Bull!

3/13/08
Sauk River: two bull trout, zero steelhead.

3/15/08
Yakima River: Three li'l pigs, all 'bows, each of 'em on a stimmy.

Double Bunny

Articulated Double Bunny

Here fishy fishy fishy.

Big Bull

That's how much it cost to replace the camera I dropped into the river right after I took this picture. At least the memory card survived the dunking.
In spite of all that it was a good day on the water. This was my second of two bull trout that I landed that afternoon. They both took a light brown woolhead sculpin.

Bull Run

Dolly

Dolly Varden

Bull

Kelly Creek
I cast the little Wonder Buggger above the head of the second pool. It dead drifted a little ways before it swung across the ledge and through the the deep green water below. I imagined my little baitfish pattern trying to escape the strong current to hide amongst the rocks in the slower water. Strip, mend, strip, pause, strip, strip, mend, actions that imparted the chaotic movements of a fleeing morsel. Cast, retrieve and imagine.
And so it went until my line when tight, pulling out the tiny loop of slack I had in my left hand. I felt, at the far end of my fly line, the dull throbbing of a big fish. Tug...tug...tug, the pulses that your fingers feel as every shake of the fish's head is transmitted up the line. If cuttthroat trout represent the native beauty of the Mountain West then bull trout represent native stubborness. He fought the battle from the bottom of the deepest slots and behind the fastest currents neither giving or taking line.
The fish hovered in the current invisibly. His coloration, spots of varying brightness on the pale gray backgound of his flanks, allowed his form to fade into the cobbled river bottom. Though I could see where the fish should be I saw only water and stone.
Ultimately the ancient fish did yield. At the end of the battle he slid reluctantly into the net only to immediately slide out again. The large bull trout was as long as my landing net, handle and all. With wet hands I gently handled the fish taking care not to squeeze too hard. He had inhaled the fly, the hook was impaled in the back of his kyped maw. With little trouble and great urgency I removed the hook. I held his body headfirst into the current, realesed him, then watched the fish disappear into the green depths of the river.

First Bull

I still remember the date; December 6, 2002. It had been a very dry autumn and the Devil River was flowing below 1500cfs. I took advantage of the low-water conditions and headed up there to hopefully catch my first bull trout.
I found what looked like a fishable run; even, slow current and medium depth over a cobble botton. being new to fishing rivers I wasn't sure what good water was suppose to look like but I was confident that it might look something like this run.
I was casting my 9' 9" 7 weight rod with a floating line and #6 white streamer. I don't remember much about the streamer except that it had lead eyes and some rabbit fur tied into it.
I do remember when that first fish hit. My fly was swinging through the current until it just stopped. I raised my rod tip and felt the dull throbs of a fish's head shaking back and forth. I knew that a fish was on I just hoped that it wasn't a chum. In years since I have discovered that this is a familiar feeling when fishing for bull trout during a early winter.
The fish put up the sort of spirited battle that convinced me that it was not a half dead salmon. Right on!
What I remember most about this fish was its invisiblity. Though the river ran crystal clear and I could see exactly where my leader ended I could only bare see that bull trout. The sunlight played off of her iron grey flanks and pale yellow spots as if the she was the rocky river botton itself.
I have a couple of photps of my first bull trout but I like this one the best. It shows how I was so nervous and excited that I couldn't wait to land her before I took her picture.

Devil River Dollies 1/10/05

Blue skies and fresh snow, a beautiful sunny day on the Hatchery Creek stretch of the Devil River. This section fishes well when the flows are at 1500cfs or below. Today flows were at about 1500cfs, good enough! I landed four Dollies and missed a couple of others. My first four fish of the year, they ranged from 16" to 20" and were taken on either the Dirk Diggler or the Smoo. The Smoo would be a better pattern if it had some flash tied into it. Maybe next time.

Tying Journal 12/15/04

Last night I tied up a half dozen Dirk Digglers:


Hook: #700 Dai-Riki, 1x strong, 4x long, streamer hook, #2-#10
Head: Nickle conehead and tung
Tail: Marabou, white
Hackle: Grizzly
Body: New age chenille, white

Put the conehead on then slip the tungsten bead in behind it. The rest of the tie is pretty staight forward.

This morning I tied up twenty #18 poly wing duns:

Hook: Tiemco 101, #18-#22
Thread: Rusty dun, 8/0
Tail: Micro-fibbets, dun
Body: Super Fine, gray olove
Wings: 1/3 strand of polypro yarn, gray dun

The important thing for this pattern is the wings. They have to be upright and slightly divided. The best way to get the wings right is to tie them in spinner-wing style. Then, with dubbed thread, make a couple of figure 8's between the wings, next make figure 8 wraps around the base (outside) of the wings. Also be carefull not to cut the wings too short. Tying the other parts of the pattern is pretty simple.

The Diggler has been a great streamer for me this year. It's caught browns out of the Madison in the Park, 'bows from rocky ford and Dollies from the Devil River and Rocky Creek.
The Poly-wing dun did real well on the Yak this fall. I used a #20 pattern during the baetis haches with great success. I really wish that I would have had this one on the Firehole River in September/October. This should be a great PMD imitation too.

