For more information on this trip, see Part 1. It focuses on our DIY endeavors. This post is all about the guided portion of the trip with Sean from Elk River Guide Company (ERGC).
The day came with excitement. As any day with a new guide on new water should, we had the early morning stoke on our side to get us out of bed when the alarm clocks went off. We felt well rested. Although the previous day was full of driving, fishing, and exploring, we got a full night’s sleep. We were ready to go. It’s amazing how good you feel when you’re not hungover.
Morning Prep
While packing up I noticed that the handle on the reel I fished the day before was bent. I thought, that’s funny, it isn’t supposed to look like that is it? I picked the reel up to give it a closer look. When I grabbed the handle, it snapped off. It broke off with a small portion of the spool attached. This happened 20 minutes before we were supposed to leave. Damn, I’m in a tight spot!
If this happened the night before or if today was another DIY day then this would just be a minor inconvenience. I had other reels and I could easily switch them out or just fish a different reel but, not today. Today we were on a schedule and needed to meet our guide. I’ve been late to meeting up with guides before and I don’t like doing it. I don’t think it makes for good first impressions.
I hadn’t had trouble with this reel before so the break was a little unexpected. Then, I remembered disassembling my rod setup on our walk back to the truck the evening before. It was getting pretty dark and due to the poor visibility – not my clumsy hands, you asshole! – I accidentally dropped the reel. It was rocky. The reel handle must have connected perfectly with a rock. I had this reel for a long time, like ten years or so, and have put it through the wringer. I guess this was the straw (rock) that broke the camel’s back. The silver lining? It was only the spool. The main section of the reel still functioned.
I had two options. Fish a different reel without the shop recommended fly line, or, attempt to switch the line to a different reel. Fishing a different fly line than what the shop recommended in an unfamiliar area is like showing up to the basketball court with dress shoes. You can play, and you may still even win, but if you lose, someone is likely to tell you, I told you so. I know, I know, that’s a shitty metaphor, but I’m trying here. Also, if I tried to switch the fly line to another reel and messed up, I could be down possibly two reels. All the other reels I brought had line on them already so I would have to take that line off too.
Luckily, Corey knows his knots. When it comes to fishing – traditional fishing or fly fishing – I’d go as far as saying that Corey knows his knots better than anyone. He’s a knotty guy… I asked him kindly, if I packed the car, could he switch my line to a different reel. I did it with as much calm politeness as I could, but I think he sensed my panic.
As I’ve mentioned in prior posts, Corey doesn’t like to do things quickly. He doesn’t like to be rushed. He’s the type that is usually the last to be ready. He also isn’t trying to speed it up. He moves at his pace and no one’s going to change that. I think he could see the panic in me and it hit a soft spot. He agreed. Big brother to the rescue.
Now, I can tie most of the basic fly knots, but Corey can tie them better. A lot better. Even though he isn’t trying to, he can tie them a lot faster than me. With knots, he’s usually one and done. They look good and more importantly they function well. He took care of the switch, smooth and lickety-split. With the truck loaded we headed out right on time. Thanks amigo; I owe you one.
20 minutes later we were at the boat ramp. The drive in was perfect, with the sun creating soft yellows, oranges, and pinks over the Canadian Rockies. Once out of the truck and by the river, cool, crisp air created fog on the exhale. The steam calmly letting you know that you were breathing; that we were alive and well. The air felt good on my lungs. The boat ramp wasn’t too crowded. The water looked like home for the day and we were ready for it.
Covering water on foot is nice. Covering water on foot that you can’t access unless you have a boat is a hell of a lot nicer. Fishing from a boat in between the wadable sections is heaven on earth. It’s pure bliss. Paise the lord, it don’t get any better! Praise Sean from Elk River Guiding Company and his jet boat!
