Yellowstone NP is making another concerted effort to stem the tide of non-native fish within the park, called “The Native Fish Conservation Plan.” There are several sources to find out more. The Island Park News has a quick overview of what the park is doing. The park has a home page to find out more. They are currently taking public comments, and you can go to this page to add your voice. You can see the detailed letter sent from Walter Wiese, Head Guide at Parks’ Fly Shop in Gardiner, MT to get some ideas (if you need them).

Cutthroat Stalker Ezine - February 2010

The long awaited (okay, nobody actually knew I was tinkering with this, so obviously they weren’t waiting for it) ezine version of Cutthroat Stalker is hitting the virtual stands today. Just click here to view the ezine where I have three new (and short) pieces of writing (I’ve found viewing full screen (f11 in Firefox) and clicking on the magnifying glass on the top makes it a bit easier to read). I am mostly just playing with the software that can produce this kind of ezine, I don’t think I have any real desire to do something like this on a continual basis. Maybe to archive each month’s content?

Come back and post a comment to let me know what you think. I am specifically interested in the following:

• Do people really like this “magazine” format (for any content out their, not just mine)?
  • Why?
• Do you personally prefer to read fly fishing content as a daily/semi-daily fix like most blogs, or do you prefer to get a big chunk in one fell swoop (like an ezine)?

For those of you who would prefer the ezine as a pdf file, here you go.

I’m also playing around with making this as an epub file for ereaders (including Kindle).

And check out this flash version from Prezi (after you click on the play button, click on the “more” to the right and choose “fullscreen”):

“The Angler’s Life List” is a one-stop website for all things dealing with native fish. There is a place for learning about native fish  (“The Fish”) that is an excellent resource, forums for discussing all things dealing with natives, feeds from several blogs that deal with fishing for natives (full disclosure, I’m one of them), links to other native resources, and a place for registered users to write about their fishing experiences (“My Journal”) which actually revolves around the original impetus of Anders vision for the site, to start/maintain a native fish life list, much like birders do.

More about the site in Anders’ own words:

This site was established as a hub for the growing community of anglers who are focused on catching native fish. The central tenet: that this movement benefits both those with the rod in their hand and those with the hook in their mouth.

For people, filling out a fish life list provides new inspiration and even an excuse (if one is needed) to visit beautiful and remote places. And for the fish, it creates a constituency that can have a profound impact on fishery management priorities.

I’m really intrigued by the concept that the more a person enjoys fishing for natives, the more he/she will become an advocate for natives. It’s kind of a back door approach, but I like it. In private conversations with Anders, he mentioned something along the lines that the more people were clamoring to a local chamber of commerce that they were looking for  X native species in the local river, possibly that locale would start looking at stopping the stocking of nonnatives and help the natives reestablish and flourish in the local waters instead.

Head on over to The Angler’s Life List, browse around, set up an account and get involved in the wonderful world of natives.

To find other items in this riveting series, check here:

Fishing for Desert Natives – Preface
Fishing for Desert Natives – Day 1
Fishing for Desert Natives – Day 2

[The following 3 paragraphs should be read with your best Tennessee Tuxedo narrator voice (quick refresher on YouTube).]

When last we looked, our erstwhile heroes were escaping the marauding mosquitoes of Guano Creek…

The plan was to make it to the dumpy town, er, scratch that, quaint village of Frenchglen to get some gas before they closed. They wheeled in about 4:45, 15 minutes before closing time, thereby interrupting the young lass working the till in the general store/gas station from her web surfing, and she was really putout about it too (we’re confident she was reading another fascinating account of swashbuckling adventure on cutthroatstalker.com, which would certainly explain her hesitation to abandon the computer to help three smelly amigos covered with DEET, fish slime and that overall testosteroney scent of victory—if only she knew she were in fact waiting on the very swashbucklers themselves…)

Anyhow, after gassing up they headed to the campground on the Donner und Blitzen River. Which was only a 15 minute drive from the gas pumps (in other words, they could have not worried about hurrying to Frenchglen, taken more time at Guano and…, well, you know, do other stuff).

So begins a series of events that culminates some 30 hours later in the “Ascent of the Nauseous at 8500′.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.

[End narrator’s voice here.]

The campground at the Blitzen River is fantastic—nice shady spots, grassy areas, clean pit toilets, tables, water: the full monty. And mosquitoes. Lots of them. Worse than at Guano Creek, if that can be imagined. And it wasn’t yet dusk, AKA “Time of the Mosquitoes.”

We had several hours of daylight left in which we could sit around camp swatting and slapping, waiting for nightfall so we could go to sleep, or head to the river and do a little fishing.

