The Flyfish Journal News by john-holt

Options, Always Options

John Holt — Tue, 31 Aug 10 06:21:50 -0700

The little fish swimming around doing their best imitation of Brownian Movement in the photograph above may be incapable of thought (not a big deal since it currently appears that most of our species is ideologically brain dead). If they pondering their lives, they might be aware of their options – flitting about haphazardly like I do most of the time, feeding aggressively in order to grow larger and increase their chances of survival, hiding from lurking predators including their own kind or most likely, realizing the eventuality of being eaten alive.

This brings me to Scott Sadil’s disturbing new book Fly Tales – Lessons in Fly Fishing Like the Real Guys. As anyone who knows me a little bit can tell you, including Andrew and Jeff, I’m set in my ways, a serious devotee of my personal order in life. Over the years I’ve winnowed my fly patterns down to eight – Woolly Bugger, Elk Hair Caddis, Sheep Creek, Hare’s Ear Nymph, Joe’s Hopper, Humpy, BWO and Chartreuse Braided Barracuda Fly (for northerns). If I can’t take fish with these I’ll do without.

Then along comes Sadil with his provocative book on fly patterns that is wonderfully written, thoroughly researched and thoughtful. So I read the work the other night and the next thing I know, without really thinking about it, I’m tying a bunch of Huevos Trujillos Single Glo-Bugs convinced that this arcane pattern will have real application on the nearby Yellowstone this fall. I’ve always liked Sadil’s books beginning with Angling Baja to Cast From the Edge (inspired work here) and Lost in Wyoming (also inspired). But with his latest book the author appears to have crossed a line into demonic influence as I’m now considering tying up a garish concoction he innocently calls My Comet – a twisted mélange that includes marabou blood plumes, cactus chenille and pink schlappen (I think I used to drink this stuff years ago). Just what I need. Now I have ten patterns to lug around. Thanks a lot, Scott.

Bass Pond Eutrophy

John Holt — Thu, 01 Jul 10 06:57:25 -0700

There are some bass ponds, spring-fed items, that are located on the southern edge of the Bears Paw Mountains over Havre way in north central Montana. I’ve caught largemouth bass to six pounds in them with little effort. But that’s not much of the story. There was a time when I was casting to the fish and a trio of F-15s appeared out of nowhere with no sound by way of introduction – they were going too fast - then slammed by overhead less than 100 feet above the deck in a wall with sound so loud it didn’t roar it crackled and the surface of the ponds did a crazed vibration like their liquid nerves were way past buzzed and the bass leaped from the water with this military madness. I flipped the jets off. Why not. On the next pass the leader, now so low I could touch him, waggled his wings in recognition of my greeting. Pilots are fine-tuned.

Other days with never anyone around, as was the norm, and Ginny and I would burn beneath the sun out on the alkali flats with eroding sandstone formations in ochre, sand, dun, salmon, rust surrounding us. These monstrosities crept ever closer when we weren’t looking as our concentration was mainly on the bass. The ancient stone resembling (or maybe really was) lions paws, spectral battlements, and enormous humans that rarely spoke but kept us company. Still do. We love this kind of country that is really a slight variation on a Missouri Breaks riff wailing a few miles to the south.

We’d been absent from this place for six years. In this time the lakes filled in with soil that mostly clogged springs of artesian coolness. The little ponds are now filled with nutrients that produce the aquatic plant growth that killed off the fish. Doesn’t matter. These things naturally happen. Hard on the bass but that’s how it goes. Wild thunderstorms still wrestle with a setting sun turning the land nuclear blood orange. Deep purple clouds boil over the sage and native grass covered hills. Nighthawks swoop and drone as they feed on insects. Swallows, too. The birds say the hell with the heavy weather. The eating is too damn good right now. We say the hell with cities, MSNBC, BP, MLB and Livingston where we live but won’t forever. We love good country too much to rot in town when we can sizzle out in this stuff, bass or no bass.

