Fly Fish Chick

I’ll just take the rainbow.

A few weeks ago Tim Romano wrote a post on his FlyTalk blog titled Women In Fly Fishing. Tim and I had a brief exchange about the questions he posed in the piece:

“Ladies, are you the sole angler in your circle of friends?”

“Did your mom teach you how to fish?”

“If you don’t fish on a regular basis - why not?”

We agreed it might be an interesting twist if I wrote a response post….oooh, fabulous idea! Sort of like when Kitty Wells sang It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels in response to Hank Thompson’s Wild Side of Life. Overly confident, I was excited to whip up something insightful, sharp and witty.

Just one problem. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

What? I mean, I am a woman. And I fish. I obsess about fishing. I seem particularly well-poised to write about this. But am I a ‘woman in fly fishing’? To tell you the truth, I see myself more as someone who is stumbling through the dark, trying to figure it all out. When it comes to fishing, I’m a work-in-progress.

So let’s just start with Tim’s questions. Yes, I am the only angler in my close circle of girlfriends. Yes, my mom is an avid angler. The reason I don’t fish on a more regular basis? Uh…PTA meetings, homework, sleepovers, bills, clients. Oh, and running around with my friends – most of whom don’t fish.

People ask me all the time why I love to fly fish. Depending on my mood, I might ramble on about the scenery, the escape, the camaraderie, the challenge. The sport of it. The respect of the fish. Blah blah blah. Other times I just smile and shrug my shoulders.

Hell, I don’t know why I love to fly fish. Do you?

Most addicts have to work a 12-step program to understand why they’re hooked. I’m not willing to give up my fishing addiction anytime soon. So without the soul-searching, self-probing insight of rehab, I just continue to muse awkwardly about the myriad of things I love about it.

I can’t speak for all women anglers, but I think I fish for the same reasons a man does. I like big, fat, feisty fish that fight. Native fish with rich colors and lots of energy. I like searching for them in beautiful, clear, skinny water. I like a bent rod. A cool take. I like hungry, dumb fish – until I catch them, and then I want them to be smart and discerning. I like getting them to eat. Picking the right fly. Even better if it’s dry and small.

I don’t see a gender gap at the core of fly fishing. Hell, the fish don’t know I’m a girl. But there are palpable differences for women in the experiences that surround the sport. Most are so harmless, they really don’t bear mention. But just for kicks, what do ya say we take a look at a few?

For example, the Flora & Fauna lessons. When you are a woman fishing with a male guide you don’t know very well, he will almost always cover you up in the nature speeches. Now I love an osprey’s nest as much as the next guy, but I really just want to look for fish. And maybe gossip a little.

A friend of mine had the opportunity to guide Justice Sandra Day O’Connor on the Flathead last summer. Getting into the groove of the day, he offered some fun facts about the mountain range in the background. She responded politely but firmly, “I don’t have a lot of time to fish out here so I don’t need the nature tour. Let’s just find the fish and see what they’re eating.”

Right on Sandy! I like your style darlin.

I’ve met the most wonderful friends in Montana over the years. Men, women, guides, anglers, shop owners, café owners. Some fish. Some don’t. It’s a wonderful community and I am so lucky they welcome me with open arms year after year. And most of the anglers that pass through this summertime fishing town are happy, positive and kind. After all, they’re on vacation doing what they love.

Some of them are just tickled to death to stumble upon a female angler on the banks of the river. Apparently it’s even more exciting than finding an osprey’s nest. If I had a dime for the number of times I’ve heard, “Man I’d like to get you in the front of my boat!” Hardee-har-har. They’re just having fun, I can tell pretty quickly if they’re being nice or being an ass.

A few are flat-out incensed by my presence and ask, “What exactly are you doing here?” If I say I’m just out to fish, some just ignore me, like I’m not supposed to be crashing their boys trip by eating in the same restaurant. Others don’t believe me. They’ll start testing me with condescending questions that I know they know the answers to. “What kind of fish are in this river? What are you catching them on? A hopper? What’s a hopper? Do we get to eat these fish?”

The good news is I have no ego that drives me to respond to any of this banter. It is interesting that they go to such lengths to start a conversation with me, just to be rude. I suppose it’s the middle-aged-man’s version of pulling my pigtails in class. But I don’t care if they think I’m clueless, I’m not competitive. I pretty much thrive on a healthy mix of high standards and low expectations.

