The Flyfish Journal News by ben-romans

Fly-Tying and Scavenging

Ben Romans — Tue, 29 Dec 09 07:52:11 -0800

Farmers plow, miners excavate, politicians philander, and fly-tiers scavenge. It’s a simple truth I cannot escape. I have an overabundant supply of fine pheasant tails—a material that, let’s be honest, is truly irreplaceable on only a handful of patterns. Despite that fact, I see feathers, and I must collect. I’m like a banjo minnow, plumes of long stems and barbs triggers a genetic response somewhere deep inside and I must add them to my collection.

North Dakota is probably as comparably close to the North Pole as you can get without leaving the lower 48. Cold air and snow drifts, followed by more cold air and snow drifts, and a vast, sometimes empty landscape more akin to Santa’s Fortress of Solitude than a setting where any sane person would reside. My truck’s temperature gauge displayed negative digits for four days straight now, and according to the weatherman, there’s no chance of it even warming up to a balmy 10 degrees.

But I’ll take it. It’s a small price to pay for the ace-in-the-hole.

North Dakota + Pheasants + Acres of farmland + In-laws with “connections” = Enough said.

The snow was falling, the wind was blowing, and the birds were flighty, but a few short walks through the tall brush along some tree rows, a brisk zig-zag through frozen sloughs, and some questionable long-range Hail Mary lead shot projections, and I had my three-bird limit. Store bought materials pale in comparison to what you can find in the wild.

Carp Flies

Ben Romans — Mon, 14 Dec 09 07:53:08 -0800

The temperature outside dropped into negative digits seemingly overnight, and while I’m typically anti-sock the rest of the year, I despise numb toes, so the wool stays on the feet. Time to switch gears. It’s winter—accept it. Pack on the fat and replenish the boxes.

In one hand I had a fresh, steaming beverage of one part apple cider and two parts Captain Morgan—one to take the edge off, and the other for good measure. In the other hand, a fresh spool threaded through a bobbin, tapping on the base of my vise while I mentally shuffled through a to-do list of depleted patterns. The question was where to start? Simple dry flies? A dozen streamers? Something with a bead head, or possibly a tandem rig?

I started simple with carp flies. Dumbbell eyes, coyote hair, a little flash—the perfect finger warm-up exercise after a long break from the bench. Even if I screwed up, who cares, they’re carp. I’ve seen those fish eat cigarette butts.

Hours later, I’ve veered off course, rummaged through my bins, and lashed together creations that don’t resemble the apple-and-rum induced blueprint in my head. Big and small bugs waiting for head cement and nary one of them worthy of a parking space in my boxes.

But by then my back and neck were sore, I was out of cider, and the mood was gone. Maybe I’ll get back on track in a day or two. So much for opening day of my fly-tying season.

Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains

Ben Romans — Wed, 02 Sep 09 09:31:04 -0700

There’s gold in them thar hills.

I’m mostly speaking metaphorically, but the literal undertone is enough to make my opener a bad play on words.

I spent a few days in the heart of Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains fishing the same tributaries miners dredged through the turn of the century and where a few modern-day forty-niners continue to swirl sediment in rippled pans. Even Clint Eastwood got a touch of the gold fever. He filmed scenes for his 1985 western classic Pale Rider on the opposite side of the peaks.

I worked the water with my brother and father, taking turns scaling the rocks and spotting the six-inch targets from a lofty position. It turned out to be a simple afternoon of ice-cold water complimented by sun-warmed whiskey. Unpressured and unhurried by any itineraries or self-indulged pissing contests. It was as it should be.

Not So Lonely Pool Anymore

Ben Romans — Mon, 10 Aug 09 14:57:30 -0700

I take a specific route from my home to a friend’s cabin in Montana. Drive time is five hours, give or take, but when the mind is somewhere between a buzz and hangover, the return always feels longer. Fortunately, the path borders water nearly 90 percent of the time and when flows are low, window-shopping over the river’s deepest pools and exposed riffles helps pass the time.

Near the midway point, I set my sights on a particular spot. A section of pocket of water I’ve studied dozens of times from the comfort of the driver’s seat. I hug a little curve in the road and there it is, staring back at me like a half-buzzed hottie on the other side of the bar shooting flirtatious glances. I know everybody and their brother has had their way with her, but I can’t help staring back. It’s too good to be true, just close enough to a pull-off, but I’ve never seen anyone fish it.

On my last trek, I finally cracked. A man can only take so much, and I’m weaker than most. After several hypothetical promises, the wife granted me fifteen minutes. It didn’t matter if I was putting the last piece of the puzzle in place, when the buzzer sounded, I needed to shake the waders, jump back into the truck, and shift into D.

Fortunately, the code was easy to break. Ten trout came to my hand. That untouchable pocket of water I’ve driven by for all these years—the one I thought every tenderfoot on vacation dredged before me—gave it up in spades.

Sadly, I’m sure it will be the first and last dance. For fifteen minutes I was a roadside spectacle, like a Yellowstone Park elk outlanders line up to photograph with their point-and-shoot cameras. Above the sound of humming tires passing behind me, horns honked, and people yelled. One minivan copilot even wanted me to give a thumb up or down to rate the fishing. I gave him the finger. I was the equivalent of a jig-dancing pauper on a street corner with a large cardboard sign plugging wireless services, pizza specials, or inventory liquidation. No sir, I don’t think that pool will be lonely anymore.

