MB2013 (AKA the 24th Annual Talk Like a Mountain Man Week)

I sloshed into camp, still wearing my waders.  The aromas of coffee mixed with ash and smoke from a campfire without enough wood weren't the same cure for a hangover as the fresh air and mist on a river musty with life.  A dozen men all (but one) a generation older than me sat around, laughing, and throwing hilarious and ridiculous insults at each other.  I stopped by the propane camp stove and lifted the lid on the stock pot.  Fat from bacon grease formed a thin cap on a leftover fish chowder.  I fired up the propane under the pot and gave the chowder a stir.  A hot cup of this stuff would ease that hangover better than anything.  We had done better than most years at filling our fish chowder pot with rainbow trout meat.  On the South Fork of the Snake, it is darn near unethical to release a rainbow back where it might hybridize with the local population of Native Cutthroat trout.  Our group is ruthless, both to the rainbows and to each other.  Of course we love to catch the rainbows, and we love each other's company too.  As I sat down, with ice on my waders and a cup of hot chowder in my hand, I heard a phrase that has been uttered annually on the last morning on the river, as if part of a rite, "Hey!  Where are the fucking biscuits!"

Many men like to fish.  Many men also like the company of other men while they are fishing.  I happen to enjoy an annual trip of many men enjoying the company of many other men while fishing.  Twenty-four years ago, Pop Pop, along with his brother, Uncle Chrissy, and Uncle Chrissy's friend, Jimbo, embarked on a week long fly fishing sojourn of southeastern Idaho and Yellowstone National Park.  They were trout bumming, but there was something in the chemistry of unpredictable October weather, golden cottonwood leaves, the hope of heavy trout, and the company of family and friends that made this particular annual adventure so special that Pop Pop hasn't missed a single trip in all of those years.  Uncle Chrissy and Jimbo haven't missed many more.

The trip has grown, no bloated, to the point where five boats and 14 attendees isn't out of the ordinary.  Several other regulars now make the adventure without fail.  Uncle Predator, Uncle Don, Uncle Crotts, Virg, Elle Belly, Uncle Bill the Pill, Sam Sam the Whitefish Man, and a smattering of cameos and newcomers.  You'll notice a common thread.  Most of these people, whether or not they are full siblings of my father, are 'uncles' to me.  One other claims me as his godson, and the rest I would claim as very close friends... family friends.  I think we all have a great deal of affection for each other, which is why we all spend a week floating rivers and berating each other with cruel barbs and insults (Pop Pop warned me on my first trip, that no quarter was given... ever).

Why is Male Bonding (as this annual week-long holiday is now known) so important to its attendees?  What keeps this tradition strong and getting stronger?  There are two primary and intertwined reasons: Peter Pan and unscripted therapy.  This trip is a week in Neverneverland for a group of motivated and successful professionals and entrepreneurs.  Grown men get to act like teenage boys and fish and, for one week, shed the stress of day to day life, letting the pursuit of that next big fish or hatch of blue winged olives be the most serious endeavor of the day.  This trip also serves valuable therapeutic purposes.  It has helped men heal from divorces, make life changing decisions... hell, I studied for my comprehensive exams on this trip.  It also helps us develop a deeper appreciation for the women in our lives.  Absence, and the opportunity to say whatever is on your mind, without fear of reprisal, does indeed make the heart grow stronger.

I left the trip a few days early this year in order to have a long weekend with my young family on another river.  As I jetted out with my godfather, we raced past all the gravel bars, runs, and riffles that have produced such memorable moments in Male Bondings past.  A flickering reel of thrilling fish and snapshots of male antics ran through my mind like the sun shimmering on the river rocks only a few inches below the aluminum hull.

Fish on a Stick

I recently found myself deep in the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness.  As many trips to the wilderness are, it was like a dream and it always seems like you wake up before the end.  Spending a few days devoid of screens and in midst of an existence of water, rock, sweat, dust, sun, and stars is my favorite way to strengthen the body and revitalize the soul.

