Rolling clouds crested nearby mountains, blocking the sun, and leaving my approach to the river in shade. I pulled a wool hat down tighter, and watched the clouds. Like any trip to the river, I enjoyed every moment I stood near rushing water. My nose was a bit cold, however.

I had driven past this river stretch many times, yet it had been about a decade since I stopped to fish. Last time, I caught many trout, only a few Whitefish, and was able to relax in a riverside hot spring. This time, the fish were not hungry.


Looking downstream, you can see the mist from the tributary hot spring on the right. I was too busy fishing and freezing to stop and relax in the springs. The sun was far below the western ridge, and I had yet to catch a fish. How does that happen?

My guides were freezing on every fourth cast, and darkness seeped through the valley. My time on the river was about up, and I was about to go home fishless. This has not happened in a long time. In fact, I'm not sure when the last time was, I have not caught a fish on a fishing trip, no matter how brief (I usually don't quit 'till I catch one...). Not that I have to catch a fish. I just really like to catch them when possible, you know.

In my fish drought, I had switched to many fly patterns styles, and none produced. I fished through most of the water surrounding me, and caught nothing. I switched back to my Marathoner pattern, which I started with, but cut after not having luck. My fifth cast at the far end of the hole -- about 60 feet upstream, plopped in to a good-looking hold. My strike indicator stopped and sunk down, but I ignored it. Yep, ignored my bobber. It had been indicating my flies getting tugged by so many boulders, that I had given up on reacting. After my indicator stayed oddly put, I lifted and felt a fish tug! But, my slovenly hook set left me fishless. I could feel the fish twist on pop off the fly, through the sensitivity of my Sweetgrass, 3 piece, pent.

I cussed a little.

Then, I cast back to the same spot, ready like a mountain lion watching a cottontail emerge from its hole. Instantly, I felt a pause, set the hook, and this time...

I was secured to a beautiful trout! It was a brilliant sensory awakening to be fighting this native fish on a cane rod. Just perfect.


Yep, a native Yellowstone Cutthroat trout that thought my Marathoner delivered by a Sweetgrass rod was irresistible. Or it could see the icy tears streaming down my cheek because I was not catching fish. Hard to tell.


A kiss and a release (after I slipped the Marathoner out, of course). Check out that orange slash!

And that made me happy.


In Wild Waters,

Zac Sexton

The Meandering Booboy

P.S. I do remember Christmas day and that I may not have caught a fish then. However, that was many trips ago, and I tend to repress such depressing memories....

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My hands have been so slimy from catching fish, I need another pair of pants to wipe them on. Okay, maybe I have not been that busy catching fish, but I have still been pretty busy fishing. I also have upgraded my computer to a different operating system, and am in transition on software updates. And, because of frozen hands, and hooks snagged in my arm while trying to release a Rainbow trout -- I dropped my underwater camera deep in a river, where it is gone forever. Collecting fodder for blogging has been slowed down, but my time on the water has been steady since my last writing. Below is a summary of what I have been doing through the end of last year, in to this year. Keep in mind many days are missing, just like my frickin' camera.

Holidays are always a time for me to fish. So, this past Christmas, Sarah, Ariell and I made it to my old man's place to celebrate. It had been a while since I drilled a hole in ice, and Sarah had never been, so I talked her in to a day of ice-fishing on Christmas Eve. It was great to be in my home mountain range, on familiar water, on a beautiful day.


I kept thinking, maybe the dogs should have been attached to the sled so I could work less. But, I guess it is not like fishing is really that hard...


But as simple as it is to drill a hole, find a stick, tie a line to it and bait a hook, I still managed to only catch one tiny Cutthroat. Tiny. Sarah caught a pretty nice 10 inch or so, Brookie. I have pics. somewhere, but this is where my computer swap and camera drop come in to play. And as much as I enjoy fishing with natural materials, I thought there must be a better way. Besides, once your girlfriend starts out-fishing you on her first time out, it is best to change the game! Actually, I am very happy for her. It was very wonderful to see her freeze and still have fun.


