotgun.  It seemed like forever, but I soon heard the BOOM! and I ran down to the blind to celebrate with Shawn his success.

This is the very text string I sent to Shawn when I saw the boss gobbler heading his way. That lucky sucker!

“WAHOO!”  I heard Shawn holler.  “Brother, I am the World’s Luckiest Turkey Hunter! When I figured you were back at the truck, I decided to do some calling and I heard the unmistakable GBLGBLGBLGBLLL!!!! I knew he was coming.  So I zipped up all the windows hoping to determine which way he was coming in.  I unzipped the front window just a crack and there he was strutting as he came into the decoys.  When he got to about 40 yards, I couldn’t wait anymore and dropped him. I’m the World’s Luckiest Turkey Hunter!”  He exclaimed with a laugh.

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SOUTH FORK FORTUNE

I live in Idaho Falls close to some of the best fishing in the world, the Henry’s Fork, the Fall River, the Teton River, and the South Fork. Of all those big rivers, I struggle most with the mighty South Fork of the Snake River, a monstrous river loaded with cutthroat and brown trout.  Sure, I’ve had some stellar days on this river, but I’ve experienced far more disappointing days where I was lucky to get a fish or two.  Many times I have walked away with the essence of Pepe Le Pew.  You could say that the South Fork’s finicky nature has never endeared me to it.  That is, until last Monday.

With the summer-like temperatures lately in Eastern Idaho, I have been bitten by the fishing bug something fierce. Last Saturday morning, I went to my usual spot on the Snake River, that I lovingly call “The Mini-Madison,” but I have yet to move a fish there this year. So after a half hour of fruitless casting, I decided to broaden my horizons and head to the South Fork. I traveled over to the Big Feeder Canal Diversion and fished around there for a while with no luck, so I headed up river, but did not find any ideal water for a wade fishermen.

As a last-ditch effort, I headed down river past Heise and found some excellent holding water where the river divides into various channels and takes on the character of the smaller rivers that I love. The river level was perfect and I could wade out to some excellent holding water. I actually caught a nice cutthroat and a white fish just before it was time to head home, but my appetite to fish had not been satiated in the least bit.

I don’t fish on Sundays, as I believe in observing the Sabbath.  However, I was thinking about the South Fork all day and the potential of this new-found area as a go-to spot, which kind of reminds me of that old saying: “It’s better to be out fishing thinking about God than to be at church thinking about fishing.” I know it’s important to be at church, but there are times . . .

Monday rolled around and it was absolutely beautiful, but I had to work. When I got home that evening, I asked my wife, “Kristin, can we take the family out for an evening of fishing?”

“I guess so, but are you going to fish the whole time or are you going to help the kids?” She asked sternly.

“I promise I will help the kids.” I assured her.

As we packed the Yukon, the kids invited our two neighbor boys, Dreyden and Skyler, along for the outing. With my huge clan and two extras, we were packed in like sardines in the Yukon, but we all had a smile on our face and I had that unmistakable feeling that we were in for a banner night.

Below is my journal entry from this night:

We again went to the stretch of river below Heise and it was absolutely phenomenal. I found this ripple where the fish were stacked up. At first I was hitting a marginal area with my casts and caught a few fish, but then I cast up into the shallower head of the riffle and had a strike. I instantly sensed that the bulk of the fish were in that shallower area of the riffle picking off the copious table-fare that came their way. After that, the action was fast and furious. I would hook the fish and then hand the rod over to the kids. Each kid reeled in about 3 to 4 fish each.

Nessy helps Lily reel in a nice trout.

Big sister Nessy poses with Lily’s catch.

The coolest thing of the night was when little Skyler, the younger of the two neighbor boys, cast the Ugly Stick rigged with a Panther Martin out into the riffle and hooked the biggest trout of the night, a 16-inch brown trout. I’ll never forget the look of that cute kid as he squealed with pleasure and struggled against a monster trout that he cast to and hooked all by himself. That’s what it is all about! I had to help him reel in the fish because of the junky reel we have on the Ugly Stick.

The mighty fisherman, Skyler, tackles a big brown all by himself!

Big brother Dreyden poses with Skyler’s big brown trout.

I really felt like this was the perfect night to spend time with my kids and their friends.  The kids were thrilled with our success and I had a blast.  For once, my appetite to catch fish had been satisfied.  We drove home in the dark and I called Dreyden and Skyler’s grandpa and asked him to let Dreyden and Skyler’s mother know why we were so late.

My daughter Eden is so fun to fish with. She will get out and wade right beside me and she has no fear. I told her that if she can catch a fish on a fly rod all by herself, I will buy her one.

I’m convinced that the quality of the fishing was no coincidence; it was Divine Providence! I went back the following night by myself and the river had risen about six inches. The water level had raised from 12,000 cfs to 13,800 cfs in one twenty-four hour period. While I caught five decent trout, it was nowhere near the quality of the fishing the night before. With the increased flows, the rivers temperatures had dropped and without waders, the river was extremely cold.  We hit it perfectly Monday night! No doubt we had a little help.

