Common Mistakes Fly Anglers Make

 

Nobody's perfect!  But how can we all improve our fly fishing game?  Here are a few things we might be doing wrong: 

• They let their ego get in the way.  Don’t be afraid to ask someone what they are using or how they are rigged up.  It might save you some time.

• They go too fast - Slow and steady wins the race.  Casting, moving in the water, retrieving a fish...take your time.

• They fish the wrong size leaders - Use appropriate leaders for the fishing situation.  Short stout leaders for fishing big streamers or weighted lines.  Long thin leaders and tippet for fishing small dry flies or emergers.  The longer the leader and tippet, the more delicate a presentation you can offer.

• Not enough weight - Lack of enough weight is likely the biggest roadblock for more consistent catching.  If you can find the right depth and stay there, you will see strikes more consistently and catch more fish because of it.

• wrong size fly - After the weight, fly size is the next thing.  More often than not, you will be downsizing rather than up sizing. 

• Changing flies too often - Beginning fly anglers always assume they have the wrong bug if they haven’t caught a fish after a few casts.  I remember feeling this way while searching through the
  hundreds of store bought flies that didn’t bring me any sense of comfort or excitement.  Trepidation and anxiety was all I felt when fish were actively feeding and my only idea was to keep trying new flies until I found the right one.  What I wish I knew early on was that there are so many things you should change before you alter your fly (unless you’ve obviously got it completely wrong and can identify that in an objective manner of fact).  Weight, leader length, fly depth, tippet size, presentation/drift, location are all controllable alterations that can significantly increase hookups and ultimate angling success.  

• Chasing smart fish in challenging water - Fish are not very smart, but they have evolved to be pretty damn good at staying alive.  Avoiding predators is what they do every day, and each location offers a unique list of challenges and circumstances that impacts our approach to fishing for those heavily pressured fish.  Finding small successes is an integral part to an anglers journey.  While fighting through adversity and learning through difficult fishing situations is a valuable part of an anglers growth, catching fish early on is essential.  This means choosing locations where the fish give you a fighting chance.  One florida guide who has built a significant name in the ffly fishing industry described it best:  He likeness fishing salt to playing professional sports.  People don’t realize how fast and challenging it is until they experience it in person.  There are fresh water situations that I would consider professional level as well, and taking care not to use these as a foundation for experience and education will help to dilute any frustration and sadness that may be a part of your early angling journey.  To begin, stick to fishing situations that will give you the highest probability of success.  This included stillwater locations, slower moving stretches of creeks and rivers with nice deep holding areas (fewer spooky fish), abundantly active feeding times, and experiences that allow the angler to visualize the fishing experience

• Fish beyond where the fish are - Most anglers stomp into the water and chase fish off just to cast to a place they believe fish to be.  Don’t discount any water and work stuff immediately in front of you first.  Some of my biggest fish have come from doing this.

• No pre-approach to fishing location (they play a guessing game too often/too long) - Don’t guess.  Just take a few minutes to find out what bugs are around and where the fish are holding.  Watching the water can give you a good idea about what they are taking and how they are taking them.  

• Fish without a net -  Putting unnecessary stress on the fish, and possibly causing harm if not landed correctly or dragged on shore. Use a net and keep them wet. 

• Too much false casting - I don’t know why fly anglers want to keep their fly in the air so long.  There are no fish there.  Use the false cast to extend the reach of your cast if you need to, but keep it limited.  Not only are there no fish there, but the longer your fly is in the air, the more chances it has to hook something undesirable.  

• Let mistakes get them down - It’s easy to get frustrated.  Got to be able to push through the adversity on the water.  It’s going to happen. Have a short memory.

• Don’t take enough time with knots - You’ll lose that big fish when you finally hook it if you don’t take your time with knots.  Check your tippet often too to make sure it is not faulty (even after every fish, especially toothy ones).  Take the time to re-tie if you need to.  

• thinking like people instead of fish - “If I was a fish, what would I be doing right now”

• Being afraid/unwilling to fish small flies - Picky fish in clear water usually require tiny flies.  24 and 26’s are not uncommon, especially in the winter.  

• Not using a bobber/indicator (of any kind) - It may be an ego thing, but some anglers refuse to use any type of underwater communication device.  When nymphing, some type of communication with the bottom is absolutely necessary. 

Hope this helps ya out.  Go catch some fish!  A few more resources below for additional education.