I’m not a Purist

Ben Romans — Fri, 24 Jul 09 06:57:09 -0700

I’m not a purist. I never claimed to be. So when the going gets tough, the tough tie on a worm harness or Lindy Rig. At least that was the theory I was working while fishing the lower, lower, Missouri River in North Dakota last week—a section of river known more for walleye, catfish, and carp than the trout-laden upper river near Craig, Montana.

Somewhere along the journey, I discovered a correlation between dunking bait and waving a stick that had me saying, "Hell, this ain’t so bad." I still had to tie a clinch knot to my snap swivel. I still applied unbelievable amounts of split shot twelve inches above my rig. And, fixing a worm on three successive bait hooks? Well, that’s just like palmering hackle. Stick it, wrap around the mono; stick it, wrap around the mono; then stick it a final time so a small alluring portion quivers off the stern like a rabbit strip flickering off a streamer’s posterior.

While we didn’t net any walleyes, I nonetheless thoroughly enjoyed my journey to the other side. It’s something I don’t do enough. While certainly not as graceful or refined as our precious, pompous sport (blah, blah, blah), it’s altogether enjoyable. If you just can’t see yourself trying it, consider this—it’s not as much work as flyfishing. A huge consideration if you’re stuck in a boat consuming liberal rations of barley water on a hot, summer afternoon.

Beer and Coffee

Ben Romans — Tue, 14 Jul 09 12:51:13 -0700

Improvise [im-pruh-vahyz] verb: To make, provide, or arrange from whatever materials are readily available.

We headed to the water early. Too early to even find any nearby freshly-brewed truck stop nectar, so we resorted to packing a single-burner backpack barista into the boat, sans cups—an item overlooked at some point during my unchoreographed pre-launch scramble. We anticipated heavier-than-usual Fourth of July boat traffic and wanted to be in the right place at the right time to scrutinize any ensuing PMD or bikini hatches the river gods decided to give up. Unfortunately neither fully materialized.

I’ve heard it said there’s nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning. I have to also think there’s nothing like the sensation of a moderately warm MGD sliding down the gullet at 8 a.m. either. It was a small price to pay for an ensuing cup of caffeine. A quick cut with the Leatherman across the top of the empty aluminum, and I was in business. 4.9 percent alcohol per volume to loosen the muscles chased with 100 mg of caffeine to keep me thinking straight. The result was a jittery, early-morning sense of inebriation that set the pace for the day. Definitely a winning holiday combination.

Oh yeah, we caught some fish too.

Big Hole Weekend Gone Wrong

Ben Romans — Tue, 30 Jun 09 06:42:13 -0700

This report came from a buddy in Montana who made his way from Billings to the Big Hole last weekend in anticipation of big bugs and bushy dry flies. Unfortunately, Murphy’s Law and the other laws of mother nature didn’t really let things transpire as he liked.

Here’s the fishing report he emailed me Sunday night. I’m meeting up with him on Friday and hoping he’s worked the bad ju-ju out of his system:

12 a.m. Saturday starts with pouring rain, but I convince the girlfriend and my co-worker it’s just a June sprinkle.

6 a.m. Still Raining. Should blow over any minute now or burn off when the sun moves higher.

8 a.m. Blow out a wheel bearing on the trailer while driving—damned near lose the Clacka entirely.

9 a.m. Find a local welder who'll fix it for me this week.

10 a.m. Talk the shop guy into letting us use the trailer for the day. I mean, the damage is already done (it’s still raining by the way).

11 a.m. Launch the boat. Catch a couple fish on the big bugs (still pouring rain).

12 p.m. Girlfriend isn’t paying attention to her rod hanging out the back of the boat while co-worker is anchoring. Rod tip hits a branch. Z-Axis in the drink.

Rest of the Day: Raining, cold, “who gives a shit.”

9 p.m. Realize since our boat trailer is shot, there’s no fishing on Sunday—which incidentally turned into a very nice day.

The Perfect Compliment

Ben Romans — Wed, 17 Jun 09 07:41:47 -0700

Warm apple cider, spiced rum, and winter fly-tying go hand-in-hand. If you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend it.

When I’m fishing for bass, I like Bud Light. Bottles, not cans.

When I’m fishing for carp, pass me a PBR.

If it’s fall steelhead, pack along a smoky scotch. Spring steelhead, just give me cheap whiskey—it’s been a long winter.

Early season trout, I can probably polish off whatever is left in the bottle(s) from the spring
steelhead runs, but once summer hits, ice-cold tequila suits me just fine. Just give me a
shot from the bottle and a snort of lime juice. I’ll mix it in my mouth.

Bonefish or Tarpon and I need gin & tonic. Just make sure it’s loaded with ice and limes.

It doesn’t happen often, but when northern pike are in the cards, vodka is the choice.
Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.

Damned if I do, Damned if I don’t

Ben Romans — Fri, 12 Jun 09 06:20:19 -0700

Important choices creep up on me and I cower, flip-floping on a decision more than a politician during an election year. Case in point, I have two opportunities, both of which tickle me in that special spot. But factors like the ever-changing weather forecasts, hatch intensity, drive times, availability of whiskey, etc. keep my pro/con scale out of whack and prevent me from picking one path over another.

The road to the right leads to Silver Creek where the brown drakes may, or may not, come off. Reports of their presence are spotty, but damn, sometimes the gamble pays off.

The road to the left leads to Montana where my buddy is waiting patiently, with an empty boat in tow, for someone to ride the receding flows and fish the first flush of salmonflies.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. Better flip a coin, best two-outa-three. Time is wasting.