The Rod

I love building my own rods. The rod I learned to fish on was one I built myself. It was just some cheap blank my dad got and then set me loose on. Looking at it now, it shows that it was built by a thirteen or fourteen year old, but it got me into something I enjoyed then, and love now. I still have that rod. It's a couple inches shorter now, so it casts a little faster than it did, but it's something I don't think I'll ever get rid of. Maybe it'll find a spot on my wall one day.
Later in high school, I just sort of got out of fly fishing for whatever reason, and only fished a handful of times until three years ago, when I was sitting in my bedroom one day in late winter, suffering from cabin fever, and figured I'd take up fly fishing again. The rod I got then, a 9' 5 wt. St. Croix, is the only rod I have that was bought complete. Since then, I've built a 7' 9" Sage 3 wt., which is now the main rod I fish here on the Logan and Blacksmith Fork Rivers, and a 9' 8 wt. that my dad had.
The reason I love—and prefer—to build my own rods, is because I have something that's built to my own liking. While I'm bound by what the rod manufacturers make, as far as blanks are concerned, I can take a blank and make it "mine". And then when I catch something on it, there's just that much more satisfaction out of the whole experience.

Mother's Day

I'm kind of at a loss here. I mean, what can I possibly say to adequately pay homage and honor my mother? Besides, maybe, thank you.
Thank you for being who and what you are.
Thank you for raising us kids, and teaching us.
Thank you for your example of selfless service.
Thank you for your generosity.
Thank you for helping me out, even though at times I didn't deserve it.
Thank you for just being you.

Picky Trout and Ambivalent Utah Suckers

A month ago my 4Runner broke down (at first we thought it was a bad fuel pump, but it turned out to be a bad timing belt), and being without a vehicle, I haven't been fishing for that long. I even tried riding my bike up Logan Canyon, but this past winter was especially hard on my waist, and endurance. I didn't make it far before it was obvious riding my bike and wearing myself out and then trying to wade a river wasn't going to be the best thing to do. So I've been jonesing really bad to get out. Thanks to a friend I work with, we got the timing belt replaced, and the 4Runner fixed. So today I decided I'd spend the day swinging my fly rod.
I first planned on just going up to my new favorite stretch of the Logan River, knowing that the river was going to be high. I got on the water just before ten o'clock, and tied a new pattern I've been tying lately, a UV Epoxy Back Pheasant Tail Nymph, with a Woven Pheasant Tail Nymph behind it. Once I got in the water, and saw how high and felt how fast the water was, I knew I was going to be leap-frogging from hole to hole more than I thought I'd be. I fished all the promising spots, but if the fish were there, they weren't interested in biting my fake bugs.

After about an hour and a half of fighting the high and fast current, I decided to pack up and head to Bear Lake and go after the big fish there. I'd always thought the big fish that swam between my legs when I was a kid were carp, but I've recently learned that they probably weren't carp, but Utah Suckers. They look similar, and are just as ugly as carp. I first got the itch to go after carp and muskie last year during the high runoff when any of the rivers around here were too high and fast to fish. I figured that if I couldn't go after trout, I'd get a heavier rod, and go after fish in water that wasn't too high and fast to fish. Carp, and in this case, Utah Suckers, are pretty finicky fish. You have to be able to cast a fly right in front of them and not spook them, and they pretty much have to be feeding to hook into them. They're not a fish that you "prospect" for, or cast blindly, hoping there's a fish there that might take your fly. I'm still learning the behavior of these fish, so I don't know exactly what time of day they feed, and exactly what type of fly to use, besides something that imitates a piece of bread or kernel of corn. Today on Bear Lake ended up being just a couple hours of casting practice. I saw plenty of fish, but none were feeding. I did manage to cast my flies right in front of them, and only spooked one, but none of them seemed to even acknowledge my fly's presence.

I spent a couple hours on the lake, which is really high, and really cold right now, not that I'd expect it to be anything else, and then the thought of Blacksmith Fork hit my mind. So I packed up the fishing gear again, and headed back to Logan, and then south to my favorite local river. Since it was so late in the day, my favorite stretch was taken, so I drove a little further up to a stretch I hadn't fished before. Right after I got in the water, a Blue Winged Olive hatch started up, and the water began to boil. I hurried and clipped the nymph off I'd decided to start off with and tied a hackle stacker BWO on, and missed three strikes in all, before losing my fly to tree. I replaced it with a Purple Haze, but the fish were done with any fake flies that were trying to entice them, so I waded up the river, which quickly turned to fast pocket water, so I got out and drove back down to my favorite spot to see if it was open, which it was. This particular stretch has a big deep pool that always has fish in it. I've only been able to pull one fish out of there in the two years I've been going there. It's one of the hardest holes to fish I've ever encountered. The river enters into it after a long run, and it causes all sorts of eddies, and micro currents that really make good dead drifts a big challenge. Two years ago, the run was pretty shallow, and there was a big tree trunk right at the head of the pool. After last years' high runoff, the run is about twice as deep (about up to mid thigh now), and the tree stump is gone, and the sand bar down stream of the pool is a lot bigger. Despite the changes, it's still as challenging as ever to fish. I missed a huge strike, and after that, the fish were done with me. I even tied a beetle on, and one fish looked up at it, but didn't bite.
All in all, it was a fish-less day, but after more than a month of not being able to fish, it was still a very good day on the water. Or should I say, waters.