Getting Started
Not long after we arrived, Sean pulled in with his boat in tow. We made our introductions, grabbed our rods, hopped in the boat, and jetted up river. I felt like we were in for a treat. I feel this way almost any time I get to spend the day with a guide. Not only do they know the river and the needed fishing techniques, but they generally know the surrounding area well and are happy to share. Even if the fishing isn’t good, I can learn a thing or two while getting chauffeured around a beautiful new place. The sight seeing alone is worth it. At least that’s what I tell myself. No matter what happens, I know I’ll have a good time. I set myself up for it. I’m an optimist dammit!
Sean jetted us up river for half an hour. Along the scenic river ride we spotted a few other anglers. Seriously, just a few. This river, although popular, wasn’t slammed with humans. Another positive.
The emerald water glistened and glided around us. Sean skillfully maneuvered around downed trees and through swirling currents, giving the jet boat throttle and easing off at all the right times. His management of the jet boat looked and felt second nature to us. It’s a nice feeling when you know you’re with someone who’s done it a time or two. We were in good hands and we knew it.
Over the rural thirty minute joyride upriver I thought I might see some wildlife. There were no bridges between the put in and where we stopped, and very few cabins. The railroad did run near the river from time-to-time but we didn’t see a train. Sean later told us that bears are common but we didn’t run past any.
The wildlife mainly consisted of birds. Lots of birds. We saw osprey, bald eagles, and golden eagles. Other than in captivity, this may have been the first time I laid eyes on a golden eagle. They are bigger than their close relative, the bald eagle, and man are they pretty. We often saw them take off from a branch as we boated by. Watching these big beauties spread their wings and take flight is a real treat. They massive wing-span glides through the air like a plane flown by a seasoned pilot, silky smooth.
I don’t recall the number of eagles we saw. By the time I thought of counting, it was too late. I didn’t know if I was on number 5 or 15. Sean mentioned that he guided a client a week or so before us who had a thing for birds. Before you go passing judgement, keep in mind that I have a thing for fish. If you’re reading this, you might have a thing for fish too. So, it’s not that weird…I guess. His client counted 42 eagles, bald and golden combined, while covering a similar stretch of water. Pretty cool.
We got to our starting spot and Sean cut the engine. We anchored up and he set up our rods. 20 pound test and a big streamer made their way on the end of our lines. When I say a big streamer, I mean a big streamer. The streamers we purchased at the fly shop the day before were nowhere near the size of these suckers. If you’ve ever fished for musky, then you have an idea of the size of these behemoths.
Sean showed us the casting technique and talked us though how to fish the water. Luckily, we didn’t have to double haul these big heavy flies. We let the fly do the work. As long as there was water behind us to use on the backcast, and more often than not there was, then you let your fly hit the water before making your forward cast. This loaded the rod easily and launched the fly.
Guide Bio: Sean
Now, a little bit on Sean. He’s a Canadian native that splits his time between Alberta and British Columbia. He’s a straight shooter and he’s nice. Since he’s Canadian, he’s apologetic, almost to a fault. Just kidding. Supposedly, Canadians are apologetic to avoid any and all confrontation. His words, not mine. Stereotypes…
Sean guides in beautiful places and enjoys the mountains during all seasons. He’s an avid skier and enjoys days at the resorts but he seemed to favor the backcountry. Probably something to do with the solitude and wild nature of it. Sean is everything a guide should be; calm, collective, and knowledgeable.
He knows these rivers. He knows these lands. And, like any good guide worth their weight, he wants you to catch a fish probably even more than you do. Hard to believe this last part? I’d say it’s true for most of the good guides I’ve been with. If you aren’t landed ’em it hurts them too. Remember that before you get all judgemental the next time you’re skunked while with a guide. And remember this cliche, It’s guide, not god.
Just as important – if not more important – than anything listed above, Sean can read people. He knows how to start a conversation. He also knows how to let the river do the talking. And, he knows when to switch between the two. I’m a talker, as you can probably tell by the amount I write. My brother isn’t. Sean would still work in questions and comments for Corey at just the right times to even it out. He wouldn’t overdo it; just work them in from time to time. Sometimes this might have been to get me to shut the hell up for a bit. But, more often than not, I think it was to get to know the both of us because he cared. And, if you’re spending all day on a boat with someone, you might as well get to know them.
