Let the record show that I began this post by saying the following:  I think Cutthroats are awesome.  The rich, golden hue and the transitioning spotting pattern from sparse to full of the Westslope make it my favorite trout in appearance, and roll-casting to Coastals remind me of my favorite days in North Carolina doing the same for Brook trout.  Being an Eastern transplant and having cut my teeth on the trout rivers of the Southeast however, I often find myself missing the aerial acrobatics of the Rainbow and the ticked off runs of the paddle-tailed Browns trying to snap your reel from the reel seat.  Yes, both of these exist in Washington, but Cutts make up a hefty percentage of the fish on the small mountain creeks of the Western Cascades where I spend a large chunk of my Summer fishing.  Which is why days like yesterday deserve their own blog post.

A fellow North Carolinian and friend from college who just moved to Washington and I headed out to the _____________  River, a tributary of the ______________ in search of my friend’s first trout.  This river is a river in name only since I’d estimate the flow at 100 cfs or less, but it proved fishy the few casts I put out on a backpacking trip the weekend before.  More than that, it seemed very Coastal Cutthroat-y being such a small flow tucked away in the Cascades.  Three casts into the day however, my friend was hooked up to a 12 inch fish that had not only come out of the water to inhale the fly, but had also done its best Olympic gymnast impression before coming to the net.  Rainbow. 

Over the next 6 hours of pool after pool teeming with Rainbows many different sizes came to the net, but every one put together an impressive assortment of powerful bursts and leaping flips.  What I found interesting was that every time I set the hook I was shocked at the burst of speed that took my rod tip from almost perpendicular in one direction to almost perpendicular in the other.  More than that, I laughed every time the fish burst from the water to obliterate the fly only to miss it, flip over, and nail it on the way back into the water (that happened at least 3 times by the way).   That combination proved to be enough to enjoy even the <6 inch variety of fish.

Needless to say, I think my friend will gladly hit the water anytime I can take him, but in some ways I worry that he might be slightly ruined in the expectation department.  Having your first fish be the biggest of the day, and probably in the conversation for biggest in the river, plus 6 hours of hard charging dives and X Game worthy flips will make for a difficult mountain creek encore.  Like I said, I think Cutthroat are awesome fish.  But let’s also say that I don’t mind too much when the first fish on a new creek has the red slash down its side instead of under the gills.

Written by: Alex Collier

If you’re looking for some fish to take your mind off of the pitiful state of the Puget Sound Steelhead for an afternoon, might we suggest the Upper Yakima?  In a 6 cast stretch on one hole Ted landed a 14+ inch native cuttie, 2 other fish of the same size cruised by, and I landed this 24+ rainbow.  There’s plenty of bugs coming off, and when the water ticks up a few degrees it’s going to be game on.  And while these fish definitely won’t make you forget about the early closing of the Puget Sound Steelhead rivers again, this one proved that a rod bending and reel peeling fight doesn’t have to wait till fall.

Written by: Alex Collier

Every year fishermen flock to the North Cascade Highway system outside of Bellingham to try their luck at the salmon and steelhead of the Sauk and Skagit Rivers.  These rivers are some of the most fabled waters in Washington State for fly anglers, and for good reason—these are some of the few rivers in the state that gives you a shot at very large, wild steelhead.

 But, there’s another group that flocks to this area with the return of the salmon and steelhead; and they come in larger numbers that anywhere else in the lower 48 states:  bald eagles.  Hundreds of eagles gather in the trees along the Upper Skagit to nest and feed on the dead and dying runs of salmon, with their numbers peaking from the middle of December through early January.  We were able to see 15 or so this past weekend (January 17^th) in about 4 ½ hours of watching. 

 If you have never seen these animals in action, it is well worth the drive.  To see them soaring effortlessly, diving down to snag a salmon, cruising up the river while barely losing ground to a car traveling at 35 mph, or just to hear their loud and other-worldly call to each other really is Nature at its finest. 

