Balancing Act in Blue

The Return...

In 2009, Matt and Stacy went to an international job fair for teachers in Boston, Massachusetts. They left with multiple offers at various destinations around the world. They ended up accepting positions on the island of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. The decision for them was bittersweet. The act of leaving their inner city Baltimore teaching gigs was the easy part.  The more difficult one was leaving friends and family behind and embarking on a journey living in multiple countries over half a decade. On my end, I was definitely going to miss my brother and future sister in-law. On the other hand, their decision meant that I had a free place to stay and fish in a tropical paradise whenever I had the time to go. Looking back on those trips sleeping on deflating air mattresses, small couches, bare tiled floors, hammocks, tents, and in the sand, I've come to realize that they were some of the best days of my life. At the time, I was young and naive, so I didn't truly appreciate the moments for what they were. However, I have very fond memories chasing bonefish, casting at the rare permit, and dancing with tarpon under street lights at night. I last said goodbye to these islands in 2012. Deep down, I always knew that we'd eventually go back. Twelve years later, we finally did...

Finding the balance between family and fishing time...

A tanker in between being "Uncle Mark"

"Sun"

The sun sets in the Caribbean...

I fondly remember a story from my childhood of an image my mother took well before I was born. She was into photography in those days and had a Pentax film camera that she used to document college, marriage, and building a family. She took a photograph of my Dad walking my young brother down the road we grew up on. The sun was setting in the background between the trees and casted beams of light down onto my father as he held his first born's hand. I only saw the image a few times, but I distinctly remember the story behind it. My mom entered it into a local photography contest. In its entry, it simply had a one word description, "Son". That story was on my mind during my first night back in the Caribbean on a chain of islands I hadn't seen in over a decade. I was watching my brother play with his son in the pool as the sun began to set on the horizon. As I framed the shot, the image my mother took a long time ago came back into my memory as I realized I was recreating it for my brother and his son. I was glad to capture the precious moment for Matt and preserve a memory for Isaac, who will most likely not remember it. Maybe one day, he'll capture his own version of my Mom's image and add it to the family line...

"Son"

My mother's photo unearthed...

Returning to a special place from our past...

The Old Man

Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you...

The old man made the walk every evening I was there. I never saw where he came from and I never found out if he was a local, or like me, a tourist. His walk passed directly by my van on his way down to the beach and into the water. We usually exchanged pleasant nods, no doubt due to the language barrier, which was for me a subtle recognition from one fly angler to another. Nothing more needed to be said on either end. He represented his era with a fiberglass rod, Pfleuger Medalist, neoprene waders, an old-fashioned vest, and a hat that had seen plenty of sun and rain in its lifetime. The gear was simplistic, well worn, and honed to the specific task at hand. From his perspective, he found me tinkering with my spey rods, changing out shooting heads, tying flies, or gearing up the single hander for a striper session. The exorbitant nature of my equipment, and its volume, stood in complete contrast to the old timer's approach. I usually felt a slight sensation of embarrassment as I overthought and complicated the most simplistic of fly fishing pursuits...the swung fly. 

Palooza

8th Annual...

The trophy was conceived well after the fact. After multiple years of jokingly contesting the largest "chub," during our annual "Smalliepalooza" pre-spawn extravaganza, my buddy Dan Dow decided to create a trophy. The basis of the trophy was formed out of various gear found during a day on the water. In this case, a chatter-bait and the classic red/white bobber. A few blocks of spare wood and a black sharpie rounded out its overall vibe. It was also renamed to the "Bass of the Year," or simply of the weekend's palooza. The trophy added some extra incentive to our 8th annual gathering. What started as a spring trip with my brother has slowly morphed into a planned multi-day event, a non-stop group chat, and a guest list of almost 20 names. As usual, that guest list gets smaller and smaller as the actual date of fishing approaches. Middle aged men with families don't fare well with actually showing up. For those that do, it can be some of the best, most fun, and exhausting fishing of the year. This year we had three new people join the fray with my brother's long time friend Travis marking his first time fly fishing with several nice bass. Dan's brother in law Chris also came for the first time as did Ryan's friend Collin. Overall, I think we're still working on balancing sun up to sun down fishing with leisure, food, and drinks thrown into the mix. We are also looking on expanding to multiple waterways despite thoroughly enjoying what this creek has to offer. If you know, you already know...

