Doo Doo Doo lookin out my back door

Oh how I envy all of you living down south right now.  For most people living south of the 48th parallel the fishing season has already started or will start April 1st, and in some cases, it never ended.  It just moved from one species of fish to another or from one body of water to another.  Up here in the great white north however, we get extended winter.  So for those of us who don't particularly care for sitting on a cold cube of ice staring at a six inch hole cut through six inches of ice, and dangling half of a sardine while we chew on the other half, that means a long long time with no fishing.

The view out the back door!

These pictures were taken two days ago as an early spring snowstorm came rolling off the mountains and blasted across the prairie.  Needless to say it will be a while before there will be any fishing going on here.  All I can say is spring better come quick cuz I'm starting to twitch like a thirty year old junkie who hasn't had a fix in forty eight hours!  In the meantime I am living my life vicariously through the rest of you, so get fishing already!!

Laughing my guts out!

Ok, so this has nothing to do with flyfishing, but when I was shown this by a co-worker I laughed my guts out!  Needless to say the first question I asked my wife when I got home was.....  She got it right!

Fish on kid

I am worried about my son! And in conjunction with that I am disappointed with myself. I was looking at a picture of my son with the very first fish he caught by himself the other day, and I found myself thinking what a lucky kid he was. You see, at the tender young age of six, my son has already got several notches in his piscatorial belt that many of us took years to get. Not only was his first fish a ridiculously large 19+ (give or take) inch rainbow trout, he has also brought to hand cutthroat trout, rocky mountain whitefish, bull trout, and pike. It is from this litany of fishy exploits the my worry sprouts. I am worried that one day (when he stops fishing and learns to read) he will come across those articles that we have all read that tell us how hard it is to catch fish, how technical fishing can be, how uncommon and rare ridiculously large 19+ (give or take) inch rainbow trout are, and how much time one must put in fishing to even have the hope of catching one. I am worried that after reading these articles he will say to himself, "this is hard"? "I have accomplished all these things and more already!"  "I must be good, in fact I must be GREAT!"  And this type of thinking will lead him down a path where he will think that all days will be 50 fish days, all tall, blonde, large breasted women will love him, and he will be a millionaire before he is thirty! And this is where I am disappointed with myself. I have this compulsion to tell him the truth. To explain to him that fishing (like life and large breasted blonde women) can, and often does offer up failure in spades. And that fishing (like life) is not really about success, but rather about failure and how you let it affect you (bitter or better). It is during this type of thought process that I have to catch myself and stop, and realize that I need to let him be a kid.  I need to let my children run through the grass barefoot (without worrying about hidden sharp things).  I need to let them scream and laugh at the top of their lungs (without worrying what the neighbors might think).  I need to let them ride their bikes with speed and wild abandon (without worrying about broken limbs), because it is exactly these types of scrapes and failures and disappointments that make those uncommon and rare ridiculously large 19+ (give or take) inch rainbow trout and 50 fish days just so FREAKINGLY awesome and memorable.  If I try to tell them all of this now I'm just gonna spoil it. So, I'll just shut up and hand my son the rod.   Fish on kid, fish on!

The ridiculously large 19+ (give or take) inch rainbow

Fire Tiger Fly Video

Fire Tiger and Perch

Here is another very good pike fly that imitates one of the more popular lures for pike and walleye.  Tie yourself a few of these and go whack some pike!!

Steelheading is WORK!!

Cast, step, cast, step, cast, step.
 Water is freakin cold!  My legs are numb!  I hope I can keep this up, too nice of a run to give up to that guide and his client across the river in that spanky jet boat.
 Cast, step, cast, step, cast, step.
 They are watching me, I can feel the guide's eyes boring into me from the other side.  It's good water, perfect water, I know it and he knows it and he is not happy I am going over every inch of it while he sits there with his rich, fat client who probably is fishless today as well.  I love it, and I am milking it like I would a jersey cow with a big fat bag'o'milk and swollen teats!  Slowly, rhythmically.

Cast, step, cast, step, cast, step.
Where are the freakin fish?  "Record run, river is in perfect shape, weather is great", that is what the lady who rented me the cabin told me on the phone when I asked her from the comfort of my home, 720 miles away.  Succubus!
Cast, step, cast, step, cast, step.
My shoulder is killing me, stupid rotater cuff.  I have got to get a spey rod and learn how to cast with it.  I see them out there every day standing on shore, feet barely wet, punching out 200 feet of line effortlessly.  Not me, no sir, I am old school.  Single handed 10ft rod, floating line, 400 grain sink tip, and a big ass wind resistant, cast like a wet sock fly.  I need more ibuprofen.

Cast, step, cast, step, cast, step.
Where are the fish?  It just can't be this hard, can it?  We are in the middle of the 3rd  and last day of our trip, my brother and I,  and we have pounded water relentlessly.  Every run, slick, tailout, pool, seam, bend, bucket, and pocket that we could find and nothing!  NOTHING!  Not a sniff except for two hapless 12 inch dolley varden that fell for an orange general practitioner half as big they were.

Cast, step, cast, step, cast, step.
Stop!  What was that?  Snag?  No, snag is pulling back, FISH!  Lift rod now, set hook, strip in slack line, is he still there?  No, noooooo, NOOOOOOOO!  Buck fever!  He is gone, I can't believe it, I beaked him off.  Strip in the line to see what happened.  The fly is still there, the knot held, just a rookie mistake and I'm no rookie.  I look at my brother hoping I can pass this off as a snag.  No dice, he saw me set, he saw the rod bounce and pulse.  His eyes burn.  The horrer, the shame!  Three days and the first fish we get I lose.  No words to describe it, someone may have to die.  No, seriously I may have to kill someone.  Cast again you fool, maybe he will hit again.
Cast, swing, stop!
Yes, yessssss, YESSSSSSS!  There he is, make no mistake this time.  Line is tight, good hook set, now let him run.  And run he does!  Across the river, jump, jump again, work the line back, pump the rod, wind up, keep the line tight.  The fight goes on but I am winning.  I can feel the steelhead tire.  Runs are shorter, headshakes less aggressive.  Finally my hand under it's belly, gentle caress, remove the hook, take picture, release.  He swims away.  It WAS worth it!  All was not lost!  Let's do it again.

 And again!

And again!

The Broheim

We shall return!