But, as a fisherman, it also slapped me back into reality with regard to the importance of the salmon runs.  Our goal in fighting for the runs of fish should have very little to do with ourselves and our enjoyment of the sport—that is simply a by-product of a much bigger cause.  The reason we fight for it, and ultimately the reason why we love the outdoors, is because we don’t control it.  We don’t determine when that fish will strike, when that elk will appear, or when the sun will set in just such a way that only Glacier Peak will be illuminated.  Nature keeps us on our toes, keeps us looking for what’s right around the corner, and if we’re honest, makes us feel small.  In a world where everything is increasingly at our finger-tips, the feeling of smallness and increased alertness makes us feel whole because it takes us back to our original roots.  We fight for the salmon runs because they are an integral part of maintaining this bigger-than-us cycle of life. 

As humans we definitely have the power to screw this up.  Our “power,” however, shrinks to the point of foolishness when compared to the absolute splendor of those moments where Nature reveals itself fully in front of our eyes—a moment such as Mother Nature catching her limit.

Written by: Alex Collier

One of the few things I enjoy at the same level as fly fishing is hiking into the wilderness, often in search of a river or lake in which I can fish.  The Pacific Northwest offers an incredible number of fisheries to those who, like myself, think of hiking boots and a sleeping bag as critical to a fly fishing trip as extra tippet and floatant.  Those willing to put in some miles before ever considering rigging up a rod will usually be rewarded with no crowds except wildlife, pristine wilderness landscapes untouched but for the trails that go through them, and fish that willingly rise to just about any dry, and who fight a light weight rod with the strength of a fish 2 or 3 times their size.

But, since winter has officially set in, we hiker/fishers are left staring at the mountains developing mental images of what our favorite areas look like buried in snow, and wondering how the rivers’ structures and fish will be impacted by the increasingly heavy rains of recent years.  Don’t get me wrong, I love fishing through the winter for steelhead while occasionally squeezing in a trip to North Carolina for trout or Louisiana for reds.  Through it all though, I’m left dreaming of a Gregory pack with sleeping bag and pad, stove and fuel, and a fly rod and reel with a small box of dries heading down a trail in the Cascades, the Olympics, Northern Idaho, or anywhere else where there are native fish waiting to rise.

Here’s to counting down the days…

Written by: Alex Collier

A few years ago I read about the St. Joe River in a major Fly Fishing publication. The article talked about numbers of nice sized West Slope Cutthroat that readily pounce on any well presented dry fly. While I was skeptical (as most of us are when a river is made to sound almost too good to be true), the one aspect that appealed to me was the mention of solitude as a result of miles of river only reached by hiking trail.

When it came time for my girlfriend and I to plan a backpacking trip for Labor Day weekend, I dusted off this magazine to present the St. Joe area as a possibility. After some convincing (and a little bit of help from a Idaho backpacking book that listed a 30 mile loop in the area), we decided to head to the St. Joe River area–with my fly rod in tow.

Allow me to say this: the St. Joe lived up to its billing as a phenomenal fishery. More than that, the area turned out to be even more beautiful than we had expected. But, just as the magazine article stated, what struck us the most was the complete and total solitude. Even though the river is paralleled by a road for roughly 80 miles, the number of people fishing the really nice stretches was shockingly small. Once we started hiking at the end of the road, we only saw 6 people on our 4 day, 20 mile hike—all on Labor Day weekend!!!

Then there were the fish — nice fish, after nice fish, all native West Slope Cutties that thrive in the Catch-and-Release, barbless hook only section of river that is listed under the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act. Of all the fish landed, the smallest was 10 inches, with the biggest being a 16 inch fish that hammered a sculpin pattern just after sunset. Even on a 6wt. rod with 4 and 5x tippet, these fish were a handful to bring in, but all of them were stunning examples of what a river can be if it is properly maintained.

Even though it’s a bit of a drive from Seattle, if solitude, a picturesque river, and gorgeous native fish are what you are after, the St. Joe should be on your list of places to visit.

Written by: Alex Collier