Happy Accident

The day had been planned and replanned. The weather forecast changed the plans yet again. This was already the kind of day I hate. It was also the exact kind of day that makes you truly appreciate a child’s smile and a spontaneous change of the ever changing plans.

On my way home from the part of the day, that went perfectly according to the third plan, I saw a sign that read, “Trout Ranch”. A vague arrow lazily suggested a direction alternate to the route I was travelling, and I willingly locked the brakes and let the trailer swing as I left a little rubber on the asphalt.

Trout Ranch. My mind ran wild with the possibilities. Safely on a side road, I pulled over and pulled up the Google to find out what sort of mecca awaited me…and more pertinently, where my mecca was. I loaded the address into the truck’s gps, and continued on the path before me.

At the end of the road, beautiful rolling greens were dotted with immaculate log cabins and well maintained homes. Just beyond them, cold, clean, clear artesian springs pumped life into a pristine cascade of sparkling ponds. Trout lept every where. Dark schooling masses made wake through the crystal clear water. This was my mecca of pure chance. A happy accident.

The rest of the day’s duties and time line loomed over me, casting an unfortunate shadow on this window of joy, but I took the time to enjoy the chance. In short order, the proprietor of this dream, gave me a quick run down of what they do and let me guide myself through his paradise. I was in nirvana.

I inquired, expecting a resounding rejection, if I would possibly be allowed to toss a couple flies at the big ones. I held my breath as I awaited the sound of a shotgun blast, and the swirling cloud of dust, like something out of a cartoon. Instead, a big smile washed over his face, and he told me that’s what they were there for. My heart rejoiced. His stipulation was that I kept what I caught, and paid him per pound.

As a rule, across the board, I never keep trout. For this chance, and the nature of the game, this was the first time I could justify it in my mind. I raced down the hill to scope out the big pond, and what I would be up against. I raced around ponds and back up the hill to the truck to throw a rod together, get it lined up and get a fly in the water. Private trout fishing, all to yourself? I don’t even have dreams this good!

I had already spent too much of the time I didn’t have, admiring the spring fed, gravity driven, shimmering example of perfection the “Trout Ranch” was. I built my cast as I trotted a safe distance along the edge of the big pond, scouting for a beast. I let my cast fall right in line with a brute. As the fly was dropping toward the water, I watched the fish catch sight and start to charge. Eagerly breathless. In a split second’s flash, a smaller rainbow shot like cannon fire out of literally nowhere and smashed my fly as the first fiber of it hit the water.

Fish in a barrel; I will give you that. Head shaking, lightning running, leaping escape attempts, from a fish that’s never met a hook; I’ll take that! Per the agreement, the fish went in the bucket for a date with some mesquite on my grill. Torn between the elation of the fight and the sadness of this fish’s fate, I built another cast to shoot at the brute. My fly met the water, and fish raced to the ripples. I stripped hard and fast, hoping to draw the bite of a battle ready opponent, and on my third strip, was met by a willing adversary.

I’ve never seen a fish jump so high out of the water, so many times, as that fish. My fiberglass fly rod pounded in my hand. This rainbow was as wild as the day was long, and had no intentions of remaining hooked. With the long handled net at the ready, I caught the fish in mid air on it’s next leap.

Two casts, two fish, dinner, and an unforgettable experience. The rest of the day went as poorly as it possibly could, but at it’s end, the kind smile of a child and the happy accident of a trout ranch, are the parts that will be remembered.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,
Jared Lane

Things Align

The dust billowed like wild fire smoke as I sped down the dirt road. I couldn’t get there fast enough. My brain thought I was in a hurry to finally fish, but once I slid my kayak into the water and left land behind, I knew it was survival instinct, racing to leave life behind.

Work stress held my breath tense. It made my head shake gently back and forth, like my mind was saying I couldn’t take anymore. My face was hot and temper short. Every thought and movement had a sense of panic. I knew I needed quiet solitude to decompress and just be.