One Best Dog

If you’re reading this, I’ve recently experienced the worst day of my life.  The phrase has almost become cliche as youngster social media wannabes use it on the daily to describe a mundane “tragedy” in their boring lives.  I, on the other hand, have just had to kill my best friend.  Persevering through ugly crying and a leaky nose I write this testimonial about the best dog to ever walk on planet earth.  Not a bold enough statement if you knew this pup.  I’ve been told on a few occasions that a person gets one great dog in their lifetime.  Notice I wrote, “great”.  Until 14 years ago, I did not believe that to be true.  I’ve come across many dogs in my day, all seemingly indistinguishable between their overall accumulation of good and bad tendencies.  While I had considered all of these dogs to be, for the most part, “good”, I did not long for ownership of any in particular.  My parents got a dog in the late 1990’s.  While on our way home with this little mixed-breed bundle, we three kids sat on the mattress in the back of our old station wagon and named him Sparky.  Sparky was a jack of all trades due to his mixed line.  He was certainly a great dog!  So many memories of fishing and hunting with that little guy.  I was attending college in Texas the day my mom called to let me know they had to euthanize him.  He was 12 years old.  That dog was a great friend.   Russell came next,  another mixed breed who rarely listened as a young pup.  He was energetic and appeased me only some of the time.  He died a few years ago.  Both of these dogs were raised by my mom and dad...family dogs.  

I’m writing this today because I absolutely believe we all deserve to have one BEST dog in our lives.  I understand that not everyone will get that chance.  Maybe you don’t care for dogs, are allergic, or live in an area where they are not permitted.  My hope is that this rendition of a life, one much too short for the being that it was allotted, will give you an opportunity to intimately know one BEST dog.  A dog that only ever brought joy and fulfillment to those she came in contact with.  Each time she met someone new, they were left a better person for having known her.  Lucy Seiner made this world a better place each and every day she walked it.  This is her legacy.   

In 2006, I moved to Pierre, S.D. to begin the rat race.  Working for the man, hunting, fishing, and enjoying the endless bounty that exists in central South Dakota.  My wife Jamie (then girlfriend living in sin) and I had decided there was a hole in our lives that needed to be filled by a furry four-legged hound dog.  When I write that “she and I” had made that decision, it was mostly me.  I wanted a hunting and fishing buddy.  Jamie didn’t much care for dogs, but humored my request, as she does most of the time.  The hunt for our dog was officially on.  

My uncle Tim owns some of the best hunting dogs I’ve ever had the pleasure to watch in a field.  “Watch the dog!” he would yell as we hurried through whatever piece of public hunting ground we chose to hunt that day.  They all held birds back then, it was just a matter of finding them.  As the switchgrass swayed in the wind, Indiana diligently hunted through the hip high grass in a zig-zag pattern.  When he smelled a bird, his tail began spinning voracious circles like an eight-year-old with a newly lit sparkler.  “Stay with Indy!” my Uncle Tim would yell.  The blood and adrenaline racing through my body was prompted by the notion that this was a sure thing.  A bird would be getting up in front of me at some point (if I was able to keep pace with Indiana, of course) and I was going to be tasked with shooting it.  Like an assassin, Indiana gracefully moved, cut, and effortlessly powered through the thick grass while I hurriedly trudged behind.  His ruthless initiative was like that of a bounty hunter chasing a big purse.  His reward is something else entirely.  Are dogs proud?  Do they gain satisfaction and fulfillment from this hunt?  It sure seemed like it to me.  Indiana followed the trail exactly, which often led you from point A, to point B, to point C, around in a circle, and back to point A again...a chase with a jack-in-the-box ending of a rooster flushing 15 yards out.  After bagging our birds for the day, we followed Indiana back to the pickup truck.  “How did you teach him to hunt like that,” I asked while Indiana’s tail prognosticated another flushing pheasant just feet away from his snout.  I could not fathom the work and time it would take to educate a dog to hunt like that!   “I didn’t teach him how to hunt,” uncle Tim admitted.  “He just knows.”  The day I knew I was going to get a golden retriever was the day I watched Indiana hunt birds north of Highmore, So. Dak. like it was his job.  

