Rippin Lips in Wyoming

Greetings from Wyoming! I put together some fish porn from last season for your viewing pleasure. The first 20 seconds is pretty awesome. On a trip last Spring, we hiked into a remote little cutthroat river and spotted some fish rolling on the surface from the cliff above. There were stoneflies all over the bank so we tried a few big dirty nymphs and dries to start out. One BIG ol cutty came up to look at a few offerings but never really committed. After many more casts and no takers, we hung out for a while then ran another drift through the pool. Again he rolled up, looked closely, and refused to eat. After that we basically committed to ignoring him for the better part of an hour and poked around elsewhere. On a last ditch effort before heading home, we stepped back into the run with a fresh ugly hunk of leggy foam and the fish absolutely annihilated it. It was so memorable because the 3 of us knew exactly where he was sitting and he had jerked us around for so long and refused so many offerings so it was a bit of a shock when he ate.

New Zealand Fishing Opener

During my semester abroad in New Zealand I was lucky enough to become good buddies with a up and coming fishing guide. He took a few days off from guiding after the opener and we explored some new waters. Here's some highlights from the trip :

https://vimeo.com/186366897

I am currently in the middle of finals, so more pictures and stories to come.

Iroquois Summer

When warm, summer-like temperatures persist into late September, we refer to this meteorological phenomena as "Indian Summer". This term is probably racist, unless it has to do with the country India, but for some reason I doubt that it does. Branching off from this colloquial terminology, I have decided to name the meteorological phenomenon of 60 plus degree temperatures in upstate New York in mid December "Iroquois Summer".   This logical extension is based off the fact that the Iroquois Nation was the group of American Indians that inhabited the Great Lakes area, as evidenced by the Iroquois Service plaza of Route 90 which has a very capable Roy Rodgers restaurant.

So with Iroquois Summer in full effect here in the northeast, old man Winchell and I ventured west for lake run fish beasts. The weather couldn't have been better but the fishing was pretty slow. Still a slow weekend of fishing beats a fast weekend of not fishing.

A nice drop back brown that ate a streamer from underneath a beaver dam. There were a couple fish hanging tight to beaver dams in this river, but they were tough to get at. 

A nice lake run domestic rainbow that ate an otter egg and fought without much enthusiasm

A lone steelehead made the return trip stop at the SR sort of worth it, although we kind of felt bad for him hanging out in the river all on his lonesome with no friends to play with.

A very impressive brown that weighed 14 pounds on the digital scale. It would have been really cool if he wasn't foul hooked!

The true catch of the trip, was the trash chair. We constructed this throne purely from discarded items pulled from the dirt near our fishing location. The trash chair was an iconic symbol of the way the river treated us on this weekend. We were able to put something together on the water, but in the end it was still trash.

When the bite became completely stagnant, Clark decided to go harvest some flies from the tree across the way. Using a large branch as a lever, the clever BFC engineer was also able to dislodge and destroy a healthy section of the beaver dam visible at the bottom right of the image.


Until the next Iroquois Summer adventure, tight lines and solid hookups! Happy Holidays friends

The Battenkill

Nathalia and I decided to head up to Vermont over the weekend. The plan was to head to either Woodstock or Manchester. Both are towns that we've been to before, both have their own sort of charm. We were about a week late on the peak foliage, which lead us to head to Manchester this time, thinking that the more southern Route 2 drive west would afford us better scenery and leaves that maybe hadn't yet dropped compared to their northern counterparts. The drive west was scenic, although not quite perfect from the foliage perspective. We were a little late, after all. There was some brown mixed in....

Knowing that we would be staying in Manchester and in close proximity to the historic Battenkill river, I brought my 4-weight. Of course, this wasn't a fishing trip. But I figured I could sneak out for a couple hours Sunday morning early and be back to the hotel in time for breakfast. This is the life of the betrothed angler. Squeezing in a few hours with the rod here and there. Not optimal, but enough to scratch the itch. Nata and I went out to a nice dinner in town Saturday night followed by several Irish coffees and live music at the Equinox hotel. Random anecdote, the Equinox is one of the few hotels that offers falconry lessons for their patrons. It's a pretty classy establishment to say the least. We were staying at a less classy establishment down the street from there...