The Milk

John Holt — Sun, 23 May 10 17:24:20 -0700

Some of the best times fishing are on waters that don’t have the “Aren’t we precious and important gonzo fly fishers” rep. The ones that hold few if any trout, flow mostly far away from the scenic mountains out on the high plains and are often turbid by nature. The Milk is one of these and it doesn’t make any pretentious attempts to polish its natural image in order to attract the adventure-travel fly fishing herd (certainly a bit of anthropomorphism here, but rivers have shown me a higher consciousness than any human I know). Even in full flood attitude as shown above the river produces fish – northerns, smallmouth, largemouth, channel cats, and a smattering of confused and somewhat lost brown, brook, and rainbow trout. Big streamers, take your choice because pattern doesn’t matter, flung bank-tight and stripped back with serious intent always turn the predatory and voracious fish. Northern jaws open and snap shut, bass burst the brown surface and channel cats sometimes play along for the hell of it. There aren’t any guides offering sage advice on how to make twenty-foot casts or serving French wine-drenched lunches, no yahoos screaming their few remaining brains out every time they connect with a thirteen-inch fish, no Avon raft gridlock. The Milk is an honest, no bullshit stream running free through the wild heart of good country away from the commercial madness that poisons fly fishing.

Going, Going, Gone

John Holt — Tue, 11 May 10 06:36:19 -0700

My wife Ginny is taking a growing interest in flyfishing. Years of photographing our trips to rivers both close by and far away like the Blackstone and Olgilvie in the Yukon have fueled her interest in catching fish on her own, I’ve noticed that many of her photographs are now focused on prime holding water of the streams we fish. She seems to be subconsciously homing in on where the fish are. And she watches closely when I cast to likely-looking spots as she tries to see how I do things. I’ve suggested that this is a mistake of honest proportions but she smiles and continues her observations. In that spirit I try to stay nearby as she works the water and offer advice gained from decades of modest successes and robust failures – all well intentioned but short lived. In the photograph above I’ve already worked my way one-hundred feet upstream from where she’s casting. In another minute or two this distance will have grown to two-hundred and shortly after that I’ll be around the bend as it were fishing a nice looking corner pocket and away we go. Rivers and fish override my attempts at angling generosity with the ease of spring wind gliding off high country snowfields and flowing on downstream.

Line Holders

John Holt — Mon, 19 Apr 10 06:17:32 -0700

For years I included myself in the large group of fly fishers who think that reels are little more than mechanisms to hold fly line. With my renewed interest in bamboo rods (they seem to be arriving at my door every few days), I’ve also discovered a new-found appreciation for reels – older, vintage models that have angling histories of their own discreetly revealed in lost-era patinas, scratches, dents, and sometimes corrosion acquired over decades of honest use, abuse, and neglects.

The reels in the above photo are a small (very small) sample of my collection. The two at the top have red agate line guides that are beautiful to behold in bright sunlight. The one on the left was made for Williams Robertson Fishing Tackle of Glasgow, Scotland by J.W. Young of Redditch, England way before I was born. The other is a Meisselbach 372 made in this country long ago. In the second row from left are: a wonderfully elegant, utilitarian and inexpensive Ocean City 76 that can hold its own with the fastest of rainbows. The middle reel was made by Bill Ballan of Homosassa, Florida. It is a Midge Heirloom for 1, 2 and 3 weight line is 2 5/8" in diameter by .500 spool width. 40 yards of 6 lb. backing. Wt. 4.3 oz. The last one is a J.W. Young Valdex notable for its unique (at the time more than a half-century ago) reel release.

In the front row (L to R) are: Allcock Black Knight from Redditch purchased from my dear friend artist and eccentric angler extraordinaire Michael Simon. My wife Ginny uses this reel exclusively. Next is an Hardy Featherweight made in England for Abercrombie & Fitch. This is one of my favorites. It’s had a difficult time with me losing a portion of its frame on the bottom right when a grizzly surprised me (always the master of the understatement) along Swift Creek in the Flathead Valley of northwest Montana twenty-five years back. I dropped the rod in shock and the Hardy bounced off a mid-stream boulder.