As usual, I was chasing fish.  This time it was for work; to collect scientific data and tissue samples from Chinook Salmon.  It is never easy to catch up to a Selway River Chinook.  They move fast and hard on a long journey up the Clearwater, and they don't stop until they are far beyond the reach of legal anglers.  In August and September, they start to reach that finality that all salmon reach.  Reproduction and replenishment of stream nutrients.  We were there to catch up to them when they can't swim up any more.  We counted their redds and measured their carcasses.  We snorkeled with the offspring of their predecessors.  We worked our asses off, but it is the kind of job you daydream about when flipping your pencil around in your fingers when the professor fails to communicate the relevance of cellular processes to fisheries biology.

We worked up fish in a hole that woke up the inner cave men in us.  Hundreds of mountain whitefish loosely schooled in the green depths.  I had packed a rod to opportunistically sample fish and kill free time in the evening, but it didn't get much use once we realized the lock on the reel seat had come unglued from the rod butt.  Fortunately, the colleague I was working with wasn't afraid to fish outside the graphite box.  We needed lunch and a break from a march up and down a hot wilderness trail.  I carved a pole from the hawthorn that provided the only shade on the pool.  Emanuel fastened a 9 foot piece of monofilament, a split shot, and a stonefly nymph to the flexible end of the stick.  Before long, I was filleting whitefish that had just moments before been writhing on an invisible tether to a green hawthorn branch.

I have made dozens of excellent meals in the back country, but this was certainly one of my favorites.  Fresh whitefish fried in hot oil until the skin was crispy.  Turns out crispy whitefish skin is quite tasty, especially when you crave every calorie you can get your teeth around.  This all got me to thinking about the point of wilderness is to have the opportunity to get a little more primative.  Next time I head into the back country, I think I will leave the graphite sticks at home.  A whitefish in your belly doesn't care how much you paid for your fly rod.

Faith

Dry fly fisherman often think of themselves as the most refined of all anglers.  Truly, convincing a selective trout to sip your mayfly imitation from the midst of dozens of real mayflies is a bona fide fishing accomplishment. Of course you know the fish is there. You know the fish is eating. Sure you might spook a fish with a sloppy cast, but half the battle is already won.  Fishing with nymphs and other wet flies, you have to read the water, understand the currents, know the fish's habits, and have a little faith that the fish are there.

Catching fish under the surface actually requires three things to occur simultaneously.  First, the fish needs to be there.  Just because you are fishing good habitat, doesn't necessarily mean there is a fish in it.  Second, you have to get the fly into the fish's wheel house.  Those currents are complex and, sometimes, the river is deep.  Getting the fly where it is supposed to be is sometimes a tricky business.  Make a cast to the right spot, sometimes way upstream of your target, make a mend to get the fly on the proper course.  Make another mend, get the tension off of the line, let the fly sink, and drift it into the wheelhouse as naturally as is possible.  Third, the fish must strike.  Just because the fly is in the wheelhouse, doesn't mean she will eat.  You have to do your very best with a bunch of wire, feathers, yarn, plastic thread, and graphite to make the connection between this world and theirs.

Lately, I have been making a new foray into the ways of knowing fish.  Our home is only hundreds yards from one of the finest (well, most popular) steelhead runs on the Clearwater River, one of the more storied steelhead rivers in the Pacific Northwest.  Don't get imagery of a rustic lodge on the banks of a pristine wilderness river.  Our's is a blue collar run.  There is a four lane highway, a series of pump houses, and most imposingly, a gigantic paper mill whose airborne effluent occasionally wafts across the waters to greet the angler with a powerful scent.  It is called the Stink Hole for a reason.  The Stink Hole, along with the rest of the Clearwater (which is more scenic), the Snake, the Salmon, and the Grande Ronde, are all outr my back door, and all of them fill up with steelhead each fall, destined for the wild streams and hatcheries of Idaho, Washington, and Oregon.  Anglers descend by the thousands on each of these rivers with all varieties of tackle to pursue steelhead.  Since moving to Lewiston, I have watched anglers use each of these approaches, studying in an attempt to understand how to commune with this most fickle of fish.  I myself have dabbled in several of these methodologies, but one has intrigued me above all others: swinging flies with a two handed fly rod.