It was the summer of 2007 when my girlfriend Jamie returned from her personal banker position with some promising news.  “I met a really great couple today,” she told me.  At the time, she was still not sold on the idea of getting a dog, so her expression was one lacking enthusiasm.  “Linda and Dorn Barnes,” she clarified.  “From Harrold, South Dakota.”  Linda and Dorn own and operate Cedar Valley Pheasant Haven and just so happened to run golden retrievers at the time (they’ve since switched it up to cockers).  They also just so happened to be the nicest people on the planet.  Their offer would likely not have been made to just ANY personal banker in Pierre, S.D., however.  In fact, if not for Jamie’s magnetic personality, likeability, and skillful charm and wit, I doubt Linda and Dorn would have even considered making such an offer to a relative stranger.  It may have helped that one of Jamie’s coworkers had introduced them.  But, they are the nicest people on the planet, so it’s likely they were acting as they would naturally.  Linda and Dorn found out that we were in search of our first dog.  They didn’t hesitate to let Jamie know that they were mere months away from breeding their golden, Penny, to bring the next generation of hunters into the family.  They would take first pick of the litter, offering us second pick if we wanted it.  What?!  That’s a no-brainer.  We agreed on the spot.  

We sat on our hands for months before hearing from the Barnes’ that Penny had given birth to a litter of 10 healthy pups.  We were invited out a few weeks later to make our 2nd pick of the litter.  This has got to be one of the most difficult tasks for a prospective pet owner, especially when considering newborn puppies.  Their squeeks, yips, rolls, falls, licks, bites, and puppy breath prompt feelings of childhood.  It’s impossible not to smile when sitting in the middle of a puppy pile.  How in the hell do you pick just one?  Most of the pups were running a muck.  Jumping, biting, ramming, and roaming.  The Barnes’ had already selected theirs...the darkest red female in the litter.  They named her Copper.  One other pup, though, caught our eye.  The chunkiest little girl in the grass who minded her own business.  Not lethargic, but more laid back.  She didn’t need the attention, or the aggression.  She just seemed content.  We tied a pink ribbon of yarn around her neck that day, nicknamed her “fatso”, and would visit her at the farm two more times before the eight week wait was over.  

I’ve always loved the idea of Desi Arnaz walking through the door and shouting to his quirky bride, “Lucy...I’m home!!!”  When the prospect of getting a dog became a reality, naming her was on top of my mind.  I don’t recall any conversation or debate about it.  I wanted to say “Lucy, I’m home!” when I walked in to see my dog.  Ironically, I cannot recall one time since owning her that I had reenacted this initial desire.  Either way, she was Lucy before we drove out to the farm that sunny July morning to adopt her.  The ride home was difficult.  There we were, two strangers stealing this little puppy from her mother, brothers, and sisters.  She whimpered the entire way home, anxious about being in a strange contraption with strange people.  The 30 min drive felt like an eternity.  She was already melting our hearts with her genuine conscience and humbleness.  She’s had it since day one.  When we arrived home, we sat in the thick green grass of our backyard to begin acclimating her to the new surroundings.  She was not timid like I had expected, but more considerate of her new home.  Jamie and I sat across from each other and coaxed her back and forth like two toddlers rolling a ball.  Watching that little girl approach has always been one of her cute quirks.  She would puppy bound the initial 75% of open space before making the final approach as low to the ground as possible.  A slow crawl coupled with a slight wag of her tail.  Her tiny head hung low and slightly to the side in anticipation of a glorious belly rub.  She would fall into you with so much trust, appreciation, gratitude, and love that it makes my heart hurt to think about it now.  The most loving dog I’ve ever known...from day one.  In her 14 years on this planet, she has never known hate or evil.  Of course, not everyone loves dogs.  The few interactions with those individuals are like a freckle in time, leaving no lasting impression on Lucy’s psyche.  Until the day she died, Lucy held love and appreciation for every living thing she ever came across (except for an occasional squirrel or cat that surprised her during a nap in the sun).  She wholeheartedly believed that anyone and everyone (strangers on the trail, visitors to the house, postal carriers, store patrons, and anyone else she would meet along the way) wanted to say hi to her.  She not only showed it in her willing embrace of strangers, but in her constant desire to receive approval from her family. 

