Tag Archives: Ross Reels

FLY RODS FOR A GREAT CAUSE

I wanted so badly to land a great-big beautiful lake-run steelhead, brown or salmon on the rod. It was Day 2 of our weekend on the Salmon River with the veterans from the Ft. Drum Chapter of Project Healing Waters. Rob Burke, the head of the Chapter had fished most of the day before with the rod – but with no luck. So now, after a morning of countless roll-casts, drifts, swings, fly changes, weight changes, heavy hits and no fish to-hand, the clock was winding down on my last 15-minutes or so on the water.

Then the hammer fell. I thought I had tied into the entire Salmon River itself.  Ho-lee crap.

***

Larry Snyder is a Vietnam veteran (’67) and a long-standing member of the Denver Chapter of Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing. But, like anyone who volunteers for a cause they’re passionate about, the tough realization that there is only so much time and money he could afford to give just didn’t sit right.

So, with the help of his friend – fellow Army veteran and custom rod builder Terry Johnson – they came up with an idea to build 100% American-made, custom fly rods specifically for Project Healing Waters. The rods would be a matte finish with wraps that signified the distinct colors of each branch of service: black/gold for Army, red/gold for Marines, navy blue/white for Navy, blue/silver for Air Force and blue/red for Coast Guard.

The national PHWFF organization gave Larry permission to offer these exclusive rods on his site – Flyfishing Crazy – and both of the men make a generous donation of 20% plus $20 to the organization with the sale of each rod.

http://www.flickr.com/slideShow/index.gne?group_id=&user_id=68121956@N06&set_id=72157628075274619&tags=ProjectHealingWatersFlyFishing,T.L.Johnsoncustomflyrods
Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Knowing that I’m prior service (Army) and now involved with the Canandaigua Chapter of PHW, Kyle Perkins, of Compleat Thought fame, had connected the dots between Larry and I. Kyle had just tried out Larry’s 4wt. Army rod on Boulder Creek outside of Denver and was duly impressed. I mentioned the Salmon River trip and Larry generously offered to have a prototype rod sent to me to try out– a 9′ 6wt. 4-piece (691-4) all-purpose, wrapped in BDU colors (Olive w/NCP Olive accent) with a black anodized reel seat, fighting butt and full wells grip. I was impressed by it’s look right out of the rod tube. Big fan of the matte finish.

For the Salmon River event, I paired it with my Ross Evolution #2, SA Mastery Textured Series Magnum Taper line and Airflo 5′ Fast Sinking PolyLeader. I was originally going to fish the new Razorstrike line from Flytooth that I’ve been casting all summer, until I realized at the river that it’s a 5wt. line and  just not heavy enough to cheat it on the medium-fast rod.

With my opportunity to fish the rod coming on Day 2, and fresh off a successful Day 1, I was pretty confident that I was going to be reporting Mission Accomplished by morning’s end. Well, I cast black/pink egg-sucking leeches, cone-head streamers in orange/yellow and blue/black, cheese and orange yarn eggs, and goo bugs in powder blue, orange and pink. Essentially, I exhausted the bullpen.

That said, even with the occasional additional weight of split-shot, the rod had the backbone for a solid 30 – 40 foot two-handed roll cast and mend. Plus, when there was room and I could work out a nice lingering, poetic, weight-laden backcast, I did. The rod felt 8wt-esque, with just a bit more attention to my hauls and a bit slower casting stroke. I’d be interested in trying it out with some big hair poppers for bass. Very, very nice.

Another thing that’s very nice is the price-point. These American-made, T.L. Johnson custom built fly rods are only $335 – and $87 of that goes to support Project Healing Waters. Think about it the next time you’re in the local fly shop looking at an $800 rod made overseas.

A great fly rod at a great price for a great cause. Our combat veterans need your support. Check out the full line of PHW rods at Flyfishing Crazy.

As for the fish I hooked up with at the beginning of the post. He was a big steelhead. 18lbs if he wasn’t half that. After three jumps and a 10 minute stand-off, the rod held it’s ground like a champ, but the fish came unbuttoned. There’s always next year…

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THE IDAHO TRIP: THE SOUTH FORK, DAY 2

The next morning our drive to the South Fork felt entirely different. It was the same landscape of sprawling grain fields and foothills, beautifully wide blue sky and brush-stroke clouds. It was roughly the same river waiting on the other end of the drive. But everything was different.