Our discussions with Sean switched back and forth from fishing to music, to politics – in a cordial manner, of course -, to professions, and not to my surprise, the fact that Corey likes to build fly rods. The conversation went swimmingly throughout the day.
In my head, Sean’s questions, answers, and guidance felt genuine and I liked him more for that than anything else. There wasn’t much not to like about him to begin with, but the personal connection sealed the deal for me. Now, before I start talking about leaving my wife in pursuit of Canadian citizenship and Sean’s love, I’ll get back to the fishing.
Morning Session
It didn’t take long to feel a tight line. It also didn’t take long for that same tight line to go slack. I whole heartedly believe it was user error that lead to the slack line soon after it went tight. And within the first hour, it happened a few times. I missed the first few strip sets. Did I trout set instead? Probably. I usually do after a long summer wet wading for rainbows, browns, brookies, and graylings. Did it cause me to miss the first few fish? Again, probably.
The water was green, but you could see through it for quite a few feet. There were shadows below. Were the fish? Were they logs? Were they root balls? It was hard to tell sometimes. When you felt your line go tight you would know which of the three above options caused it and you would know quickly. The logs and root balls held steady but the trout were aggressive. When they hit your fly, not only did it go tight, it pulled. Often times it gave your rod a jerk. There was not mistaking when a bull trout hit.
Corey missed one or two fish early on as well. Join the party, brother. Misery is better with company. It was a good start in that we found fish and they were hitting our flies. It was a bad start in that we missed quite a few chances. You never know if the fish will keep hitting your fly as the day goes on. So, missing multiple early on starts to gnaw at you. Miss after miss can slowly chip away at your confidence. A few more misses and the slow chips turn into fast cuts. If you’re not careful, pretty soon your confidence is sawed in half. You gotta stay positive, and you gotta stay focused. I’m trying, coach, I’m trying!
There comes a time when enough fish are missed that you start to question your foundational beliefs. Pretty soon you wonder if you have faith in the right god. If there even is a god? At times like these I hope you’re not fishing with an evangelical. They may take advantage of your current crisis, framing this struggle is a test from the good lord above, and tell you that the only way through it is to surrender it all. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to this and you catch one before your worldviews turn upside down.
We spotted a few lunkers, felt a few more pulls on our lines, and then it happened. I stuck one. I finally managed to get a hook firmly placed into the hard, pre-historic looking mouth of a bulll trout. The fight was on, baby, and I was ready!
At moments like this one, time feels like it stands still. You are so excited that you notice every little pull on the line. You notice how you’re holding the fly rod. You think quickly about so many things. Is my drag set right? If the fish runs, where do I put pressure? How do I keep it away from the submerged trees? You are also hyper focused. So, you can miss a lot of things. For instance, you might forget where the spare rod is sitting on the side of the boat. With the awareness of a two-year-old you might even step on this spare rod and break it. To be clear, I did step on the spare rod, but luckily, it didn’t break.
One of the best things about fishing is the fight. Even though landing it signifies the end of this fight, you are even more excited once it’s over. Sean stayed calm and talked me through it all. He positioned the boat in the slow water where it’s much easier to get the fish to boat. He quickly called me out for stepping on his spare rod but he didn’t do it with anger. He just did it with enough sternness to get my attention. And, he scooped the perfect scoop to net the fish.
By no means was this the biggest bull trout in the river, but it was my first. My first bull trout. That has a nice ring to it. A healthy fish that I wouldn’t call a dink. A respectable first bull trout. After stepping out of the boat and taking a looks with admiring adoration, it was time for us to part ways. I wetted my hands, grabbed hold, lifted her out of the net. I set this bully free. Bye, bye fishy, you’ll always be my first bull.