One of Lucy’s favorite games as a puppy was to fight my electric razor.  She would sit on our king-sized bed and pounce, snarl, growl, and thrash her head while my buzzing electric razor played peek-a-boo from the side.  One day, in the developing stages of this game, things got heated.  The growling became louder, teeth were shown with more ferocity, and the aggressiveness escalated into  something new for our little kind-hearted puppy.  When the loud “BARK” came from Lucy’s gaping jaws, Jamie and I gasped in surprise.  Until then, we had only heard her whine as a puppy.  Our gasp and surprised exclamation of, “Lucy!!” was met with a regretful puppy.  She lowered her head in shame seemingly hurt by the idea that she had made us gasp in surprise.  We immediately succumbed to her cuteness, but since that day Lucy only ever raised her voice in surprise.  She may have barked four or five times during her amazing life and was one of my most favorite things about her.  Ironically, each time I’ve ever heard Lucy’s deep, bellowing voice, I have appreciated it (something that will never be said about other dogs).  I know hearing it more often may have caused that appreciation to slip away.  Jamie and I pulled out all the stops while trying to get her to use those golden pipes one more time as she aged.  We never did get to hear that beautiful bark again before she died.       

Lucy had so many other cute puppy quirks that will forever be ingrained in my memory.  She loved to sit in our automatic baby swing (we had our little girl Lillian two weeks after getting Lucy).  Watching her struggle for balance as the swing jostled to and fro before settling in with a flop of her tail almost killed me with cuteness.  She would not eat or drink out of her stainless steel bowls early on because she was afraid of her reflection.  For the first few weeks, she would only eat food that was rolled along the floor to a waiting puppy with aspirations of a wild hunter.  As the food scooted toward her she pounced on each individual piece like an arctic fox bounding into the hiding place of a snowshoe rabbit.  It also was as a puppy that she developed her most celebrated trait by anyone who had come to know her.  That first December brought a beautiful dusting of snow to Pierre.  It was later in the evening when I had let Lucy out for the first time to enjoy it.  When I walked out to join her, she was nowhere to be found.  I called and called and she did not come running.  Fortunately, a fresh set of tracks led the way.  I followed them through the backyard to the edge of the property.  I made a hard turn at the sidewalk where she began racing northbound.  Relief came when I finally reached the intersection of streets to the north.  There she was, this little golden retriever catching snow as it was flung from the shovel of the snow scooping neighbor down the road.  She was having a blast...until I got there.  A swift kick in the butt prompted her hasty return home.  She was devastated after I hollered at her.  I felt a bit bad too, but she needed to realize how dangerous that was.  From that day on, Lucy never strayed from the yard.  Passersbys always wondered how it was that this puppy just sat in her yard with no leash and no collar.  They were always enamored and appreciative of such a good dog, and made it a point to tell us so.  

Hunting and Fishing

Lucy lived her life for others.  She was unselfish, loyal, appreciative, and forgiving.  That all changed as soon as she stepped into a hunting situation.   Lucy was born to chase wild pheasants, lick white bass, and stalk common carp.   She did these things to the best of her abilities each and every time we went out.  Unfortunately, this was also when her selfish ways would sometimes become apparent. It was a strange infraction of obedience completely outside her character.  When this dog caught wind of any pheasant within a quarter mile of our location, she became deaf to the world around her.   Her agility and quickness, even as an old dog, often frustrated me, but so much about what she did made me love the hell out of her.  It brought me back to keeping pace with Indiana in the switchgrass and why I wanted a dog like her in the first place.  She gave me the ability to step into a piece of public hunting land and just follow her to where the pheasants would be, watching that tail the entire time.  On our daily walks along the Missouri River, she would always look back to make sure I was still following behind (one sign of a very good dog).  But when there was a bird somewhere in front of this dog, she didn’t care if I was behind her or not.  The end goal was finding that bird no matter what!  It wasn’t uncommon for me to lag behind, or for the bird to run along tire tracks.  Yelling, whistles, and shock collars were all powerless to that pup's pursuit.  As frustrating as it was at times, it is what I signed up for.  It is what I appreciated so much about her.  Zig-zagging with her in a field would often elicit fits of giggling and watery eyes because of the insanity of it all.  We could run all over a section of CRP before flushing one rooster, or worse yet...a hen.  “Find HIM!” I would remind her during our breath-catching break in the grass.  When it worked, it was a thing of beauty.  When it didn’t, I wanted to pack up the gun and go home.  I regret each time I lost my temper with her after forgetting that she was bred for that specific purpose.  It was her job to find pheasants.  I would forget how much I loved watching her work when my errant focus was directed at bagging the daily limit.  She always worked so hard, and loved every second of it.  