I do, however, get annoyed when they bring it to the river. I go out of my way to give other boats plenty of space. Plenty! But some guys see me rowing my mother and my daughter and think our water is fair game. They see three ponytails and have no problem cruising over to low-hole me, while my mother is casting to rising fish off the front of the boat. Now that pisses me off.

Of course I won’t say anything — another difference between men and women. I’m too scared they’d yell back at me.

It’s funny that men are so intrigued by a female angler. I meet a lot of women who fish! I have a few girlfriends in MT who are amazing anglers, some are guides. I love being on the water with them, very chill and lots of laughs. But there are other women who don’t want anything to do with female anglers. They would sooner gnaw off their arm than have a conversation with me about fishing. I think they just like the attention of being a girl in the boys’ club. So they only want to fish with the boys. Talk shop with the boys.

That attitude is insane to me. Never trust a woman who doesn’t have female friends.

But the mildly annoying people in the world of fishing are the exception, not the rule. Over the years, I have met incredible people and dear, dear friends. There is a passion and a generosity of spirit in this sport that transcends all else. I marvel at how much I’ve learned from anglers that hail from so many different places – people I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

After my divorce, fishing became a mirror of my quickly-changing life. At first it reflected a harsh blinding light, bouncing right off the water and straight into my eyes. I realized how much my ex-husband had handled on these fishing trips. I’d been doing this a long time but I didn’t have a clue. So I started asking more questions. Tying my own knots. Wading out in the water by myself.

I began wandering around the flyshop parking lot looking for an open spot in someone’s boat. Like I was in a ski lift line shouting, “Single!” That got me in a few pickles so I had to learn to row myself. I’m inherently quite lazy, so I’ve surprised myself at the lengths I will go to. I will get up early, stay on the water til dark, bring all the beer, sleep in a tent, drive near, drive far, trade in frequent flyer miles, tap out my vacation days, quit my job….anything it takes to fish.

To tell you the truth, very little about this sport has come naturally to me. I soak up information wherever I can. I eavesdrop in flyshops. I pay attention when guides compare notes about their day on the water. I scour your blogs and read your magazine articles. I am so incredibly grateful for each and every one of you who has reached out, welcomed me to the conversation, or even just allowed me to listen-in for a spell.

I’ve always had a ton of girlfriends who’ve been like sisters to me. But fly fishing has given me a whole mess of brothers! I love it. Brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins. Maudlin as it may sound, it’s become an extended family. Like a good ole honky tonk bar, you never know if you’re going to be greeted with a grunt or smile. But the beer is cold, the jukebox is on and the neon sign lures you in just the same.

I suppose that is why I love to fly fish. To be a part of this wonderful, diverse, dysfunctional, passionate family. I didn’t plan on delivering such a sappy response to Tim’s blogpost, but what can I say? I guess I’m just a girlie girl at heart. A girlie girl who loves to fish.

And on a good day…a girlie girl who can really stick ‘em.

I’ll be honest, I used to think allergies and heat strokes were for losers. I saw them as psychosomatic urban myths, brought on by the more serious condition of having no spine.

But then I moved to Austin and discovered the unique hell that is cedar fever, and then I spent last July in Montana with day after day of 100+ degree heat.

Sweet mother of God it was hot in Montana last summer.

One day in particular was distinctly painful. I went for a run at high noon, and to tell you the truth, I never really bounced back from that error in judgment. Call me Icarus but I really thought I was immune to the heat. I’m from Texas for heavens sake.

Texas, where we have air-conditioning.

Dripping in sweat and hubris I still assumed I would bounce back in time to go fishing. Later that day, we assembled a motley crew at the river, waiting for the sun to ease up a bit before we launched our early evening float. We knocked about town trying to cool off indoors, but to no avail. The heat was making me feel sick in a way I really couldn’t shake.

We wandered down to the Trout Shop since they had the best air-conditioning in Craig, but it still wasn’t getting the job done. I was languishing on a bench, melting against a wall of waders. I must have looked fairly peeked – not to mention a total deterrent for paying customers – because they scooped me up and placed me in the beer cooler.

