Mountain Buck

"It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves."

Sir Edmund Hillary

Like the Sirens of Homer’s Odyssey, mountains have called to men for thousands of years.  Ancient man built altars of worship in high places, while some cultures worshipped the mountains themselves.  God spoke to Moses on the mountain.  Mountains have provided refuge for hunted men and hunted animals.  A home for outlaws and fugitives, mountains provide solace, comfort and a place for reflection and soul searching.  Mountains are beautiful, alluring and inviting, but they are also hard and unforgiving.  As Bear Claw Chris Lapp said in Jeremiah Johnson, “You can’t cheat the mountain, Pilgrim.  Mountain’s got its own ways.”   

I was born and raised in the mountains and it was here that I learned to hunt and fish.  Hunting in the mountains presents a unique set of challenges that only mountain hunters fully understand.  Almost everywhere you hunt in the mountains requires a hike.  If you want to hunt in solitude, it’s usually a long hike. To mountain hunters, the longer and steeper the hike, the greater the reward.  To find, hunt, and kill a mature whitetail buck is a challenge anywhere.  To do it in the mountains is quite a feat.  To do it consistently, puts the hunter in an elite category of sportsman.  

Scratching out a living in the mountains requires hardiness in man and beast.  Life in the mountains is exacting.  Food is often scarce, weather is often harsh, and terrain is always challenging.  Hunting in these conditions is difficult, but can be tremendously rewarding.  

In the post-chestnut blight era, the staple mast crop in the mountains is acorns.  And king of the acorns is the white oak.  Of all the oak species, white oak acorns have the least tannic acid, therefore are the most palatable and most preferred food source in the mountains.  Most hunters will focus on white oak acorns when searching for deer sign.  Atmospheric conditions play a large role in white oak production here in the mountains.  Frosts occurring late in the spring, drought conditions, exceedingly wet conditions, are all possible influences on acorn production.  A hard frost or freezing night coming after oaks have begun to produce buds will kill the buds and render the oak fruitless for a season and make finding acorns like a needle in a haystack.

White oak acorns in late summer

It was conditions such as these that provided one of my most memorable hunts a few years ago.  Preseason scouting had turned up zero acorns and precious little deer sign.  It was the opening week of archery season and I was sitting at my desk at work.  I got a text message from my father in law telling me that he had found a high mountain gap that was loaded with acorns.  They must have been the only acorns for miles, because he had seen multiple bears in the first hour of daylight.  Shortly after he sent me the message, he called.  In a hushed voice, he told me he had just shot a good bear out of the top of a large white oak.  He said the place was literally crawling with bears.  I made up my mind that I would be standing in that gap the following Saturday.

I had never been to this place, so we sat down together and studied some USGS topo maps and GPS waypoints and formulated a plan.  Even with the best directions, there is always some apprehension going into a new place in the dark.  But I had visions of black bears climbing white oaks and presenting an easy target, so I eagerly anticipated Saturday morning.  

I knew it would be a long hike.  I had marked the gap on my GPS and from the closest point I could park my truck, it read 1.61 miles straight line.  I spent Friday night loading my pack.  I knew it would be a long, arduous trip so I kept my gear minimal:  Lightweight lumbar harness pack, knife, paracord, water, granola bars, rangefinder and binoculars.  

I set my alarm for an early hour, but like a kid on Christmas morning, I awoke two hours before my alarm.  I loaded the truck and drove to the trailhead.  I knew the 1.61 miles on my GPS probably meant at least three miles of walking, virtually every step uphill.  I could tell by the tightly packed lines on the topo map that I would have some steady climbing before I reached the gap at an elevation of just over 3,800 feet.  

After about a mile of brisk walking, I stopped to catch my breath and check my GPS.  Still .95 miles to go and I was beginning to sweat.  I readjusted my pack and put my shoulder to the grade once more.  As I continued to climb, day began to break and black turned to gray.  I slowed my pace a bit so I could watch and listen as I walked.  As I made my way up a rough, rocky, steep ridge covered in mountain laurels, I was finding bear sign every few feet.  An explosion at my feet startled me for a second, until I recognized its source.  A ruffed grouse had taken flight at my approach.  As I continued on, I jumped another, then a pair, and another pair, and a few more singles.  In all, I jumped nine grouse, more than I had seen in several years combined.  

