Dr. Faceshot. Paging Dr. Faceshot.

I certainly don't want to give the impression, what with my fawning over mid-February sunny afternoons on the river and all, that winter is over. Not by a long shot. Short-lived warm spells and superstitious woodchucks (eh hem, "groundhogs" in PA) aside, winter weather is still very much a threat--or a pleasure, depending on how you look at it--that western Montana will risk encountering well in to April. Hell, it's been known to snow in June and July in these parts. Since moving west nearly a dozen years ago, I've often wondered: does a freak snowstorm in July qualify as the last snowfall of the past winter, or the first snowfall of the coming one?

Any way you want to look at it, forecasts in mid-February that look like this (from the NOAA site):

This Afternoon: Snow. High near 35. West southwest wind around 10 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. Total daytime snow accumulation of 3 to 7 inches possible.

Tonight: Snow. Low around 23. West northwest wind 6 to 15 mph becoming southeast. Winds could gust as high as 23 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 7 to 11 inches possible.

Wednesday: Snow showers. Temperature rising to near 26 by noon, then falling to around 20 during the remainder of the day. Calm wind becoming south around 5 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 3 to 7 inches possible.

....can mean only one thing: White Room Wednesday. Bring your snorkel or risk suffocation, kiddies. Game on.

Ready, Set, Go!

Like an old friend dropping by unexpectedly, the odd--yet not that unusual--mid February warm up is a welcome surprise every year in western Montana. You can't predict when it'll come, and if you don't act fast you'll miss it. Rest assured, it is still absolutely, positively winter. After three days of above 40 degree temps and mostly sunny skies, things are cooling right back off this evening and the mountains are expecting 8-10" tomorrow. Good thing the skis are still leaning in the corner of the kitchen, the pool of water collected at the tails having only recently dried from the last blower pow day.

We thought about resisting the lemming-like urge to hurl ourselves in to the nearest open piece of water come Sunday's sunny, 50-degree afternoon, but it was futile. Come 2 p.m., we were driving down the Root, poking in to fishing accesses only to find three, four, six SUVs and pick-ups sporting similar TU license plates and industry-related "cool" stickers on the back windows. Dirt bag fishing bums, every last one of us. Or at least we want to be. Anarchists unite.

Here is where I could ramble on about just how nice it was to be out, to soak up the sunshine, to run the dogs. And it was nice. We found a few decent winter runs to ourselves, kicked the gravel and talked about bugs. I even caught a few trout under the bobber, though the only cuttbow worthy of even a half-hearted point-and-shoot photo was snagged in the ass with a pink worm, and I figured that was already sufficient soul robbing of the critter for one day.

What caught me off guard, though it shouldn't, was how many damn people were out fishing that afternoon. It's safe to assume anyone who owns a fly rod has the shack nasties by mid-February, so it only makes sense that the Root, which usually warms up the fastest and starts fishing the earliest, would see some of it's first true pressure of the season on a weekend like this. But Jesus, you'd think it were first week of April and the skwalas were peaking. As we walked back to the truck, there had to be four or five boats pulling out at the bridge. Several looked to be brand spanking new: Christmas presents or splurges from last fall that had been just dying to make it out of the garage on a maiden voyage. My old roommate had floated from here down. Two other friends were taking out here. Wade fishermen were scattered throughout all the visible, likely-looking runs. I wouldn't have been surprised if a guide had rolled up with clients, sporting his shiny new 2011 tags.

Poor trout. Suckers have a reputation for being smart (well, then there's cutties...), but against these odds many of them don't stand a chance. All of a sudden, after what really only amounts to two or three months of relative peace and quiet, every potential food source once again becomes suspiciously threatening. Stonefly nymphs bite back and scar lips. Other fish's eggs swim upstream through the current before miraculously launching from the water--only to reappear again moments later. And you'd be smart to question any big, squirmy-looking creature wiggling across the surface of the water before taking a bite...especially if it's pink or chartreuse.

Yep, let the games begin. As an outfitter I work for often says, in the spring it's not so much about fly pattern as it is boat position. Get up early, get out fast, keep moving. I have friends and colleagues who love this type of float fishing. I tend to prefer a mellower pace and will opt for lower fish counts or slower overall action in favor of fewer boats and less molested trout. Maybe it's just me, but I didn't come to Montana to get in line. So as winter breaks free and spring fishing actually starts to show signs of heating up (as opposed to this mid-winter tease), I'll take every chance I get to wander around a bit and find some good fishing outside of the daily Bitterroot skwala junk show. You'd be wise to do the same--just don't follow me.