That is what the water gives me. It is a mental, spiritual, physical healing. That day’s therapy was water I had never fished before, but in the splintered moments I had to research, I thought I’d have a decent shot at some late spring brown trout. I wasn’t sure what I would find, but I knew there wouldn’t be any other people, and any fish I did catch would just be a bonus.

The eagle’s shrieking chatter echoed over the water. The owl’s hoots were muffled by the dense forest. The osprey’s shrill was drowned out by splashes. Every where I looked, fish were surfacing. Some were sipping bugs off the surface; others offering full scale aerials. Calm washed over me as I sent my first cast sailing. I gently stripped the line twice before it went tight. The instant full body shakes coming through the rod let me know I had a brown trout on the line.

The rest of the afternoon was as unrealistic as the first cast. I stopped counting trout at 24. Black crappie were hitting even harder than the trout, and after 100 in the first hour, I stopped counting them as well. It became a battle trying to catch trout, before a crappie got my fly. As soon as I realized that, I knew it had worked. Work stress had rolled off my shoulders, and I was finally able to be in my element.

I kicked my feet up, leaned back, took a few deep breaths while appreciating the scenery, as my fingers made small wakes alongside the kayak. I was overwhelmed with happiness. The happiness work had stolen from me. My soul recharged and I spent the next 4 hours catching more fish than I could count.

Every once in a while, things align, and you get exactly what you need, right when you need it. I didn’t need countless fish to hand. I needed my happiness. I needed my soul to be fed. A lot of things become very clear on the water. Life will be starting a new chapter soon.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,
Jared Lane

Glass Fantastic

Life streams by faster than spring run off, and it is all to easy to get swept up in the current. Realizing this in looking back at last year, my goal for this year was to slow down, take my time, and appreciate life. I needed to make time to enjoy it, rather than take time to.

I invested in fiberglass fly rods, to force my self to pay more attention to my fishing, and embrace the true feel of how the rod is working for me, and with me. I wanted to deepen the intimacy of my endeavor in my beloved sport. It has given me the chance to finesse and fine tune my presentation. Fiberglass has really purified my passion for the pursuit. I truly enjoy casting more, and anticipating the success of a well executed presentation. The biggest reward has been in the fight with fish on glass.

As I have slowed down and focused on all the separate parts coming together fluidly, the culmination has brought clarity. I’m finding, in my adventures, that fishing glass gets me more in tune to how magical what I am doing truly is. Being able to feel every nuance is game changing. The bend and pull in glass, as you bring a fish in is a much more passionate experience, than just horsing her hard on a stiff graphite rod. The delicate power of fiberglass becomes a paint brush to your mind, and paints very vivid pictures of exactly what the fish is doing under water, long before you have a physical visual.

Being able to feel the rod load energy all the way to the grip, and then the springing release as you unleash your cast, is an incredibly satisfying sensory activity. On almost every outing, I end up spending a fair amount of time, casting for the simple pleasure of the endeavor. Making the move to predominantly fishing fiberglass, has made my goal, reality. I am making the time to enjoy my fishing whole heartedly.

Providing for a family, I knew I had to keep the rod budget low. After settling on a reasonable option, and a little negotiating with the better half, I purchased two Cabela’s CGR fiberglass fly rods. Thinking back, she actually ordered them for me, because I was busy butchering a deer. Anyway, I went with a 7′ 6″ 5/6wt and a 7′ 6″ 7/8wt. Being used to 9′ graphite rods, I was a little intimidated by the drastically shorter lengths, but once I built the first cast on one, I was hooked. I have grown to love these rods immensely.

I have fished these rods in frostbite conditions and sunburn conditions. I have landed tiny fish and monsters. The sensitivity and control is outstanding. The price point amiable. The experience fishing these rods is priceless. I know full well that more rods will come into my life, but these will always have their special place. Fiberglass rods have a cult following, and now I know why. If you haven’t taken the time to fish on fiberglass, slow down and make time.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,
Jared Lane

As It Should Be

Anticipation ran rival to Christmas Eve. Hopes and dreams had outgrown reality. Every thought made my heart race. I was ahead of myself and needed to center. I needed to get my expectations in check. I didn’t know what was going to meet me at the end of the line, but I knew what I wanted.

