When thinking of places and/or companies to buy fly tying
materials, the following are ones that most of us tyers think of: Hareline,
Wapsi, Flymen Fishing Company, Loon Outdoors, Whiting, Umpqua Feather
Merchants, Montana Fly Company, and Orvis, to name a few. These are all well
known companies who each sell quality materials. But, have any of you heard of
the company Fly Tyers Dungeon? Chances are most of you have not. I certainly
hadn't, that is, until Mike (FishEatFlies) told me about them.
Fly Tyers Dungeon is a small company based out of Montana.
The guy behind the company calls himself the "Mad Scientist" namely
because he creates most of the materials that he sells. Some of the materials
include various dubbings, flash, bug legs, tails and wings, and synthetic hair.
The dubbings he creates are very unique. They are extremely "buggy"
if you will, with a good majority
containing micro bug legs in the mix. This makes for great nymph
patterns. He also has a soft dubbing
that reminds me somewhat of Hareline's Senyo Laser Dub. It is a long synthetic
fiber that is good for streamer heads. Something newer on the lineup he's
developed are UV enhanced dubbings. When shining my UV light on them, they
clearly contain small micro streams of dubbing, just as you'd buy from other
companies.
The flash that he masterfully creates is great stuff.
Everything from stiffer fibers to extremely soft for all your tying needs. I
have incorporated a lot into my streamer patterns. He also makes his own
krystal flash that looks like the quality you'd find in every fly shop.
One of the coolest items you can purchase from the dungeon
is the synthetic hair. Similar to EP fiber, the fiber he creates is called
Congo hair. It is great for baitfish patterns, and comes in just about any
color or blend you could ask for. He also makes a few even softer type of hair
with higher sheen and glow.
Congo Hair Baitfish
Another great item are the eyes he sells. They come in three
different kinds and resemble just about any baitfish pattern you could tie
up. I particularly like the frog eyes.
One of the greatest buys you can get from the dungeon are
the Fly Tying Material Gift Boxes. He puts together various boxes from the Fly
Tyers Box (which I purchased), to the Baitfish Box. These gift boxes are a much
better buy, and are even cheaper than if you individually bought each item from
his store.
In conclusion, one of the greatest things about Fly Tyers
Dungeon is the PRICE. Simply unbeatable. To this day, I have not found another
company with cheaper materials of the same good quality. For instance,
individual dubbing ranges from .75-1.00 a pack! Beats paying $2.50+ for other
dubbings! Another great buy are the eyes. I cannot believe the price for eyes
from other companies (upwards of 3.50 per pack of 12). At the dungeon, you pay
.75-1.00 per 20! That is a much better deal if you ask me.
All in all, Fly Tyers Dungeon is a great place to check out
unique fly tying materials for awesome prices. Yes, you may not find some of
the very unique materials that other companies supply (specialty dubbings,
flash, streamer heads/popper bodies etc), yet you will find great products and
customer service. All of the material comes in a great quantity, and has made
awesome flies for me that catch fish. When I placed my most recent order, the
Fly Tyers Box, it arrived three days later and was an enormous amount of
material for twenty five bucks. I recommend for all fly tyers to check out and
support this small business. Check out his site here.
A much needed break from work finally came, so I set out on a solo mission to chase some nearby browns. The destination was a slow winding stretch of river known for easily frightened fish. Though these fish scare easily and are difficult to catch, the size alone draws me to this stretch at least a few times out of the year.
The usual method I choose to fish this section is with streamers. However, it had shown to be rather unsuccessful. It seemed as soon as the rabbit strip and flash hit the water, the browns would flee for protection. A change of strategy was needed. Since it was mid August, my strategy this time would be a meaty hopper patterns with delicate presentations. With dark clouds to my north, I hurried and readied my gear, knowing lightning would be here soon.
