Confessions of a Cutty Guide

 
During the season, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to work on another river, to be excited about row after row of neatly organized, tiny nymphs.  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to test my skills against a species of fish that isn't so unapologetic about taking an over-sized, floating piece of foam.




















But then I realize, I just gave up the best seat in the house.




Love the fish.  Love the fishery.

Wet Noses and Stiff Tails

A Week Well Spent

A rail hunt, an oyster roast, chasing bobwhites with old friends at Wintergreen and G&T 's on the house (the folks' house to be exact)  - Not a bad checklist for a week in SE North Carolina.  There also happened to be a holiday in there somewhere, involving turkeys and out of control grandmothers.  Here's a few shots from a week well spent.

The old man shooting rails, but still talking turkey

Morning sky over the marsh

Don't Shoot Too Fast

Special thanks to Capt. Seth Vernon of DoubleHaulGuideService and fellow guide Capt. Judson Brock for their marsh hen expertise.

"I'll take a lot. And put it in a bucket"

The old stomping grounds

Wintergreen Hunting Preserve

Orvis No. 8's

Move Your Feet

It's a battle of scaled monsters and steel...   You stand there, for what seems like hours, in the same spot constantly casting to the same fish, and trying to mend across three different currents to get that perfect drift.   "I have to catch that fish"  9 times out of 10 your fly drags.  But that doesn't matter, that one good drift keeps you pinned to the same position. "If I get everything just perfect, that fish will eat my fly."    But the truth is, if you would have moved your feet, and took five steps downstream, it would have taken two currents out of your drift  and reduced your mends down to one.  And it wouldn't have taken 45 minutes for that fish to eat your fly.  It is one of the most common and overlooked mistakes in fly fishing.  And I catch myself doing it all the time, especially when I'm fishing a new stretch of water.

Most of the time, it starts before your fly even hits the water with the sight of a rising fish.  Tunnel vision sets in.  Instead of reading the water, your first reaction is "I have to cast to that fish."  You might even get a refusal on your first cast, which only makes things worse.  Now you have to try every fly pattern in your box.  (Of course, it wasn't your convoluted presentation that got rejected)
And before you know it, you can't move and you're fishing a size 22 dry fly.


First cast after I moved my feet.

Montana Gold

I've seen the look, the one you get for passing up the Missouri and the Skwala hatch on the Big Hole to fish for carp.  I get it.  I like big trout too.  But not enough to give up a chance at casting to a fish with its head down, tail up, and feeding in shallow water.

I blame redfish and the Cape Fear Coast for that. But why carp?   Maybe, I somehow sub-consciously settled for redfish's fat, ugly cousin, carp. Or maybe, I have no standards. Or maybe, I just miss seeing oyster beds and half-submerged spartina grass off the bow of the boat.  But the simple truth is, carp are the saltiest fish I've ever fished for in freshwater.  And the last time I checked, saltwater is pretty hard to find in the great expanse between the continent's mountain ranges. But it's out there. If you don't believe me, I could suggest some delightful beachfront property in SW Montana.   You might have to wait 15 minutes for a rancher to herd 500 head of cattle across the road to get there, but trust me, it's out there.

The 5 Essential Guide Gear Items

The 5 Essential Guide Gear Items

The most successful guides are the ones who are the most self-reliant.  If there is a possibility for an “Oh @W#%” moment, there is a plan, and more importantly, a box that contains all the items and tools necessary to overcome that obstacle.   Those boxes are built from about 20% foresight and 80% first hand experience of being unprepared, stuck on the water and looking like an idiot.  But a for guide, sometimes the most epic days of fishing or hunting start and end with the smallest of obstacles.  Obstacles that most people take for granted, such as waking up on time or bathing.   Most guides have little boxes for those situations too.  Here‘s what I put in mine.