I am a fisheries biologist.  I study how many fish there are and how people interact with them for a living.  I know that swinging flies is, relatively speaking, an ineffective way to fish for steelhead.  If you are in it for numbers, probably better be back-trolling plugs or side drifting eggs from a boat.  Truly, I want numbers too, and once the harvest season opens, I want to abruptly end the return migration of a few hatchery fish in my freezer.  So why take up the study of a fishing technique doomed to relative failure? The answer can only be in the aesthetics of a well executed spey cast, and the prospect of those rarer successes being so sweet.

I am human.  Sometimes I let the downer parts of life try to get the better of me.  Lately, I have fought back against that negativity by devoting myself to the pursuit of that graceful cast and the connection with that mysterious fish.  The purpose of spey casting is to re-direct a very long reach of flyline, casting it from a drift that has ceased to be useful into one that may better yield the object of one's ambition.  There are many ways to know God, to struggle to understand the higher meaning, to replenish your soul.  I have nothing against it, but church pews and pastors haven't ever worked too well for me.  There is a song that I love on a favorite album... "Church of the Wandering Stream."  Somehow whenever I find myself revitalized, it is near running water.  Often, I have a rod in my hand and faith that amid the complex currents of both life and rivers, my fly will end up in the right place to trigger a strike.

What's Your Frickin' Problem with my Crocs?

Sometimes a HHMM needs a comfy pair of shoes; a pair of shoes that cushion those tired dogs at the end of a long day in the pursuit of the HHMM arts.  What features would the ultimate pair of end of day shoes have?  The would have to be lightweight... if you have been lifting a pair of mud caked boots or sopping wet wading shoes all day, you want to free those tired lower appendages from unnecessary burden.  Those shoes would also be well ventilated... if you have been hiking or wading all day, chances are your feet are the color and texture of a good old fashioned English crumpet, and they need to be air dried.  Finally, they need to have good cushion and be slip on... nobody wants to bend over to tie shoes onto sore, swollen feet, and those feet need a firm, but tender bed in which to rest.  Thanks to the marvel of modern molded foam resins, such a shoe exists, and thank goodness for Crocs.

Good to see these old friends at the end of a cold, wet morning.

I have become acutely aware in recent weeks that there are many people in this world that hate Crocs.  At least four people have teased me about my love and use of that most comfortable shoe. The ultimate insult came, however, when I was watching the latest Sacha Baron Cohen film The Dictator.  In the film, the main character General Aladeen, wonders why he has just been derided by a subordinate for wearing Crocs.  The subordinate replies, "because they are the universal symbol of a man who has given up hope."  A piece of satire on The Daily Rash claims the same, and that Croc wearers are using the shoe to let the world know they are low-self esteem losers.

WTF?  Sorry my slippers don't come from J. Crew.

Turns out, Crocs are actually pretty bad ass in a number of outdoor settings as well.  Crocs are light enough to be strapped on a backpack and barely be noticed, yet they meet all of the comfort requirements described above.  They may be the ultimate relaxation shoe for a weight conscious backpacker.  Something about the tread design also makes them fairly sticky on wet rocks, which also make them nice for a stream crossing... keep your boots dry.  Sticky on wet rocks? Wear them fishing too!  Perfect for a warm day in the drift boat. If you want to get out and cast an Adams to fish rising in a riffle, no problem!

