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My introduction to and love for fishing came from another father figure in my life. Grandpa. My maternal grandfather was my hero. Grandpa lived in a double-wide on a half-acre just upstream of Pinantan Lake outside Kamloops. He was a man’s man. He played hockey for the Portland hockey team and won an NHL arm wrestling contest. For a 10-year-old boy who loved sports and the outdoors, no one could compete with Grandpa as the arbiter of cool. One morning at breakfast, Grandpa brought out a battered leather wallet populated with a half-dozen small, rusty lures. He pulled them out, one at a time, each reveal accompanied by a fish story about some monster he had landed with those tarnished miracles. I was hooked immediately. With Grandpa as my gillie, I plunked the spoon into the holding water, as Grandpa explained where the fish might be hiding. I cast, a few feet. I reeled, also a few feet. And I hoped. Oh, how I hoped. Though I didn’t know the expression at the time, the tug is the drug. The first rainbow I connected with was six inches of raw power. I can still feel that tug to this day. Grandpa passed away shortly before his 85th birthday. He had gone for a morning walk, come home and done his daily 50 pushups, when an aortic aneurysm took him. He taught me to fish, and he shaped my life in ways for which I will always be grateful. As an adult, fly fishing has become my passion. But my memory of one tiny, speckled rainbow, caught on a spoon in an unnamed creek outside Kamloops, with Grandpa crouched over my shoulder, will always be my favorite. Thanks, Grandpa. – Dwight J. | Vancouver, BC The post Father’s Day Collection | Dwight J. appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

My own father passed quite a few years before I ever learned to fly fish. I joined the Cornhusker Fly Fishers in Nebraska because I had always wanted to learn. It looked so cool, almost like poetry in motion. I even bought my first fly rod and reel before I really knew how to use them. Ed was this tall, slender member of the club. He became my father figure. We tied flies together. He showed me the small details and the tricks of the art. One night after a meeting, he saw me struggling and walked over. “Let me show you how this is done.” Five minutes with someone who knew what they were doing, and something clicked. I felt like I could do this. And I did. I’ve been fly fishing for years now, often with Ed. We’ve represented the Cornhusker Fly Fishers at events across the state, sharing our love of the sport. I even followed in his footsteps, running for and serving as the club’s president. What made that moment meaningful wasn’t just learning how to tie or cast. It was finally learning something I had always wanted to do, and doing it right. Ed made it all feel comfortable. – Mike L. | Bellevue, WA The post Father’s Day Collection | Mike L. appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

Me and daddy go fishing at lakes. I like putting flies on fly rods. My most favorite part is going in the boat and holding the fish and taking pictures of me holding the fish. I see fishies and water and also boats out in the lake. I feel happy to be fishing with daddy and it’s just me and daddy and we’re fishing buddies. Taya (5), Salmon Arm, BC The post Father’s Day Collection | Taya appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

Lance Robertson has acquired the R.L. Winston Rod Co. Robertson is a longtime business leader, engineer and passionate fly angler. He and his family live near Twin Bridges, Montana. “My family and I are excited to have the opportunity to be part of the Winston family,” Robertson said. “We look forward to helping people enjoy their outdoor pursuits and build cherished memories through great products. We look forward to our stewardship of the company as those before us have done, maintaining the company as a family-owned business since its founding. We are focused on maintaining the innovative spirit of the company and products of the highest quality. In addition, we will be purposeful in engaging our customers early in our tenure to understand how best the company can serve their needs in the future. “The R.L. Winston Rod Company has a compelling team in place, delivering among the best rods and reels they have ever produced, positioning the company well for a bright future,” Robertson said. “We anticipate the entire Winston team remaining with company moving forward. As part of today’s announcement, I would like to share that Andy Wunsch, general manager, will continue with the company in the role of president and general manager.” “I am really excited about the future for Winston!” said Winston and Bauer President/General Manager Andy Wunsch. “Having been here for almost two years, we have an amazing team that takes great pride in their work. We look forward to continuing building outstanding products to be sold by the finest retailers in the world.” “I also want to thank David for his many years of leadership at R.L. Winston and the great pride he has maintained