The third one is an elegant beauty called “Flyos” made by Ogden & Smiths of London. I use this one for early evening rises of discriminating caddis and mayflies with a Leonard Early Fairy Catskill when I’m feeling refined, admittedly a rarity. The last reel is an Ari Hart Traun F1. I have others by Ari but this is my favorite. One of his unique designs is displayed in the Museum of Modern Art. They are as functional as they are beautiful. Even a cheap Ari Hart is expensive.

I realize that all of this is completely out of control, but I’ve never been hip to moderation in anything. Not ever. Benign madness is my dear friend.

The Lovely Reed

John Holt — Mon, 22 Mar 10 06:39:02 -0700

My obsession with bamboo began on the Sand River in the middle of black-fly infested Ontario almost fifty years ago. Canoeing the drainage – seemingly more root-choked portage than flowing water – with my father and his fellow lawyer buddy, we covered a lot of miles and managed to catch eleven brook trout between us in seven days. Wild, pristine country filled with moose, eagles, and freedom.

The highlight for me was casting my father’s friend’s Payne 8-0, five-weight. There was wonder, arcane magic in the rod far beyond whatever I felt casting my Fenwick red glass item (that I must admit served my neophyte efforts with good grace and silence as I clunked my way towards mediocrity as a caster). Since that time I’ve owned a lot of bamboo rods. When my VW Squareback caught fire outside of Mitchell, South Dakota in 1975 I lost a dozen rods in the blaze – three Leonards, a Payne, Garrison, Granger, and others imbued with lovely memories on Montana’s waters. Heart broken I turned to graphite vowing never to be hurt like this again, but the passion has returned and I’m up to nineteen cane rods with a couple more on the way.

The photo above shows five that represent this resurfaced madness: the top one is a 7-9, four-weight Leonard formerly owned by Sir Richard Fairey who founded Fairey Aviation Company in 1915. This rod cast line over the venerable Test River; The next down is a circa 1890 9-0 four-weight Leonard stunningly restored by a Skowhegan, Maine artisan of other-worldly talent. I consider this guy so good that I’ve purchased three other of his restorations all between 5-10 and 6-0 intwo- to four-weight; the third is an Orvis 7-9, five-weight Wes Jordan made for me by that company, and paid for by my father in 1977 when he learned that I’d actually found a job in Missoula – this time around as a cook at the Spaghetti Station; the next is a 9-6, five weight Palakona made by Malcolm Greys of Greys of Alnick before the concern was absorbed by Hardy maybe ninety years ago; the bottom item is one that touches my heart as a derelict writer – a 8-6, five-weight Tarryall 2510 made for Dave Cooks sporting goods store in Denver decades ago by Fred DeBell rod. Fred made an abundance of rods for Cooks and Garts (another area sporting goods outfit).

At one time, Fred's contract with Cook was so bad that the more rods he made the more money he lost. Sounds like the book biz to me. I gleaned the following information while searching The Classic Fly Rod Forum: “From the 1939 Dave Cook's fishing catalog pg 42:" 'Tarryall' 8 1/2', 9' or 9 1/2', 4 7/8oz, 5 1/2oz or 6oz, 3/2 agate guide on butt section, browntone bamboo, 4 steel snake guides on each section, cloth bag, 1 tip 'cystal agatine, 1 tip metal top, wrapped in 6 contrasting colors". Oh yeah, priced at only $4.95!”

Like these five, my other bamboo rods have their own stories to tell. All of them cast with a gentle assertiveness clearly reminiscent of times gone by. Jack Howell’s remarkable book The Lovely Reed goes into detail concerning the intrinsic wonder of bamboo fly rods, and like Howell, I love them all, even the ones I haven’t discovered yet.

