HAPPY THANKSGIVING

It’s the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.  In the past Thanksgiving was nothing more than a few days off from work, a time to gorge, and a springboard into Christmas.  In my thirty six years I’ve seen enough good and bad in this life to reflect a little longer on this holiday. 

When I was a child there weren’t many pilgrimages outside the city limit of my home town and in my teenage years I grew to love a good road trip.  The worse part of the trip was always those last few miles.  The anticipation of new adventures seemed to slow time itself down and the miles would go by at a snail’s pace.  If only life were this way.  Life is more like a wave in the ocean.  When you are out at sea you look at the shore line and it appears so distance on the horizon, but the closer that wave gets to the beach it’s speed seems to increase and such is life.

It is not lost on me that these truly are the prime days of my life and I have so much to be thankful for.  I have a loving and merciful God, a tender and patient wife, and two healthy children that want for nothing.  I am no saint, like more individuals I would love a bigger house, a cooler car, and more guy toys.  If I am being honest there is nothing more in life that I really need.  God is good!  When I tell people that I am more blessed than I deserve it isn’t a play at humility, it’s a heartfelt response. 

I am thankful that my children have never known the feeling of true hunger and that my entire family is in good health.  The headlines are full of tragic stories of heart ache and loss and I am truly thankful that I have experienced a limited amount of both in my life.  Thanksgiving isn’t about black Friday, eating gluttonous amounts of food, or extra days off work.  The third Thursday of every November has been set aside to reflect on the many blessing we have each been given.  I am thankful that I have another year to celebrate with my family and friends and I am surrounded by people that care for me.  As you read this blog I hope you have taken a brief moment to give thanks and that you have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

God Bless,

Brian

Yellowstone -Day One

Fresh off the excitement of fishing the Big Horn River we loaded into the rental car and it was off to our new home for the next five nights just outside the Northeastern entrance to Yellowstone.  The three hour drive from Fort Smith to Yellowstone was capped off by our journey over the Bear Tooth Pass.  This stretch of road was like none I had been on before.  The elevation goes from 5500 in the city of Red Lodge to nearly 11,000 feet.  The views from the top of the mountain are reminiscent of the deep valleys carved in the Alps.  The Smoky Mountains have been worn by the elements and time and while our lush green mountains burst forth with life, it is easy to see that life along this portion of the Bear Tooth Pass is difficult, and yet some animals thrive here.  We topped the mountain to find a beautiful herd of snow white mountain goats grazing. A wise man once said “the will to live is a powerful thing.”  I am certain he is right.

            We passed through Cooke City and made our way to Silver Gate to check into our cabin.  I would estimate Silver Gate to be a town of roughly 15 buildings if cabins were not included.  Upon check in we were greeted by Doug.  Doug wasn’t exactly mister personality and seemed to be to be a curmudgeon of sorts.  His answers were short and to the point and we had only just met before his deep raspy voice uttered a warning “There is a bull Bison feeding on the grass in front of your cabin and he commands the utmost respect.”  While I appreciated the warning, the three of us had no plans to slap it on the butt and run, but Doug’s warning did serve as a reminder that this wonderful place is full of beautiful and dangerous animals and they all must be respected.

            We unloaded our gear and settled in for the night.  When morning came we packed a lunch and head out.  We decided to start the day off by fishing the confluence of the Lamar River and Slough Creek.  We parked the car and headed out across a field and over some bluffs to where we anticipated the river to be.  I scanned the horizon for wildlife and more specifically bear, but found nothing stirring.  We made our way down a steep bank to an entry point and the beautiful and fabled Lamar River lay in front of us.  I once again scanned the horizon to make sure we were alone and we began to fish.  This portion of the river was rocky and the large boulders offered perfect pools for the trout to thrive.  Our plan was to work our way up the Slough Creek, but we noticed some other anglers down stream that appeared to be heading there as well, so we decided to remain on the Lamar.  We stopped to fish a couple of spots and with lightening speed the other anglers bolted past us and settled in to the area Garret had intended to fish.   Let me take brief moment to explain proper etiquette in this situation.  Since most fly fishermen work their way upstream the proper thing to have done would be to by pass us as we fished and allow at least a couple hundred yards between us.  We surmised that one of the individuals was a guide and I suppose when you are fishing for your rent etiquette goes out the window.  Needless to say the fishing was slow because the anglers ahead of us were either catching the fish from the prime spots or spooking the fish that were there.  Jim and Garret both managed to catch a few fish but not in numbers any of us expected from such a legendary river.

