Well, here it is ... the world record Artic Char from my 2001 trip to Alaska. Can't tell you where I caught it though. But it was certified by a weigh-master and by the State of Alaska Department of Fish and Game.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
My Finest Fish
Well, here it is ... the world record Artic Char from my 2001 trip to Alaska. Can't tell you where I caught it though. But it was certified by a weigh-master and by the State of Alaska Department of Fish and Game.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Face to Face with One of Wyomings Finest
We were fishing on my favorite stretch of water in Wyoming. A small creek that winds its way through a wonderful canyon filled with wild flowers and critters and then exits on to a flat plain. It winds like a slithering snake, back and forth through the valley below. You can fish what seems like miles of stream and actually only move along a few hundred yards.
I had just finished my turn catching a beautiful 15-inch brown trout on my third and last attempt. My first try ended with the fly stuck in the bushes somewhere behind me and my second was just a simple missed strike. But this one…the third attempt was right on. Wooshh…and a tight line. “Fish on,” I yelled. No one cared but me.
My fishing buddies had a bet going on whether I would be able to land the fish. Of course you have to know that they are going to do just about anything to make sure I won’t land it. Things like throw a net and try to break off the fish. Goose me while I intently try to reel it in or make loud noises that would make me jump out of my skin and make a big mistake causing the fish to go free.
These guys are supposed to be my friends…and yet this is how they behave. Well, you have to know…that…humm…yah, you need to know…I’m just as bad to them.
John had to slide down the overgrown bank and go knee deep in the soft, silt and muck to net my beautiful fish. Loren, on the other hand, had already started climbing up the bank on to the next bend.
“Oh Shit!” was all we heard. John jumped up out of the muck onto the bank in one leap. It normally would have taken a few minutes of tugging and pushing just to get his feet loose with the real possibility of having to go back down to retrieve a boot left behind in the mud. I, on the other hand, just needed to turn from my crouched down position to see what had spooked Loren so much.
There he was. Sliding back down the bank, running backwards across the water, with his rod going one way and hat another. He was moving so fast that his feet didn’t even leave marks on the stream bottom. His face said it all. FEAR. Terror. Intense concern for his own safety. He wasn’t thinking about us, just himself. Nice guy for a friend.
And there it was. Just a little fellow, oh, maybe 4 to 5 feet long. You would have thought it might have been those big, long teeth that causes all the commotion but it was the baby rattle he held in his tail that caused the most fear. It was here that Loren came face to face with a 5-foot Rocky Mountain Rattle Snake!
I had just finished my turn catching a beautiful 15-inch brown trout on my third and last attempt. My first try ended with the fly stuck in the bushes somewhere behind me and my second was just a simple missed strike. But this one…the third attempt was right on. Wooshh…and a tight line. “Fish on,” I yelled. No one cared but me.
My fishing buddies had a bet going on whether I would be able to land the fish. Of course you have to know that they are going to do just about anything to make sure I won’t land it. Things like throw a net and try to break off the fish. Goose me while I intently try to reel it in or make loud noises that would make me jump out of my skin and make a big mistake causing the fish to go free.
These guys are supposed to be my friends…and yet this is how they behave. Well, you have to know…that…humm…yah, you need to know…I’m just as bad to them.
John had to slide down the overgrown bank and go knee deep in the soft, silt and muck to net my beautiful fish. Loren, on the other hand, had already started climbing up the bank on to the next bend.
“Oh Shit!” was all we heard. John jumped up out of the muck onto the bank in one leap. It normally would have taken a few minutes of tugging and pushing just to get his feet loose with the real possibility of having to go back down to retrieve a boot left behind in the mud. I, on the other hand, just needed to turn from my crouched down position to see what had spooked Loren so much.
There he was. Sliding back down the bank, running backwards across the water, with his rod going one way and hat another. He was moving so fast that his feet didn’t even leave marks on the stream bottom. His face said it all. FEAR. Terror. Intense concern for his own safety. He wasn’t thinking about us, just himself. Nice guy for a friend.
And there it was. Just a little fellow, oh, maybe 4 to 5 feet long. You would have thought it might have been those big, long teeth that causes all the commotion but it was the baby rattle he held in his tail that caused the most fear. It was here that Loren came face to face with a 5-foot Rocky Mountain Rattle Snake!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
A Moment on Mystery Creek
Loren, John and I had been fishing our favorite water – a little stream in central Wyoming just outside of Ten Sleep. I call it our favorite because every trip we take somewhere else we always say “why didn’t we go to …”
I’m not going to tell you much more in the way of a name other than to call it “Mystery Creek”. Mystery creek runs through a beautiful valley, slowly meandering along for a few miles. It runs through a golf course and then through a number of ranches. At one point it goes through a canyon that is truly gorgeous. Tall walls, rough ledges, holes and caves for fanged animals to hid in and brightly dressed, red striped, rainbow trout and black backed brown trout.