I came upon a stretch that has a nice deep hole with a big brush blossoming out surrounded by five inches of scum. I just knew there had to be a fish in there. I have fished this hole before, but each time never felt the bend I was seeking. This time, there would be no stripping of streamers. Instead, I landed a soft presentation a few feet above the brush, and patiently watched as my hopper drifted toward the obstruction. As soon as my fly kissed the scum, a nice brown unveiled itself and engulfed my bullet head hopper. Gotta love fishing dries.
By now, and much too early, the storm I previously feared was now raining on me. Not wanting to end up getting zapped, I headed back to the car for cover and some lunch.
My next destination was a creek just down the road that was similar to the first one. Thunderstorms were all around me but I just couldn't settle on only that one fish. Only one more cast right?
The rain was crashing down and tailgaters on highway 89 were pissing me off. I needed to get to this creek and fast before I lost my sense of calm that the day had brought. I finally arrived to see the water in good condition. I had forgotten how much water comes from this natural spring, and was reminded that I need to fish there more often. I caught smaller rainbows and a sixteen inch brown that fought like a twenty. Again, the storms raged in with lightning and thunder so I booked it out of there. Overall, the day was a success and it provided the sense of relaxation and rush of a tighline.
For those who don't know, I work at Dixie Regional Medical Center as an Exercise Therapist. One of the best parts of my job are the wonderful people I get to meet. Well, most are wonderful. There's always that one patient who seems pissed off and gives you dirty looks and couldn't care less about what you have to say. Regardless, most patients are very nice and have great stories to tell. Being an avid fly fisherman, I of course casually talk fly fishing with those I find out who do share my interest. For the more serious fisherman I come in contact with, casual turns deep and I find myself desperately seeking stories from the old yet sophisticated minds.
Recently, I came in contact with an elderly gentleman from Boulder Utah. You can guess, as soon as I heard those words from his wrinkly mouth a light went off in my mind. "You ever fished boulder mountain?" The patient smiled, "oh yes, I have fished the boulders." I smiled, and questions began flooding through my mind. It's not everyday you come in contact with someone who has fished one of your favorite mountains for most of their life. Thoughts eventually turned into words and for the following few days I worked with this patient, I picked his brain and learned some good information. We talked about certain lakes that we had both fished, and what it was like on the mountain in the older days. It was fun to hear him talk about how much has changed, both the good and the bad. I had fun telling him some of my stories from the mountain, I could tell it eased the pains and frustrations that were inflicting him. On one particular morning, I returned to his room to find his wife sitting there with him. She seemed upset, and eventually told me that "he wants to die." Being an already emotional person, this was hard for me to hear. I had come to really like working with this patient, and respected him. I, of course, wanted him to make a full recovery. Unfortunately, it had seemed that he had given up, telling me "this disease just may be too much for my old body." I tried to ignore the statement, and kept telling him that he is strong and will make it through. Upon leaving the room for what would be the last time I was assigned to work with him, I told him that I better see him someday out on one of the Boulder lakes casting a line. He smiled, and said "I sure hope so too".
I guess I am writing this so I will not forget this great man He left an impression on me that I will not forget. Elderly people, such as this man are full of knowledge and touching stories, If you respect these wise souls, and give them your time, they will enrich your life in more ways than one.
Last summer, I had the grand opportunity to fish one of fly
fishing’s famed iconic waters, the Henry’s Fork. If you’re a fly fisher, chances
are you have read, heard, and/or dreamed about this river at some point in your
life. As for me, I have read about and
seen many pictures of this beautiful section of the Snake River, and wondered
if I would ever get to fish it. Turned out, an opportunity to go to Idaho came,
and of course, I didn’t hesitate. When the family and I departed last August, I
was very excited. Thoughts of beautiful water with big rainbows sipping up
mayfly duns raced my mind. This was a river my dad and grandpa fished, and to
which I was envious of the stories they had. Now it was finally my time to visit these
iconic waters, and hopefully bring some Henry’s Fork trout to hand.