After climbing several hundred more feet, I began to see what looked like a summit above me.  I checked my GPS once more and saw that I was only a couple hundred yards from the gap I was looking for.  I sat down and ate my breakfast and let my breathing and heart rate return to normal while I cooled off from my climb.  I unslung my bow, stuck my walking stick in the ground so I could grab it on my way back down, and began my slow, stealthy approach to the gap.  

My father in law had described it, but I wasn’t prepared for the amount of sign I could see.  Virtually every white oak tree had the bark ripped off where numerous bears had climbed them in search of acorns.  Tree tops were littered with broken limbs and several of the limbs had been chewed or twisted off and had fallen to the ground.  For some reason, this gap had a bumper crop of acorns when nothing else for miles around had any at all.  I slipped silently along, taking a few steps then stopping to watch and listen.  The wind was in my favor, and if any bears were up the trees, I would be able to hear them and approach from downwind.  

You know conditions have been perfect when you the ground littered like this.

As I neared the gap, I could hear acorns steadily raining out of a massive white oak tree.  It was mid-September and the leaves were still thick and green on most trees.  I slipped slowly towards the tree, staying downwind.  I thought there might be a bear up the tree.  As I neared the tree, with my eyes in the canopy, I heard a rustle in the leaves behind me and turned to see two large bucks bounding up out of a ravine below me.  I believe they had heard me but didn’t see or smell me.  

I already had an arrow nocked and my rangefinder in my hand.  One of the bucks disappeared in some brush, but one stopped and turned to see what I was.  I was already ranging him at 54 yards.  That’s a long shot with a bow, but I routinely practice at long distances.  I figure if my shooting form is solid and I can execute long range shots, short range shots should be easy.  I dialed up the yardage on my single pin sight and drew my bow.

As the string settled to my nose and the fletching to the corner of my mouth, I found him in my peep.  He took a step or two and most of his body was hidden behind a large tree.  As he stepped into view, I made a bleat call with my mouth and he froze.  I silently prayed, “Lord, let me be accurate,” and released the arrow.  

I lost sight of the arrow, but I heard a very audible smack when it hit.  The buck bolted and ran full speed out of sight.  It sounded for all the world like I missed him and struck rocks.  After determining that there was nothing up the tree I had been stalking, I walked over to where the buck had been to retrieve whatever was left of my arrow.  I stood where I thought he had been, but could find no trace of my arrow and no blood.  

I looked around a bit and saw no sign, so I decided to go back to stalking.  I don’t know why, but I looked far out the ridge in the direction the buck ran and I saw something that just looked out of place.  I put my binoculars on it and saw a tip of antler.  It still hadn’t registered to me that I might have hit him, so my first thought was that he had gone and bedded and was trying to hide.  After a few steps in his direction, I put the binoculars on him again and realized he was laying dead.  

Almost no brow tines, but a memorable trophy nonetheless

The rocks I thought I had hit turned out to be bone in his front shoulder.  The Mathews Monster that I was shooting had punched through the bone and sliced open the bottom of his heart.  Death had come in seconds.  He had run about 60 yards and piled up.  He was a mature old buck with short tines and wide rack that measured 19 and a half inches inside spread.  

I had begun the day absolutely sure I would be surrounded by black bears before the day ended, yet here I was, in the high mountains of Appalachia, quartering and caping a wiley old buck in some of the most beautiful woods I had ever seen.  After I had the meat squared away in my pack and the head secured, I cleaned up and took a moment just to look around at my surroundings.  I thanked my Creator for such an opportunity as this and turned to begin the long downhill trek back home.

A Reason To Be Thankful

“I have always tempered my killing with respect for the game pursued. I see the animal not only as a target, but as a living creature with more freedom than I will ever have. I take that life if I can, with regret as well as joy, and with the sure knowledge that nature’s way of fang and claw and starvation are a far crueler fate than I bestow.” 

Fred Bear

There’s something about the fall of the year that awakens primal urges in man and beast.  Days begin to shorten, the sweltering heat of summer begins to loosen its grip on the land, and the verdant green hills begin to slowly transform into stunning shades of gold, scarlett, and rich mahogany.  Winter symbolizes death, but in the autumn season there is a display of life that is truly a joy to behold. 

