Dreary Erie.

Where To?

Erie this year presented us with its fair share of challenges not only for us, but also for our fathers. Arriving in Erie, meeting up with our dads and heading out to the water, we knew that the water was extremely low, and the fish were far and few between. However, we were optimistic and decided to fish near the mouth of Elk. It being the largest tributary, we felt it would have the most water and most likely the largest crowds. We were correct. Elk was packed, men and boys shoulder to shoulder in every deep hole, leaving the skinny water left, completely devoid of any steelhead. To add to the misery of the shallow unmoving water we had to contend with 20-30 mph winds which seemed more like 40-50 mph on the lake shore. Rain was also in the forecast and when it did rain it came down as sleet and due to the wind, almost parallel to the ground. It was awesome. We made the best of the situation, everyone in our party receiving hookups, Adam and his father successfully landing steelhead.

The highlights of the day came fishing the mouth of Elk where Adam and I used our Washboard Willie streamers to entice a few fresh fish. Much of the water was sheltered by a large cliff blocking the wind coming off the lake. However, if you stepped a few yards closer to the lake you were in the midst of a hurricane that took the placid water and made chop Sui out of it. The waves crashing along the mouth resembled the waves I see on many of my vacations to mid-Atlantic beaches. It was like stepping into a whole new environment. I set up shop with the wind at my back and I barely had to make any effort casting my large streamer. The only thing I worried about was knocking myself unconscious with the tungsten conehead from an errant wind gust. I slowly worked the mouth when as always, the strike came out of nowhere. I tied into an impressive piece of chrome and while enjoying my few seconds the 2x tippet shattered taking with it not only my steel but also my prized fly. Adam then began working the opposite bank carefully chucking a much heavier fly directly into the gusts when BAM, a steelie pounced. I took some video of the feat and below are the captured stills. The sleet was coming down hard providing quite the backdrop and one memorable fish.

The Calamity of Day One.

Shooting One Into A Stiff 30-40 mph.

Breaking In The New Switch Rod.

Major Winds & Parallel Sleet in the Face.

Epic.

Day two presented the complete opposite situation. The rain overnight added a lot of water to the streams raising and muddying the water. We (I) made the mistake of deciding to fish farther upstream, once again at Elk. The stretch of water we fished was operating at normal flows but seemed to once again lack any number of steelhead. This time, it was difficult to sight fish to them because of the water clarity so we decided to fish a lot of water. As the day progressed the water level started dropping tremendously. At the end of the day, we each had our hookups and a few steelhead to show for our efforts.

Working the Tail Out.

One Beautiful Fish.

Two Days Worth of Effort.

Losing a Battle To a Large Buck.

My Lone Producer.

Leaving Erie, I contemplated my last two years on this body of water. I struggled on both trips landing only a few fish. Next year, I will have to think long and hard before trekking out West to Erie while much larger, more productive, and less crowded waters lay closer to home. In all likelihood I will find myself once again in Erie battling the crowds and accepting the challenges it poses. Bring it.

Lake Shore on a Calm Day.

One Beer...

& the Old Guys Are Done For.

Looking to the future

Scuba diving has opened up my eyes even more to a whole bunch of species that would be great fun on the fly rod. Jacks, snappers and groupers sporting double-digit weights swarm you at depth.

Horse-eye Jacks

50" barracuda

30lb snapper inside the wrecked hull

On the wreck of The Rhone yesterday, a monstrous permit cruised by in 80 ft of water. The fish was truck-tire sized, 8-10 inches across the forehead, and came within 20 ft. I know fish appear larger underwater, but correcting for this enlargement, I would guess the fish to be in the neighborhood of 50lbs.

I snapped a pic and spent the next few minutes imagining the day when I get a shot at one of these pigs on the flats. All it is is a matter of time before I surprise one right where I need it to be...

The only way to give this brute a sense of scale is to hoist her from the water...

One day she will be mine.

Full Circle.