I’ve typically found that on most waters in the western US, if there are mosquito problems on shore, they can usually be avoided in the river, especially if it’s a fairly decent sized water. The Blitzen isn’t huge, but I’d guess a good 40′ wide there at camp. It seemed that it would be a sure bet as far as getting away from the mosquitoes. No such chance!

It wouldn’t have been so bad if we were getting into some fish, especially some fish with a little size to them. We hooked up with a couple of little guys, and I did have a 14″ or so fish roll on my fly and I hooked him momentarily, but that was it. We probably fished pretty hard until 8:45, by which time the mosquitoes were just insane.

We cooked up some down and dirty Mac & Cheese pasta with a cheddar sauce and some pan fried kielbasas. Washed down with a couple of Capri Sun juices (all three of us being teetotalers, there weren’t any nice microbrews or wines chilling somewhere for us—but if I were to become a drinking man, a couple of shots of tequila in that juice might have been a good inoculation against the tatting skeeters).

The quasi-bed was assembled and climbed into. Except Gary. He brought a large aluminum pole tent with him, but opted to sleep under the stars on a cot—crazy brave man!

I don’t know if I was thankful or upset about the non-seal-tight bungee job over the tailgate. Thankful because the self-respiring kielbasas were making an afterglow appearance and the tarp was well-aerated; or upset because the mosquitoes were finding every nook and cranny available to gain access for the incessant assault on the tired.

After some major tossing and turning and trying to breathe completely covered in my mummy bag, I must have drifted off to sleep, because sometime shortly after midnight I awoke with a start. My stomach wasn’t feeling too hot—kielbasa’s revenge? I also had a little panic attack.

Last year, when camping in a very small trailer, on a bottom bunk with the top bunk mere centimeters from my nose (Ok, it was probably a good 50 cm from my nose), in a very dark location, I awoke in the middle of the night with a major case of claustrophobia. Which is odd, because I had never experienced anything remotely like it in my life. But I felt like I was suffocating. Since then I have had a couple of minor psychosomatic recurrences.

This night was one of those times, but it was quite small and I think it was more nausea than claustrophobia. I tried turning my head to the end of the truck to get a little more fresh air, but that wasn’t doing it. I would have to get out and visit the john. So I awoke Dan and did “the worm” out the truck and ambled dashed off to the loo.

Somewhat relieved, I moseyed back to the truck, and being the thoughtful guy I am, not wanting to bother Dan again, self-serving wuss I am, figured there would be fewer mosquitoes in there, I hopped in the cab. There I spent the next several hours trying to fall asleep. In the last couple of years, my right hip and knee have started to bother me when I use them a lot or have to sit in a cramped position. In the previous two days we had done a lot of walking and sitting in the truck. Needless to say, my leg was not feeling so good.

Around 5:00 I could take it no longer and needed to get a little sleep. I went ahead and bothered Dan and crawled back in my sleeping bag. Where I dodged and slapped dive-bombing mosquitoes for an hour or so between fitful bouts of almost sleep. I finally pulled the sleeping bag off and decided to get up. But not before looking at the ceiling of the shell. I wish I had the camera. Take your mind back to Day 2’s picture of Dan’s mosquito shirt. Now picture that on the inside of the shell. Dan also showed off his elbow which must have been left out of the sleeping bag because it had at least a dozen puncture wounds in a 2″ x 2″ area.

Gary apparently slept as well as we did.

We hurried and made some breakfast and packed and got out of there.

Day 3’s original plan was to visit Coyote Basin, specifically Willow Creek, the best publicly accessible place to fish for the Willow/Whitehorse Lahontan cutthroat trout. These are some of the least studied cutthroat around. It is believed they originally came from the same stock as the Quinn River Lahontans of the Lahontan Basin during the Pleistocene epoch.

At some point in time some of these cutthroat were introduced into Guano Creek, but later plantings of other strains of Lahontans into Guano have probably bred out any purity of the Willow/Whitehorse strain.

Other trout have not been stocked in the Coyote Basin, thereby leaving the Willow/Whitehorse strain genetically pure, making it a very small and unique population. However, they have not been scientifically named or “officially” recognized as a separate subspecies.

We thought this would be a great opportunity to fish for these rare cutthroat.

The plan was to leave Gary who would be picked up shortly by his father and sister (see Gary’s blog for the events that actually unfolded for him). Dan and I would proceed to Willow Creek and Gary would try and meet up with us there.

The trip through the desert was not too long. We continually wondered what type of person would willingly live in such a place. But live there they do. Not many, but every so often there would be a house or a long-vacated homestead precariously situated in the drought-prone vastness of southeastern Oregon.

I tried catching a few winks of sleep here and there, but the hip was bothering me. And, I had noticed During Day 2, an uncomfortable chafing of the nether regions had cropped up. And the nausea lingered in the background. So I spent my time in the cab squirming about looking for a comfortable position.