A watched this fish swim back into the greenish blue water until I could no longer see it. I took a moment to soak in what just happened. Multiple years’ worth of day dreams. Planning that took place months in advance. Driving hundreds of miles to another country. All this in the hopes of catching a fish. I caught that fish. I’m not sure if this is the definition of success but is sounds like it to me. I felt lucky. I felt humbled by this big beautiful world, and grateful for it. I felt thankful.
With the moment fleeting, it was now time to get back at it. I don’t know the exact time of day, but it was still early enough in the morning to not even consider thinking about lunch, and that was fine by me. The more time fishing and the less time eating is how I want to spend my days on the water.
On that note, I notice that I don’t eat much when I fish. I tend to pack food, maybe a few bars, some fruit or something small from the cupboard that won’t smash or melt easily. Oh, and water, of course. But, when I’m fishing I tend to forget about the dietary requirements needed to sustain human life. I’m dialed in on the fish diet and it doesn’t include eating. Maybe I should call it fish fasting… By the time I’m done fishing I’m often light headed from a lack of calories/glucose and usually dehydrated as well. For health’s sake, I need to do better. But when fish are on the brain, not much else is. That’s probably why I like it.
We got back at it. Spotting bull trout wasn’t the issue. The issue was getting them to eat. They don’t spook, and the general consensus is that they’re not boat shy but if they are full on Kokanee, it’s tough to get them to even think about your fly. Throughout the morning we managed to feel a few more tugs on the end of our lines. We missed them all. Either user error or half hearted eats allowed them to get away. I’d bet it was more of the former than the latter.
Lunch Break
Stopping for lunch allowed for conversation without the constant focus on the fly rod. The surrounding hills and their foliage made for good company as we lounged with feet propped up and sandwiches in hand. The sincere and cordial conversations continued as we watched eagles fly by and were lulled tranquil by the melancholy gold of the leaves changing on the hillsides. All this while listening to the music of a running river in the background. It was perfect.
Mid October can be a cold time in British Columbia. Although it was cloudy, occasionally windy, and a few rain drops sprinkled the boat, the temps were in the low 50s (Fahrenheit). So, we didn’t freeze. Some fish like the cold, wet, nasty days. I like those days too. I feel alive in them. But I can’t remember if Bull trout are some of those fish. To maintain curiosity, I’m not going to look it up for you.
Satiated from lunch, we were now back on the fish diet. We hoped a few big bulls were in the near future… They were.
Afternoon Session
Soon after lunch we stumbled upon more fishy water. Here you couldn’t spot the fish. The river had changed and this was different water. We were too far away from the banks to see anything cruising and the water moved slowly underneath the boat. It was deep under the boat and Sean recommended we pound the banks.
Cast after cast we put our flies as close to the bank as possible. Some call this the suicide mission as the closer to the bank the better but also the more likely you are to get snagged and risk losing your fly. Although we were snagged a time or two, we did a decent job of keeping our flies in the water and out of the brush. I had the front of the boat which was actually the rear of the boat. In this section, I was the one closes to the downriver fish so I had first crack at them. And therefore, Corey was in the rear of the boat, which was actually the bow.
Sean would call out structure and we would pin point a cast to it. Being at the boat’s stern I has the motor to deal with. If I was in school I would receive a passing grade for avoiding the motor more often than not with my big fly. I did clunk it a time or two and apologized to Sean for doing so. He brushed it off as usual wear and tear and didn’t make me feel bad about it. I would most certainly receive a failing grade for getting my line tangled on the motor. The handle of the motor seemed like a good spot for my line to settle on most casts. If I managed to miss the handle, then I generally found my line tangled on the standing support bar which was right next to it. No matter how I cast, this seemed to happen. The casts were good and my fly was right where I wanted it. I just had to get the line off the motor either before I started stripping or before my next cast. Sean said this was common and happens to him as well. Again, he didn’t make me sweat it.
I got into the habit of casting, quickly pulling my line off the motor handle, then stripping. I thought I was quick enough but the split second it took to look at the motor handle and move my line cost me. Right in the middle of this process I felt a pull – more like a strong jerk than a pull – on my line. Then I heard a loud thrash of a splash near the banks right. The noise came right about from where I had just thrown my fly. I went to pull the line tight but since I added in the step of freeing my line from the motor, I was slow. Slower than I should have been.