Before bed, I sought the advice of the mighty internet, hoping to gain a little insight on the Battenkill. Google gave me plenty of material, possibly the best read was an article published in Yankee Magazine some time ago. http://www.yankeemagazine.com/article/10things-interact-2/battenkill
It's worth a read. I suggest you all try it. Without going into an unnecessarily lengthy description of the results of my internet research, I will succinctly say the following: the Battenkill is an extremely difficult river to fish for a variety of reasons. The trout that inhabit it are wild and few and far between, with no stocking in Vermont since 1975. The fish that are around tend to be small and exceedingly difficult to fool based on the high water clarity, slow growth rates, and substantial fishing pressure. And, presumably due to the challenging nature and historical relevance of this river, angler's are obsessed with it.

Charles F Orvis lived on and fished the Battenkill in the mid 1800s, around the time when he first opened up a tackle shop that would later become the Orvis fly rod company. To this day the company is located in Manchester VT. Lee and Joan Wulff lived on and fished the Battenkill in the Mid 1970s. The couple established the Wulff School of Fly Fishing shortly thereafter on the Beaverkill River in NY. According to the Yankee Magazine article above, Lee stated that he had to move to the Beaverkill for his fly fishing school because his native Battenkill would be too difficult to fish for fly fishing school patrons. (No doubt Lee did damage on this river though, because that is what Lee does...) Other fly fishing legends such as John Atherton and Ted Williams also spent time on the Battenkill, adding to the historic mystique of the river.

Unfortunately, my prospects looked a bit bleak. The wise old internet informed me that the majority of fish in the Battenkill's Manchester area would be brookies, with most of the browns inhabiting the bigger sections of river down in Arlington Vermont and closer to the NY boarder. The river up in Manchester was small, and so were the average fish, with anything over 12 inches considered a respectable trout for the upper sections of the river. Late October was also about the worst time of year to fish the Battenkill, with May-July and September being the best months. By late October many of the trout would be headed up tributaries looking to spawn and not focused on eating. Plus the last of the trico hatches ended in early October, so it had become a wet fly game. One guide's website recommended a sculpin pattern. Ah the mighty sculpin. The name alone sounds a bit foul. I didn't have any sculpin flies. But I did have a couple weighted buggers. I'd try those in the morning... I figured even if I didn't get a bite it would be nice to walk the river for a couple hours on late fall day.

Daylight arrived with scattered rain showers. I woke up around 6 and made my way to the river by 630. I found a little area to park off of a bridge that crossed the Battenkill at Union Street in Manchester, just a few minutes drive from our hotel. there were a series of runs and pools just downstream from the bridge.

I approached the first pool and tied on my olive cone head bugger. I added a soft hackle dopper 14 inches down from the larger fly. The soft hackle always seemed to produce for me on the Swift where the trout are quite discriminating so I figured why not give it a shot on the old Battenkill... I took a few casts into the slower water pool at the base of the run and stripped my bugger in slowly. "Make it look like a sculpin" I said to myself, all the while not 100% sure what a sculpin actually looks like... "They're on sculpins. Big browns want meat."