After a slight miscue and overshooting of the turnoff we needed (thanks to Gary for telling us that if we made it to the Whitehorse Ranch, we went too far—we did), we found the road and made our way south for several miles until we found the thread of green winding through the sage.

After following the creek for a few miles we came to some bluffs and decided to get out and try our luck. As usual, Dan was on the water while I was still putzing around. Of course, within minutes, he hollered out that he caught one. I made my way to the water and hobbled (knee, hip and crotch combo) around for an hour or so without any luck. Dan didn’t have any luck either. In fact, we didn’t even see fish, let alone cast to any.

I was too tired, sore, and overall feeling crappy to be excited about carrying on any farther. So I headed back to the truck to get some rest. When I was a little ways away from Dan, he hollered out that he saw a fish. But even that didn’t get me interested in turning back to the creek.

This area had a fair amount of volcanic activity at one time, and obsidian chunks and chips were scattered about. I was keeping my eyes on the ground looking for nice specimens, or possibly even worked pieces. As I neared the truck, I caught a glimpse of something about four feet ahead of me. It moved. And rattled.

It was a nice, thick rattlesnake. About four feet long, but fairly girthy. My next actions, which I can only blame on a tired, fevered mind, are rather odd. I picked up a rock and tossed it at the critter as it slithered away. And then I tossed another one, chasing it away from the truck. Now, if my camera was with me (Dan took the camera when we separated ways), I would have probably been thinking more clearly. But by the time it came to me, and I went to the truck and retrieved another camera, and returned to the last known location of the snake, it was gone.

So I slept a little. And took a couple of notes about the trip up to that point. And did a little reading. And had a sandwich. And waited for Dan.

When Dan returned he had pictures of three more fish he caught, some which were nice specimens. But at that point I really couldn’t muster up too much disappointment about my not catching any of those rare Lahontans myself. Now, on further reflection, it would be nice to someday make it back there and catch one. (I know Dan, I said at the time that any Lahontan is like any other Lahontan, and I’d already caught a Lahontan; but you’re right, those are some special fish.)

We headed east out of Coyote Basin. Our original plans for day 3 involved fishing The Blitzen in the morning, Willow Creek in the afternoon, then making it as close to Winnemucca as we could and find a place to pitch camp for the night. But, since we didn’t fish The Blitzen, we were quite a bit ahead of schedule. So we plucked up the gumption to make a long drive and get to the Jarbidge area to camp that night: 360 miles, the first 30 and last 75 on unimproved dirt roads. We figured it would be a minimum eight hour drive. It was around noon, so we needed to hurry.

We zipped south down Hwy 95, entered Nevada then stopped to make some sandwiches. Then we continued south until we got to Winnemucca. From there it was east along I-80 until we got to the little hamlet of Deeth (a couple of houses). We’d picked up a roadmap of Nevada earlier (I had also printed out Google maps of each area we were fishing in). The Nevada roadmap showed us the turnoff we needed to take to approach Jarbidge from the back (south) way. But the roadmap labeled the exit wrong (it labeled an overpass as a turnoff, complete with the overpass’ mile marker. After a 15 minute delay sorting things out and U-turning in an “official turnaround only” place, we were on the road to Jarbidge.

And it was getting late. And it was getting dark. And my stomach wasn’t feeling well. And the dirt road had some wet spots from rain. And there were clouds on the horizon. And Dan’s 4 wheel drive was not working.

The idea was to camp somewhere in those mountains and hit Jarbidge in the morning to fish. But as we pushed ever onward, it seemed like a better idea would be to try and get a room in Jarbidge for the night. Based on the previous night’s experience, it seemed like a phenomenal idea to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who made. In fact, truth be told, I said to Dan that if we made it to Jarbidge, I’d pay the entire bill for staying the night.

The road was not too bad the first 20 miles or so, just dips and a few curves. But as we continued on, it became a little slower going because of the condition of the dirt (not too bad for the most part) and more curves. Did I mention somewhere that I get motion sickness? Well, the Jarbidge road from the south is a pretty good motion-sickness-inducer.

It was turning a bit dark, and the road was beginning to climb. We could see the looming mountains all around that we knew we needed to get through to make it to Jarbidge. The tallest peak in the area, the Matterhorn (that should give you some clue as to the terrain we were driving toward), peaks out around 10,700′. My Google terrain map showed we would be driving well over the 7000′ marker for a fair distance.

It was a dark and stormy night (gee, that seems so familiar somehow). My head felt like it would spin off at any moment. My stomach was lurching with each dip and turn. By then I was ready to abandon the idea of making it to Jarbidge (anyhow, what town would have a motel room available to somebody rolling in after 10:00PM, I reasoned with myself). I told Dan that it didn’t matter to me, that I would gut it out and sleep anywhere he wanted. No, no, he insisted, we can press on.