Finally a bit of relief! I perched on a produce box and tried to breathe in as much of the frosty air as I could, a weak attempt to cool myself from the inside-out. Customers on the other side would open the glass doors to select a six-pack, and I would startle them by handing them the one they were reaching for just before they grabbed it. It was a hoot. Things were looking up.

But the moment I was summoned from the beer cooler, I felt sick again. I definitely wasn’t up for rowing anyone down the river. I’m not sure why we didn’t pull the plug on the whole operation, because frankly everyone was feeling gamy and the general mood was pretty sour. But for some reason we decided to pile four adults plus Little Chick into one skiff.

About fifteen minutes into this shit-show, it was pretty clear I was either going to faint or throw up. So I scooted up to the very front of the boat and curled up in the fetal position on the floor. The knee-lockers had been removed so whenever I did open my eyes, I had a clear view of the bright blue evening sky and my mother’s fly line whizzing back and forth over my head. I probably should have been in a hospital with an IV at this point, but hey, she was keyed-in on rising fish that were keyed-in on caddis fluttering all around us.

Eventually my team took pity on me, albeit begrudgingly. We rowed back up to the ramp where we put in, canceled our shuttle and raced home. I don’t remember much else except shivering in bed and waking up the next morning with the worst headache of my life.

Needless to say I was benched for the next few days.

To cheer up the heat stroke victim, Little Chick had her own stroke of genius. She recruited my mother, and together they announced we were all going to bake cupcakes. Ugh! Normally I don’t get involved with the grandmother-granddaughter cooking adventures (I am not at home in the kitchen) but I was bored out of my mind and decided it was better to bake cupcakes than to bake myself in the sun again.

Strangely, we all got really into it. I can’t think of any activity, other than fishing, that would have kept the three of us bicker-free for three whole days. My mother and Little Chick did all the cooking, and I was the master decorator. I focused solely on fishing-themed cupcakes, and I have to say, I think I discovered a latent talent. Who knew I had such skills with icing?

For days we went all over the canyon delivering our fly-fishing cupcakes. Everyone was very polite and mustered up the proper gratitude, but I’m pretty sure they were whispering behind my back, assuming I’d finally lost my mind from the heat.

Perhaps. But tell the truth, who doesn’t crave a little sweet treat after getting baked on the river?

Plus, these cupcakes were medicinal.

My buddy Lance Gleason is a Missoula-based outfitter and fishing guide. He owns 406 Outfitters & Productions and put together this video called “Getting Guided“. He’s got some pretty cool footage, check it out…

Since the moment my daughter, Little Chick, picked up a flyrod, she has received no shortage of instruction, advice and input. Diligently she would practice with her Orvis 4-wt seven-foot rod. And finally last year one tip brought everything into focus for her: Lift your rod like you’re bringing a telephone up to your ear, hold it there long enough to say, “Hello, how are you doing?” and then set it back down.

All of a sudden her casting was looking good!

Unfortunately the fish on The Missouri refused to reward her stick-to-it-iv-ness and all-around positive attitude. Here and there she managed to sit in my lap and “land” a few trout that one of us had hooked for her. But her own fish…that still eluded her.

This past July we traipsed over to the Blackfoot for a few days. My mother and I had a pretty good feeling that this was going to be Little Chick’s moment of glory. But we didn’t dare say so to anyone other than ourselves. And even then, only in a hushed whisper.

Besides Little Chick was in heaven anyway. She’d been trying for so long I think she thought casting was fishing – and she was perfectly delighted to do just that. But after lunch on our first day on the Blackfoot, she put a short cast off the front of the raft in some fast water and CHOMP! A fish came right down on it.

We all started screaming “HIT IT! HIT IT! HIT IT!” as if she had a world-record tarpon strike her line.

But Little Chick didn’t move a muscle.

Immediately we started laying on the speech that we’ve all given ourselves a million times…how it’s all about the “take”…getting them to eat it is the most difficult part…congratulations are definitely still in order.

But Little Chick didn’t seem excited at all. In fact she looked upset. I leaned in for a little tete-a-tete because she had a question she was too embarrassed to ask out loud. “Mommy,” she asked with tears swelling in her eyes. “What does ‘HIT IT’ mean?”

Oh, shit.