            We reached a location that seemed like an ideal spot to stop for a protein bar and some water.  In front of us was a large pool that seemed the perfect location to hold large Cutthroat Trout.  We noticed that the guide and his two followers had exited the water and were heading towards the car as the sun began to hang low.  I was fishing a small pool about 100 years ahead of our resting spot when I noticed a gathering of insects in the air.  They appeared to be Caddis, so I quickly tied on a Caddis fly and cast into the seams I assumed the trout would be. I had only cast a few times when Garret and Jim called for me to come back.  As quickly as possible I made my way back to the large pool they were working. Garret yelled to me “Switch to a Blue Wing Olive.”  I made it back to where they were fishing to see the water alive with feeding trout.  I looked through my fly box but I didn’t have any Blue Wing Olives.  This was my best opportunity to catch my first Cutthroat Trout and I didn’t even have the fly they were feeding on. 

I suppose my excitement showed through because it was then that Jim’s nature as a true gentleman showed through.  “I have a Blue Wing Olive you can have and I already have one tied on, here, take my pole and I will tie one on your line while you fish my pole.”  This simple act tells you all you need to know about Jim.  I took Jim’s pole and waded into a good casting location.  The fly hit the water, the line went tight, and the fight began.  I netted the fish and was surprised to see a Rainbow Trout instead of the revered Cutthroat.  At this point Jim had tied the Blue Wing Olive on my line so I gave his pole back and continued to fish with my pole.  I cast into the feeding frenzy again and within the third or fourth cast I had another fish on.  This fish was larger than the Rainbow I had just netted but I wasn’t sure of the species.  I fought the fish and after it weaved from one side of the pool to the next he grew tired and was ready for the calm of my net.  I had traveled nearly 1900 to be here and at dusk on the fifth day of this wonderful adventure I finally netted my first Cutthroat Trout.  It was a large and beautiful fish and I was as excited as a school boy with my catch, but there was little time to celebrate because the fish were still feeding.  I took a few pictures, watched as my first Cutthroat swam from the grips of my hand back into the pool and with that I was ready for more.  We continued to fish the pool until the hatch ended and we all had success. 

The sun broke the horizon greeting a day full of promise.  The three anglers in front of us, and the disappointment of reeling in no fish during the morning and mid day hours was now gone.  I took five fish from the pool we were in and witnessed the type of hatch and feeding I had previously only read about.  As the sun relinquished its grip on the day and began to set, a Wolf stood over a bluff and looked down on us as though he were the gate keeper for this beautiful land.  The land around us changed colors as the sun made its retreat and the page was closed on the most exciting day of fly fishing I’ve ever had.

            Later that evening as Garret and Jim sat around the table sorting and arranging their flies in each box like a miser counting his riches, my mind was still on the water recapping the extraordinary day.  It was now easy for me to see why Garret and Jim make a fly fishing trip each year.  This year marks the ninth trip for them.  Breathe taking scenery, prolific hatches, and pulling several fish from one hole have been a normal part of the adventure.  I had many people ask me prior to the trip if I would grow weary of fishing everyday and spending eight days with the same two guys.  I can’t speak for Garret and Jim, but for me it was a nice reprieve from the real world.  This trip wasn’t about Old Faithful and the other tourist spots Yellowstone has to offer.  Fishing with two guys allowed me and at time forced me to step outside my comfort zone and experience the park.  A majority of the visitors never get more than 100 yards away from their car and call this “seeing” the park.  Today I was lucky enough to be part of the park and it’s a day I will not soon forget.   

