Toward the end of May last year (2022), I arrived at Hidden Canyon Lodge with my mentor Roger–and his mentor, Jed. This was my first Liar’s Club trip, and my first to that part of the Missouri River. I survived the drive with Roger and Jed arguing about everything imaginable (showing their deep love and affection for each other with each snide remark)..
But the amazing location, beautiful accomodations, awesome staff, and a couple of smoked old-fashioneds, quickly put the Jed and Roger contretemps out of my head (and those same conditions seemed to have a calming effect on the two of them as well..).
From there, we met up with the rest of the gang, caught many monster fish (no lying needed here) on beautiful days along the Missouri and in Holter Lake, had great food, and, of course, more cocktails.
Occasionally, the love bickering would show up again during cocktail hour in the lodge, and other Liars would join in, but all in all, I can’t complain….
Close Encounters
Up north of Quebec City there is an area called Le Parc Laurentide. If you’re from Luckenbach that translates to Laurentide Park. It encompasses 4.000 square miles of heavily forested wilderness, supports roughly 200 lakes, (175 Canadian) and dozens of well-run government owned fishing camps. Canuks call the lakes “ponds” which are home to huge numbers of so-called Native Trout that trust me, would eat anything! The four members of the Sunnybrook Gardens Trout Club made the trip, parking ourselves at Portes de L’Enfer Camp’s all-inclusive lodge avec guide. Pronounced “Geed” (That’s Hell’s Gate Camp in anglais). Lots of French spoken around those parts but my high school French class with Madame Liotard never prepared me for the so-called French lingo spoken by these canuk guides, not to mention they also seemed to consider bathing a monthly chore. Sacre’bleu! We decided among ourselves that they weren’t speaking French at all, the patois more resembling the lyrical flow of a backcountry dialect from somewhere in the north of Yemen or maybe Oman. The fishing though lived up to the reputation of the place and casting from canoes we caught amazing numbers of trout (including catching three at a time once as we experimented with three flies). Crazy. Meanwhile, our guide who said he was from Chicoutimi (wherever the hell that is) and possibly of French heritage, pretty well matched us and our million-dollar gringo gear, using a broken stick, some string and trolling a shark hook piled high with worms he kept in a Chinese food “takee-outee” container.
It was August and at times getting chilly up north. We were told August is also The Rut Season, a time of year when horny bull moose cruise the forests and at times perform amazing gymnastic feats with willing cows, right there in the woods! For a human it would be like standing up in a hammock with your shoes on. (Even if you’re from Grand Prairie you know what I mean). But we weren’t thinking much about moose and their love life when our guide from Yemen managed to perch our canoe on top of the only rock visible in the entire pond! No kidding! We jostled and wiggled our butts a bit to try and disengage from the rock without damaging the canvass canoe while at that same moment looking to shore and seeing a very big bull moose eyeing us as he stepped from the forest and into the shallows, not 40 yards away. Uh oh! It sure as hell wasn’t afraid of humans and a neat sight until we realized that a moose could swim! Who knew? And so, this giant began dog paddling and snorting his way right toward our marooned canoe. Only his large head and rack were visible. It turns out there is universal word for this predicament: “Merde”! Does this big fella think we are competition? We certainly got that message from “le geede” who seemed just as puckered up as we were. If he’s nervous, we’re more nervous! We briefly pondered whether monsieur le “geed” smelled something like a lady moose and an attractive rut target! It wasn’t funny actually and we stayed riveted on the approaching bull. What the hell were we going to do marooned on the bloody rock? Maybe you’re not aware of what big eyes a moose has! They were hard for us to miss. The big boy stayed totally focused on us snorting and paddling straight ahead while rolling his big eyes wide right as thankfully he splashed not five feet in front of the canoe on his way to someplace else. Mon Dieu! We clinked Molson bottles toasting our brush with death in the wild sending along best wishes to the big bull that he would find the wild kingdom version of a glass of wine, a warm fire, and a willing lady.
On Size and Feel
Fishing on the East River outside of Crested Butte, CO a few years ago I rose a trout, using my next-to-last Iron Blue Dun, but left the fly in his jaw when I struck too hard. I hated to lose that personally tied fly as good naturally blue hackle is hard to come by, and so I rashly announced to my companions that I’d get it back the next morning. I also described the fish as at least a sixteen incher. I could tell by the feel when it took the fly.
