Sunday, April 23, 2017

My newest fishing partner.

What a hoot the last few years have been since the arrival of my newest fishing partner. I get a little less sleep and my back aches more than I let on but as anyone with children will tell you, it's all worth it.

I named my daughter Sawyer which was a nod to my Grandpa Jim, aka Super Grandpa to me. He was a WWII veteran who was deployed overseas to France and then Germany having crossed the Remagen bridge.  He was returned to the US after loosing an arm in crossfire somewhere in the Black Forest of Germany. A few months before his death I asked him to tell me which novel he remembered most fondly from his childhood. He told me Mark Twain's novel, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. In honor of that moment we shared I named my daughter Sawyer.

She is my joy. Before Sawyer's arrival, I remember thinking that having kids would ruin fly fishing. Fortunately I was wrong and while my adventures are a little less far flung and frequent they are just as joyful and rewarding.   I've mentioned before that fly fishing can be a lonely endeavor and I used to reveled in that solitude.  Now I take pleasure in sharing a snack of gold fish crackers with my rugrat attached to my back as we tromp along the bank looking for fish. I've exchanged quietness for giggles and stillness for the plunking of pebbles into pools. All ruckus doesn't seem to bother the fish in the least as I am hardly a threat anymore. I haven't had any 20 fish days in months and months but my arms still get a workout from lifting my little towhead up to look for eggs in a bird nest or to help her leap over a fallen log. I smile more now and I have someone to smile with.   We are just starting our adventures together I remind myself often. Someday maybe she'll out fish me but until that day comes I'll gladly do all the heavy lifting.  

Sunday, January 31, 2016

One Cup Land, Two Cups Water, Sprinkle in Trout and Enjoy.

     Last spring I came to realize a lifelong goal of owning a piece of land in the mountains. It was the culmination of a decade of searching, and two years haggling and diplomacy. I owe much to my aunt who shares in part the same dream and who also provided an impressive down payment which sealed the deal on the property. The land has everything I want, solitude, wildlife and endless possibility. When I am not walking it's meadows or exploring it's forested borders I am thinking about it. In idle times, at night or early in the morning, my mind races with ideas for the land. I've pondered things like building an outhouse, bridges, tipis, and a dock.  My ideas of altering the property, ironically called "improving the land," contradict my own desire to preserve the wilderness which is why I love the retreat in the first place. It is a strange tug-of-war we humans play with creatures and wild places do to our yearning to enhance or tame our surroundings. 
   This is a fly fishing blog however which leads me to how I found the land in the first place. I was fishing of course. I like to think it was fishing that brought the land and I together. Here is a bit on how that happened.
              Experience has taught me that the best place to find fish is where there is water.  I say that tongue-in-cheek but in southern Idaho it is best to do a bit of research before going fishing. More than once I've driven two hours to little known reservoirs that fished well in the 1980s only to find them bone dry. Aside from research another way to eek out a little success in fly fishing for trout in southern Idaho is to fish early in the season. By early I mean January, February and March. I use the snow line as a gauge and try to hit my favorite lakes just as they thaw and stream when they are just at the melt line. There are plenty of trout to catch on the Snake, Payette and Boise river drainage in winter. These simple tricks help mitigate against reservoir and stream dry socket if you are willing to risk the weather. 