I woke up early that cool Thursday morning in August,
keeping quiet to not wake the others. I
grabbed my gear off the front porch, and put it in my Chrysler 200 rental (not
what you would call a “fishy” vehicle by any means, but it did the job. My
destination was a section named coffee pot rapids. With a general knowledge of
where I had to go, I was off. Driving down the dirt road I had to meander my
way around numerous pot holes and water. I began to worry thinking my fancy
rental car would not be able to make it through. Luckily, however, the shiny rims trudged along. I
eventually came to the parking lot and saw another vehicle their already. Dang!
I thought to myself. I parked regardless
and set up my rod and camera. The scene was somewhat of an eerie one. There I
was in what seemed the middle of nowhere, rod in hand walking on a small path,
dead silence, with huge trees towering over me. I remember thinking to myself
“I hope this is where I am supposed to be,” and, “hope there are no bears
around.” Regardless, I kept trekking along and eventually heard water. I came
upon a big cliff, and looked down and saw the dark waters of the Henry’s Fork.
It was a beautiful scene. Towering cliffs surrounded the river below. I snapped
a few photos and eventually made my way downstream a ways, wanting to get well
below the two spin fisherman already on the river. I made my descent from the
cliff and finally reached the river. I tied on my newly invented hopper pattern,
with a stonefly dropper.
The Henry’s Fork is a big river, especially to someone like
me who lives in Southern Utah where there are no large rivers. Fishing these big waters was a whole new ball
game. First off, wading them is no easy task. Each step you take must be
careful so you don’t end up on your back floating helplessly downstream. The second thing
I find most difficult is knowing where the fish are in big rivers. With smaller
rivers, its quite easy to find the holes where fish reside. You can figure out the currents, seams, and
drop offs pretty easily. With big rivers, I find it much more difficult to find
these things. I find myself fishing
every foot of the river, trying to decipher current speed and depth.
I worked the middle of the river for a while, because it
looked like a nice spot for a fish to hide out. It was somewhat shallow, and
had good insect activity. I got a small bite but came unhooked shortly after. I
decided to head on over to the left bank because there was a large rock on the
bank that looked like it could hold a nice fish. I was twenty feet below the
rock and made my first cast. Nothing. I made another cast and watched my hopper
slowly. It sank abruptly, and I set the hook. Fish on. This was a powerful fighting fish. After a
quick fight, I brought the fish to hand. Not a huge fish, but sure fought like
a twenty two incher. It was maybe sixteen inches, but beautiful and wild as
ever. It was a perfect first fish for the Henry’s Fork, and one that I will never forget. With a quick release, I
was eager to catch another making my way upstream. It was funny, soon after I
caught that fish, the two spin fisherman camped on that hole casting their
heavy lures for the next half hour. They had watched me bring in that nice
rainbow and wanted a taste of their own. However, they never had any luck. I
made sure to glance back once in a while to see if they had caught anything, much
to my surprise, they did not. I chuckled to myself, and kept moving
upstream.
By now, clouds were rolling in and distant thunder was echoing through the canyon. I had just reached the rapids portion of the section and was
excited to try it (apparently I may have gone a little too far down stream and
spent the first couple hours fishing quiet, calm water), oh well, it was still
fun. I was working a very deep run when
all the sudden an extremely loud bout of thunder roared right over my head. It shook me, and I hurried and headed over to shore. I could
tell that it was about to rain, and rain hard. Although I desperately wanted to
wait the storm out and fish, I opted to leave, knowing the Chrysler's skimpy tires would
probably not make it through the muddy road. My next rental better be a jeep or
truck. I hurried out of there and got back to the cabin just in time as it was now raining quite hard.
It was a
good first memorable trip on the Henry’s Fork. Although I only brought a couple
fish to hand, it was well worth it. The scenery alone made for a great morning.
You can be sure I will be back many more times. I hope to explore this river
even more and find its hidden treasures. Until then, I’ll continue reading and
looking at even more pictures of this magnificent picturesque fishery.
Enjoy the short video clip below of me catching the rainbow.
Sorry in advance for the angle of the camera. I am new to the gopro camera and
am still figuring out how best to use it.