There were many moments where her performance deserved so much more recognition that she actually received.  Fly fishing author Dan Frasier and photography guru Mike Dvorak (along with his dog Moose) and I were walking a game production area north of Canning one cool fall day.  I had seen many birds in that spot before, but on that particular day they were nowhere to be found.  Lucy got birdy partway through our walk and trailed the bird into a small drainage ditch full of cattails.  I hustled up an embankment to find where Lucy had jumped in just in time to see the rooster flush from the center of the ditch.  The boom from my over-under heralded success, and I thought that bird was done.  When we got over to where he landed, that rooster was gone!  Mike brought Moose over to help find a scent, but both dogs were coming up empty.  After many minutes of searching, we decided to get back to walking.  This particular hunting area is within an old army corps of engineers basin.  Imagine the contour like a giant M, with fence lines along the north and south sides and plateaus at the peaks and troughs roughly 25 yards wide.  We were walking in the middle trough when Lucy picked up a bird's scent.  Nose to the ground and tail helicoptering nearly to liftoff, she elegantly danced and spun along this bird's trail like it was the nutcracker.  First we went up to the top of the plateau, then we went back down to the trough.  I followed her to the other side where she proceeded again to run up the hill and chase this invisible bird along the north side plateau.  Finally, she ran down the hill to the outside fence line and sprinted back toward where we had come.  I was exhausted!  I could not run any more.  I stood halfway down the hill watching that dog sprint along the fence wondering when the hell she was going to stop.  And then, out of nowhere, this rooster jumps straight in the air narrowly avoiding a white-faced golden jumping just behind.  When I got to the scene Lucy was laying on top of this prefontaine wannabe rooster.  Dan and Mike gave us a well deserved break when we made it back to where they were waiting.  I set the bird on the ground and Lucy reclaimed her prize.  She rested one proud paw over that bird, and gave us the look that it was hers to keep.  

There were tough days too.  I tried hunting her in groups and regretted it every time out.  That was just not our style of hunting.  Especially the slow, methodical group drives.  Lucy would get on a bird and I would be right behind her while everyone else just sat and watched in disbelief.  It was a bit embarrassing at the time, but I was proud of her after.  She was always great at finding pheasants.  One of the worst hunting days of our lives was on a 60 degree day in late October 2016.  I debated whether to go fishing or hunting and decided to chase pheasants because it was Lucy’s preference.  We went east of Pierre along the river where I had seen pheasants many times in the past.  After walking a large section of spruce trees and chasing a half dozen birds into the valley, we bagan walking the thigh-high grass down.  The thought of snakes was always on my mind, so it was a bit of a coincidence that just after I was thinking about the possibility of seeing one in that tall grass, Lucy yelped and lept about two feet in the air.  She yelped again and jumped back from where she was standing.  It was then when the rattle began to buzz and my heart sank.  I called her over to me and watched as a big head rose out of the grass like a cobra climbing out of a basket.  Without thinking, I clicked off the safety of shotgun and shot the snakes head clean off.  I would never kill a snake if it was in an area void of people or animals, but my mindset was that this snake probably just turned the hourglass on my best friend's life.  The rattle had long ceased before Lucy and I started the walk back to the pickup, me trying to keep from getting birdy the entire time.  The panicked-stricken call to my vet must have been something to behold.   She met me at her office 20 minutes later with some anti-venom.   The snake had likely dry-bitten her hind leg before injecting venom into her neck with the second bite.  Lucy’s neck and face swelled up significantly and she was drooling and panting uncontrollably.  I was told that if she was not dead within 15 minutes, she would probably be ok.  I didn’t take any chances.  We administered the anti-venom and an IV for fluids before I took her home to rest.  That was one of the longest nights of my life.  I slept next to her on the floor and kept waking myself up in a panic to check if she was still alive.  Since that day, I never hunted with Lucy when the temperature was above 50 degrees.    