Chuck Stroble, founder, and President of the three member Sunnybrook Gardens Trout Club and self-anointed, champeen fly rodder denied hotly that a) I could raise a trout that had a fresh hook in its jaw and b) that I could judge the size of a trout by breaking off a fly in it. We argued these points until the bartender started putting out the lights.
The next morning Chuck went with me to the pool and on the first cast of my only other Iron Blue Dun a trout took the fly and was netted. The fish a) had my original Blue Dun in its mouth and b) was nine inches long.
We called it a draw.
A Fly Fisherman’s Take on Trolling for Alaska Salmon
A recent experience in Alaska fishing was a day spent off Ketchikan sitting in a chartered motorboat, drinking imported Yakima Valley Applejack, and trolling for King Salmon. Due to some special quality of Yakima Valley apples, I’m a bit hazy on the details.
As I recall there was a lead sinker the size of a honeydew melon on the end of the line, just ahead of a metal wobbler and a large hook. The theory I think is that the salmon swims over to have a look at the wobbler, and while doing so collides with the sinker, is either stunned and floats belly up to the surface or dies of laughter.
I don’t know what the hook is for, I felt awful in the morning and was sent home with 200 lbs of salmon filets! Apparently, they don’t eat salmon in Ketchikan. I’ve had to call in every favor from every friend just to take a free 5 lbs or so off my hands and help liberate my freezer for its proper role of beef storage!
In general, I would say motorboat fishing for Alaska King salmon is pretty much the same as motorboat fishing for other game fish only sillier, wetter, and colder.
Give me the Lower 48 Rockies, a 9-foot six weight and a McKenzie drift boat. No more Applejack, thanks. Adolph’s rocky mountain spring water concoction makes a great chaser for a wee dram o’single malt.
“Behold, I will send for many fishers, saith the Lord and they shall fish…”
-Jeremiah 16:16
God didn’t have to create trout: he could have settled for bass.
Please don’t misunderstand me, I have nothing against bass. Properly perceived and properly done, fishing of any sort is a reflection of life itself in all its ungentle realities, where as fishermen we encounter that which we know and love as well as that which we merely endure, and sometimes even that which is repulsive. I enjoy bass fishing from time to time, but bass are not an integral part of where I come from or who I am, and they are certainly not something I absolutely need. Not the way I need trout.
But as I think about it, neither did God need trout, any more than he needed walnuts, amethyst, or me. Personally, I think he just wanted them, and it seems now trout have become one of His great equalizers, for anyone who catches even the most diminutive trout, whether with fiber glass, graphite or finely crafted bamboo or even common cut cane, cannot help but be uplifted by the encounter, regardless of rank or wealth.
For the blessing lies in the trout and not the tackle.
-Michael Altizer
I graduated from high school in 1971, the year Orvis contracted with the House of Hardy, Limited in Alnwick, Northumberland, England to build a fly reel. The CFO, a spring and pawl design engineered by Stan Bogdan, was named in honor of Charles Frederick Orvis. Orvis had received a patent for the first ventilated fly reel in 1874, the father of all modern fly reels.
My Dad gave me a CFO reel as a graduation present. I used it for only a few years, soon graduating to newer and sexier models. My last fish taken was an adfluvial arctic grayling from Grebe Lake, a long hike into Yellowstone bear country.
That reel and that memory were lost for decades, until almost 50 years later, when I found the reel in its original leather case. It needed an honorable second act. Hardy had just released the Zephyrs, an 8’6″ 4 weight designed by Howard Croston. A perfect match: a Hardy for a Hardy!
It arrived a few days before our 44th anniversary, when we went to Aspen in May to celebrate and visit our elder son. The Roaring Fork was low and clear, not prime time for a float. I convinced a local guide to give it a try. He literally threw his blowup raft over a “no access” bridge and we were off. We were the only boat. A great young man, who’s dad was a local attorney, he made no promises. We agreed to simply enjoy the day, not count the fish, just….fish. At the takeout, he admitted “it’s hard to believe, but I quit counting after 50”! He didn’t know my Dad was along for the ride.
