RoadTrip '10 v6 Analysis, Discussion.

It wasn't quite 40 years, but we still spent most of October wandering the desert, in search of...

Steel?

Ok, so it ain't Psalm 107:4 , but close enough. The desire to be near steelhead has driven many a man to improbable acts, and while leaving AK in the fall to fish for a bunch of puny A-runs is a fairly contrary act (see also: RoadTrip '10 v5 Recap, Box score), it is not unheard of...matter of fact, this was the 4th such peregrination to the hinterlands.

We had a grand total of about 113 hours in between trips this time, just enough to get all of the AK gear sorted and stowed and the new rods laid out, do a little emergency "holy crap, what are we forgetting?" time at the vise, wash all of the fleece that we own, and shove 2 weeks' worth of crap into a pile small enough to not pay overweight luggage charges AND get into the back of an economy-class rental car.

This year was nice.

This year, we didn't have a single day of leaky waders...last year, we didn't have a dry day.

This year, we got a chance to study at the feet of the fish, to learn from the river...last year, we ran around like a chicken with its head cut off.

This year, a fella had to have a game plan, and had to come at it with some humility and deference...last year, everyone and their grandma was catching fish.

This year, we took some pics and did some hangin' out with some like-minded dirtbags...last year, we fished like casts were food and we were starving.

This year was nice - for those of you that didn't spend 14 days wandering the desert in search of steel, this is what you missed, in no particular order.



Lowholin' bastards.


Live bait, Montana-style.


"...ok, dammit, what are we forgetting? Anything?"
A partial selection of the tasty things thrown to friends this year.


This guy ambled down the bar one morning and lowholed us by skating himself across a juicy tailout.




Captain DirtBag, enjoying some fine reading material in the courtyard of the DirtBag Hilton.


The Gonger, in his own version of Geek Heaven.




Moving day...more river for us.


Dog and Pony show...photo stolen from Steelie Mike D, without permission, then altered to protect the guilty.


The ceremonial shotgun - we documented, then hit one solo. We woulda won.


Big(horn) pimpin'


If you haven't fished with a two-hander at night, you haven't fished. If you haven't fished a two-hander at night while rockin' the 'fro, you are missing a whole universe of mojo.


Another night-ops fish, this one taken out of the back pocket of a bobber-flinger...swing or die, heathen.


If there is anything more fun than speycasting at night, it would have to be skating flies for steel. Like the feeling one gets from involuntary adrenaline rushes, impromptu participation in kinky sex, or the ingestion of high-quality pharmaceuticals, the moment that your fly disappears in a spray of water and explosion of sound is one that you must experience firsthand to truly understand, and one that you will spend the rest of your life trying to recapture. After the last few years, we will gladly forego DOZENS of subsurface fish for a single player on top. Yes, we are now officially Damaged Goods when it comes to steelhead fishing...

Dry Fly or Die.


We had one epic day of skating where we raised a PILE of fish (20, give or take a few) during the change-of-light hours on both ends of the day - still trying to process some of the mental images from that day. 2 takedowns in one cast, a loooong ways apart? Seen it. A steelhead vee-waking into shore, chasing a stripped skater? Yep. A fish cartwheeling out of the water while chasing your offering? Mm-hmm.

Not sure if that day will ever be equaled, but it will live on in our brain for awhile. One of the dance partners from the epic-nocity.


Mike D's big bucky, on the Mo-fly


Angry little buck that took and fought like he was much bigger. We took his picture out of respect.


Love in the rocks.




The last good cast, during a lull in "The Sunday Hurricane".


Our 14 days of wandering the desert is over, and we stagger back to civilization with the help of the torch of enlightenment from our travels.

Did we learn anything from this years' walkabout?

We're pretty sure we did, but we won't know for certain for another 334 days.

Housekeeping...

After 3 years, we finally got around to putting up a new header pic. The old one was getting a little dusty, and after a few folks told us that they recognized the location in that particular picture, we decided it was best to remove it from the innerwebs...easier than killing said folks.

Enjoy the new one.

RoadTrip '10 v5 Recap, Box Score.

Life-altering events are a rare commodity, and for a good reason.

Can you imagine how discombobulating it would be to have your worldview negated on a regular basis? All the things you were led to believe suddenly don't apply...welcome to swinging for big trout in Bristol Bay.

