Peter's Fly-Fishing Adventures

Redfishing in Louisiana, Part 1

2011-12-19T22:09:00.001-05:00

I wasn’t sure what I should have playing as I crossed over into the state of Popeye’s chicken, SEC football, and the “Who ‘dat” nation, but I was pretty sure it should have been creole. I settled for Lyle Lovett.

And I can’t claim that I drove without a sense of foreboding. We Yoders have a curse of sorts. When the fish gods hear we’re headed out for a trip, they find some way to conjure up unnatural winds and rain; anything to wreck a fly cast. And it was no different as I headed to see my famous fly guiding brother, Dave Yoder. He had begun exploring and offering fishing trips in the Louisiana Gulf region near New Orleans a few years ago, and this was my first chance since completing my graduate work (that’s right, it’s “Dr. unemployed” to you!) to spend some time on a flats boat with my big brother.

I arrived late on the Sunday after thanksgiving with the slight hope that the clouds dropping rain outside would pass, and that the cold front being predicted to follow would get tired and stop. Alas, I was wrong.

We awoke to a first day of fishing filled with constant 30 mph gusts and rain. I don’t believe either of our bodies warmed after the initial 40ish minutes ride to Dave’s not-so-secret spots. He had just finished filming an episode of Getting Guided the week previous, and I suppose this was just get backs for all the success they had.

My casting has never been the strong part of my fly-fishing game; I tend to rely on prayers. And the gusting that day was something that even a few words to the Lord couldn’t lift. So I was relegated to flinging a “Cajun Thunder” cork indicator with some Gulp attached to a jig. From one side of the boat the sound of a rod stressing under the weight of a cast could be heard along with a monster-truck like cry of “Thunder.” From the other side, another cast and scream of “Gulp.” Yet even our siren songs and cat-calls couldn’t convince the redfish we were serious. The only thing we were catching was a cold.

So, we sat and yelled. We ate for warmth. And we hoped, with a fading hope. It took one cast, and the uncontrollable urge of a large redfish for my thunder cork to drop under the water. And with a strong reel, he was on.

That one catch was enough. We had a greater desire to regain our normal body temperatures than discover if another fish was lurking nearby, and we packed up and motored away.

The next morning was clear and sunny. But the wind had decided to stick around. Yet I was there to fly fish, so we broke out the rod and I went at it. To give an idea about the wind, it caused such an extreme low tide that we both feared we might not make it back through the canal that led back to the drop in marina.

Nevertheless, we fished. And I missed countless, I mean countless, redfish. One after the other. And even though they would be spooked only momentarily (unlike our boney friends down in the Keys) I was still quite unsuccessful. Ok, not completely unsuccessful. We landed three average sized reds that day, but I missed my chance with several 20+ pound versions.

It was, when all is said and done, a success. I came, I saw, I froze, I caught. All because I have a brother who knows his business. Merry Christmas, Davey.

Fly fishing in Germany, Part 13 - The Ilm River (Weimar)

2011-05-27T09:02:00.000-04:00

I made one last fishing trip before I packed up the bags (mostly filled with books) and headed back to the motherland. There were a few options, but it needed to be pretty close to Halle. So, I decided to head down to Weimar and fish the Ilm River. It’s a decent sized river that runs directly through the city, and like Erfurt (Gera River) has a good representation of brown trout.

An hour on the train and I jumped off in the city of Goethe and Schiller – but I wasn’t in the mood for poetry. You can get an Erlaubnisschein (permission form) from the Zoomarkt which is located almost directly behind the train station. But to get there you need to walk underneath the tracks, enjoying the beauties of artwork from a formerly communist country, and make a right on Rießner Straße. They store is located in a large yellow building.

The form cost 20 Euros (expensive), which would have been cut in half had I belonged to a fishing club. Ah the benefits of being a part of the gang. They also nickel-and-dimed me for a self addressed, stamped postcard to report what fish I caught. Whatever. I’ll probably use the stamp to send a note to someone…. who cares.

The one thing I regret most of all from the whole trip was leaving my bike behind. From the train station to the bottom portion of the river, below the city park where it enters into Weimar, it took me a solid 45 minutes. It might have been just as productive, and easier to reach, if I had tried the section of the river that exits the city, but hindsight is always 20/20.

Anyways, I made it down to a section of the river about 100 yards beyond the Bienenmuseum (Bee Museum) and began fishing below a small spill-over dam. It didn’t take long before my Royal Wulff weight a bit more than usual. The section surrounding the museum, if you can get to it, was relatively successful. I believe I pulled five decent sized browns out of the section, and could have had a lot more, if I wasn’t concerned about time.

Being mindful that I needed to catch the train back to Halle, I started walking downstream, throwing a Woolly Bugger in the deep, slow moving sections of the river. [The Ilm, like a lot of German rivers had been dug out near and in the city. City dwellers of an earlier time would use the river to transport things, and so it resembles more of a channel than a river.]

Toward the end of the excursion I had strikes and hook-ups with two relatively large trout. The first rolled off my streamer and the second I played like a bad bluegrass song. I left the river pretty aggravated that the last one got away. I was situated in a great pool situated right under the "Romisches Haus" in the park. I guess I was too worried about what it would look like on film, and not enough with the amount of freedom I was giving the fish to do its thing. Oh well.

The truth is, the Ilm is not very pleasant to fish in Weimar, but I am certain there are some large fish hanging out in the deeper sections. It looks like the section in Bad Berka is much more to my liking, but it was virtually impossible to get in touch with the club in charge of that section. So, with that, I am headed back to the land of good bluegrass music and great BBQ.

Fly Fishing in Germany Part 12: the Schwarza River (Thueringen)

2011-05-20T05:12:00.001-04:00

Living on the tenth floor of an old communist apartment building has its benefits: the earliest glimmers of a German sunrise feel like they pierce my window first. And when I need to get up and out of the house by 6:45am, I can’t imagine a better alarm clock. This weekend my destination was a section of the Schwarza River that runs between the small Thüringen towns of Unterweißbach and Bad Blankenburg. I had scoped out pictures of the river on the fly fishing forum for Thüringen, and when the clock struck 12am May 1, 2011 (open season for trout) it was to be the first water I tried.

After a few hours on the train, I ran into my fishing partner for the weekend, Guido, waiting for me at the station where we were both supposed to transfer onto the same train. We would travel another thirty-or-so minutes before we’d reach our destination.

The “dorf” of Unterweißbach isn’t more than a blink of the eye, but you begin to notice more and more of it when you have to walk through the town a couple of times. I might not have noticed the graveyard or the swimming pool hidden behind the trees and houses, if we had not been on an hour-long hunt for coveted Erlaubnisschein. [Remember, in Germany you’ll always need both a fishing license and a permission form for each body of water you fish. They can usually be gotten from the local fishing club, and a good place to start when you don’t know who to contact or where to go is the tourist stop or a local hotel.]

We ended up getting a map from a (farmers) museum in Sitzendorf and making our way slowly up to Forellenzucht, a small fishery, which is situated at the top of the river open to fishing. The permission form was relatively cheap, 10 Euros per day, so we decided to go ahead and purchase a two day’er to fish between Forellenzucht and the “Schweizerhaus” [not so sure about the spelling] a few kilometers below Schwarzburg. [To fish below the Schweizerhaus” you’ll have to get an Erlaubnis from someone in Bad Blankenburg.]

After getting our gear together, enjoying some Knackwurst and granola, we hit the first hole… one that’ll probably get fished to death before the season is over. Luckily, it was May 1st, and there were still a few trout that had a yearning to taste a hook or two. I pulled a nice-sized brown out of the section before we decided to head downstream.

About three-fourths a kilometer downstream we hit what appeared to be an unnaturally formed section of the river; a series of steps of rocks which formed some deep pocket water. I floated a Royal Wulff through a picture perfect seam in the water and can’t recall how many strikes from larger fish I received. I greeted a few of them with my net before remembering that we had a lot water to cover before we could call it an evening. …so, we moved on.

Unfortunately, after that short section of pocket water, the river became relatively “dead”. The trout were there, and I caught a few more, but it was nothing like that brief section just below Forellenzucht. [Why are the fish always congregated around the fishery anyways?]

That caused a little fear. What would tomorrow hold? We’d paid for two days on the river, and if the lower section remained as unproductive as the section around Unterweißbach (note, Forellenzucht is situated a little ways above the town) we’d be a little ticked.

We called it an evening once we reached Schwarzburg, and made our way to Pension Friedrichsthal, where we dropped off our bags and prepared ourselves for what can only be described as a time warp. One thing to be noted about small, former East German towns: they really, really liked/like the eighties. Granted, you could experience the same thing in a small North Carolina town, but it’s hard to perfectly describe the culture that exists in these small German towns that are still rooted in their former cold-war ways and yet still long for the “west”. So, next time you’re in Schwarzburg, head up to the Weißer Hirsch, and say hi to Elvis for me (or don’t, there are probably much better places to eat). Aside from all this, it must be said that the town is beautiful (a former East German hotspot that’s fallen on hard times since the unification), and the pension was amazing: inexpensive, good facilities, a nice view, and a tremendous breakfast.

We saw off our friend Andrew, who came down from Gotha to take in the night life, and decided to walk down to the end of our allotted section of river, the Schweizerhaus, before fishing back up to Schwarzburg. The fishing was great, the closer you got to the Schweizerhaus. I can imagine it only gets better the closer you get down to Bad Blankenburg, especially since that section is a wade-free section. I tied on some attractors, a Wulff and Adams, and pulled trout after trout out of the river.

…but there’s always that one. The one you’ll remember from the trip. It’s not always its size that makes the catch memorable; it might simply be the take. For me it was the situation and the take. As Guido and I were walking downstream, I noted a section of the river which ran along a stone wall. It would be by far the most productive section for me, and it’s also where I met Herbert. Herbert was holding up against the wall, and once I saw him, I had to have him. It only took one cast (and that’s not usually the case) and I was able to get a decent drift right over him. But his take was a beautiful one: a nice, subtle tilt of the head, lips barely breaking the surface; and boom. He was on, and I was smiling. Like most trout, he wasn’t astoundingly big, but he was fat and healthy. And, well, he made my trip. Thanks Herbert.

So, make your way to the Schwarza. And try to teach the Germans a thing or two about catch-and-release.

Fly Fishing in Germany Part 11: The Gera River Erfurt and "schonzeit"

2011-04-27T11:28:00.001-04:00

Ok, it's a week away from the first day of spring fishing. The protected period on trout will be lifted and anglers are allowed to take home the trout they catch. Bad news for the trout, good news for anglers.

But this also affords me the opportunity to clarify "schonzeit". I was under the assumption that once a fish was protected in the river, then the whole river was closed down. Not so. The key is (especially if you want to continue trout fishing in the winter) is finding rivers that have one type of fish that is not protected during the winter period, in which trout are untouchable. The presence of such a fish (for instance "Bachsaibling") would then allow you to also fish for trout.... unintentionally, of course. And every trout you catch must be returned to the river, and for a conservationist like myself that's music to my ears.

Here is a video I shot this past weekend. My hope is to fish the Schwarza River and maybe the Saale in two weeks. But I need to get my license and secure an Erlaubnis. Expect a blog post on the adventure.

New website!

2011-03-30T07:10:00.000-04:00

Folks, my brother's website is up and running! He's one of the best fly fishing guides in the Florida Keys, so if you are interested in heading there, get in contact with him.

Salt Water Fly Guide

or you can follow him on facebook

A video to pass the time

2011-03-29T17:56:00.001-04:00

I am waiting for the trout season to start up again in Germany, but I thought I would share with you a video that made me crack up laughing in the library.

Fly fishing in Germany, Part 10 - The Isar in Muenhen (Munich)

2010-10-05T10:17:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I didn't actually fish the Isar... I drank Bavarian beer. But I did make this for you:

I question whether the fish were bumping up against the support for food or whether it was for some other reason (suggestions?) but I don't question their size. Big!

Oh, here is a German fishing magazine:
http://www.hook-magazin.de/

Fly fishing in Germany, Part 9 - The Apfelstädt River (Neudietendorf)

2010-09-20T07:23:00.001-04:00

Well, I back in Germany, and getting settled in a new town, with a new (or better yet, old) mentality. It took me a few weeks to get my bearings, but once I figured stuff out, I made my way to the closest trout river.

Saturday, after spending an afternoon earlier that week at Fisch im Netz in Arnstadt getting my Erlaubnis and a few flies (they were great), I headed to Neudietendorf to fish the Apfelstädt river. I unknowingly headed west out of the train station and fished the fly-fishing or spinning rod only section of the river, from about Edelweis Gartens to a few hundred yards above the dam.

Wow. the Apfelstädt is not an impressive river; smaller than the Gunpowder in Maryland, but the fish I caught were abundant and at times big.

I had my share of small browns, but this guy takes the cake. There weren't many deep holes in the river, so I was fishing undercut banks with a light yellow Humpy and an Adams trailing. He went for the Adams, and I didn't know what I had until I felt the pull. It was like he was going to drag me out of the river, down to the town council, and complain that I hooked him. A great fight.

I don't have all the fishing necessities with me. So I made due. I wore some jeans rolled up with thermos underneath, some wool socks, and my Keens. Needless to say, I went swimming, and the jeans didn't stay dry.

A great day of fishing, and I expect to head back to the Apfelstädt to fish the lower section of the river before it heads into Erfurt. I look forward to it!

Floating the Holston and Watauga Rivers (Tennessee)

2010-09-20T06:55:00.000-04:00

Just before my return to Germany Troy and I set out for a three day fishing adventure in Tennessee, right near Bristol. Troy had floated the Holston before, and I had only heard rumors. The fish this river holds are huge. That was confirmed by Jack, the shuttle driver, who proudly displayed some of the pictures he kept handily right on the picnic table next to the river. Our plan was to spend a day on the Holston and the move over to the Watauga the next day, ending our trip back on a lower portion of the Holston fishing for smallmouth bass.

The Holston River is a peculiar body of water. The fishing actually gets good when the sun is out. The hatch usually depends on whether the sun is out or not, and when it's out, the fishing can be amazing. Moreover, the river gets a heavy dose of water being released daily. The transformation of the Holston from a mild river to a huge ocean-like thing also makes the hatch a very necessary thing.

The sun, unfortunately was not on our side this day. It remained relatively concealed behind clouds, which meant the hatch was mild at best. We had a few moments of rising fish, but were relegated to stripping streamers most of the day. So...the fishing was pretty bad. But, that doesn't mean it's not a great river to get out on. Here are a few we pulled out.

One annoy factor on the Holston is that when they release from the dam, the boys with their bass boats also get on the river. Nothing more annoying to a day floating than the sound of powerboats running by you.

The next morning we headed out for the Watauga River. Wow. What a great drift. Unlike the Holston, you want to drift the Watauga when they are not releasing. After feeding the duck, we jumped in the river.

Right off the bat I missed a very large fish. We actually stared at it as it slowly came around the boat and rose for my fly. We were pretty much in a stupor just watching the fish, and I pulled the fly out of its mouth not realizing it was actually munching on my fly.

We made our way down the river, fishing holes, bad mouthing guides who anchored in the same hole we were fishing, and enjoying the day.

There was a moment when we came upon a large back eddy where there were a dozen-or-so fish rising for emerging blue wing olives. It was fantastic.

The next day we had a short float on a lower section of the Holston, looking to catch a few smallmouth bass. Unfortunately, they weren't to be seen or had. The fish were pretty much non-existent until we reached out pull out. Oh well.

