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October 15, 2009 by
The day I was to leave for Alaska to tape the last episode of the season for my show, The Best and Worst of Tred Barta on Versus, I woke up with a gimpy left leg. My toes had no power, and I could lift my leg only halfway up. I went to my doctor who immediately ordered an MRI.
Shortly thereafter, my problem worsened, prompting me to drive straight to the emergency room.
Approximately six hours later, I lay on a gurney, paralyzed from the waist down.
Since then, I’ve been in three hospitals; all the doctors initially misdiagnosed this as a spinal stroke. Thankfully, I actually have an extremely weird (but treatable) blood disease called Waldenstrom macroglobulinemia, a rare (notice I still don’t do anything normal) form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma that causes the blood to thicken. Medical oddsmakers rate regaining use of my legs at about 20 to 30 percent. Thank God I still have great upper-body strength, will still shoot my bows, do battle with offshore game fish and should even be able to ride horses again. But make no mistake: I have blood cancer. And I am crippled.
I ask for no sympathy, but I beg you to listen to what this adventure has taught me in life.
During this crisis I found myself in the darkest hole imaginable—an abyss of self-pity. Quite frankly, in all my travels, this is the worst place I’ve ever been. But I swear to you that I am pulling myself out of this hellhole because of my core philosophy—the same philosophy that drives my TV show, the Barta Blue Marlin Classic and the Barta Boys & Girls Club Billfish Tournament.
Without my faith in God, the relentless support of my wife, Anni, and the kindness of hundreds of thousands of e-mails from my friends and detractors, I never would have made it this far.
Throughout my life I’ve tried to help other people. It was easy. I was healthy and it seemed the right thing to do. Now, do many doctors, nurses, physical therapists and friends are helping me. I know for the first time in my life what it means to receive such kindness and it’s overwhelming.
So my message is simply this: Unless you’re in a crisis, you may never know what it feels like to receive help. The Bible says it’s better to give than to receive. But for someone to be blessed by giving, someone else must receive, and it is just as important to receive graciously and appreciatively as it is to give!
So enjoy the porch of life. Spend that extra time with your son or daughter. Never miss an opportunity to cherish your marriage or pass up an opportunity on the dock to teach someone how to rig a ballyhoo or to take time sit with an old man fishing from a pier. You may never know the impact it has.
I do now.
My life will continue. I may walk again, maybe not. Either way, I can’t wait to inspire others on TV and here in Sport Fishing. Life is about doing your best with what you have, never giving up, honor, faith and love of family and friends. There’s nothing more. It’s not about money or how big your boat is or how many world records you have.
Slow down and smell the flowers: If it can happen to me, it can happen to you.
Anni and I thank you for your support. It gives us strength.
Till next tide,
Capt. Tred Barta
Editor’s Note: To help Tred weather the physical and financial storm that has stuck him and his family, five benefit fund-raising auction dinners are scheduled from Rhode Island to South Florida on October 23, 2009 at 7 p.m. Dinners will be held at:
• The Village Inn, 1 Beach St., Narragansett, Rhode Island—Affair Director: Capt. Matt Barashyan; 917-903-8116
• Oakland’s Restaurant, 365 Dunne Rd., Hampton Bay, N.Y. at Shinnecock Inlet—Affair Director: Capt. Anthony Prudenti; 516-810-5812
• Doolan’s Restaurant, 700 Rt. 71, Spring Lake Heights, N.J.—Affair Director: Capt. Len Belcaro 800-827-4468
• Sanitary Fish Market and Restaurant, 501 Evans St. Morehead City, N.C. —Affair Director: Capt. Peter Manuel; 919-815-2560.
• I.G.F.A. Banquet Hall, 300 Gulf Stream Way, Dania Beach, Florida. — Affair Director: Lee Green; 800-251-8263
[ Read Full Post ]September 29, 2009 by
New York State Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) Commissioner Pete Grannis today announced that beginning Friday, Sept. 25, recreational marine fishing licenses will be available for sale.
Recreational marine fishing licenses http://www.dec.ny.gov/permits/6101.html can be purchased via the DEC website, ordered by mail or telephone at 1-86-NY-DECALS (1-866-933-2257) or by visiting any one of DEC's 1,500 license sales outlets statewide.
"New York's coastal waters provide excellent angling opportunities offer anglers a wide variety of species to target, from scup and sea bass to bluefish and striped bass," Commissioner Grannis said. "Realizing that the federal government was going to soon require marine fishing licenses if there were no state requirement in place, New York elected to implement this new license in order to keep the fees here to help fund state conservation programs. While we know this is a big change for the coastal fishing community, this was the best available option for New York. We appreciate the understanding of marine anglers."