Working my way up toward the top of the run, I cast my flies into the fast water and let them swing along the steelheady seems between the fast water in the center of the run and the slower currents along its edges. In short time I felt a bump, but this turned out to be my bugger colliding with a rock as it tumbled down steam. At least I was getting deep enough. A few more casts with nothing. The run and pool were nothing short of spectacular looking though. There had to be a trout in this run somewhere.... I began to get that feeling of indecision that every fly fisherman has whenever they fish unproductively at one time or another. Should I change up the flies or let it ride? As I sent my presentation back out for another swing I figured I better let it ride. After all, I had nothing better to offer these fish. Nothing else to switch to with any confidence. There were no dries coming off the surface. It was 42 degrees and drizzling. The Battenkill River, beautiful in her autumn attire, looked completely dead. With a smile, I came to terms with my situation. Honestly, I didn't really expect to catch anything. I was on a brutally tough river, during the wrong time of year, with a only couple hours to fish and no sculpin flies. Best to just enjoy the scenery and.. !!!!!! My drift was interrupted by a tug, two head shakes and peeling drag. 

Holy shit! I hooked something... And it didn't feel small... Whatever I had on the end of the line was putting a damn respectable bend in the Sage 4-weight. It had peeled out line almost to the backing and was holding in the back of the pool. "I need to get it out of the main current and into the eddy." I thought to myself. "Let's put a little side pressure on him." He held fast in the current and the dance of angler versus fish began in earnest... A couple feet gained, then a couple feet taken. A quick change in position by the fish met by a quick shift in the angle of the rod. The standoff continued with me wanting to move the fish out of the current and into softer water but fearing the application of too much pressure could pull the hook or snap the tippet. 

To be candid, I can't say that I expected to land this fish. I don't have much experience fighting decent sized trout. Steelhead, yes, but not small water trout. The fish from the Swift usually roll over and play dead as soon as they feel the hook. Its just a routine for them. They get hooked, they get released, they get hooked again a day later. But here on the Battenkill, I wasn't quite sure what this fish was going to do. It seemed like he had a plan, and I didn't. Meanwhile, as I struggled to guide the fish out of the current, I played the old reverse jinx game in the back of my head. "Dude, its probably just a sucker. Relax. It's probably a butthole hooked sucker anyways..." 

Eventually the fish did come back into the eddy out of the man current. I was able to bring him back to me in the soft water, retrieving almost all of my casting line. For a second I thought I would finish the job right there, but before he was close enough for me to see he made another run out into the main current and once he had the current on his back it wasn't but a couple seconds before he was 30 yards downstream again and we were back to square one. Side pressure again, if we can get him back to the eddy again we're good. He's tired now. I would get him this next time around. Unfortunately, the fish knew that game now, and he was desperate in his efforts to reach the far side eddy. If he made it there, I knew it could spell trouble. Well, he made it there, and once he was out of the current on the far side of the run and my fly line got caught in the main current I had little control over his actions. With drag slowly and steadily peeling off my reel, I watched with horror as he made headway towards a fallen tree. Before long I could no longer feel the pulse of a fish, just the steady pressure of a snag. He had me beaten.

"Fuck!" This time my yell was loud. It didn't matter though. No one was within earshot save a few cows that I could hear mooing from time to time in the distance. I was fouled up good. And on top of that I was no longer able to convince myself that I had hooked a sucker. I was fairly certain that only a wily old trout could have pulled that trick off. I wondered what to do about my current predicament... First, I waded downstream for 10 yards into the deep pool to try to change the angle on my snag. No luck. I then tried to cross down in the pool, but it was too dicey. I considered just pulling on the line and snapping off the tangled rig. I went so far as to grab the line in my left hand and point my rod tip at the down tree, but I couldn't do it. After several minutes, I accepted the fact that the likelihood of having a fish on still was now highly improbable. I walked back upstream, loosed my dragged, and crossed 30 yards upriver in a shallow riffle. With care, I walked back down stream on the far bank reeling in slack as i went. I knew this move would force me to wade through the holding water that I had been fishing, effectively ruining the spot, but from what I'd read, the chances of me hooking anything else were pretty slim anyways.  Finally, I approached the down tree limb and lifted it out of the water. My line was wrapped around 4 different branches. How that happened is beyond any explanation I could provide. Rhythmically, I began snapping branches and freeing my line, when only one snag remained, I felt the surge of the trout as he headed back out into the run. My fly line peeled off the reel, sliding against the one remaining branch, but did not break. Unbelievable... 