Morning Eye Opener

John Holt — Mon, 15 Mar 10 13:20:41 -0700

Used to be that a few shots of Beam, a beer or two, and some Camel straights got me going in the early-morning hours. A way of life or perhaps slowed-down death back in the day. The smart money said I’d never see fifty. My how things have changed. Creeping up on sixty. Weigh less and am in better shape than when I was forty. Admittedly there are times when the “What am I trying to prove” and the “Why bother” blues play a few measures, but the melancholy never lasts for more than a few cerebral circuits, particularly when I think of casting to Fine-spotted Snake River cutthroat as the sun jumps above the eastern horizon in Wyoming; or canoeing the lower Yellowstone and casting a trio of soft hackle patterns—Hare and Starling, Spanish Needle, Greenwell’s Glory—to luminous Goldeye that are rising all over the place, sometimes playing three of the fish at once as the trio is intent on fleeing in diverse directions. In the good old days I never would have bothered with rigging up three flies, let alone launching the canoe and working the river before mid-day. Things do indeed change and to borrow from that venerable journalistic institution, Fox News, “Some may say” for the better. Now if I could only find that bag of datura root.

Micro Paradise

John Holt — Wed, 24 Feb 10 06:30:06 -0800

The tiny creek above is home to many wonders. This little flow holds everything magic about a trout stream only in miniature – riffles, runs, pools, undercut banks, beautiful and beatific surroundings. And there’s something more – red band trout. Using a restored Herter’s 5-9 three-weight bamboo rod and a #18 BWO I took three of the natives from this isolated piece of sylvan paradise deep in the Yaak River drainage, an area of once fantastic wildness and big trout, now going under from way too much clearcutting, non-stop publicizing of the place by local writers, resort owners and the state’s tourism department, and the trophy home builders that follow in the footsteps of such things. Still the three red bands were gorgeous in their perfection, ranging in size from three to five inches. Catching these fish in these diminutive surroundings was as exciting and enjoyable as taking large browns in October from the Yellowstone. Compressed mysteries such as this sparking flow keep the mind young at heart.

Adult Supervision Needed

John Holt — Mon, 15 Feb 10 15:48:47 -0800

I’m always amazed at how quickly things go from somewhat under control to completely-tangled chaos when I’m flyfishing. Obviously the mature way to look at what always ends in an obscene display of frustration is to look upon these tangles of line and leader accompanied by numerous jabs and pricks from the hook–never a better case to be made for barbless–is to realize that the entire study in mayhem is little more than a benign metaphor for life. So what if forty-eight minutes of life are spent straightening out a mess that appeared to manifest itself on its own as if some mean-spirited wilderness sprite zapped her twisted magic my way. Being devoured by mosquitoes while fly line wraps around my legs, neck and feet is not only a fine possibility for internal growth, it also readily translates into one hell of a good time like changing a tire when it’s thirty below, dealing with a sinus headache or paying property taxes. But when I really do look back at these problems, what I’m really amazed at is how I can have so damn much fun dealing with annoyances that would drive me crazy back home.

Yellowstone Park

John Holt — Tue, 09 Feb 10 12:53:43 -0800

Yellowstone National Park is less than an hour from home, yet I make the drive up the Paradise Valley to the entrance at Gardiner infrequently. The only reason I can think of for this neglect is an unwillingness to do battle with the hordes of visitors that overrun this spaced-out venue most of the year. When I think of the miles and miles of classic trout water, the magnificence of the place, and the numerous natural world anomalies, I realize that I should put the aversion-to-crowds nonsense away somewhere. Walking off from the road upstream through the forest leaves most people behind in a hurry. Factor in rivers like the Madison, Firehole, Lamar, Yellowstone, Gardner, and others along with dozens of little-fished creeks, lakes, and ponds, and I realize that this season I’ll be making the effort to fish the Park a lot more than in past years. The hell with the hordes of tourists, and after all, I’m one myself.