The road continued to climb. It was a narrow thing, with plenty of twists. As we neared 8000′, the road hugged the side of the mountain with a steep dropoff of several hundred feet along the driver’s side. For some reason, Dan seemed obsessed with the appearance of some lakes he could see below us. I believed he was paying more attention to the lakes than the road. And I let him know, quite often, that his eyes should stay on the road. Sorry Dan, having a nagging “wife”-fishing buddy is entirely uncalled for, I apologize and blame it on the nausea-induced stupor, motion sickness, altitude sickness, homesickness, Tourettes, crotch rot, etc. Even though it began to rain and you had to drive through small washouts in the steep and dangerous road, all the while staring into the depths of the ravines wondering about some nonexistent lakes, I’m not bitter.

We finally made it to a sign that said “Bear Creek Summit, 8448′. It was in a little saddle of the mountains with no gaping precipices on either side of the road. I again suggested to Dan that we could pull off and sleep there. We sallied forth.

But I needn’t have worried, it took  a mere 6 miles to drop over 2200′ in elevation, and we were in Jarbidge in a mighty heave the blink of an eye. The dark, closed up, after 10:15 town of Jarbidge. But oh, wonder of wonders, a glowing light, beckoning the weary traveler with “Outdoor Inn – slots pool booze grub rooms”: five of the six essentials of the food dude pyramid (being Nevada, I was wondering where the reference to the womanly aspects of life, the sixth essential, were, oh well).

We stopped. I stepped out of the truck, darn near fell over, and promptly got back in to nurse my non-alcohol-induced hangover. Dan went in and secured a room at the Barn Hotel for $35.

And there a heavenly rest was enjoyed by all.

Afterword There you have it, the ramblings of a hypochondriac geezer in the making: bad knees; bad hip; motion sickness; claustrophobia; weak stomach; crotch rashes. Somebody put this wretch out of his misery!

Fishing for Desert Natives – Preface

Fishing for Desert Natives – Day 1

I’m usually an early waker, with or without an alarm. So camping for me is tough, especially when sharing space with someone else.

Dan and I decided to use the bed of the truck as our bed. He has a Ranger, which is a little narrow for two and it’s only six feet long (I’m 6′-1″). So using some built-in slots in the bedliner, we made a little platform to sleep on that got above the wheelwells, making it wide enough for two, with about 30″ of space between the platform and shell ceiling. We also made the platform fold out, making it longer than the bed, so the shell door and the tailgate had to remain open. To keep the platform from flexing Dan put a toolbox between the platform and tailgate.

To get in and out of the bed, Dan put a cooler at the edge of the tailgate. I had to step on the cooler, hoist the top half of my body lying on the platform, legs dangling, then scoot the rest of the way up.

To provide some protection against mosquitoes and potential rain, Dan bungeed a plastic tarp over the rear of the truck. The entry and exit point to the bed was on his half. I slept with my head toward the cab and Dan slept with his head toward the tailgate.

To get out of the truck, I had to inch my way, on my belly, feet first, toward Dan’s head. Move the tarp out of the way, project my legs over the edge of the platform, then reach my toes toward the cooler. I’m sure this beached whale routine looked hilarious to anyone who was unfortunate enough to view this. Of course, there is no way I can do this without disrupting Dan’s sleep.

So, back to the waking-up-early dilemma. Since I didn’t want to wake Dan when I awoke with the sun, I lay in my sleeping bag staring into space for an hour or so. I’m not a lounge around in bed guy—when I wake up, I get up. It’s very disconcerting for me to do nothing. So on that morning I waited until my bladder finally got the best of me, then I woke Dan and did my best inch-worm maneuver out of the truck.

And there stood Gary, fully geared, ready to fish! Here’s a guy after my own heart—if it’s a fishing trip, there’s no farting around with externals: sleep, breakfast, etc.—it’s just fish, fish, fish. Even the night before when we met, we talked fish nonstop the entire time. This guy has a passion about not just fishing, but the fish too.

I relieved the bladder, roused Dan (not that he wasn’t fully awake after my grand exit from bed) and got the rod rigged—we were off to fish Rock Creek for some redband trout.

Rock Creek is small enough that we really don’t have to worry about wading it, so we planned on shore fishing. For some reason, I’m currently hiking bootless (I don’t know how that’s happened, but I haven’t had a pair of hiking boots for about a year). So I pulled on my “hiking” boots for the day—a pair of cowboy boots.

Video of Rock Creek:

Click here to view the embedded video.

We walked downriver about 3/4 of a mile and fished back toward camp. The little redbands were frequent and fierce little fighters. I caught well over a dozen with the average size about 6″ and the largest about 9″. They’re beautifully colored with many of them bearing heavy par marks and vivid red bands.