6 responses
Toward the end of May last year (2022), I arrived at Hidden Canyon Lodge with my mentor Roger–and his mentor, Jed. This was my first Liar’s Club trip, and my first to that part of the Missouri River. I survived the drive with Roger and Jed arguing about everything imaginable (showing their deep love and affection for each other with each snide remark)..
But the amazing location, beautiful accomodations, awesome staff, and a couple of smoked old-fashioneds, quickly put the Jed and Roger contretemps out of my head (and those same conditions seemed to have a calming effect on the two of them as well..).
From there, we met up with the rest of the gang, caught many monster fish (no lying needed here) on beautiful days along the Missouri and in Holter Lake, had great food, and, of course, more cocktails.
Occasionally, the love bickering would show up again during cocktail hour in the lodge, and other Liars would join in, but all in all, I can’t complain….
Close Encounters
Up north of Quebec City there is an area called Le Parc Laurentide. If you’re from Luckenbach that translates to Laurentide Park. It encompasses 4.000 square miles of heavily forested wilderness, supports roughly 200 lakes, (175 Canadian) and dozens of well-run government owned fishing camps. Canuks call the lakes “ponds” which are home to huge numbers of so-called Native Trout that trust me, would eat anything! The four members of the Sunnybrook Gardens Trout Club made the trip, parking ourselves at Portes de L’Enfer Camp’s all-inclusive lodge avec guide. Pronounced “Geed” (That’s Hell’s Gate Camp in anglais). Lots of French spoken around those parts but my high school French class with Madame Liotard never prepared me for the so-called French lingo spoken by these canuk guides, not to mention they also seemed to consider bathing a monthly chore. Sacre’bleu! We decided among ourselves that they weren’t speaking French at all, the patois more resembling the lyrical flow of a backcountry dialect from somewhere in the north of Yemen or maybe Oman. The fishing though lived up to the reputation of the place and casting from canoes we caught amazing numbers of trout (including catching three at a time once as we experimented with three flies). Crazy. Meanwhile, our guide who said he was from Chicoutimi (wherever the hell that is) and possibly of French heritage, pretty well matched us and our million-dollar gringo gear, using a broken stick, some string and trolling a shark hook piled high with worms he kept in a Chinese food “takee-outee” container.
It was August and at times getting chilly up north. We were told August is also The Rut Season, a time of year when horny bull moose cruise the forests and at times perform amazing gymnastic feats with willing cows, right there in the woods! For a human it would be like standing up in a hammock with your shoes on. (Even if you’re from Grand Prairie you know what I mean). But we weren’t thinking much about moose and their love life when our guide from Yemen managed to perch our canoe on top of the only rock visible in the entire pond! No kidding! We jostled and wiggled our butts a bit to try and disengage from the rock without damaging the canvass canoe while at that same moment looking to shore and seeing a very big bull moose eyeing us as he stepped from the forest and into the shallows, not 40 yards away. Uh oh! It sure as hell wasn’t afraid of humans and a neat sight until we realized that a moose could swim! Who knew? And so, this giant began dog paddling and snorting his way right toward our marooned canoe. Only his large head and rack were visible. It turns out there is universal word for this predicament: “Merde”! Does this big fella think we are competition? We certainly got that message from “le geede” who seemed just as puckered up as we were. If he’s nervous, we’re more nervous! We briefly pondered whether monsieur le “geed” smelled something like a lady moose and an attractive rut target! It wasn’t funny actually and we stayed riveted on the approaching bull. What the hell were we going to do marooned on the bloody rock? Maybe you’re not aware of what big eyes a moose has! They were hard for us to miss. The big boy stayed totally focused on us snorting and paddling straight ahead while rolling his big eyes wide right as thankfully he splashed not five feet in front of the canoe on his way to someplace else. Mon Dieu! We clinked Molson bottles toasting our brush with death in the wild sending along best wishes to the big bull that he would find the wild kingdom version of a glass of wine, a warm fire, and a willing lady.
Liars’ Library of Fish Stories
On Size and Feel
Fishing on the East River outside of Crested Butte, CO a few years ago I rose a trout, using my next-to-last Iron Blue Dun, but left the fly in his jaw when I struck too hard. I hated to lose that personally tied fly as good naturally blue hackle is hard to come by, and so I rashly announced to my companions that I’d get it back the next morning. I also described the fish as at least a sixteen incher. I could tell by the feel when it took the fly.