in the company and its products over his long tenure,” Robertson said. “We are pleased that David will continue to serve the company as an adviser for a year after closing.” “It has been an honor to have been involved with Winston for more than three decades, and to have worked with outstanding people committed to making the world’s best fly rods every day,” Ondaatje said. “Under Lance, I look forward to celebrating Winston’s industry leadership and success in the years to come. Mostly, I want to say thank you for making my time with Winston the most fulfilling professional experience of my life. It’s a rare thing to get to say you’re involved with a company that makes the best product of its kind in the world. I’ve been lucky enough to do that for 35 years.” The post R.L. Winston Rod Co. Announces New Ownership appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

I started out fishing with my dad on the Squamish River in B.C. He was showing me what needed to be done with his cane rod, and I was right there beside him, watching everything. He threaded the line through the rod and laid it on the ground so he could tie on the fly. I was so excited to see what he was going to use that I stepped closer to get a better look. And stepped right on the tip of the rod. Snapped it. That was my first experience fly fishing with my father. Seventy-two years later, I still love fly fishing, on rivers and still waters alike. And it all started with a day on the river with my dad.” — Brian P., Abbotsford, BC The post Father’s Day Collection | Brian P. appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

“My father, Clarence, was the doctor in a small town in northern California. He worked hard and made house calls. But whenever he could escape the grind, he was on the water, fly fishing the mouth of the Van Duzen River where it meets the Eel. He learned that love from his own father, Clarence Sr., who fished whenever and wherever he could. When Clarence Sr. was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, he retired immediately and moved to California, so he could walk down the hill from his house and fish the Eel River. “My father, Clarence, was the doctor in a small town in northern California. Whenever he could escape the grind, he was on the water, fly fishing the mouth of the Van Duzen River where it meets the Eel. He learned that love from his own father, who fished whenever and wherever he could. When he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, he retired immediately and moved to California so he could walk down the hill from his house and fish the Eel. My older brother Dick learned to fly fish before he could ride a bike. Dick taught me. We’d ride our bikes to the Eel and bring salmon home balanced across our handlebars. Dick grew up to be the most passionate fly fisherman I’ve ever known. A sculptor by trade, he eventually moved to Twin Bridges, Montana, where he became a guide. Fly fishing has moved through our family the way rivers move — quietly, steadily, always finding its way forward. Both our sons fish. So do their children now. They gave me something I didn’t fully understand at the time. Something I’ve been passing on ever since.” — Doug, Portland Doug with his son, Ben and grandson, Brady, in Alaska Doug with his son Tim and Grandson Levi on the Deschutes The post Father’s Day Collection | Doug C. appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

Ross Reels is introducing the next evolution of one of its most trusted reel platforms with the launch of the Cimarron LT. Built in Montrose, Colorado, the Cimarron LT builds on the original Cimarron platform with several notable updates. Aggressive new porting reduces weight without compromising durability, while an upgraded aluminum drag knob and in-house anodizing process give the reel a refined look and feel. At the heart of the Cimarron LT is Ross’s adjustable composite-disc drag system paired with a stainless steel interface that delivers ultra-smooth startup inertia and solid stopping power. Whether protecting fine 7X tippet or putting pressure on fish with 0X in fast water, the reel is built for the kind of use trout anglers demand over a full season on the water. Available in 4/5, 5/6, and 7/8 sizes, the Cimarron LT comes in four finishes: Platinum, Matte Black, Matte Blue, and Matte Olive. The appeal of the Cimarron LT comes from its balance of performance and accessibility. It brings together the fit and durability anglers expect from Ross in a reel built for everyday fishing without entering premium-tier pricing. The Cimarron LT is available through authorized Ross Reels dealers and online at rossreels.com. The post Ross Reels Launches the Cimarron LT appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