The animals know that the bony hand of winter is coming, and with it comes hardship and deprivation.  When the hardwoods begin to drop their bounty of acorns and nuts, there is a feeding frenzy in the forest.  Every animal in the forest, squirrels, raccoons, turkeys, deer and bear are all packing on as many calories as they can for the coming winter.  The urge to feed is powerful and undeniable. 

The urge to mate is just as undeniable too.  Deer in particular, are driven by a powerful impulse to pass on their genetics.  Hunters have long known that the period of deer breeding, known as the rut, can offer spectacular hunting opportunities.  Mature bucks that are normally extremely cautious and reserved will often throw caution to the wind and will abandon any semblance of wariness while in pursuit of a receptive doe. 

Hunters too, answer the call. The sights, sounds, and smells of autumn awaken the wolf inside the hunter.  The first cool morning of September, when, for the first time since spring, you can see your breath floating in the air, signifies that the time is near.  Fall is every hunter’s favorite time of year.  The opening day of archery season, for most hunters, has been eagerly anticipated since the season closed eight or nine months earlier.  Once again, the wolf can come out of his cage and prowl the fields and forests.  It’s enough to make you want to howl at the moon. 

The approach of fall in 2015 came just like any other.  It had been warmer and drier than usual, but the life cycle kept to its schedule.  Acorns dropped and animals ate them.  Though archery season had been slow for me, I was blessed with a very large black bear on the opening day of rifle season.  This provided valuable meat and (for my wife) far more valuable bear grease. 

A 380 pound black bear from the north Georgia mountains started my 2015 rifle season off right.

When my wife’s parents returned from an early November hunting trip in southern Illinois with news of warm temperatures and slow deer activity, I decided that I would try to take advantage of the Thanksgiving holiday and try to catch some late rutting activity in the midwest.  It had been a few years since I had traveled up that way, but the possibility of a later-than-normal rut hunt weighed on my mind. 

And so it was that I found myself headed north on the Saturday before Thanksgiving.  Illinois would be having a three day shotgun season, Friday through Sunday, and archery hunting would not be allowed until Monday.  Having loaded the truck on Friday, I awoke, had a wonderful breakfast with my family, and got a casual start on the six hour drive to Illinois. 

Arriving at my destination that evening, I drove around the county just observing deer movement.  The temps had been quite cold; the day’s high was only in the 20s, and deer were in the fields.  I got up the next morning and attended church with some friends in the area and then drove out to their farm and hung a lock on stand.  I spent Sunday evening as I had the previous one, just driving and looking.  Between the two afternoons, I had seen eight shooter bucks in the fields, and most of them appeared to be either in close pursuit of a doe or searching for one to pursue.  It was a very promising sign. 

Monday morning broke cold and clear, 22 degrees and zero wind.  I was sitting in a ladder stand positioned on a fence crossing that my father in law had a game camera watching.  He had sent me a series of pictures of a beautiful 10 point standing as if posing in front of the camera.  It was a mental image I would reflect upon several times in the upcoming week. 

Just as dawn broke, I saw three does coming my way across an open pasture.  They stopped about 150 yards away and all looked north.  I followed their gaze and saw a large, dark bodied deer with its head down and tail up, waving in the air while the deer tracked in circles like a hound searching for a scent.  I knew without even seeing the head that it was a buck trying to sort out the scent left by those three does.  He momentarily raised his head before disappearing over a rise in the field and gave me a glimpse of nice, tall antlers.  The does, uninterested in his pursuit, changed direction and left the field for the safety of a neighboring woodlot. 

In a few moments, the buck reappeared where the does had just been.  I already had my grunt tube in my hand and when he stopped to survey the field, I gave him a couple grunts.  He looked my way and immediately began trotting in my direction.  With my binoculars on him and his attention on me, I noticed for the first time that the entire left side of his antlers was broken off, presumably from fighting with other bucks.  These big mid-western deer are hard hitters.  I quickly decided to let him pass, but he gave me a wonderful opportunity.  Having correctly zeroed in on the source of my grunt, he came to within 20 yards and just stood, licking his lips and steaming up the calm, cold air.  If I had wanted to take him, he presented a perfect shot, but I let him continue on.  Lucky for him, he was missing half of what would have been 140 inches of antler. 