Rich was on the sunny West Coast, hunting halibut. I was in the snowy Northwoods, chasing brown trout. We were going to meet up in north central Illinois, to hunt rainbow trout together. Rainbow trout my mind had made the size of sea run steelhead. Rainbow trout with maximum security bad attitudes. Rainbow trout in numbers so thick, they’d come to hand like rain drops in a typhoon.

As the miles turned into the next state, my mind reeled back to that fleeting glimpse of yellow the last time I made this trip and looked over the bridge to the water below, when we finally arrived at our destination. That fleeting glimpse that exceeded my wildest expectations. Palomino. I was ready for the adventure, and had finally gotten my mind back to the reality that fishing is not always catching, and regardless of numbers, I would give my best to the pursuit.

We arrived in the same place, late in the evening. We talked shop and made a game plan for the morning. We both had the same heart racing anticipation for the water. We were up early and out the door. Whichever direction conversation went on our way to the river, it always came back to our over eager anticipation. As the miles dwindled between us and our destination, the nerves built. We could not contain ourselves.

We pulled up to the bridge and eagerly exited the vehicle. We raced to the bridge’s edge. The water was high. Discolored. Not a single fish in sight. The emotion hit us both hard. This time Rich had more drive than I did. He was in his waders first, en route to the river’s edge, trying to lift my spirits; trying to instill that there was still hope. Once in my waders, I went the opposite direction and started scouting, in hopes of seeing some thing. A flash. A ripple. A breach. Anything. Nothing. Then I heard the whooping. Rich had just missed a fish, and I was running as fast as my waders would allow, to get to the hole.

There were fish to hand, not what we pined for, but after the length of the day had ran its course, we had caught plenty of fish. A short conversation with the Warden over lunch let us know that the area had gotten huge rain and the fish had been pushed down river. We looked at our options for the next day, and went the other direction. We had monster rainbows to catch.

Grey drizzle. Cold breeze. New water. New possibilities. Anticipation again ran high; this time with a healthy dose of reality from the day prior as a filter. In short order, Rich had a beautiful rainbow trout in hand, slightly larger than anything we had seen the day before, trout wise. I had a few bumps as I quickly worked down river to my own space. I found a spot that spoke to me, and pulled my first rainbow of the day from the current. On the next cast, I watched a huge mouth just miss my fly, and heard Rich whooping upstream. I stopped what I was doing and ran to help with the net. FINALLY.

High fives and laughter were exchanged as the reality sank in. We were in the right spot. We had found the big fish. The game just changed. Rich had just put the first big one on the board. After a little celebration I hurried back to the big miss. A couple more small trout came to hand and went back to the flow. Then I snagged the bottom. The head shaking, drag screaming, monster on the bottom.

The universe saw fit for this to be the time my line was wrapped around every last thing in my general vicinity. My heart was pounding as the adrenaline surged through my body. That just made untangling my line even harder, so I could fight this fish. Miraculously, I got it to the reel; fiberglass rod pounding in my hand. I yelled for Rich. I hadn’t lost the fish yet, so I wasn’t going to now. The largest trout I had ever seen in nature, in a net, in my life, was about to be held in my hands. I was shaking in disbelief. This fish is why I drove almost 400 miles. I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Our fires had been relit. Our motivation ran rampant. We were once again rabid with a fever for the pursuit. Rich caught more big ones than I did. He caught the most beautiful rainbow trout I have ever seen. I caught more little ones than he did, to the point where he got sick of seeing the bend in my rod and the smile on my face. We laughed. Giddy with a hard fought success. The ride back and the rest of the evening consisted of reveling in the inability to process the day as being real. I caught more trout that day than I had in the last year. Unreal.