1. A Reliable Alarm Clock
Cell phones and water don’t mix, no matter how much rice you cover it in.  If your day on the water, or in the field, with a guide starts at 8 a.m., your guide starts his day at 5 a.m. prepping lunches, packing coolers, and doing last minute checks on water, weather and gear.  Personally, I’m a snoozer.  I know I have three 5 minute snoozes before my alarm clock decides, “That’s it. If you’re still asleep, I’m not gonna waste my time and try to wake you up.”  That’s where a cell phone hidden under the bed, or still stuffed in a pant pocket comes in handy. Redundancy.  It works.  It’s the same principle behind nuclear launch codes.

2. Good Coffee
The real reason your guide has so much enthusiasm so early in the morning.   I don’t always have the luxury of electricity, or even a drive-thru coffee shop, so I pack accordingly.  Even in the most dire situations, I’m prepared with a jet boil, hand cranked bean grinder, a press and some good beans.       


3. First Aid Kit 
Selfishly, my first aid kit is loaded because I use it more on myself than others in emergency situations.  Most kits are pretty basic; Gauze, Band-Aids, Triple Antibiotic Cream, etc,.  Here are a few custom additions I always add.

 Nyquil: Not only does it work for the tough cold symptoms of Winter Olympians, it makes a great sleep aid without inducing a hangover.
  
Tums: Guide diets aren’t the always based on the healthiest of options, but more so, the one requiring the least amount of effort.  I once ate pizza for every meal for 48 hours.  The Tums helped.  Plus, I prefer my calcium in pastey, chalk form.

Advil/Ibprofen:  Good old vitamin A.  Always be prepared for a case of the I-B-Brokens. 


4. Flip Flops
 AKA flops, Lord Boards, Jesus Sandals, Slappies, call them whatever you’d like, but spending weeks or months in boots and wading sandals does funny things to the bottom of your feet.   You can always tell how many days a guide has been on the water, based on the pruney, morgue-like appearance of his feet.  At the end of a day, it's nice to put on a pair of dry flops to air out your feet.

5.  Hygiene Kit
There are certain inherit, occupational hygiene hazards of spending days upon days rowing down a river or hiking up and down hills chasing birds.  These include long hair, unkempt facial hair, itchy rear end and sweat stained hats, just to name a few.  Of course, a good hot shower will solve most of these symptoms.  But not all guides have access to this when they are living out of the back of their truck on the Missouri, or on a week long backcountry trip.  Here are a few simple cover-ups and cures for maintaining, or giving the illusion of,  a professional appearance.

Listerine:  The Pine-Sol of oral hygiene.  Whether you actually cleaned your teeth or not, at least it smells like you did.

Foot Powder: There’s nothing like realizing that weird smell in the room is actually emanating  from your feet.  Thank you, Dr. Scholls.

Moist Towelettes:  They do a great job of cleaning the lenses of your sunglasses and cleaning up after a shore lunch,  which is the professional reason a guide carries so many of them.  But in a pinch, they save you from the embarrassment of coming back to the boat or truck without a sock, or missing half of a sleeve.

Dr. Bronners:  One of the telltale signs of a freshly showered individual is wet hair.   Wet hair requires water.  Fortunately, fishing guides spend most of their day floating on this substance.  A good head dunk at the boat ramp, or a cupful of cooler water, and a little soap, go a long way fifteen minutes before you clients show up.  Plus, Dr. Bonners is a 100% biodegradable soap.

Deodorant:  Usually the final step in the daily ritual of a shower.  The beauty of this step, if done correctly, is that it implies that you didn’t actually sleep in the back of your truck next to your dog.  

A Final Note:

A much more experienced guide than myself once told me, “Just the like Wizard of Oz, if you pull away the curtain,  you'll find that there are a lot of levers and pulleys at work inside a guide’s head."

The Proper Technique on How NOT to Spot and Stalk Carp

Ring Ring, “Hey it’s Carp, I can’t get to my phone right now, I’m probably out cruising around or laying up in the sun. Leave me a message and I‘ll try to get back to you!”

-Hey, its me, remember that one time we hooked up last spring?  I’m gonna be in town again this April, give me a holler if you’ll be around.

Ring Ring, “Hey it’s Carp…”

-Hey, I know this sound weird and all, but I saw this video of you online, sipping the surface.  Your lips drive me crazy.  How come you never do that for me?