Even Dad gets to reel in one nice trout every so often. Eden took the photo so its a little fuzzy and you can see her finger, but you can still see my big smile!

This morning, as I write this, the South Fork is over 18,000 cfs.  The area that we fished is completely underwater and will not be fishable for weeks.  Notwithstanding, I am warming up to the South Fork.  I can honestly say that I cannot wait to go back when the waters recede . . . with the kids, of course.  I’m convinced blessings come when we take kids fishing!

Author’s Note:  If you like this story, check out my book, Heaven on Earth Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith, at www.heavenonearthbook.com.  I’m sure you’ll love it.  Thanks for stopping by.

KEEP FISHIN’ WITH FAITH!

Andy

BRANDY: TOO SMART FOR HER OWN GOOD

In the fall of 2011, my Dad, who lives in Rupert, Idaho, which is 120 miles away from my home town, gave me a German Shorthair pup, named ”Brandy.” While Brandy had tremendous potential she was too high strung and too dang smart for her own good. She was too much for my aging parents and Dad decided he could not give her the attention that she needed.

Brandy

Because my first dearly departed bird dog, Rooty, was a GSP, I decided to add her to my pack of Brittanys.  Brandy just has that look of intelligence in her eyes, like other brag dogs I have observed over the years.  But it did not take long for Brandy to drive my family crazy with her shenanigans.  She whined while she was in her crate.  When we let her out in the house, she repeatedly peed on the floor.  When we put her outside, she would open the sliding glass door with her monstrous paws.  She was just so highstrung.  The last straw occurred when Brandy learned to jump our 6 foot backyard fence like it was nothing.  Shortly thereafter, my wife gave me an ultimatum: “Either Brandy goes or I will!”

This is the first bird Brandy ever smelled and it was like a light turned on in her head. After I put the bird in my game bag, she kept jumping up and putting her nose in the bag to suck in that bird scent.

In April of 2012, we decided to find Brandy a new home so Kristin posted an add on Craigslist.  We had numerous calls the first day.  We decided to give her to a family  in Pocatello, Idaho (50 miles away from Idaho Falls and about 75 miles from my parents in Rupert) that had another GSP.  I truly thought that would be the last I’d see or hear of Brandy, which was bittersweet because I knew she had real potential to be a great bird dog.  To illustrate this point, I want to share an entry from my journal on a Hun and Chukar hunt on December 24, 2012:

As I made my way across the steep ridge back toward the car, Brandy went on point: My pup’s first solid point!  Sunny soon came around me and backed Brandy from uphill.  It was truly a sight to behold.  Brandy happened to be pointing downhill towards a chokecherry tree that would have blocked any shot so I walked uphill to get into better position for the flush.  At that time, a deer bounced away about 75 yards downhill.  I then wondered whether Brandy was just pointing the deer and relaxed some.  BIG MISTAKE!  It was at this precise moment that the biggest covey of Huns I have ever seen (i.e. 50+ birds) flushed and I missed the only shot I took.  Notwithstanding, I was thrilled for the pup and felt bad for not connecting.  She will be a great one if I am just patient.

The author’s son, Tommy, celebrates Brandy’s first retrieve ever in October of 2011.

Now fast forward to two weeks ago, a year after we gave Brandy away. I was working hard in my office and I got a  call from my Mom.

“Andy, you’ll never guess who just showed up on my doorstep!”

From her tone, I suspected an ex-sister-in-law, but told her, “I don’t know.”

Mom, then replied, “Brandy!!!!”

“NO WAY!!!!” I retorted.

She confirmed it was true.

I called my wife and she promptly called the person we gave Brandy to a year ago.  The man reported to Kristin that he got rid of Brandy after only one month and that he gave her to a guy in Black Rock Canyon, which is 90 miles from my parent’s home in Rupert.  However, this guy did not know the name or contact information for Brandy’s new owner.

As we pieced together what happened, I was astounded.  Brandy had traveled at least 90 miles on foot to my Parent’s home well over a year after her last being there. How she did this is beyond me. I have no clue how she could even get her bearings to make such a trip.  Also, the major road to Rupert is an interstate and I’m not sure how Brandy survived the trip without a run-in with a vehicle.  Very impressive! All I can guess is that Brandy picked the one place where she felt most loved, which was at my parent’s home by my Dad, and she set out for it.  Like I said, she’s too smart for her own good!

But get this: Brandy is now well behaved and Mom and Dad are going to keep her!  Who would have thunk?  I’m telling you Brandy is super smart and will make a first-rate bird dog. I’m sure Dad will let me take her hunting every so often, but I’m sad not to be able to see what this genius is fully capable of in the field.