Supporting the Spawn

If Bow can think of one time of year he dreads running into other anglers, it's during fall spawn. It both surprises and intrigues him how much variance exists with fishermens' feelings. Spawn is a time where many trout move into shallow water to reproduce. They are fixed in one position, acting aggressively towards anything threatening the nest. The easily visible, "strike anything" trout are quite vulnerable and thus more appealing to some anglers. Others however, find it immoral.

Bow started fishing at a young age and remembers different phases he went through where certain habits were slowly outgrown. At age 9 he dreamed of such a situation. During that stage, even a glimpse from a fish would have made Bow's day. One spring day when he was 12, Bow walked to a familiar fishing hole in Oregon. To his amazement it was filled with pairing trout. He hid behind bushes upstream and swung a Wooly Worm. He was astounded when all 30 swarmed to slam the fly. While unhooking the first, the trout milted, Bow having no idea what happened. He caught many more from the hole, careful to not repeat his actions from last time. He went back home, did some research and found what the trout were doing. He knew of this behavior, but didn't think trout would brook so much risk in doing so. After hitting them hard, Bow let the stream rest a few weeks until the trout returned to their old runs. He moved to Utah at 18 and fished throughout summer, hearing blue-ribbon promises at The Provo. Although the river was packed and fishermen not always cordial, Bow had a great time watching and learning. Summer transitioned to fall and Bow noticed a change in both fish and fishermens' behavior. Trout paired up shallow, and other anglers seemed more interested in the end of Bow's line. Most walked by, happily discussing the good fishing. A few others looked at Bow's egg patterns, threw a caustic glare and walked down the bank. Puzzled by the negativity, Bow asked the boys at Western Rivers to explain. They described spawn as a good time for fish to rest from heavy pressure. People become very defensive about the fly, location, and methods used to "pick the low-hanging fruit". This defensiveness is derived from the stark difference in catch ability trout exhibit. Bow initially wondered why other upset fishermen were out there to begin. It was explained these anglers believe trout can be fished for if certain flies/methods are used. For example: those anglers used everything except egg patterns, not fishing anywhere near beds. When asked, everyone at Western had a different take: some believed only the use of Glo-Worms was wrong. The hook of a Glo-Worm is so large it can easily snag trout, even penetrating the brain when hooking smaller ones.

Fishing behind beds was acceptable to some, whereas others believed in staying clear of any spawning activity. A few found egg patterns acceptable, others stating the only moral way was fishing a dry fly. Hearing so many viewpoints from wiser fishermen than Bow, he wasn't sure what to think. Rivers like the Provo are grossly over-populated, so sticking these trout all day wouldn't be of detriment to the population. Bow instead focused intrinsically, reflecting on a quote, "fishing for trout on their spawning beds is like you making love and getting slapped in the face with a cheeseburger". This made him think of all other times during the year these trout are available, and provide a greater sense of accomplishment when caught. Bow discussed the issue with Rico, looking for a less disdainful perspective. "Being a bass fisherman, each year around mid April I headed to a small pond near town several times a week. I walked around the pond scanning the shoreline for bedded females. As the weather and water temperature warmed, I began to see more and more bass. The first I saw in the shallows were small males preparing nests. A few days later I saw the same males guarding their nests, accompanied by large females in three to four feet of water. During this period bass were easy targets. I simply took a large jig and crawled it through the bed, imitating a bluegill/crawdad attempting to steal eggs.  Both male and female bass did their best to pick up the jig and move it out of their nest. Much research has been done on taking bass from their nests, and whether or not it disturbs their mating cycle. It is believed pulling a bass from its nest is harmless, often times tournaments are held around this period. Years passed since I fished bedded bass and am beginning to feel guilt for my actions. Simply put: the large female makes herself vulnerable for the good of her young. Laying them shallow maintains proper temperature and sunlight, and she stays with them until they can survive on their own. I now feel out of respect to the fish, nests should be left alone."

After reflecting on thoughts of his own and others, Bow found middle ground. Instead of retiring the rod for a few months, Bow decided to target Cutthroat and Tiger trout. Cutthroat are active during fall to fatten up for winter, and Tigers go through spawning motions(including severe aggression)despite sterility. Bow personally doesn't mind fishing non-spawn trout in a large river as the Provo, but instead chooses the path of least resistance. If Rico and Bow can impart advice to assuage any guilt, it would be: fish however you like, whenever you like, and wherever you like, maintaining respect for others, the land, and of course, the trout.