I believe Lucy preferred hunting, but she was absolutely a water dog at heart.  Having her by my side during fishing adventures has created more highlights to our friendship than anything else.  Her gaze while fishing was like that of a jaguar ready to pounce through the Amazon trees.  Her stance consistently stoic and by my side at all times.  I could fish with her in crystal clear Black Hills streams, on Missouri River flats, or on Ft. Pierre National Grasslands stockdams.  “Boy I wish my dog would fish with me like that,” was a common sentiment from passersby or nearby anglers.  My pride for this fishing dog was impossible to hide.  My face beamed when Lucy received recognition.  I only wish she could understand all the fuss that was made about her, and how often it came about.  We experienced a great amount of success while fishing together, too, as she accompanied me on many of my proudest angling moments.  Indelible memories mostly captured through the lens of a small video camera, always containing an image of a wet swamp collie adoring whatever catch and release bounty had been fooled that day.   When fishing was a bit slow (hey, nobody is perfect) her selfish side would return in a search of her own entertainment.  Stick gathering, carp chasing, and bird finding missions fulfilled her everlasting lust for adventure.  When a fish came to hand, though, it was everything she could do to monitor it, give it a few licks, and gracefully swim along after it tail-kicked back into the depths.  She was always my favorite fishing buddy.  Our adventures were typically solitary, which suited us just fine.  Her friendship and loyalty in the field and on the water were second to none.  She always wanted to go, and was up for anything we ever did.  Everyone deserves a friend like that.  

All Good Things

So many other great things about Lucy simply deserve a reference if not described in great detail: 

• She loved our mail carriers (especially Les Cummings) and always met them out at the mailbox to say hello (and to get a few well deserved treats).  She loved going through the bank teller drive through as well.  

• She always had to carry a glove back to the house during winter walks.  It was how she suggested it was time to return home.  During the warm-weather months, a big stick (the bigger, the better) was proudly hauled back from the river.  “Another one for the woodpile,” I would say to curious passersby.

• She tolerated the children and even grew to love them very much.  Through all the climbing, riding, tail pulling, ear flapping, treat teasing moments, Lucy was the greatest family dog anyone could hope for.  And they loved her dearly.

  

• Her independence was a breath of fresh air, appreciated more each time a needy dog came to visit.  She loved sitting outside under her tree or lounging by the couch whether or not a human was there to shower her with attention.  She was content with her alone time, and I appreciated her for that.   

• She would offer a genuine smile (like the dragon in “How to Train Your Dragon 1”) nearly every time you returned home. She would always find a sock or stray pair of underwear to retrieve when she was excited to see someone.  It was always a surprise to find out what she came up with! 

• Lucy was always happy to see you, whether you had been gone for five minutes or five days.  

• She relished new snow and fresh green grass.  Her rolling sessions in each brought us both so much joy! 

  
  
  

• Her bathroom etiquette was pure.  While other dogs would leave their steaming piles all over the trail, Lucy was much more polite.  She would sneak into the trees or tall grass to find a relatively private place to relieve herself before puppy bounding back to the trail in celebration of her accomplishment.  Such a polite dog.  She did make me pick up after her on many occasions, but such is life with a dog.     

• Casting practice in the backyard or at fishing events always sparked fits of laughter while Lucy bounded after whatever hookless piece of fishing gear being dragged across the grass.  Her perked up ears and puppy-like demeanor emitted cuteness in massive quantities and made my heart expand with feels.  

• Her dinner request always made us laugh.  Tap dancing on the floor before throwing her head up in the air as if to say, “get your ass up and feed me already!”  An occasional growl let you know she really meant business.  This is normally when we would make our feeble attempts to elicit a special bark.   

• She loved the water so much.  I loved swimming out on Lake Oahe and turning around to see her hurrying behind.  Her look of concern made me feel that she was always looking out for me.  She enjoyed chasing her Dora the Explorer foam swim aid float that she so loved chewing on and bounding about with in the sand.  Water time always brought out the puppy in her, no matter how old she got.  After shaking the cold, clean water from her fur, she proceeded to dig a small pit in the sand and roll around in it as much as possible.  Patting her hind end during this charade sparked even more kicking and nose digging.  We took her swimming on her last day and it made my heart hurt to see her having so much fun.  It made me want to keep her forever.  That’s the power of our local water.

  
  
    

• Bath times were not as appreciated as her voluntary waterdog lifestyle, but she was always such a good girl when getting cleaned up.  Not all dogs are so patient and willing to be hosed down after a beach day.  

• She loved diving in the water for rocks.  Our veterinarian warned us early on about the possibility of injury, but it was impossible to resist.  She loved it more than anything else, and so did other beach-goers.  “Want to see a cool trick?” I’d say to kids playing on the beach.  After throwing one rock and watching her submerged nose sniff it out, they all wanted to watch her do it again!  She never broke any teeth, but did acquire multiple ear infections from water remaining in her ears.  Not fun for anyone!