Through some divine act of good fortune my leader survived this encounter with the tree and I was able to dip my rod tip under the one remaining snag and clear my line. At this point, the fish was tired, he held in the deep water of the pool but he had no surging runs left. Eventually I guided him into soft water revealing my opponent for the first time. He was not a resident brookie or a loathsome sucker, but a handsome male brown. Sculpins be damn, the meat eating brown had taken the size 16 soft hackle dropper on 6x tippet, and God only knows how he stayed attached through it all... 

He was an exceptionally handsome fish. I'd estimate his length to be about 17 inches. Unfortunately he sustained a nick on his shoulder during the battle, probably against some branch of the fallen tree. Not wanting to cause further stress I snapped a couple quick I-phone pictures, unhooked him and sent him on his way. I watched him swim off, sat my ass down on the bank, and took a few minute pause to reflect on the moment. The light rain continued to fall. 

I fished the Battenkill for another couple hours before heading back to the hotel. The river would grant me no additional bites, but I was already quite happy with what she had given. I've noticed that among many of my BFC friends, myself included, we've gotten so damn effective at this hobby we call fishing that days with only one bite are often considered failures. But there are still certain places, certain fish, that leave you requesting nothing more than a single chance. Those places, those fish, are perhaps the most memorable of all. 

I hope all of you get a chance to fish the Battenkill some day. It is truly a beautiful river in a beautiful place. Don't expect to crush em in there, but then again, you never know...

It only takes one.

The best of us have been there, on a river, seen fish, seen fish caught, had fish eaten even, but at the end of the day still ache for that bend in the rod that just did not come. Sometimes you are afforded a shot at redemption, sometimes not. Here in NZ there is such a waterway that "got the better of me" not on one trip but two. Skunk me once, I can swallow that, skunk me again, and now it's personal. On this third trip, which had no set time frame, I told Katherine, we are going to stay here till we catch a fish. Period. She understood.

Day one was met with rain (the start of the rainiest stretch this time of year that our American/now Kiwi hosts have seen in their 9 years in NZ - about 3 straight weeks of rain, and it still ain't over).

It was a kick in the groin to find the river slightly swollen and the water colored up with glacial flour. A feeling came over me where I wanted to crawl out of that wet west coast of NZ and find a flight to somewhere dry, anywhere! Once the rain steadied we abandoned our initial plans of camping and made the hour hike back to our vehicle - car camping till that rain desists. "Fuck you rain" I thought over and over again. We arrived back at our car around 4, I could squeeze an hour in on a neighboring river if I got to it quick. The next river, although tannin stained and a bit higher than mean flows, looked ok. I worked my way from pool to pool blind casting, unable to spot fish in the dark water and under less that favorable light conditions. I came around the corner and saw something, a fish feeding in front of a rock. Perfect, just wait up in the bush and watch..."wait, where is he going," I say to myself as he peels around the rock and heads downstream. "Great", I was standing high in the bush in the rain with, what I perceived, zero chance of spooking this fish. I look down toward where he swam, hoping that he was just adjusting in the water, then I saw something that made me jump, was it a rise? A big rain drop? At this stage I can only question my eyes' ability to see through my foggy sunglasses. There, again, that looked like a rise for sure. Then came confirmation, 3 rises within 3 meters of each other! I now had to maneuvered myself into a fishable position, which included a 50 meter bushwhack and a river crossing, not ideal with a vanishing sun.

I finally prepared for a cast, fish still on the rise, golden. Now I am sure there are at least 4 fish on the active feed and this is a river where fish south of 4lbs are not as common as 6-7lb fish are. First cast, nothing, second cast, take! Hook set so quick and premature that I nearly fell on my ass and, of course, pulled the fly right out of the fish's mouth. Shit. Another cast, rise in front, rise behind, rise to the side, fly remained. Next cast, take, "wait a second" I think, then set! My heart sinks as I feel the fish's weight just moments before my 4x tippet parts at a bad knot and my line lands in a heap on top of me. With that, the light is now all but gone and I've got to navigate the bush back the car - 30 minute walk. Not my day or perhaps, just not my river. I return to the vehicle I call home with at least the satisfaction of getting a fish to eat, but alas none to net.