Chuck Stroble, founder, and President of the three member Sunnybrook Gardens Trout Club and self-anointed, champeen fly rodder denied hotly that a) I could raise a trout that had a fresh hook in its jaw and b) that I could judge the size of a trout by breaking off a fly in it. We argued these points until the bartender started putting out the lights.
The next morning Chuck went with me to the pool and on the first cast of my only other Iron Blue Dun a trout took the fly and was netted. The fish a) had my original Blue Dun in its mouth and b) was nine inches long.
We called it a draw.
A Fly Fisherman’s Take on Trolling for Alaska Salmon
A recent experience in Alaska fishing was a day spent off Ketchikan sitting in a chartered motorboat, drinking imported Yakima Valley Applejack, and trolling for King Salmon. Due to some special quality of Yakima Valley apples, I’m a bit hazy on the details.
As I recall there was a lead sinker the size of a honeydew melon on the end of the line, just ahead of a metal wobbler and a large hook. The theory I think is that the salmon swims over to have a look at the wobbler, and while doing so collides with the sinker, is either stunned and floats belly up to the surface or dies of laughter.
I don’t know what the hook is for, I felt awful in the morning and was sent home with 200 lbs of salmon filets! Apparently, they don’t eat salmon in Ketchikan. I’ve had to call in every favor from every friend just to take a free 5 lbs or so off my hands and help liberate my freezer for its proper role of beef storage!
In general, I would say motorboat fishing for Alaska King salmon is pretty much the same as motorboat fishing for other game fish only sillier, wetter, and colder.
Give me the Lower 48 Rockies, a 9-foot six weight and a McKenzie drift boat. No more Applejack, thanks. Adolph’s rocky mountain spring water concoction makes a great chaser for a wee dram o’single malt.
“Behold, I will send for many fishers, saith the Lord and they shall fish…”
-Jeremiah 16:16
God didn’t have to create trout: he could have settled for bass.
Please don’t misunderstand me, I have nothing against bass. Properly perceived and properly done, fishing of any sort is a reflection of life itself in all its ungentle realities, where as fishermen we encounter that which we know and love as well as that which we merely endure, and sometimes even that which is repulsive. I enjoy bass fishing from time to time, but bass are not an integral part of where I come from or who I am, and they are certainly not something I absolutely need. Not the way I need trout.
But as I think about it, neither did God need trout, any more than he needed walnuts, amethyst, or me. Personally, I think he just wanted them, and it seems now trout have become one of His great equalizers, for anyone who catches even the most diminutive trout, whether with fiber glass, graphite or finely crafted bamboo or even common cut cane, cannot help but be uplifted by the encounter, regardless of rank or wealth.
For the blessing lies in the trout and not the tackle.
-Michael Altizer
I graduated from high school in 1971, the year Orvis contracted with the House of Hardy, Limited in Alnwick, Northumberland, England to build a fly reel. The CFO, a spring and pawl design engineered by Stan Bogdan, was named in honor of Charles Frederick Orvis. Orvis had received a patent for the first ventilated fly reel in 1874, the father of all modern fly reels.
My Dad gave me a CFO reel as a graduation present. I used it for only a few years, soon graduating to newer and sexier models. My last fish taken was an adfluvial arctic grayling from Grebe Lake, a long hike into Yellowstone bear country.
That reel and that memory were lost for decades, until almost 50 years later, when I found the reel in its original leather case. It needed an honorable second act. Hardy had just released the Zephyrs, an 8’6″ 4 weight designed by Howard Croston. A perfect match: a Hardy for a Hardy!
It arrived a few days before our 44th anniversary, when we went to Aspen in May to celebrate and visit our elder son. The Roaring Fork was low and clear, not prime time for a float. I convinced a local guide to give it a try. He literally threw his blowup raft over a “no access” bridge and we were off. We were the only boat. A great young man, who’s dad was a local attorney, he made no promises. We agreed to simply enjoy the day, not count the fish, just….fish. At the takeout, he admitted “it’s hard to believe, but I quit counting after 50”! He didn’t know my Dad was along for the ride.