  
  
  

• Lucy had an infatuation with rawhide chewies…and it was adorable.  I loved wrestling with her while holding the chewy in a secret location for her to sniff out.  Cheap entertainment for both family and pup.

  
  
  

• Her sweet gray face.  I like to believe that a well loved dog with a gray face only offers evidence of how many great memories were made together.  One amazing memory for every gray hair adds up to more than I am willing to calculate.  Each individually important, and together, overwhelmingly cherished. 

  
  
  

• Her white teeth.  I loved making her show her pearly whites while we wrestled and played.  It would always make me laugh to see something so kind look so vicious!

  
  
  

• Her propensity to expel noxious gas almost every time I would aggressively give her belly rubs.  Of course, I was constantly blamed for this indiscretion and never felt sorry for my actions.  

• Her fur makes great fly tying material!  I’ve caught multiple fresh and saltwater species on flies comprised of Lucy fur.  

• The willingness to sit with me in a quiet place and just spend time together.  It was one of our favorite things to do on walks or outdoor adventures.  She was always by my side, no matter what!

  
  
  

• While most dogs would devour an abandoned dinner plate during a picnic movie dinner, Lucy would sit nearby and simply stare at it.  She would never take food from a plate or counter without it first being given to her.  

  
  
  

• She never licked people.  She always had a sixth sense for the boundaries of others and made a genuine effort to respect them.

• Lucy developed the amazing habit of lying down on the trail when walkers or bikers would approach.  

• Her snuggles were like big, warm hugs.  It can only be understood if experienced.  She always seemed so empathetic and understanding of your concerns or problems.

  
  
  

• She loved sleeping in mom and dad’s bed when she was able to make the jump.  It was always comforting to have her resting near our feet.   

• Tug-of-war towel battles of biblical proportions would ensue at the culmination of baths or beach days.  She usually won!

• Lucy never made us feel like she needed a collar or leash.  So well behaved on our walks!   

All pet owners come to a realization during our times with best friends that it will all eventually come to an end.  It is often said out loud without full comprehension of how that moment will truly make us feel.  “The hardest thing about having a pet is saying goodbye.”  It is easily said with a straight emotionless face when not staring it directly in the eyes.  This puppy biography was a testament to one of the greatest beings to have ever walked this earth.  To all who read this rendition of a life well spent, it is meant as an introduction to one of the greatest dogs known to mankind.  In turn, all who browse this piece of literature will become better human beings because of this brief connection with a dog.  A dog that made this world a better place each and every day she was a part of it.  Lucy’s legacy will live on through all of us who have had a connection to her (including you at this moment in time).  You will share this story with others who will get to know the best dog on the planet, and the world will become a better place because of it.  How can a dog have so much influence on a person?  It is because her intentions were always pure, her spirit always bright, and her love ever-present.  I miss my best friend more than words can describe.  My heart hurts so badly, but I am forever grateful for the time we spent together, for all the people who filled her life with love, and for you having this opportunity to know how much she meant to so many.  Carry Lucy’s legacy in your heart, and do as she did...make the world a better place each and every day you are lucky enough to walk on it.  And go snuggle with your favorite four-legged friends while you have the chance.  Please don’t take them for granted.  

Driftless Blue Lines

A conversation I had the evening prior with Stephen Wisner, owner of Eau Claire Anglers, reverberated in my head like a ringing bell.

“I just think people should have the experience,” he said.  “I found those spots, and it was really cool. And somebody else is going to find them, and they are going to have a really unique experience.”

I was driving a winding road through brown trout colored trees on a cloudy October afternoon.  The rain had been falling for three days and rivers were high. I was in a remote location and an unfamiliar state…a place I would have never found without a fishing suggestion from a friend.  But Stephen’s words were still in my head.  I agreed with him 100%. 

The excitement and anticipation that comes along with exploring new water is second to very few things. Finding and catching fish within, what only existed before as a blue line on a map, can bring a satisfaction that will move grown anglers to tears of joy.  Would that sense of anticipation and satisfaction be diminished with accompanying directions? Like an open book test, does the satisfaction of an A+ compare to one that has come with an impassioned and dedicated effort without said textbook?