Great trip before my return to Germany. Thanks Troy!

Floating the Tuck

2010-09-20T06:36:00.000-04:00

[sorry folks, it's taken me forever to get these posted]

About three weeks ago, I made my way back down to North Carolina for a little time with my family, and my cousin Troy was just down the dirt road, taking a break from the busy life of Austin. Troy, among his multitude of abilities, is an avid fly-fisher (especially when the words small mouth bass are included) and a master drift boat builder. Around six years ago he set out and accomplished the goal of building a little 12 foot wood drift boat, a boat that I’ve admired ever since I stepped foot in it. It’s been a while since both Troy and I were in the mountains of NC at the same time, so I was even more excited to find out he’d be there during my visit.

Upon my arrival on the mountain, Troy and I set out our plans. First, we needed to float the Tuck again. This time, though, Troy suggested (wisely) that we float an area he’s only done before in his canoe. When both forks of the river are releasing water it is possible to drift from Moody Bridge on Roy Tritt Road down to the dam in Cullowhee. And that’s just what we did.

The fishing was for the most part slow. The water levels had a bit to do with the eating habits of the fish, but we both pulled nice sized trout out of the river. In fact, by day’s end I had caught a 3-run-homer (rainbow, brown, brook). The prize of the day was with this beautiful brook trout.

Troy also hooked into a nice brown.

One thing I’ve learned is that Tuck trout seem to look much bigger in the hand than on film.

A break in NC: canoe fishing Lake Sequoyah (Highlands, NC)

2010-08-13T17:17:00.000-04:00

Simple as this: don't do it. Don't waste your time (like we did), load up your gear and canoe (like we did), head over to Highlands, NC (like we did), and drop into Lake Sequoyah. There's nothing there. We'll there might be. We did spot some large carp, and we did have our share of bluegill (and I even swore I had a small-mouth on), but it's not worth the trouble.

Cousin Troy and I paddled around the lake for a couple of hours, fished some really juicy spots, and were frustrated at the nothingness that lay underneath the water. Troy kept swearing the houses dump chemicals into the lake to kill off the fish. My theory? Well, I believe they avoid stocking the thing all-together. The best way to keep pesky fisherman away from "our" lake is to keep fish out of it. Brilliant. Oh well. This weekend we're doing a float of the Tuck, and then catching a Ricky Skaggs concert -- excited I am.

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 8 (The Nidda River and Fishing Clubs)

2010-04-29T17:57:00.003-04:00

Well, it's finally over. Yesterday, after traveling 2 hours by train, I assembled my four-piece five weight rod (made, if I may brag, by my day and repaired after being broken in New Zealand), attached my reel, tied on an Adams and, well, missed three strikes before finally landing my first German trout.

But before I get into my experience on the Nidda River in Hessen, Germany, let me tell you what I've learned about fishing clubs (Angel- or Fischenverein) in Germany. Stefan, the head of the club in charge of the Nidda (and a few other fisheries) was an amazing help. I called him on Friday of last week and asked exactly how I could go about getting an certificate of permission (Erlaubnis) to fish the Nidda. From what it appears, that's the way to go about it. Well in advance of your trip to a specific river, call the club and set up a time that day (or a day at your convenience) when you can purchase the Erlaubnis. [Make sure to have your German license with you.] He met me at the train station and kindly drove me and my bike 6 kilometers out of the city, right in the center of the 16 km they manage.

During the ride, I was able to ask him several questions, and out of his answers I learned that the best thing to do is join a club. Here's why: if I want to fish a river here, I need an Erlaubnis, and in the western states that can be expensive. It cost me 20 EU to fish the Nidda for the day. [Now, I also noticed that trout fisheries in Thueringen are considerably cheaper, between 8 and 15 EU per day.] If I were a regular in that area, and foresaw myself fishing the river regularly, a yearly membership is 60 EU. Simple math says I start benefiting from membership on the Nidda after my third day fishing. So, look into joining the club that manages the river/s you would like to fish often.

With that said, I don't plan on joining the Nidda fishing club, and I probably won't return to fish the river. While Stefan was amazing, the river was underwhelming. I didn't expect a large river, so it's meager size didn't exactly surprise me. But, the discrepancy in the size of the fish I was seeing and catching compared to the photos they posted on their site was considerable. The impression the site gave me was that the water offered enough opportunity for a population of fish of varied size and age. That didn't play out in reality. The average trout was about 7 or 8 inches, and I came across one pool directly after a bridge that held trout around the 12-15 inch range.

In this situation, size didn't matter. I finally caught a German trout, and the picturesque traditional house and farms, the mustard fields along the river, and even the burny-itchy weeds (you know, the ones that burn your legs when the touch and then itch like crazy for the next two hours) were enjoyable.

Once I strapped on all my gear and walked a piece of the river, I fished up to the confluence of two brooks. There were three fish rising, and all of them small, and all of them made a move on my Adams. I came up empty each time. I might have been pulling the fly out of their mouths, but I also noted how fast they went silent. The hole was well fished, and even if they were small trout, they were smart ones.

Note to me: bring back floatant. I could have dry-flied the whole afternoon, but it just became frustrating trying to keep my flies on top of the water, and I forgot floatant back in the State and didn't think to find a substitute here. My bad. So, I worked with wooly buggers down the river, and in between two farm towns I hooked into my first and second. Both relatively the same size. The river was really not a river. It was more like a Colorado brook...real clear and real cold.

And so the rest of the day was spent getting burnt, singing songs out loud, thanking the Lord for a cool life, and dragging my bike down the shore of the river.

Stefan remarked, as he left me by the riverside, "You're the first who's come by train and bike." Well, I might be starting something new in Germany.... the non-auto fly fisher. The only problem is that I have to find rivers relatively near train stops. Hey, I'm up for a little adventure.

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 7 (Fishing Test, etc.)

2010-04-26T18:32:00.000-04:00

[This is part of a larger series on getting a fishing license in Germany, which is linked under "Germany" in "conquered fisheries." Please make sure to look through these posts because I often contradict myself, finding something out later that I earlier misunderstood.]

Greetings faithful readership! As of last Thursday, I am now officially trained and qualified to legally catch fish and kill them, and to illegally catch fish and release them to live another day. Here is a perfect test question that explains my frustration with German conservationism:

Ist es sinnvoll, in einem Gewässer große Hechte zu schonen?

Nein, den größere Fische sind schlechte Futterverwerter

...so the question essentially asks is it good to maintain large pike in a specific fishery, and the answer is, "No, because they eat too much." And this might be true of pike, but it certainly speaks to the unfortunate disposition of Germans. The average German (and probably the average American, but we aren't "trained") doesn't get told that the larger fish are better breeders. So, they go out and catch and eat all those big fish and leave the little ones behind. Thumbs down.

But, to be honest, I am just glad to have this whole process behind me. I spent a few days before the test going through my self-typed questions and answers [I left out the foils as to avoid later confusion], highlighting the ones that were difficult to remember. The highlighting allowed me to go over the tougher questions shortly before the test began.

I will say it was mildly comical how they handed out the official forms... like a graduation. Remember, that to get a license as a person registered with a city/place in Germany, you'll need to take the fishing course, pass the state exam, and receive the certificate of completion. Each office will require the original, official copy before they will give you your license.

Ok, with that said, I am now well on my way to making my first fly-fishing trip on Wednesday. And here is what I've learned already about the process that you must know.

I had thought beforehand that I would have to buy a fishing license for every state I wanted to fish (like the US), but instead I have found out that I must only buy a license in the city where I live (or am registered). My trip is planned for the Nidda in Hessen, so I'll need to get my license from Mainz, in Rhineland Pflaz, and then get my Erlaubnis/Permission form from the specific fishery club (Verein) or owner of the fishery. Here's the complicated and crappy part of this whole deal: some (maybe most) of these fisheries only offer a one-day fishing "Erlaubnis," so I have to pay and pay and pay if I want to keep coming back. This one isn't expensive (10 EU), but there is another fishery that is 25 EU a day. That's a heck-of-a lot of money, in my opinion. This situation makes me want to look seriously into joining the club of a nearby trout fishery. I am pretty sure that will get rid of that daily fee. But I will have to find out.
YOU MUST (it's the law) have these things with you while fishing: a net, a knife, a measuring instrument, a thick striking club for killing the fish, and a hook remover. [I know, I know, even if you're not going to do any killing... have them with you.]

Ok, with that said, the next entry should involve me holding (fingers crossed) a few German trout. I am getting excited!

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 6 (German fishing course, part 4)

2010-03-25T18:05:00.001-04:00

[note: this is one in a series of blog posts on getting a fishing license in Germany. There is a link in the “conquered fisheries” listing that will provide all the posts on licenses and fishing in Deutschland.]

OK, I’ve gotten lazy, so I’m combining what might qualify as three blog posts on this “adventure” in obtaining a German fishing license into one last entry on the “Fischerlehrgang” [fishing course]. This past weekend we wrapped up the course by covering “Allgemeine Fischkunde” [common fish knowledge] and Gesetzeskunde [knowledge of the law], and yesterday I took and passed my first “test.”

Two things to note off-the-bat about what I’ve just written: First, my poor grasp of the German language becomes glaringly evident when you go back to last week’s entry and note that I thought we covered Allgemeine Fischkunde last Sunday. Instead, that was “Spezielle Fischkunde” [specific fish information], which was a 6-hour course that obviously went right over my head. Second, the quotation marks around “test” indicates that I assumed it was a meaningful exam, stressed out about it during the few days leading up to the text, and came to find out on test-day that it was only a practice exam. Oh well.

Here's a cropping of pictures I took of a poster listing all the German names for fish... you might find it helpful [click on the image to enlarge it].

So, let’s wrap up these blog posts on the German fishing course in Hessen (a course which is probably very similar in the other German states, although I can imagine there being differences concerning fish-types) by repeating the five required sessions:

Allgemeine Fischkunde
Spezielle Fischkunde
Gerätekunde [knowledge of equipment]
Gewässerkunde [knowledge of bodies of water and their features (including vegetation)]
Gesetzeskunde

At the end of these, there is the possibility, depending on the desires of the specific Verein [club] offering this course, that you’ll be required to take a test for the Verein, which I took and passed yesterday. From what I understand, had I missed a course, I would have to make it up the next time they offered the course, and I would not be able to take the staatliche Fischereiprüfung [state fishing exam] without fully completing the courses.

These courses are in some ways preparatory for the state’s Fischereiprüfung. Thus, the exam is also divided into 5 sections of 12 questions. From my understanding, you cannot miss more than twelve questions (three from each section—although, I am not certain as to whether it is just 12 mistakes or 12 mistakes and no more than 3 mistakes per section....I’ll find that out in April). I missed 6 on the practice test; three from the section on bodies of water. And for the life of me, I still can’t figure out which ones they were.

In preparation for the test, I essentially typed all 500+ questions (about 130 for each section) out and followed the question with only the correct answer from the multiple choice options. About two days before the exam I started reading through the answers, putting a mark at the top of each section to note how many times I read it. The study plan work seemingly well. Although, I’ll need to make some adjustments to how I approach the dates for questions on Schonzeit [closed season for certain fish] and other more specific questions. I think making a simple chart for those questions might help.

Instead of repeating a lot of boring junk I heard this past week, I thought I would share things I learned about fishing in Germany, specifically in Hessen... things that might be useful when you come over and try to do a little fly fishing.

In Hessen there is no off-season for rainbow trout. Since this species of trout was introduced into the German wildlife from America, it is not considered worthy of the same protections as native trout species. Rhineland Pfalz, where I live, on the other hand has a Schonzeit for rainbows. Had I known this when I was trying to get a visitors license [what am I talking about? Click here], I would have gotten a license in Hessen and been able to fly fish for trout during the winter. Oh well.
“Catch and Release” in Germany: There is a country-wide law, called Tierschutzgesetz [animal protection law], that is supposed to protect all animals from unnecessary suffering. It’s a very nice idea, but sometimes it plays out in absurd ways. Fishing is an example. Under this law it is illegal to practice catch and release, unless the fish is undersized or caught during its closed season. That is, if you catch a great big jack, who probably is a stud-of-a-breeding fish, you’ve got to kill him. Definitely seems silly to this American, but we have to remember it's Germany. They actually had a small little scuffle in the 1520s called the Peasant's War over fishing [and lumber] rights. I've come up with a helpful saying that puts the differences between German and American fishing: “Germans fish to eat fish, Americans fish to catch fish.” Thus, in the German perspective, to catch a fish and then to release it is cruel. So, to say it sarcastically, in one understanding you put the fish out of its misery and suffering from having a hook in its lip by killing it, and in the other understanding you put the fish out of its suffering from being hooked by releasing back in the water. ...I know, I know... I am well aware of the difference in understandings. It is illogical in the German sense to fish without desiring to eat what you catch; fishing is for food... very German. So, I won’t belabor the point. BUT, I will mention some loop-holes for those of us who want to practice catch and release in Germany. We have at least two [possibly three]:

If the fish is undersized, it must be released. It’d probably be wise to carry a ruler with you, for no other reason than to turn to the fishing authority and say, “Sorry sir, I measured him and he wasn’t big enough."
If the fish is caught during closed season, it must be returned. This is an interesting law, because if you have a desire to fish for trout during the closed season, you need only find a river with carp species (or whatever) that will allow you to legally fish the water (of course, with dry or wet flies) and return all the lovely trout you catch.
Lastly, in Hessen you must return a fish to the water if you’ve foul-hooked him. This is another one of the interesting rules that points to the silliness of the animal protection law. The fish that’s been foul-hooked has probably suffered more than the fish that was properly hook, but it must be release. Wwah, what? Yup, release that sucka. So, you might be having a great day fly fishing, and oddly enough, you might also be foul hooking EVERY fish you catch. That would be a shame, just a shame.

If you want to avoid this process of a getting a fishing license, you can purchase a Besucherfischereischein [visitor's license], but you are immediately disqualified from this license if you have registered with the city and/or have an address in Germany. See my older posts to figure out exactly what you need for a visitor's license.

Water rights in Germany: Last point to be noted: I am still not clear on the language, but the Erlaubnis [form of permission] is a bit more complicated as it may seem. So, as I mentioned before, to fish in Germany you need not only a fishing license but also an Erlaubnis, which allows you to fish specific areas or regions. Nevertheless, the fishing rights of a specific river or pond many not be covered by that Erlaubnis; the river may be owned by a hotel or business. To be able to fish specific, owned bodies of water you will need to get a specific Erlaubnis from the owner. So, it is possible that you will need multiple Erlaubnis for just a small region. And at the minimum, you need to make sure that you have written permission to fish the specific body of water you fish. If it’s owned by an old farmer, go knock on his door, get his permission (offer him some of the catch), and make sure he writes it out and signs it. But, this Erlaubnis business is still confusing to me. The first thing I’ll do when I get to Gotha next fall is walk into the Verein and start asking questions.

Hope this has been helpful, and please post comments or questions.

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 5 (Fishing course, part 3)

2010-03-18T20:04:00.001-04:00

[note: this is one in a series of blog posts on getting a fishing license in Germany. There is a link in the “conquered fisheries” listing that will provide all the posts on licenses and fishing in Deutschland.]

I skipped out on church to head back for another session in this adventure they call "Fischerlehrgang". The only extra bit of anticipation I had was that the instructor for "Allgemeine Fischkunde" [common knowledge of fish species] was a devoted fly fisherman. If, and I mean if, I could just make it through the day, this guy might be my key to hidden trout waters in the region.