"Those fish are spawning and we will try to get them to take a fly as we roll it past their nose."

Missoulian outdoor columnist and host of the weekly Montana Outdoor Radio Show Mark Ward wrote this article about "fly fishing" for steelhead that ran in the Jan. 27 issue.

Come on, Mark. As a somewhat credible, somewhat locally-known outdoor "personality," try not to come off as a total JONG. It's obvious you don't know jack about fly fishing for steelhead-or fly fishing in general for that matter-but at least have the nerve to sack up and tell it like it is:

"Fly fishing" for steelhead does not involve 11 foot nymph rigs, six BB split shot and two "black and red nymph flies" tethered to 15lb Maxima. Nor does it involve dragging said rig across the faces of a few thousand exhausted fish attempting to spawn in gin clear water while they sit literally trapped at the base of a giant, non-negotiable concrete wall. If you had even the most basic appreciation of the history, culture and inherently existentialist nature of fly fishing for steelhead, then you would know it certainly does not involve yahoos like you and your buddy hooking 20 fish in a day. And I swear on the grave of Roderick-Haig Brown and everything that is holy in this sport: fly fishing for steelhead does not have a goddamn thing to do with "rubbing a little crawdad smelly jelly" on your fly. Fuck.

Hey, that looks like a good hole!

But you know what all of those things do have to do with? Snagging spawning steelhead off of their redds and bragging about it in the newspaper. I mean, the quote of your buddy's you used is priceless. Really? You're lucky the Missoula PETA freaks haven't found you yet!

Now, I'll grant you that the North and South Fork steelhead fisheries have become all-out meat markets, with fishermen from all walks of life throwing every conceivable piece of hardware directly on to the skulls of the biggest fish they will likely ever see. And that's fine. Though I'll never be caught dead setting foot in the North Fork with the intention of fishing for those rotting, doomed husks of what were once magnificent creatures, I have been known to occasionally nymph the muddy ditch we affectionately know as the South Fork and get some steelhead jizz on my waders. But at least I can't see them, and I'm not afraid to admit what it is: glorified snagging with a fly pole.

So if it cranks your stoke to rip the hatchery brats off redds as they bump their faces against the foundation of Dworshak, fine. I couldn't give a damn how you choose to fish for steelhead. Just know that it's unethical, it's sleazy and it is without a doubt anything but fly fishing for steelhead. So please don't write about it like it is, and stay the hell out of the way of me and anyone else fly fishing for them in a respectable manner.

By the way, the technique you described is far easier to chunk on a spinning rod. The rig sinks down "in the zone" faster, and then you don't have to like, fly cast and stuff.

Next time Mark, try these. They work waaaaay better than those silly flies.


And lastly, a priceless second opinion on the matter:

Run Off? Is that you?

Nope, it sure isn't. But if you cover one eye and quickly steal a glance at the hydrographs for Missoula-area rivers, you might think it were June. Inches of rain on top of snow the past couple of days have doubled the size of our rivers, and since all this rain is decidedly not rain above 6500 feet or so, we continue to sit in a pretty good spot this winter as far as water is concerned. Bring it on, La Niña.

New Look, Same Fishy Taste!

If you're gonna be stoked about your blog, you better like the way it looks. As an extra motivation to getting BHWM fired up and kicking again, I mixed things up a bit. Not that I disliked the old look, it was just becoming a little stagnant.

This seems a lot more fishy to me—and a lot less dark and scary. Just look how stoked Big Timber and Baker are. If you want to leave me a comment and let me know your reaction to the new steez, feel free. Or don't—I won't reply anyway.

S.A.D.

It hits every year at this time. It's not like it creeps up on you. Those of us who choose to live in this part of the world have seen it coming for months—the warmer seasons inevitably surrendering to the sulking gray ceiling and scattered snowflakes of a long Missoula winter. The summer toys are put away, the rafts stacked half-inflated in the garage, quietly waiting it out like old dogs who know better than to go outside in the cold. The focus doesn't fade, but it changes.