I distinctly recall a memory of my childhood where at the tender age of six, I had a particularly outstanding day of fishing. My brother and I were taken on a trip north into Canada by my grandfather and my father to do some fishing at a friends cabin. Along the way we toured several sites including an old stone fort. At that age, I did not know that my grandfather served in WWII and I had no idea what the fort was, so that part of the trip is a little hazy. What I do remember is the harmonica my grandfather bought me and how I played it (horribly) non-stop for most of the trip. It was enough for me to garner the nickname, "harmonica man." It probably drove everyone on the trip insane but for a six year old, it was the greatest present ever. I also vividly recall waking up early one morning, walking on some wooden planks through a swamp, and then out to the edge of a boat along an eddy in a very large river. My brother and I set up shop at the edge of the boat and dangled our legs off the edge. For the remainder of the day we set possibly a world record for number of blue gill caught.

The process resembled an assembly line. My brother and I were the bosses that reaped all the rewards while my grandfather and father were the ones that did all the work. My brother and I would drop our bobbers and worms off the edge of the boat, wait about a second for it to dip, and then lift a small blue gill over the edge where our elders would release the fish. They then dug through a large Styrofoam container for a worm, baited the hook, and untied any tangles we conjured on our lines. My brother and I happily dipped our rigs back into the water and immediately caught another blue gill. This process repeated itself non-stop for the remainder of the day. I quite possibly caught more fish that day, then any day since combined. For us, it was sheer exhilaration. For my father and grandfather it must have been beyond tedious.

Later in the trip, another memory can be recalled like it happened yesterday. We were out in the middle of the river on the boat. My push button rod and reel dangled precariously over the edge. In a momentary lapse of judgment (or sheer boredom) I lost control of the rod and it dropped into the depths of the river. My favorite rod, disappeared before my very eyes. My grandfather was angry but he didn't let it show and I was left without a rod. A year later, my grandfather went back to that cabin and when he returned home, he brought my rod back to me. He accidentally snagged the exact rod I dropped in the water a year prior. To my amazement and sheer joy, I watched him slowly clean the rod and return it to working condition. I used the rod for several years before it reached retirement.

Two Fathers Looking For Their First Steel.

Big Poppa Pump Couldn't Handle Dawn To Dusk Angling.

Gil Hooks Up.

Adam Lands.

Gil's First Steelhead & One Proud Son.

Fast forward to today and the situation is now reversed. My grandfather has since passed away, but my father has taken the place of my brother and I on that boat sixteen years ago. I am the experienced fly fisherman while my father is the noob. I am taking him on a trip to Erie for steelhead and am hoping to recapture the excitement of that day in Canada in order to create a lasting memory for the both of us. I find myself on the assembly line tying flies, rigging rods, untying tangles, and instructing my father's every move. I am guiding him over rocks and ledges, telling him to be careful and watch his step. I am correcting his every cast, hoping and waiting for a take. Everything has gone full circle and we are in the midst of a steelhead trip to Erie.

Gil Hooks Up Again.

Adam The Net Man.

What It's All About.

On the morning of day three, my father and I find ourselves on our own heading out for one last shot at some steel. We reach the parking lot early and meet a crowd of anglers. The long hike to the mouth of Elk creek takes quite sometime. We are passed by several anglers too impatient to wait for my father scrambling up the muddy single-track. We arrive at the mouth to find at least twenty anglers already fishing. I notion to my father to follow me and I ease him into a spot on the edge of the crowd. I patiently rig up his rod and instruct him on the way I would like him to fish the spot. He unrolls a long roll cast to the opposite bank and immediately mends upstream. I no longer have to tell him what to do. As the rig drifts downstream, ever so slowly in the low flows, he mends to keep a dead drift. The indicator dips and he ties into a nice slab of steel. I bark out orders and make sure he follows directions. We are not going to lose this fish. Slowly he works his way up the bank and guides the steelhead onto a sandy ledge. I gently slide my hands under the fish and my father's first steelhead is successfully landed.

Big Poppa Pump Angling @ Dusk.

Launching a Rollcast To The Opposite Bank.

As he releases the fish back into the chilly waters, I am transported back to Canada and the blue gill of my youth. I finally understand why my grandfather and father were able to withstand my brother and I catching fish after fish. I understand why they were able to listen to me brutalizing a harmonica in the back of the old Mercury. It was for those small moments when my brother and I pulled a blue gill over the back of that boat. It was for the smile that would creep upon our faces from the fascination of a fish, and our ability to catch it. As I watch my father release his first steelhead, I can only hope that the memory of this fish will stay with him forever. Just like the memory of one of my first fishing excursions has remained with me. 