The next, and last morning, was colder and greyer. The forecast had already told us to stay in. We made our way to the river anyway. We battled the elements. Rain. Cold. Wind. Hail. Lightning. Biting cold wind. Colder rain. Freezing rain. It was a test of wills to hunt fish that day. The fish were harder to catch than the weather was to withstand. Giving it our all and going for broke, we brought the last hard won fish to hand for this trip. Soaked. Freezing. Relieved. We called it, said our good byes,  and both headed to our homes and families.

 

 

 

 

The highest highs and lowest lows balanced out the determination that made this hard fought trip, one that will always be remembered. Hard realities, reality checks, and the unreal all spun around at will. It was fishing as it should be.

Keep your line tight and your pride wet,
Jared Lane

All Is Fair

The unseasonably warm March breeze picked me up and floated me toward the river like a lone lost feather. I eagerly obliged her advances and welcomed her embrace. The stretch of water was new. I didn’t know her depths or her boundaries. We blindly engaged each other.

Algae covered rocks rolled under foot as I waded the fast paced flow; she was swelled and proud with cold spring run off. She was faster than I had anticipated, and I quickly realized I had to put my foot down to steady my resolve against her advances.

The runs were shallow and fast, the cuts and pools; cold and sluggish. The majority of this stretch was barren, like a sea bound river after a migrational run. An eagle soared overhead, gliding down river. I took cue and followed suit. After far too long rolling my ankles over tumbling boulders, I saw the deep cut. My eyes fixated on the sunlit glory of the breaking sandy edge. This is what I had journeyed for.

As the unseasonably warm breeze picked up the stinging edge of the cold river and wafted her toward me, I postitioned myself for the drift. I fed my rod enough line to find the top of the cut. As my line floated weightlessly through the air to the top of the pool, I let it lay gently atop the water. Giving my streamer the first strip as it met the sand line, I anticipated the strike. Nothing. Several more casts. Repostioning down stream a few steps. Nothing. I switched my focus to the rest of the run. I watched a small brown trout miss my fly.

Unable to shake the notion that there was a fish at the top of the run I hauled deep and let my line shoot back upstream. Strip, strip, BOOM!! Big fish on. We battled each other for a short while. Long enough to get eyes on the monster, before she shook the hook and bid farewell, only to haunt me in my dreams. It was the kind of eat that startles you awake. The sort of fight that makes you sweat in your sleep. A little ways down river I got my consolation fish, and it was time to head home.  My sleep that night was broken and restless. The next day I went back. I stood back from her rippling curves and watched. I waited for her next move. I wanted to find the beast from her depths, but on my terms. After a short while the unmistakable sounds of fish eating off the surface were audible. The game just changed.

I had a heavier weight rod and articulated streamers, and the fish were all there, and eating tiny insects. My mind reeled as I remembered the box of tiny flies I had tucked into my bag, for just such occassions. I tied on a tandem rig, and dusted them with floatant. I shook my head, in borderline pre-defeat, and built my cast. We were baring our worst for each other. All was fair.

I watched noses push wakes next to my drifting flies floating on the surface. Several casts with out eats, reassured my notion that I was overgunned, and as my mind was preparing to move on, my line went tight and my rod shook in my hand. I was in disbelief. It had worked. I battled that fish in and stared in borderline shock.  We shared a lovely moment together and I sent her home. I quickly built my cast and let it loose on the same spot in the riffle. As soon as the fly met the water, I watched it get consumed. Back to back, wild brown trout, on dry flies, presented on heavy line, cast from a heavy rod. I spent more time with this fish, in awe.

I had never fished dry flies before. I had tucked them into the last/worst case scenario part of my brain and fly bag. I am infinitely happy that I was prepared however, because it was a remarkable experience. The fish were small, but their memory vast. They made a large impression on my future approaches.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,
Jared Lane

Rivers Wild

It had been too long since we fished together. Life had been busy. We had to compare schedules to try to find any amount of time that would work for both of us. We finally found a day, three weeks out, that would accommodate both of our hectic lives. We would fish then.