Rocky Creek, 12/7/04

Rocky Creek is one of those sleepers, an easily overlooked stream that secretly gives up some big native fish to those few anglers who are in the know. I have, on occasion, heard rumors about Rocky Creek that told of large white streamers and big bull trout. This is the kind of rumor that you hear just often enough to remember the last time you heard it. "Oh yeah, 'ol Sal told me about that place once," you say as you catalogue the details into some remote part of your brain that compiles and cross references obscure rumors. One day you hear the rumor again and a light turns on in your head. Before you know it you're telling yourself that you have to get up there and angle for some of those bull trout.
So it was on this past Monday that my friend Leonard and I went up to Rocky Creek high on the hopes that we might get into some bull trout. The river was running clear and low, normal for this time of year. We stopped in the middle of a bridge to look down into the water and see if we could spot some bulls. Of course we didn't spot any, they blend in too well with the streambed. We did see some salmon; cohos and a few old chums who looked to have been dead for a week despite the fact that they were still facing into the current barely swimming in place.
We crossed the bridge and drove upstream. I would have liked to have gone up further but we had driven far enough for such a short day and had already found some good looking water. It rained as we strung up our rods. Big drops of water dripped down on us from moss covered tree limbs high overhead. Occasionally the low clouds parted affording us a view of snow covered mountains. This time of year you never seem to be very far from a snowy mountain or two.
The fishing was fair. That is to say that it's better than work and just being outside amongst the mountains and dead salmon is its own reward. I did manage to land a couple of fish. The first one was a seventeen inch bull trout. I caught him out of the head of a pool that I drifted my streamer through. When I felt my fly stop I thought that it had snagged a rock. When the "rock" started moving downstream I knew I had a fish on. He fought like hell, taking line up and down the pool. The second fish I landed was a spawned out coho. I caught him in a shallow slot just off the bank. Though he probably weighed three times more than the first fish he only fought half as much. I guess that being half dead takes the wind out of the 'ol sails.
Leonard did't do as well. He fished as hard as I did with the same sort of fly that I had. Maybe it just wasn't his day. Or maybe I had been lucky to catch my two fish. Who knows? I do know that it would have been better if he did catch something if only so I didn't have to ponder the merrits of skill versus the randomness of blind luck. But I think that Leonard had a good day despite being skunked. I know that my day was better for him being there. I had to brag to someone.

Post Script: Devil River Dollies 11/23/04

This was one of those days that I almost didn't go fishing. The drive to up to the Devil River is long and it would have been real easy to just stay at home and tie some flies. Knowing what I do now it's hard to believe that I had to make myself go fishing. But even then I realized that if I didn't go today I would be kicking myself in the ass come January. In January the trout streams are too low and cold for the fish to actively feed and elsewhere the Dollies have moved down from the small tributaries that fish so well with a fly.
Dollies, Dolly Varden; my quarry for today. These members of the char family were named after a colorful character from a Dickens novel. Dolly Varden (the Dickens character) wore dresses that were brightly colored and adorned with polka dots. For most of the year Dolly Varden (the char) are grey and green with light colored dots along their flanks. This stealthy color scheme blends almost perfectly with their streambed environment. Sometime in late summer these subdued tones transform into fiery oranges, bright reds and brilliant a white which runs along the tips of their fins. Resplendent in spawning dress these char truly live up to their name.
Before too long I found myself driving along banks of the Devil River. I took my time looking for a good spot on to fish. My jeep crawled through the wet forest on roads of exposed roots and stone. Ferns and moss grew along the sides of the track. The river was beautiful and after awhile one run looked as fishy as the next so I pulled over in the next turnout. As I rodded up I wondered about my chances of success and decided that even a small chance of landing a fish was better than staying in town.
Armed with a #4 Dirk Diggler (aka The White Wonder) tied onto a long leader off of a floating line I waded across stream feeling better about my chances. I walked upstream along the bank looking for bear tracks hoping that the bears themselves had already began their long winter sleep. Looking at the surrounding mountains I noticed that the snowline was only a few hundred feet above valley bottom. The river itself showed some snow in its color. Visibility was only about three feet, perfect for the Dolly fishing. The fish would feel hidden within the blue green water and more apt to stay in their lies than to spook at any streamside movement.
I made my first cast straight out into a tongue of current that fed into the head of a slow run. My fly swung downstream into the slower water along the river's edge. There were some chum there, between the fast water of the main current and the slow water along the bank. Ghostlike in appearance they were spent and ready to give their lives to the stream. I cast out again and again moving a step or two downstream before each cast hoping not to hook one of the dying salmon. After maybe the fifth cast my fly swung behind where the salmon were then came to an abrupt halt as my rod tip bent into a pulsing arc. Fish on! Through my flyline I felt the size of the fish as he slowly shook his head back and forth. I just hoped that it wasn't a chum. Early in the battle I managed to bring the fish close to the surface just long enough to see that it wasn't one of the dying salmon. After a few minutes of giving and taking line I finally landed a kype jawed buck that would have measured two feet in length had I brought a tape measure along. Briefly I admired his size and shape before pulling my fly out of the corner of his jaw. Then I released him into the easy flow of the soft bank water.
I was able to land three more Dollies that day on the Devil. I had hooked another but it tossed the fly before I could get a handle on him. I reeled in my line to inspect the fly and found that the hook was bent which probably happened when I pulled it out of a tree that an errant cast put it into minutes earlier. Just then I reminded myself for probably the hundredth time to check my fly after snagging it in trees or rocks and such. That's how I learn by making mistakes a hundred or so times.
Driving home that evening I got a phone call from the wife wondering If I could pick her up earlier than scheduled. I told her that I was just leaving the river and that I would do my best. She said that was fine then asked me how the fishing was.
"It was good babe, It was good."