I pulled into the driveway of a local organization and drove around to the back of the building.  The sun’s glow behind overcast skies was decreasing by the minute, along with it...my fishing time.  Waders, boots, slingpack, and my new St. Croix 4 wt came together in haste before long strides carried me toward the sound of rushing water.  I did a 180 degree turn after a quick fall/winter revelation. Dry hands = warm hands. I draped a towel over my slingpack of essentials.

The water was rushing in a rusty brown color.  White foam piled up in seams and eddies indicating the flows force.  Matted down foliage acted similar to chalk at a crime scene highlighting evidence of the waters presence just hours before.  With the clock ticking on this new fishing hole, I tied on my favorite winter streamer in hopes of triggering a few instinctive strikes.  “If they are going to eat, they’ll eat this,” I thought while sliding down the muddy slope to the water’s edge. For a moment, I just stood and enjoyed the atmosphere, checking boxes off the “great fishing holes” attribute checklist.  I could already tell this was a special place to many.

Three long strips off the kingfisher fly reel relinquished just enough line to do the trick.  A half-hearted upstream presentation quickly drifted towards the edge of a bankside seam. Short strips made the streamer dance about 12 inches under the surface, just barely visible from my casting area.  The first cast hung near the seam for only a few seconds before a solitary tug gave way to the thumping head shake of a 12 inch brown trout. This particular fish was a perfect template for the fall colors blossoming all around me.  Futility met two impassioned leaping attempts at dislodging the barbless fly, and the fish gently glided into the rubber mesh of my long-handle net. Catching a fish in questionable conditions was fulfilling and unanticipated. Catching a fish on the first cast...prompted an obligatory celebration with myself.  Fist pump!

Four fish found my streamer in seam one, two more fell for it in seam two.  With the clock ticking, It was time to move upstream. The walk through brush and trees made my heart and belly flutter.  Being in the wilderness can do this to people. This is the feeling you seek when on blue-line exploratory missions. I perched atop a large rock at the head of a pool and presented downstream.  A flash of red was all I had seen before my rod bent under the pressure of another fish. This time, another species. My barbless hook allowed for a quick release of a fish that was too beautiful to describe with words.  Like my favorite natural wonders, I could see a million brook trout and not grow tired of the view. Autumn brookies always inspire audible expressions of surprise and wonder. This fish, and the next, made me sit back and wonder why I was so lucky.  Then, it was something else Stephen had said the day before that helped me come to grips with the satisfaction I was beginning to feel deep down inside my fishing bones.

“Then, you have someone who grows to trust you enough who would say, ‘hey, I’m going to show you something’,” he said.  “That’s different than ‘go to this spot’. Someone takes you under their wing and shows you their stuff...that’s cool to me.”  

Location is everything in the fishing world.  Hero shots and grip-n-grins are taking over as insta-famous wannabes continue to sprout out of the woodwork.  Like creeping jenny in a tomato garden, these photos and posts can draw us in with their beauty, while slowly and painfully killing off a great fishing location.  Some bodies of water can only take so much pressure. Fish, can only take so much pressure before things begin to change. Especially when talking trout. The stakes change along with the volatility of the resource.  

I understand the feeling of accomplishment that comes along with landing a beautiful fish in a beautiful location.  I understand preserving that moment in time can bring stream-cred, partnerships, speaking gigs, and pro staff contracts any professional angler dreams about. It also brings attention.  Word will get out, and anglers will take notice. You want a fishing spot to change in a hurry? Post a hero shot all over social media.

Each seam held fish willing to attack the flashy fly.  The “just one more fish” mantra was spoken many times before artificial light was required to help me slip and stumble my way back to the truck.  The flutter in my belly was still present prompting a howl that echoed through the valley and over the hillside. For me, the excitement and anticipation that came along with exploring this special place was not diminished by the fact that I was given directions by a friend.  I would never have found it on my own, and felt humbled to be trusted with the valuable information.

Our quest for the unexpected and surprising, and any ensuing success, can elicit emotions that are almost too powerful to contain.  Social media hero shots have provided an outlet for many enthusiasts experiencing this good fortune. I was trusted enough to be guided to this special location, and to a special fishing experience.  Writing...is my way of expressing these emotions. Both outlets share similar purposes, but not always a similar impact. Taking care of our resources involves more than just conservation and preservation.  An accountable approach to its utilization and the ceremonial celebration should be considered first and foremost. Treat nature like you would a good friend who has entrusted you with a new fishing spot. The future of our resources depends on it.