   As luck would have it these strategies lead me to Smiths Ferry, Idaho one warm spring day in March. I had been eyeing tributaries of the North Fork of the Payette and wanted to hit a few before spring runoff blew everything out. Mid afternoon found me exploring a creek that meandered its way through a narrow valley. Small but energetic brookies kept me entertained as I fished and drove higher up the valley. Soon deep snowdrifts hugged the road and I had a decision to make. If you have ever driven a backcounrty road in winter then you know the struggle I had at that moment. Press on and risk making the 10 o'clock missing persons news or turn back. I checked my phone, "no bars" and drove on compelled by adventure. The road was sketchy but never got worse as I climbed up to a ridge shouldering snow. Snowmobile tracks lead off in various directions but the main road headed down the other side of the ridge into thick Douglas fir and Ponderosa pine groves. A few shaded turns had me gripping the seat with my butt cheeks but I eventually started to descend into a wide, high valley filled with yellow Buttercups. From a height I could see clusters of Aspen groves and small meadows that cradled a series of reservoirs or ponds full of clean, cold water.  The whisper of fish urged me on. Intrigued, I explored the valley which held a few ancient and broken homestead cabins. A cattle ranch sign was the first bit of modern civilization. It warned me not to visit unless "By appointment only."  Spring had just starting to put on a show here. Purple, yellow and white wild flowers burst forth from dry clumps of last years meadow grass. No green on Aspen trees but their blotchy Dalmatian-like bark is always striking. I felt alone in a private sanctuary. So it came as a shock when I can across another sign newly hammered into the meadows wet soil. "For Sale." Behind the sign one of the little lakes or reservoirs I'd seen from the ridge, twinkled in the afternoon sun. I stood transfixed and then a glimmer of a thought took hold of me. "What if I could own this." I had found my dream and I was hooked. Visions of feisty rainbows filled my head as I stared at the water shimmering in the distance.
   On the drive home I daydreamed of cool, calm mornings adrift in my float tube. I also imagined inviting friends and family up to play, explore, fish and stay the night.
  My poor wife took the brunt of my neurotic quest for the property. She sat through my brainstorming and looked over my sketches of cabins and teeter-totters and bridges. She supported me as I conjured up wild financial schemes and tried to play them off as "really quite reasonable." We discussed the latest in culvert design and erosion mitigation. I worked and reworked budgets. The woman's stamina under my rants deserved my admiration. I am not known as the follow-through-type so my determination must have been disturbing to her. 

    We signed the deed in the spring, 2015. An exciting feature of the land is that it is nestled up to a little reservoir that I estimate at about 15 to 20 acres in size. The reservoir covers a corner of our property giving us about 2000 ft of shoreline and about 2 acres of submerged land. I couldn't wait to flick my line out that spring to check for fish. Everything about the little reservoir looked "fishy." The size was good. A quick trip out with my canoe revealed that it was about 14 feet deep at the dam. Water bugs and zillions of tadpoles cruised the shallow water by April. The valley sits at 5,000 feet elevation which I deemed would be helpful for keeping summer water temperatures down a bit. The potential for trout looked great.
   Before I had a chance to fish a local rancher told me "they used to grow some nice fish up here too...about that big." He then spread his hands about chest-width apart. "Then somebody stocked bullheads. Now they are everywhere and the trout are gone." 
   Unfortunately what the rancher said appears true. The reservoir has not seen a trout for more than 40 years I estimate. In fact, most of the habitat in the surrounding valley seems infected with bullhead catfish. While that news disappointed me, it also inspired me.  A catfish is a fish, not my favorite type but at least it is a start. I have found no evidence of native trout in any of the valley's small creeks so far but some ponds are stocked with trout by local ranchers and land owners. 

     With no trout to catch this year, I have turned my efforts to researching the area, its weather, wildlife and stake holders. On the bright side ranchers and old timers tell me the valley was once full of trout. Their stories, all to common nowadays, go something like this..."oh yes, we used to have trout up here in 50s, 60s and 70s but they are all gone now." Then they fill in the blank with a reason or hypothesis.., "disease, drought, government mismanagement, etc." The truth is that Idaho Fish and Game used to stock the lakes in that area when they had leftover fish after stocking Sagehen and Tripod reservoirs. At the time IDFG would stock trout for free if land owners provided public access. Stocking ended in part due to local ranchers who reported destruction of private property and then pointed their fingers at visiting campers, hunters and fisherman. I've had trouble finding any history of fish in the area prior to the 1950's, so native fish presence remains elusive. Most of what I have learned comes from listening to ranchers, the older the better.

The Lake Looking North
   The trout seem to be gone for now but I hope my future writing includes a comeback story. I have spoken with my High Valley neighbors, ranchers and some water rights holders. So far everyone agrees that having trout would bring back something that was lost. I hope in the years to come I will be writing about a wonderful day I had on the lake catching trout with my family and friends. One dream complete and a new one is born. "Can I restore the valley to whatever trout holding potential it had in the past?" Time will tell. 