Two summers ago, it was awesome to see my sister Katy's poem "A Fly Fisherman's Widow" in the Dun e-magazine. For those of you who don't know, Dun Magazine is a fly fishing magazine geared toward women. It's an awesome e-mag that will surely provide a quality evening read. The poem Katy wrote is about her own journey in finding the beauty and serenity of fly fishing, the way her husband Mike, (Fisheatflies) has. Fly fishing runs deep in our family, and it has been fun to see Katy pick up the passion. Check out the article here, begins on page 48.
Have you ever had a fishing trip where everything came together just right? Well, this was one of those trips. The family and I set out for one of our favorite streams that had just opened for the year. This particular stream is known for producing big, beautiful Bonneville cutthroat trout, with the occasional brookie and tiger. I was desperately seeking to fill my cutthroat void, as I had not caught one in a long time. This prize stream would surely do the trick. Matter of fact, it turned out to be one of my best outings on this gem.
I always, (well mostly always), let Natalie have the best holes. After all, I'd much rather her hook into fish so I get to see the excitement and exhilaration on her face as I watch. The first couple holes she fished did not produce so we kept advancing further up. We came upon a hole my dad caught a big one out of a couple years back. I cleared out of the way, and watched Natalie toss a hopper pattern. After a few casts a dark figure arose from the depths to take a look at the imitation. Natalie pulled the fly a tad early, and the fish went back down. She cast again, and again the fish sparked interest engulfing the fly almost immediately. With a gentle slurp, Natalie let out a slight scream and set the hook. This was a nice fish. So nice in fact, it turned out to be her biggest fish to date. Sitting on the bank, watching her fight the beast brought a big smile to my face. She was so excited. With every head shake and flip and turn she became even more excited. A frantic yell to me to grab the net soon erupted so I hurriedly did so, only to break off the handle in the process. (Great, now I have a net with no handle.) At least the actual net portion was still intact. I awkwardly grabbed both sides and scooped the big cutt. It barely fit-this was a long fish. I estimated about twenty three inches. Natalie was ecstatic over the whole ordeal. My cutthroat void was now filled-I didn't even have to catch it myself. Watching her land something of this size in a small stream was all I needed. We snapped a couple quick pics and took some video and released the fish, hoping to meet again another day. I have caught many of the same fish in this stream multiple times-one of the great benefits of catch and release.
We eventually came upon one of my favorite holes. Once again, Natalie let the hopper fly. Another big fish rose to hit the fly and was on long enough for us to get excited about how big it was before it broke free. "Dangit", Natalie yelled. She tossed the imitation a few more times, but the fish wasn't interested in sloppy seconds.
It was now my turn to fish. The particular run I started on has always seemed to produce a nice fish. I tied on my newly tied parachute pattern, and was soon feeling the bend of a nice Bonneville. The fight was fun on the 3wt, I could feel everything the fish was throwing at me.
It was now getting to the time where we about had to leave. We had not even fished a whole lot of the stream, but still was having great success. Desperately wanting to feel the tug once more, I ditched Emma off with Natalie and ran up stream. I came to an over-hanging tree towering over a very fish run and let the line fly. Soon enough, another big cutt rose and ate my fly. I yelled with excitement, as I did not expect a big fish in this run. I tried to yell to Natalie to have her help me net the fish, but she never heard me. With one hand securing the line to the cork of my rod, and the other awkwardly holding my busted net, I gave all I could muster and scooped the fish up. It was another big beautiful Bonneville. Bigger than my previous. By now, Natalie had come, finally hearing my yelling and we snapped some more pics and then released the fish.
Emma enjoying the action
It was a trip to remember. Everything just seemed to fall into place. We caught big fish after big fish, with one of Natalie's being her biggest yet. The empty cutthroat void I was feeling was now overflowing. We would be back soon to chase these cutts again. Enjoy the short video edit below of the trip.