Day 2 - the day of wind. The rain took the day off and I found one fish that I was able to fish to for most of an hour during the calm morning. After getting a commitment to a weighted green stonefly (indicatorless), however, I sent her charging upstream following a quick head shake and a spit. In the afternoon the wind took the on the role of spoiler. I could spot the fish but had little to no chance at getting a cast into the stiff breeze; I would consider it a successful cast if my fly (fixed to an 18' leader) would land beyond my fly line. I regrouped with Katherine, who had taken the morning off to catch up on her book in the car, over a late lunch. The fishing day wraps up around 5:30 now, and with a couple hours left and still no luck, I decided to head down the same stretch where I'd had the evening hatch the evening before. A good decision, as it would turn out.

The pool came into view and although I hadn't seen a fish yet on my 1 km walk along the river to this spot, I could now count 7 rising fish. Hot damn! "All I want is one", I thought to myself, to be honest though, I think that I had begun talking to myself at this stage of desperation. Position acquired and light diminishing, I could only see fish when they rose. I knew there were multiple fish but didn't want to line and spook any who, could in turn spook a few of the others. Cast, nothing, cast, take? No, a rejection! Fish came up and at the last moment, mouth agape, turned and left it. "Eat you bastard!", I am most certainly expressing all of my thoughts to myself vocally now. Cast, take, but as I went for the set, the fish rolled and spit in an impressive surface disturbance. This commotion and put down 4 of the 7 fish, combined with the first that rejected, I now had two fish that would eat. Rise, cast, take, pause, set...TIGHT! I played her gingerly while other fish were still rising higher in the pool. After a game of tug of war, she tired and I was able to maneuver her into the shallows and beach her. I crumbled to the ground with relief. It only takes one of these majestic fish to make my trip. Beauty beauty!

I remember from my days on the soccer field that my high school coach once told me, it only takes one. He also said, keep on the pressure and you can open the flood gates, so we did just that. With the skunk off, it was game time.

Over the next couple days, I diversified my game and got fish with multiple techniques.

Steamers...

Nymphs...

Dries...

Tank.

Topped off the trip with an ambitious little bugger feeding with the big boys, surprised he hasn't turned into lunch yet! It only takes one...

Take 2: NZ

Two days ago, we arrived back in Christchurch - home base. Since my last update a lot has happened. A fair amount of fishing, tramping, sight seeing and of course, bug killing. I am now one rod poorer (broke a 5 wt 9 ft in the middle casting a dry fly, go figure) and one phone poorer. The latter is certainly the most devastating as with that phone went a full month of photos. Oh well. You will have to take my word on the fact that there were browns, plenty of them, some reached Instagram, while most disappeared with that mobile as it followed one such fish into a deep pool on one night fishing escapade. 

There is something at night...that bites...

An old man in Maine once taught me that the coming of dusk is no time to relinquish the fly rod. In fact, there are fish to be caught at night as well and they are often well worth the effort. Here are a few pics from this last month's "night bite". 

A mouse hungry brown.

Clear water rainbows
I have never met a fish that has challenged a Steele at the top of my list of beauty and power, but these are some real pretty relatives and they can pack a punch themselves.

This buck had a hat trick + 1 of aerials before coming to net.

Kat strikes with a day time beauty on the dry. And yes it was raining, sandflies that is.
*Sandflies are NZ version of blackflies, a little less nasty but often shows up droves. 

A little less than a month left here in this great land, but there are plenty more fish to be targeted. 