My father in law had left his home in North Carolina very early that morning and arrived in time to greet me when I came out.  I retold the morning’s events and we made plans to hunt the afternoon.  We hunted all day Tuesday with few deer sightings.  Wednesday, the temperature began to warm up a bit, and the wind really picked up.  Even with warmer temps, it was a challenge to sit all morning in the stand in the constant wind.  My father in law got several glimpses of a large buck tending a doe throughout the day Wednesday, but he could never get more than a glimpse of it and certainly had no shot.  On a hunch, I hung a climbing stand in a tree on the southwest corner of the woodlot he had been hunting in so I wouldn’t have to carry it in the next morning. 

The next morning came with a temperature in the 50s and steady 9 mph winds out of the southeast.  This was Thanksgiving day.  Thanksgiving day has long been my favorite day to spend in the woods.  At home in the mountains of north Georgia, the week of Thanksgiving is usually a very good time to be in the woods with bucks beginning to rut.  I’ve taken several deer over the years on Thanksgiving day, so it’s extra special for me. 

But this day was a little different.  I wasn’t back home in north Georgia, I was several hundred miles from home and from my family.  My wonderful wife and my three beautiful children would be celebrating Thanksgiving without me and frankly, I missed them dearly.  But God had granted me an opportunity to do something that rarely comes to me, so as day began to break, I found myself in a prayer of reflection and thanksgiving for His blessings bestowed upon me. 

As the sky began to lighten and shadows began to take shape, I took stock of my vantage point.  From the corner of the woodlot, I could see several hundred yards to my south and east.  Almost immediately, I could see a very nice buck about 600 yards away, slowly cruising a fence row.  He soon slipped out of sight and I began glassing my surroundings.  400 yards to my southwest was the wide racked 10pt that my father in law had seen the previous day.  He was at least 150 inches but he was locked down with a doe.  They were bedded in an open field.  When she stood to feed, he joined her, and when she bedded again, so did he.  I watched him use his wide antlers to scratch an itch on his haunches.  He was a definite shooter. He wasn’t going to leave her, but if she entered my woodlot, I knew he would follow. 

They were joined by two young bucks who nervously approached.  The big buck gave them a glance that told them well enough to keep their distance from his doe.  The young bucks put on a little sparring match and when they drifted a little too close for his comfort, the big buck stood up and stared them down, flattening his ears down in a show of aggression.  That was all it took for the young bucks, they left the scene and in a few minutes were passing in front of me on the fence row at less than 25 yards. 

I hoped that the doe would follow the young bucks’ path when she got up out of her bed.  If she did, her big suitor would follow her blindly right in front of me, offering an easy 23 yard shot.  But it wasn’t going to happen.  A few minutes later, I glanced their way and saw her bounding across the field from west to east with him a couple hundred yards behind.  I don’t know what spooked her, but I watched her disappear onto the neighboring property with the buck chasing after. 

The big wide 10 locked down with his doe were in the far right corner of this picture, 400 yards from the fence row.

I kept my binoculars trained on the last place I saw them.  I hoped to see them return, but they never did.  Instead, only a few short minutes later, I saw a large buck running my way across a green pasture to my south east.  At first, I thought it was the big buck and he had lost his doe and was running trying to find her again.  But when this buck appeared out of a stand of cottonwoods, I could tell he was a different animal altogether.  Through my binoculars, he looked like a tall 8 or 9 point with great mass.  He was heading across the field about 150 yards from me.  The wind was blowing hard from him to me so I grunted loud and long.  He heard it, put his nose to the ground, and turned my way.  The primal urge to breed would be his undoing. 
I was already standing, so I took my bow off its hanger, lowered my binoculars and grabbed my rangefinder  He was walking with a steady purpose and every step was bringing him closer to me.  On the edge of the fence row, there was a patch of thick brush that had limbs, stumps and debris that the farmer had neglected to mow.  He was headed right towards it and I knew when he got to it, he would have to make a decision; turn right or turn left.  Right, and he would likely disappear without offering a shot.  Left, would likely lead him by me.  After reaching the thick patch and checking the wind, he turned left. 

When the buck hopped the fence behind the old red truck cab, he was only 43 yards away.