Anglers purchasing their license at one of DEC's 1,500 license sales outlets will receive their license and can go fishing immediately. Anglers purchasing their license via the internet will receive a "smart number" and confirming e-mail and anglers purchasing a license via telephone will receive their customer ID number so they can begin fishing immediately and don't have to wait to receive their license in the mail.
Beginning Thursday, Oct. 1, persons 16 years of age and older need to acquire a recreational marine fishing license if they are fishing in the Marine and Coastal District or fishing any water (such as the Hudson River, Delaware River, or Mohawk River and their tributaries) where the angler is fishing for "migratory fish from the sea" (such as striped bass, American shad, hickory shad, blueback herring, alewife). The Marine and Coastal District includes all the waters of the Atlantic Ocean within three nautical miles from the coast and all other tidal waters within the state, including the Hudson River up to the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge.
The cost for 1-day, 7-day and annual resident licenses are $4, $8, and $10, respectively. The cost for 1-day, 7-day and annual non-resident licenses are $5, $10, and $15, respectively. The cost of a lifetime recreational marine fishing license is $150 and the cost of a lifetime combination fishing and recreational marine fishing license is $450.
All revenues generated from sales of annual, 7-day, and 1-day resident and non-resident recreational marine licenses will be deposited into the Marine Account. The Marine Account is a special sub-account of the Conservation Fund, and, in accordance with State Finance Law, monies in this account shall be available to the DEC specifically for the care, management, protection and enlargement of marine fish and shellfish resources. All revenues generated from the sales of lifetime recreational marine fishing licenses and lifetime combination fishing and recreational fishing licenses will be deposited into the Fish and Game Trust Account as per State Finance Law. Monies in the fish and game trust account are invested by the State Comptroller and the earned income is transferred into the Conservation Fund to be used for intended purposes.
Commissioner Grannis also encouraged all outdoor enthusiasts to consider purchasing a Habitat/Access Stamp, an optional stamp that helps support the DEC's efforts to conserve habitat and increase public access for fish and wildlife-related recreation. This year's stamp features a drawing of a pair of playful red fox. Buying a $5 stamp is a way to help conserve New York's fabulous wildlife heritage.
More information about purchasing a Habitat Stamp <http://www.dec.ny.gov/permits/329.html> is available on the DEC website
[ Read Full Post ] September 17, 2009 by >>SEE TODAY'S PHOTOS HERE
On this, the last day of Outdoor Life’s epic fly fishing trip, photographer Troy Batzler and I have a summit meeting on the front porch of a picturesque cabin overlooking a tributary of the Yellowstone River.
Appropriately, this is called the Fishing Cabin and is available for rent at Mountain Sky Guest Ranch (mtnsky.com). At issue for Troy and me is how to finish our trip.
We have caught dozens of alpine trout in the crystalline lakes of the Beartooth Plateau. We have hooked spooky cutthroats and rainbows in the serpentine seams of Yellowstone National Park’s Slough Creek. And we have loaded up on big-river trout during yesterday’s float of the Yellowstone River.
But we haven’t yet landed a trophy fish, and that’s the goal of this day. Troy and I discuss our options. We could drive across the park to fish the Firehole or Gibbon rivers where they combine to form the legendary Madison River. Or we could focus on the lower Yellowstone River, below Livingston. Or we could shrug on packs and hike to a remote reach of the upper Yellowstone River inside the national park.
That’s the option we pick, based partly on a rumor we’ve both heard that huge cutthroats lurk in the river, accessible only by hiking off-trail and fording the tempestuous Lamar River. The notion of casting to fish that haven’t seen many flies all summer fuels an early start.
BACKCOUNTRY TROUT
We pack a lunch, a selection of wet and dry flies—including some big stonefly nymphs and my ever-present inventory of grasshopper and beetle patterns—my 4-piece Loomis rod, and bear spray. I also pack my waders and wading boots. If we have to cross rapids I want to be as waterproof as possible.
As we leave dust-covered Ford Flex, the sulphuric smell of geysers and thermal pools prickles my nose. Yellowstone was formed by fire, and evidence of its violent creation remains everywhere, from smoke curling out of hillsides to the fresh, jagged lava flows that jut out of the sage-covered hillsides.
Down the trail, we look into the Yellowstone River canyon. The river is a tempest here, raging around house-sized boulders. To catch a fish in this water, I’ll have to work pocket water, the quiet pools and small patches of water behind boulders where trout can stay out of the current and dart out to grab morsels of food as it floats by.