Spring had sprung in Southern Utah, which meant it was time to go fishing. The plan for this trip was to return to our favorite high alpine mountain and chase large fish. Last October, Mike and I set out to a new destination on this mountain following the intel from a local Utah DWR biologist. He informed us of some of the better lakes that hold bigger fish. While we caught an OK amount of fish, we didn't catch any of the trophies we were desperately seeking. After that trip, we knew we would have to come back in the spring, knowing that it would be one the best time to chase large fish. With approval from our lovely wives to spend three nights on the mountain, we were off.
Early on, it became apparent that this trip would be different than others we had done. This trip was to be somewhat more of a laid back expedition. With life's struggles pressing on the both of us, we were both in search of a state of mental relaxation. There would be no alarms in the morning, quick food binges, and no set plans.We would take our time doing things we usually hurry to do. In all honesty, it made the trip that much better. Getting adequate sleep while camping is a must for me. I love my sleep, and function much better when I get enough. Also, taking in good nutrition and spending the time to eat quality food provided the much needed energy for this trip. After all, we hiked roughly fourteen miles and walked thirty six thousand steps. Slowing down, and taking the time to prep our bodies was key.
The first destination was a lake that we got skunked on last year. We had high hopes the weeds that made it so difficult last year would be gone and allow us to get to the fish. Fortunately, our hopes were answered and most of the weeds were gone. However, we still were skunked. This is a very tough lake to fish. There weren't as many weeds, but the weeds that were there provided great safety for the fish. We presented many flies right on the border of the weed line, hoping for a bruiser to shoot from the depths and snatch our flies. Unfortunately, the big brookies never wanted to play.
Upon inspection. scuds were highly proliferated near the weeds. These fish don't have to move an inch to get food. I imagined scuds just freely swimming right up to their mouths and the fish sucking them in with ease. The fish in this lake(if any, due to the fact we have never actually seen one) are the equivalent of the fat guy on the couch with endless junk food within arms reach. Why take a helpless artificial fly two feet away when you have all the natural food right in front of you? Dang fat, lazy fish. I don't know if i'll ever catch anything from that lake, let alone fish it again. With Mike's float tube leaking, causing him to have to physically blow it up while out on the lake every five minutes, and no fish to hand, we called it and headed back to camp.
After refueling our bodies, our plan was to head further up the mountain to some lakes I had never been to. We didn't know how far we would get up the road due to the possible snow that was still around. Sure enough, a mile and a half in, we began to run into snow. Luckily, Mikes jeep handled it pretty well thanks to the four wheel drive. We eventually came to a big snow drift that covered most of the road, and decided we better not chance getting stuck. We parked just below the drift, and readied our gear. My pyro sense was urging and I just had to light off a few bombs that my uncle (who sells fireworks) had given me. These are not your everyday M-80. They are custom made with my uncles secret blend of gun powder. I lit the first one and hurried away in search of cover. Ears plugged, we waited. Nothing. After a couple minutes I returned very cautiously and discovered that the snow I had thrown the bomb onto put the fuse out. I lit another, this time making sure the fuse would not touch the snow. Tick...Tick....BOOM. The blast from the explosion sent a wave through me and I let out a big smile. OK, now i'm ready for some fishing.
After a short half mile hike through slushy snow, the lake came into view. It was a beautiful lake that was bigger than I had imagined. I could see the rim to the top of the mountain, which was still blanketed with snow. Definitely still winter-like conditions on this mountain. As far as the lake was concerned, luckily, there was open water. It was a huge relief having open water. Much of the lake was still covered with ice, however the edges were open. "Perfect", I said to myself. This was going to be good. Fishing ice off on a high alpine lake was something I have always wanted to do. Mike began working the open channel and was soon onto some fish. I was getting jealous, trying to ready my rod as fast as possible. I tied on a black leach, walked over to the bank and began working the channel. Within a couple minutes, I had my first brookie of the trip. It was on the small end, but pretty as ever.
We eventually made our way over to another end of the lake with even more open water and had lots of luck. Black leeches were the ticket. Subtle four inch strips proved to be too much for these ten to fourteen inch brooks to handle. We each caught a handful and decided to head out to another lake nearby in search of larger fish.