Not that winter is bad—winter means watching the sun rise over decoy spreads bobbing in steaming side channels, football and, if we're lucky, lots and lots of face shots.

Freshly satiated off big game and upland bird seasons, late-season trouting and, again if we're lucky, a few swung steelhead, most junkies manage to keep the fire stoked well in to late December. A waxing ski year and a waning waterfowl season further lend a hand in keeping the shack nasties at bay.

Never is that more true than during a winter like the one we're having, what with La Niña frequently puking her frozen goodness in the high country and all. Two weeks ago, snowfall amounts at several Montana ski areas were ranked amongst some of the most famous snow meccas in the West, at least temporarily silencing the argument that our snow has a tendency to, well, suck. Early season has been deep, if not downright dangerous—avalanches and tree wells have claimed the lives of multiple skiers and snowmobilers over the past few weeks as the snow continues to pile up.

But at some point, as if it's in fact too good to be true, things change again. In western Montana, that all too often means interrupting a perfectly good, crushing snow year with a week of warm weather and rain. This year, the unwanted warm-up and steady rainfall has the nerve to come just after the close of waterfowl season, effectively shutting folks like us indoors with little to do but hunker down and watch it pour while we wait for the snowpack to recover.

Having once again failed to plan ahead and figure a plane ride south of the Equator, I'm forced to break out my best coping mechanisms for this annual outbreak of S.A.D., or Seasonal Affective Disorder. An actual clinical term for cabin fever, S.A.D. always seems to hit me the hardest in mid-late January. With bowl season over, our beloved powder experiencing an old-fashioned flogging and every game animal in the woods breathing a collective sigh of relief, NetFlix downloads and used book sales take a decisive jump as Missoulians struggle to pass away the gray without sitting on a barstool—or gnawing their own arm off.

For me, this time of year forces me to start the always-daunting winter fly tying production. Up to this point I had all of the excuses I needed to avoid tying the dozens of these and tens of dozens of those that my clients will need to catch trout, trees and/or my various body parts come summer. But now, with the rain falling and the tying desk fully cleaned, organized and ready to be destroyed, it's time to start cranking.

As inevitable as each winter's S.A.D. outbreak, spring is not far off. It won't take many days of February sunshine to stir the skwala nymphs and the trout that are lying in wait to eat them. Once the circus starts, the rest of the season always seems to have a way of snowballing from one hatch to another, leaving little time to prepare for the next big event. If that weren't enough to get the fingers spinning, I know for a fact there are a few thousand B-run steelhead sitting in the main Clearwater, just begging all of us to come over the hill and hit them in the head with our miniature boat anchors and "flies" when the water starts to bump. The list of old stand-bys and new ideas needing to be twisted in to existence seems never-ending, and no matter how much I get done, I'll still run out of the most basic bugs by mid July, frantically running in to fly shops before my morning meet times to buy handfuls of Pat's rubberlegs.

There's no better time to get going. Then again, I could always watch another episode of West Wing...

Signs of winter...

If you live in western Montana, it's hard to say no to wild game dinners in the dead of winter. Freezers are full, the world outside is encased in ice (or fresh snow, or slush, or rain if you live in Missoula...) and there aren't many things that feel more worthwhile or wholesome than to have a few friends over, open a bottle of wine and eat some dead critters.


Compliments of several different contributors, this evening's cuisine consisted of soy sauce/ginger/garlic marinated mallard breast under the broiler, whitetail backstrap marsala and, for an exclamation point, elk backstrap on the grill. Oh, and steamed spinach and Caesar salad, but those don't really count. What counts is sharing the fruits of our labor and enjoyment from the past season while chowing on some of the most delicious, pure food on the planet. ¡Provecho!

An untimely update.