Rendezvous at Sullivan’s Slough Silver Creek makes me feel as though nothing else matters when I am fishing on the Nature Conservancy property. Nothing else matters except catching those big, fat, and very smart fish. During the past seven years, I have spent every spare moment possible at Silver Creek. My wife will attest to this. Along the way, I have learned a great deal through trial and error, talking to others, and reading about this beautiful place. I do not consider myself an expert at fishing Silver Creek, if that is even possible, but I usually catch at least a few fish. Of course, some days are more productive than others. Usually, if I am not having much luck on the creek itself, I make tracks to the slough, otherwise known as Sullivan’s Pond. I have heard more than one person say fishing the slough is more difficult than fishing the creek, but I have always found a fish or two willing to take a nymph or streamer somewhere in the slough. On this particular day, I was fishing with my dad and my younger brother, Luke. The action was slow, and there was no hatch activity to speak of. This was one of those unlucky days on Silver Creek a few summers ago. None of us had caught anything worth mentioning, so we decided to test our skills on Sullivan’s Pond. The upper end of the slough is difficult to fish because there is a steep bank leading down to the water’s edge. Trees and bushes hang over the bank, so wading out and roll casting is the best option. Wading in the slough can be treacherous, though. Silt hides sinkholes, and one wrong step can leave you soaked and shaken. We ended up above a beaver dam at the upper end of the slough around noon. At that point, I think I had caught two fish, Luke had landed one, and my dad was still getting skunked, which was great for us because he usually outfishes us at least two to one. My dad was standing in the clearing closest to the dam, and Luke was up on the ridge spotting for him. I was getting bored catching weeds, so I climbed out to join Luke above the bank when the fun started. I was just finishing the steep climb out of the slough when my dad yelled, “Fish on!” Luke, who was supposed to be spotting but instead was watching me struggle up the bank, looked down toward the water and after a couple of seconds said, “*#@!^, you hooked that huge brown we’ve seen swimming around.” I joined Luke and made the same observation. Of course, Dad did not believe us during the first couple of minutes we spent trying to convince him. Luke and I then decided we should get down into the water to see the fish up close, or to help our father land it, but mostly to see the fish up close. Luke started down the steep bank with me close on his heels, a little too close, I guess. He lost his balance but managed to stop himself before falling into the water. Unfortunately, because I was so close behind him, I slammed into his back and knocked him a couple of feet out into the slough, where he landed in a very ungraceful belly flop. After colliding with Luke, I lost my balance, and my feet flew out from under me. I ended up on my backside in the mud with branches poking and scraping me every which way. I still have not decided which is worse: ending up with waders full of scum-covered water or cracking your tailbone and not being able to sit for a week. Meanwhile, my dad was still playing the fish and making comments about how agile his boys were. We collected ourselves, muttered a few choice words, and moved to help him land his quarry so we could finally see that huge fish. My dad grew up fishing the rivers near Klamath Falls, Oregon, so he is an experienced fly fisherman, but he seemed to do just about everything wrong that day. I guess he was following our lead. For some reason, he did not think it was important to get the fish onto the reel, so he was stripping line by hand while stumbling along the shallows. His next mistake was catching his rod and line in an overhanging bush. I was elected to scramble over and free it, which resulted in several more branches and thorns protruding from my body. The moment we solved that problem, the brown trout charged straight toward us at full speed. My dad feverishly stripped in slack line while leaning backward. I was yelling at him to avoid tangling the line in the bushes again, Luke was yelling at him to get the fish on the reel before he lost it, and Dad was yelling at both of us to keep our mouths shut. The fish finally turned and headed back into the slough, but during all the commotion my dad somehow wrapped his excess fly line around Luke’s legs. I remember Luke jumping around like someone had rubbed Icy Hot on his crotch while desperately trying to untangle himself from the line. Somehow he managed to free himself before the fish snapped the 5X tippet, and the rest of the battle was fairly uneventful until it came time to net the fish. None of us had a net large enough to land it. My net was long but too shallow to hold the beast. Dad had a narrow but deep net, and Luke had managed to lose his somewhere during this entire comedy of errors. Originally, my dad planned to net the fish himself. After enduring all our mishaps, however, he changed his mind and instructed me to do the honors, mainly because I was the only one who still had a net. I spooked the fish into another run with two or three failed attempts to scoop her up. Then, when I finally positioned the net correctly