Gary and Dan catching redbands at Rock Creek (hey guys, wet those hands first!):

Click here to view the embedded video.

They seemed eager to take just about any kind of dry #10-#16 and Gary was picking them up on a nymph dropping from a dry.

We fished for a good hour and a half before making it back to the truck for breakfast. With fishing being the main priority of the trip, food wasn’t—no big breakfasts or fancy foods. Like I said, priorities: fish, fish, fish. So it was cold cereal for Dan and oatmeal for me.

Gary’s dad and sister accompanied Gary but were just camping, not fishing. So when it was time to head to Guano Creek, the three of us piled into Dan’s truck. Gary’s a tall guy (I’m guessing about 6′-4″) and so he couldn’t squeeze into Dan’s micro-extended cab (you know, the type with the mini fold down seat). So being the thoughtful person I am I hopped in back and mentioned (not “whined” or “complained” as my detractors might allege) that my knees were touching Dan’s gear on the other half of the back of the cab. I asked if he could shift some of it. Instead, he told me to get out and drive and he would sit in the back. (Stalker’s tip: It’s better to be thought a whiner than be squished in tight quarters for a five mile drive over bumpy dirt roads. Not that that was what I was doing. I’m just sayin.)

We were headed to Guano Creek looking to catch some Alvord cutthroat trout, the main reason for our trip. Dan and I were both pretty stoked: when do you have the opportunity to catch what might be the remaining handful of fish bearing the look of the extinct Alvord cutthroat? We weren’t fooling ourselves, we understood that genetically they are far from pure. But what little living genetic material remaining of the Alvord cutthroat on the entire planet, it seems to remain in only this one creek.

And yet with the excitement was an even stronger sense of dread, maybe even a little confusion over their peril—how could this happen? What were people thinking by introducing non-native species into the Alvord’s home waters of Trout Creek and Virgin Creek? (I know, I know, they didn’t understand what the consequences of their action would be—the science and understanding just weren’t there.) So why hadn’t more of an effort been made when they were “rediscovered” in Guano Creek in 1986? (There were efforts made, but it was probably too late by then anyhow.) Can anything be done now, or is it beyond human’s capabilities to right the wrong?

I couldn’t help these thoughts from banging around in my head as we bumped down the road while Gary told about his trip in last year. Then there it was, an open meadow and Guano Creek running through it. Where we came upon the creek it was closed in by willows, but further downstream we saw that it thinned out. The valley narrows in on each side from small mesas, coming closest together where Guano Creek runs through it at some rock outcroppings. We made our way toward this section and stopped just a little upriver from the outcroppings at an approximation of where Gary figures is the lowest point he fished last year. Our plan was to walk further downstream and then work our way upstream to about where some corrals are.

Dan was already in the creek fishing while Gary and I were still getting ready. A couple of minutes later Dan hollered that he had a fish. I ran over with the camera. It was our goal to photograph all the fish, especially the ones with the Alvord phenotype, and record the length of each and location where it was caught.

The first fish Dan caught had Lahontan characteristics. Even though it wasn’t an Alvord, it was Dan’s first Lahontan, so it was an exciting catch. It’s not exactly clear which strain of Lahontans swim in Guano Creek—historically there were no fish in Guano, so any fish there were stocked at some point in time. It is known that redbands, Lahontans and Alvords have all been stocked there.

I reminded Dan of the plan to walk downstream then fish back up. As we made our way past the rock outcropping, we really started to notice the mosquitoes. They were hovering and clustering as they mobbed us. Dan got his head net out and I grabbed the 100% DEET which we all slathered on. Skin cancer runs in my family so I usually try to wear long sleeved shirts fishing. My shirt, boots and long pants kept most of them at bay.

I also wear a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off. I have a nice crushable fedora I usually wear fishing, but anticipating hot weather in the desert I picked up a new hat. Dan was with me and since he needed one too we both got the same hat. It’s great for warm weather because it has a mesh band around it, but not so great for mosquitoes because the top is light fabric and rests right against my head. The skeeters got right through. I ended up putting DEET on my hat, face, neck and hands, but they have that habit of hovering—especially in the face. Before we’re finished with the day, I’ll have snorted four mosquitoes up my left nostril (I have no idea why the right was spared) and one mosquito entered my ear. The mosquito fishing slap dance is interesting, but I dance it will catch on soon.

We got to a spot where the road crossed the creek and started fishing there. Gary moved down a bit lower and I was a bit higher up the creek (“up Guano Creek” doesn’t have quite the ring as the more famous creek you don’t want to be up).