So, I locked up the bike in the Kastel away from the wind and rain and headed in for a long, long day. I think these sessions pertaining to fish types and fish characteristics are the most defeating sessions in this course. I'm being challenged at every turn with the new (for me) terms of fish and aquatic animals. No fun. But, it did reinforce how beneficial it is to write out the questions and answers at home. Since going through that process, I'm picking up more of the vocabulary and (hopefully) bettering my chances of passing the tests.

So, we talked about classes of fish, fins, and everything scaly. I zoned out a ton, mostly because I had no clue to what he, that being Achim, was referring. The most "interesting" part of this session was that he spent the last hour teaching about fly fishing. Nothing particularly new for me, but Achim was a gear-head. It was a show and tell out of the seasonal Orvis catalog. And, not only did he have the gear, but he's apparently been everywhere.... dang Germans with their 30-days-per-year of vacation time. We wrapped up the session by watching him cast into the Rhine River.... and it was WINDY!

Afterward, I chatted with Achim a bit. He passed on his email to me, and I have yet to email him... I need to get on that! But, I did learn about another obstacle I face in my quest to fly fish in Germany: not only do I need to take the course, pass the exam, buy a license, and buy an "Erlaubnis" but I also need to figure out who owns the land, whether it be a hotel or a farmer or a private business, and get (buy?) permission from them. I am almost certain one of the ways around this in Thueringen will be becoming a member of the local fishing Verein... they will have specific waters and will also be a good "reference point" when I am trying to get permission from a local.

Next week: Fishing regulations and Specific knowledge of fish. fun, fun.

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 4 (The fishing course, Part 2)

2010-03-15T15:31:00.003-04:00

[note: this is one in a series of blog posts on getting a fishing license in Germany. There is a link in the “conquered fisheries” listing that will provide all the posts on licenses and fishing in Deutschland.]

Saturday was session 2 of 5, the first being on types bodies of water (Gewässern), and the new instructor (Fritz) was considerably different in his approach to the topic of equipment (Gerätekunde). Fritz, unlike Matthias, smoked. That meant we had longer and more frequent breaks: a slight relief from a long day of listening. [I am continually impressed by the German ability to sit and listen—hours on end.] Second, Fritz was truly Hessen, and the rumors of the severe accents in the region were proven true. My best example is that for the first hour I though Fritz was using some slang term for the German word for fishing line. He kept saying “Schühe” and only after examining an overhead and referencing my dictionary did I realize he was saying “Schnüre”. So, it was no small adventure to navigate through his accent to the actual German that lay behind.

And I feel like I need to explain my disposition to this process of getting a fishing license in Germany. Please do take my sarcasm and, well, outright bitterness as a slight against the actual sessions or the instructors. Yes, there are moments when you wish they’d hold off on the stories and let you out earlier, but in the end, I am actually learning information I didn’t know and I’m picking up new German words. My frustration is at the utter futility of the process; the assumption that forcing people to take classes for a month makes them “better” fishermen. The truth is, it creates a society less aware of the aquatic life. No one fishes. Fathers don’t take their kids fishing to the lake or park. [Albeit, some do, but it is nothing like the sacred ritual in America.] The complexity of getting a license, to some extent, becomes a barrier in the eyes of the public. Now, there is the plus that rivers and lakes don’t receive the fishing pressure they do in the States, but there is also the problem that the public is far more unaware of the outdoors.

Ok, so Saturday was over equipment. We discussed rods, reels, lines, knots, and nets. We examined various weights and bobbers, lures and baits. And to my surprise, almost all of the “students” acted as if it was the first time they had seen a split-shot or spinner. And, maybe it was. In truth, the equipment session became one big show-and-tell. At one point, Fritz passed around his “knives” that he won for largest fish of the year. I don’t believe that will actually help me in the art of fishing. But, I am sure it helped with his confidence.

We discussed the test questions only briefly, and not sufficiently enough to give me any confidence for the upcoming test. [There is not only a test for the state/region, but the club that runs the teaching sessions also will require that you take a test—something similar to the state exam.] But, I was assured that I would be able to use a German/English dictionary for my tests [and it was confirmed the next day, too.] That was a huge relief.

Study note: I am typing out all the questions with their respective answers, and leaving out the other multiple choice foils. This will allow me to correctly associate the statement with the answer when it comes to test time.

One thing I did learn that will be useful is that the clinch knot can be used to create a weed-guard. If you are considering dragging a wooly bugger through some weeds, consider tying it on with a modified clinch knot. The arrowed-end would serve as the guard. In order to make the guard stick out you could wrap it once or twice behind the loop. I have yet to test my version in the wild, but my strength test (ie. setting the hook on a table and pulling) appeared to satisfy my stringent requirements.

Favorite quotes from today:
“When I go fishing, I fish. When I’m tired, I go home.” [Discussing fishers who sleep on the banks of the river.]

“No man needs it, but they sell it.” [Concerning useless equipment, such as electronic bobbers that beep when your rod is disturbed…. And this fantastic “disco reel”:]

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 3 (The fishing course, part 1)

2010-03-06T15:34:00.008-05:00

[note: this is one in a series of blog posts on getting a fishing license in Germany. There is a link in the “conquered fisheries” listing that will provide all the posts on licenses and fishing in Deutschland.]

Well, dearest reader, my excitement from the previous post was over-blown. I did receive a fishing license, but it was given to me (whether as a mean joke or as a gesture of kindness) with the limitation of one month. And during that month, guess what type of fishing was off limits? That's right, trout fishing. Just to get the license I was actually asked to write a semi-lengthy explanation as to why I want to fly fish in Germany, the main reason being to catch trout. So, they knew and, well, probably laughed all the way to the bank... ok, it was only 9 Euros, but still...

With that said, faithful followers, I received an extension to stay over here until April and another fellowship to be in Tueringen next fall. With those two blessings falling into my lap, I couldn't help but take the opportunity to get rid of all possibilities of red-tape-troubles and take the fishing course (Fischerlehrgang) for Hessen, the region bordering Rhineland Pfalz. The course is preparatory for the fishing test. My brilliant idea: take the course, take the test, and silence the mouths of the German bureaucracy. I've been told I should be able to use this course and the qualifying tests in any region/state. That means every time I come over here for research, I could take a little fishing trip on the side.

Today was the first day of the course. It will end up being three weekends of five 6-hour sessions. Yes, three weekends made up of five 6-hour sessions! So, the question might be asked (and understandably so): Why the heck do the Germans require such a belaboring thing from the common fisherman?

I have two answers:

The nice answer: To educate the masses as to propriety in the fishing environment.
The bitter, frustrated answer: To allow some old guy to stand in front of a bunch of people and tell them fish stories.

[I am leaning toward the second answer, right now.]

Today we were lectured on understanding water quality, variations of bodies of water, and aquatic vegetation and animals. Good. I'm ok with that. But most of the time was spent listening to this gentleman's tales of fishing in Norway and his tips as to how we can best fillet our catch. Oh man. But, I do want this to be a bit informative for anyone out there looking to get a license in Germany, so I will be keeping track of the process for those of you who might wander to my posts while searching on the web.

First, go back and read my previous posts on getting a license in Germany. Then come back to this series of the fishing course.

Course tips:

Head over to the city/town Ordnungsamt (local government building) and inquire about the course offerings. In Mainz, they offer a course twice a year, once in late spring and once in early winter. But, that might vary according to area. The courses will (most likely) be offered through a fishing club (Verein) in the area.
First, don't worry. Although... you are going to need a semi-decent grasp of the language. I am finding myself dazing off like I would with any English lecture, but it's a lot harder to catch back up... so try to take notes just to keep your mind focused.
I say don't worry because the 15 Euro manual (the price seems standard between states) for each state provides not only the questions on the exam but also the answers.
Therefore, I highly recommend writing out all the questions and answers on a separate sheet(s) of paper, but make sure to leave out the wrong options. If you write only the questions and their appropriate answers, you'll be using all (or most) of your senses to memorize the answers.
The course does not have "homework" nor does it have any form of essay writing.
The exam will be (for me) 60 question of which I will need to answer 45 correct to pass.
IT COSTS A BUTT-LOAD OF CASH. The course = 120; the manual = 15, the state exam = 30. That means to get a "life-long" red tape cutting piece of paper, I will be spending 165 Euros. Yikes. Thank goodness the German government is paying for mine ;).

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 2

2009-10-28T15:20:00.006-04:00

[note: this is one in a series of blog posts on how to get a fishing license in Germany. There is a link in the “conquered fisheries” listing that will provide all the posts on licenses and fishing in Deutschland.]

Fellow fishermen, there is a good story behind my lengthy silence. I had promised to give you an update as to the progress of my German fishing license almost two months ago. Well, today I finally received a visitors license (Besucher-fischereischein or Gast-Fischereischein).

This blue piece of paper came with much negotiating and prayer... more prayer than negotiating on my side of things. But, I thought you might like to know the whole story. For those of you who don't care for stories, skim through my tale and find the important information.

First thing to remember about Germans: they are law-abiders. If there is a rule, spoken or unspoken, it will be followed. A perfect example is jaywalking. The majority of Germans (especially the older generation) wouldn't dare to step foot on a street that doesn't have a green "little traffic-light man" signal, and those who dare to ignore the law are scowled at or frowned upon.

So, when it come to getting a fishing license, EXPECT to deal with a lot of rules and regulations. And remember, you'll need a license for each state you visit (examples: Rhineland-Pfalz or Hessen). Okay, now for my advice, with some stories to liven things up.

1) Make sure you come to Germany with a copy of your American fishing license. I had my father scan mine and email it to me while I was here. Furthermore, it is expected that you bring a German translation of the content of your license. You will also need a passport sized photo of yourself, and your passport (for safety's sake). The desired materials depend on the state where you're trying to get a license.

Here is what I needed to get my license:
a) the grace of God!
b) a copy of my American license with a German translation
c) a passport picture
d) it wouldn't hurt to have your passport handy also
e) in my specific situation I needed a witness (which I brought in the form of a signed letter that included the person's address) that I was a "guest" in Mainz.

2) You'll need to go to the town or city's Ordnungsamt. This is essentially the building that houses all the licensing for fishing and hunting. Once there, make your way to the offices of fishing licenses.

3) ATTENTION!!! There are two normal possibilities for fishing licenses. First, if you are planning to be in Germany for an extended period of time, and you have registered with the town or city where you'll be living, you will have to take a course and exam (Pruefung). The course and test will normally cost a little less than 150 EU, but this also depends on your location. It's important for the Germans to see that you've not only passed the exam but also accrued the necessary hours of training in certain areas of knowledge (which have mostly to do with the environment). When you arrive (and after registering with the city), you'll have to register for the course and brush up on your German. From what I've been told, each state also requires its own Pruefung, but there is the possibility of transferring your credentials from state to state. Just make sure not to lose the certificate that proves you've completed the Pruefung.

If you are merely visiting the country, and would like to fish for a few days, you can go to the Ordnungsamt at get a visitor's license. Here in Mainz, I was told they last for two or four weeks. BUT, you cannot (CANNOT) get a visitor's license once you've officially registered in your location.

And that's exactly what happened to me. I showed up in Mainz, and registered with the city before (note the italics in before... this is a hint for those of you looking to do some circumventing) going to the Ordnungsamt. Once in the office I was told that there was no way for me to get a license without taking the course/exam. The problem for me was that the next course begins in December and I am only in Germany until February. So... I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. By registering with the city, I was disqualified from being a visitor, but the fellowship I have limited my ability to attend the course and still have any time afterward to fish.

What was I to do? I despaired. And then I decided, during a moment of boredom, to surf youtube for videos of trout fishing in my region. I happened upon a video, and decided to send the guy a message and communicate my situation. Not only that, but I decided to contact the local fishing clubs (Fischereiverein or Fischereiverstand). This brings me to my most important point:

4) In any country that you have a ton of rules and regulations, you're bound to have a bureaucracy. And where there is a bureaucrat, there is a way. No matter your situation, there is always a way around the red tape. With regards to problems with fishing licenses, contact the local fishing clubs. Explain your situation to them, and see if they can act as a mediator between the licensing office and you. In my circumstance, the youtube guy sent me a link to a large and influential fishing club. I contacted the president and relayed my situation. He gave the licensing office a call, argued for twenty minutes, and resolved my issue. Now, it must be said, I tried three different fishing clubs, and only one was influential enough to help me out. So, don't give up. [note the links at the bottom of the entry.]

5) You might think you're in the clear once you have a fishing license. But, you'd only be fooling yourself. Not only do you need a license, but you also need an Erlaubnis (a permission form) for each area you'd like to fish within the state. For example, I can get an Erlaubnis for the Rhine River (about a block from my apartment) but the form/license doesn't extend to other regions, specifically, those regions where I want to do some trout fishing.

And from what I've been told, the Germans a quite particular about making sure people have permission to fish in respective bodies of water.

With all that said, I now have a license, and I made a deal with the youtube guy that we'd go fishing together--he'd provide the location and I'd provide the beer and fly fishing lessons.

Here is a link for the fishing regulations in each state -Regulation Link-, and here is an example of a fishing club/association website -Club Link-.

Fly Fishing in Germany, Part 1

2009-09-06T15:05:00.004-04:00

Ok, so many of you readers don't know I am completing a research fellowship at an institute in Germany. That doesn't mean that I left my fly rod at home. But, it does mean that I have to work around the red tape of getting a fishing license in Germany. The posts that I'll make in the next few months will hopefully provide some insight to those of you planning a trip or stay in Germany. So, here are the questions to which I hope these posts on Germany will answer: [and take note that there is a link under "conquered fisheries" devoted to Germany and the process of getting a long-term fishing license.]

What must I do to be able to fly fish in Germany? (or, Can I fly fish in Germany?)
How do I get a fishing license in Germany?
What does the process of getting a fishing license in Germany look like?

As of now, all I know is that there are two options for me. First, I could go through an extensive course and get a year-round fishing license. Rumor has it, to get this license I'll need to take a three month course and pay a large fee. Or, I can get a Besucher-Fishereischein ("visitor fishing license") from the regional (state) office. I am going to do some investigative work on Tuesday, as I register my presence at the Landesamt in Mainz. We'll see what happens.

One thing is clear: fly fishing in Germany has not yet caught on. I was walking by the Rhein today and a man was recklessly casting a fly line (whether it actually had a fly, I don't know) attached to a large saltwater spinning rod. He didn't seem to be actually concerned about actually fishing. Instead, he was looking to draw some onlookers. He cast his line like it was a ribbon in a rhythmic gymnastics performance - making circles and twirling it around. He would turn his head from side-to-side trying to lure people in to watching his "art". The unfortunate thing is not that this guy didn't have a clue, but that people actually stood there and watched.

So, maybe I can encourage some of the locals to actually fly fish. We'll see.

Big Brother in Alaska

2009-08-15T15:54:00.002-04:00

My brother returned to Alaska, to a new lodge (which was a great change for him), and emailed me this picture last week. Amazing!

Note the bear in the background!

The Search for Iowa Trout Part 6: Backbone, the Maquoketa, and Fenchel

2009-08-04T17:47:00.004-04:00

This past weekend, I made one last camping trip to Backbone State Park north of Cedar Rapids. It was a chance to relax with a few friends and fish the Maquoketa River that runs through the park.