Tyrannosaurus Tigers-Part 2

Rico and Bow settled in after a remarkable day of fishing. The sun was settling in the trees, and the two made their way back to set up camp. As twilight set in, Bow noticed gentle dapping at the surface and the occasional swirl. Rico was still paddling back in his tube, and also noticed the commotion. He tied on a size 24 green midge pattern and began casting to the rises. He was first ignored, but tweaked his presentation until he started steadily pulling in youthful Cutts. Bow still had his Spider tied on, and focused on larger swirls. It was difficult to anticipate the direction, as the bulges and splashes were random. He cast to vegetation edges, bringing the fly back with slow twitches until he noticed a wake from behind the fly. He felt a hard jerk and set the hook, only to have it whip past his face. Collecting his mistake from the bushes, Bow tried again, desperately wanting to see how big these cruising fish were. He saw another swirl and cast a foot next to it. The wake turned in the flys direction, but again Bow put the Spider back in the bushes. Rico was doing well not laughing at Bow's behavior, pulling in even more Cutthroats. By the time Bow got his gear out, the sun was down and the activity had stalled. Admitting temporary defeat, Bow walked back and set up camp. The two relaxed in the usual fashion: seasoned rice cooking over a camp burner, sipping wine from the bottle, and enjoying the inevitable discussion of religion. With full bellies and a solid buzz, they retired to their sleeping bags for the night.

                                         

The next day came with frost on the tip of Bows nose. He arose to see the lake again bubbling with activity. Putting on his slippers, Bow grabbed his rod and crept to the waters edge. Minutes passed with only rings from smaller trout rising. Keeping a close eye to the weed edge, he noticed a bulge and cast beyond it. He brought the spider back with a few small strips until another bulge came, and Bow's line went taught. Instantly, the fish buried itself until Bow could only feel a faint tug under the amassed weight. Trusting the 0X fluorocarbon and hopping out to a few rocks, Bow managed to free the fish enough to turn its head into open water. Expecting an exhausted Tiger, the trout instead ripped line from the reel, fighting a few more minutes. Surprised by a solid fight, Bow wasn't sure what to expect. A colorful Cutt greeted him, flashing its bright red slits with each breath. Bow cleared some of the weeds and let the fish back to recover. A quick high five, and the two started up the fire for breakfast.

They relished the last of their bacon fried rice and prepared for a promising day. Rico hopped in his tube, and Bow down the bank. Fishing a few minutes, the two noticed a bit of murkiness in the water. With the absence of excellent morning fishing, Bow walked over to the outlet and saw a great deal of detritus built up, blocking much of the water. Bow began removing it, instantly noticing an increased flow. A few minutes passed and the flowing water began to clear, bringing with it rolling snails, wriggling chironomids, and a few fat scuds. Bow continued, pausing to loose the scuds into the water. As he grabbed a large, dripping heap, a wave of water splashed his face and the entirety of his vest. Falling back, Bow was in shock with what happened. He looked in front of the outlet grate: three wide Tigers and a Cutt were picking up food as it came, completely ignoring Bow. Occasionally one would turn and attack the other, creating bulges and splashes in the shallow water. With the amount of work Bow had put in stalking these fish, it took some time to get used to a herd of 22" trout two feet from him.

 

Resisting temptation, Bow slowly backed away, knowing the inevitable guilt would overwhelm him from high-sticking these trout. As he walked along, there was a distinct dark stretch in the bottom of the lake, appearing to be a creek channel. With the improved visibility, Bow also noticed a submerged log-roughly two and a half feet-resting on the side of the creek channel. Seeing it as good cover, Bow cast the spider and let it sink in front of the log. As it was stripped past, the log proceeded to turn and slowly fade into the dark of the channel. Bows heart stopped, the reality hitting of what that log actually was.


After fishing a few hours with no success, Bow headed over to the inlet to fish the same area the Tiger was caught yesterday. Fishing up and down the length of the bank several times, Bow got strikes, but couldn't seem to pick up any fish with his spider. He switched to a still-fished chironomid and midge emerger presentation. Scoping for rises, Bow tried to lead the fish about 10 feet. He picked up a few small Cutts, but nothing big arose. He put down a long cast, at this point aiming randomly. As the flies landed, a huge splash erupted and Bows line went tight. Surprised, but not caught off guard, Bow applied pressure and prepared for a long battle. Spitting line off the reel, the trout dove to deeper water. As each second passed, Bow became increasingly nervous: the big Tiger from yesterday bent a 2/0 hook to a 90 degree angle, and today he was pulling against size 14 and 20 light wire hooks. He let up on the drag, giving the trout another 20 foot run. Fortunately the fish tired soon after, giving Bow a chance to close the 60 foot gap. As it came in, he could clearly see the vibrant transition of green to orange: another gorgeous Tiger. Bow removed the flies and noticed the tippet connecting the two had snapped, leaving only the chironomid stuck to a small piece of skin on the outside of its jaw. He took a quick pic and released the Tiger, hands shaking from adrenaline.