We had been this way already. We’d already learned the roads from the hotel to the church parking lot. We’d already loaded our gear and hauled ass into the unknown of a new river. We’d already taken our lumps, managed to keep our dukes up and had held the reward, all cold color and fantastically alive. We had the thin-thread benefit of familiarity from one run-and-gun afternoon. But on this morning, our pace took a couple steps back, settled into the truck seats and tried to just take everything in. We were there, and that was enough.

We made another stop at the fly shop so I could replace the tan sex dungeons I had lost to the motor and the bottom of a greedy boulder. In the parking lot, I ran into Jeff Currier, a tremendous artist and rep for Ross and Scientific Anglers who I met at IFTD in New Orleans a week and a half earlier. Having met Colby for the first time at the show as well, it was pretty cool to cross paths with Jeff again, especially clear across the country. We put the boat in the water, pulled our collars up and hats down and turned down-river for the canyon.

About halfway there Colby pulled up on the throttle, swung the boat left back against the current below a giant gravel bar under six inches of water and then right easing us up on the bar. Over 100 yards long and 50 yards wide, he told us that this bar didn’t exist before the spring run-off. The extended bolus of snowmelt deposited the entire sweeping mass of rocks over the course of months, leaving a perfect section of riffles that drop into a deep, teal green run. I waded to the head of the riffles while Grant claimed a spot halfway down. Time to nymph.

After a couple casts I noticed a guy and his dog watching from the far bank, smoke rising slowly from a small campfire behind them. I waved. He waved. A couple more casts up and across the current and my indicator went under. I lifted the rod into a nice bend, collected my line on the reel and backed a flashy cutbow out of the heavy current. This is exactly how a day of fishing should start.

I picked my way back up to the head of the riffle and made a couple more casts. When my indicator dropped again, the hook-set stopped me short. I could feel a big body start to work up some heavy back and forth before it gave a couple good head-shakes, a few rolls and then put its nose as deep into the current it could. Fish on the reel, I backed into shallow water again, but this toad wasn’t following. I kept him from heading for bigger water, finally turned him toward shallow water and Colby slid the net under him to seal the deal.

I made a dozen more cast before I carried my big-honkin’ grin back to the boat to swap my rod for Grant’s camera. He had a couple takes that didn’t stick and I wanted to make sure I got some shots of him when one finally did. Within three or four casts his #16 rubber-legged prince nymph dropper found the jaw of a brown the size of a German u-boat, which bent his rod to the cork, turned tail for Canada and busted the line. And as luck would have it, I caught all 10 seconds of the fracas.

Enough drift boats had dropped below us by this point that Colby wanted to jet down into the canyon before the crowds socked it in. As we made out way down-river, we passed sheer rock walls that dropped into white current, stratified cliffs and pine, sage and grass-covered slopes. We pulled up into a small switchback to grab some lunch, relax, and burn a couple hours before the afternoon bite. Not one to sit still long, I ate my sandwich and waded out to a riffle. Colby picked up his rod, walked down the bank about 20 yards and promptly hooked up a nice cutbow.

That afternoon, we dropped down to another money spot Colby called the hog bar. A 100 yard sub-surface gravel peninsula usually stacked up with cutties, ‘bows and browns. Colby navigated through the drift boat fleet and drifted Grant and I down the right edge while we drifted our nymph rigs down the middle. Then he’d jet us back up to the top and drift it again. Grant was getting plenty of hits but no hook-ups. I on the other hand became a whitefish sniper, landing 15 or more in the 6 drifts we made. Having the fight at the end of the line was better than the alternative, but I was tired of getting my heart rate up over pike-bait.

Then it happened. My nymph rig dropped into a depression in the gravel bar and stopped. I lifted the rod and a flash appeared in the heart of the pool, turning into big rainbow as it blew into the far current. It took the loose line I had at my feet and then some from the reel. I could liken the fish to a football, but I’d be doing it a disservice. It was built more like a defensive lineman.