Monday, December 8, 2014

The Social Fly Fisherman?: Part 1

Star catcher?
I spend ninety percent of my time fly fishing alone. I like to imagine this is because of my schedule (night shift) and not because I am terrible at making friends or have offensive body odor. Whatever the cause, fly fishing makes a fine companion for hermits like myself and any loneliness easily gives way to serenity and the joy of fishing at ones own pace. Early this year however, I made a bold, contrary move and looked into joining a local fly fishing club in Boise. My reasons were selfish which comes easily to hermit types. Five years of fishing solo had left me feeling somewhat unsupervised and unpolished. No fishing buddies meant no one around to critique my casting technique and so no way to know if I was doing it all wrong.  My time alone also left me wondering whether social, gregarious fly fishermen actually existed or if did the sport cater to mostly reclusive types.

The plan: First, find a club. Second, meet a few like-minded fly fishing enthusiasts to blabber with and spare my wife from another two hour monologue about how great fly fishing is, was and always will be. Third, buddy up some cool old club guy who would take me under his wing and show me all of his secret fishing spots, best fly patterns and pubs that had the coldest beer, served by the cutest waitresses. An ill-conceived plan is often worse than no plan at all I soon found out.

After Facebook stalking all potential candidates in the valley, I decided to sit in on a few club meetings. Before making any social commitments. I needed to feel out the vibe and glare at people from under the bill of my hat, which was part of the hermit's code. Each club offered fly tying, guest speakers and a promise of inclusion, but it was the club that offered free beer along with unlimited support for trout that caught my attention. Free beer delighted me for two reasons, first I am cheap and you can't beat free and second I have mild social anxiety and beer always makes a crowded room seem less hostile.
Rock on!
On the night of my first meeting I kissed the wife goodbye and dashed off excited that I was about to become part of something larger. I arrived early and sat down against an outside wall which offered a better vantage point for watching members toddle in. The meeting began and ended in much the same way, with the clearing of throats and little else.  The guest speaker however was amazing and the free beer kept my nervous hands company.  Unfortunately the clubs greeting party was absent and my reception cold.  As I recall not  a single member made an introduction, gave a smile or even a tossed me a glance. I was a fly on the wall among fly fishermen. I left feeling deflated.

On the drive home I thought to myself "should I really be surprised by the cold reception?" Maybe not. Maybe fly fishermen are all loners. What can one really expect from a gathering of hermits, who are not generally know for their hospitality. As far as I know there is no name for a gathering of hermits but if there ever has been one, the hermits soon realized what a mistake it was and quickly scattered.

Not wanting to admit defeat just yet, I attended another meeting the following month. The second wasn't much better and the meeting left me feeling like a hobbit that had stumbled into a fly fishing "Entmoot." To clarify, Ents are the ancient tree creatures in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and an "Entmoot" is a gathering of these creatures (maybe the closest thing to a gathering of hermits). Basically the meeting was attended by a bunch of old, groaning, grumpy, slow moving curmudgeons. For the record, I love old people. My career is working with them and I even have a specialty in geriatrics because I like that population so much. So why am I being ignored? I have unruly nose hair and am nearly bald, doesn't that make me an honorary member?  I skulked home again and whined to my wife about their obliviousness to other humans and their general lack of enthusiasm. She tried to help in the way girls like to help and recommended I introduce myself.  I chose to stomp around like an idiot, figuring they should be courting me not the other way around.

The third meeting I opted for a more radical strategy, knowing now that I had nothing to lose, I turned to fly fishing for inspiration. My plan was so deviously cleaver that it had to work. Mimicking is a survival strategy common among insects and this fly on the wall was about go Darwin on this club. What if these old codgers were no different than any wise old rainbow buck that scanned the waters surface and easily picked out and ignored the fake and hastily made flies. Maybe I was a player in a strange initiation process or test.  And then I realized what I had to do. I must become invisible to be seen. Like a perfectly tied fly, I would try to blend in and only then would I catch their attention.  And so it was that with each meeting my metamorphosis progressed. Board shorts were replaced with khaki pants, flip-flops exchanged for loafers. At the fifth meeting I even stuck a Smokey The Bear 50 year anniversary commemoration pin in my hat. I paid my dues and set my face into the grimace I saw all around me. And so it was for several months. I was a social fisherman alone in a crowded room.