Ring Ring, “Hey it’s Carp…”

-Hey, its me… again.  Um.. I just happened to walk past your place yesterday,  wasn’t sure if you got my message?  Didn’t look like you were home, soo.. I just sat in the bushes and waited.  Anyway.. Can’t wait to hear from you!

Ring Ring, “Hey it's Carp…”

-Hey, me again.  I was thinking about grabbing you some grub on my way out.   What would you prefer, a little worm caked in mud? Or something olive and leggy?  I know, I know, you’ll eat anything as long as it is on the bottom and slightly twitched in front of you.  …I miss you…

Ring Ring, “Hey its Carp…”

-Oh..ah.. I was just away from my phone for a few minutes, just checking to see if I missed your call. Hmm.. Guess not. Ok. Call me?

Ring Ring, “Hello?”

-Carp! Hey..I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Did you get any of my voicemails?

Yeah, uh ..there were 49 of them...About that one time… I’m probably gonna be really busy this spring.   There’s this huge party planned, once the water warms up.  Probably won’t  time have to talk.    But I did see you in the bushes the other day.. It looked like you had your rod in your hand? It creeped me out.  But you know, if you really want  me to turn my head, try practicing your cast…seriously.. [Click]

I've only failed the Drivers Test Once..

I remember a conversation with a fellow graduate student a few years ago regarding our plans after our impending graduation - The whole, "Oh s@#$, I won't be allowed in school anymore, what am I going to do with the rest my life? I need a plan!" situation.  My response was, "I don't have one, I have no clue where I'm going to be in 5 years, but I can't wait to find out."   Five years later, I've changed my residency 3 times, taken the written driver's test 4 times (I only failed once) and seen 38 states. --I reluctantly count Kansas because I had to there stop for gas--  It has been a journey to say the least, and an unexpected one at that.  And all because of a shotgun and a fly rod.  This winter finds me guiding in Idaho, with below freezing temperatures, two dogs, and a girlfriend who asked for a new pair of waders for Christmas.


I started Migrant Water three winters ago, to provide my hunters with a way to read about their day in the field, look at pictures, and to promote the outdoors in general.  Honestly, I assumed nobody ever read the thing.  But after the encouragement from a fellow guide at Wintergreen, I submitted some of my writing to the magazine Wildlife in North Carolina.

   
  This fall I saw my first article published, More Than a Brand, based on a post I had done on Migrant Waters.  Two months later, another article was published, A Different Look at First Light, based on my experiences of hunting wood ducks out of a kayak.  And this coming spring, I'll have another article on the comical experiences of turkey hunting with the Old Man.  So a lot of my time for writing has shifted.  Apparently writing is a lot harder than typing and pressing "Publish" on a blog.  
   So if  you haven't got your subscription to Wildlife in North Carolina, please do.  The illustrations accompanying my articles have been surperb and the folks there have been very kind to me.  Hopefully, I will have more material in print  throughout this year.

In other non-writing news, after a two week block of guiding for Flying B Ranch in Kamiah(kam-e-i), Idaho, I thought it would be a great idea to furnish our new home with a fostered shorthair puppy from their outstanding kennels. Her name is Gem, and I was told, "Bring her home for a bit, give her some people time, socialize her. Good hunting dogs, need good people time. " So I am proud to announce that under our care in the last month and a half, she has peed in 3 different peoples' houses(not including our own), on one couch(not our own) and on numerous spots on the rug(our own).   She has already learned several "tricks", such as "lets grab a sock and run outside in the snow before anybody notices" I did, two days later when it was standing upright and frozen solid.  And "The do you mind if I chew on you while to try to sleep game?" My 3yr old Brittany's favorite.  Not to forget, my personal favorite because it's always a surprise, "Guess what I just ate off the floor? You'll have to pry my mouth open to find out."  Who knew teaching tricks to a new puppy would be so easy.  

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned.

   

At the other office...