Colby rowed us into slower current near the bank and grabbed the net. Grant had finished his drift, collected his line and grabbed the camera. A few more runs and some dashes for the brush on the bank and I had his head up and pointed toward the boat–a cloud of iridescent silver and pink reflecting a universe around him. A foot off the net he came unbuttoned and I let go of a long, mournful noooooooooooo! that spooked birds from the trees on the hill above us. Non-native species be-damned, he would’ve been the fish of my trip.

As the afternoon wound down, we decided to head back up-river to the gravel bar we started on that morning before the clock struck the witching-hour for pounding streamers. In spite of that ‘bow, I felt about as full and happy as ever as Colby pushed the boat around bends, through rips and riffles and wide flat expanses, the sun moseying westward. We stopped and fished a few likely areas along the way with no takers. Reaching the morning’s gravel bar, I reclaimed my spot back at the head of the riffle for a handful of casts before deciding to pick up Grant’s camera again.

Further up-river I got back to pounding the banks with that tan sex-dungeon and a fast sink leader. Cast, strip, strip, strip, lift and reload, cast, strip, strip, strip, lift and reload. Under brush, against logs, through big pockets behind boulders, against cliff walls. Over and over, drift after drift. All I could draw were slashes, swings and short-strikes. Colby just shook his head in disbelief. If I would’ve converted on half the fish that I raised, we’d have easily had a 20-fish day. 20 big fish at that.

Colby had gifted us a personal tour of his life-long home water. We had caught (and lost) amazing fish in some magnificent country. We were exhausted and happier than hell. With daylight almost completely gone, we finally settled into the water at the bottom of the launch. Grant and I repacked all the gear and rods in silence while Colby went for his truck and trailer. We looked at each other a couple times, smiled and shook our heads, knowing we didn’t have to say a word. Waiting hip deep in the river, holding the boat, we were there, and it was more than enough.

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THANKFULLY MY ALTER-EGO FISHES TOO

I met Mike this past winter at a fly-tying event he organizes, called Guys, Flies & Pies. We discovered a mutual affinity for bass, and made loose plans for getting out when the weather warmed. Those loose plans finally took shape earlier this week as we headed to the West River with a pair of kayaks tied down and jutting, snaggletooth from the bed of my truck.

Now, it should be said that Mike is a very accomplished and avid fly fisherman. Bass, salmon, pike, browns, rainbows, steelies. Accomplished. But Mike had never fished out of a kayak. Hell, he’d never been in a kayak other than possibly testing entry and exit from the relative safety of his yard. And he’d made more than a few jokes in the days leading up to the trip and on the drive there about flipping, swimming, taking a dive and so on. So on this evening of planned bass-chasing, I hoped that we wouldn’t need to spend half of our daylight finding his balance and practicing paddling strokes, or worse, fishing him out of the drink.

Whatever. Mike got in, squared himself and his gear away and headed for open water like a champ. That was that.

We paddled about 150 yards up river before nosing the kayaks into the weed beds that occupy all but the 30 yard wide channel in the middle of the 80 yard wide river. Casting a big-ass popper out along the front edge of the weed bed, it didn’t take long before the surface exploded and I landed my first fat bass. The second, about three casts later, was an even better fish, but I had a hard time being excited. I needed Mike to get on the board.

#2

Then suddenly there was a good splash, a whoop and Mike was on the favorable end of a tight line. I took some video while he tangled with his first kayak bass. While I was checking the footage on my camera after he released the fish, he hooked up with number two. It was at that point, Mike decided to remind me of the score.

Nice. All even at two a piece now, he grinned.

I went from the hopeful, conciliatory home-water host to alpha-dog looking to mark his territory. Not quite Jekyll and Hyde, but my hyper fish-hard-or-die alter ego was reaching for the rod.

Before we were finally chased off the water by mosquitos, darkness and a big, angry beaver, I managed to catch the kicker-fish to break the tie. But to be completely honest, I’m still happier about Mike earning a couple more notches on his “accomplished” belt on my home water, and look forward to notching a few of my own on his.

Check out the video. Full-screen.

Music props to A Tribe Called Quest. 

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