The sixth meeting was held on a rainy day that made the stuffy meeting hall smell like feet. That night from among the clatter of coughs, grumbles and snapping knee joints that I heard my name called out by the club president at the lectern. As I walked up on stage to claim my hat, won in a raffle, I saw two dozen pairs of eyes look at me. It was in that moment that they finally noticed me. Their eyes puzzled over my existence, like someone who finds cat shit on the carpet but knows they don't have a cat. I wished I was invisible again as I shuffled back to my seat prize in hand. The hat incident concluded any desire to continue my membership with the club. It was clear that I didn't fit in with this crowd despite my best efforts. Time to move on.

In the end I didn't land an old fly fishing mentor or hear of any secret fishing holes but I didn't learn a few lessons from all this. First, be skeptical of anyone giving out free beer. Second, hermits don't shake hands, smile or chat about the weather, embrace them for who they are. Finally, if you find yourself in a deep pool full of cranky old bulltrout, don't expect even a eyes wink unless those eyes are looking to eat you. My next post will be part two. It will continue to chronicle my progress finding a fly fishing club to call home.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

The Highs and Lows of Fly Fishing in Valley County, Idaho.

Little Payette Lake driftwood.

Every year we take at least two trips to McCall, which means two times a year I get a free pass to go find fish under the guise of a family vacation. In a previous post, I rattle on about how difficult it is to find decent fishing and access onto the Payette river between McCall and Cascade. I stand by that, unless you find sickly, stocked rainbows and trespassing a thrill. I can't be all doom and gloom though as I recently heard whispers that the river improves as it nears Cascade reservoir. These same whisperers also told me that there can be great fly fishing opportunities in early spring, if you can find access and timing. For now I have given up flying fishing on both Payette lake and it's tail water, focusing instead on the breweries around McCall which are a great reason to visit even if the fishing isn't. I found the nicest people and the tastiest beer to at Broken Horn Brewing Company near the airport in McCall.

If I were me and I am, I'd stick to fishing the high mountain lakes in the surrounding area, they are a plenty and access ranges from parking onsite to two day hikes in. There are fishing guide books in town that can save you some walking and trial and error or (trail and error),  unless that's your forte.  I also fished some but by no means all of the larger lakes and reservoirs in Valley County and found them beautiful, uncrowded and well stocked. Goose Lake, Brundage and Big Hazard lakes are easy to access and if you check with the IDFG fish stocking reports you can plan accordingly for higher catch odds. Horsethief is stocked with browns and Little Payette lake is rumored to have decent smallmouth bass. That said,
Cruikshank Boulders
I added Little Payette lake to my dud list this year. It slapped me in the face with disappointment and was nearly high and dry by October. I was dying to fish it this fall after finding a little known access point onto the far side of the lake. Days of planning, satellite image searching, and county map reading lead me to an awesome pile of driftwood and mud. Turns out the "far side" of Little Payette is also the shallow side.

Note to self, "check a lakes water level before convincing your wife and in-laws that you have found the perfect fishing spot and its only 30 minutes down a sketchy, narrow, muddy jeep trail." Hey, we all made it out alive and I have a decorative driftwood sign post for my garden to show for it.

Cruikshank Reservoir, also ended up in my dud list and turned out to be just as dry but went for the masculine boulder look instead of driftwood chic.  Maybe learning how to fish is as much about learning where not to.

Oh but I love a happy ending! The North Fork of the Payette River did finally give me a present
for all my hard work and doggedness. On the last day, in the last twilight hours of my family vacation, after mud holes, scratched paint jobs, and jeers from the family, I hooked into my new 5 weight fly fishing record rainbow.  She was tucked into a quiet pool made by a log jam and the beginnings of a beaver dam that jutted out from the bank.  The strike wasn't hard, just a big fish casually gulping down another bait fish that swam too close. I set the hook lightly knowing that at least something was on and then watched my rod arc downward as the fish dropped to the river bed and shook it's head. I've fly fished long enough to know what a big fish feels like when it shakes its head. It's like, "oh no you didn't!" all slow and cobra-like.