I had fished this river my first time getting wet in Iowa, and thought it fitting that this be (possibly) my last time hunting the elusive Iowa trout. So, I packed up the truck for a little car camping and made the hour-and-a-half drive from Iowa City.

Arriving at the Six Pine Campground late Friday, I joined Ryan, Phil, and Rachel for some great fireside conversation. As we enjoyed our discussion, the raccoons in the park made their presence known, stealing our bag of marshmallows; nothing like camping in the wild, where nature has been unaffected by human contact. Ryan and Phil claim that after I went to sleep on mats laid out across my truck bed that a raccoon came and stood about two feet from Ryan, trying to steal his beer. Ah, the great outdoors.

I awoke early enough Saturday morning to find Ryan sound asleep and Phil and Rachel enjoying watered down coffee. That gave me enough time to search out firewood and the fishing spots for the day. And, as I had remembered, the river hadn’t changed much.

The trout fishing is relegated to the Fenchel Creek section, after Rainbow Springs dumps its cold water in, until the stream merges with the Maquoketa. Within that section, there are several moments where the river crosses over/under the road forming upstream and downstream holes. And like the pay-to-fish trout ponds of my youth, the folk line up side-by-side to catch their limit. I call it grocery store trout fishing. Everyone is looking for food—not the for the sport of fishing—and they don’t care whether their cart runs into yours. The unfortunate thing is that this mentality carries over to the rest of the trout section.

I agreed to have Ryan, Phil, and Rachel join me for a fly fishing experience, so once I returned with the wood, we packed into two cars and drove back into the park. My ingenious idea was to hike back with them to the confluence of the Fenchel and Maquoketa, thinking that not many hike back there and the fish should still hold in those sections.

We parked in the circular parking/picnicking area below the first bridge over the Fenchel and hiked back in. We passed a family bait fishing with about ten fish on their combined stringers, the carcasses of filleted rainbow thrown on downstream rocks, and some fast-food wrappers strewn on the shore before crossing the stream and hiking down to the confluence. If, and I stress “if,” there is any place to have a reasonably pleasant time fishing, it’s this section just above the confluence. Everywhere else on Fenchel man, woman, and household pet crowd for their chance at a stressed out hatchery trout.

The only problem is that the trout below the confluence, where the Maquoketa drastically warms the stream temperature, are few and far between—hiding themselves within the gangs of junk fish. Below the confluence I spooked one trout (of nice size), and I only came upon it because I had to retrieve a fly from a deeper hole.

But the junk fish did provide the opportunity of the beginners at my side to catch fish on their first fly fishing outing. Rachel was able to pull out a mammoth junk fish but required that I remove the hook and release it back into the wild. With other things on their mind, it wasn’t long before the hikers were ready to head back to the campsite, and I headed downstream.

Like other sections I had fished below the confluence, there weren’t any trout to be spotted, just kids playing in the water or families picnicking on the shore. So I headed back up to the Fenchel section, to try my luck. I waded a few parts in and around the Cave only to find trout holding in the most unnatural places, wary of any thing that moved. I packed up again and decided to fish the Fenchel above the spring, and though this might be an interesting fish for the more adventurous (I did spot two trout and there were some sizable holes above the equestrian trail-head parking area), I didn’t have the energy, patience, or time. So, after a short hike up, I turned around and made my way to Rainbow Springs.

The springs, which are mostly diverted elsewhere, form two small ponds, and then overflow into the Fenchel. This overflow forms a nice pool, and when I arrived it was empty of men. In the course of about an hour, I pulled out two brown trout, one from each of the holes directly below and above the water entering from the spring. Moreover, during that time I had two men jump right beside me in the hole with their spinning rods and fish like I didn’t exist. The latter of the two coaxed strikes from the trout by literally dangling a lure in front of their faces until they struck at it. Then (and this is so strange) he would unhook the fish and throw it several yards downstream. Every time I would look at him, and during only a few of those glances did he look at me with that ignorant glance (retarded, if I may) as if he were doing the fish a favor. Stupid.

And that sums up my advice to any rational, conservationist fly fisherman, who is tempted to visit Backbone: Don’t be stupid. It’s a complete waste of time, unless you’re going to the park to spend time with your family. If that’s true, then spend time with your family, and forget the fly fishing.

Summer Colorado Trip Part 2: Lakes of the Clouds, Westcliffe

2009-07-29T18:43:00.005-04:00

You would think a seminary education dampens the carousing nature of men. Not so, or at least, not so for five seminarians this past weekend. Saturday morning, Jason, Rob, Ryan, Joe, and I fled the suburbs of Denver for the wilderness of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

It was a few hours south on two-lane highways before we hit Westcliffe. And from there, the mountains were only a short drive west. Our goal was to hike up to the Lakes of the Clouds, camp out for a night, and get in some fishing. Getting to the Gibson parking lot at the head of the Lakes of the Clouds trail was an adventure in itself. Ryan, Rob, and I drove in what seemed like circles because the internet directions were off [I will post better directions from Westcliffe to the Gibson Parking lot below]. Eventually, a kind lady at a Christian Resort center nestle on the mountain side offered directions that put us past the cow guard and into the parking lot.

We were met by the other members of our party and a few horseback riders. The Lakes of the Clouds trail forms a semi-loop, offering a less steep (but longer climb) if you head to the right or a steep and shorter climb to the left. The two trails meet up about a forty-five minute hike from the first lake. We chose the quicker, steeper route, and made several stops along the way—eating snacks and feeding our skin to the flies. Clint, a student at Denver Seminary, was already camping off the trail, at a nice spot by Swift Creek. Once we got up to his site, we dropped our packs, set up our tents, played a few rounds of pinecone hold’em (a version of Texas hold’em that uses pinecones for chips) while some rain passed over, and then headed up to the Lake of the Clouds with our fishing gear.

From our site, which was about a half-mile up from where the two trails converge, it was about a thirty minute walk up to where Lake of the Clouds rested. The lake was absolutely beautiful, shrouded by Spread Eagle peak. And just as beautiful were all the trout rising in the late afternoon sun. While these lakes get some pressure from passing hikers and campers, there is plenty of bug life to keep the fish healthy and relatively large (for a high mountain lake), and the hard hike in serves as a pretty daunting barrier to the occasional fly fisher.

After setting up my four-piece rod, a rod built by my father and broken in (quite literally) by the behemoth trout of New Zealand, I waded into the freezing water. I made it to a rock where I could stand a bit higher out of the water about twenty feet from the shore, and began casting to a large pocket of rising fish. Seeing all the rising fish, my confidence was pretty high. I’ll show these beginners how to fish, I thought. And as the Lord would have it, I did hook a nice cutthroat on my first cast. With just a few strips of the bead-head, brassie nymph variation, I could feel the abrupt tug of the take. And, surprisingly considering my many trips to Colorado, this was my first official cutthroat. I had caught a few cut-bows in the past, and my only previous chance and landing one ended with a sizable cut taking my fly downstream—leaving me with a rod and limp line.

But, my pride would get the best of me. I don’t know what I said after I landed that first cut, but the Lord would humble me until evening. I didn’t catch a thing. I switched from nymph to woolly bugger and back again, only to have a few swipes here and there but no hook-ups.

In the meantime, Jason Nelson hooked his first trout on a fly rod. We had both hoped to spend some time together, and he was looking forward to a few pointers from me. He didn’t need any to catch that first one, but like me, he didn’t get any action until the early evening. I’d would have been less frustrated if our good fortune turned sour because the fish stopped eating, but that wasn’t so. For some reason, the fish continued chowing down all around us, but none of them would take our flies.

So, I decided to move to the eastern side of the lake and fish. At the beginning I wasn’t getting any action, just practicing stripping a black bugger along the shore. It got to the point where I threw up a little prayer: “Lord, please just let me catch one more trout for dinner tonight. Let it be a trout that was going to die in the next few days anyway. Please!” Low and behold, the trout became aggressive toward my bugger.

I had found a bit of a shelf stretching out into the lake and cast along its ridge. Once in position, I made casts that allowed me to strip the streamer just along the edge of that shelf, and BAM! I had one-after-another of trout striking my fly. I was in the double digits by the end of the evening, with two trout left on the shore for our campfire dinner. Jason caught a few more too, adding one to the dinner table.

But that didn’t take the cake. While Jason and I spent those three-or-so hours fly fishing, Clint had taken a weathered stick and tied a fly on with some line he had found along the shore. About half-way through the evening excitement, I heard a yell. Clint had a nice sized trout on the end of his line! He had found a spot on shore where the fish held nearby, and Clint tossed a bugger in front of their faces until they couldn’t take any more. With that little rigging of his, he overwhelmingly earned the manliness award for our Manwich weekend. (Jason, of course, earned the womanly award for using his cell phone at the campsite.)

We headed back that evening with three trout for dinner, and a great story to tell our families: Clint, the Huckleberry Finn of fly fishing.

After a relaxing breakfast on Sunday we made our way down the mountain. Fittingly, the trip was topped off with a great burger and beer at Poag Mahone's Irish Pub in Westcliffe. Hopefully, this is a great beginning to a tradition of Manwich weekends.

Revised Directions for Lakes of the Clouds Trail/Gibson Parking lot/Rainbow Trail near Westcliffe, Colorado:
Once you’re in Westcliffe, take 69 South. On the edge of town, take a right onto Hermit Road (CR 160) heading out of Westcliffe. Hermit Road is almost a straight shot to Gibson Parking lot. As you are heading west on Hermit, make sure to bear right at the first fork in the road (Hermit Road will head to the left, and you are now on Sampson Ridge Road), and bear left at the next fork, where CR 172 merges with Sampson Ridge Road. A cattle guard will greet you as you enter Gibson parking lot. From there you can get onto Lakes of the Clouds trail, Gibson Creek Trail, or Rainbow Trail.

Summer Colorado Trip Part 1 - Colorado River

2009-07-28T21:05:00.004-04:00

Some might see it as desperation: driving 12 hours one-way, with the hope of doing some trout fishing. I think they’re right. But, I don’t mind being desperate—I’ve come to accept that disposition as a useful part of life. So, on Thursday of last week, I hopped in ‘ole Cindy (my beautiful green Mazda B3000), and drove from Iowa City to Denver. I had planned on spending Friday with my brother, testing the waters he had forsaken a few years back for the glory of Alaska, and then heading out to the wilderness with a few friends from Camp. And that’s just what I did.

On the drive down from Iowa, it was decided that I’d drive out and meet my brother past Vail and Beaver Creek, at a small dent in the mountains called Wolcott. It was about an hour-and-forty-five minutes from Morrison, where I was staying, to Wolcott. My green truck struggled over the passes between Denver and Vail while I prayed she’d hold together for just one more mile.

A few miles past Edwards, I exited 70 and found my brother waiting for me at the Wolcott Yacht Club. We hugged and made our seemingly perpetual plans for the “Yoder Brother’s Truck Pull-Off,” where it would truly be a David versus Goliath battle—my Mazda versus his diesel-fueled Dodge Ram. Once my few necessities were in the truck we headed for State Bridge. The goal: to float fish the Colorado River between State Bridge and Catamount.

It was interesting watching my brother adjust again to life in Colorado. You could see the frustration he had with the unfriendly guides, who wouldn’t notice you if you stuck a hundred dollar bill up their noses, and the alienating circumstances that he experienced as a result of such a long absence. He had earned quite a reputation as a guide before heading east, but his choice to leave Colorado a few years back for the Florida flats and the Alaskan wilderness was a good one. Now he’s well-rounded and experienced, but he, like I, has come to live a very dislocated life. Maybe it’s in the Yoder genes…

We dropped the boat in at State Bridge, and paid our fee ($3.50 per/person). After pushing past a few wade-fishermen and a drift boat, I started waving his Fat Albert fly in the air. I like to call it casting. Some would disagree. It wasn’t more then five minutes (in fact, right in front of state bridge) before I had hooked a tree. This one was a partially submerged trunk wedge up against the bridge-footer. It was Dave’s only Fat Albert—a fly tied with success in mind, so I dismounted his Clackacraft and waded up under the bridge for a daring retrieval. My hard work also netted two water bottles and a half-empty beer can. Always leave the river a better place than how you found it.

I still lost the fly. After a few bends in the river and a few hook-ups with brown trout, a fish broke of the grasshopper imitation. Oh well. The rest of the day was amazing. A bought of strong wind half-way through was the only interference between my brother, me, and the trout.

We drifted down the left and right banks, casting to fish holding under the cut banks, and when we came upon the large eddies created by the river’s water rushing over redden boulders, I was instructed to cast into the foam. It was a cast into the foam that coaxed the most violent take of the day. After missing and netting several brown between 14 and 18 inches, I made a quick cast into a little foamy eddy. BAM! A rainbow rushed over my grasshopper fly like a wave crashing at the beach. I let out a yell, and laughed out of joy. My brother… well, he missed the whole thing.

At one point we switched roles, and Dave became the fisher and I the rower. In a matter of minutes he had hooked three fish, with my job during that time being to row “away from danger.” I did it long enough to earn a spot back in the front of the boat.

By the time we arrived at the Catamount take-out, our stomachs were ready for dinner. We washed out the boat, loaded up the truck, and headed back to the Yacht Club for some fish tacos and beer. We spent most of the day goofing off and being brothers, and now it was time to relax and watch a bunch of twenty-year-old girls get drunk off of margaritas. The food was a good finish to a great day with my brother. And I’m already planning our next fishing trip. New Zealand? Argentina? Maybe I’ll have to find some way to spend time with him in Alaska.

And, I am pretty sure there needs to be a better job done with quality control in the world of leader manufacturing. Pretty poor word choice if you aske me!

A Pennsylvania Tangent: The Monocacy and Little Lehigh

2009-06-25T15:20:00.009-04:00

I was in Bethlehem, PA a few weeks ago, taking a course at the Moravian Archives. There is something about eighteenth-century architecture that makes me smile. Well, actually, the eighteenth century as a whole makes me smile...it probably helps that that's the time period of German history I study. But, even Moravian history can't keep my mind off the trout, so I made sure to spend a little bonding-time with my cold-water buddies in the state where "I've got a friend."

During the weekend that divided my two-week course, I bought a three-day tourist license and decided to try to get in three evenings of fishing. I had googled the Monocacy Creek and came up with a few hits that claimed it was a blue ribbon "trophy trout" creek, so I couldn't resist. Especially since it runs right beside the campus where I was staying. As it passes through Bethlehem, the creek is no more that fifteen-or-so feet wide with lots of overhanging trees. It runs cool and supports a good amount of bug-life. In fact, the nature of the creek reminded me of a small version of the Gunpowder River in Maryland. ....with just as much pressure. Granted, the amount of people on the creek should be expected considering the location, and I was pleasantly surprised to see everyone leaving their spots as the sun started setting.

I found a nice parking spot off Macada Road and dropped into the creek. Railroad tracks run alongside most of the creek in this area, making for easy access. There was a nice sulfur hatch on both evenings, and as dusk approached the browns began eating. The bodies of these sulfurs were a bit darker than my Hendrickson patterns, so I didn't have a good chance at a fish until I was left working with the remnants of that day's sunlight. The first evening I missed my only opportunity at a fish, who was prematurely named "the $26 fish" (3 reasons: the price of the license, I didn't know if I'd get out to fish again, and I had to get off the river a bit early that night). I saw the rise, even felt the take, but the hook didn't set. So, I was left thinking about it the rest of that night.