and lifted it beneath her, she flexed and flipped right back out. Naturally, this started another round of shouting: “You’re going to lose the fish!” “I know what I’m doing!” “If you’re so good, get your ass over here and net the fish yourself!” Luke was still near the dam participating in the yelling while muttering expletives and trying to retrieve his missing net. Fortunately, he found it, because he was the one who finally got over there and landed that fine fish. Somehow we managed to land the monster female brown trout and gathered around in awe for pictures. Being conservation-minded, we kept the fish in the water while fumbling for our cameras, one of which is still at the bottom of the slough. It does not really matter whose camera it was. My dad posed with the fish while Luke and I prepared to take the photo. I told my dad to smile. The instant before we snapped the picture, that old brown decided she had had enough of us. With a mighty wiggle and a splash, she disappeared before we had any proof beyond our own word. The women in our lives say they have a hard time believing this story, but fishermen know the truth. With all the noise and commotion we created during that extended battle, I am surprised we did not attract a crowd wondering where we came from and why we did not just stay there. We were blessed that day to encounter one of the larger fish on the Silver Creek Preserve, and hopefully I will cross paths with her again someday. When that happens, I will be ready to do everything right, and I still probably will not land her. I guess that is the nature of Silver Creek: supremely challenging, infinitely frustrating, amazingly beautiful, and ingenious enough to provide just enough reward to keep fly-fishing addicts coming back again and again. – Noah M., Twin Falls, MT The post Father’s Day Collection | Noah M. appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

By Al “Doc” Mehl All things considered, when it comes to casting a fly, my school chum Chuck Monninger was the best I’ve ever known. Even though it’s been 50 years, I still remember one Chuck Monninger cast like it was yesterday. On East Elk Creek in western Colorado, Chuck was demonstrating fly casting to our mutual friend (and then-novice fly angler) Bear Miller. “Just below the jagged yellow rock, tucked in behind the driftwood snag, with that sweet twisting current on the left and calm water in the crease, that seems a likely hold for Mr. Trout,” Chuck chuckled softly to Bear. Then, from 60 feet away, he deftly delivered a No. 16 Adams inside the 12-inch target zone, a cast instantly rewarded by the convincing strike of a 10-inch cutthroat. Bear shook his head in disbelief, then started his own tiresome day of clumsy greenhorn fly casting. Yes, Chuck was as good as they get. Even so, I’d have to think that Chuck would be shaking his own head in amazement if he’d been in Montana to witness, a half-century later, the best cast of my fly-fishing life. And, in an unplanned homage to Chuck, I was fishing a No. 16 Adams. I’d spent the month of July doing some weekday temp work in Helena, and that left the weekends open for exploring the local fisheries. On a blue-sky Saturday, I was fishing the North Fork of the Blackfoot River. By midafternoon, I had landed four rambunctious rainbows, all of them from the long, deep hole a few hundred yards above the canyon bridge, a pool that I’d discovered during the previous month’s explorations. I might have kept fishing well into the evening if I hadn’t found myself fighting a chilly, freshening wind from the north. Maybe, I thought to myself, it’s time to call it a day, scramble up the scree embankment to the still-warm car sitting in the high summer sun, and find my way to a local watering hole to toast my successful outing with a beer. I reeled in. With only a few feet of fly line and 7 feet of leader remaining on the water, a sudden gust of that north wind swung around behind me and lifted my trusty Tilley hat from my head. Just out of reach, the hat hovered at eye level for a split second and then jumped onto the wings of that wind gust, landing upside down 25 feet away in the middle of the riffles that coursed along the left side of that honey hole. The current arced away from me. Soon, my hat was 40 feet away and turning to the right. In mere seconds the current would pick up speed at the tail end of the pool, and my hat would tip over the splashing falls and drown, forever lost. My hat size, you might now ask? 7 3/8. The oval outline of that Tilley hat in the water took on the look of a skewed archery target, the khaki-colored outer ring enclosing the 7 3/8-inch mountain-snowmelt-blue bull’s-eye, a target that was creeping ever farther away. My hat was a goner. Damn. Unless … Lifting my fly rod instinctively, I snapped the fly line toward me into an abbreviated backcast. As the line hovered behind me, I stripped a great armful of line from the reel and loaded it forward in a false cast. The hat was almost 50 feet away now and swinging left to right. I made another backcast, reloading another stripping