A good 15 minutes into the fishing and I saw Gary hustling upstream without his gear. He said that he had a fish on, but he lost his camera! I hurried downcreek so I could get a shot, trying to run over the bumpy ground with my cowboy boots on. Gary was on the far bank looking for his camera in the spot he last remembered using it. Luckily the vegetation wasn’t too thick and he found his camera. He continued back to the fish on his own and relayed the information to the data man (Dan took my little field notebook and a pen to keep the data in).

We mostly caught Lahontans and what looked to be Lahontan/Alvord hybrids before Gary caught the first fish with distinct Alvord markings. By the time we made our way back up to the outcroppings I had finally picked up my first Alvord-looking fish. It was really quite something to think of its dwindling gene pool as I gently cradled it in my hand for a quick shot.

The Alvord types seemed to start coming to hand a little more frequently as we got back toward the truck. We were all fishing with an attractor dry and a nymph dropper. The fish tend to take the dropper most frequently, but occasionally we were surprised with a fish on the dry.

By then my feet were getting a little sore in the boots and I could feel a couple of hotspots coming on. I stopped at the truck and changed into some of those inexpensive wading shoes you wear at the beach. I drank as much water as I could then hustled to catch up with Dan and Gary.

We continued to pick up fish, with Gary substantially out-catching us. He had a lot more patience than Dan or me, spending three times as long at a hole casting to fish he couldn’t see. But it was paying off. In fact, if Dan couldn’t land a fish, but saw one, or had one on briefly, he called Gary over to cleanup behind him. Gary would invariably catch the fish.

Our evening plans were to head over to the Donner und Blitzen River (usually referred to as just the Blitzen River). We planned on fishing upstream of the Blitzen and then head over to the Little Blitzen in a small glacial valley and fish it. We weren’t sure how much driving we would do, so we figured we would need to gas up at Frenchglen before heading to the Blitzen. The gas pump closed at 5:00 so we needed to be of Guano Creek by 3:00. While Gary and Dan quickly fished up to the corrals, I picked up the truck and drove to pick them up.

As it happened, I record keeper ended up losing two pencils in the field, so we didn’t record nearly the data we planned on. Since we weren’t recording the data, and since I got tired of snapping photos, I stopped taking pictures (which was silly since I didn’t photograph my best looking Alvord). I’m guessing that by the end we caught 30-40 fish with about 15 of them having the strong Alvord phenotype.

Our trip to the Blitzen River after Guano Creek will actually be covered on the “Day 3” coverage.

Dan and I started planning this trip last winter. We came across Gary M’s trip to find the Alvord cutthroat that Dr. Robert Behnke mentioned in an update in his book, About Trout. Gary located the trout in Guano Creek, Oregon in August 2008 and wrote about it on his blog. Dan and I like to find native trout in out-of-the-way locations and this sounded like something right up our alley. This search became our main objective for our planned five day desert native quest, with everything else incidental to it.

One issue in fishing for native species deals with designating subspecies and people are often divided into two camps: splitters and lumpers. Most lumpers recognize 12 subspecies of cutthroat trout (although there is some debate around some of these subspecies) and splitters further divide those subspecies into different strains, usually based on their geographic location.

The Great Basin holds Lahontan cutthroat trout. Within the Great Basin are many smaller basins, currently cutoff from other smaller basins. The Coyote Basin holds a strain of cutthroat named for the creeks they are found in, the Willow/Whitehorse cutthroat. These cutthroat are genetically closely related to the Humboldt cutthroat found in the Quinn River drainage. Some contend that there isn’t enough evidence to designate them as their own subspecies (such as the US Fish and Wildlife Service) whereas others do (such as Dr. Behnke).

Gary is a splitter and I believe he plans on catching every possible strain of each subspecies of native trout in North America. At only the age of 23, he is surprisingly well on his way. Me, I accept there are various strains, but for now I’m content with catching each subspecies and not as worried about the strains. Later, when looking for new trout to fish, I’ll probably resort to looking for various strains.

So for this trip we planned on focusing on four (five, depending on your designation of the Willow/Whitehorse) species/subspecies: Alvord cutthroat trout, Lahontan cutthroat trout (including the Willow/Whitehorse), redband trout and bull trout (Dolly Varden). We wanted to stick to the upper 1/4 of the Great Basin for this trip.

We wanted to leave early Monday morning and meet with Gary Monday night at a campsite a couple of miles north of Guano Creek so we could fish for the Alvords on Tuesday. That’s 660 miles to travel, or, about 12 hours, considering stops, unforeseen traffic, etc.. We figure a good fish day starts at 5:00 and ends at dark, or about 9:30, giving us around 16 1/2 hours minus the 12 hours of driving. So we could squeeze in 4 1/2 hours of fishing somewhere.

