Empire State of Mind.

As I begin the first two hours of an eventual eighteen hours of driving over a day and a half, Jay Z's Empire State of Mind happens to come on the radio. It puts a smile on my face as I make my way north to waters filled with migratory salmonids. At stop number one, I am treated to a home cooked meal, two extremely happy dogs, and a quota of flies to tie at the vice. After a brief nap, Adam and I are loading up the truck at 1 a.m. getting ready to hit the road for the long haul. 

I Love Fall.

Sight Fishing Amongst Dozens of Liners. 

Early fall might be my favorite time to fish. The leaves are all starting to turn to hues of yellow, orange, red, and brown. The ground is littered with fallen leaves and all of this color is reflected on the surface of the water creating one large mirage. The weather is at the perfect temperature for anglers. A cold bite in the early morning and late evening interspersed with a warming sun and blue bird skies. Throw in a dash of salmon, steelhead, and the occasional brown trout and you have a recipe for a great day on the water. 

The First of the Season.

Took a UV Tube Fly. 

Adam Bringing in an Atlantic.

Think He is Happy?

A Rare Female.

Powering Away.

The day of fishing is slow. As in all Great Lakes tributaries, the place is a circus, but we do our best. All these fish have been through a gauntlet of flies, bait, hooks, and ounces of lead careening through the air and water disturbing their feeding and spawning. Most of the fish completely shut it down, once the sun hits the water. But there are quite of few that continue to feed on chinook eggs dead drifting down the riverbed. Choosing a place of higher elevation you can pick and choose individual fish to drift too with the hopes that they will find your pattern appealing amongst hundreds of naturals and the many flies they have seen in their lifetimes. 

Another Buck.

Running Under The Tree.

The Net-less Land.

A Small Bruiser.

Premature Release.

A Small Chinook.

Adam's First.

An Overly Aggressive Male.

Tail.

After a long work week, a long drive, and a long day of fishing we were quite tired but the fall scenary more than carried us on as the sun faded behind the tree line. As the other anglers headed off, Adam finally had some room to swing and lossed three massive Chinooks that exploded on his streamer. I eased into a favorite run for the first time of the day, and twenty yards below me my first brown of the season fell victim to a dead drifted egg pattern. The last fish of the day released, we hiked out to the truck and made our way to our five star sleeping quarters, ready for round number two in the Empire State. 

A Beauty.

I Think We Need A Bigger Net.

A Nice Hen.

Close Up.

Admiration.

Got Kype?

Salmon River Defeat.

Last weekend, Adam and I braved the Columbus Day weekend crowds and made our first trip north for king salmon along the Salmon River. It would also be our first time officially fishing for king salmon so we were pretty excited. With this excitement we tied numerous types of streamers anticipating some brutal and angry strikes on the swing. Early Saturday morning, we made our way north to the upper fly zone.

Sunday's View Downstream.

Sunday's View Upstream.

The New Toy & The Killer Stone.

On Saturday, we fished the upper fly zone starting below the upper wire and worked our way downstream. We hunkered in at a deep hole along the edge of what was easily class 3 rapids. Fishing here, we each caught several small rainbows, browns, and atlantic salmon. The high flows made it difficult to get anywhere near the bottom with a swing and we soon transitioned to nymphing the deep run. Large black stoneflies with rubber legs were the ticket and we received our first hook ups of the season. My first king toyed with me for about 30 seconds before realizing he was hooked and then bolting into the raging torrent yards away. I cranked the drag knob up not wanting to see my fly line and 75 yards of backing blitz downstream in an instant. In a matter of seconds my hook straightened and the king rolled one last time before erupting out of the water and seemingly waving goodbye to me. My legs shook uncontrollably for the next several minutes as some random dude consoled me from upstream.

Moldy King.

Changing Flies & False Hope.

Adam Working The Swing.

Sunday, saw us arrive on the lower fly zone around 6 am, well before the sun comes out. Pulling into the parking lot we realized that we were probably the 99th and 100th people there along with 8-10 drift boats. Welcome to the Salmon River circus. We bushwacked with our headlamps upstream and thought we found a run all to ourselves. Waiting merely minutes to make up our minds, several more people began flanking us and we were trapped. Unwilling to move and lose a decent spot we stayed. The river was raging to the point where if I would step another foot out into the river, it would lift my feet off the bottom and begin pushing me downstream. We struggled most of the morning reaching the bottom but once we did, Adam promptly began hooking up, seeing his fly line disappear a hundred yards downstream, and systematically pissing off twenty dudes at once. Later that day we made our way to the other side along some soft backwater next to the torrent from the morning. Seemingly every cast produced a hook up and Adam landed a large male coho. However, all the kings wanted nothing to do with coming to our hands.

Sunday's Raging Run.

Adam Getting Bent.

The Fly Line Is 100 Yards Downstream.

The long drive back to Delaware constantly reminded me of our defeat, the hard runs into our backing, and the flicker of that monstrous tail as the kings said, "adios." This singular thought has occupied my mind all week, and this weekend round two will commence.