"It's gonna be a big one," I yelled to my father-in-law, my heart now starting the quickstep. And there the moment hung for a time, linked by line and rod and muscle. The line hummed through the rod and into my hands. "I am gonna lose this fish," I thought. Then she drug my line toward the log jam on my right and sat again, hum. I waited for my 5x line to pop. It didn't and our tug-of-war continued as she crossed the pool toward the beaver dam on my left, never bolting, just deep and steady. I tried to turn her but my line was pulled into the mangle of sharp green sticks. Again, no thrashing just a steady pull and then I felt my line go slack and saw an arm sized branch float up from the deep pool clutching my line well above the leader. I should have lost the fish here but like I said, this trout was a gift. The rainbow turned again, I glimpsed, as my slack line half encircled the muddy branch then popped off with a weightless whoosh. She was gone or maybe with luck she was swimming toward me. I stripped my line in ready to cry out in disappointment and felt her weight rounding the dam and heading down stream behind me. All of this took three minutes, maybe but I was fully freaking out now, knowing my line had lost all nine of it's lives. And then we danced the delicate drag and reel dance I had done so many times with smaller prizes. In the end, I nearly lost the fish trying to net it but by then my father-in-law had waded over to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack and netted the beautiful fish. Thank you for that!

Monday, September 15, 2014

Fly Fishing New Meadows and the Little Salmon

This June I took the wife and baby girl to Riggins, ID to catch the end of the salmon fishing season on the Little Salmon river. We decided to get there by going through Mcall and then New Meadows but first stopped off in Cascade to see the Payette Whitewater Games and let my baby stretch her legs. The talent there was amazing and so were the bikinis which are sure to bring me back next year.  The next stop was Payette Lake in McCall for a dip in the clear water. I don't recommend Payette lake for fly fishing as surface feeding trout are far and few between.

The drive through the mountains and meadows was perfect and before we knew it we were heading downhill to the town of Riggins. I had heard rumors that fishing the Little Salmon was going to be busy but I was not prepared for the chaos we encountered. The roadside around the Rapid River confluence was a complete fluster cluck. Trucks, cars, trailer, tents, barbecues and sunburned humans cluster at the roads edge nearly as tightly as they did along the banks of the river below. "It's asses to elbows down here" I said to my father-in-law as we drove into town to the Salmon Rapids Lodge. The lodge is my favorite place to stay in Riggins, as it is perched atop a high bluff overlooking the confluence of the Main and the Little Salmon Rivers; plus they make fresh chocolate chip cookies every night at 8 pm. Here's the link to the hotel for those interested.  

With all the shenanigans in Riggins, I spent my energy convincing my father-in-law to go fly fishing with me instead and wait out the weekend hullabaloo. As always he was happy to oblige and we headed out Sunday afternoon to explore the headwaters of the Little Salmon just outside of the town of New Meadows. It's hard to find a more pastoral, picture perfect, meandering little river then the Little Salmon and its tributaries that come together in the green pastures and meadows surrounding the town of New Meadows. The river there is nothing like the rumbling white water that can be seen from highway 95 as it leaves the meadows and drops into the tight canyon on the way to Riggins, ID. In the meadows the Little Salmon bubbles along adding a tributary every mile or so, so that even the creeks have names like "Three Mile Creek, Four Mile Creek and Six Mile Creek." I admit, I have only fished a small portion of the river there but what I witnessed was tranquil, clear water, lush green grassy banks and the sound of buzzing insects. 

I don't know the area well yet but I can give any reader some advice. Access is limited due to private property; a story becoming all to familiar across the West now. There are access points however and enough of them to keep me busy for a few more seasons while I explore the area.
 Leaving the town of New Meadows, heading north or downstream, five easy access points exist off US 95. The first good access is where Goose Creek join the river, look for a small pond on the left which has a pull out and respect private property. The confluence is nearby. A few hundred yards and the next access is from a bridge on 45th Parallel Dr., look for signs to Meadow Creek public resort of US 95. A third bridge access can be found several miles farther along 95 on Zims road which is easily marked with a sign to Zim's hot springs. About 5 miles down 95 is another access at Round Valley road, this is were I jumped in to fish. The final access place is at the bridge to Smokey Bolder road, again right off US 95. The water is deep and slow here and the banks drop off sharply so wading access might be tricky there. 