Before I tell you too much more you need to understand our concept of fishing. It’s called Tag Fishing: One person goes up front fishing while two guys lag behind offering encouragement and distractions along with a lot of friendly ridicule. You get three strikes and you’re out. Three attempts to catch a fish. That’s all. If you cast into the bushes or hang up in the weeds it counts against you. If that happens you grab one of your buddy’s rod and continue fishing. Once you catch a fish you go to the back of the line.
At some point in the early afternoon, Loren and I separated from John for a while. We went right along the inside of an island and he went left. We were fishing our way through some rough over grown banks, sliding down into the water to work our way up stream to a really nice flat above a log jam dam. From past years fishing here we knew that there were some 20” brown trout that resided in the back of the flat. Loren went across first.
He doesn’t know it yet but since he is almost a foot taller than me I let him go first so I know if it is safe for me to cross or if I should look for a shallower pathway. I usually need to find another way. If I just blindly follow I almost always fill my waders with that cold water. His waist is almost at my arm pits. Even with my hands held high above my head, walking on my tippy-toes I can’t cross at the same place. Maybe I should adopt jumping on to his back and riding across. Now there’s a thought.
Loren was on the north bank intently fishing some pocket water and I was slowly approaching behind when I saw a HUGE boil WHAT A FISH!
I heard even before I watched Loren’s chest fill with air. I knew a scream was about to be pressed out of his lungs even as he lunged back with his arms flailing the air around him. The only other time I ever saw him move so quickly was when he was confronted nose to nose with a western rattlesnake while climbing out of this very same creek.
Actually it was more like his lungs were FILLING with air. Gulping nonexistent air in an attempt to scream but nothing ever came. I could however, hear his heart pounding. Funny thing was, this is the wrong reaction for a truly huge fish!
A moment later it was my turn. That same heart stopping, thunderous, gasping for air was all mine. There it was directly in front of me – coming my way at break neck speed. All I could do was stand there paralyzed, gasping for air that would not fill my lungs. It swam right between my legs, bumping against my legs, almost knocking me over.
It took a full two minutes before I could talk a coherent sentence. It was another three minutes or so before my heart stopped pounding enough for me to be able to concentrate enough to get out of the water and check my pants.
Loren said, “Did you see that!” I slowly replied, “That was the largest beaver I have ever seen!”
I’m not going to tell you much more in the way of a name other than to call it “Mystery Creek”. Mystery creek runs through a beautiful valley, slowly meandering along for a few miles. It runs through a golf course and then through a number of ranches. At one point it goes through a canyon that is truly gorgeous. Tall walls, rough ledges, holes and caves for fanged animals to hid in and brightly dressed, red striped, rainbow trout and black backed brown trout.
Before I tell you too much more you need to understand our concept of fishing. It’s called Tag Fishing: One person goes up front fishing while two guys lag behind offering encouragement and distractions along with a lot of friendly ridicule. You get three strikes and you’re out. Three attempts to catch a fish. That’s all. If you cast into the bushes or hang up in the weeds it counts against you. If that happens you grab one of your buddy’s rod and continue fishing. Once you catch a fish you go to the back of the line.
At some point in the early afternoon, Loren and I separated from John for a while. We went right along the inside of an island and he went left. We were fishing our way through some rough over grown banks, sliding down into the water to work our way up stream to a really nice flat above a log jam dam. From past years fishing here we knew that there were some 20” brown trout that resided in the back of the flat. Loren went across first.
He doesn’t know it yet but since he is almost a foot taller than me I let him go first so I know if it is safe for me to cross or if I should look for a shallower pathway. I usually need to find another way. If I just blindly follow I almost always fill my waders with that cold water. His waist is almost at my arm pits. Even with my hands held high above my head, walking on my tippy-toes I can’t cross at the same place. Maybe I should adopt jumping on to his back and riding across. Now there’s a thought.
Loren was on the north bank intently fishing some pocket water and I was slowly approaching behind when I saw a HUGE boil WHAT A FISH!
I heard even before I watched Loren’s chest fill with air. I knew a scream was about to be pressed out of his lungs even as he lunged back with his arms flailing the air around him. The only other time I ever saw him move so quickly was when he was confronted nose to nose with a western rattlesnake while climbing out of this very same creek.
Actually it was more like his lungs were FILLING with air. Gulping nonexistent air in an attempt to scream but nothing ever came. I could however, hear his heart pounding. Funny thing was, this is the wrong reaction for a truly huge fish!
A moment later it was my turn. That same heart stopping, thunderous, gasping for air was all mine. There it was directly in front of me – coming my way at break neck speed. All I could do was stand there paralyzed, gasping for air that would not fill my lungs. It swam right between my legs, bumping against my legs, almost knocking me over.
It took a full two minutes before I could talk a coherent sentence. It was another three minutes or so before my heart stopped pounding enough for me to be able to concentrate enough to get out of the water and check my pants.
Loren said, “Did you see that!” I slowly replied, “That was the largest beaver I have ever seen!”
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