 

Matt Erdosy takes the crown...

Live People Tonight

Steelhead Green

Over the past few years, I've made a concerted effort to consistently put myself in places and moments that I want to experience. In that time span, those places have overwhelmingly been on rivers near mountains, coasts, and canyons that hold anadromous fish, particularly wild steelhead. Rivers that harbor Oncorhynchus mykiss are some of the most beautiful and pristine places on earth and there simply aren't many of those places, or fish, left. While I'm still relatively young and limber, I'd like to continue exploring those places with friends and hopefully shake hands with a few special fish. 

Of course, my mentality has always been one of accomplishing the task on my own accord. On the difficulty spectrum, this means "swing, or go home". It has to be on a two handed rod, with a fly that I tied, in a run I picked out, all without the help of some paid influence in the form of a guide. There is a higher level of satisfaction that comes with accomplishing that goal and its way easier said than done. I've been fortunate to get wild summer run fish to hand on the North, Rogue, and Deschutes. On the other side of the coin, I've found the winter run to be an entirely different beast. I've had one wild handshake on the OP and a hatchery fish in Oregon. The lack of success hasn't deterred my efforts, it's only made them more eager. With that in mind, I returned to the coast for a third consecutive year with the hope of crossing a particular river off my list. This particular place is probably my favorite and its mostly kicked my ass. On this sojourn, the variability of winter reared its ugly head and provided a voluntary beatdown of epic proportions...

Phil "Little Knees" Kirkland

Luke Hatch and Austin Tighe

Pride and Prejudice

A tale of two very different muskies...

The hunt for musky on fly has become a glorified pursuit on social media and beyond. The term, "fish of 10,000 casts," seems overused as is the adoration bestowed upon certain musky fisheries and accomplishments. Fly fishing has always been, and will always be, relative to the location one is fishing, the amount of time someone has to fish, and how much money they have to increase their chances at a successful pursuit. Specific fisheries are simply easier to catch fish in compared to others due to population size, fishing pressure, and geographic location. For instance, a 20" brown trout on the White River in Arkansas doesn't mean a whole lot because they are bountiful and relatively easy to catch. Conversely, the same fish on a small, intimate, and highly pressured creek is a much different type of accomplishment. The same can be said for an angler that travels to the Bahamas to DIY bonefish and catches a double digit fish on foot by themselves. That is a big deal compared to hiring a guide that takes you to the place, spots the fish, tells you when/where to cast, set the hook, and lands that fish for you. This can extend to the swung fly too. A public water Atlantic Salmon is quite different than one from a privatized river with beats, fees, less pressure, and guides that know exactly where the fish are. Fly fishing media places a tremendous amount of pride in accomplishments that should come with an asterisk in the form of the whole story. Most anglers, especially the general public, are ignorant towards what goes into the imagery they see flooding their screens. When that media is saturated with an endless amount of content the lines become very blurry and there is no differentiation anymore. The stories are often unknown and under appreciated. They are replaced with a tap and a swipe never to be heard of, or thought of, again...

The fish of 10,000 figure eights...

Some people have to wait and put in much more effort than others have to...

This Happiness

Largest musky of the year...

Sometimes in order to make it happen, you have to go out of your way to put yourself in the moment. The opportunity cost of fishing during prime time often means sacrificing relationships, work, and more to be on the water when you know it will be good. There are other times, where you just need a break from the day to day grind of life and the water provides the necessary inner calm you need to find your peace. There is also an aspect where fishing creates camaraderie amongst friends and bonding time with family. Most of the time, the moments are remembered best when shared with other like minded people. I think all of these descriptions applied on a particular day this spring when I decided to call out because the conditions were right. I just needed to get out there before prime time had passed. However, I needed a dance partner and couldn't find one. So, I called my Dad. Never one to turn me down, he didn't hesitate to say yes. We came from two different directions, each driving 2+ hours, to meet in the cold damp dark of a boat ramp. The expectation on my end was to be on the oars for most of the day in order to show my Dad a good time and get him into some fish. When we pushed off, he refused to fish. This left me in a peculiar position...in the bow of the boat for an entire float. 

It was memorable...

Largest smallmouth of the year for me...that I landed.

Through the Desert

Desert Steel...