The Big Horn River

I have flown across the country from Tennessee to various cities on the west coast several times.  Like many people I have found myself looking out the window of a plane wondering, “What’s down there?”  On September 6^th, I found at least a portion of the answer.  There is unsettled land as far as the eye can see, majestic mountains and valleys, and people who live lives a little less rushed than the one I have come accustomed to.  The other thing I found is some trout waters worthy of the lore that has been written about them.

The plane landed in Billings, Montana and as night fall set in we made our way to our home for the next three nights in Fort Smith. On day four we would make our way to Yellowstone for another five nights, but the first three nights belonged to Fort Smith and the Big Horn River. This trip was planned for two purposes only; it was intended to offer three guys an opportunity to fly fish and relax.    We arrived late, unpacked, and settled in for our first night.  Day light and a glance out the window offered us the first opportunity to get some fishing information to start our day.  A fellow angler, Bill, was already in the gravel parking lot cleaning his fly line and preparing for his morning.  Garret approached, made introductions, and Bill was quickly willing to offer any knowledge of locations to fish as well as flies and the set up that seemed to be working.  The Trico hatch has been fairly consistent each morning so we headed out to the three mile marker to explore and fish. 

The Big Horn is a large and wide river that lends itself best to fishing from a drift boat but today we didn’t have a drift boat so we walked the bank passing by several fish feeding until we settled into an area we could wade in.  I tied on an Adam’s dry fly with a Bead Head Pheasant Tail as a dropper.  On my second cast my line went tight, the reel began to zing, and just like that I yelled “fish on.”  I could feel that this was a nice fish but I wasn’t sure of the size or type.  The fight lasted a few more minutes before I found a nice Rainbow safely in my net.  I would estimate this fish to be 16-18”.  I had only released my fish a few moments before I saw Garret’s pole bend and within 10 minutes of wading into the water we had hooked two fish.  I looked upstream at Jim, but he had seen no action thus far.  I was starting to think this could be a day in which my arm would be tired of reeling, but little did I know this day would be more like Jim’s morning with little action.  Within 30 minutes of wading into the water the hatch had apparently ended and like a light switch the fish turned off and the rises stopped.   

We fished several more stops with limited luck before heading back to the cabin for some rest.  The next day we rented a drift boat and had 12 miles of river to fish in a 12 hour period.  Garret took the helm and with oars in hand we headed down stream to find a premium fishing location.  We anchored the boat on shore and found a spot where the fish seemed to be feeding.  The Trico hatch had just begun and there were plenty of eager fish rising to feed.  I’ve often heard it said that when fish are feeding they will take most flies, I can tell you with confidence now that this saying is wrong.  Garret was able to land two fish and Jim had a few hits with no takers.  In spite of trying almost every fly in my box I couldn’t get a Trout to consider any of my offerings.  We had a long day ahead of us so we loaded back in the boat and headed down stream.  At around the 8 miles mark both Garret and Jim had caught fish and I was being skunked.  At this point I was behind the oars and to say rowing a drift boat didn’t come natural to me would be an understatement.  We came to a fork in the river and I decided go right down a smaller stretch instead of left where the main body of the river flowed.  We stopped the boat and decided to fish the area.  Jim cast into a swift run of water and began taking fish.  None were going to break any size records, but they were full of fight.  Garret and I soon joined the action and the three of us were pulling fish from this seam of water.  Jim had a difficult fish on so I leaned my pole against the boat and waded out to help net him.  A few minutes of wrestling and the fish went from my net to Jim’s hand.  I turned to grab my pole and didn’t see it where I had placed it.  It wasn’t in the boat nor submerged under the water.  We searched before Garret used his pole to do a reenactment and sure enough as soon as I set my pole down against the boat the water lifted the reel from the bottom and slowly tugged until the entire pole was in the main current and only a memory.  I’m certain it settled into one of the deep pools further downstream but for me my first fly rod was gone.  Luckily I had brought my 3 weight rod as a backup but it wasn’t made for this size water and this size fish.  There was nothing to do but load the boat and press on.