The pressure was on me. My buddy doesn’t have the opportunity to fish as much as I do, so I wanted this trip to be one to remember. It was also a belated birthday trip, so up the pressure ante. I weighed the options; late season musky hunt, bass and pike, late season browns, steelhead and salmon. My mind was made up after contemplating the options. I ran it past him, and we were in agreement. Steelhead and salmon.

I poured several hours into researching the zones, mapping our course, memorizing coordinates, and getting a little inside info from an industry pal. The night before the trip, felt like Christmas Eve. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to run down the slope into the river and unwrap presents of silver and chrome.

I picked my buddy up as early as we could leave the house as dads, and we started barreling down the miles between us and our first river. We were on an adventure we wouldn’t forget. Trusting the GPS, we neared our first destination. In hindsight, this was our first clue to how the day was going to unfold, in our adventure we wouldn’t forget.

There was no river. The GPS in the truck didn’t show it. The google on our phones didn’t show it, and we were instantly out of cell range. I knew where my pal had said it was. I could still see the DNR map in my mind. There was no river. Time to implement Plan B.

We back tracked to the river we were going to fish second, if the first was a bust. Again we trusted the GPS in the truck, and my recollection of the DNR map, since our phones were just paper weights with cameras. We took the turn off, and started kicking up dust on the dirt road. This finally felt like an adventure. We stopped to check a feeder creek, and that got my adrenaline going. Back on the road, we quickly realized the GPS was totally wrong.

I knew the direction we had to go. I turned on my woodsmen homing beacon and we blazed the trail. Finally we arrived in the right spot. We parked in the pull off, and I ran to the bridge to get a birds eye on the action. Instantly a large hook jawed salmon caught my eye splashing in the riffle. My heart pounded as I raced to gear up. As we neared the starting point for legal late season fishing, we saw another big salmon, just above the cut off. We were ready for the action.

The landscape was breath taking. Cliffs and bluffs enveloped the river gorge. Cuts and caves dotted the basin. The river was wild. The land untamed. This was adventure. Rounding a bend and stalking a pool, I slipped on a rock, and fell backwards, landing squarely on my the point of my forceps against my bottom rib. The handle of the forceps landed squarely on the rock. The wind was knocked clean out of me, and all I could do was let out a moan. Over the babbling of rapids, I faintly heard my buddy yelling. He must be hooked up! I pulled myself together and ran back up stream to lend a hand. He had a fish alright. A great big lake run brown trout. Dead as the day is long. It had died during the last run. A run that was not happening for us today.

That ended up being the only fish we encountered on that stretch of the river. Knowing our time was limited, we drew straws and headed back to the truck for Plan C. River 3 was 45 minutes away. Needless to say, the GPS gave us bad directions again, and we had to revert to the woodsmen beacon. Upon arrival, we encountered a peculiar elderly gentleman, out trapping. After a short conversation, we parted ways to get in the river.

The river was deep and fast with recent rain. The current was powerful and punishing. The riverbed was muck and tree stumps, branches and holes. Rarely there was the reprieve of a sand bar. Magically, Old Man Trapper hopped around the river and would pipe up with a remark on fly choice, or words of caution. We still have no idea how he bounced from one river bank to the other, and popped out of the woods right where we were, every time.

My buddy caught his foot on a branch and went down. Luckily he regained his footing, avoiding disaster. We struggled with the current, fighting chest deep water, and again, he went down. All the way under this time. I caught his fly rod as it ripped downstream with the current. We got him out of the river, out of his waders and reevaluated our plan. I put myself in his shoes, and offered the option of heading towards home, giving him a chance to dry off and calm down, and we could finish the day on local water.