But, the next evening I hit several holes with feeding fish, especially just below the Macada bridge. All the fish were in the eight-to-ten inch range, but they fought with a lot of vigor. I was a bit surprised by the strength of some of these guys. As I was casting my way out of the creek, the owner of the house on the south-side of Macada, just at the bridge, came down and scared the living daylights out of me. He was actually just interested in how the fishing was and offered me a beer. I declined his gesture, but I was impressed by his kindness. It was a good way to end my Monacacy experience.

The following day, a bit after dinner, I headed down to the Little Lehigh, just outside of city congestion. I parked at the top marker of the designated a fly-fishing only section, and worked downstream. Disappointing. I didn't expect such a poor river to have such a high designation. It was not that the trout weren't there, but that the river's structure (a sand bottom) and water tempurature (pretty hot for the early summer/late spring) stunk.

It didn't help that I missed every fish I had opportunity to catch. The sun was still too high to dry fly when I arrived, so I stripped a woolly bugger through the deeper pools. I had several strikes, but the only one I hooked spit out the hook before I got a glimpse. (I'm sure it was about 22 inches at three pounds ;) .) My gameplan was to work down the river until the sun began setting, and then return to the hole right below the bridge. By then, the fish would be rising and I'd have a shot or two. Little did I know....

I was at the far bottom of the "bridge" pool, set up with a caddis and sulfur on my line, and HE showed up. I don't know what this guy was thinking. He was rigged up: waders, vest, hat, glasses, and BEER; but he didn't really need anything but the rod and the beer. You see, he decided to fish the whole I was wading in!!!! OK, but I didn't handle the situation well. I prayed, but my sinfulness took over. Here is a transcription of what occurred:

[After he had hook three trout out of the hole, he turns to me.]

Fisher guy: Hey, you can fish the other side of the hole if you want.

[Peter looks at the ten-foot wide river and thinks, "What other side?']

Peter responds: Ummm, yeah I was kinda hoping to fish this hole by myself.

Fisher guy: Whatever! I couldn't see you when I walked up.

Peter responds: Whatever!?! I was fifteen feet down stream. I'm just looking for a little river etiquette.

Fisher guy: Whatever.

Peter: Yeah "Whatever". Way to represent Pennsylvania.

And for the next half-hour I steamed over this. But not because he took the best part of the hole and fished it out, but because I responded so poorly. I should have said, "It's ok, dude. I'll just fish that part when you're done." But, I didn't. Instead I needed to be justified; to get my way. I left all humility aside and said what was "right" but not "wise." So, I spent the rest of the night repenting. And to make things worse for me, he finally got off the river and went back to his truck to change, and he walked back and apologized. Crap! That's not fair. He's not supposed to 'fess up to his mistake! I am supposed to go home feeling good about myself. Too bad; the Lord had bigger things for me to deal with.

But even if that whole fiasco hadn't happened, I still wouldn't step foot in that river again. There's too many other regional spots in which to spend my time.

So, my PA trout fishing adventure, with all its bumps and bruises, came to an end.

Florida Keys Yoder Mens Fishing Tournament, Day 3

2009-06-10T17:00:00.004-04:00

(I realized the other day that I never blogged this last entry in my journal - better late than never.)

We had been waiting for the rain to come all week (heck, the Yoder's bring the rain), and it finally showed up.... Well, sort of.

Tarpon in the Ocean Reef area garnered our attention in the morning, and my father had several great shots at fish. Still, nothing. By the afternoon , and after a quick trip to find permit, the thunderstorms rolled through.

We didn't actually run into any rain, but we were left without sunshine. That put us at a disadvantage. So, Dave netted some bait fish and headed to Jew Creek for grouper.

When we arrived at our spot a couple of sheep fish were tailing, and I made a few unsuccessful casts. Being chased by the storms, our time was limited. By the end of the day, neither I nor my dad had anything to for our efforts, but we did close out the trip casting to some very wary bonefish tailing on a nearby flat.

So, it took three trips to the Keys, but it finally happened. And all at once. A bonefish and a large tarpon on the fly. Wow. It makes it all the more special that it happened with my dad and brother. Well done.

The Florida Keys Yoder Men’s Fishing Tournament, Day 2

2009-06-03T14:47:00.006-04:00

Even after a great first day of fishing, a remnant of the saltwater jinx remained. I still hadn’t landed a bonefish. In the time between my first encounter with the ghost, this mysterious fish had become much more than just an underwater animal. It was a wall-of-sorts, standing between my life as a child and my life as a man. Ahhh, who am I kidding? I just wanted to prove I actually could catch one of these rascals.

The second day began with an hour or two of casting to tarpon around the Ocean Reef area before we moved up to Elliot Key. Arriving around 2:30, it seemed like the bonefish were everywhere. On my first cast to an approaching pod I hooked one, only to have it snap off. My line got caught on the front of the boat, and I wasn’t able to fix it before the fish darted into the distance. “Oh great.” This was not the way to start the afternoon. “Here we go again,” I thought. But only a few moments later, I was casting to another swarm of bonefish, and all at once four or five fish rushed at my fly. BAM! The ghost was hooked and running, taking off yards of backing at what seemed like the speed of light.

Wow, what an exciting fish! They don’t fight in the same manner as tarpons (size being an obvious reason), but their paniced sprints are truly wild.

With the bonefish landed, I passed the rod to my dad. The “tournament” was pretty much wrapped up with that last fish of mine, and we sons really wanted to see our father catch a fish.
For that to happen, we decided to net some bait fish and duck back into a cove near the dock to my brother’s house. I jokingly protested that the use of bait offended my ethical and moral values as a fly fisherman, but we all knew there were sure to be snook and snapper in that area. And, I’d much rather see my father smile than have my way. Fly rod or not, reeling a fish in is fun, and a few snapper can brighten anyone’s day.

The Florida Keys Yoder Men’s Fishing Tournament, Day 1

2009-06-03T14:36:00.010-04:00

This may be the only thing I have in common with John Madden: I hate flying. I don’t imagine I’ll ever get over the unnaturalness or soulish discomfort of the event. Although, it definitely helps to fly on a good airline (like Delta or American) and have a window seat on an exit row.

Interestingly, it was while I stared out my window seat on the flight from Moline to Fort Lauderdale (where my dad caught up on some lost sleep in the parking lot) that God caught me off-guard. Staring out that window 30,000+ feet above the surface of my known world, I caught a glimpse of another world. Much like the underwater world, of which we often forget, there is a world in the clouds that provides a heavenly imitation of our landscape. The clouds stretched across the sky like a snow covered plain, interrupted by ice-like chasms and towering mushrooms. All I could think of was how limited my perception was. I enjoyed the ground because it was familiar, but maybe, just maybe, the world of the clouds—unknown to generations before me—spoke of the dramatic reality of the heavens. A reality I used the world below to cover over. Maybe.

Okay, back to the fishing. The flights down to Fort Lauderdale were otherwise uneventful, and my dad was awaiting me in his truck when I arrived in Florida. After a quick stop at Burger King, we made it to Key Largo in time to fall asleep. The “tournament” would begin tomorrow.

We got out of the house around 8:00am on Monday and headed south to Big Pine Key. The palolo worm hatch had started on Saturday, and my brother wanted to experience it for the first time. Once out on the water, we started poling ocean-side for tarpon.

Big Pine was new territory for the three of us—that meant we were sure to be welcomed by some of the local guides who had stakes in the territory. It wasn’t much after Dave began poling on a corner spot that a guide and his friend cruised over to tell us we were interfering with their fishing. Ahhh, the pleasantries of the sport; they were determined to make us feel uncomfortable, so Dave wisely offered to switch spots with them. Disarmed they motored off and left us where we originally were.

Then it happened. The jinx was ended!!! I spotted, casted to, and “landed” a 100+ pound tarpon. (My brother and I both agreed upon the weight.) After a thirty minute fight, we got it next to the boat (leader in the rod) before the bent fly slipped out of its mouth. Four jumps and a whole barrel full of tired later, I was giving my brother high-fives.

Now it was my father’s turn. The tarpon were still running, but my dad couldn’t get the fly in front of the fish. His weak back casts, inability to double-haul, and slow stripping plagued him the whole trip. There is a huge difference between casting with a four weight rod to some rising trout and finessing an eleven weight to oncoming tarpon.

But as the Lord would have it, a small group of tarpon got it in their minds to ram our boat. Or at least, it appeared that way, and during their approach Dad was able to flip the fly in front of them, lazily twitch it, and evoke a hard take by a nice-sized tarpon. Unfortunately, (and I made the same mistake with a bonefish a few years back) Dad didn’t allow the fish to run. As quickly as it was hooked, the tarpon broke off, and left Pops with a rod in hand and a flyless line in the water.

From there we motored up to the next flat and waited for the worm hatch. This migration of worms occurs once a year, and my brother had heard tales about the eating frenzy that came with it. A few skiffs already stood anchored when we arrived. By 5:00pm there seemed to be as many boats in the water as circling tarpon. Not true. Once the worms appeared, scooting across the surface of the water at 5:45, the massive amounts of tarpon appeared too.

It amazed me to see fifty or more tarpon rolling and hitting the surface like it was an evening caddis hatch on the Colorado River—it just blew my mind. The even stranger thing was that barely anyone could hook them. In the hour we spent casting to those behemoths, only three were hooked: one by my brother and two by the boat next to us. None of them were landed. We think the reason was twofold: first, our flies were off (they swam too deep, were too large, and were off-colored) and second, you need to strip the flies like you would during striper fishing (tucking the rod under your arm and using both hands in a pedaling-like motion to strip in the line). Regardless, it was a sight to see, and we made sure to catch a few worms for “analysis. (Note the video below of the worms.)

And “Day One” is over: Peter 1, Dad 0. And the jinx is over: I caught and landed a tarpon!

Trout Fishing and Richard Brautigan

2009-05-19T02:58:00.004-04:00

About three weeks ago I finally finished an old copy of Richard Brautigan's Trout Fishing in America. My advisor came across it in a thrift store and thought I should have it. Wow, what a waste of time. The alternate title I'd suggest for this work which "catapulted [him] to international fame" is A Bunch of Meaningless Crap in the Form of Tiresome Similes. Seriously, if I had to read "was like" in this book one more time, I would have started using the remaining pages for toilet paper. The only problem is that there would have barely been enough for a clean wipe. I am willing to admit that some of this frustration is because there's practically nothing about trout fishing after the title page. Although, I was forewarned about this by a reviewer's comment on the back cover, it still frustrated me. Most of all because I can't seem to leave a book unfinished; even though this one deserved that fate. And as much as I would like to believe that he represented "the emerging countercultural youth-movement of the late 1960s," associating his writing in this book with that movement is tragic. I don't think anyone can take enough drugs or smoke enough dope in order to justify the publication of this thing. The inartistic, uncreative overuse of similes in Trout Fishing in America actually makes me feel sorry for the drugged-out hippies of the free-love Sixties. I mean, they were forced to explain themselves in the context of this complete waste of paper. It's pretty hard to climb out of a hole that deep. Oh well, the book is closed now and will be quickly donated to the thrift store. Or, as good ole' Richie might say, my disposing of this book was like the vicious flushing of a dead goldfish down a toilet bowl.

The Search for Iowa Trout 5: The Little Turkey River and Elk Creek

2009-05-05T22:07:00.022-04:00

I never thought I would start one of these blog entries with this but, the crotchety old people who play cards at the gas station on the Turkey River near Garber, IA are evil. In fact, if you read this, do not give them your business!!! I'll explain this later....

I needed to get out. With two days before the final portion of my comprehensive exams, I just need some fresh air. This stress of preparation turned this whole school year into one gigantic study session, and Saturday stood as the first glimmer of the normality I had before all this. So, my good friend Andrew Rampey and I packed up my truck and headed up to find the Little Turkey River.

The process of "finding" felt like it took up the whole morning...and maybe it did. From the standard issue Iowa trout map, the Little Turkey River was somewhere near Colesburg. But, for a time Colesburg seemed like it was as close as we were ever going to get. My trusty Garmin Nuvi 360 guided us into the town, where we stopped to grab some sandwiches and to ask for specific directions. The young lady behind the counter apparently didn't hear me say "Little" before "Turkey River," and thus began are chase down the rabbit trail. She sent us north out of town and toward the general direction of Osterdock and Garber. For at least an hour after that we seemed to be driving in one huge circle.

And here is where the evil card-playing elderly of Garber come into play. We stopped at a gas station right next to the Turkey River to get directions and the inhospitality of the dying in that hole-of-a-gas-station was immediately evident. Well, let me be kind, maybe they had just lost their minds and actually weren't intentionally trying to get us lost, but from our perspective each person gave us purposefully obscure directions which were in the complete opposite direction of where we needed to go. Note to self: never start a conversation with "We're from the Carolinas" in Garber, Iowa.

We finally decided to get back into Colesburg and start over. Andrew was able to make out a road heading directly east out of Colesburg on the map, and after a few turns and the kindness of a mother with her defenseless child strapped to a stroller, we were on our way to the Little Turkey. (The road out of Colesburg, by the way, is Hubbard St./Voyager Road.)

The night before I had decided to try this river because it had a put-and-grow section which in my mind was translated, "big fish". (Had I forgot I was in Iowa?) Initially, I mistook the put-and-grow section for a beautiful stretch of the river running through some cattle fields about 3 miles out of town. We stopped at the farmer's house and the sweet "Aunt Edna" who answered to door let us know the "boys" catch some fish from the river on the property, and we were welcome to give it a try just as long as we shut the gates behind us.

Man! This stretch of river is absolutely beautiful: clear, deep, and surrounded by rising hills. The water had this aqua-blue tint that almost reminded me of New Zealand. Only one problem: no fish. We slung our flies into several "juicy" holes without even a glance or flash at our flies. My best estimation for the absence of trout was the recent water levels of the river. From the mudded sides of the river, it looked as though the recent winter snows and rains had caused some sort of massive wash-out through that portion of river, and anything living in that portion either moved down- or up- river to compensate. For our sakes, we hoped it was up river.

Andrew was keen enough to realize that we were downstream of the state-managed section of the Little Turkey, so we threw our stuff back into the truck and headed upstream. There is a small park (Ram Hoffman Wildlife Area) which provided a place to leave the truck, and from there, Andrew and I hit the river. Water flow was considerably less in this section, but it was clear the DNR regulated this portion. We came across a few fellow casters who weren't having any luck, and other than some overly-active spawning bottom feeders, I began to question whether there were fishing here either.

Until.... I decided just to casually stroll up the river and plop my wooly bugger into the deeper pools. In one of the most unexpected spots this lonely rainbow decided it was time to make a new friend, and, well, I landed the largest Iowa trout I had caught to date.

With the bow as a memory I decided to hike up to the put-and-grow-section. By this point the river had divided, and turned into a creek. Nevertheless, I expected there to be some hungry little fellas willing to jump out of the water for a small car. The stocked fingerlings were ever-present, and their coloring was a reminder to the beautiful artistry of the Lord.

Andrew wasn't as fortunate on the Little Turkey, and this only his third or fourth time fly fishing a river, I decided we should pack up and head down the road. One of the anglers I ran into mentioned a good section regularly stock in the Twin Bridges area. So, we again jumped into the truck and drove about 12 miles directly east on Route 3. We came to the Twin Bridges campground, ate some lunch on the riverside (while watching an over-equipped gentlemen fling a dry-fly around), and jumped onto the river.