I suppose they are a little silly.  They are a bit like little girls' jelly shoes for adults, and they do come in a whole rainbow of colors.  You can even purchase little plastic charms to put in the holes, effectively adding pieces of 'flair' to your plastic shoes.  That does hint of throwaway consumer garbage crap.  Are they an anti-fashion statement? Perhaps that is the problem.  Does it bother people that I couldn't care less if my feet look cute. They certainly don't fit the search image of what some hipster girl wants when looking for a dude wearing women's pants and a pair of Italian leather elf shoes.

Don't take this as a Croc advertisement.  Go buy yourself a pair of Marlins or some other knock off.  They might not last as long, but they sure feel good when you are mixing the brine and sharpening the fillet knife at the end of a day of whacking and stacking whitefish and trout.  Trust me, you want your girl to care a whole lot more that you put an elk in the freezer than you remembered to buy your Sperry Topsiders before Greek Week.  Chicks dig a provider.

The Mini-HHMM demonstrating proper fashion for the production of backyard foodstuffs.  He is living proof Crocs don't affect fitness (in the evolutionary sense, Frat Boy).

Christmas in July.

Fall hunting season begins well before the first arrow is nocked in an antelope blind, or the first smoking shells are ejected from a family heirloom in the grouse woods.  Hunting season begins in the spring and it begins with a cup of coffee and a fresh copy of the new big game regulations.  Any self-respecting HHMM (or HHMW) spends many hours pouring over the newspaper print pages trying to piece together the most epic fall possible.  Google Earth tabs stay open on the computer for weeks on end.

Of course there is always dreams of drawing that once in a lifetime trophy hunt, but really it always comes down to how to put the most meat possible in the freezer.  You know the phrase "make hay while the sun shines?"  That applies to hunting big game.  You should always get as many cow tags, extra deer tags, and antelope tags as you can.  Why?  Because you never know when you will have a few tough seasons, or when life gets in the way of shopping for gourmet cuts in the prairies, canyons, and wooded ridges.  For example, the Mini-HHMM was born right around the start of the whitetail deer rut.  Getting out to hunt deer isn't all that easy with a newborn keeping you on your toes at 2:30 in the AM, but lean red meat is important to a healing, breastfeeding, new mom.  Good thing I had gone on safari in eastern Montana the previous fall.

So we waited with bated breath for that fateful moment in July, when that all important mailing comes from the state.  Like a letter from your number one college, you want to see the word congratulations in the first sentence.  Damn, didn't draw that antelope tag again.  Somehow I never do, even when the odds aren't that bad.  Pop pop and I didn't get our tags for fat cow elk either.  At least the letter from my safely school is more positive.  Emily and I will be doing our best to fill the freezer with a couple of mule deer tags this fall.  It isn't exactly the Christmas in July we were asking for, but it sure will be epic!

100% (Chicks!!! Part IV)

It is all paying off!!! Right?

$36 for chicks
$50 for feed
$30 for brood box and equipment
$150 for coop and run supplies
$40 for various chicken how-to guides
$40 for something I am sure I forgot we bought
------
$346 (somebody check my math)

We have now collected 7 eggs from our flock (~$50/egg).  Quite the deal, right?

We have eaten five of those oeufs, and they really were spectacular (in taste, certainly not size).  In fact, Emily and I celebrated our first four eggs by showcasing them in a special meal.  Emily had the brilliant idea that we should eat a meal where 98% of the ingredients were produced on our little third of an acre.  The remaining two percent (not including the minimal spices) was gathered HHMM style.  Here is the recipe:

Enough romaine lettuce and arugula for two
7 new potatoes
3 beets
1 red onion
10 camas bulbs, sliced in half
4 fresh eggs
2 tablespoons olive oil

Quarter and roast the vegetables (not the greens!) in the oven until the onion is caramelized at something like 425 degrees.  Season with a little kosher salt and pepper.  Place roasted roots over a bed of greens, then fry eggs over easy (HHMM) or over medium (Emily).  Place fried eggs over the roasted roots.  Puncture the yolk and let it drain into the roots and greens and enjoy a heavenly and rich dressing.  Eat a meal that is 100% DIY.