He hopped the fence right behind an old red truck cab that had been dropped off years earlier to use as a ground blind.  When he hopped the fence, I was already ranging him.  43 yards.  I kept the rangefinder on him in a continuous read mode.  38, 36, 32… when it read 32, I realized that this was going to happen.  The buck of a lifetime was about to present me with a shot.  29, 27,23… I dropped my rangefinder and drew my bow as he stepped behind a tree.  He was passing behind me at 20 yards.  I had to lean out over the rails of my treestand and crouch to get the top limb of my bow clear of the bow hanger screwed above me shoulder.  I settled the string to my nose and the peep sight to my eye.  I found him in my sights and I let out a soft bleat with my mouth to stop him.  He froze in mid-stride.  I settled my pin behind his front shoulder and loosed the arrow.  I watched the arrow disappear into his side and I saw the tuft of fur where the arrow struck begin to change color as he turned to run.  He bounded away like nothing was wrong, but I knew better.  The broadhead passed completely through him, slicing its way through both lungs.  Death would come quickly.  He stopped after about 80 yards and turned back to look my way.  I saw his back legs begin to weaken, and in the next second, he went down. 

I drew my bow as he passed behind the tree on the right side of the trail.  He stopped broadside, standing between the two nearest trees. 

I was overcome with a flood of emotion.  I had already spent a portion of the morning thanking God for all the undeserved blessings in my life.  Now I had one more reason to be thankful.  Lying less than 100 yards from me was the biggest buck I had ever killed.  The adrenaline rush that caused my heart to race, pumping extra oxygen to my brain was now crashing.  My hands and knees shook.  My phone buzzed.  It was my father in law, messaging me to congratulate me on the trophy.  He saw the buck go down.  My fingers wouldn’t work.  I couldn’t hold the phone still enough to respond.  After a few minutes, I sent a message to my wife, telling her I just smoked a giant. 

After sitting for another hour, hoping to give my father in law a shot at the big 10 we had seen earlier, I finally got down so I could get my hands on my deer.  I really hadn’t spent much time looking at his antlers once I determined him to be a shooter. He was much bigger than I imagined.  And as we began to admire him, we realized we had seen him before. He was the tall 10 point that we had pictures of on the fence row.  Those pictures were one of the compelling reasons that convinced me to come on this trip in the first place. 

He had been fighting hard and had broken some of those impressive tines, but this didn’t make him less of a trophy for me.  He was a majestic animal, a mature, exemplary sample of his species.  He would put food on my table and a wonderful trophy on my wall.  But mostly, he would give me a story to tell and a memory to keep forever.  I'm truly thankful.

Getting Started Fly Fishing

As I sit and type this, it’s 29 degrees outside and not likely to get much warmer today.  The wind all morning has been a steady 8-10 mph.  Hardly the kind of weather that gives fishermen the urge to grab a rod and hit the stream.  This is fly tying weather.  This weather is perfect for going through your fishing gear and doing off-season maintenance like cleaning and dressing fly line and re-sorting flies in their proper places in your fly boxes.

I figure today is a good day to address a question I get asked quite often, “what do I need to get started in fly fishing?”

My buddy CT fly fishing on the Yellowstone River near Gardiner, Montana

Before I get started, let me tell you how I got into fly fishing.  When I grew up, trout fishing was done in one of two ways:  Using bait (worms, crickets, salmon eggs, etc), or using spinners like the Mepps Aglia or the Panther Martin.  I’ve filled many a stringer with an ultralight rod and reel and a gold bladed Mepps spinner.  That’s what my friends and I had been brought up on.

Then one afternoon, my best friend and I went to a local stream to catch some trout, just like we had dozens of times before.  But this time, instead of a spinning outfit, he had a fly rod in his hand.  I don’t remember the details of the fish caught, but I know he outfished me by several trout.  I had never been so badly trounced on the trout stream.  I left the stream that day with a new respect for fly fishermen and more than a little bit of curiosity about how it all worked.

It wasn’t long after that, his dad took both of us fly fishing for panfish.  He brought me a rod and an assortment of panfish flies.  He demonstrated to me how to cast and how to set the hook and then he turned me loose.  It was summertime and the river was warm and wading easy.  I couldn’t believe how many fish I caught.  After that day, I knew I wanted to be a fly fisherman.

Trout aren't the only species you can target while fly fishing.  Bedding bluegill with a fly rod provide some of the most fun you can have afield.  

My parents bought me my first fly fishing setup as a gift when I graduated high school, a 6wt Cortland rod and fly reel with a weight forward double tapered line, and from that rod and reel, my fly fishing career began.