Elk Creek had a decent flow for an Iowa stream, but the pressure it receives appears to be over-the-top. On a Saturday evening, still early in the spring, there wasn't a hole or run not being dredged with a spinner by some camouflaged sportsman, who'd look a lot more comfortable sitting in a john-boat on some reservoir. This gave me hope that Andrew would catch a trout, but it also dampened to exoticness of the task of fishing.

I began with a brown that challenged (in length) the bow I earlier caught. And shortly afterward Rampey caught a smaller bow. Both were taken on buggers, but there was a decent amount of activity on the top of the water--a dark cream-colored caddis was beginning to come off. Unfortunately, these trout were stocked only a day or two before, so they hadn't become acclimated to their new source of food.

With the oral defense of my exams looming in the back of my mind, I fished into the early evening and then went back to my truck to review for the tests. I left Rampey to himself and the river. I don't think he landed anything else, but neither of us could complain about the day. We caught fish, enjoyed the warm outdoors, and saw some beautiful Iowa scenery. And, I can mark the Little River and Elk off my list.

Oh, and it wasn't all a loss... Andrew recovered a nymph fly from the fish he caught!

Winter-time on the Nantahala

2009-02-28T17:32:00.005-05:00

I failed to write about a short day-trip I took during the Christmas season with my brother to the Nantahala section near my parents place. So, I'll just post some of the pictures. The fish loved green-bodied nymphs. Too bad I left a lot of mine on submerged rocks and tree limbs.

The Search for Iowa Trout 4: Turkey River

2008-11-06T23:06:00.015-05:00

I suppose it doesn't bode well for me to be an avid fisherman and a horrible morning person. If it's a fault, I claim my father's genes, but I hate mornings and anything pertaining to mornings (with the exception of cereal bowls filled with more marshmellows that flakes). So when Randy emailed and invited me to join him for a day on the Turkey River near Elkader, Iowa, my mind immediately began to calculate how early I'd have to wake up to meet him. Not to mention that my good friend, and fellow church plant participant, Andrew Rampey was going to join us. That meant an even earlier departing time than the original. ...it better be worth it!

The forcast was pefect; wait, more than perfect. Weather forcasters correctly perdicted temperatures in the high sixties. A sixty degree November day in Iowa. I must be dreaming.

Before the sun had even opened its eyes, I picked up Rampey, and we headed up past Cedar Rapids to meet Randy at the Walmart parking lot near Independence. Andrew and I passed the time talking about anything and everything before the rising sun caught our eyes. It's those constants in life, the span of the sun across the sky and the changing of seasons, that always recall my mind to the promises and faithfulness of God.

At Walmart we jumped into Randy's subaru and made our way to the Turkey River. The Turkey is unique in that its banks are home to one of Iowa's major hatcheries which diverts water from large, nearby springs to sustain fingerlings in their holding pens. The spring water being forced through the rearing pens is then dumped into the river from three parallel pipes that stand about a hundred yards apart. The spring water significantly decreases the river's water temperature, allowing trout to survive downstream year-round. The river actually reminded me a lot of some of the rivers in Maryland. It doesn't run clear, and there is a distinct smell to the water, but the bug-life is significant enough to sustain trout populations.

The area around the pipes where the spring water flows into the Turkey has become a dream spot of bait fishermen, and Randy had mentioned earlier that the floods in May forced thousands of rainbows into the river. If the bait fisherman hadn't caught all of them, we might have a chance.

Randy hadn't explored much of the river downstream of the pipes, and the alure of a few rising trout put all three of us in two pools just below the pipes. Andrew quickly caught one on an Adams, I had a strike on a large black ant, and Randy was flinging a blue-winged olive around; but, after being reared in the ways of fly-fishing by my older brother, I new the best fishing involved "distance." So, I left Randy and Andrew in the pool and headed downstream.

After about a quarter mile of slow moving water, the Turkey widens out creating nice rifles dumping into sizable pools. Tempted by some rises in the section of slow moving water, I slid down the steep bank and cast a wooly bugger through the current. To my surprise I pulled out a smallmouth bass! After a few more strikes without any hook-ups, I made my way down to the pools swallowing up the riffle water.

Jackpot! Cast after cast my bugger was hit by rainbows. They struck at the fly in an awkward way that felt like they were still learning how to eat larger prey, and by the time I had developed a technique for setting the hook, I'd missed dozens of fish. Nevertheless, I was into double-digit catches when my stomach let me know it was lunch time.

I packed up my gear and headed upstream to the guys via cattle tracks alongside the bordering corn field. They were catching fish (they claimed), but not in the numbers to which I testified. So, after a lunch of roast beef sandwiches, chips, and Randy's home brewed beer, we made our way down to the lower section.

Nothing had changed. Randy was catching most of his trout with copper-johns and Andrew and I worked black wooly buggers through the deeper sections. With the sun setting, wet nets, and a few fish for dinner, we packed up and headed home.

It was a great day on the Turkey River - enough said.

Western North Carolina: the North Toe and Watauga Rivers

2008-08-27T20:17:00.012-04:00

It’s hard to drive through western Carolina without pulling off the road and jumping in a mountain stream. Unfortunately, the streams are more like trickle this summer, but I wouldn’t let that keep me from getting in my trout-fix before I headed back to Iowa.

On the way up to Boone for the weekend, I stopped into Rivers edge Outfitters, the fly shop in downtown Spruce Pine, seeking some advice in exchange for the purchase of a few flies. The store owner, Chris, recommended I fish the North Toe River near Spear. I took him at his word and headed up 19E, but passed through Spear (it’s pretty easy to miss), and found myself turning around at Plumtree. Instead of heading back, I dropped into the river next to the Vance Toe River Lodge. (The proprietors of the business were kind enough to allow me to park my truck in their lot.) I worked about a mile-and-half of the river before heading back. The few trout in the river were mixed in with over-anxious bottom-feeders. Nevertheless, I was able to pull a few small rainbows out of the deeper pools and faster water.

Sunday, on my way out of Boone I spent an hour-or-so on the Watauga River. I fished from the bridge at Hounds Ear up to the no trespassing signs crossing the river. Just like the Toe, the Watauga was extremely low, but the trout were still plentiful. With little success beforehand, I was able to hook a large rainbow out of the pool before the trespassing sign. The bow took a large black ant (I think… or an imitator), and it gave a good fight (a couple of runs) for the size of the river.

Now for Iowa.

Colorado Fly Fishing Adventure, Day 3

2008-08-26T13:45:00.013-04:00

Sleeping next to Willow Creek was exponentially more restful. Granted, sleeping next to a well traveled road made me a bit more concerned about the possibility of some psycho chopping me up in the middle of the night, but nearness to a maintained campsite gave some relief.

I slept in a bit later than the previous morning, packed up the campsite, and headed for Buchanan Creek, which feeds Monarch Lake. The fellow at the sporting shop in Granby assured me this was a “secret” spot with the occasional large fish. Wrong. Once driving into the Monarch Lake region, I hiked around the lake to the creek. (I’ve failed to mention my amazement at the mass amounts of dead pine trees in the region. The park service blames beetles, but I’ve heard that the beetles are thriving due to the lack of a cleansing forest fire—ironic…. but that is just hearsay.)

The creek was beautiful. It reminded me at moments of New Zealand’s rivers—extremely clear, extremely cold. But, alas, no fish. I suppose my fishing advisor in Granby was referring to spawning season. I am sure when the trout are running up out of Monarch the fishing can be amazing. So, I walked and fished about a quarter mile of the creek before turning around and heading back to the car—my sporty-sports car.

I had decided earlier that I’d fish the section of the Colorado River between Shadow Mountain Lake and Lake Granby. Thankfully, the parking permit I used for Monarch Lake was also good for parking in the Green Ridge area. When I arrived at the parking lot there was a large moose chowing down on some nearby vegetation. He presence drew a crowd—and I joined in at the gawking for a moment or two, but my mind was elsewhere. This was my last day on a Colorado river, and I needed to catch some fishies!

What a way to end the trip! It seemed like every section of pocket water had a hungry fish waiting, in front of a boulder or at the end of a run. The royal wulff I tied on coaxed fish after fish from their underwater shelter. The fishing lasted until the thunderstorms chased me back into my car, and eventually back into Denver.

While fishing down the river, I noticed a gentleman taking pictures of me. (Talk about pressure! All I could think was, “Oh great! Right when the camera’s on me, I can’t hook anything!”) Fortunately, I got into a nice brown while he was shooting. After landing and releasing the trout, I yelled across the river as to whether they had email. When I heard a faint “yes,” I made my way across the river and laid out my situation to the budding photographer. I had destroyed my camera and relegated to a measely camera phone, and I’d love pictures from this trip. No problem, they said, and a few days later these pictures found their way into my gmail inbox.

(Thanks Mike and Pat Cotton. Enjoy your retirement! …but remember you can’t retire from life with others—that’s the beauty of the Gospel.)

Colorado Fly Fishing Adventure, Day 2

2008-08-23T15:27:00.009-04:00

On the docket for Tuesday: fishing the upper section of the Big Thompson and the headwaters of the Colorado. The early bird catches the worm. Right? Right! Awaking before dawn allowed me to get into the park by seven in the morning (before the rangers were posted at the gate collecting money), and by nine I was pulling brook trout out of the Big Thompson. I drove into Moraine Park and parked at the end of the dirt road. About a quarter of a mile into the trail I jumped onto the river and fished a really deep hole. I pulled a large brown out of the back end of the pool but destroyed my camera while trying to take a picture. As I was stepping away with the fish, I failed to notice the fly-line wrapped around one leg of the tripod, and in a split second the camera was underwater. The Sony Cybershot had lasted a while, but this plunge was to be its undoing. Zapped by the water, the poor camera never recovered Even after a week of drying, the camera only took black shots. So, I was to spend the rest of the day mourning my loss and looking ahead to the next riffle.

In the Park, the Big Thompson is a great pocket water stream. I don’t think I made a cast over ten feet, and in front of and behind every rock there seemed to be a fish. What I appreciated most about these little guys, was that every fish fought more than any creature I might get into in the Midwest. There is something to be said about the tenacity of a Colorado brook trout mentality: too many flies in the future to give up the ghost now.

After walking back around midday, and passing a Russian on his cell phone and a baby dressed in only a diaper, I slipped into my temporary sports car and drove Trail Ridge Road to the Colorado. I decided to fish down near Green Mountain Trail only to find that the trail marked on the map leading to the Colorado River didn’t really exist. So, I stepped into the river near the bridge at route 491. I was surprised to find absolutely no action in this area, aside from the Moose and her child. I couldn’t even spook a trout.

With a bit of the evening left I made my way to Granby and stopped at Budget Tackle. The man there gave me some tips as to camping (for free!) the next day’s fishing, pointing me up route 125 to Willow Creek in Arapaho National Forest. There I set up camp and fished. I was able to coax a few browns and rainbows out of the stream before heading back to camp. Right above an official National Forrest campsite was a great car pull-off beside next to the creek. I made a fire, cooked hotdogs, and smoked a cigar—a good finish to a successful day. But, this would only be a precursor to what lie ahead.

Colorado Fly Fishing Adventure, Day 1

2008-08-21T14:37:00.012-04:00

After driving without breaks from Annapolis, Maryland to Denver, Colorado, I crashed on the couch in my host family’s basement. There's nothing better than 27 hours in a car to remind you of the benefit of a good shower and daily stretching exercises. But, a day after the long car ride I was again driving up US25 to Rocky Mountain National Park where my Colorado fishing trip would begin.

Now, getting to the point where I was back in the car driving was an event in itself. My whole reason for coming to Colorado was the wedding of my friends, Rob and Rachel. They asked me to be a groomsman and perform a song in the ceremony, and with the early thought of a fishing tripping in the back of my mind, the answer was an easy “yes.” …and I guess I would have said yes anyways… I mean, they are my friends.

Before jumping into my Pontiac G5 rental that Monday (a car which made me feel like I was going through an early mid-life crisis), I had to step inside the walls of Bath and Body Works to help Rob pick out a birthday present for his fiancé.

Now, I have a hierarchical theory about male “uncomfortability.” It goes something like this: The most uncomfortable store for a man is Victoria’s Secret. I mean, that’s one of those stores (though, like the Law, necessary and good) from which I have to turn my head away when strolling by. All the storefront imagery provided includes a lot of bosom and a little of clothing. Not good for a Christian man trying his best to keep a pure mind. I’ve yet to step foot in one, and I dread the day my wife asks me to go and buy a bra. Yuck. But the next closest tier of uncomfortability is occupied by Bath and Body Works. All men can do is walk into that store and stare. Scents? What the heck do we as human beings need scents for… unless we’re hunting deer. Now, I need to preface this by saying, I’m looking forward to the day I lose all my hair and resort to using only a bar of soap for a full-body cleansing. But when you walk into Bath and Body Works, we men come to find out these creatures called women are adding soap upon lotion, scent upon smell. (You mean their skin doesn’t naturally smell like fields of roses?!!?)

So, like the majority of men in the world, I walked in with Rob and stared at the walls of bath soap and other miscellaneous scented products. The lady helping us, wearing the store-wide color of choice—light blue (another indicator men are not welcome), pointed us to several different choices, and Rob ended up choosing some Japanese Cherry scent over a fruity-almost-candy-store scent. And with that trial endured, I was in my car driving.

Estes Park at two o’clock was bustling. No. Bustling is an understatement. The amount of foot and tire traffic was absurd. It took me what felt like hours to make left-hand turns, park, and cross streets. But, I kept reminding myself: soon I’ll be knee-deep in cold clear river water. I stepped into Kirk’s Fly Shop for some friendly advice, and made sure to buy a few flies as an act of gratitude. (Take note fly fisherman of the world! Buying a few courtesy flies is like leaving a tip…. do it!) My original plans were to fish the Big Thompson, Cache la Poudre, and Colorado rivers inside the park. But, it was late in the day and all the campsites in the park were occupied. So, Michael at Kirks directed me to the Big Thompson River below the dam, where I might hook into a nice sized brown or rainbow.

I drove down Route 34 a few miles, and pulled off the side of the road in a spot I felt was distant enough from the surrounding private property. As the I’m-about-to-fly-fish excitement built, I threw on my boots, harnessed my chest pack and jumped into the river.

The whole evening I saw only a few flies coming off the river—a caddis here, a stonefly there. Working with Michael’s advice, I started with a blue winged olive, and caught a brown within the first few minutes of fishing. Shortly afterward I switched between a royal wulff and caddis, hooking a handful of trout before the mountains encroached upon the Sun’s course.

What I’ve failed to mention is that during my Estes Park adventure I came to realize I had no place to rest my weary head. Both the visitor center in town and the ranger at Beaver Meadows informed me that the campsites were all full. So, I was in a bit of a pinch. Where would I sleep the night? I contemplated renting a room, but then I remembered I’m a poor graduate student. So, following the advice of the park ranger (lesson learned: always ask advice from a park ranger), I found a spot off of route Devil’s Gulch Road on the other side of Glen Haven and camped. Left sleepless by the worries of getting chased away by the police or eaten by a bear, I awoke the next morning at 5:45 to begin again, but this time I was heading into the Park.

On the Bay

2008-08-21T12:16:00.003-04:00

I packed up the truck and drove away from Iowa. It was the end of the semester, and I needed some east coast in my veins. I had a summer session in Latin at Catholic University and a job at Camp Wabanna. The benefit of the latter was the convenience of the Chesapeake Bay right out my front door. It was inevitable I would buy a saltwater fishing license for Maryland (which is relatively inexpensive) and spend some time on the bay, fly fishing.