The oars were still in my hands and we were only seconds into our launch back into the water before I realized there wasn’t enough time or water to steer and we were at the mercy of the current.  The right oar crashed against the shore and Jim grabbed it before it was left behind.  The current pushed us against the bank and we all ducked as not to be hit by the low hanging tree.  We cleared the tree but the boat had turned sideways and the ripples of water we were in were swift but no deep.  The boat came to rest on a shoal with a load thud as it smashed into the underlying rocks.  We didn’t notice any water coming in so Jim pushed us back out and we finally made it back to the main body of the water and the peaceful calm of the Big Horn.

The stop had resulted in some pretty rough boating and the loss of my first fly rod, but it had yielded dinner as several of the Rainbow and Brown Trout we caught were kept for the evening dinner.  We left the boat where we were instructed and drove back to the cabin.  I was fully satisfied with the five fish I had managed on the day.  Jim and Garret caught more, but I didn’t mind.  The fish I caught won’t be remembered nearly as much as the four miles I served as a drift boat rower.  Jim stayed at the cabin to prepare the fish and Garret and I decided to try and catch the Caddis hatch that evening.  Like clockwork the Caddis hatch began and the fish began to feed.  I had a Caddis fly on and although I made repeated casts to feeding fish I couldn’t get any to take.  I wasn’t surprised; the hatch was like none I had ever seen.  The Caddis were so heavy in the air they were crawling all over me and everything else in the area, the chances of a Trout taking my fly when there were thousands of Caddis in the water was unlikely.  On the way out there was yet another reminded that I was no longer in Tennessee.  Darkness had set in and I noticed movement ahead on the trail.  I wasn’t certain what the animal was at first but after putting a light on the animal in the tree to my right Garret and I agree it was our first sighting of a wild porcupine.  We returned the morning with Trico Spinner flies in hand all were able to catch fish before heading to across the Bear Tooth Highway to Yellowstone.

Fort Smith Montana is little more than a couple fly shops and some rental cabins, but this town and the Big Horn River were exactly what I expected.  The terrain looks like the wide open spaces you see in the old western movies with bluffs overlooking prairies and the meandering Big Horn River slowing flowing to make the backdrop such that words can’t describe.  It’s certainly understandable why this is the big sky state and yet this was only the first couple days, Yellowstone awaits us and as we made our way out of Fort Smith for Billings  I was eager to see Yellowstone.  

Fall Hunting

This morning I stepped from my door on my way to work and for the first time this year I felt the coolness of fall in the air.  Like many who live in this area fall is my favorite time of year.  Fall represents a microcosm of what makes East Tennessee such a special place.  Football season will be in full swing, fall harvest is underway, there are festivals in virtually every small town, fishing is not only good, but beautiful because of the foliage, and hunting season is about to begin.

Last year was my second year of deer hunting and the first year in which I was successful.  While many grow up hunting and never forget their first kill as a child, the same is true as an adult.  I had gone to visit my brother Donald in eastern North Carolina for a week of fellowship and hunting.  I often find it odd to hear stories of brother’s who don’t speak or have interactions.  My two brothers are probably my two best friends and short of my wife, they know me better than anyone. Spending time hunting is a great family time for me.

We woke early and had breakfast at lightening speed, which is typical for Donald.  I’ve learned from previous experience that I had better eat while I can because with Donald, lunch is always optional.  It was a glorious November day.  The morning chill was just cold enough to necessitate the need for a jacket and make you feel alive.  When the dogs were loaded we headed to meet up with the other guys on the days hunt.  Introductions were made and it was time to hunt.

Following the advice of his friend Bryant who owned most of this land, Donald drove me to a spot where a platform had been built beside the canal separating two large fields.  I reached the platform and wasn’t even settled in when I heard a twig break.  I turned in time to find a nice six point buck jumping back into the wood line.  There wasn’t even enough time to get a shot off.  I stood surveying the wood line for well over an hour.  I could hear the distance roar of dogs barking as they found the scent of deer.  As the roar would get closer I would imagine a whole herd of deer busting from the wood line like wildebeest but that didn’t occur.  The dogs would get close and then they would move away until I could only faintly hear their cries.