The route we planned on taking would put us about 30 miles from some of our favorite redband trout water, the South Fork Boise River. A couple of miles before the SF turnoff are two creeks that also host redbands: Bennett Creek and Dive Creek. They had been on the radar for a few months and we thought this would be the perfect opportunity to fish for them.

As mentioned in a previous post, there are many reasons to fish for natives. There are a few disappointments as well, one being the cattle catastrophe, wherein the angler successfully finds the target water, and expects pristine conditions, only to find the place denuded by bovine.

As we drove the three miles to Bennett Creek, we had to open and close two gates. This is always a possible good omen that the creek you are looking for is being protected from cattle. Or, a bad omen that the area you are in has a lot of cattle traffic.

We dropped over the final rise and there it was, winding itself among the hills, Bennett Creek. I felt that little rush I often get when successfully finding the sought after creek. But as we pulled a little closer, we saw the scarred ground around the water. The water color had that blue-green look. Everything said, “Cows.”

We’ve raised fish in some scary looking water, so a creek is never ruled out until it’s fished. But after 15 minutes of waving the wand, no fish magically appeared and we put away the rods. We think further upstream might prove a bit more conducive to fish, but we’re on a tight schedule. If the creek held a supposedly important strain of redband, we’d explore it further. But the South Fork Boise, a couple of miles away, holds the same strain.

Bennett Creek Video:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Dan’s truck setup:

Click here to view the embedded video.

A few minutes later and we were on the South Fork. What a difference a dam makes! This tailwater has some great conditions for trout. The flows were at a higher level than I’m used to, but Dan has fished it so  much that he knows where the back channels usually form. (And yet the dam creates an artificial fishery that often didn’t exist before. Luckily the redbands were here previous to the dam, but the dam has altered the conditions. I wonder if the dam were removed, would it be the same fishery—would the size and quantity of the fish be the same?)

Our goal was to leave no later than 2:00 to give us seven hours to make it the final 360 miles to Rock Creek. We used up the first two hours trying a couple of different spots that were unproductive. We finally moved down below Cursed Hole to a side channel, Ice Box. We saw a couple of risers we fished to, but no luck. At the head of Ice Box is the tail of Cursed Hole where Dan pulled a nice redband out.

We fished up through Cursed Hole without any luck. We don’t carry watches, but we knew it must be getting close to, or past, 2:00. We figured this was our last stretch of water. I got to the top of Cursed Hole and was at my exit point. Just above me was a small hole with some rocks and branches forming a chute at the bottom and an overhanging tree bisecting it at the top, leaving about a 4’ x 4’ section of water to fish.

I cast my last cast into the hole. A branch angled up in the center of the chute and my float line was sucked toward it and about to tangle. I lifted the rod tip which simultaneously pulled the fly across the water, and right out of the jaws of a decent sized fish. The first fish anywhere near my fly all day.

Luckily there was no contact between fish and fly. I quickly reloaded the rod and cast a couple of feet above him, but about a foot too wide of his lie. The next cast seemed to be placed within his feeding lane. The fly drifted a couple of feet, but my rod tip was held high, keeping the line from tangling with the projecting branch. Another second and the fish engulfed my fly. I brought a beautiful 15” redband to hand.

This was the angler’s realization of all those self-deceptions and rationalizations when he knows his spouse wanted him home 30 minutes ago but he’s been skunked all day: “I’ll just fish this one last hole—I’ve got to catch something from this one—then I’ll go home.” Which then becomes, “just one more hole…” ad infinitum. But occasionally one experiences the Holy Grail of angledom: TRF²HF (the reward of the first “final” hole fish).

It was 2:30, 30 minutes past our self-imposed deadline. 360 miles to go, the last 50 on a gravel road of unknown quality (on Google maps satellite it appeared to be a nice gravel road, with the possible exception of the last 5 miles) that we didn’t want to travel on in the dark. And we still needed to stop somewhere to pick up groceries for the next four days. It was time to hightail it out of there if we were to make it before nightfall.

With six hours of road time, there wasn’t a lot to do, except tie flies (which we didn’t need), sleep (which was a bit too soon for since we were still running on beginning-of-the-trip adrenaline) or talk about something, like one of those taboo topics that can ruin a friendship, like politics (which we differ on slightly, but often discuss anyhow—although I put my foot down if the radio is blaring Hannity or Limbaugh or such). Or we could talk about another no-no topic: religion (which is actually fairly safe for us since we did originally meet at a church, and therefore have the closely aligned beliefs).

The world at large (and Stalker readership in particular) will be happy to know that we chose to discuss this latter topic and have married scientific, philosophical and theological belief systems into one grand whole. We have closed all loopholes. Solved all dilemmas. Answered all of the big questions. Yes, indeed, in *less* than our allotted time, we did what no others have come even close to, what has perplexed and vexed the greatest minds in history: we found the answer to life, the universe, and everything (Ok, Ok, Douglas Adams did beat us to it, but his answer, “42,” was incorrect). The answer is…Fruit Loops! (“Bucket o’ Chains” is a second line of reasoning that came close, but there were a few discrepancies that couldn’t be resolved.)