Cheers, 

-00

Introduction to South Island, NZ

Prologue

I've been in New Zealand for about three weeks now and I can say, without hesitation, that I've received an education. Water has been at times tough to reach, fish have been tough to spot, tough to present to and tough to get to eat. That all occurs before the sensational take, which has been almost always extremely visible and gets my blood so jazzed up that I pluck the flies from those fishes' mouths before they come tight. It's been an education - one that carries loads of frustration and glimpses of extreme satisfaction. 

This past weekend, Katherine, myself, Jack, and his girlfriend Liz, planned ourselves a NZ tramp. Jack is a Kiwi friend of Lucas' and I am happy to say that he is a friend of mine too. The river chosen, dates in place and we'd do a fish and hike over Thursday - Saturday. 

Day One: The First Fish

Day one included a hike into the hut and we'd fish as we went. Jack spots a fish, I fish to it, it spooks, no big deal; it's been happening quite a bit to me. I think that I've put 10 fish down to each one that chews, odds I intend to improve upon. Usually we can go from pool to pool, fish to fish. However, one this day, we saw one fish for the first 3 hours of tramping, so when that second fish was spotted, there was a bit more on the line. It was my job to turn that statement from figurative to literal. 

First cast, "Definitely further up." Remarks Jack. 

Second cast, "Ok, still needs to be a meter further up and move that cast about a meter to the left."

Third cast and the fish rises from the his hold and comes up for an inspection, slight hesitation and then "slurp". A slight hesitation on my end, then the set. 

"WOOOOHOOOOOO!" Exclaims Jack.

The fish races out into the current and finds himself a hold, slowly taking more line until the it becomes clear that a chase may ensue. After a few minutes the fish tires and a river cross allows us to bring the fish into the shallows for an NJ!

Marked in at 5.25 lb.

How sweet it is!

Day Two: The Rescue

We start our way up the river for a fish, the four of us. We are dealing with mixed weather, intermittent rain, hail and wind. The girls decide to head back, about an hour walk, around 2pm. Jack and I set upstream to check out the remainder of the water with the promise to be back before dark. The fishing was tough, the fish present but largely unwilling and easily spooked. Around 5:00 we turned our heals on the river and headed back to the hut. Our 7:30 arrival meant that we would have some light to enjoy dinner with the girls and a nice fire. One problem - the girls weren't there. Another problem - there was no sign that they had ever made it back. 

Darkness fell in around 9:00 and Jack and I had set a signal fire. We had searched a couple Ks upstream, downstream and the likes. No sign. The rain had stopped but it was getting cooler. 10:00 - PLB (Personal Locator Beacon) was activated. Jack, an avid NZ tramper and fisherman, me, an avid offshore fisherman, we both had been around PLBs or EPIRBs but had never had the need, fortunately, to use one before. We say and waited, next to the river with a ragging fire. Jokes were inserted to keep the mood light and to pass the time. Around 11:30pm the search and rescue chopper became audible and quickly descended on our position. A very professional rescuer met us on the ground and asked for the situation. Moments later, they lifted off looking for two female hikers lost in the region. 

About an hour passed and the chopper became audible again and returned to us two, slightly shaken and chilled, but exuberant young ladies. You can read the story as it appear in the news here: Camera Flash Guides Rescuers to Lost Trampers. 

Day Three - The Retreat

A walk out on a sunny day and deep sigh of relief and our first tramp had been an eventful one. A huge thanks to the Search and Rescue team out of Greymouth, NZ and to Jack for carrying a PLB. 

Sixteen Mornings

A place not so far from home boasts one of Maine's finest Brown Trout fisheries for the shortest of times in the fall.  If you blink you'll miss it. If you rise too late you'll be beaten to the position.  If you skip a day, you'll miss it.  This fall I decided not to blink.  I was in the water an hour before sunrise each and every morning I fished (except one day with Jasper) and I missed a few days but never two in a row; when it happened I was there.