On Christmas day, Sarah wanted to walk around, and see my home town. I brought a 2-piece, Sweetgrass pent. rod to try my luck on the crick that runs through town.

I am fishing literally 100 feet from Main St. in this pic. The school I used to go to is on the ridge across the river, about a 1/4 mile away. You can see the tire tracks from vehicles that drive by once in a while. And beneath the ice banks are trout! This stream is pretty terrible in the Winter. The latest I have ever caught a fish on this stream was early Dec., and the earliest was early March (on a dry fly). I had high hopes, but no luck catching anything. Sarah and I saw the town, and looked in many holes, but alas Christmas 2011 went fishless.

I needed a sign. Something was amiss, as I was not catching fish. I had to talk to the mountains and see what they said.

I climbed the nearest mountain -- okay a huge boulder covered in snow, to seek solace and guidance. I had some dogs to help out. They chewed on sticks while I looked over the mountain-side. Finally, something reverberated within my soul. I think it was hypothermia.

The next day, on our way back to Montana, we stopped on a little river that started my habit for Winter fly fishing. As soon as I could drive, I started fishing this stream through frozen months, and often had good luck. This day, I stopped not too far off a highway, at the foot of the mountains to see if a secret hole of mine was still fishing like I remember.

There is an obvious hole just below where I'm standing. My secret hole is a section upstream in seemingly featureless water. Below a tree is a deep scour where two faintly converging currents push edible organisms in to many trout noses. It only took a few casts with that wonderful Sweetgrass pent. before I hooked up. Oh yes!


I knelt to worship the fish that broke my fishless, holiday spell. It is good to honor the honorable Whitefish!


Ariell was relieved for me to catch something finally. She gets stressed when I get skunked, because she is such a thoughtful dog. I was happy, happy, joy, joy to have fish slime on my hands!

Okay, not every fish I catch has a small, down-turned mouth. Some are invasive, non-natives....

And they fight with vigor!


This little Brownie truly made my day. Several other Whitefish came to hand, but this guy fought quite brilliantly. The Brown was a great Holiday gift from the spirit of the mountain.

I fished a couple more times to end 2011. It was cold, my guides iced up frequently, but it was worth it. It was even worth loosing an important part of my life -- my camera. Before that tragedy, however, I filmed this New Years Day catch on a magnificent river. I fished a Sweetgrass 7 weight, hex rod to fight the battering winds in the valley. Follow the link to the Meandering Booboy channel on Youtube, and enjoy! It was an amazing Yellowstone Cuttie I will never forget.

http://youtu.be/PF2v8W9xctE

January was busy, as most are. I was busy on the 23rd, getting another year older. Wiser I like to think, and I take some pride in having more jokes learned each year. The problem is I'm the only one that usually laughs...

At any rate, I visited some friends in NW Wyoming, and on the way home, stopped to fish a large tailwater on my 34th birthday. I fished my custom, 4/5 weight, 3-piece, pent, in a rather blinding snowstorm. The winds varied from a lot to quite a bit, while the snows sometimes pelted me, and sometimes just tickled a bit. After an hour or so fishing, and finding nothing, Sarah spied a pod of rising fish. She let me have a go, knowing I get cranky if I don't catch fish, and I was a ways away from the mountains to be talking to any mountain-spirits for help...

I cast, switched flies, cast, and switched flies...

Check out the bend in that beautiful rod!!! It just punched my dry and emerger flies right on in to the wind. Soon, I figured out the flies, hook-set, and all the goodness that goes in to catching fish on bamboo.


The first fish on my birthday was a fine, native specimen! I love how you can see the blowing snow streaking across my face. Real warm. I caught so many of these guys I lost complete track of numbers and time. But, those two subjects are some of my worst, anyway. I worked downstream, trying the edges of the rising pod, looking for a trout. About the time I was ready to pack 'er in, I hooked in to a fish that fought with a different spirit. It even jumped three times!!! I thought it was a Rainbow, but a minute later, I had it close enough to notice the chrome-colored Brown. Crazy. A jumping Brown. It was likely around 16 inches, but I released it quickly after catching it. My photographer was back in the car getting warm, and that beautiful Brown is left to keep in my mental Rolladex. It is such a nice memory. Every trip to any water anywhere is wonderful, as long as I'm casting Sweetgrass.