At this point the sun shone well above the peaks, and the fishing slowed thereafter. Bow rendezvoused with Rico at the outlet cove, still tubing and with fair success. Rico missed one as he was talking to Bow, shooting the length of line behind him. As he prepared to cast, his rod bent and a trout jettisoned to the surface. Both laughing, they decided that was good fish to tie up the day. The two headed home feeling accomplishment, pride and knowing: if there is a meaning to life, that trip was it.

Tyrannosaurus Tigers-Part 1

    Around the fly fishing community, Autumn is peak time to hit some of the best, most controversial fishing across Utah. Water levels are lower, fish are fattening up, and many have started the spawn. With productive fishing everywhere, Rico and Bow wanted to hit somewhere with larger fish. With the desire to avoid crowds, they headed out in search of Tigers. This subspecies of trout/char is known to become extremely aggressive, brightly-colored, and kype-jawed during the spawn. This, coupled with faster growth rates and sterility creates the perfect scenario to hunt Fall fish without coming under scrutiny of other anglers.
                                  

    4am came quickly after three hours of sleep, but no coffee was needed. Bow packed his gear and headed to pick up Rico. The sun was far from up, but Rico's smile could be seen from his driveway. Rico decided to bring his float tube this time, anticipating the trout to be deep most of the day. They headed on their way, discussing what they heard from fellow anglers, and speculating where the Tigers would be feeding.

    A few long hours and dirt roads came and went before they finally pulled up to the lake. The sun was barely creeping over the mountain top when Bow and Rico were able to make first cast. Throwing big streamers, Rico and Bow imitated the smaller trout present in the lake. Within the first ten minutes Bow hooked into a Cutt, and shortly thereafter heard an odd noise followed by Rico's laughter. Focused on his own fishing, Bow headed down the bank looking for a rise. Nothing seemed to be active, so Bow headed to the inlet to meet up with Rico. Upon asking about the laughter, Rico pulled out his phone to show a fiery, long-jawed tiger he hooked on a brown bugger. This was Rico's first big Tig, and Bow was happy to see the excitement he felt when he landed his in May.  

                       

    The two headed down the bank, seeing subsurface swirls. There were also a pair of tubers cruising along the shoreline. Upon seeing Rico and Bow, they paddled quickly to hit the spot first. Not liking this, Bow prepared to cast at the tubers, indicating space was needed. Rico instead started conversation with the two, getting info, and telling them we would wait for them to fish through. Bow was not happy about this, but kept his mouth shut as he walked down the shore from where they were fishing. The tubers pulled out two smaller Cutts as they passed by, further increasing Bows blood pressure. When all was finally clear, Bow cast a Platte River Spider, imitating a small cutthroat. Retrieving his fly in short strips, he paused, hearing the whoops of the tubers pulling in more Cutts. He began again with an especially hard jerk, only to have the fly hit something solid and unmoving. With an aggravated sigh, Bow tried to free his fly, until the snag started pulling line from Bows hand and breached the surface. Hearing the loud splash as the trout landed, all eyes went to Bows bent-in-half seven weight. Hoping a good hookset was made, Bow fought anxiously as Rico scrambled over. Seeing the fish's size first, Rico told Bow he would jump in at the word. Several agonizing minutes passed until the trout finally rolled over and came in. A long, lightning-sided Tiger greeted Bow, with the biggest teeth he had seen on a trout. The Tiger looked exhausted, so Bow took ten to make sure the fish would swim away under its own power. Reeling up to check his fly, Bow saw the hook bent, sticking out from the feathered body. Retiring the fly, Bow re-tied and continued to fish the rest of the weekend.

     Bow was entirely shocked he hooked and landed this trout. Once the excitement wore off, he realized this trout may not have come to be had Rico not been there to stop him fishing in front of the other people. Maybe good Karma, or just a little bit of luck, Bow holds this trout as testament to polite and respectful actions towards other fishermen, regardless of circumstance.