Actually, this meal, as Emily pointed out, was rather poetic.  The one major ingredient that came from outside our short little property line was the camas, which I dug near the headwaters of the South Fork Clearwater River in a wet meadow that not too long ago was flooded with spring snow melt.  That meadow has since drained and those waters percolated, gurgled, bubbled, raged, and surged down Red River, down the South Fork Clearwater, down the Clearwater River, where a tiny portion of that water was sucked out of the river by the pump owned collectively by those of us who live in our little neighborhood.  Finally, that water was sprayed out over our garden, where beets and onions and potatoes have been growing.  So really, the same water that helped sprout that lavender colored camas, also made our potatoes sprout little lavender flowers.  How many meals give you a sense of place like that?

Yes, I know the olive oil was probably imported from Spain or some such... but hey... not too shabby!

So has it been worth it?  You be the judge...

 

A Contrast in Styles

Encyclopedia authors have a thing or two to say about a couple of the rivers of Idaho.  The St. Joe is the highest navigable river in the world.  The Snake River's dammed slack waters make Lewiston the most inland seaport on America's west coast.  In addition to their extremes of navigability, these rivers also boast world class fisheries.  Nevertheless, those fisheries, and the reaches of the river where they occur, couldn't be a greater contrast in styles.  I fished them last week over consecutive days.

Sturgeon are big fish and require big gear.  Rods designed for giant saltwater fish, reels with hundreds of yards of 60 pound test monofilament and 80 pound leaders, railroad spikes for sinkers, slabs of bait the size of your palm..  You can use rafts or fish from the shore when chasing these beasts, but a jet boat works better... you might have to chase a eight foot long fish down to the next pool and back up again.

Catching a sturgeon in the Hells Canyon Reach of the Snake River is one of the truly exhilarating sportfishing experiences of the Pacific Northwest.  Hells Canyon is a stunning example of Idaho's country.  It is steep, deep, hot, nasty, rocky and hot.  Yep, I mentioned hot twice.  During our journey up the river Monday, the high temperature in Lewiston surmounted the 100 mark.  Constant evaporative cooling from regular dips in the river was the only way to feel good.  Water temperatures were perfect, though.  Sturgeon like to eat when the water is 65 degrees.  Our group landed 11 sturgeon, 6 over 6 feet long, and one taped in at 8'9".  What amazing animals.

That's Emily's first Sturgeon... a 7.5 footer

Fishing for Sturg in Hells Canyon

In contrast, westslope cutthroat trout are considered big when they hit about 13 inches.  Delicate flyrods designed for casting hand-tied weightless flies on the end of invisible tippet, bait is illegal (at least on the Joe) and would be eschewed.  We used a raft to float a long and catch many fish, but we also strolled along side channels and good runs and casted our flies to fish rising on the other side... you could reach 'em, as long as you had a big enough mend.

Flycasting to cutthroat trout on the St. Joe River is one of the truly poetic sportfishing experiences in the Pacific Northwest.  The St. Joe River is lined with cottonwoods in its lower reaches, but cedars dominate the upper reaches I most like to fish.  The day was warm, but the emerald and gold waters were cold and full of fine, fat trout.  The river bottom is paved with colorful cobblestones and mortared with garnet sand.  Sips of cold microbrew and the jovial banter of three anglers made the day feel good.  Our group landed dozens of fat westslopes, some as big as 14 inches.  Couldn't have been a better, more relaxing way to spend the day.

Pop Pop with a fine westslope on the Joe

My Home River

These fishes are my current favorites to chase.  They represent the ends of the Idaho native sportfish spectrum.  What I like most about my two days of fishing last week is that the diversity of these animals mirrors the diversity of Idaho's riverscapes, and the diversity of ways to experience them...