Doing Battle. Will This Be The One?

Big Poppa Pump's First Steelhead.

Having Gone Full Circle, A Steelhead is Released.

Washboard Willy's.

The climb out of Oak Orchard and back to the truck was strenuous. Two long days on the water with little more than a few granola bars and some cans of Red Bull left my body weak and parched. Despite having two very successful days of fishing on the Salmon and Oak, my mind began to wonder. It was Thanksgiving and all I could think about was turkey and pumpkin cake roll. At the truck, I downed a blue Powerade, which is probably my favorite drink after a day of fishing. We unpacked our stuff, took off our soaking wet clothes from the days rain, and decided to spend the night at Walmart once again.

The Subway at Walmart was looking like our best bet for food, a seat, and a chance to tie some flies. Arriving, our worst fears came true. The Subway was closed. We were out of luck. Despite the lack of the aforementioned, we also would not be able to check the stream conditions for Erie. I decided to check if Subway's wireless could be reached outside from the truck. It could not. I headed into a small room where people recycle all manner of things at Walmart. The place reeked of garbage juice, there were stains, and trash littered the floor. I promptly took a seat amidst the flotsam and discovered a source of Internet. The conditions at Erie were at an all time low. No flows and super spooky fish. The outlook for our father's chances at catching their first steelhead looked dim. 

We left Walmart, looking for a place to tie some flies. The McDonalds down the road had to be open. But it was not. No place was open. We drove around the small town aimlessly for quite awhile before the red neon glow of a small building caught our attention. Looming in the distance, tucked between shopping centers was a laundromat. We pulled up and had a nice laugh. Washboard Willy's was the place to be on this Thanksgiving. It was not only a place to tie our flies, but we could also dry our only set of clothes that were soaked from two days fishing in the rain. Making it even better was a small TV playing Family Guy. The colors were all messed up but it didn't matter. We found a home for the next several hours. 

Willy Takes A Bite Outa' Grime!

After drying our clothes, Adam and I decided to tie a set of streamers for Erie. Apparently, a Rainbow Smolt pattern was pretty hot and so we busted out the necessary material and got to work. Tungsten head, holographic eyes, polar fibre, peacock, and some flashabou and mine was complete in about fifteen minutes. I then spent some time watching Adam's meticulous motions at the vice for about an hour. Adam is a perfectionist at the vice while I employ more of a blitzkrieg strategy. Adam is also extremely innovative because of his early days as a bass fisherman. He attached some weird concoction from some old bass rig onto his fly adding enough weight to the midsection to make it sink like a rock. He also used an entire strip of polar fibre to make one fly. I just bought it before the trip too, was able to tie one fly with it, before on loan to Adam it systematically disappeared before my very eyes. Both flies ended up producing at Erie.

Family Guy & Magic Tricks Entertained Our Tying Session.

Rainbow Smolt.

The Elusive Clump of White Polar Fibre Vanished.

Towards the end of Adam's tie an old van pulled up outside Willy's. We waited with baited breath for the owner to question what the hell we were doing inside his laundromat with all manner of feathers strewn across his floor. To our relief, a family came strolling it at 10:30 to do some laundry. It was a young couple with two kids who preceded to make the place a playground. They were running around pushing laundry carts into everything they were too weak to steer away from. The highlight came when the young lad who looked like he might be a future star on Maury Povich's fat baby show came and and starred at our flies in amazement for a minute straight. He then preceded to the candy machine behind us. He pounded on the glass, screamed, yelled, and then cried for a Mountain Dew. Thankfully the father didn't cave in. 

High School Adam.

Long Black Locks, Gulligan Hat, & Proud Member of Team Daiwa.

We left Washboard Willy's and headed back to the Walmart where we slept amongst an eager crowd of Black Friday shoppers. The place was packed from when we went to bed until we awoke at 3 a.m. The long drive to Erie beckoned and we hit the road. 

Ain't No Rest For The Wicked.

Day Two.