In that quite peaceful moment before the sun had even burned the haze from the field I sat staring at the yellow, orange, and red leaves in the wood line when my deer stepped out.  His rack wasn’t impressive, but he had size, and he was a buck.  He surveyed a path but before he could proceed I raised my shotgun, found him in my sites, and fired.  I knew I hit him because the shot knocked him to his knees.  He quickly scrambled up and tried to make for the wood line but my sites were still on him and my second shot guaranteed this day to be his last.   He managed to cross the canal before falling and that is where I found him.  He was an older buck, but his antlers never grew properly.  This explained why such a big bodied deer had only cow horns.  What should have been a six point buck instead had two antlers. I respected this deer like all of the others taken each year, but there is an order to life and this deer was to provide meat for me and my family.  Life is fragile and his life was not wasted. 

A few days later my brother-in-law James came down and I was there when he took his first deer as well.  I recall the excitement we both felt having walked into the fields together. We would text one another from our tree stand to see if anything was moving. I recall hearing what sounded like a canon going off.  I quickly send James a text “You?”…..”Yes” replied. “Get him”…..”Yes Sir” and with those few words our trip was a success. These are memories I will always carry.  The stories my kids will be tired of hearing.  Many weeks of preparation go into hunting and the costs in dollars and time is surprisingly high, yet when you are there in that moment it’s you, the deer, and your one shot and it’s all worth the time and cost.  Yes, fall is in the air and hunting season is almost here. 

Yellowstone Primer

I have a healthy fear of Grizzly bears.  Those who know me better would say this is an understatement.  Since I live in Tennessee I don’t have to worry a great deal about coming face to face with a Grizzly.  So it’s only logical that a man with a fear of Grizzly bears would sign up for a week long fly fishing trip in Yellowstone National Park, right?  Some things in life are worth the risk.  

In less than four weeks I will embark on a “man trip” to Ft. Smith Montana to fish the Bighorn River for three days.  When we leave the Bighorn we will spend the next five days fishing various rivers and creeks in Yellowstone.  Yellowstone embodies the American West.  I can think of no wilder place in the lower 48 than Yellowstone.  Where else do herds of Bison roam, packs of wolves thrive, and yes…..there are Grizzlies.

 So with bear spray in one hand and my fly rod in the other, I will venture into this wilderness in the pursuit of some of the most majestic scenery in this country and some of the most fertile trout waters in the US.   I am sure this will not be the first post about this trip, just as I am certain the memories I will make will last a lifetime.  I have never been to Yellowstone and yet there is something about this place that beckons men to come.  Like the Sirens in Homer’s Odyssey this place draws you in and something deep inside of you feels you must go.  I can hear the song as clearly as the wind blowing through a meadow and in four weeks I will answer the call.

Emily's First Fly Trip

In the event that you are one of the few people who read my Blog you had to know this was coming.  Last weekend I took my son on his first fly fishing trip……yep, you guessed it.  This weekend was my daughters turn and like the weekend before it was a memory maker.

My Saturday’s have been the same during these dog days of summer, the coffee pot is on auto start and my truck should be on auto pilot.  My theme song is ready to go in my CD player and call of the Clinch is again fresh on my mind.  Emily and I made our way to the water this morning to lay claim to my favorite spot.   The sky was overcast and the fog seemed especially thick.   I tied a #18 olive scud and started this day like the past few weeks, but there was no doubt the fishing was much slower.  As with Matthew, my plan for Emily was to hook as many fish as possible and have her reel them in.  It took exactly 20 minutes before Emily complained about being cold and retreated to the safety of the bank to defrost.  I squared Emily away and resumed my casting and drifting and after an hour of fishing I finally hooked my first trout of the day.  I knew it was a nice trout by the way he leapt from the water and ran with the line, but a man’s word is his bond so I called Emily over and handed the rod to her.  Just like that, Emily was trying to bring to hand her first trout.  What a beautiful fish we caught together.  The deep pink stripe running from gill to tail was as bright as an evening sunset.  This was a beautiful trout and I was proud that Emily was able to bring him in.