The location is a flowage between two large lakes, split by a dam, a complex of lakes many of you are familiar with.  Its easy on the eyes and often hard on the heart. The combination of current and lack of easy landing pockets make it a brutal stretch to land a fish in the 16" class let alone a specimen in the mid to upper 20's.  These 16 mornings (I'm still going) fell between late September and the 22nd of October; I've seen it all on my quest to strike it right.

My first morning was a Sunday.  I fished with Marty, co-owner of a ski and stove shop in Farmington.  Todd, his business partner, fished extensively on the ice with Jasper and I last winter and made a trip to Steele country last March.  They both are responsible for funding Jasper's XC bike trip back in the day.  Their experience at this spot exceeds my own and when I was told it was getting time to investigate this stretch I was all in.

One gate on the dam was open, the flow was nice and it rained like hell.  

We landed some fine fish upwards of 18". I was told these fish were mere precursors to the spectacle to come.  I was sold, it was time to grind out some hard time on the water.

Fired up from my first day of the season on this water, I was met by a troubling situation.  The dam, for the first time in my life, shut down completely.  A team of volunteer dam keepers operate the dam with the only town mandated operation being a drawdown of the upstream lake starting on Columbus Day. A quick call to the head volunteer was met with some haughty answers to my polite questions regarding the closure and the fish which began to run, were left confused and without the flowing water they craved.

For a number of mornings I caught fish but nothing of the caliber landed on day one.  Now and again I would land a fish close to 18" as they let more and more water out after nearly a week long shutdown. It was maddening mulling over what was setting up to an epic run only to be squandered by bizarre dam releases.

Sooner or later it had to happen.  In the back of my mind I questioned if the vigilante dam operators would actually abide by the town mandated lake draw down.  Low and behold, Monday of Columbus Day weekend they opened the east gate as wide as it would go.  

Fishing was slow that week as the fish adjusted and filled back in after a prolonged period of low flow.  Jasper and I planned to fish on the Saturday after Columbus Day and were hopeful that things might finally turn on.

The stars aligned, the midge bite was on and we slayed.

The two of us landed a number of fish between 18"-20" and two over 24" on size 20's.  We lost plenty but these fish dulled the sting of those we never saw.

                               

                              

                              

Next up, Sunday with the BFC futures: Nick Ford '15, Tyler Schleich '15 and Andy Cannon '15.  We met at around 5 am and solidified our position.  The Sage 4650 reel is silhouetted by the full moon.

                           

The bite didn't disappoint.....below Tyler is deep into his backing on a hen that took him clear to the lake.  

                           

A hero move to dislodge the fly line from a mooring buoy some 30 yards offshore proved successful and Tyler landed his largest Brown to date.

                           

Again and again the boys went tight, Andy managed to land a fish but despite numerous hookups, Nick didn't bring a fish to net. 

                             

                             

There should always be a Plan B, a short drive ensued and a small stream five miles away was the target.  Overhanging branches and downed trees in the water make this sight fishing location extremely difficult to fish but the payoff can be sweet.

After threading my rod under several downed trees and various snags mid river, Tyler hooked me up with a badass NJ just upstream of the point of no return

Nick broke the skunk on Plan B water as well....spirits were high; some spectacular Central Maine specimens under our belts.

Jesse's dad and I had been exchanging phone calls and juggling schedules to get on the water one day before work.  After a few missed opportunities we finally settled on a morning.  Fresh blood in the water and a new unadulterated fishing perspective always brings good things.  After a number of healthy Browns coming to net, old Jon Robbins tied into a hog.  A lengthy battle ensued as this Salmon caught the current numerous times, only to swim slack lined right back at us on the river right eddy.  The fish snagged bottom several times during its desperate attempts to fray Jon's tippet but in the end, this well oiled team enjoyed a few photos of this 25" kipe jawed behometh! 

And with that, I slunk off to work at the conclusion of my 16th morning with a smile on my face.  Poseidon giveth.