Of all the instruction, tips, and advice she’d received over the years…we forgot one fairly critical nugget. So once again we were falling over ourselves trying to offer instruction.

Day Two on the Blackfoot was sublime. I was having my own troutfest in the front of the boat because no one else wanted to fish. I couldn’t get Little Chick back in the game. But eventually I got on this crazy, ridiculous bank with lots of grabby little fish. And I noticed her taking notice.

Little Chick loves rummaging through a fly box. So we bribed her with a trip through the hopper section – her favorite. And we cut her a deal. If she fished this bank, she could pick any bug in the box and then keep it.

Needless to say she picked a pink and purple hopper that looked like it should have the BARBIE logo printed on it.

Well, with the Barbie Hopper she got a take on her first cast. We screamed HIT IT, and this time she did, but didn’t manage to set the hook. Nevertheless she was intrigued. Her posture straightened and she tuned us out. Little Chick was on a mission.

She had two more misses but you could see she was really into it. And finally it happened! Fourth time was a charm. She made a perfect cast and BOOM. Fish chomped down on it, and we didn’t even have to say HIT IT. She saw it eat and she set the hook, all on her own. The biggest little trout in history.

So this is a fishing story that’s really more of a love story. I have never seen Little Chick so happy. Christmas morning, birthdays, even the time she lost her first tooth…this surpassed them all. Little Chick fell madly in love with her fish and I was the proudest mommy on the planet.

It was a happy day on the Blackfoot.

 happy valentine’s day sweet baby girl…

I landed in Montana at the Great Falls airport last June, excited to see what the summer had to offer. Straight from baggage claim I raced to The Trout Shop for a license, changed into my waders in the parking lot, and kicked-off my summer on the Missouri River. About 120 minutes after my flight touched down, I caught a late afternoon caddis hatch and this brown trout.

I love the Missouri River.

So do thousands of other anglers. It’s no secret that The Missouri is a blue ribbon trout stream. Often described as a giant spring creek, it fosters an ideal setting for hatches that are as varied and abundant as the anglers that visit these waters. They come looking for the big browns and beautiful rainbows that thrive here. These are keen discriminating trout – you rarely dumb into a fish on The Missouri, especially not with a dry fly. The river is big and wide, with slow moving water that gives the fish ample advantage to see you coming a mile away.

But we come anyway, sometimes from miles and miles away. Anglers from all over the country and far flung continents travel to Montana just to fish The Missouri. The headquarters for this tailwater activity is an unincorporated community along Interstate 15 called Craig. Nicknamed The Vortex, Craig is a contagious and bewitchy little town. If it gets in your blood you’re blessed for life. And probably just a teeny bit screwed because as far as I can tell, there is no known antidote.

The charm of Craig is its utter lack of pretense. There are no art galleries, no upscale realtor offices, no hipster coffee shops, no grand lodges offering the latest in luxurious western interior design.

Just one restaurant, one bar, a campsite and three flyshops…and plenty of characters.

photo courtesy of Scott Yetter

There are locals who are exceedingly kind, and just a few who are grumpy. There are Missouri guides who know every nook and crook of the river, not to mention some of the fish personally. And on any given day you’ll meet guides from other rivers who drift over to fish with clients, or perhaps to fish the Missouri just for themselves.

There are the fisherman who drive cross-country in old vans then splurge on a nice cabin for their stay. Others come in private planes and pitch a tent in the campground for two weeks. You have experienced anglers and novice anglers. Anglers with manners and anglers with mouths. Some have a sense of humor, some humility. And of course there’s no shortage of good old fashioned trout-fishing-testosterone. 

It’s a rich blend of troutbums, troutnuts and troutlaws, and at the end of the day they all come together to share their stories. When it’s really hoppin’, Craig is like summer camp for grownups. But with liquor, a jukebox and really big trout.

Of course it’s winter now, so Craig is calm and quiet. The fifty-or-so residents are enjoying their normal lives with work, school and family. They meet for a drink and relish the fact that their favorite barstool is available. Because when the temperatures start to rise, the anglers will flow into town as if they melted straight from the snowcaps. Year after year the population of Craig undulates up and down like a heart that beats with the rhythm of the seasons, pumping activity into this town and life back into its visitors.

Check your pulse and mark your calendars. June’s coming.