That sounded good to him, so we trekked the river bank back to the truck, and quietly rode homewards. River 4 panned out like the rest. This was our adventure we wouldn’t forget. Beautiful landscapes. The power of nature. The pains of folly. The crush of defeat. We got our adventure, but we need to redo the fishing trip.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,

Jared Lane

The Last Day of Trout Season

The morning started off perfectly, I got up, got out the door and on the road by 7am, and the weather was fantastic! Crisp, clean, and hardly any wind. I could already see the rising trout that I tied flies for the evening before. HA! Does a day ever start that well and then remain that way? Nope. When I pulled into the park, there was no one there. Just a couple bald eagles picking fish out of the lower pools and eating on the bank. I laughed as I raised a fist and said Merica’ out loud to the trees that seemed to laugh with me as the wind whispered through them. I put my 3wt together, and tied on some 6x tippet. I picked a size 20 Black Caddis fly from the box and tied it on, tied on a Size 24 Copper John as my dropper, and I was ready to rock. Down to the creek I went.

Again, my day was off to an amazing start! I didn’t bring a camera, I didn’t bring a tripod, but I did bring a rod, reel, and my flies. I didn’t want to play my usual part as documenter, I just wanted to fish. I had pegged this Sunday as my last day on the trout stream for the year. Around now, the trout have been taken out and this stupid competition to pull every last one from the stream begins. The banks fill with “Worm Dunkers” shoulder to shoulder because now they can keep the trout. Which in all reality is why the trout are in the stream. DNR stocks them two times a year. I don’t take em’, but I try not to judge those who do.

Now, I think the funniest part of the people standing shoulder to shoulder is that I believe that Fly Fishermen and Women know better. We don’t do that to one another generally, and if it isn’t out of common courtesy for our fellow anglers, it’s for the fear of getting smacked in the dome with a fly. If you have never taken a streamer out of your buddy’s noggin, bless your heart! This season, I have had many pleasant experiences with other anglers right on the spot I was standing. People would come up, chat, and then move on as I would continue casting. Then when I moved on, they would take my place, as it should be.

NOT TODAY.

As I made my cast, after having landed a small rainbow moments before, I heard a crunch behind me. I figured it was an animal, muskrat, raccoon under the bridge, etc. It was not. It was a tall Eastern European chap, who yelled “Hello!” decked out in his Simms gear from head to toe. I instantly felt uneasy. I answered with a “hello” as he stood next to me. When I say next to me, I mean he was an arm’s length away from me. He unhooked his fly from his Winston rod, and began to strip line off his reel. I thought to myself, “No way is this guy going to start casting next to me”… Again I was wrong.

We stood 2.5 feet from each other on an 8 foot gravel bar, and the idea I suppose was both cast to the same fish (there is only one pool in front of us). So I decided I had been silent long enough and said          “excuse me sir, I don’t think that there is enough room on this spot to both fish… there is another pool about 50 yards down, why don’t you go try there” He answered “yes we fish”. Now, I understood that there was not going to be a lot of communication happening here. I have nothing against anyone, but I do have a huge problem with ignorance, which knows no race, gender, or language.

I stood in disbelief for a few minutes as his casts whizzed past my face, and thought, how did a morning that started off so well end up like this? So I spoke up again. “Sir, I don’t think that it is a good idea that we fly fish right next to each other, you’re getting kinda’ close to me”. He answered “Yes, I know fly fish”… by now I’m mad. I said “look dude, I have been here for a couple hours, and I don’t really appreciate your company. Why don’t you get downstream a bit so we can both catch fish and nobody has to worry about hitting anyone else”? Now I wasn’t yelling, I didn’t even put my teacher voice on, but my Comrade apparently took this as fighting words, turned to me and said “No other fish. Just here. You want fight for it!” Is this a dream? I’m doing one of the things I love the most and this dope wants to fight for the spot?! Are you kidding me?! Dude. It’s a fish. A Stocked fish. The largest being 12” long. Get the hell outta here.

I hate to admit defeat, but there was no way in hell I was going to fight over a couple fish. I declined his invitation for fisticuffs, picked up my empty can, and headed for the bank. I turned around one last time, and hollered “Good luck pal!” Comrade flipped the bird, and I walked to the truck. As I sat and finished another beer on the bumper, I laughed to myself. So many incredible things have happened to me in the last year with fishing and an awesome partnership through the Brotherhood of the Bend and some other great organizations, it is fitting that it should end like this. I drove back home, unpacked my gear, and was greeted by an email from a friend offering some gear to try!