I caught some nice fat rainbows in the 12-15 inch range and lost a nice brook trout as I was fumbling to get my camera out. I found most fish were holding right under the grassy banks or overhanging vegetation. Bouncing my flies off the grass and into the water was a fun and challenging way to fish. The river is easily waded after the April runoff and can be fished from the middle as flows decrease. I primarily used stimulator patterns with rubber legs with good results. The trout fishing window for this river is relatively short I have found. By July the river is a modest trickle and probably too warm for trout. Throughout the summer months I have found only squawfish. I am going to continue to work this river in the spring as it still keeps its secrets from me.   
A few locals at the golf course told me that 20 inch rainbows are still pulled out from below the bridge on occasion but not like in the good old days.I have a hunch some nice trout are hiding in this little river and I am coming back next year to explore.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Big Jacks Creek, CJ Strike and Lips Only a Mother Could Love

My most recent adventure took me to Big Jacks Creek, a tiny tributary of the Snake River with north flowing head waters originating from the Owyhee Mountain range. I have been scoping out this small creek for some time now and decided to fish it before any major spring snow melt.  I chose to visit the confluence of the Jacks creek and CJ Strike, hoping the shallow waters there might hold carp or trout cruising for food. I had heard rumors that carp congregate at the mouth of Jacks Creek in late spring and summer and I hoped to visit the place then return later in the year. It was early in the year for carp fishing and I knew it but curiosity often wins out when it comes to me and fly fishing.   I arrived at 0650 AM greeted by the rolling yelps of coyote and their pups frolicking in the sage brush and Russian olive groves. A quick peeked at the Google satellite image of the area directed me toward my destination about one half mile away. I tromped along a game trail rimmed by last summers cattails, cracking dry and clustered in frost. Nearing the reservoir, coots raced away, half running, half flying across the shallow bay to my right.  The water at CJ was glass, reflecting the blue light of dawn, only my wading disturbed the surface.
Not A Carp But Just As Pretty 

Clean Lines and A Powerful Body

I waded out about 50 feet into the reservoir then turned back toward the bank, casting my line onto still waters. It was hard to make a gentle cast under the circumstances and I imaged any nearby carp would get spooked. I repeated my casts walking slowly, parallel to the bank, landing my carp fly about 5-10 feet from the bank. During a slow retrieve a few casts later I felt my fly drag over a log and snag, that was until the log began to move. The fish looked like a torpedo as it sprinted for deeper water as I held on with steady pressure; my heart jumped at the weight and my reel sang as line peeled off. Seconds later a plunk and my fly slipped off, I suspect it was only snagged of one of the massive carps scales. I repeated my technique and two more carp repeated their escape protocol. I swear they were speaking carpanese to each other, passing on how to get off a hook.    Jacks Creek was a bust for trout and carp but the opportunity to get out and watch the morning break was well worth the effort.

I have mentioned fly fishing (rather unsuccessfully) for carp in a blog one year ago.  My goal of landing a carp on a fly rod still stands unfulfilled. I have hooked a few carp (most accidentally), snagged a couple more and scared away the rest with my clumsy presentation. A cleaver friend of mine recommends we use the name "Carpon" instead of carp as a nice blend of carp and tarpon and a fitting tribute to this hard fighting, clever fish that can reach 60 lbs in some Idaho waters. It has sure been more than a match for me!

I have yet to land a carp on my fly rod. However, my efforts to catch carp using large googly legged flies has resulted in catching a lot of  Idaho's other less savory, bottom feeding fish. "Trash fish" we call them here in Idaho.  I am referring of course to suckers, squaw fish, chubs and white fish; the later at least has seen a mild bump in popularity fostered by the fly fishing community. In fact, if it weren't for these wrong-side-of-the-track fish, I would have a lot more zero-fish-caught outings. Fly fishing has fostered a new respect for all fish. The sucker pictured above was a stout, clean, powerful fish even if it didn't jump like an acrobat out of the water during our fight.

As a side note I met John Wolter, owner of Anglers in Boise, We had a nice chat near CJ Strike and shared our passion for fly fishing. I think I had verbal diarrhea and did most of the talking to be honest.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Tiptoeing Along the Owyhee River at 23 cfs

"You need to call my dad, he wants to know what you're doing today," that was all my wife had to say last Friday before I felt a kernel of a fishing trip being planted. She had plans with a girlfriend and was taking my baby too...could it happen so easily, so effortlessly? No sooner had her red Toyota left the driveway than I was on the phone with my Father-in-law. He apparently had a hankering to hit the Owyhee and I am always up for fishing especially with him because he usually buys me lunch and has heated seats for the return trip. In no time we were on the road headed to the Owyhee's lima bean green waters.  We arrived at 3PM determined to fish until sunset but not fully committed to do so if the weather proved terrible.