In Wild Waters,

Zac Sexton

The Meandering Booboy

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It warmed up just enough to keep blocks of ice clunking down the river. Sarah, Ariell and I drove upriver, gazing at mountains and the icy stream, seemingly impossible to fish. After thirty or so miles of ice-blocks, we figured we might as well hit the hot springs. But after fourty miles, the canyon closed in keeping the valley colder -- and consequently fishable. After passing miles of shadowy banks, we found a stretch that looked promising.


Before we were able to wet, or rather ice our lines, Sarah made some offerings to Boreas (Greek god of the Winter Winds), in hopes that fish would appear. And they did! As we walked on river crystals, we soon saw the entire river bank lined with noses poking up for dipteran goodness. Sarah tied on a couple midge emerger patterns and set to work casting a two piece, six weight Sweetgrass stick. It was a bit windy from the North, too.


A plucky little silver creature soon came to Sarah's hands. The first fish of the day on a red midge emerger and Sweetgrass cane.

I figured I should maybe get to fishing, and followed the ice trail fifty or so yards upstream. Noses were everywhere, feeding diligently -- especially adjacent to the ice bank, where many midges collected to mate. I tied on a rather realistic dry pattern on point, followed by a favorite hatch-matcher that doesn't really look like anything -- the Royal Wulff. It took some precise casting to time the fly drift with the tip of a rising nose, but finally I got it.


A brief tug-o-war on my 5 weight, 3 piece pent., and I held my first fish of the day -- on a dry! Many more came throughout the day. But after a while I wondered if there might be a trout lurking on the edge of the feeding Whitefish frenzy.


Yep, mid December and a #18 Royal Wulff can catch fish!

I switched my bait to heavier nymphs to imitate a Stonefly nymph and freshwater shrimp. A dead freshwater shrimp that really looks more like eggs, but still, a shrimp pattern. First cast, and I hooked up to something a little more athletic!


I was pretty sure it wasn't a Whitefish, but not sure what was putting up such a fight...


A Rainbow! There is something wonderful when I'm on frozen knees, and holding a fat, healthy trout.

We still had time to enjoy the moonrise while sitting in hot springs and wash the fish slime off our hands. A wonderful winter day, despite the northerly Boreatric ice and winds.


In Wild Waters,

Zac Sexton

The Meandering Booboy

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My foot slid too furiously forward to keep perfect balance while crossing the ice-embanked river. I stumbled to, I stumbled fro, then spun a 90 degree turn rightly. I caught myself. Which was good, as I would have likely been dead had I fallen in. Dead, because Glenn and the Booboys would have killed me for breaking my rod.

Twenty-two degrees is my minimum temperature to fly-fish in. I set that rule about five years ago, after having a great time freezing on a river and catching nothing. It was difficult to catch anything, because my line froze stiff, making casting impossible. The temperature then was around five degrees. I figured I needed a few more degrees of warmth to have any possibility of actually fishing. Well, it was my minimum temperature.

While I was home deciding whether I should really hit the river or not, the thermometer outside the kitchen window hovered at 19 degrees. But the icicles hanging from the eve could not lock my desire to cast a Sweetgrass rod inside. I grabbed my 3 piece, pent. beauty, about five layers of clothing, toe warmers, a stocking cap-full of flies and Ariell and I hit the nearest river.


The river! Not real warm out, but sure beautiful. This side-channel offered the only ice-free place to fish. The main channel was a current of clunking ice chunks impossible to get a fly through.


Ariell was real happy to look for ducks dabbling stream-side.