Rest assured, next spring, when the stream is stocked again, the BOTB boys will be back at it. Our goal is to spread stewardship to our other brothers and sisters in this sport. No one deserves to feel unwelcome, and I hope that you’ll join us in the sport we love so much!

Keep your lines tight, and your pride wet!

One million miles and a Unicorn.

The car rolled to a stop. The bridge stood stoic, silhouetted by the bluffs. Doors slammed as we made haste to gain vantage on our water. I looked down stream from the bridge, and caught a fleeting glimpse of yellow. My heart stopped. I made the journey for one singular rainbow trout, and now, had a shot at a palomino. My mind reeled.

I always fancied trout, too fancy for me. Trout, holed up in a monotone world of drab khaki and ostentatious lifestyles; sought by the rich and praised by the arrogant. That is, until I put blood, sweat and tears into battling wild brown trout. Tattooed and bearded, I broke down the barrier my mind had created and sought trout, above all else. I found out why people were so snooty with their quarry.

Just shy of 400 miles were laid out before me, and the goal of hunting my first rainbow trout on the fly. I had hours upon hours to practice in my mind, to be prepared for the hunt. A hunt I knew nothing about. I knew the river miles poured into holding a wild brown trout in your hand, and the endless monotony of casting flies at musky, but I didn’t know where the ratio balanced for rainbow trout. Seeing a palomino, threw me into a tailspin. My mind frazzled, and I needed to fish now.

I didn’t care about waders or tippet, I just needed my rod and reel, and a fly, if I could hold my hands still enough to tie one on. My mind raced. My heart pounded. I had entered the magical world where unicorns DID exist, and I was yards away from being able to make my wildest dreams a reality. I came for rainbow trout, and was now ready to chase unicorns. It couldn’t be real.

Against my better judgement, I was persuaded to actually get in my waders, and try to be prepared, but still managed to get several casts in, before any of my fishing party joined me on the river. I had bumps and short hits, but my fourth cast made my rod flex as my first rainbow trout tried to fight free. I felt the warm vibration in my chest and shoulders as my face got warm. Tears were coming. Overwhelmed, I knelt in the stream, my first rainbow trout in the net, fishing party splashing to get pictures. I didn’t need anything more. I travelled all this way for nothing more than this moment.

Day one ended with a total of 34 fish to hand for me. None of it was real any more. I came for one rainbow trout. The one palomino I saw turned into a dozen, and sight casting, became the bane of my unbelievable mission. Rich caught a small rainbow and made an off hand remark. A fraction of a second later I hooked up, with what I thought was the smallest rainbow possible for the day. It was a creek chub. Safely released, I cast the same spot, eying the wary palomino in the mix. Strip, strip, stri…..BOOOOOOOOM!!!!!! My rod pounded, line slid through my fingers as I eased the unicorn to my reel. Time stopped. I lost my breath. I was beside myself with elation. The unicorn palomino, biggest fish of the trip, was in the net. It couldn’t be real.

I still don’t have the words for the emotion. Overwhelmed, seems lackluster. Having one solitary goal being over shadowed by a pipedream. The goal being entirely fulfilling, and the not possible coming true. Wordless. I caught four more palomino that day. Still, looking back on the trip, all I can do is shake my head. It was the kind of trip that doesn’t even seem real. I’m not the guy with that luck. After two days of fishing I had 75 rainbow trout to hand. Seven were palominos.

 

My eyes still well when I think back. Seeing the pictures, none of it seems real. I hope every one can have this sort of experience. So real and pure, that it doesn’t seem like real life. We all fish for different reasons and with different goals, but we all have the shot at the indescribable moments. I hope you all have a moment that shakes you to the core.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,

Jared Lane

Teach a man to Fish

About a week ago I had a pretty cool opportunity, my younger brother, who has never really been interested in fishing, asked me if I would teach him how to fly fish. We made sure to pick a weekend where we could camp and also do some hiking so when he inevitably got bored.  The weekend started off well; we grabbed the essentials beers, breakfast-y things, and some sausage just in case there were no fish to be had.