Sean and Corey had their eyes fixed on the bank and shouted. Oh, shit! That’s a big one! I don’t remember which one shouted this or if it was both of them but by the time the words were out of their mouth(s) it was all over. If I had been stripping, I may have been in for the fight of my life. Instead I had to settle for thinking about what could have been.
Sean laughed it off which made the hurt a little less. Then he said, Yeah, that’s what we’re after. That’s what we are here for. That was a big one… Which made the hurt a little more. He also said that when his line gets hung up on the motor he tends to think of it as a future me problem. The way he explained it, if you try and fix it right away like I did you risk missing the fish. Better to to keep you hands on the line so you can hook the fish, then worry about the line management later. Yes, you can get tangled up and lose the fish, but during the fight you might be able to get the line off the motor before things get squirrely. Better to have the future me problem than current me never getting to the problem. Lesson learned. I wished I could go back and let future Bram worry about it.
My Brother’s Leviathan
We continued drifting downriver. We kept up the routine of pounding the banks. Several spots looked fishy but nothing took. The river started to change again. It narrowed and picked up pace. The bottom became strewn with big boulders with surprisingly good visibility. Sean’s insight was to put it by the boulders. Raise the rod tip if it drops too deep to avoid the snag. You want to be close. I felt a hit and strip set. It was a slight hit or possibly a snag. Hook sets are free and I wasn’t about to miss another fish.
Coming into this section, Sean said to keep sharp; this water looked fishy. I mentioned to my company that the prior hit felt like a fish but, admittedly it was rocky. Like a college kid after a fresh breakup, I was flirting pretty hard…with the rocks. It could easily have been a rock, but I think it was a fish. Corey replied that it definitely was a rock. He had attitude in his voice. It’s like he was jealous that I may have felt a tug. It had been a minute since he had one, but damn boy, don’t take it out on me! I’m not your punching bag!
I’m the younger brother, youngest of four actually. I don’t like being teased, bullied, or bruised. Even when people aren’t really teasing, I start to think that they might be. Underlying trauma from my youth, I suppose? Disclaimer: Other than the usual older sibling shit, I was not put through anything that I – or modern day society – would consider abusive as a child. It gets under my skin and it gets there pretty fast. Before my mental stewing could turn into angry dialogue something happened. Before I could throw a sass-filled reply at Corey, his line went tight. This time, it definitely wasn’t a rock.
Out from the submerged rock garden came a big one. It hit Corey’s fly and there was no mistaking it for anything other than a big, burly, bully. The emerald and blue water here ran clean with good visibility. We got a look at this fish well before it came close to the boat. I can’t say for certain, as I was looking at the fish and not at my boat mates, but I know my jaw dropped and I think theirs did too. Think of the pool scene from the movies when the boys all get a look at the stunner in a skimpy bathing suit. You can’t take your eyes off it, and your brain ain’t far behind. We were glued and we couldn’t do a damn thing about it. That’s what we are here for!
Corey’s rod bent beautifully. If you remember from my previous post, this was his custom built 8’6″ 8 wt. fiberglass rod. It’s fast glass so it’s not as flimsy – slow, as the purists would say – as most fiberglass. That being said, you might have mistaken it for slow glass with how much bend this fish put on it. Corey had it hooked good and wasn’t giving an inch. I’ve never built my own fly rod but it’s probably pretty cool to feel a good bend in a rod you built yourself. I think of it like catching the first fish on a fly you tied. It takes a lot more time and effort to build a fly rod than it does to tie a fly. So, I’d say it’s like catching a fish on a fly you tied, but on steroids.
Due to a strong strip set and already being a few good strips deep when he hooked the fish, Corey didn’t yet have this fish on the reel. He had good pressure on the fish but when it decided it didn’t like a hook in its mouth or the site of our boat, it bolted. Corey held tight and pop! His line when flaccid. Our hearts, that were seconds prior in our throats with excitement, sank down into the pits of our stomachs. Corey’s sank and soured the most.