Now, back to our question.  What do you need to get started fly fishing?  Let’s start with the basics:
Rod
Reel
Fly Line
Leader/tippet
Flies

That’s it.  That’s technically all you need to get started fly fishing.  There’s a world of gear that will make your life easier and your trips more enjoyable, but we’ll get there later.  Let’s examine the basics.

The Rod

As you would expect when entering a new hobby like fly fishing, there are hundreds of choices to be made and the task of choosing the “right” rod can seem daunting.  I’ll help you narrow down the choices.  Get a 5 weight rod around 9 feet long.  If this is your first rod, get one that best bridges the gap between ultralight and heavyweight.  The appropriate 5wt rod will allow you to delicately cast dry flies and will also handle throwing streamers and double-nymph rigs with a strike indicator.  The rod will also have enough backbone to handle larger fish like trophy trout and largemouth bass.  A 5wt rod will let you fish rivers and streams as well as the larger water on lakes and ponds.
Let your budget dictate what you get.  If you’ve walked into a fly shop and gotten sticker shock when you saw the prices of new rods, don’t panic.  I suggest you get the best gear you can afford, but there are some very good rods that won’t break the bank.  Big box stores like Bass Pro and Cabelas offer in-house models that are usually affordable and of good quality.  Rod makers like Echo, Fenwick, Redington, TFO and St. Croix all offer rods that are affordable and of decent quality.  Most reputable rod makers offer a warranty.  Make sure your rod does.  Broken fly rods are a part of life and though it’s never convenient to break a rod, it’s reassuring to know that it will be replaced in the event it does happen.

The Reel

Here is where you can save the  most money.  Unless you are targeting large, fast sportfish like striped bass or saltwater species like tarpon, you don’t need to break the bank on your reel.  In most trout fishing situations, a reel is nothing more than a glorified line holder.  If you’re on a budget, spend your money on rod and line.  If money is no object, then by all means, get the $500 reel.  But in my 25 years of fly fishing, I’ve been taken into the backing (all of my fly line was pulled off by a fish) only once, by a giant largemouth bass.  I can’t recall a single time that I’ve lost a fish because of my reel.  While several makers offer reels under $100, Cabelas Wind River reels steal the title of best bang for your buck at around $30.

The Line

If you saved your money by finding a cheap reel, you can now spend it on quality line.  Perhaps more with fly line than any other aspect of the sport, you get what you pay for.  Good fly line isn’t cheap and cheap fly line isn’t good.  You’re going to want to spend at least $50 and often, a great fly line will run closer to $100.  But it’s a long term investment.  If you take care of it and keep it cleaned and treated, fly line will last for many years.  I’ve been a big fan of Scientific Angler for as long as I can remember.  Other reputable line makers like Orvis, Rio, and Cortland make lines for every application.  Just make sure you get a line that matches your rod weight.

The Leader

Leader is the material that you tie to your fly line so that you have something to actually present a fly that fish will take.  Leader material is most often a tapered nylon monofilament line. Taper is important in presentation.  A tapered line will turn over more efficiently and make a more delicate presentation.  Years ago, fly fishermen built their own leaders with several sections of progressively smaller diameter lines knotted together to form a taper.  Technology has progressed now and factory tapered lines are readily available and cheap.  Personally, I prefer a furled thread leader for dry fly fishing.  Now, to truly understand the intricacies of leader/fly combinations would take several chapters of a book.  I’ll give you some very basic generalities when selecting leaders.  Dry flies require long, supple leaders.  Streamers require short, stiff leaders.  Most of my dry fly leaders are no longer than 9 feet.  Extremely technical fishing like that found on a spring creek or a slow, clear tailwater might require 12 or even 15 foot leaders, but under normal circumstances, 7-10 feet is plenty.

Tippet is the material that that allows you to lengthen your leader, making a better presentation to the fish.  Though it comes in several sizes, I think a spool each of 3x, 4x, and 5x would allow you to target most fish in most situations.  Learn to tie a double surgeon’s knot to attach tippet to leader and you’ll be good to go.

The Flies

Flies are imitations of living creatures.  Created by wrapping combinations of fur, feathers, and synthetic materials around a hook and tying them in such a manner as to resemble a fish’s food source, there are literally thousands of different fly patterns.  If you’ve ever stood over a fly bin in a fly shop and gazed in wonder and confusion at the wide selection, it can be daunting.  Your local fly shop can help you select the flies that are working in your area at that particular time.