After arriving at the park, we set about beer drinking. When suddenly Nick realized that not only had he forgotten his hammock, he also had forgotten his sleeping bag. Luckily, I had brought extra and a tent. We then went about some casting practice, even though Nick wanted to cast over water, I talked him into making some concessions we practiced at our campsite for a bit and it seemed that he grasped the concept of casting so we headed down to the river.

We fished for hours, all day cast after cast, Nick did really well! When he got into a rhythm his casting was great! Although he didn’t catch anything on Saturday, he still seemed to enjoy it. After scaling a limestone wall, and walking around a bit we headed back to the campsite for some dinner. Again I was very glad that I packed dinner items (even though I didn’t pack the correct utensils) we had dinner and some beers and a whole bunch of time was spent catching up on life.

Now what impressed me most about Nick’s interest in fly fishing is he was never interested in fishing before.  He would fish once or twice a year with me and that was always it. His general excitement about fly fishing was something new! When we pulled up on Sunday at my house, he asked me if he could borrow one of my rods and a reel and some flies so that he could practice!

It was an awesome weekend spent together fishing and sharing stories! And I’m sure that if he keeps practicing it wont be our last trip! I’m excited for the summer and the new opportunities it will bring and the adventures we will share!

Taylor Reels.

A couple of weeks ago, maybe two, I made contact with a company that I have been curious about for a while, Taylor Reels. I was fortunate to speak with the Owner, Matthew Taylor, about his products, philosophy, and the new things going on at Taylor Reels.  If you don’t know about Taylor Reels yet, let this next bit be a little education.

Taylor Reels began as a start up and has quickly grown into a fully bad-ass brand and a product that will blow your mind.  There are a few different types of reels that Taylor makes: the Array, the Type 1, and, the newest addition, the Revolution. I had the distinct pleasure of getting my hands on an Array 5-6 weight reel. I think my previous posts lay down a solid foundation of my love for Redington rods, but I have to say, for a company that makes Reels? Taylor has my vote!

I was out fishing the Friday that it came, but when I saw the box on the dining room table, it was like Christmas! I tore into the box to reveal the black metal of the Array. Wasting no time (because I was heading out again in the morning) I loaded the reel with hot orange backing and RIO Weight Forward Floating Trout line. Not only is the reel a piece of art, it is also highly functional and the perfect balance for a 5 weight rod, and is not too small for a 6. I chose to pair the reel with 6 weight line, and a 6 weight Redington Link rod.

When we left the house, that instead of taking the normal 2-3 rods; I would only take the Redington/Taylor combo. I was not disappointed. The trout were only eating streamers again, like the day before, I tied on a green leggy number from PostFly Box, and slung her head long into the deep current. Two strips later I had a leviathan on the line! Unlike many other reels, there was no scream of drag being stolen from the reel, there was no bounce as the gears let line out, and there was only smooth tension and the low hum of my line escaping at a steady rate from the Array. I tightened down the drag knob, and the fish broke the surface. Slowly playing the fish into the shore, the reel did the job perfectly. This tune played on repeat for the next 10 fish or so – each time the reel doing the trick with masterful, graceful retrieves one after another! Not only does the Array bring line back in with an amazing rate of accuracy and speed, it also lets the line out via the drag in the same way! When a fish would turn on the after burners and give a glorious head shake, the reel responded accordingly. The Reel did not hemorrhage line or burn, it kept a steady pace and when the drag was tightened, the Array could have stopped a freight train!

It has been about a week since my last outing, the reel has been dried, cleaned, and sits on my tying bench ready for action again! Tomorrow I unveil the Young Artist Show : Youth Division to the Rockford public, but when I’m out at 3pm, the Array will be paired with my Redington Vapen Black and we will be headed to the Rock River to swing for Bass, Carp, and whatever else dare challenge us!

As always, Tight lines! Thank you for reading!

-Rich