Big Patience in Little Cottonwood

 There really isn't any discrete way to tell when you've become a good fisherman. One day you walk up and pin every fish in the river, the next, you can't seem to sight fish an eight-incher. So much of day to day fishing relies on variables we as fishermen have no control over. When the day is almost over and there is nothing to show for it, questions start popping up. Was there a cold front that passed through? Did this stretch get hit by someone ten minutes prior? Did that child walking on the path just spend five minutes throwing rocks at rising trout? So much of these unknowns can be all but mentally overwhelming when the fisherman can't seem to connect. Such was the case at Little Cottonwood. Rico had never fished up the canyon, and Bow wanted a taste of gin clear water, tall pines, and big granite boulders. He was excited to see how the runoff changed the structure of the stream, looking for new and different pockets. They tied on size 18 Humpys and Royal Whulffs, imitating the grasshoppers and ants surrounding the stream.  

With the water low and clear, they approached a shallow stretch downstream and away from the bank. Looking for any movement, they finally spotted a slow bulge in the surface: a plump rainbow taking an ant from the surface. Bow made first cast and buttered the Humpy down the middle of a small run. Frozen with anticipation, they watched the bushy dry bob downstream without a single rise. Bow cast again, but still, nothing. On his fourth try he was able to whip it under an over hanging bush, rewarded with a subtle sip of his fly. Reacting just a moment too late, Bow missed the trout and gave Rico a go. Keeping a low profile, he crept a bit upstream to the top of the run, placing his fly in the pocket water adjacent to a boulder. A few anxious seconds passed by, when a plump rainbow came up and snatched his fly. Once landed, Rico and Bow marveled over how fat the trout was, despite hearing the stream was unhealthy. They continued up, hitting pocket after pocket, run after run, but the trout just didn't seem to be there. Looking in the usual and unusual places, Bow took his time walking upstream. He spotted a small hole in the shade of a cottonwood, and sat down to observe. Along the back side, water slowly picked up speed before it cascaded over a few granite stones, making it a smooth, rounded overflow. Bow looked a little longer to see sporadic bulges-but no fish- in this smooth part of the water. His trout sense tingling, Bow went to his knees to get a few casts in. The water below made a drag free drift almost impossible, but once he managed three seconds, a thick, pot-bellied Rainbow swallowed his Humpy. Feeling much better landing his first fish, Bow continued upstream, taking his time. When he took a break to meet up with Rico, his fish count was one, compared to Rico's three. They continued up, but Bow headed into the woods to get a different view. Feeling too much pride to ask, Bow looked on as Rico hit the same holes he had prior. Rico stayed at each hole longer, throwing cast after cast. With half the holes hit, he would end up landing or rising a trout after 10 minutes. They continued on, looking for familiar holes from last season to hold more sizable Brookies. A stretch of three deep pockets appeared, again they looked for signs of trout. A few minutes went by without a rise, so Rico and Bow leapfrogged each pocket. When they met at the final hole, neither had pulled any fish downstream. A little flustered, they joked at their skill, or seemingly lack thereof. They came to the end of their path and spotted a few feeding Brookies under the surface. Staying very aware of their profile and fly placement, they were each able to fool one more fish before calling it a day.
 They headed back, letting intuition and the smell of burning brakes guide them to the road. Despite scratching their heads from seemingly missed opportunities, both Bow and Rico were pleased to see the health of the stream in a stable, prosperous state. Bow read a number of passages on the Little Cottonwood, painting a morose picture. The canyon suffers from the tailings of mining from the early 1900's, as well as hugely fluctuating water temperatures and levels. Despite this, all trout caught that day were exceptionally plump, and spotted in high numbers throughout the stream. It is considered a "put and take" fishery, as it is stocked with smaller Rainbows. However, Rico spotted trout 1.5" and under in some of the slack water to the side of the stream. Trout this size aren't mature enough to be planted, indicating the trout are replenishing their own population. The current condition of this stream is much better than expected, with many tubby trout taking terrestrials with alacrity. However, the nature of the streams size and location make it extremely sensitive to angling. This in mind, Bow only ventures through this area once a year in September. Also being the time of Oktoberfest at The Bird, they wasted no time spending the rest of their day deeper in the Canyon, for a cold stein and a game of Cornhole.