The Deschutes is downright breathtaking. Every. Single. Time. Due to the natural beauty of the canyon, I've made a concerted effort to make it out to the river in each of the last four summers, fishing for steelhead during the last three. I typically find myself there during the hottest month of the year for both air and water temperatures. Due to these conditions, swinging for steel is much slower than the fall months of September and October. The water temperatures on the lower river are borderline creating a thermal barrier of sorts. This forces some fish to hunker down in the Columbia awaiting cooler weather and others to make their way upriver seeking colder temperatures. Due to this, most of my fishing has been concentrated above Mack's Canyon. Outside of an overnight solo float from Pine Tree to the mouth, I've mostly fished the river on foot. This summer, my friend Austin had a brand new raft, which had us following the railroad on the hunt for steelhead. 

Any overnight trip on the Deschutes should be on every angler's bucket list. The river's scenery, wildlife, and whitewater are worth the price of admission in and of themselves. The icing on the cake is a cold river (it could be colder) teeming with life in the form of redband trout, steelhead, and aquatic insects. Flowing through the desert, this attracts all sorts of wildlife from eagles, big horn sheep, ospreys, deer, mountain lion, chukars, otters, heron, and more. From a geologic perspective, the canyon walls reveal the history of earth. I often find myself staring at these walls, or the wildlife, and miss the tell tale signs of a steelhead's take. At night, the remoteness of the canyon reveals the Milky Way galaxy and an unfathomable amount of stars. On some nights, you are treated to consistent shooting stars as meteors burn their way through the atmosphere. When you share that all with friends, good food, drinks, and a cot under the night sky, the vibes become immaculate. 

Cedar Island

Luke Hatch and Austin Tighe

A New Year and a New River

The only moment of sun over four days...

In the winter of 1781-1782 Mt. Hood erupted sending hot pyroclastic flows and a lahar down the Sandy River basin radically altering the landscape. The lahar filled the river’s channel and covered an old growth forest with 26 ft. of volcanic ash, mud, sand, and debris. When Lewis and Clark arrived at the river’s delta entering the Columbia, the river was still recovering from the immediate aftermath of the eruption and devastation of the lahar. Therefore, the name they gave this system reflected what they saw and learned from indigenous tribes. The river has since reclaimed its bed but the remnants of the Old Maid eruption period are still highly visible when floating down the lower sections of the river as it carves its way towards the Columbia. The river’s native steelhead populations, like they have for eons, adapted to this changing environment because the eruption is a naturally occurring process. On the other hand human industrialization, clearcutting, hatcheries, and the damming of the river had a much larger negative impact on the system and the entire PNW. Nonetheless, the steelhead persisted. Over the years, I heard a lot about the Sandy River and was always looking forward to one day fishing it. 

Over the new year, I was fortunate to spend the first few mornings gearing up in the dark surrounded by moss covered trees and the sounds of a high Sandy River. With each passing minute, new light illuminated the day’s playground and conditions. Having never been on the Sandy, each bend revealed rapids, runs, and buckets to swing through with the ever present hope that my fly would intercept with a steelhead’s journey. It was a constant state of optimism and anticipation. As John Buchan once said, “a perpetual series of occasions of hope”. Looking back on it, the river, and the hunt, are all just one big metaphor for life and the new year ahead.

No salt, no steel?

Someday

Someday, I'll make it there, I swear...

Out of reach. Privatized. Too expensive. Too exclusive. Not enough information. The sport of kings. I have to hire a guide? A lottery system? Beats? Where am I going to stay? The list could go on and on, but these are a few of the excuses that repeated in my head over the last decade whenever I entertained the idea of heading north to go Atlantic salmon fishing in eastern Canada. Each time I seriously considered making a DIY trip at the end of the school year, all of those questions and doubts would inevitably squash the idea in my head. I always gave into fear and the unknown. One winter evening, I was listening to a live Instagram session between Topher Browne and Travis Johnson that discussed all things Atlantics when I did something I normally never do: ask a question. I wanted them to talk about DIY fishing, but didn't want to feel like a parasite seeking information. Instead I asked something that I actually find very interesting: "Do you ever think the PNW would adopt the "pay to play," model of eastern Canada in order to protect increasingly smaller populations of steelhead?" Topher laughed out loud at my mere mention of "pay to play". I believe his exact words were, "anyone that thinks that probably hasn't done much Atlantic salmon fishing". 

Touché Topher, touché...