There may be thousands to select from, but there are a handful of staples that will work almost anywhere.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have fished all over the country and I’ve learned that my same go-to flies will catch trout everywhere.  Dry flies like the Elk Hair Caddis, Parachute Adams, and Stimulator will catch all but the most technical trout in dry fly situations.  Nymphs such as the Peasant Tail, Hare’s Ear, and beadhead versions of both of them will serve you well.  Throw in a couple Wooly Buggers in olive and black and there aren’t many fish that can resist.  If you’re after warm water species like Bluegill or bass, some popping bugs like those made by Betts are hard to beat.

An assortment of summer bugs like stoneflies and grasshoppers made from fur, feathers, and foam

Some flies are tied to imitate baitfish

Some flies are tied to imitate aquatic insects like this stonefly

Those are the basics, and with everything listed so far, you can target and catch most freshwater species in our waters.  However, there are additional items that you will most likely want to add to your gear.

Waders/Boots 
I didn’t own a pair of waders until I was in college.  Every trout fishing trip was a wet wading trip.  I still wet wade during the summer months, but waders allow you to fish in dry comfort and the more comfortable you are, the longer you can fish.  Wading boots come in a variety of styles, but my favorite boots have felt soles and screw-in metal cleats.  They are comfortable to walk in and offer unmatched traction on slippery river rocks.

Hat/Glasses

So much of fly fishing success is dependent upon your vision.  You must be able to see fish before they see you.  You must be able to see the fly when it's on the water.  If you’ve ever fished in the mid morning or late evening when the sun is glaring on the water, you know that it can be blinding, and it’s hard to fly fish blind.  A hat that can shield your eyes from the sun is an essential piece of gear.  It can also protect you from the inevitable sunburn from a day spent on the water.  Just as important are a pair of polarized sunglasses.  Polarization reduces glare from the sun and allows you to see below the surface of the water and glasses offer your eyes protection from a wayward backcast.

Knife

If you aren't carrying a knife when fishing, or frankly, all the time, what's the matter with you?

Vest

As you begin to accumulate fly fishing gear, you will quickly realize you need a place to store it all.  Traditional fly fishing vests are adorned with several pockets allowing you to carry your gear with you on the stream.  Some fly fishermen (like myself) opt for a chest pack or a sling pack to carry gear in.  It’s a personal preference.  Either is fine.  Here’s a list of things that are currently in my chest pack:

6 fly boxes
Stream thermometer
Fly floatant
Split shot sinkers
4 tippet spools
5 leaders
Strike indicators
Hemostat (for removing hooks from fish)
Clipper tool (for cutting line) on a retractable zinger
Net

For most fishing excursions, this is my carryout list.  If I’m going ultralight and targeting a specific fish or situation, I can eliminate all but 2 fly boxes and a few leaders and tippet spools and can carry most of this in my pockets or on a lanyard and leave the pack at home.

You can carry everything in front of you with a chest pack like mine.

Or like my buddy Jordan, you can opt for a lanyard and keep it spartan

I know you’ve driven by trout water and seen fly fishermen on the stream or seen them standing by their $80,000 vehicle getting into a pair of $1000 waders with their $1500 rod and reel and vest festooned with gear and gadgets.  Don’t be intimidated.  You can do it for much less.  You don’t have to mortgage your home to get started in fly fishing….that comes later, when you decided you want to tie your own flies.

Memories of the West

"There are no words that can tell the hidden spirit of the wilderness, that can reveal its mystery, its melancholy and its charm."

President Theodore Roosevelt

My wife and I have a love affair with the West.  When we met, one of our first conversations was about the antique Colorado license plate that I had on the front of my truck.  She learned that I loved to fly fish in an area that she and her family loved to hunt elk.  Needless to say, when I found a drop dead gorgeous girl who had taken an elk with her bow and shared my love of the outdoors and my faith and values, it wasn’t long before I asked her to marry me.

We honeymooned in Yellowstone.  The first night of our trip, we stayed in Red Lodge, Montana with plans to cross the Beartooth pass into the northeast corner of the park the next day.  That night, we got almost 10 inches of snow and the Beartooth was closed.  While she packed, I scraped the snow from the hood of our rented SUV.  Somehow, during the clearing of the windshield, my brand new wedding ring slipped, unnoticed, off of my frozen fingers.  I didn’t realize it until we were miles down the road.  Of course, I turned right around and went back to where we had been parked and began sifting through the snow.  Realizing the futility of the search, I crossed the street to an inn and asked for a bucket of water.  I went back and melted the snow with warm water and there was my ring!