There was a fairly clear cut trail at the beginning to this lake, however it soon diminished due to the snow pack. We had thought we were headed in the right direction, however suddenly we realized we were lost. The lake we were in search of was only .8 miles away, and shouldn't have taken more than twenty minutes to get there. Due to waist deep snow in some spots and walking completely in the wrong direction for too long, the excursion took upwards of an hour and a half. Thanks to Mike's trusty map locator app, we were able to inch closer and closer to the lake. The map would show us the direction we had walked. so we used this to our advantage and checked it every fifty yards to make sure we were heading in the right direction. The excursion was brutal. Climbing over logs, breaking branches, and sinking into four foot deep snow sure built up the lactic acid ( I was just grateful I wasn't carrying a float tube). At one point we came to a beautiful open mossy meadow with a spring running through. It was a nice break from the treacherous thick forest. I whipped out my camera and snapped a few shots. At the corner of my eye I noticed what we thought was some bear scat but could not pinpoint. It was a bit scary, walking through dense forest knowing bears were out of hibernation looking to fill their empty bellies. Luckily, we ended up not on their menu. I tried to make our presence known throughout the hike by banging my walking stick on trees. Luckily, we eluded any bears, and eventually made it to the lake.
It was a huge sigh of relief to see a doughnut shape ring around the lake of open water. What a blessing it was, as we had just trudged through loads of snow and wasted so much time getting here. Our efforts paid off. There was open water, with big tigers and cutts waiting to strike our hopeful flies.
We spotted a good section across from where we were that was abundant with logs, and decided to trek across to the other side. I rigged up with a leech pattern and a scud trailer and tossed my line into the dark abyss. A few casts later I had a huge hit. Fish on. With rod bent and heart pounding I fought the beast for a few seconds until a powerful head shake broke me off. So much for 7lb flouro. I felt confident I would not break off with this line, turned out it failed me many times this trip. I guess it was perhaps past it's expiration date? Who knows. The adrenaline from that fish was still flowing through my veins and I was desperate to hook into another. I re-rigged and let the line fly. After another minute or so I had another solid hit. I saw the flash of a tiger trout and was ecstatic. The pull from this fish was big and I knew it was a nice one. But once again, the flouro failed me and I broke off. After a few choice words I cooled off, took some deep breaths and tossed the flouro into my pack, never to be used again. Two big fish lost due to weak line was extremely frustrating. I switched out my line and tried to move past from the two big fish I just lost.
I ended up catching a few, one of them being a decent size cutthroat. It gave a great fight and provided relief from the ones I had lost earlier. After a fun battle I brought the specimen into my net. It was my biggest cutthroat of the trip, a solid seventeen. I marveled at it's beauty and then quickly released it back to the cold alpine water. I then sat a moment and treasured the beauty of my surroundings. There I was standing high upon a rock, surrounded by a tall snowy mountain to my back, and a serene apline lake to my front. I was at peace, taking in each breath of cool air with gratitude for our beautiful world. This is why I fly fish. This is why I put considerable effort into catching fish. To escape the world and feel one with nature.
With dusk creeping upon us, we decided that we better call it and head back to camp, not wanting to risk getting lost again. This lake had been a true success, and it was hard to leave. We would be back again though, with stronger line and new knowledge of these fish.
After trudging through deep snow and a thick forest, we made it back to the original trail. We made sure to keep checking the GPS every five minutes to make sure we were going the right direction. During the drive back we stumbled upon a lake with tons of rising fish. With an hour left of light, we hurried and grabbed our rods and tied on dry flies. Many small little brookies were brought to hand, though they tested our patterns. These fish would not take the standard adams, like we confidently thought. Turns out they preferred a CDC baetis pattern. Although, even this pattern was shunned many times. Mike had luck subsurface with a leech pattern, and brought a few to hand. With sun nearly down and a cold chill about, we drove back to camp. At camp, we enjoyed one of my best camping meals yet; A slow cooked pork taco on a crisp flour tortilla. It was the perfect end to our adventurous day.