For the next couple of months, I'll be 60 miles up a dirt road.  No cell phone.  No newspaper. No T.V.  Working 12 hours a day.  But my cubicle has a helluvah view. If you want to see more pictures of the upcoming season, follow along via facebook on the Spotted Bear Ranch page. "Like" us at  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Spotted-Bear-Ranch-Where-the-Adventure-Begins/183619038356235?ref=hl

Here's just a preview of the past few weeks:

The Zen of Fly-Tying

Sitting in front of a vise can almost be a form of monastic prayer for some fly tiers.   Many find it relaxing, meditative.  The inner voice quietly chanting, “ wrap, whip finish, repeat..”  It can be hours of repetitive motions that calms the mind.  Collecting one’s thoughts, and preparing for those long awaited moments of standing mid-stream.  A peaceful practice of patience that rewards a fisherman with neatly organized rows of freshly tied parachute adams or blue-winged olives.  Almost Zen-like.    But for me, fly-tying feels like a mixture of having O.C.D and the flu.   

At first, the symptoms start off small, usually with tiny midges, stuff that doesn’t take too much effort or material to tie.  Then it’s on to nymphs and my mind starts to drift, what if I added a leg here? Or oh that looks shiny, I’ll add that on top.    By the time I make it to streamers, it’s a full blown affliction. 

Some nights, as I struggle to fall asleep, my brain keeps imagining  pattern variations and possible materials, like a feverish dream that keeps repeating itself.  And my inner voice shouts “I need more flies.. girdle bugs.. mini-buggers… more streamers,.. I wish I had olive sexi-floss legs….”    It’s compulsive.

*Notice the folded bath mat on the left under the table. The price tag still attached. $12 for a liftetime supply of antron.
Also, it's not hording if you can still walk through the room....

 My fly tying room starts to look like a scene from the movie, A Beautiful Mind,   The one where they find the guy’s backyard shed littered with old maps and circled newspaper headlines amidst a maze of red yarn stretched wall to wall.   The audience has the heart-breaking but yet sympathetic reaction of, “..his condition has gotten worse..”
     I say fly tying room because it started off as a desk.  But five patterns in, and a dozen patches of deer hair, marabou, and shiny strips of streamer material scattered across the table, my mess has overflowed on to the floor.  My neatly organized boxes and bins strewn throughout the room like a little kid’s Lego collection.   And the only feeling I have when I finish a fly is a impulsive need to fish it immediately.  I want to know what it looks like underwater.  How it acts.  But I can’t.  Its 3 ‘o clock and I’m still wearing my pajamas pants.  And the nearest cold water stream is six hours away.  The pot of extra strength coffee doesn’t help either.  But as with most fevers, this will pass.  And I won’t tie again until mid-season, when I really need it.  I’ll clean up my caffeine-fueled frenzy of feathers and organize my freshly tied patterns in neat little rows.  But I know, next spring, when the pine pollen sticks the windshield of the car,  I’ll start thinking.. I need midges..

Stupid Good Days of Dry Fly Fishing

I'll probably never see this again.....

   But there's always hope...

A Little Redneck Engineering..

Six hundred dollars for a push pole? Really? After I googled push poles and saw the mind-numbing prices, the first thing I did was go to Lowe’s to buy a 10 ft. closet rod. I’m not proud, or stupid for that matter. Well, I take that back. I’ve done my share of stupid things in my life. And the only thing I’ve learned is that being stupid is painful and expensive. So if I can help it, I try to be smart.

I realized the first trip out on my new boat that I was missing 4 ft. from my closet rod. So I spent most of the afternoon crouched in the catcher’s position on my polling platform. Despite the discomfort on my knees, it worked. And my dad, the Old Man, hooked up with his first redfish. I wish I could have seen the take, but I was too busy trying to get the feeling back in my legs. But by all accounts, it was a successful trip: I didn’t wreck the boat, no one fell into the water, we caught fish and it only took one try to successfully back the trailer down the boat ramp.

On the way home, the Old Man had an idea.

“You know, I got a way to give you an extra 4 ft. on your push pole,” he said.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.