Alright, I'll admit I've been a little lackadaisical in blogging recently. OK, non-existent. Bottom line: it was a busy summer, me and a bunch of other people were wrong about the water thanks to A TON of rain during April-June, and the fishing was great, albeit odd. Hatches were stalled, if not "canceled" altogether, and up until just yesterday, we were still waiting for the first solid overcast of the fall season to bring on mahoganies and BWO's (at least with any consistency). Now that fall weather seems to be here to stay, I'd anticipate awesome dry fly and streamer fishing from now until it gets cold. Bow, backcountry, and waterfowl seasons are open, and the willows are turning yellow. Four days from now I can legally shoot technicolor ditch parrots. It's here, and it's all good.
Irregardless, I kept ya'll out of the loop (who are "ya'll?" No one reads this shit.) for the whole season. So there's no better time than right now, the start of hunting and steelhead season, when all the really beautiful things in the western US are happening, than to reflect on a season of trout fishing with some gratuitous hero shots of some of the more impressive fish that made the mistake of eating my flies this summer. Enjoy, and in the coming weeks make sure to take advantage of all the stuff that doesn't have ice and snow on it yet.

Tailing Loops

Observation: I'm slipping. There was a time when I proudly placed myself in that now so often-overused category of trout bum; I didn't make any money, but I also didn't have any real responsibilities that prevented me from fishing eight days a week. Although certainly not the best trout fisherman in the world, or the county, or even this neighborhood (you have to consider my surroundings. Insert appropriate Norman Maclean quote here), I was good. Really good. If practice makes perfect, I was doing my best to achieve a perfect 10 in the trout-nerd subculture.

Fast-forward 49 dog-years. My obsession and "drive," if you can really use that term in this context, has kept me in the Big Sky where I'm managing to scratch out a living rowing boats and keeping people alive and entertained while they catch some trout. A lot of folks say I've got the best job in the world. I agree. Taking people fishing and introducing them to an activity I feel so strongly about is the most enjoyable thing I've ever received a paycheck for, and even if it comes with it's share of ups and downs, there's nothing else I'd rather be doing.

The fact that I love my job is not the point here, however. The point, per se, is that while I have managed to pay the bills while working in the fishing industry, all while continuing to live in the best place in the lower 48, the amount of time I spend actually fishing these days is surprisingly low. And it shows. Sure, I get out this time of year, when the warm weather melts away the seasonal affective disorder and the first stoneflies of the year begin to die untimely deaths in the mouths of hungry, heartless predators. Every spring I'm reminded of why I love this game when I see my skwala disappear in a confident boil: the first dry fly eat of the season. It will always be fun.

But I'm also reminded of how quickly one can fall from grace without practice. I haven't forgotten how to cast; the fly still gets where I need it to be, it just isn't very pretty (I'm a big fan of the overshoot-drag-mend-it-in-to-the-spot technique). And it's not a matter of knocking loose the cobwebs, breaking in to my stride just as the salmonflies pop, because there won't be any time for cobweb-clearing. About the time I remember how to not throw a tailing loop in a 30 foot cast and the big bugs start crawling down my neck, John and Jane Doe climb in my boat, and they don't leave until October. John and Jane don't let me fish very much, and they shouldn't, because this is their time on the water and I need to make a living.

Where this leaves me by mid-season, however, is sitting in my office chair with a fairly comprehensive understanding of where the fish live and what they want to eat, but with a personal inability to catch them myself. I can row the boat for days on end without tiring, and tie blood knots with an efficiency that surprises even me sometimes. But ask me to stack mend a drift in to a pod of risers and you might as well throw a lit quarter-stick of dynamite at the lead fish's nose and hold your breath.

There's an old motto in the guide community that you never want to make a cast with a client's rod, even if they ask you to for demonstration purposes or otherwise. The assumption being, and I've seen it happen many times, that even if a trout hasn't made an appearance all day, as soon as the guide makes a cast, a fish will eat the fly. This can brighten some client's spirits, inject them with a renewed sense of confidence, and place you on a pedestal of Poseidon-like stature in their minds. Or it can piss the fuck out of them and you can kiss your tip goodbye.

I think when it all boils down, however, the real reason behind this old rule of thumb is most guides just don't want to show their clients how bad we actually are with a fly rod in our hands.

Missoula Monument to Honor Rev. Maclean, Architect Gibson

"The world is full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the further one gets from Missoula, Montana."

-Norman Maclean

A monument has been erected in front of the First Presbyterian Church, 235 S. Fifth St. W., in Missoula to honor the Reverend John Norman Maclean and architect A. J. Gibson. Via The Missoulian, Oct. 8, 2009.

http://www.missoulian.com/news/local/article_9ce5cace-b3be-11de-b972-001cc4c002e0.html

The Reverend John Norman Maclean