armful of fly line onto the second false cast. Watching that serenely drifting archery target was tantalizing. I have never tried archery. I’m told it’s all about breathing, about focus, about the Zen of mind-body calmness. Stripping line wildly from the reel, precariously flailing my graphite fly rod to and fro, cursing out loud about the favorite fishing hat I was about to lose forever, I was anything but Zen calm. I loaded another strip of line into the backcast as the fly reel sang out its siren song in a higher key than ever before. Momentarily I wondered if my backcast would now be traipsing through the riverside willows, a No. 16 Adams soon to be snapped off by an innocent-enough twig. But this was not the time to worry about a $1.59 dry fly when an $89 hat was about to disappear. On the third forceful false cast, my fly line was now extended and hovering 50 feet in front of me. And the hat? It now drifted 60 feet in front of me, picking up speed in its left-to-right journey out of my life. If I had been standing on the opposite bank, I might have been close enough to lean in and grab the sucker, but alas, I was not on the opposite bank. I stripped line from the reel again, dug my shoulder and upper arm deeply into one more great backcast, and took aim. But where to aim? My hat was now a pheasant on the wing, and the savvy hunter knows to swing the gunsight past the flying bird and place the buckshot into the bird’s flight path. I started my forward cast knowing this was my chance, in fact, my only chance. I have never entered a fishing tournament. Fishing tournaments are meant for talented and serious fishermen like Chuck, and not for recreational fishermen like me. Still, if I were to enter a fishing tournament someday, I have always been intrigued by the idea of a one-fly fishing tournament. How terribly cautious must one be with the backcast? How close to the snag must one dare drift to catch fish without losing the critical fly? What fly to pick if you can only pick one? For me, perhaps a No. 16 Adams. But even more challenging than a one-fly contest, I had now been unwittingly entered in a one-cast contest. The end was at hand. There would be time enough only for a single cast to hit the drifting target. Win or lose, this contest would be one and done. I let the last handful of stripped line sing through the guides as the double-tapered fly line carried the newest of its now 60-foot length away from me. Then, with the confidence borne of a lifetime of fishing, I paused my breathing in Zen-like anticipation of the final artistic brushstroke. I calmly swept the rod tip gently to the right of the target. The extended fly line and attached leader responded like the lead pair of an eight-horse team, veering ever so slightly in the direction that the driver’s reins had requested. The fly rolled over the final feet of that long cast as I leaned as far forward as I dared. I extended my casting arm fully, added a few extra inches to the cast by swinging my opposite leg backward and flexing at the waist in a balanced, ballet-like maneuver, then willed the No. 16 Adams to land gently on the water. That battered dry fly settled proudly on the calm water inside the bull’s-eye. I marveled at the once-in-a-lifetime cast. Oh, if only Chuck Monninger could see me now. And then, before even one more heartbeat, the spell was broken by the realization that a No. 16 hook has a bend that measures less than 1/8 inch. Even perfectly placed inside the crown of the floating hat, what might be the odds of that hook finding purchase in the fabric of the hat, relinking me with my lost lid? But purchase it did find. Unbelievably, the hook embedded itself into the swirling neck strap that had been floating serpentlike within the bull’s-eye of the crown — the neck strap that is designed to keep the hat from blowing off in the wind, if only the fisherman remembers to wear the strap properly when the wind picks up. Having nearly claimed the gold medal in this day’s one-cast fishing tournament, I now found myself enrolled in the subsequent one-fly tournament extension. I had hooked a lunker, and it pulled hard in the current, hoping to make its escape by exiting the pool, entering the falls, and stealing the fly from the leader. Steadily, I pulled with an even flex in my rod, now trying to remember which tippet I had tied on hours before. Had it been 5X? Was it even finer, maybe 6X? Too much tension, and I would be snapping my only-hope fly from the line. Too little pull, and the hat would pass through the falls, breaking me off regardless. Steady, slow and steady. Redirect. Turn the head of the beast. Slip the quarry from the strong current and coax him gently back into the pool. Ever so slowly, the battle was won. The hat put up a mighty battle, but by now had lost all fight. The long line was gradually retrieved, and I landed the monster without a net. Better than a streamside photo of a long-played lunker now in hand, better than even a trophy mounted on the wall, that Tilley hat remains head-mounted to this day, still in service. It’s a living reminder of one more good day on the water. And it’s a beat-up, poignant keepsake of the very best cast of a lifetime. The post The Best Cast of My Fly-Fishing Life appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