“A Dutch Uncle,” he said.

“A what?” I laughed.

“A Dutch Uncle,” he replied.

“Have you seen the movie Zac and Miri?” I asked.

“Who?” he answered.

“Nevermind,” I said as I shook my head.

“It’s an old traditional carpentry joint used in colonial homes, barns and ship making,” he continued.

“Ah…” I said, still confused but glad I didn’t have to explain the Urban Dictionary to my father

So the next day, we “Dutch Uncled” a 10 ft. closet rod with a 6 ft. closet rod. And it looked good. I was actually quite proud of my carpentry skills. My last experience with woodworking was the Pine Wood Derby in Boy Scouts, so to build something that was actually useful made me really happy. After a few layers of Teak Oil for aesthetics, I gave my custom made wooden push pole a test run on my polling platform in the backyard. I measured it against the hull of my boat and it felt good. I put pressure on it, imaging I was sliding through the shallow flats with complete silence and stealth. It broke immediately.

“I was afraid of that,” the Old Man said. “Back to the drawing board.”

I’ve seen the movie Tarpon. In the days before $40,000 skiff boats, carbon fiber push poles and graphite fly rods, those guys were getting it done. They made it happen with the materials at hand. So I was determined to do the same.

Our second attempt involved a simple end-to-end joint reinforced by a 5/8 in. wooden dowel inserted into each section. In essence, a glued male to female connection.

“It’s the rule of thirds,” the Old Man said. “The strongest joints follow this concept,” he continued.

We finished it off with a beautiful black and white cord wrapping to cover the joint.

“Now you need a foot,” he said, “to keep you from getting stuck in the mud.”

“Good idea,” I replied.

So the next day, we “Dutch Uncled” one of those on there and covered the whole thing with a coat of polyurethane. I took another imaginary test run in the backyard and it held. So much so, I catapulted myself off the platform into the center console of my boat. Satisfied with our redneck engineering, we decided to hit the water the following day.

As I cut the motor and drifted towards the edge of the bay, the strong SW winds already had my boat turning in circles. I quickly climbed on to my polling platform and jammed the foot of my push pole into the mud. The boat slowed. Then the push pole buckled and snapped. The black and white wrapping unfurled, leaving me with a working section that was a little under 10ft. I shook my head in frustration. Turns out 5/8ths is not 1/3 of 1¼.
I poled (more honestly, paddled) to a calm stretch of water that funneled into a creek mouth. I decided that standing after each push was the best way to keep a perspective on the approaching water. Mid-crouch, I noticed two dark submarine shaped fish making their way towards the boat. I stood up.

“Redfish, 12 o’clock, 20ft.!” I said.

“What?” the Old Man replied.

“12 o’clock. You gotta make it happen. Two redfish headed right for the boat. Just give me 20ft.,” I said.

The Old Man put a cast perfectly in front of the approaching targets.

“Strip, strip, strip!” I directed from the back.

I could see one of the fish turn on the Old Man’s presentation. As he striped, the fish kept following. And the fish was closing in fast, nearing 10ft. from the boat. I feared that the Old Man would over lead the target. I shouted, “Leave it!”

The fished turned abruptly at a 90 degree angle and swam off. My first instinct was a refusal. He saw the boat and spooked. But as I saw the Old Man’s fly line start to follow the escaping redfish, I realized he had eaten the fly and was swimming off with it.

“Strip!” I yelled, and he set the hook perfectly in the side of the fish’s mouth. His reel screamed as the fish raced out towards to bay. The Old Man was hooked. He wrestled the 6 lbs. of redfish back to the boat and offered a huge smile towards the back of the boat

The next week, I came home to a freshly painted white push pole, half PVC/half closet rod. The Old Man had overcome my Pine Wood Derby level of carpentry and horrible understanding of fractions. It was perfect. And it gave me the luxury of standing upright on my polling platform. The closet rod bottom section has the perfect amount of stiffness to get you through the muddy marsh, and the 5ft. of PVC offers just enough bend to give you some pop. And the best part, all materials included, it cost under $20.