At around 8:00 my friend Garret found his way to us and we fished together.  I had hoped Garret could see the feeding frenzy I had seen a few weeks earlier.  While we did see the feeding, they were only moderately interested in our offerings.  The fog never lifted as it has in previous outings. Emily reeled in and held several fish this fine morning but it was her comment as we were leaving that has stuck with me.  “We are really lucky to live this close to the Great Smoky Mountains, aren’t we daddy?” I had to let her know that the Clinch isn’t part of the Smokies, but my 8 year old daughter’s statement was profound.  It validates the efforts I have put into making sure my children are able to enjoy fishing, hiking, and camping in and around these wonderful old mountains that we call home.  I hope we are able to enjoy many more trips together and as she grows she will maintain that appreciation for this area and what a blessing it is to be able to call it home.

Matthew's First Fly Fishing Trip

The past few Saturday mornings I have risen at 5:00 a.m. and in almost zombie like fashion found my way to the Clinch River for what has now become my Saturday morning routine of fly fishing.  On this fine Saturday morning I would be taking my son up for what would be his first attempt at fly fishing.  I vowed to spend one on one time with him on this trip showing him the nuances of the style of fishing I have grown to love.

A gentle nudge was all it took to wake Matthew this morning.  I loaded up the truck with our gear while he ate the cereal I placed on the table.  These are the times I wish I was more of a morning person, but in truth I'm not.  Sure I can wake up when work or more importantly, fishing or hunting require it, but if left to my own devices I could sleep until 8:00 every day without fail.  Neither Matthew nor I spoke much the first few miles of the drive, partly because I needed more coffee in me to start my motor, and Matthew was probably still half asleep.  The silence gave away its hold on the morning when I told Matthew that no successful trip to the Clinch could begin without listening to my new found theme song as least one time.  My brother-in-law James actually tuned me on to this song, but it's a song that should be in every fly fisherman’s music collection.  The song is by Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers (yes....that Steve Martin).  Steve Martin may have been The Jerk, but little did I know he is also one heck of a banjo player.  I played the song "Yellow backed Fly" and Matthew and I both seemed to be optimistic about our trip.

We arrived in the parking area and slipped into our waders and made our way down to the water.  We were not the first people in the water, but we were ahead of the crowd so I felt good about the day.  I want Matthew to enjoy fly fishing, but I'm also a realist.  I didn't learn to fly fish in a day and neither will he.  I guess I forget just how difficult some aspects of fishing can be for an eleven year old. We waded through the ankle deep water to the exposed rocks, but only hours ago these exposed rocks had water flowing over them and the algae was still present slowing down our progress. Speed was not the order of the day.  We finally arrived at my favorite spot only to find another fisherman already firmly secure and casting away.  We settled in upstream and began to fish.

It soon became clear that my plan to simply allow Matthew to cast (with my help) would not work.  It took me practically an entire summer to learn how to cast and work a good drift and Matthew too will have to put in his time to learn.  My new strategy was to try and catch as many fish as possible and let Matthew reel them in and net them.  This plan was a better introduction to let Matthew feel the tug on the other end of the line and after an hour with no fish, I was beginning to wonder if even this plan would work.  Finally the drought ended and I was able to land a Brown.  Matthew worked the fish well and netted him with ease.  Eventually we were able to work down river to fish with Matt P. and his father Tim.  This is when the fishing was at its peak. We caught plenty of fish and Matthew was extremely happy with our results.

 I looked across the river at Matt and Tim and I wondered how many outings like today's they have enjoyed.  The friendship between father and son is apparent.  When Matthew like Matt is married and expecting a child of his own, days like today are the memories I hope we can share.  I wondered if perhaps Tim also looked at my Matthew and remembered when his Matthew (Matt) was just an eleven year boy wanting to fish with his father.  These are the moments that bind us.  All too soon Matthew will know the trials of adult life, but today we were simply a father and son enjoying the river and the gifts it had to offer.  This wonderful day was capped off when I allowed Matthew to cast the fly rod by himself and his efforts were rewarded by a nice Rainbow that couldn't seem to resist the #16 San Juan worm we were fishing.  Matthew later told me this was his favorite place to fish and the best trip he has ever been on.  My hope is we can share many more together.  Proverbs 22:6 says "Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it."  I am doing my best Lord.  I hope for Matthew's sake this includes fly fishing.