Forgetting I would be consumed with Latin and little campers, I only got on the water twice. The first round was an evening where I made casts with both fly and spinning rods and only got one strike. It was on a small, green spinning lure. The second outing involved Chris Franklin, a good friend, and we came up completely empty—except for some decent photos.

Here are some shots of Chris casting with the front wall and Lodge of Camp Wabanna in the background.

The Nantahala River, January 2008

2008-01-15T23:22:00.002-05:00

There is a difference between being politically active and being a political junkie. If I stayed inside for one more minute watching the 2008 primary coverage, I'd have bordered on junkie... maybe even fanatic. Not good. Not good at all. So, I packed up the gear and drove down the mountain.

After hitting the thrift stores in Franklin, I made my way up to the Nantahala for an afternoon of fishing. It was cold. I mean rod-eyelids-iced-over, frozen-stiff-net, numb-feet cold. And with that cold, I thought I wouldn’t see much action of the river.

Initially, I didn’t. That prompted me to do the unthinkable. I set up a nymph rigging. I can’t remember the last time I seriously nymph fished a river—too much hassle, too many knots. I prided myself on the simple life: dries and streamers. But, I did it… and, the change of underwater scenery gave me the needed "bounce" (if cable news shows can use "bounce" for the primaries, I can apply it to fly-fishing). Well, the switch to nymphing wasn’t initially effective, but after I hooked a tree limb, lost my original dropper setup, and switched to an olive beadhead, the trout got hungry.

The first fish I caught was a small rainbow. The pessimist that I am, I thought that was it. That babe-of-a-fish was only the beginning. Five ‘bows and a brown later, I made my way out of the river before darkness fully set in.

The last hole I fished provided the most action. Three landed, and one missed. Yet, it was the last fish, as light disappeared, that made the day. The rainbow measured, well, measured big, and its girth was unexpected for the size of the river and the time of year.

So ended day two of my last four days of NC fishing.

The Chattooga River, January 2008

2008-01-10T23:11:00.003-05:00

I’m not sure which compelled me to pack up the truck and head to the Chattooga River, the Gierach book I'm reading or the fact that rain drenched-out my chore of burning the final wood pile in my parents back yard. Probably both. Gierach's chapter on bad-weather fishing and my desire to avoid another day of sore muscles (from hauling wood around) made the choice easy. The only problem with the Gierach side of this equation: I’m not fishing the Frying Pan. In fact, just spotting a trout would have made my day.

To be sure, my day was made. I caught one.

I parked aside the iron bridge crossing the Chattooga and made my way down the south side of the waterfall. The Chattooga is a perfect example of Carolina mountain trout rivers. Lined with rhododendron bushes and mountain laurels, the half sand, half rock floored river is continually interrupted by smoothed or misshaped boulders. The consequent pocket water is trailed by car-length pools. Trout find themselves hiding in peculiar places, spooked by the slightest movements seen through crystal clear water.

In the first pool created by the waterfall, I saw a flash for my wooly bugger. Between that flash and the only trout I caught later, my fly boxes were the only things I retrieved. I went back and forth between streamers and nymphs, hoping to coax one, heck any, trout out of their holding spot. Since no fish willingly showed its face below the bridge, I moved above the waterfall for my final hour-and-a-half on the river.

The brown I caught took me by surprise. He (and yes, it was a Jack) appeared out of the back of a pool and hit my black bugger tentatively. The cold winter water dampened his fight, and I landed him quickly. That was it. No fireworks for my first trout of the year. I was left with the invading fog’s beauty and the smell of burning tobacco in my pipe. Still, one trout was enough for me. I didn't have to excuse my wet clothes and moments of chills with a "It was great just to be on the river."

But, it was great just to be on the river. The rain has continued since I left the Chattooga. I suppose I'll be able to push off the wood burning another day, but will the streams be blown out by the runoff? I can always fall back of reading more Gierach. I hope not. He's a good writer. It's just that publishers haven't created virtual reality books yet.

"Sex, Death, and Fly-Fishing" ...a few quotes Part I

2007-12-26T22:40:00.003-05:00

Trying to avoid semi-stir craziness in my parent's mountain home, I've decided to note some of the catchy lines of John Gierach's Sex, Death, and Fly-Fishing.

"[David] Quammen points out that bamboo trees (from which fly rods are made) do it his way [referring to having sex once and dying], and that salmon (on which fly rods are used) do it this way, too. I think that's interesting. Could there be some wild, metaphysical connection that makes fly-fishing incredibly sexy? I sincerely hope so."

"I don't know exactly what fly-fishing teaches us, but I think it's something we need to know."

"In a solitary sport, there's a very real sense in which your colleagues are also your worst enemies. In many places a kind of uneasy truce now exists and, although hostilities are seldom open, certain guerrilla tactics are sometimes employed."

"For another, I like being reminded that as the gravel company meandered across this piece of land, it left behind it holes in the ground that naturally filled with ground water, and, in time, turned wild. Just as naturally, some people put fish here, and then, later, other people came to catch them out. This is the kind of long-term industrial pollution I can live with."

Smallmouth on the Maquoketa and Rainbows in Fountain Springs

2007-10-02T13:45:00.001-04:00

As September came to a close, my friend and the RUF minister at University of Iowa, Randy Crane, and I met up for a day trip in Delaware County. He has been fly-fishing the area for four years, and I was hoping he’d take me to a few new spots on the map.

By the time I finally made it up from Iowa City to our “meeting spot” (Bailey’s Ford near Manchester), Randy was already an hour into his day of fishing. He had waded into the confluence of the Maquoketa River and Bailey’s Ford, hoping a trout would hit the streamer he stripped through the converging currents. Unfortunately, neither the confluence nor the upper stretches yielded any trout. Randy had a hook-up in a hole above the camping area, but the fish got off before he could net it.

Following his lead, we left Bailey’s Ford for the Maquoketa River, beneath the dam at Delhi. We were sure the midday heat would produce an active day in the small mouth bass catch-and-release section. To our surprise, it was the exact opposite. Randy landed a few crappies and I only landed a tiny smallie using a black wooly bugger. (A few minutes before I landed him, I hooked into what I was sure was a monster of a smallie. But, alas, he got off.)

We spent a few hours tiring our arms casting to wary fish and decided to try a nearby trout stream. Jumping into Randy’s Subaru, we drove to Fountain Springs—a very small spring-fed stream nestled between two hills that gave it an Appalachian feel. Granted it was a Saturday, but when we finally made it to the DNR supported section of the river, I felt like we were cast in the sequel to Deliverance. The camping sites were filled with shirtless men, unshaven women, and questionable vehicles (could they actually pass state inspection?).

After passing a group of drunken men shooting arrows at beer cans using a bear bow, we pulled off the road to fish a few holes in the trickling stream. At no point in my experience did Fountain Springs get wider than five feet. But the water ran cold, and the few pools were deep enough for the trout to stack up. In the first deep hole I fished, I was able to coax a small rainbow to rise for a light sulfur pattern, but he shook off the hook. Just then I noticed a few larger rainbows feeding near the bottom. After a few casts with a black wooly bugger, a nice sized “keeper” (in the words of the locals) struck the fly. With little room to fight, I landed the fish quickly and released him back into the hole.

Regardless of the stream condition, the day was a blessing to me. The first month after my return to Iowa was full of stress and hurry. I couldn’t be more grateful for Randy’s willingness to take me out on the river. It’s a blessing to sit and read Scripture on the riverbank and spend time in our Lord’s creation.

Time on the Tuckaseegee before heading back to Iowa

2007-08-29T23:47:00.001-04:00

A visit with my parents in North Carolina early last week granted me the opportunity to once again wet my feet and fly line in the Tuckaseegee River. The Tuck was suffering from the same drought that’s been plaguing the East, which made for a tough few hours of fishing on Monday. The mid-day heat and low water forced the trout into abnormal holding situations in the catch and release section. The majority of the larger fish were stacked up in the deeper holes, vying for position. I spent only a brief time on the river before I gave up and headed home.

Even more disappointing than the afternoon fishing was the fact that I watched a man kick a fully-grown sheep dog out of his truck and drive off. The animal wandered up and down the road before it disappeared in the countryside. How will the Lord judge our stewardship of his creation?

The next day I returned to the Tuck with my dad. This time we dropped in well above the catch and release section. It’s a spot I love to fish while the sun creeps behind the mountain and the mist begins to rise off the river. As expected, a small amount of light colored sulfurs were rising off the water, and the few Pale Morning Dunn imitations I was carrying did the trick. I netted a couple of rainbows before it became too dark to see the rises. The evening of fishing was a good end to a long summer of traveling.

Spring Fly Fishing in Key Largo: May 2007

2007-06-02T22:03:00.001-04:00

The Iowa winter broke into spring, and with the change of season I found myself changing location (I headed to my summer job at Camp Wabanna) and hair length (I got the don't-need-to-see-scissors-until-August haircut). I also took my annual trip to see my older brother, Dave Yoder, in the Florida Keys. Though I claim it's a chance to catch up with close family, we both know I am visiting him in order to fly fish the flats right off the shore of his house.

The only problem--what is known as the "Yoder Curse"--was that the weather followed me. This time it was wind. In fact, Dave told me to start this blog with, "I've got three words to describe my trip to the Keys: wind, wind, and wind." Every day we battled thirty-mile-an-hour winds. He while poling the boat, and I while casting. The Sun was faithful. Each day she pierced through the salt water to the grass and coral covered shallows near Coral Reef, but the wind created a smoke-screen of waves for the approaching and retreating tarpon.

Time on the boat also reminded me of another element I forgot: I hate standing in one place for long periods of time. Three straight nine hour days balancing on a casting platform began to drive me crazy. (There is only so much of my future I can ponder before I go insane.) The “stir crazy” moments led to a couple of “tense conversations” (a nice way of saying arguments) between siblings. I guess brothers yelling at each other over bad casts and cranky attitudes is better than a sibling rivalry over who’s the best son/brother. (And I will openly admit I stink at casting large flyrods, and I am even worse with a spinning rod.)

On a lighter note, I was able to catch two tarpon on flies. The first one, a ten-pound baby was caught on the ocean side of the Keys, in a spot where Dave knew a few baby tarpon would be cruising around. It took me two casts to get the fly near the lead fish, and it ate the fly like a starving bass. Surprisingly, the tarpon didn’t attempt one jump, but it did give a good subsurface fight. (I’ve failed to mention that our chances to cast to tarpon were few and far between. For some reason, the fish were schooling off-shore near a reef, and we didn’t know that until the third day of fishing.)

The second tarpon, weighing between forty and fifty pounds, was taken late at night. Fed up with the lack of feeding snook, my brother started the boat up and headed for the loading ramp. As we motored by a bridge, he saw several tarpon rolling on shrimp. A construction light gave us the opportunity to see fish eating in the blackened water and make reasonably short casts. I made a cast about forty feet into the shrimp-filled current and within two strips a tarpon rolled on the fly. Before tiring out, the fish jump three times. Each one was a flashback to every Saturday morning fly fishing show I’ve watched. They are definitely creatures of beauty. Even the moon’s dim reflection couldn’t hide the tarpon’s silver-scaled dress.

So, the curse is gone. I’ve caught two tarpon. But I am still not satiated. I’ve yet to land the white ghost.

Poor fishy, it's too cold!

2007-02-11T18:24:00.001-05:00

After three weeks of sub-zero temperatures (I recall a day of windchills in the -20s), my body is reminding me that it was made for the warm humidity of the South. Above is a picture of a fish frozen in Lake MacBride. The fish and I both agree it's way too cold in Iowa.

The Search for Iowan Trout 3: Bailey's Ford and Spring Branch Part 2

2007-01-12T16:34:00.001-05:00

An unseasonably warm month of December kept the ice off the rivers of Iowa and allowed me and Ezra Plank an opportunity to get one last day of winter fly fishing. We ventured to Bailey’s Ford and Spring Branch, located outside of Manchester, and spent an afternoon taking in the scenery and casting to hold-over trout. Ezra netted a bow and almost landed a brownie. I was satisfied just to watch.

Our day ended with an ironic sequence of events. As I was finishing up a few casts into the confluence of the rivers, Ezra walked up and started a monolog about the inadequacy of pictures to capture the true beauty of the moment. The outdoors is always bigger than our cameras and even our memories. Just as he was finishing, three bald eagles made their way down the river, looking for prey. Amazing.

A week in North Carolina

2007-01-02T20:03:00.001-05:00

I spent a week in North Carolina. Although I wet my fly line three times, all I came away with were pictures.

Here is a picture of an old, closed fly shop next to the Tuck on route 107.

Here's my brother on the Tuck:

Here's the Nantahala River:

Here are the cuts received from some swimming lessons I took on the Nantahala:

A Van Dyke poem for a restless fisherman

2006-11-30T14:22:00.002-05:00

Made restless by the encroaching winter weather, I found some cathartic relief in this Van Dyke poem I came across last night. Hopefully, I'll spend some time on the river in North Carolina during Christmas.

“An Angler’s Wish” by Henry Van Dyke

I.
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes towards sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow,—

Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I’m only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

II.
I guess the pussy willows now
Are creeping out of every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plow.

The thistle birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The dandelion show’s begun.

The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?

III.
I think the meadow lark’s clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song sparrows gently sing, “Good cheer.”

And, best of all, through twilight’s calm
The hermit thrush repeats his psalm.
How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music’s balm!

IV.
‘Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record—or my line:

Only and idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature’s heart.

The Search for Iowan Trout 2: Bailey's Ford and Spring Branch

2006-09-21T15:15:00.001-04:00

Another Saturday in Iowa, which means another day on an Iowan river. That morning I jumped into my truck and headed to the Manchester area for a day of trout fishing in Bailey’s Ford Park.

Most of the lower section of Bailey's Ford is bordered by the park, which offers campsites for the “modern” outdoorsman. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to hook up my RV before leaving. So, I’ll have to trade grilling hotdogs and slingin’ worms with peanut butter crackers and peeing in the woods. The lack of detail on the Iowa Trout map left me a bit confused as to whether or not I actually found Spring Branch or Bailey's Ford, but I passed a kind Australian named Gary, who assured me I was in the right area while cleaning some freshly stocked bows.

Did you notice I said stocked bows? Yup, it was initially disappointing to find the few holes near the park swarmed by rainbows, with backs scarred from the holding tanks at the Manchester hatchery. Still, I could see fish. That’s a good thing. My next task was getting away from all the commotion and catching one of them. After suiting up, I headed upstream.

Now, I am a proud man (hello, I’m human!), so bitter thoughts of a creek being ruined by bait fishers filled my head as I walked through the developed area of the park. That’s when the Lord stepped in and smacked me across the face. It took the excitement of two young boys with fishing poles running up and down the stream—making sure to stay within shouting distance of their parents—to remind me of the joy of nature and the need to encourage children to experience God’s creation. All I could do is say, “hi,” and walk away with a smile.

100 yards past the boys I stepped into the creek, which I learned was a mistake in a stream this small, and started recklessly flinging a black ant around. It took several tree branches and stalks of grass before I made the adjustment, and just as I did, there he was. I spooked him a little, but only enough to move him deeper into the whole. Stepping out of the creek, I switched to a wooly bugger, and reentered a few feet back from where I spooked him. After a few casts I noticed the hole deserted, and I decided to plunk the fly somewhere (and I emphasize somewhere) in the top of the hole. The water near the front passes over a small ledge, thrusting itself into a sharp turn of the creek. I did a little trimming of the weeds with the bugger before I finally landed the fly in the water. And there he was!—hiding under the cut bank. He pounced on the fly when it hit the water, missed it, pounced again, missed it, and finally, pounced a third time inches from my feet. In a creek no more than eight feet wide at its largest point, I never expected a trout of his length and girth.