"Rain, hail, sleet or snow, up the mountain I will go."- Bow

The weather was questionable to proceed with Friday's plans for an overnight trip to Red Pine Lake and the idea of heading elsewhere for the weekend briefly crossed my mind after viewing the weather forecast.  A strong storm from the south was scheduled to hit the Salt Lake valley sometime Friday afternoon and remain through the weekend.  I informed Bow of the forecast around noon and asked if we needed an alternate plan but he simply replied, "Rain, hail, sleet or snow up the mountain I will go."  At this response I understood his determination to proceed with the plans to chase high alpine trout.
The weather was clear when we arrived at the White Pine Trail Head but showed signs that things were about to change.  With the nights gear on our back we began our hike to the lake and towards the storm.  The rain held off for most of the hike and the cool temperatures made the trek very enjoyable.  With only 1.5 miles remaining, rain began to fall and continued through our arrival and camp search.  We settled on a site on the east side of the lake with adequate cover and over 200 ft. away from the water as required by the Forest Service and Watershed rules.
Because of our camp's location was higher on the ridge we started the next day at Upper Red Pine Lake.  I had been informed that this lake holds a steady population of large Bonneville Cutthroat and after seeing the lake's depth and large amounts of scuds and caddis I understand how this high alpine lake could sustain large fish.
The storm held off for the period of time we fished at the upper lake but high winds made it difficult to cast and locate fish.  We ventured down the drainage to Lower Red Pine Lake to continue our search.  Arriving at the inlet, our hopes were high and we quickly began casting but the rain began to fall. Our efforts resulted in several strikes but none landed..  With our gear quickly saturating and temperatures dropping we made the painful decision to leave the lake and its illusive Bonneville Cutthroat.  We were a little disappointed with the fact that the conditions kept us from pursuing the trout but we understood the risks when we left the trailhead and continued for the sake of adventure.
On the way back to the trailhead the rain briefly stopped and we noticed a small outlet stream at the bottom of the canyon.  We set down our packs to have a look in hopes of spotting a trout.  As we approached a pool, several scattered and we quickly unpacked our rods and set up to fish.  We split up and Bow headed downstream with a midge pattern and I upstream with a caddis pattern.  Each pocket fished provided a strike and several cutthroats and one brook were landed. 

Up Sweet Creek

Most outdoorsman similar to Rico and Bow like to think they're completely prepared walking into nature with a fly rod, backpack, and plenty of ambition. Generally everything works out, with nothing more than a few bruises and scratches suffered from the trip. There are those rare occasions where mother nature gets bored and decides to throw a mix of wild animals and inclement weather at the fisherman. One such case happened to Bow and friend Cody. Late last October in the backwoods of eastern Utah, many were out hitting the last of the elk season. Cody found a stretch of stream during one of his youth group adventures earlier that year. He saw slow curves and serene holes, tipping him off to big fish. He wasn't equipped with his rod, but took note of the spot. Bow was fortunate enough to receive an invite, and they headed out that weekend. This being an experimental spot, their female counterparts joined the adventure. As the red rock turned to granite, a look of nostalgic excitement came over Cody's face. He pointed to a pullout and they hurried to get the gear out of the car. Every five seconds was a hasty glance at the water until the rods were up and the flies on. Bow tied on a bushy, black bunny leech, adding a pinch of lead at the head. At this point the girls knew what to expect, realizing camp would either be set up by them, or in the dark upon Cody and Bows return.

They slowly made their approach, and with the nod of his head, Bow signaled Cody to make the first cast. Bow looked on not knowing what to expect, when a flash of gold came from the depths. Cody's line went tight, his reel whined, and his rod bent in a beautiful arch: the first fish was on. The fight was kept deep until Cody was able to get his line over a submerged log. He was rewarded with a beautiful golden cutthroat, looking as though it had never been caught before. With two big grins and a high five, they crept down to the next bend. Bow unhooked his leech and made a long cast, letting the fly sink. Three small strips later he felt the rod jerk from his hands as a Cutt came from below. Bow fought the fish to the shallows only to see three others following close behind. Cody and Bow looked at each other, wondering how many fish could populate such a small stream. From there they leap-frogged each bend, pulling out eager Cutts with each cast. The sun was almost set, so they headed back up looking forward to warm tents and a calm night.

