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.

RoadTrip Season

Time, fellas.

RoadTrip '10 v5 is upon us, and not a moment too soon. We have been dealing in drama and stress like hard currency all summer, and it is time to take a breather, get on a good grease slick with the rocket stick and drop into the fish trance again. In 139 hours, 36 minutes, and 55 seconds, we will be sittin' in a big leather seat up in the front of one of Mac McGee's fine planes, the one with the eskimo on the tail, pondering the landscape and idly stirring a fine mixed beverage while we speed the hell away from the rat race for a week.

When we touch down, all systems are go for 6 days of wicked good swingin' with K8 and Crumptastic (sorry 'bout the hotlink, E&B), knee-deep and sideways in one of the greatest big 'bow flows in the world.

Been slaving at the vise for a few nights, covered in bunny and arctic fox fuzz, muttering incoherently and waving half-formed ideas around in a little dish of water. We're pretty sure we got a handle on the situation, but the nagging voice of self-doubt is always nattering away, making sure we tie at least a few more with the heads just so, or some with that funky color spot that worked so well this spring...



6 days in the big leagues. After that, home for a decompression and laundry stop, then off for 15 days on RoadTrip '10 v6, Steelhead edition.

Can't wait, fisha.

Dreams of fishes

Remember when we still fished? You know, back then in the spring, before it got kinda busy at work?

Yeah.

Fun times.

We miss that too.

At any rate, we have been behind the curve lately with work and assorted stuff, so...sorry. We'll try not to go another postless month.

In other news, we are now the proud owner of a bamboo rod. No, NOT the type that the Wife uses to stake the peas, but a real, honest-to-dog handcrafted bamboo rod. Not sure what came over us, but when the chance came by we couldn't pass it up - it was a hell of a deal, too. Matter of fact, it would have been more expensive to get a plane ticket down to the lower 48 just to steal this thing out of the shop...at any rate, we were made an offer that we couldn't refuse, and we didn't.

"Parabolic 16" is the taper type, and we won't argue. We're not exactly sure what a parabolic taper is (and we're pretty sure that most folks that use the word "parabolic" when talking about fish poles don't know, either...it just sounds expert), but we do know that it will throw the hell out of a flyline. 2 pieces, agate stripper guide, 8 dainty feet and one inch, with a nicely carved locking-ring reelseat.








As it turns out, the universe does not explode if you throw a plastic line with a bamboo rod. Things get a little wobbly, but the whole mishmash of space-time doesn't seem change much. We decided to push our luck an' see if we could fish with a bead on a bamboo rod...dunno, mebbe time would cease to exist, pigs would fly, Sarah Palin would be taken seriously... something like that.

In the end, things went just fine. Matter of fact, it seemed like we caught MORE fish that evening...piscine word got out that some dude had a pretty twig that you would just LOVE to see.



Eat your heart out, Tradition.

The Hard Way

After a long drive and a short boat ride, we returned to our latest folly. A few nights a week have been spent way the hell out here, donating our pound of flesh, only to lose the single fish we seem to hook every trip.

We were beginning to wonder if it was the same fish, over and over, sent by his buddies with the sole intention of messing with our head...

"You see that guy? He's been up there for HOURS...Larry, go bite his fly."

"Why do I gotta do it? I don't wanna."

"Don't worry, Larry. Just put up a good fight for about 10 minutes, then throw the hook. Just like last time."

A fella can get a little delusional, standing in a cloud of no-see-ums so thick you can't breathe through your nose. We imagine these little conversations that the fish are having, we ponder pointless questions (does our hippie bug spray really work, or does it just make hippies feel good?), and we generally zone out. The steps come, even though they aren't necessary. By force of habit, the "cast one, step two" happens, part of the now-ingrained ritual. Strip, step, set, huck. Move, mend, mind off.

We're pretty sure that the bugs don't bother us much because they think we might be dead. Slow the pulse down, don't wave and shoo them like a little girl, breath slowly and sort of shallow...let them cloud around you, but don't react. It's tough, but when you are in the fish trance it sorta comes naturally.


Each and every cast has a grab in it, somewhere. That's the way you fish it.

When that grab comes, all hell breaks loose, even though you were expecting it. The next quarter-hour becomes a dance in which you feel woefully undermatched, a bumbling spastic with two left feet trying to follow the lead of a fish with more slick moves than Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. These fish don't wear out, they seem more to give in, and their blistering runs after bumping their belly on the gravel are ample reminders that this isn't playing, this is a fight.

If you have said your mantras, washed behind your ears, and lived right, you might land your fish. More often, you will make a few mistakes and eventually the fish will swim free. If you do it right, there is a moment in the fight where your dance partner seems to offer itself up to you, a temporary lapse in the will of the fish, a recognition of a worthy adversary. Do not squander these moments.


When it is all over, you feel the flood of relief, an abdication of the stress of the dance. Dispatch comes quickly and with respect...remember, this is meat you are making. The proper rituals are observed, the fish is made comfortable, and once again you submerge below the surface, into the fish trance.

Post-Trip Depression Disorder.

*sigh*

RoadTrip '10 v4 is now in the books, and we're not really sure if things are ever gonna be the same again.



110 hours on the big river, and we got our fish on for damn near 70 of them. Thanks to Major Tom, we had a spiffy cabin with a 2-burner AND a 2-holer, plus a beer-holding thingy and a nice comfy chair. We also got the 1760 with the 60 Etec, which is a pretty skookum setup even though it steers like a wounded cow in the slightest crosswind. Once we got the Narwhal to not lean all over the boat when we were in delicate low-water channels, things were good.



Our chapped and sunburnt head is healing nicely, thanks...only a few more days and we may be able to take the bandages off and not look like Joe Merrick on a bad shaving day. We are regaining the weight that we lost on our 800 calorie diet, and the taste of Rainier is just now leaving our fuzzy tongue.



We have 107 days to fully heal, 'cause that's when we're goin' back.



Flies of distinction:

the SmoltySnack - The murder weapon when doing the dead-drift to swing that the big fish like. The biggest fish we landed chewed on this fly, and a few other hoggish specimens that we did not get to meet fin to face also took liberties with it as well.


the Feeding Tube - Not just lean n' mean, this fly is skinny and pissed. Good for choppier, faster water where profile and color matter more than detail.


the Neil Creek Slider - 142% badass skater. Quarter it downstream, make a nice upstream mend, chug it a little, and hold the hell on. Although you get a lot of players, this isn't the fly to fish if you want a high take/land ratio...Still fun as hell to raise fish with, tho - check out the teeth marks.


the Darkness - Full and wiggly underwater, comes out with t-10 like it was shot out of a cannon, this is the future.


King game is on now, dollies soon to come...but our head is still stuck in the Northland, and we have just over 3 months til we go get it back.

Can't wait, fisha.