Grinning and Laughing

Well, I missed a few days in this challenge. At least as far as posting each day goes.
I've been busy the past few nights working on replacing the timing belt on my 4Runner, and getting a post here has taken a back seat to auto mechanics and sleep.
But now that the truck is fixed and running, and after having been absent from any river for about a month, I'm going to spend all day tomorrow on the water.
And I'll be grinning the whole day.

Waders

When I first learned to fly fish when I was about 14 or so, though I might have been 13 or 15, I did it without waders. I always wet-waded. We fished pretty much only in mid-summer into the fall, so we didn't really need waders to keep us warm and dry.
It wasn't until I got back into fly fishing, almost three years ago now, that I got my first pair of waders. To save money, I skipped out on the wading boots, and went with the only pair of shoes I had that would accommodate the thick neoprene boot: a pair of Etnies skating shoes. The soles were slick, and they offered no ankle support at all. I'm surprised I didn't get washed down the river. I've since upgraded to a pair of boots that grip the bottom a bit better, and give good support so I don't twist my ankle if they do slip.
I sometimes fantasize about showing up on the Madison, Yellowstone, or Missouri Rivers, among all the fishermen decked out in their Orvis and Simms gear (full disclosure: I own a lot of Simms gear and clothing, waders included), and throw on a pair of rubber hip boots, and umbrella hat, and a white tank top, and just start swinging a stick with kite string on it. I wouldn't do anything to spook the fish that the other fishermen are casting to, or be obnoxious, I'd just throw the biggest, ugliest flies, perhaps bass bugs, and act like nothing's wrong.
Sometimes we fishermen get caught up in getting the flashiest, newest stuff. Don't get me wrong. I believe in getting the best equipment you possibly can, whether it's fly fishing gear, or backpacking gear, and taking care of it, because it'll last a long time if good equipment is taken care of. But gear only assists the person using it.

Working

Sometimes work can be a necessary evil. Don't get me wrong. I like my job. A lot. I work with great people and I have an awesome boss that's been very good to me, and the rest of the employees. But let's face it. Some days I'd just rather be out fishing. Or backpacking. Or fishing and backpacking.
On any given week day, between the hours of eight a.m. and five p.m., you'll likely find me in the production room at Xytronix R & D, Inc., putting printed circuit boards into a machine that automatically places tiny capacitors and resistors in their proper places, then loading those boards into a big oven that heats the boards up to 265 degrees Celsius to melt the solder and solder those tiny parts to the board. Then I go through every board, and look at them under a microscope to inspect the solder joints on all the parts.
It can be pretty monotonous at times. But I still enjoy it. I'm a photographer by education, and I'm working Ina field in which a degree in electrical engineering would be more beneficial. And yet, I've been immensely blessed (sometimes undeservedly so) with a good solid job.
That earns me the money to go fishing.
As much as I love to fish, and need to do so, I also love to work. Working balances out the fishing and backpacking, and the fishing and backpacking balances out the working.

Fishing

Fishing. It's something I need to do. It's also a want, but, like hiking, slacklining, and backpacking, and to a certain extent, climbing, it's something I need. I need it to keep me sane. Not that I'm saying I should be admitted to an asylum.
It's the running of the water. A slow current where the river is totally silent, and I'm left with the sounds of bird calls, or a slight breeze through the grass and trees. A slow riffle and it's trickle. Raging rapids. A towering waterfall. They are all some of my favorite sounds.
There's a sort of moving meditation to wading through the river. To casting a loop of line with a fly at the end. The movement of the rod, and the fly landing lightly on the water.
When I'm on the river, I'm able to clear my mind, and either leave it clear and not think about anything in particular, or spend my time on the water thinking and pondering over things that may be weighing on my mind.
I always tell people I don't need to catch fish to have fun fishing. It may seem cheesy, but I don't fish to catch fish. At least not all the time. But it is an excellent benefit.