Bow woke up with the hair standing on the back of his neck. Still pitch black outside, he looked out and saw five large, black objects surrounding the campsite. They weren't making any movement, but Bow wasn't any less tense. After several, eternal minutes, one of the black objects inched closer to his tent. Bow reached for his knife and calmly woke up his girl next to him. Quieting her whimpers, he assured her things would be fine. Ready to unzip and scare whatever was outside, a familiar smell hit him. Something very similar to manure wafted through the tent, confusing yet comforting Bow at the same time. The large black object revealed itself to be none other than a dairy cow. Bow unclenched his knife, and laughed a little as he caught his breath. And although taking the better part of an hour, he was able to fall back asleep for the night.

The next day came with much anticipation as Cody and Bow rigged up for round two. Despite the warm weather the previous day, there had been rain, and frost on the tents as they woke up. Undeterred, they rigged up and made a game plan. Giving the original stretch  a break, they headed upstream and split the radios with the girls. The same promise of downstream held true on the venture up: every hole filled with Cutt after Cutt. They neared the end of a fishable section when static started through the radio. Muffled cries came through, and Cody made out the word "moose". Realizing the seriousness of the situation, they reeled up and ran back down to camp. The girls were huddled behind a tree, but there was nothing else around. Looking at the them perturbed, Bow asked why they were crying. They pointed to the ground, then the creek. Two sets of large moose tracks ran through the campsite not two feet from the fire pit, and the creek was muddied right where they led. A bull moose and  cow  had been spooked from the gunfire and sprinted through as the girls were cooking. After things settled, the trout called Cody and Bow back upstream. Landing two more, they heard the girls again over the radio. Not hesitating, they ran back expecting to divert the attention of angry moose. When they came to the camp there were no moose, but instead a pacing black bear across the creek.

The bear seemed curious of what was cooking, rather than those cooking it. He wouldn't cross the creek, but made everyone afraid to even break eye contact. The bear became more restless, and Bow thought on any experience he might have with this situation. He knew black bears were generally skittish to aggresive behavior, and he remembered his girl brought her .380 just in case. He had Cody yell at the bear while he quietly made his way toward the tent. The bear stopped pacing, with a dead-lock on Cody. Bow hurried to ready the pistol and chamber a round. He took a few steps toward the creek, trying to fight the shake from his aim. As much as Bow didn't want to shoot a curious animal, he didn't want to be in the newspaper with his three friends. Steadying the barrel he took a few more steps to the waters edge, minimizing the number of shots necessary. When he and Cody made it to this point, the bear put it's head down, paused, and slowly backed away. There was no hurry, just a slow meander away from the creek, as if nothing happened. Shaking, Bow scanned the area, finally ejecting the round. After calming down, Cody and Bow decided to bring both gun and girls this time upstream.

They broke through the brush with a little more hesitancy, but the fear made the fishing that much more desirable. There were smaller holes and a few shallow riffles, but no possible honey holes in sight. They trekked over dead fall and through marsh, keeping an eye far downstream. Before long, they ended up in a small clearing with dark water and a beaver dam. The two looked at each other, knowing this hole would make the trip. Paying his respect, Bow again gave Cody first cast. Not two seconds into his retrieve, Cody had a jolting hit, but couldn't keep it pinned. A few more casts and an excited woop from Cody signaled a big fish. One of the most exciting 45 second periods of the trip, Bow did everything he could to direct the girls, aid Cody in the fight, and finally get a picture. The biggest smile Bow had ever seen from Cody happened as he held up a gorgeous, golden, kype-jawed Cutt. And despite a tinge of jealously, Bow was ecstatic to see this fish pulled out. Cody released the trout, watching it saunter back to its hole.

The two landed a few more fish, then headed back to camp before any animals joined them again. They were all a little wary when they broke down camp, even jumping when chipmunks scurried by. Mother nature gave Cody and Bow a reality check they would remember, embellish, and tell to all their friends. They would forever realize: wilderness is a lot closer than you think.

ATST 2

One of the more important techniques to learn, reach casting is quite useful. This cast not only involves reaching, but angling with respect to you body. This is used for difficult cross-currents, overhanging trees, and drifting around large boulders.

2. Reach Casting: The standard cast is parallel to the direction the fisherman is facing, with line shooting horizontally, and falling vertically. When trying to avoid an obstacle or ensure a drag free drift, often times the cast needs to be made at the right angle to get the fly in the feeding lane. This portion of the reach cast  is easy once there is comfort with the basic cast, only requiring practice. The second part of this cast has to do with  line turnover. Depending on how much power is put into the cast, the line can make a "c", placing the fly around an obstacle, or avoid line drifting over the fish.