By Kirk Deeter Excerpt from the winter issue: “Presentation. Well, that’s simple. Trout like to eat insects that are hapless and drifting at the whim of the river current. The dun dry fly has just shed its shuck and is most vulnerable as it dries its wings before taking off. You must spoon-feed those duns to trout, and even a bit of subtle micro-drag can kill your chances. Likewise, spinners have mated, fallen and are essentially dead when they hit the water. Trout know this. Spinners should drift at the whims of the currents. On the other hand, fish that chase food (sometimes trout, but also northern pike, bonefish, redfish, tarpon and many other species) aren’t used to their live food attacking them. No reasonably smart trout is going to eat a dry fly dragged in front of its face (except maybe a skittering caddis). By the same token, fluttering a crab fly, for example, toward a feeding permit is the kiss of death. When you’re fishing in the salt, or even fishing streamers for trout, you want to show your target the morsel and then make it escape. So… spoon-feed rising trout with as little drag as possible. For most everything else (including salmon and steelhead), you want to bother them, make them agitated, make ‘em grabby, and see what happens next.” Subscribe or pick up the back issue for the full article. Photo: Faceless Fly Fishing The post Kirk Deeter’s Lesson on Presentation appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

The Ratio Reel is built for moments when big fish enter the ring and the outcome matters. The carbon-stainless drag system has precision-engineered surfaces that deliver smooth, consistent pressure with zero startup inertia. In demanding conditions, the oversized indexed drag knob allows for micro-adjustments without fumbling. Built to withstand saltwater abuse, the Ratio’s drag system is fully sealed to keep out salt and sand. The Ratio is built for anglers who target powerful fish in demanding conditions. The reel has the strength and durability for tarpon, big roosterfish and permit, as well as bluewater battles with tuna and billfish. They are equally adept at moving big trout in heavy water, steelhead in fast flows, or carp hell-bent on leaving town. Key features: Orvis’ highest-performing saltwater reel, with best-in-class drag profile and industry-leading stopping power. Fully sealed drag with multifaceted O-ring protection keeps water and debris out. Instant-engage drag with oversized knob for more control (12 – 20 lbs, depending on reel size). Oversized shaft (5/16”) and line guard for strength and reliability. Available in three colors: Blackout, Gold, and Silver/Deep Sea Available in five sizes: III, IV, V, VI Shallow, VI Deep (see full specs in imagery folder) Size VI includes deep and shallow spools. The deep spool holds a 14-weight line with 600 yards of backing to take on any big-game species. For full details, visit Orvis. The post Orvis Introduces the Ratio Reel appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

By Derek Bird I’m always a little stressed when I pull up to the boat ramp with my dad. I’m eager to get my gear set up, and in doing so, I’m trying to avoid as many people as possible. My dad, however, appears to be there to connect with as many people as possible. To be sure, he loves fly fishing, but he might love talking about it with random strangers even more. When we arrive at a boat ramp, Dad’s never in any rush to set up his gear or take it down. I’ll inevitably look up from tying on a fly or getting the boat ready, and Dad is nowhere to be found. Then 10 minutes or so later he’ll walk up to me with a new friend and say something like, “This fellow wants to meet you. He reads your articles in the magazine.” Though I broadcast my thoughts, I often do what I can to avoid the spotlight. I make small talk with the stranger, all the while fighting through what I feel is an awkward moment… For my dad’s 80th birthday, I wanted to take him fly fishing. More than that, I wanted to keep him away from busy boat ramps, so we headed out into the middle of nowhere for a walk-and-wade. Not that I didn’t want him to do his favorite activity on his birthday, but the window where the trout are active and taking flies in autumn can be quite short, so there’s not a lot of excess time to chat. Away from civilization and boat ramps on his birthday, Dad grabs his rod from the truck. I offer to help him tie on some new tippet and ask him what fly he wants to start with. He holds open his fly box and invites me to have a look. “What do you think?” he asks. “I plan to start with a nymph. Do you want me to set up a nymph rig for you?” I say, quickly getting a few jeers from my brother and nephew at the mention of a nymph. “Dry,” he says. “OK,” I say. “I’ve got an October Caddis I’m going to tie on for you.” After I finish the blood knot attaching 5x tippet to his