Skunkings and Outliers

Great Lakes "Steelhead"

One fish per day. If I were to average the number of steelhead I've landed on the swing over the last 16 years on the Salmon River, that is what it would come out to. In general steelheading terms, that is a pretty good number. For real, wild, and native PNW steelhead, it is high. For potamodromous rainbow trout on the Great Lakes, it is low. For my style and ego, it is right where it should be. Keep in mind that I don't fish the lower fly zone, you'll never find me on the DSR, I'll seldom swing a few runs in the Upper, and I'll occasionally dabble in Altmar on a slow day. I like that number. It means that I get skunked quite a bit and every now and then I catch a bunch. That number keeps the experience from getting stale and ensures that I keep making the five hour drive as I burn the candle on both ends of a work weekend. Every now and then there are outliers. For example, in 2020-21 I didn't land a single fish on the swing on the SR in New York, but caught 3 wild summer fish in Oregon on the Rogue, North Umpqua, and Deschutes. This year, I fished nine total days and didn't catch a single fish on five of them. But...I landed almost 30 fish on the other four. Two outlier days where time and timing converged with pods of migrating fish, some fresh out of the lake. On days like that, you literally forget certain interactions, grabs, and released fish. Looking back on it, I prefer a particular day fishing with Mike Kohler, Nate Kohler, and two of their buddies. On that day, I took a back seat and helped them get into fish. On that day, I fished less, and only landed one. It was a big chrome hen on a dry line and a wet fly. That's the one you remember. Everything else is just skunkings and outliers...

Mike Kohler with the release...

First Float

Isaac’s big morning…

He said, “Uncle Mark, next time can we catch a smaller fish?”

Sure buddy. 

All My Favorite Colors

A bald eagle in the coliseum of fall...

Fall is my favorite time of the year to be on or near the water. After the hot & humid doldrums of summer in the Mid-Atlantic region, I'm usually itching to get back to colder water, higher flows, and trout fishing on my local freestone creeks and rivers. More importantly, the water during the fall goes through a rapid transformation that mostly makes up for the hit & miss nature of fly fishing during this time period. Fall features all my favorite colors as the foliage reaches its peak colors of red, orange, and yellow. The brown trout, in preparation for the spawn, become bolder in their hues of brown, orange, gold, and yellow. The deer become more active and aggressive as the males begin the rut. In addition migratory birds are on the move across the sky and avian predators are fattening up for the winter ahead. Below are some selected images, moments, and tales from the fall seasons of the past and present. They represent and reflect the changing seasons and the hues of the fall season. 

Matt Erdosy swinging through the half light...

A wild male brown trout gearing up for the spawn...

All my favorite colors...

The Shoulder Seasons

Scenes from the shoulder seasons...

If I had to break down my fishing exploits over the years, you'll probably find an identifiable pattern of activity that is heavily concentrated in the fall and spring. Building out a van and using it the past few summers has swayed my cycle a little bit, but those two periods that vacillate between too hot and too cold in the Mid-Atlantic region will always produce the most action. The in-between, or shoulder seasons, result in sporadic outings, less results, and are way more unpredictable. Within these shoulder seasons, my least favorite time to fish is during September. Overall, most waters are still way too warm to fly fish for trout. When you combine that with low water and high water temperatures from summer, I find it downright unethical to entertain the idea of trout fishing within that window. It grinds my gears when I see local guides posting about fishing in August and September because a weather window dropped the water temperatures to 66 degrees one morning. Ridiculous! I typically give trout a break during the month of September and will concentrate seasonal outings in the month of October. This gives trout time to recover from a long summer. As November approaches, I shut it down to allow the trout to spawn and do their thing. I won't pick trout fishing back up until the second shoulder season from January-March. That window is overall more productive, more ethical, and slowly ramps up to the peak months of April and May. 

Smalliepalooza

The annual Spring "Smalliepalooza" 

Over this blog's existence, we haven't taken advantage of the mid-Atlantic region's smallmouth bass fishery enough. However, we have begun to partake in this game over the last half decade, but mostly in the spring before the spawn kicks into gear. The summer remains almost entirely untouched. All of this begs the question; what are we waiting for? Is there a more fun fish to catch than a smallmouth bass? Is there a more fun fly fishing experience than smallmouth bass fishing with a group of buddies, good food, copious amounts of beer, and camping? I don't think there is...