Losing a big fish is tough. Losing it due to user error is downright torturous. If Corey had loosened up his grip and let that line slip through his hands, the future campfire storytellers might have had a tale for the ages. Now, they didn’t. If he made just that one change, then our feelings may have been ones of jubilation instead of sickened, emptiness. If…
If is an interesting word. It can help us learn from our mistakes. If I had done this, then this may have happened. If I do this, then it will work out. It can also lead to mournful perseveration, self-persecution, and remaining in a saddened state for way longer than is beneficial, necessary, or healthy. If I had worked the fish on to the reel, and played it smart, then I would be holding the prettiest bull trout in all of Canada. If can be haunting, keeping you up all night. If can be the recurrent daydreams (nightmares) anytime silence strikes. Plainly put, if can leave you down in the dumps. If can be helpful. If can be hurtful.
Recovery
Corey took this one pretty hard. I don’t blame him. I would too. We still had time in the day to find another; time to recover. Promising waters lay ahead. More emerald green pools. More chances. It’s the chance at another that keeps us coming back.
I once heard that professional athletes need alone time after missing an easy one. One soccer player takes a day to himself anytime he misses a sitter that costs his team a game. Once he missed an easy, wide-open goal, and instead of giving him a day to recover, his wife gave him a few of weeks. This isn’t to say she let him go on a bender, snorting lines, while forgetting about his family or wedding vows. At least I don’t think that’s what happened…She just didn’t talk to him as much. She let him have his thoughts without interruption. Sean and I gave this to Corey. In the back of the boat, he needed a little time to himself.
After a while, Corey started talking again. Even though the metaphorical wound was still fresh, the blood was clotting. He no longer had to apply pressure, or give it his full attention. He was healing.
We drifted downstream. We cast, and we cast, and we cast again. A few smaller bulls chased our flies in the shallows or near the banks. The big ones stayed deep and out of sight. Or at least, that’s what we figured. If the big ones were upstream with the little ones, then seeing the little ones down here was a good sign.
As we neared the end of our day we came to a section with lots of fish. We could spot them through the refracted water and they looked healthy. We couldn’t get them to eat. It didn’t matter how good of a presentation we made. These fish weren’t budging. It’s more of a mind fuck when you can see the fish and can’t do anything about it, than it is to never see them in the first place.
We brought in our lines and called it. Back to the boat ramp where we started the day. I don’t know if I heard it, saw it, or thought it in my mind, but Corey sighed. Close, but no cigar. Close is what keeps you coming back.
We exchanged pleasantries with Sean. I can’t recommend him enough as a guide, and more importantly as a person. I’d gladly spend another day on the water with him and hope to do so in the near future. He provided us with intel as to where we could fish the following day. Not knowing the area well and getting first hand information on where we could safely wade and likely find fish is invaluable. Sean handed us a few flies from his personal batch. From the looks of them, I don’t think you could buy these at a fly shop and we didn’t have the materials to tie them. Again, invaluable.
Another Chance
It took about 20 minute to get back to our home away from home. The sun was setting and the Rockies’ dark, jagged peaks kept up their job of providing constant eye candy. Corey and I talked. His wound was healing, but still plenty fresh. When he started talking again on the boat, it wasn’t about the one. I don’t think he could have at that point. Now he could. We went over what happened and how next time he wouldn’t make that same mistake. Of course, he could make a different mistake. That’s part of fishing. Lots of variables, some of which you can control and some of which you can’t. That’s the beauty of it. But would he make that same mistake again? Nope. Not that one. Wouldn’t happen.
We grabbed food from the local market and cooked it back at the place. Corey said he had a blast and that he would be back. He was thinking out loud about the next bull trout safari. Working through his schedule to find time, the wheels were turning. It’s the next chance; the thought of your first, the thought of the one that got away, the thought of reliving that special moment, that keeps us coming back.
The James River Mermaid 