We had a magical time in Yellowstone that week.  Early October meant that the crowds of summer were long gone and we had the park virtually to ourselves.  We were treated to a version of the park that most visitors don’t see.  Fewer park visitors meant empty roads and uninhibited access to all the wonders of Yellowstone.  This trip was so special, I knew that our first trip into the West would not be our last.

I had visited some pretty special places in the West in my quest for trout, so with a couple years of marriage and several camping trips into our local national park, the Great Smokey Mountains, we began to plan another western trip.

We wanted to camp in primitive campsites and do some fly fishing and I had a couple places in mind that might serve as a backdrop to making some lifelong memories.  We packed our car on the 4th of July and in the early morning hours, with fireworks still echoing off the mountains, we headed west.

Our first destination was New Fork Lake in the Bridger-Teton National Forest northeast of Pinedale, Wyoming.  I had camped here a few years prior with some fishing buddies and the beauty and relative isolation of the place made an impression on me.  We would be car-camping, but just because there’s a road to somewhere, doesn’t mean it necessarily has to be crowded.  We had the campground and the fishing almost to ourselves.

I had packed our float tubes for some lake fishing and New Fork lake offered us the opportunity for rainbows, brookies and lake trout.  After establishing our camp, we inflated the tubes and started trolling baitfish imitations in the deep, cold water.  My wife supplied us with dinner that night; a large rainbow that she hooked deep and we cooked over the coals.

Not content to lazily kick around in float tubes all week, we headed out into the Green River valley.  The Green was still flowing high and off color from snow melt, so we consulted a map, picked a tributary appropriately called Fish Creek and headed upstream.  Amanda caught her first trout on a fly rod in this creek.  The water was very cold and swift, so I tied on a nymph rig with an indicator and she commenced to clean the creek out of 8 inch brookies.

The thin air at almost 8,000 feet and total absence of light pollution made for some of the best stargazing skies I’ve ever seen.  Nights were cold and we enjoyed each other’s warmth around the campfire.  Days were sunny but cool and the wildlife and wildflowers were abundant.

Fishing can be hard work.  Sometimes it's nice to slow down and just relax.

After a few days at New Fork, we turned south for warmer weather in Colorado.  We headed to one of my favorite camping destinations, Trappers Lake in the Flattops Wilderness of northwestern Colorado.

I visited Trappers Lake on my very first trip to the West.  The man that taught me to fly fish had told me stories about the place, and when I first planned a trip out west, it was naturally on my list.  It has a special place in my heart, so of course I wanted my bride to experience it with me.

The area around Trappers Lake had been burned almost a decade before when a large wildfire swept through.  Thousands of acres of already dead pines, victims of the pine beetle infestation, provided dry tinder for a massive blaze.  But fire is a natural part of the life cycle of a forest ecosystem and Mother Nature quickly fills in the void left by fire.  Soil left bare and covered in ashes quickly gives nourishment to an abundance of wildflowers.

Trappers Lake is home to the largest wild population of Colorado River Cutthroats in the world.  Fishing in the lake itself is best experienced from a float tube, either trolling baitfish or leech patterns or by sight fishing to trout cruising the shallows.  In an effort to protect spawning grounds, fishing in the tributaries of the lake is prohibited within a half mile of the lake.  But fishing above the half mile mark can be amazing.   Small water doesn't always equal small fish.

Amanda's first ever cutthroat was one to remember, a 17 inch Colorado River cutt in spawning colors.

After spending half the day fishing the small, tumbling waters of the tributary, we found it hard not to take a break and just enjoy the scenery.  The meadows, once scorched by fire were now so vibrant with color, neither words nor pictures can accurately convey the scene.

This trip will forever hold a special place in our hearts.  We got to do what we love with the person we love the most.  I was thrilled that my wife got to experience some of what makes the West so special to me.  Unbeknownst to me, she had been hiding a secret from me for most of the trip.  On our last night in camp, she told me that she was pretty sure she was pregnant with our first child.

This trip made such a lasting impression, we’re planning on taking our children and retracing our footsteps this summer.