Needless to say, I stuck with the bugger the rest of the way up the stream, and hooked several more healthy, colorful browns. I made it all the way to some electric fencing, keeping the cows from escaping and me from entering, before I turned back, deciding to dry fly my downstream to the truck.

That’s when I hit the double. I knew there were a few bows, I believe to be holdovers like the browns I caught, feeding near a bridge, so I made a few casts with a hopper-ant set up in a section I expected the fish to be holding. Boom! An over-zealous bow jumped out of the water for my ant. A few more rebellious jumps, and I netted my first Iowan bow.

Bailey's Ford: I need to keep her in the back of my mind. She is certainly a go-to stream for me. The DNR did a great job creating rock banks conducive to holding trout, and the fish appear to have a good source of food generated by the large amounts of grass on the creek bottom. I wonder how fished this creek gets during the Spring and Summer? Nevertheless, I’d like to get past the electric fencing and fish the protected section of Spring Branch.

The Search for Iowan Trout: Maquoketa River

2006-09-05T21:44:00.001-04:00

I jumped in my truck this morning, popped in a live Train CD and made my way to Backbone State Park, near Dundee, IA. Labor Day was my first chance to hit an Iowa river, and from the state trout map and a few websites, Backbone seemed like a decent choice.

I drove into the park, first into the south entrance and then made my way—with the help of a kind lady behind the café counter—up to the east entrance. The park is fantastic, and within two miles I was driving over the Maquoketa River. The river itself is very beautiful. The surrounding foliage and the white sand trail running down its center only added to its appeal.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the trout fishing. I walked several miles of the river and only found a few trout holding in the deeper pools. In fact, I only came across three pools holding sizable trout (12-15 inches), and the meager space forced the fish stacked up shoulder to shoulder.

Needless to say, the lack of protection made the adult trout wary. Though I caught several small (dare I say) bait fish, the only trout of size I “snagged” was foul hooked in a small pool. I was ashamed to even take a picture of the brownie because of the way I hooked him.

I guess the bait fish should have been a give away. If there is an overabundance of the little guys, there probably isn’t enough of the big guys to chow on them.

In many ways, the river reminded me of the Middle Patuxent in Maryland, with the major difference being that the Maquoketa maintains a colder water temperature. They are similar in their sandy structure, in their plethora of bait fish/bottom feeders, and in their low water flow (the Maquoketa was a bit less in this category).

The most disappointing thing about the river was the poor job the DNR seems to be doing with it. Certainly my snobbish, purist attitude comes out when I say this, but this river is situated in a poor environment for fishermen with the put and take mentality. It is obvious the state pours oversized trout into this river a couple of times a year, but the small nature, few underwater rock structures, and difficult access points make this a poor choice. On the other hand, the Maquoketa would make a great sanctuary for brook trout, maintained under a catch-and-release program.
As I was driving away, I the Lord granted me a great view of the cornfields sandwiched by cattle and a rainbow.

Well, I have quite a few more rivers in this corn state to conquer…

Fishing the Little Tennessee and Tuckaseegee...one last time?

2006-08-20T17:50:00.001-04:00

Well, I moved to Iowa this past week, but before I left the mountains of the NC, I pulled out the ole' fly rod and fished the Lil' Tennessee and the Tuck' one last time (maybe). The Little Tennessee shocked us (Troy, in the picture below was my guide/comrade on the two trips), offering us a whole day of beautiful river bends with no fish. Neither Troy or myself saw a fish the whole float trip. In fact, the only animals we saw in the river (minus a few birds) were a few cows.

So we determined to hit the Tuck before I packed up and left for the mid-west. The Tuckaseegee is with out a doubt my favorite river to fish. All the trout are well nourished and wild trout are plentiful. Before the evening was through, both of us found ourselves with good sized browns and bows on the end of our rods. The best part of the trip was experiencing (again) the evening mist that rises from the bustling eddies of the Tuck. I'll miss her.

Spring Fly Fishing in Key Largo: Part 4

2006-04-27T22:29:00.001-04:00

Another long day on the ocean side with no picture.

This morning, we began near Horseshoe flats. The tarpon movement was sporatic and seldom, forcing us to spend much of the day moving to different sections of the coast. Unlike yesterday, good looks at fish were hard to come by, and when the afternoon sun hit its peak, the strong winds began.

We spent the rest of the day squinting into the water searching for tarpon. By the evening, we had a few good shots at tarpon, with one big miss. In the Horseshoe area, Dave spotted a large group of tarpon heading our way. They were spooked and changed direction. Unexpectedly, the fish turned and headed right back at us. I made second cast to them, and a large tarpon hit the fly. It was my impatience, setting the hook too quickly and improperly, which blew that opportunity. Phooey!

That was the last real chance I had the rest of the day.

Nevertheless, I had a great three days of fishing. I owe it all to my brother. Thanks man!

Spring Fly Fishing in Key Largo: Part 3

2006-04-26T21:08:00.001-04:00

No pictures today. But, a lasting memory.

We decided to head to Islamorada, south of Key Largo. It was a hot, clear day of fishing, with a dab of rain to cool us off a little after lunch.

Dave settled the boat on the ridge of a flat, which serves as a varitable runway for traveling tarpon. Most of the morning and early afternoon we cast to small schools of tarpon.

It was before lunch that it happened. I made a short cast to a group of oncoming tarpon, and an 80lbs tarpon came surging out of the water to take the fly. The fight was on. And just as quickly, the fight was off. The fish jump three times, and on the third launching, it broke off the fly. (As the fish made its first run, Dave kept shouting for me to "bow to the fish," until I turned and said, "I have no clue what 'bowing' to the fish is!" It only took another half-minute to learn. Bowing to the fish is the process of slightly lunging toward the fish when you feel it is going to jump. If you don't, its sheer weight will break your leader.)

Amazing! For years I've watched these monsters jumping out of the water on TV, and today, I saw first-hand the spectacular show a hooked tarpon puts on.

Spring Fly Fishing in Key Largo: Part 2

2006-04-25T21:22:00.001-04:00

Early bustling in the kitchen woke me this morning before the Sun broke the hold of night. My brother was preparing a lunch, and by the time I had fully opened my eyes, he had us driving to Flamingo in the Everglades.

We arrived around 6am and launched from a hurricane tattered tourist center in the park. From there, Dave drove his Maverick boat to a flats area known for feeding tarpon. It was unbelievable! In my brother's words, there were acres of rolling tarpon. Unfortunately, they were rolling in morning conditions which made sighting the fish hard. This combined with my poor casting left us almost empty-handed for the morning.

Until... I made a short cast to a school of approaching tarpon. One of the large "tanks" made two attempts at my fly, and on the second I hooked him! For the next five seconds I was in another world. Then, like a Sumo wrestler fighting a babe, the tarpon jumped and tossed my fly. Wow! What an amazing fish.

After a morning of little success, my brother decided to spend a few hours fishing for dinner--tripletail. We "flared" past crab pots searching for tripletails hiding behind the large buoys. I must have cast to and missed 6 fish before I finally landed one, and it took three hook-ups before I caught one legal to keep.

With dinner in the cooler, we headed back to this morning's spot expecting a repeat in the tarpon action experienced earlier. It was not to be. Dave poled the boat a solid four hours, as we searched for laid-up or rolling tarpon. Nothing. So, we packed it up and called it a day.

Tonight, we feasted on the tripletail. My brother breaded the fillets with crushed Ritz Crackers (a fisherman's secret) and they melted in our mouths. A great end to a fun, sun-burnt filled, day.

Spring Fly Fishing in Key Largo: Part 1

2006-04-24T20:55:00.001-04:00

Well, I finally made it back to Key Largo for a second try at flats fishing with a fly rod.

Thanks to the kindness (and honor-like attitude) of my roommate, my journey began worry-free as I made it to my 6:00am flight out of Baltimore with time to spare. A three-hour layover in Chicago gave me some time to read and walk off any last minute nerves.

I arrived in Miami around 3pm, and we were cruising through the shallows near Key Largo by five. My trusty guide/big brother Dave slowed the boat down and poled us into an area known as the "Yellow Brick Road." The lighter toned bottom gave it an appearance of a winding path working its way to the Keys, and from the words of those who fish the area, the Tarpon follow the road like clockwork this time of year.

We spent about an hour-and-a-half talking about and staring at nothing, until my brother abruptly broke out with "There's a group of Tarpon! Cast there!" I made two quick casts--both falling short, and thought my day was done.

Oh, was I wrong! Just a few minutes later, a shark made its way toward the boat with two Cobia trailing close behind. I cast, added a few short strips of the line, and hooked and landed my first Cobia! The Cobia weighed in at 19lbs. Nice. After talking with a few guides in the area, it appears these fish a rare this far north. What a blessing!

Round 2: The Patuxent River

2006-03-12T18:24:00.001-05:00

Surprising seventy-degree weather coaxed me back to the Patuxent yesterday. Instead of parking next to the dam, I drove down Haviland Mill Road, which intersects Brighton Dam Road, and dropped in next to the bridge crossing over the river. I remembered in my conversation with Nick last week that the major stocking occurred in the section between the dam and this bridge.

So, I practically jumped into my waders and headed down to the river for a little weekend afternoon fishing. There were a few flies in the area, randomly making their way to the tops of the trees. During the few hours, I spotted a black stonefly, a small pale sulfur, and a caddis-like fly on the river.

The great weather seduced me into beginning with a Royal Wolff and then a large Adams. I knew the fish were still fresh to the water, which implies an unselective appetite, but after a few holes up from the bridge, I switched to a black beadhead wooly bugger. There was no surface activity, and I knew the fish were there.

Almost instantaneously, I had a strike on the bugger. The trout were still wary, and seemed to be bumping the fly. Nevertheless, within a few casts I finally hooked a trout, who freed himself with a few headshakes before I could net him.

That’s when I lost my last bugger to a tree stump. Uhhg! My streamer selection was pretty slim, but I did have a size 6 beadhead clouser. It made no difference to the fish. Before the sun went down, I had netted 4 fish, including two nice fourteen-inch brownies.

A wet net and a read through Romans 5 made Saturday a great day of fishing.

The one disappointment of the day was passing some kids bait fishing near a pretty hole. Hopefully, the DNR will spend some time on the river’s banks this spring.

Winter Fishing the Patuxent River

2006-03-07T20:26:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I took a much-needed day off work to break in my new wading boots in one of Maryland’s up-and-coming trout rivers.

This is the first season in more than a decade that the Patuxent River, below Brighton Dam, is stocked with brown and rainbow trout. As a teenager, new to the sport of fly-fishing and frustrated by any low hanging branches, I remember drooling over this sacred section of the Patuxent (not because of the absence of branches). It’s deep holes and undercut banks were perfect for naturally chary trout. With private property surrounding the river, and landowners angered by a previous period where the DNR managed this section as a put-and-take trout fishery—attracting the can of corn, six-pack crowd, this prime trout water ran void of the treasured fish.

Now, thanks to the work of the Potomac-Patuxent chapter of Trout Unlimited, beginning 400 yards below Brighton Dam the Patuxent River is a regulated catch-and-release trout stream.

Memory didn’t serve me well on my way to the river. Coming from the direction of my old stomping ground in Scaggsville, I zigged and zagged my way from route 216 to route 650, finally conceding to prayer as the only hope of finding Brighton Dam. Thank God for the obvious. Brighton Dam Road appeared shortly after 108, and moments later I was parking in a lot offered by Maryland’s DNR adjacent to the dam.

The walk to the managed section of the river took me through a picnic area and a field before the hibernating briers cluttered the banks of the river. I quickly tied on a wooly bugger, full of flash, hoping to get a greedy strike before the clouds broke. Nothing. In fact, nothing for most of the day. Even with the frantic switching between nymph and streamer, the only strike I garnered occurred while I reeled my line in for another fly change.

Thank the Lord I ran into Nick Weber, president of the local chapter of Trout Unlimited, and a friend nailing catch-and-release signs on riverside trees. Nick informed me the trout were recently stocked and still adjusting to their new environment. This compounded with an abnormally high flow of 100cc killed any hope of me catching a fish.

Nevertheless, there is a lot of promise concerning this section of the Patuxent. The best news I heard—especially after experiencing the underfed, overstocked trout of the Gunpowder River—was that they are not stocking large amounts of fish in the Patuxent. The short-term difficulties are the scarcity of trout, but in the long run we’ll find healthy trout naturally reproducing in this river. For that reason, I am willing to wait.

As spring exiles winter’s cold, and the vegetation re-awakens to the warmth, this river will explode with beauty and (hopefully) energetic trout. I’ll definitely be back and look forward to roll casting to the edge of the riverside’s stunning rock formations, hoping for the slow rise of a Maryland trout.

[I feel a need to confess that I spent much of the morning and early afternoon pulling flies from overhanging trees. Practice your side arm and roll casts before you wet your boots in this tailwater!]

Fly Fishing for Bonefish in Key Largo, Florida

2006-01-26T20:41:00.000-05:00

There is another world fly-fisherman often talk about, a world where fish take hundreds of yards of backing off your reel in the blink of an eye. It is a world in which the hunt is silent and methodical, the casting is precise or otherwise useless and the fish are as diverse as they are powerful. It is the world of saltwater fly-fishing, and the Keys of Florida offer an opportunity for any challenge-seeking fisherman to experience the best this country has to offer. So, I made my way down the coast this past weekend in search of the "white ghost."

As I drove down Route 1, with windows down and the smell of salt and sand rushing through my nostrils, I fantasized about my first bonefish hook-up. Like the last few minutes in front of a mirror before a blind date, I ran through all the words I’d use and facial expressions I’d show when I finally met the fish of my dreams. Mentally, I practiced holding the fish for the camera. But, the curse of the Yoder family followed my small pickup truck down the coast of Florida, and met me in Key Largo. It is the dreaded curse of rain.

Nevertheless, my brilliant and fearless guide Captain Dave Yoder, who happens to be my brother, was able to use the short periods of dry daylight to put me in front of tailing bonefish. He has always had that uncanny ability to turn poor casters like myself into fish catching machines, whether it’s on the Colorado River or Biscayne Bay, and I suppose that is what has made him a sought-after guide.

My first chance at the allusive bonefish came in Rattlesnake cove, where Captain Dave spotted three charging straight for the bow of the boat. After a few instructions, I made a rare, precise cast, placing the fly feet away from the oncoming pod. A few strips of the line, and I had my first hook-up. But it was short-lived. Treating the bonefish like a brownie I hooked with a wooly bugger somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina, the bonie made a quick head-turn a darted into the distance, taking my fly and leaving my rod, line and arm in the boat. That was the last opportunity I would have.

The rest of the cloudy evening, interrupted by rain, was full of missed opportunities. Every tailing fish we approached I under- or over-shot, leaving a nervous wake as my only memory. For a first date, it was a tragedy, but I am planning for a second chance in the spring.

If you are ever interested in taking on the “white ghost” of the Keys, contact Captain Dave Yoder. In my experience, I have not come across a more professional and understanding guide as my brother. Okay, I admit a slight bias.