Trout are opportunistic feeders and can be fooled and caught with a good offering at any time of the day, but in many places the last hour of light can be the best time to fish with dry flies.  Once the light gets low and the shadows cast on the water, the trout, who spend much of their life hiding from overhead predators like osprey and eagles, lose their inhibitions and begin to venture closer to the surface of the water looking for an easy meal.

Many of the insects trout feed on are sensitive to the harsh UV of direct sunlight and become more active in the twilight of the day—dancing in perfect unison over the surface of the water in a mesmerizing display of natural harmony and synchronicity.

Rhythm and motion combine as the line from a 5wt. fly rod unfolds back and forth into the warm air.  Little droplets of water take flight off the line and illuminate in the patches of sunlight.

A well-timed cast and accurate loop land my small deer-hair caddisfly imitation in the perfect spot on a seam of current near the far bank of the river.  I mend the fly line upstream to alleviate any drag from the swift current on my leader and fly.  Intensity and anticipation as the fly drifts perfectly down with the current like a dying caddis in his last dramatic encore, offering himself to the fish.

I may repeat this scenario dozens or even hundreds of times in a good evening of fishing—interrupted only by the indescribable thrill of having a fish engulf the fly with a splashy rise.  It’s a great way to tune into and interact with the natural world and underwater ecosystem.

In today’s world it’s hard to keep my mind in the present.  I find myself always thinking forward into the future or brooding over events from the past.  Things I need to do or the things I should have done.  Fly fishing, however, is one of the sports that has an uncanny way of stealing thoughts and returning them to the moment.  It’s a present moment meditation, as I like to call it.  Once I’m out on the water, everything else falls away for a while and my mind zeros into fish mode.  Every cast, every drift, holds my attention until finally I realize it’s dark and I need to find my way back to my car or campsite.

Curious about fly fishing?  Here’s a little how-to video to spark your interest.  Enjoy!

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The post Fly Fishing Meditations appeared first on River Currents.

It was our third week straight of forest fires. The Church (Frank Church Wilderness Area) was on fire. There were rumblings and whisperings about more road closures that could delay our getting to the river or even flat out prevent us from going. The air was thick with smoke. My throat and eyes hurt, I took to carrying a handkerchief with me in case the smoke particulates got REALLY bad. There was no turning back, though, if I could help it. The guests were on their way from all corners of the country and there was wilderness boating to be done.

Driving through and past Stanley, Idaho, I was grateful we had gotten this far, especially amid reports that part of Stanley was being evacuated that day. We drove along Highway 21 out of town and gazed out of the right side of the cramped truck’s cab. The wilderness was burning a few miles from the road.

A few days later, as we set up the kitchen tables at Shelf Camp on the Middle Fork Salmon, I contemplated the impressively mature and enormous spires of Yellow Pine scattered through camp. It was hard to imagine all of these incredible trees almost went up in flames like match heads. That fire was only a few years ago, in 2007, and it came within yards of one of the most incredible camps on this river.

Now I’ve heard the “Middle Fork big fire” story a few times, and I wouldn’t do justice to telling it, but let it be said that an O.A.R.S. river trip was chased from this camp. If you want the full (and excitable) story, guide Nick Grimes gives a compelling recounting/reenactment. Let’s just say Mr. Nick is NOT a runner. And he was sprinting.

On a different trip earlier in the 2012 summer we stopped for lunch at Lower Yellow Pine on the Main Salmon River, just upstream of Big Mallard Rapid. As we were eating we could see fire-lit trees less than a mile downstream, moving our way. We didn’t feel in danger, but there was reverence as we watched the thickening smoke and flames while we ran the next rapid. Around the corner I saw what I’ve never seen. The forest fire here was ON the shore. There it was. Downed trees touching the water’s edge were crackling and smoking. Boat after boat passed the burning land, mouths agape as we watched Nature do her mighty thing. The only noises were the dip of oars in water, clicks of cameras, and the crackle and pop of dried foliage taking the heat. It was an astounding sight.

At camp later, after checking in with the boss via satellite phone and assuring our safety, guides and guests talked about what we had seen. Some people thought it tragic, the scorched earth and killed trees stripping the landscape of a coniferous beauty as far as one could see. While the coal-ridden landscape was indeed more monotone than we were used to, we agreed that the beauty of The Frank Church Wilderness Area was that it was managed AS a Wilderness Area. That is to say the Forest Service’s “let it burn” policy was letting Nature be natural. And that was healthy.

The Halstead Fire at its end consumed over 180,000 acres. The wildflowers will be back next year. And I am grateful to work in a wild land that is ever-changing. I’m looking forward to the 2013’s season of renewal.

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The post From the Front Lines of an Idaho Wildfire appeared first on River Currents.