They aren't migrating to spawn. They aren't conserving energy to wait for a mate. They feed like ravenous wolverines. Given the right conditions and the right presentation, they will chase a fly for a good 15 feet before trying to take it from you. The water they sit in is called "class III" by kayakers.

As a steelheader, we have gotten into the long habit of looking downstream while we fish. Channeling the fish, we let our eyes track the best path up the river, the easiest passage with the best escape routes. We linger on certain buckets and wells that look fishy, and we assign percentages to bits of water. single-cast the low percentage water, thoroughly cover the high percentage water...

This is where the Bbay trout guys laugh their asses off.

These fish come downstream (DOWNSTREAM) to feed. Simple as that. Wherever the food is, that's where you find the fish. Where you find the fish, there is a good chance that Walter will be lurking nearby. On the big river, the observant guy looks upstream at what might be funneling food into a particular stretch, or fishes below a grinder, the big rockpiles that smash the bejeesus out of the ubiquitous Sockeye carcasses.

Enough about theory...our worldview has been altered significantly, and we're still trying to process most of the experience into rational, cogent thought.

The following is a non-chronological journey through the surreal world of Bristol Bay, AK, deep in the heart of fall. For the most part, we will let the pics tell the story, but some of them might require a little in the way of explanation so a fella can wrap his or her brain around the image.

The Scenery











While we got a little 38° sun filtered through the clouds, most mornings started off at or below freezing, with a jet-boat ride through a windtunnel while wearing 5 to 7 layers of fleece and down underneath your shell layer...Crazy, but worth the payoff.



Sockeye - the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. All things depend upon the salmon for life in Bristol Bay.



The Wildlife

Sockeye = Bears.











A fella could get a little nervous around the brown fuzzy anglers, but it wouldn't do much good. They're in their own house, you are a guest, the best you can do is give them some distance and marvel at the sheer single-mindedness with which they approach their caloric uptake.





Most of the time, they are indifferent to your presence. A fella can fish through during naptime, or sneak a fish out above their hole...they don't seem to care.





Occasionally, they get a little close. Or they go snorkeling through a patch of huge trout...Just like they do to each other, you gotta let 'em know that cool is cool, uncool buttheadedness won't be tolerated.





Big. Ass. Trout. The real reason to be in the Bay in October. A few from the little water.







Bycatch on the big water



Cookiecutters







Perfect






26"-28"...smash and grab artists. Bring steelhead gear, 'cause they will seriously mess up your little trout twig.





Sasquatch and a nice 28", picked out of our back pocket.



Same bucket, different passes





The fish we came for.

31somethin X 18somethin'...3 casts after a 28" took us for a ride. No, this is not a steelhead. It is about 16lbs of Wild AK Rainbow Love on the Swung Fly.



About 50 yards downstream and 45 minutes later...

Crumptastic: "Hey, reel up, let's go get that smooth grease upstream."
Us: "Ok, but first lemme peel off a few more pulls and yank that 30" out from behind that rock over there..."

2 casts later...30 X 18+. On a called shot.



It will take us a while to get used to this goofy new worldview. Like the kid in the youtube dentist video, we find ourselves occasionally staring off in space and wondering if this is real life, if we're gonna be this way forever.

Not sure if we'll ever get back, but we won't ever forget the time we spent there.

Not sure we could if we wanted to.

T minus 11 hours, 57 minutes, 14 seconds...

...That's when the nice ladies in the blue pantsuits are gonna be closing the door and securing the cabin, and you know what that means, right...?

Only 10 more minutes until we can get our first bloody mary of the day.

Well, we're not sure where to start here. RoadTrip '10 v5 has been over for 5 days, but the aftershocks have been persistent and more than a bit unsettling. Sure, we got our fleece laundered and the trout gear switched out for steelhead gear ( read: we took out the big ugly flies and replaced them with little dainty flies...same twigs, fisha), but every now and then we would find ourselves just sorta spacing out, eyes focused on nothing, seeing merely the past play back on the IMAX screen of the brain...



But we're not letting that get in the way of having a good time, because RoadTrip '10 v6 commences in less than 12 hours. We got us one o' them spiffy blue leather seats up near the front of the plane on account of us flyin around the globe all the time to look for fish, so we're gonna take full advantage of the 2 drink minimum - 1200 air-miles to kill the jitters and wiggle our way into a 15-day groove on the smoove grease.



It's time, fellas. Drink up, and we're off to the airport.