leader, I tie on the mangy orange caddis pattern. “They might not take it right away, Dad. The sun will likely need to be up for another hour or two before they start rising to your fly.” Dad’s still fishing with his kids and grandkids. I want to be like that when I’m his age. Time has a way of slowing us all down, but I’m sure my dad is going to live until he’s 120. He’s not allowed to leave us any sooner than that. Besides, he’s a young 80. He still works out in the gym a few times a week, and he’s out here in the middle of nowhere hiking along stream banks with his boys. I’m not sure I’ve come to terms with the role reversal time has forced upon us. Though it’s more and more difficult, I still recognize the boy I was in the early 1980s when Dad would take his boys out on the backroads in search of lakes and rivers. As a kid, he showed me what flies to tie on and the knots to use. He taught me how to cast, and he dealt with the bird nests in the reels. He took that on. He tells a story from when I was very young, when he took me to a spot on a river just one valley over from where we are now, where he met up with some friends. His kidless buddies ran down to his favorite run as he set up his kid’s gear. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for that, Dad. I don’t remember it, probably because it was a good moment for me. You made it a good moment. I guess you’ve more than earned the right to embarrass me at boat ramps. We arrive at the stream, and I land four good-sized trout on nymphs before the dry-fly purists decide that they’re maybe not as pure as they were when they left the vehicle. I call to Dad to join me on the other side of the stream. Though he’s 80 today, he’s sturdy and has little trouble negotiating the stream crossing. I’m only moderately worried about him. He arrives, and I tell him I’d like to change his setup, so he hands me his rod. I tie on the “secret” nymph I started the day with. Because of the odd flow and the depth of the run, I don’t give him an indicator. I let him know he’s going to have to pay attention to the tip of his floating line. “If it dives or pauses, set the hook,” I instruct him. On the first cast, the line pauses, and he doesn’t pull up. “Dad, you’ve got to pull up when the line pauses,” I remind him. “Here, let me show you.” He hands me his rod, and I send the fly into a seam where I know there’s a trout, and after three or four seconds, the line pauses. I pull up, and there’s a nice-sized trout on the other end. “You make that look easy,” he says. I release the trout and hand the rod back to him. It happens again. The line pauses, and he doesn’t see it. “Set the hook,” I say. He pulls up, and nothing’s on. He swears in frustration. He’s still got fire in him. In his prime, my dad was a highly competitive fastpitch player. He pitched against some of the best both provincially and nationally. As a kid, I lived at the ballpark on the weekends watching Dad pitch no-hitters and one-run games. In his youth, my dad had a lot of what people used to call “piss and vinegar.” Though certain senses may not be as sharp as they used to be, there’s still some vinegar left. I admire that. He heads back across the stream so he can nymph from the high bank on the other side. From that vantage point, he can see the trout in the clear water. “When you see a fish move and open his mouth, set the hook,” I call out. “He’s likely moving for your nymph.” A few minutes later, Dad’s into a fish. He takes out his net and lands the biggest trout of the day — one that’s fitting for his 80th birthday. The next day on my flight home, I sit beside a stranger on the plane. She turns to me and asks, “Are you from the Kootenays?” “I am,” I reply, “but I don’t live there anymore. I was just in town visiting family.” Before long the conversation turns to my children. I’m well into the conversation before I catch myself. I’ve been talking about my adult kids and their accomplishments for the last 10 minutes. The plane isn’t a boat ramp, but it might as well be. Looks like I owe my dad a birthday fishing trip next year on a river with a boat ramp. Photo: Arian Stevens The post Birthdays and Boat Ramps appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

The Spring issue of Fly Fusion is now available on newsstands, and it arrives with a clear purpose: Season Opener: Solving Spring’s Toughest Trout. This issue leans into the nuance of early-season fishing, where success is rarely accidental and often earned through attention to detail, timing, and restraint. From Gary Borger’s reflective journey in First Season, which traces how early encounters shape an angler for life, to Jim McLennan’s Please, Sweat the Small Stuff, readers are reminded that spring rewards precision over force. April Vokey highlights the overlooked window of opportunity in The Quiet Advantage of Spring, while Frank Brassard challenges convention in When a Fly Learns to Breathe, exploring how movement and imperfection can outfish technical perfection. Beyond the core features, the issue is layered with insight across every corner of the sport, from stillwater strategies to fly tying, culture, and conservation. It is a season defined by transition, where trout behavior, water conditions, and angler mindset all shift at once. This issue is built to meet that moment, offering not just tactics, but perspective. Pick up your copy on newsstands now and step into the season with a sharper eye and a more thoughtful approach. The post Spring Issue on Stands Now! appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