Other than the stimulating discussion, the drive took us through some beautiful country. This leg of our trip etched the northern most edge of one of the least inhabited, unroaded places in the lower 48: The Great Basin, also known as Basin and Range. This dry, desolate area just so happened to have experienced one of the wettest three weeks they’ve ever had.

As we rose over each range it gave a view of the next lush basin, most uninhabited. Some with a single farm or field. Some a small creek. All of them green: dusty muted greens of rabbitbrush and sagebrush, light green bitterbrush, darker greens of cinquefoil; dotted with blues of penstemon, blue flax and larkspur.

In Harney County, Oregon (10,226 square miles—population 7,600), the land becomes more basins and mesas and buttes with basalt volcanism being the major cause. We stopped at Buena Vista Overlook that scaled one mesa, giving a panoramic view of the Harney Basin.

Hopping out of the truck to take pictures we were immediately bombarded by swarms of mosquitoes. We were both wearing shorts and sandals and within seconds we were doing the skeeter hop: slapping arms, stomping legs, bending over slapping legs, straightening up to slap neck and arms, then back down to the legs. We took a couple of quick photos then dashed back to the truck. We quickly stripped down and put on pants and a long-sleeved shirt. We put on some socks then slipped our feet back into our sandals (that’s right ladies: socks and sandals—a mainstay of the wader brigade because it’s easy to get in and out of the sandals when you have to get in and out of the waders and believe me, you do not want to catch a whiff of the aroma wafting from a pair of unsocked wader-wearers).

The sun was just slipping over the mountains when we turned onto Rock Creek Road—the dirt road that would take us the remaining 48 miles. The road accesses the 278,000 acre Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, where we were camping for the night and home to Guano Creek, our main destination.

The dirt road teemed with wildlife: cottontail, jackrabbit, sage grouse, owls and quail. But only one antelope. We didn’t take a lot of time to admire or photograph the critters because light was fading fast and we didn’t want to search for Gary in the dark.

We finally (after driving through the first part of the campground, not relizing there was a second part) found Gary at the campground along Rock Creek about 10:00. I talked fishing with him for an hour or so while Dan set up the sleeping arrangement in the bed of the truck. We made plans to fish Rock Creek for redbands early the next morning before hitting Guano Creek, then called it a day.

[go to Day 2]

1. Adventure – Finding which waters hold which fish, how to get to that water and where the fish are within that water all lend an air of adventure, which I imagine is much of the draw of things like geocaching.
2. Habitat – native species are often found in some amazing micro-habitat tucked away in a larger habitat. This is like finding the inner beauty in something: lush wefts of green woven through the warp of bald buttes, lava flows, sagebrush and cactus.
3. Fish Aesthetics – Nothing can quite compare to the bronzes, silvers and yellows intermingled with blues and greens slashed with a dizzying hue of reds and oranges, than those found on native fish. Watching water glisten off the flank of a desert cutthroat is priceless.
4. Wildness – To know you are attached to something wild, something that has existed for millennia in the very spot you are fishing, with no human interference, can leave you… (Although it is hard to find many places where humans have not interfered with fish ecology is hard, when you do, wow!)
5. Solitude – If you like solitude while fishing, fishing for natives puts you where other anglers rarely tread. With the “super-size this” world, many anglers are only hunting for the trophy of “big,” leaving little to no pressure on the smaller waters of the natives.
6. Surface Action – Many native fish are more attuned to the surface and will readily take the dry fly. It’s very likely that any given native has never seen an artificial fly or lure. Fishing with large attractor patterns is a standard method with natives.
7. Gear – There is the definite possibility that the water you will fish can be leapt across or is no deeper than your knees, so bank wading or wet wading is possible. Losing fries is less frequent in desert fishing where fewer trees are enclosing the creek and the bushes you do get caught in are easily reached. These factors reduce the gear needed to fish for natives, which can often be carried in one fly box.
8. Quantity – What is lacking in size is often made up for in quantity: it is not uncommon to catch dozens of fish in a few hours.
9. Technical – Having said all of the above, one may think that there is nothing to it when fishing for natives: just walk up to the water and flick out any old fly. However, native fishing can be every bit as technical as fishing for other species: from fly selection to line management and from casting finesse to stalking techniques, native fishing has it all.
10. Conservation – As you become more addicted to fishing for natives in their native places, you’ll feel the pull to get involved somehow in protecting the species and their habitats. And that is a good thing.

What are your reasons?