As a side note, I have been bypassing trips to the Owyhee river for the last year, having felt quite sorry for the little river with it's low flows, hordes of fisherman and scrawny underfed fish. While the river continues to hold surprising numbers of trout per mile, I haven't been impressed with their fight or their overall health. Some local fly shops have also preached taking it easy on the browns lately, so I deemed a little hiatus was the responsible thing to do. However spring on the Owyhee is not to be missed in my opinion and who was I to turn down an invitation. I am happy to report, despite my concerns and observations, that the Owyhee river, version 20.14, has proved all my worrying unwarranted. The fish are still there in great numbers and some are big and healthy.

Dave and I had trouble finding the fish at first. We tried every manner of nymph, small and large. We tried nymphing a few deeper sections but at 23 cfs the holes turned into mini stagnant lakes, even the runs were kind of pathetic and very shallow. Frustrated, I started trudging carelessly along the banks and shallows  in search of greener pastures. I eventually came to a beaver lodge with thousands of chomped up willows submerged just under the surface. I observed from a distance and noticed schools of small fish darting frantically and boiling at the surface. I had seen large minnows do this "boiling" at lake Powell when running from stripped bass. I cast my zugbug and zebra nymph to the fringes of the sunken willows and within seconds my indicators jumped beneath the surface.  

A Northern Pike minnow or Squaw-fish slammed my midge but then rolled over and came quickly to my net. I caught six more of his brethren surrounding the fry and willows. I took a photo to commemorate my first Squawfish ever caught on the Owyhee. I hope desperately that the fry the Squawfish were eating weren't juvenile browns. A least my hands now smelled like fish and the curse was lifted. I fished on, the sun high and water clear, even for the Owyhee. No fish were feeding on the surface so I worked a nice trough section hard with my nymphs and caught one small rainbow and a brown, giving me a trifecta of fish, which made for a small accomplishment.  

The sun was nearing the edge of the high canyon walls as I waded along in knee deep, flat water and noticed puffs of silt kicked up here and there by fleeing fish. I have noted Owyhee browns hugging the shallows and banks in the past, sipping midges but that was with 120 cfs or more and a place to bolt to for cover. Could they be holding in this foot of barely moving water with nothing but similar aquascape to flee to? Turns out yep!

 As shadows fell on the water and obscured both my shadow and some visibility on the water, I switched over to a large black and olive streamer and waded into the middle of the river.  From this position I tiptoed slowly upstream, taking small quiet steps and cast to each bank. Dave was using a similar strategy casting from the middle but with a San Juan Worm. The results were immediate as we began catching fish. A large brown erupted from its rest as I plopped my streamer nears its head. Like a submarine it breached the water, a small wake forming as it charged my fly. WHAM! 

I yelled to Dave "It's a big one." My 4 weight played the fish well in the low water but netting it took some time. I grabbed my camera but the GoPro battery was dead, a terrible design flaw that plagues this otherwise kick ass camera. It was a beautiful, thick 21 inch brown, maybe not the longest fish but by far the heaviest and healthiest looking I've caught on the Owyhee. Five more fish followed within 30 minutes, all were stout and strong and above 18 inches. 

What worked for us:

1. We had our greatest success from the middle of the river at the end of runs and in the flats. Fished spooked easily until lower light concealed our presence. 
2. Most browns were in less than 2 feet of water and approx 5-15 feet off the bank. Many of the trout were basking in the shallow flats nearly motionless until the fly was presented.
3. We fished the evening hours before and after the sun set behind the canyon walls, therefore I don't know what brought morning success.

4. I started with a bead head zebra midge which always brings some success on the Owyhee in the winter and spring. 
5. Dave used a San Juan Worm with great success later in the evening. The San Juan comes beaded or without and in a multitude of colors. 
6. I used a standard green on black, bead head Woolly bugger, trailed by a Zugbug.