We had fun doing long exposure shots.
We hacked this tree down, only to find it got hung up on another tree...
The following morning, we arose and set out for an entirely new destination. We would hike to what the Utah Fishing book called the most remote lake on the mountain. This sounded like a good idea. It would be roughly a three mile hike in from where we were. We ate a solid breakfast, readied our gear and set off in search of new water.
Camp oats
Overly cooked eggs-still tasty however
The hike was mostly uphill, gradual, with some steep inclines. We hiked through scorched forest most of the time that was from a fire a while back. As we got closer to the rim of the mountain, tall green pines towered over us, and the lake finally came into view. The lake was an awesome vibrant green color. I had never seen a body of water with that type of color. There was also no ice on the water. This was good news, although a little would have meant a true ice off. Regardless, we were just glad there was open water. Rumor had it there was large brook trout in here, and we were ready to find out. We found an abandoned camp site nearby with some logs to sit on and ate a quick snack and readied our rods.
Rod of choice- My grandpas old graphite Fenwick 5-6 wt.
Time to refuel.
Second cast in, I had a fish on. The red crimson fins and white tips radiated through the lime green water as I fought him. Not huge by any means, but beautiful. I caught many more in this same spot.
This lake had a buffet line of food for these fish. Basically every stillwater bug was prevalent, and in large numbers. We took a break from fishing for a bit and examined some logs near the shore. Lifting the logs revealed giant dragon fly nymphs (were talking an inch plus), chunky scuds, and quick slender damselfly nymphs. We messed around with them for a bit, taking pics to chart color and size so we would be ready next time with our imitative flies. It was fun to see all the bugs. I am somewhat of a bug nerd thanks to fly fishing. I like to pull up pics I have taken when tying my own flies.
The kings of the underworld- dragonfly nypmhs
Dragonfly,Scud,Damselfly
We eventually made our way onto the other corner of the lake. Downed logs and deep water made for a super fishy spot on this end. Mike cast out his trusty purple haze in-between the logs and waited patiently. He cast again, and again. Nothing. I decided to try my luck with a leech imitation. I went to the other side and found a good position to cast. I sent the leech right between the logs and stripped in slow. Heart pounding. Knowing there had to be a bruiser in there waiting to crush whatever came within it's territory. Nothing. Cast again. Strip, strip, BAM! Fish on. Rod bent-over, senses erupting, heart pounding, I fought the beast for a quick five seconds, until I broke off. Speechless, I sat in despair over the missed opportunity. Again, my line had failed me. I questioned again- are these fish really that big? Or does my line seriously suck? Or both? Who knows. All I know is I will never come here again without some 0X. I cast to the same spot at least forty more times, hoping to piss off the beast enough to play again. Nothing. I called it, and headed over the steep ridge to the other side of the mountain.
The ridge was still blanketed with a thick covering of cold snow. In a couple spots, we sank right to our hips. Rocks also covered the ridge, making for a tough climb to the other side. After a couple slides and close calls, we made our way around.
Mike casting from an old abandoned wood raft.
The rest of the day was very successful. We both caught some big brookies, and a few splake as well. The biggest brookie I landed was a solid seventeen to eighteen inch football. It fought harder than anything up to that point. Once in my net, I marveled at its beauty and size. I quickly released the hook and sent him on his way, hoping to maybe meet again another day.
Night was now falling upon us, and we decided we better head back to camp. It was hard to leave such a beautiful serene place. However, we had already decided we would be back again in the fall. This made our conclusion easier to bare. Down the mountain, it became so dark we had to use a headlight. The trail was pretty clear-cut, however we did go off trail a couple times. A quick glance at Mikes phone and we found the trail again. We made it back to the Jeep, and back to camp and crashed into our sleeping bags.
The trip was full of adventure, and everything I wanted after a cold long winter in Southern Utah. Countless miles were hiked, big beautiful fish were caught, and good times were had. We would be back again in the fall, eager to catch these even brighter more colorful fish with the changing leaves.