The Salmon River parking lot was desolated. We were the last people present and the sun had already gone down. The air temperature was steadily dropping and the rain had not stopped. Adam and I were in no rush. We had no family to get home to, no long drive to some distant relative's house, and zero anticipation for Thanksgiving Day and the delicious turkeys everyone else would be feasting on. We slowly unrigged our rods, took off our waders, and changed out of our underarmour. Just when we finished the clouds let loose a terrential downpour. Perfect timing. We hopped in the truck and plugged in the next destination in the GPS. To our dismay, Oak Orchard was almost three hours away. We were on two and zero hours sleep respectively, just fished from dawn to dusk, and were about to embark on a long car ride at night and in the rain. Adam promptly fell asleep in the passenger seat while I was left with the suicide run to Oak Orchard.

Thanksgiving Day Meal.

All The Fuel I Need.

How Do You Like Your Eggs?

Getting Ready For The Scoop.

Chrome Hen.

Not So Chrome Hen.

The Albion Walmart parking lot loomed in the distance. Whoever built a Walmart Supercenter out there near Oak in the middle of nowwhere is a genius. If you know us, you would know that Walmart is our 5-star hotel. However, this Walmart is something special. It has free Wi-Fi in the Subway inside. The perfect place for dinner, internet, and tying flies while the resident townies give you wierd looks. The big screen tv and movies playing are just an added bonus. The Sandlot, one of my all time favorites, was playing as I pounded out some fresh sucker spawns for the following day. Around midnight, it was finally time for some shut eye. I tucked myself in the bed of the truck anticipating the 5 a.m. wakeup call and the browns and steelies that awaited.

"Small" Male Brown.

 Looks Less Than Pleased With His Steel.

More Than Pleased.

I Love Catching Fish From Spots,

 People Were Standing In Moments Before.

Rolling into the parking lot, we were not alone in our judgement to fish on Thanksgiving Day. We were not even the first people there over an hour before sunrise. Welcome to Oak Orchard. We rigged up and decided to fish the side with the cliff. It has a more difficult access point, is less pressured, and on this particular day we had it all to ourselves for the first hour of light. After that, the crowds emerged and did not thin out until the rain came around 3 p.m.

The fishing was sporadic. We hooked up and landed fish on eggs, nymphs, and streamers. The two largest fish were steelhead and they were accompianed by several smaller browns. It was a good day on the Oak punctuated by the usual amusement that accompanies you on this particular stream. You have your talkers, who never shut up, no matter how few people talk to them. You have your serious fisherman who block out the world and are only thinking about their swift or drift. Then you have the fisherman that are acutely aware of all their surroundings and particularly enjoy eavesdropping on the shit coming out of peoples mouths. They double task in between laughs and smirks while concentrating on the task at hand. They get the best of both worlds. Sometimes I try to block out the background noise at Oak, while other times it is almost impossible. Whenever, I fish at Oak I think about the lyrics to this one particular country song. It goes something like, "God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy". That about sums up Oak Orchard. 

That's What I'm Looking For.

Upon Closer Inspection.

I Love Soft Shell Jackets.

Steel Are Nice Too.

Fumblerooskie.

Browns in the Rain.

Posing For Her Portrait.

The best fish of the day was undoubtedly Adam's double digit steelhead. He hooked into it in the tight chutes directly below the dam and had quite the task landing him there amongst the higher flows. The water is roaring in this section and the walls of the banks are steep. There is no chance of really beaching a fish here and it is quite difficult to even net one. Adam skillfully kept the fish at bay, refusing to let him run downstream, all the while not breaking his 4x. We moved both upstream and down, tip toeing around the submerged bushes, the water almost cresting over my waders. My netting skills were about to be put to the test. After awhile, I chanced it, lunging out into the current, going for the scoop. The force of the water denied my futile attempt. Finally, after a few tense moments, the scoop was pure and the buck came to hand. He tipped the scales at 10.7 pounds. He was one thickly wound piece of muscle. 

Amped.

One Thick Fish.

He's Got Shoulders.

Last Cast of the Day.

Egg Sucking Leech, One Last Swing, One Last Oak Orchard Brown.

There on the banks of the Oak Orchard River, celebrating the largest steelhead of the trip, Thanksgiving was celebrated not with turkey, but with a trout that captivated our minds and satiated our appetites. I wouldn't have it any other way.