Tying

Hi, I'm Andy and I'm a fly-tie-oholic.
Or more accurately, a fly-tying-material-oholic.
I love tying flies, probably just as much as I love throwing the things to fish. And I love scouting the Internet and fly shops for new fly patterns to tie. And along with that, comes spending lots of time, and even more money collecting new feathers, and threads, and fur, little strands of rubber to tie up that size 1/0 Geezus Lizard fly, or that size 28 midge.
My desk is not very tidy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. At any given time, it looks like a few chickens, a deer, an elk and a sewing shop exploded. But somehow, I manage to find that size 22 grizzly saddle hackle feather or the extra piece of .006" gold wire I need. I guess it's sort of organized chaos.
Tying is a good way for me to unwind and spend time doing something fishing related if I can't be on the river. It's a huge stress reliever for me after a long day at work. I can sit for a whole Saturday wrapping thread around little pieces of metal that will hopefully end up in a fishes mouth, and not high up in a tree branch. I love making things, and I love puzzles, so figuring out how to tie a fly I've never seen before combines both.
When a fish takes that fly I tied, it brings just that much more satisfaction and enjoyment to my time spent on the river.

Current

cur·rent \ˈkər-ənt, ˈkə-rənt\

noun
1 a : the part of a fluid body (as air or water) moving continuously in a certain direction
b : the swiftest part of a stream
c : a tidal or nontidal movement of lake or ocean water
d : flow marked by force or strength
2 a : a tendency or course of events that is usually the result of an interplay of forces
b : a prevailing mood : strain
3 : a flow of electric charge; also : the rate of such flow

I deal with current every day. We all do. See definitions 1, 2, and 3. We hear about the current trends in fashion, electrical current flows through every gadget we use, from iPods to refrigerators, and as fishermen, of all kinds, be it fly or bait/lure, our success depends on our ability to read the current of the river, lake, or ocean we happen to be in. One section of river might have a pretty constant, even flow, while another might have several micro currents, all fighting to destroy that perfect dead drift of the fly that picky trout like to see. Pocket water presents all sorts of changing currents.
That is one aspect of the sport that I just love: trying to figure out what's happening on the surface, and below it, and then casting my line out there, and hoping I read things right. If I did, then I know if there's a fish there, I have a good chance of provoking a strike. If I didn't, or if I make a poor cast, and that fly drags at all, then I know that fish is likely laughing and mocking. When I've read the river right, and I'm prospecting for trout, even if I don't hook into anything, I come away satisfied. If, on the other hand, I see a rising fish, and don't get my tuck cast just right, or screw up my mend, not much on the river frustrates me more.

Home Waters

Home is where the heart is. We've all heard it. By that definition, I think I have at least half a dozen homes, from Idaho Falls, to Rexburg, to Island Park, to the Canary Islands, to right here in Logan.
So, what is my "home water"?
I learned to fly fish on the Falls River, beneath an old railroad bridge. Just in that one short stretch of river, there are several types of water to fish. It's nice and wide and has a nice shallow section that kids can wade pretty easily. I have a lot of fond memories of that place. Crossing the railroad bridge that's about 50 feet above the water, on railroad ties that were spread far enough apart that me and my brothers thought we would surely fall to our death if we made one false step. Every time we went there, we would pull an old railroad spike, or some other rusted piece of metal that once held the rails on the bridge, and take it home as a souvenir. I remember one of my brothers waving his rod back and forth like he was trying to fend off a few hundred dozen birds from Alfred Hitchcock's movie.
I also spent time fishing on the South Fork of the Snake River. I remember wading through water cress and other aquatic plants that hid the bottom of the river and all the deep holes that seemed to want to swallow me whole.
I remember my brother snagging his crayfish fly in a tree on the banks of the Madison River in Yellowstone. My late grandfather was on that trip. In fact, I think he was the one that bought that crayfish in a fly shop in West Yellowstone.
Now, by the definition of "home" as being one's geographic location, my "home waters" are the Logan and the Blacksmith Fork Rivers. I've really grown to love these two rivers, especially the Blacksmith Fork. They're both pretty narrow rivers, both are really overgrown, and there's very little calm water on either, though the Blacksmith Fork is a little slower than the Logan. I've fished them so much, that when I return to the rivers I fished as a young teenager, I almost forget the tactics I have to use on bigger, wider rivers.
I've lived in Orem, and Salt Lake City, and I didn't really feel inclined to claim either as Home, or call myself a Utahan. I've lived here in Logan for just under four years now, and though I still hesitate to call myself a Utahan, Logan is one of the places I call Home, and if I ever leave, I'm sure it's a place my heart will be.