I only had a few hours to fish before the sun set behind the valley walls, so I tried to be smart about where I fished. I simplify my ice-outings by tying on two flies that I likely will never change as I don't like to expose my hands to the  elements. If I loose them, it may be the day's end. I also try to cast as few times as possible, because then I spend most the time breaking ice out of guides. I found a promising drop where two currents met below a shallow shoal. One cast, and I was soon hooked to a fish! I figured it would be a Whitefish, as that is generally what I find in this section of river, and they are more active in colder temperatures than trout. However, I soon saw white-tipped fins, and a surging red stripe soon appeared downstream as I fought it closer to the bank. My Sweetgrass rod bowed double, and soon brought a nice surprise to hand.


A beautiful and very fat Rainbow trout! It was to be my only catch of the afternoon, but what a wonderful afternoon, it was. A while later, my hands and line were frozen. Every cast was locked tight to the pentagon rod's guides, making fishing rather problematic.


As my rod, dog and self were covered in ice, we decided to head home. I smiled a little as I slipped over still mossy boulders, and made it back to the car without filling my waders with ice water. I turned my car on to warm it up, and noticed the temperature on the display: 17.

In Wild Waters,

Zac Sexton

The Meandering Booboy

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Thanksgiving is usually a week-long adventure for me -- only a couple exceptions in the last 15 years. This year was no exception. I fished two rivers; didn't catch anything in the big one, though Sarah, my girlfriend, had a fish bust off her 1x tippet... It was the tributary, hundreds of miles from the big river, where we managed to land fish with Sweetgrass rods and bare hands.


I fish this river just about every time I drive by. This hole has been a special place since I was 16, and insisted on fishing year-round. It never ices up completely (thanks to the steep riffle above), and always holds fish. They don't always bite, though it is a majestic place most certainly.

However, it was a bit downstream where I found my first feeding fish.

The deep bend in my Sweetgrass quad 4/5 weight rod was thrilling enough to keep my hands warm in the shaded, icy canyon. I finished building this rod off a Sweetgrass blank. It turned out to be a great small-stream rod that reacts in close with some power in the butt, that enables me to use heavier flies and/or weight if needed. And it has the characteristic punchiness and accuracy Glenn's quad rods are known for.


This native beauty came to hand after a bit of a tussle. I don't care what anyone says, Whitefish are a favorite quarry on ice-ridden rivers, as they are often more active in colder temperatures. They need more oxygen, and metabolize a bit better than trout do in frigid water.


I also like their reflective bodies as they dart between boulders.

OK, for those of you who would rather look at trout, I can help you out.

This beautiful and feisty Brown tosser eventually came to hand. She took a tan rubber-leg pattern, but my photograph was out of focus, so you'll just have to imagine the orange-haloed spots and buttery-yellow belly of this Eleven-incher of Goodness.

A little while later, and upstream a couple casts, I found a slightly smaller albeit just as energetic Brown. Took the same Rubber-leg fly. Hmmm... Need to tie more of those.

This little specimen needs to find some real stoneflies and midges to feast on. It is likely still trying to recover from spawning a month ago. This photo and the rest below are a bit soft in focus. I think my camera was getting a bit frozen and wet from use, as the sun set behind limestone canyon walls. I think you'll enjoy the next bit, anyway....

I had Sarah fish the majestic hole, and she had a couple takes, but didn't get the hook-set. She used a Sweetgrass 4/5 weight pent. rod -- one I love to use for dries, but it is equally at home being frozen and tossing nymphs. Sarah eventually moved upstream and found an interestingly-scaled individual.


Yep, the Common Carp! While she was using a Sweetgrass pent. at the time she caught this brute, she used her bare hands to take hold of this sickly guy. It was barely holding alongside a large boulder, and didn't move when Sarah approached from above. She picked it up and smiled brightly. The sudden cold-snap that iced the canyon must have shocked it a bit too much, and it was not able to get to a lower and warmer river section. It is now likely food for insects and other scavengers that will soon enough be food for trout.

Too soon, we had to leave and continue westward -- home to mountain ranges closer to the setting sun.

In Wild Waters,

Zac Sexton

The Meandering Booboy

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