The fly-fishing world is filled with incredible people who believe in the sport and what it does for the soul. Some are well known. Others work diligently behind the scenes. They are the people running CNC machines late at night, the engineers designing and building the gear, the marketing geniuses who create the memorable ads, videos and stories that bring it all to life. Ours is an industry teeming with talented people who believe as much in the spirit of fly fishing as the gear they create. Over the past few years, we’ve lost too many of them. We celebrated icons like Lefty Kreh, Flip Pallot and others, people who moved our sport forward and left a mark. We don’t often touch on the lives of those who played a significant role behind the scenes. People who may not have known that their work shaped fly-fishing culture. People like Joe Wolthuis. Joe was a beacon of compassion and kindness to many. He touched countless people through his creative genius, providing the inspiration to trade the magnetic noise of life for the silent solace of the water. He did this in his life and through the tools available to him in his role as the Marketing Manager of Scientific Anglers. If you’ve been on the water over the last decade, read a fly-fishing magazine, listened to a podcast, attended a film event, been to a show, or walked through the doors of your local fly shop, you’ve experienced his support and work. I’ve always been drawn to the people in the fly-fishing world. They are a salt-of-the-earth community with a shared passion for the pursuit of freedom that adventure provides, the beautiful places where fish live, and the need to conserve them. Joe embodied the spirit of the very best people in our community. Without question, the single most treasured gift the Bird family has been blessed with over these last twenty years are the friendships. This community is an industry, but it is best defined as a family where friendships run deep. I recall a dinner where we were introduced to Joe. The conversation was an instant connection over bed bugs, nerdy marketing data, metrics and demographics. And there was always laughter. That first dinner turned into countless dinners, lunches, phone calls, zooms and text messages. Sometimes work-related, most times not. One of my favorites was a dinner where Joe told us about an out-of-this-world “candy bar” he encountered on a trip to Canada. There was a joyous hope in the way he described this chocolate nectar he had discovered. He went on to explain that this particular candy bar was not available in Michigan. A few months later, as any friend would, I arrived for a lunch with Joe with a dozen Mr. Big bars. This would be the start of a long tradition. Joy can be found in the little things. When word of Joe’s arrival as Marketing Manager was announced, I called a mutual friend who knew him well. Of Joe, he said, “You are going to really like him.” Indeed, we did. The fly-fishing family is deeply saddened by the loss of our cherished brother. There is a place where rivers flow freely, where they run gin clear, where the fish are always eager, where peace is ever present, and where there is no last cast. Joe is there now. “Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.” ~ Norman Maclean Joe’s voice will continue to move quietly through the fly-fishing community he cared so deeply about. We will miss him immensely. Photo: Allen Crater The post On Candy Bars, Fly Fishing, and the People Who Shape Our Sport appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article

A Fishable Feast: Fly Fishing and Eating Your Way Around the World is more than a fly-fishing book. From crystal-clear trout streams to sunlit saltwater flats, untamed jungles and rushing mountain rivers, this beautifully crafted volume by acclaimed author Kirk Deeter and Matthew Supinski explores the cultures, cuisines, geography and history that make fly fishing such a rich and meaningful pursuit. Featuring a foreword by Tom Rosenbauer, the book blends storytelling, destination and culinary exploration into a global celebration of the angling life. As Kirk Deeter explains: A Fishable Feast serves up the sights, flavors and stories of the world’s most compelling fly-fishing destinations. It is a must-read for anglers with an appetite for travel and good food. The book’s release is imminent, and you can find it online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Books-A-Million. Or, you can order your signed copy here:kirkdeeter.com The post A Fishable Feast: Fly Fishing and Eating Your Way Around the World appeared first on Fly Fusion. View the full article