Every Day in May

Chadd VanZanten over at How Small a Trout, the president of the Cache Anglers Trout Unlimited chapter issued a challenge recently to bloggers to post every day in may. So I'm going to accept that challenge, and try to post every day this month. Chadd included a list in his challenge, and being not particularly original, I'll be using that list for topics for posts. Unless I get some grand idea.
I know this blog started out primarily as a place that I would post photographs, but I've also posted about other ventures, as I've gotten back into fly fishing, it's branched pretty heavily into the fishing world. At least when I've posted anything at all. Over the next thirty-one days, I'll be sharing what I've been up to this winter, why I fish, why I tie, why I build my own rods, and there may be a few shameless plugs for my leaders interspersed.
Here's to May!

Little Bear River

Today I finally made it down to the Little Bear River at the very southern end of Cache Valley. I've been wanting to make it down there for some fishing for a while now, and I thought today was as good a day as any.

The Little Bear is the smallest "river" I've fished, and the fish were easily spooked. I spent a lot of time on my hands and knees, crawling from hole to hole to avoid being seen by the fish. Despite all the stealthy precautions I took, I still spooked all the fish, but I still had a lot of fun sneaking my way through the water, trying to hook into the finicky fish. After about three hours of crawling, casting, and changing fly after fly, a light hatch of tiny midges broke, and the fish started rising, and I managed to hook into a feisty little brown trout. The the sun went behind a cloud and the fish and the midges were done.

After I'd had enough of the fishing, I got my camera out and photographed some of the spots that caught my eye as I made my way up the river.









Island Park Scout Camp

Last weekend I had the opportunity to go to my Home of Island Park Scout Camp and spend three days there with my family. I got to help out at my favorite areas of camp: C.O.P.E. and Climbing.


That area of camp has a view of one of the best skylines in the world:


Thursday was pretty much just full of belaying climbers and rapellers at the climbing tower, and generally having a good time at the area I used to work at.
That evening some storm clouds rolled in, that didn't really do much, other than cool things off a little, and make for a nice sky to photograph.


On Friday, Fall River Electric delivered and set two utility poles for one of the Low C.O.P.E. elements that had to be retired until the old poles were replaced. We worked on that for a while, and then went down to lunch. When we got back, storm clouds were rolling in over Sawtell along the west rim of the caldera where Island Park sits.


We watched the clouds above us swirl in several different directions, and the clouds approach from the northwest.


We finally had to evacuate the group that was going through Low C.O.P.E., and run down to the lodge to escape the torrent. Just as we were closing in on the lodge, pea size hail began to fall, and after five minutes it turned to rain, then after 15 to 20 minutes of rain, the storm would let up for a few minutes then hail, then rain then subside.


The storm finally let up enough for me to go check my tent and make sure that I wouldn't be sleeping in a puddle that night, and to run to my car and get my real camera instead of using my phone. All in all I had about 10 minutes before a second set of clouds moved in and dropped more rain on us.


It was the biggest and most torrential storm I'd seen up there, probably ever. At least during the summer.
That evening, the remaining clouds made for a gorgeous sunset.


After everyone had left on Saturday, my family had the entire camp to ourselves, and we got to play around at the waterfront, and I got to cast my new 8 weight fly rod I'd just finished building (a post about that is forthcoming), and we cooked dinner over a campfire. Sunday came too quickly and catapulted me back into civilization, forcing me to bid farewell to my Home.


Bear Lake

Today I went for a drive up Logan Canyon to see how high the river was, and maybe wet my fly line. It didn't take long to see that 1300 cfs in the Logan is definitely too high, muddy, and fast to even think about swinging a fly. There are a few pools here and there that might be holding fish, but it's too dangerous to get to them. From the looks of things, it's going to be mid July before that river calms down enough to really be able to fish.
As is often the case, I kept driving further and further up the canyon, because I just "have to check out this one last spot." Before I knew it, I was heading down the opposite side of the pass, going down into Garden City. I thought since I'd gone as far as I had, I may as well check out the water level of Bear Lake as well. It's been a very long time (probably longer than I can remember) since I've seen that lake as high as it is, and from reports that I've read it's not even done filling up.



Can Winter Be Done?

I was okay with the rain we were getting today, but it soon turned to snow. By the time I got off work, there was a fresh coating of the white stuff on the ground. I'd left this morning planning on going photographing a bit this evening, and at 5 o'clock, I was still set on that plan despite the snow that had fallen and was still continuing to come down. I didn't come away with as many photographs as I would have liked, since I had to fight snow getting on my lens almost the whole time, but I did get these two that I really like (especially the second):