I hike down to a likely looking gravel bar, struggle with maintaining a drag-free drift, and start to target pocket water. I hook a fish but lose it in the heavy current, then land a 17-inch Yellowstone cutthroat that grabbed my Chaos Hopper as it slipped around a boulder.
It’s a stunning fish, brown as caramel, with rose-colored cheeks and a blood-red slash under its jaw. These fish are natives here. They’ve survived landslides and volcanic eruptions, boiling water and earthquakes. I feel honored to hold one for a brief second before slipping it back into the water.
CROSSING THE LAMAR
I fish several more reaches of river, dredging trout out of most seams. They’re mostly cutthroats in the Yellowstone, rainbows in the lower Lamar, all spunky fish ranging from 13 to 18 inches.
We break for lunch, then steel ourselves to the task at hand. We must cross the Lamar River to reach the remote reach of the lower Yellowstone. In most places, the Lamar is deep and moody, swirling around boulders. We hike upstream and finally find a riffled section of river that looks to be only about hip high. I don my waders, find a 4-foot Douglas fir branch to serve as a wading staff, and enter the water.
It’s not bad, and I invite Troy to follow. I have only my backpack to keep dry; Troy has to keep all his camera gear high over his head. But we make it across without slipping, and start our long march across the trackless sage flats.
Finally, we rejoin the Yellowstone. There are no human footprints here. We find an old lichen-covered elk shed, wolf scat and a mangled bison carcass. This is wild country, and as we drop into the river, we hope to find big, wild cutts.
I re-rig, tying on a smaller black grasshopper with short rubber legs that a fish might mistake for a big beetle. And I add a big red-wire Copper John nymph off about two feet of leader. I’ll be fishing the surface but also appealing to trout lurking in deeper water.
I know this is an appealing option when on a long drift a trout strikes my hopper pattern. I set the hook, and immediately my 4-weight bends more deeply than it should. It turns out I have hooked two fish on one drift, a solid cutthroat on the surface pattern and a lively rainbow on the Copper John. It’s a circus trying to net both fish, but finally I bag them, admire the brace of trout and release them.
FINALLY, A GIANT
I wade downstream, cast into a deep seam behind a boulder and watch my dry fly disappear. I have hooked a fish on the nymph, and once I gather line and put the fish on my reel I feel its weight. This is a big trout, shaking its head and trying to pull into the main Yellowstone River current. I try just as hard to keep the fish in quiet water, and after four drag-ripping runs, manage to angle the trout toward Troy, who waits in the shallows with my net.
I’m guessing an 18-incher, but Troy’s smile tells me this is the trout we’re hunting. It’s a huge cutthroat, somewhere in the 21- to 22-inch class. We quickly set up photos and admire the big, brawny trout. I let it swim out of my hands, back into this wild river, this untamed symbol of the West, where it waits to be hooked by another enterprising angler willing to hike, to gamble that big fish remain in the most remote water of America’s first national park.
We just have time to catch our breath, slap each other’s hands and collect our gear. We have a dinner date tonight at Chico Hot Springs (chicohotsprings.com), and it’s at least an hour down the road. We still have to hike out of this canyon and across the sagebrush, then recross the Lamar.
We are hot and sweaty by the time we return to the Flex. We strip out of fishing gear and pull on civilian clothes. We will be late, and I hope we don’t encounter roadside deer or bison.
HOME AT CHICO
There may be no happier end to a week of fishing than Chico’s bar and restaurant, and no more gracious host than Colin Davis, general manager of the legendary Montana landmark. He’s waiting for us in the back bar, a drink for both Troy and me, and wants to hear about our day. We finish our story over wine and succulent bison steaks in the bustling restaurant.
A nightcap in Chico’s bar—feed caps and seed caps and fishing hats adorning its ceiling—with friends who have driven over from Bozeman and up from Livingston ends our adventure. Troy and I talk about taking a quick dip in Chico’s immense thermal pool, but I’m beat, and bed is a better option.
It’s been a memorable week, full of grand country and legendary water. I have handled scores of lively trout, all of them caught on public rivers and streams, and most of them on dry flies. I’ve met great people and reconnected with my love of fly fishing.
I’m the Hunting Editor of Outdoor Life, but as I drift to sleep I make a drowsy note to ask my boss in the morning to think of me for any future fishing assignments.
>>SEE TODAY'S PHOTOS HERE
[ Read Full Post ]September 14, 2009 by Road Trip Trout Adventure – Day 3
>>SEE PHOTOS FROM TODAY HERE!<<
The best way to experience a river is to ride it, to feel the pull of its current and the chatter of its riffles in a boat.
For an angler, fishing from an expertly piloted boat can be devastatingly effective, a perch above the best water, a casting platform from which to drift a lure or fly with exactly the same velocity of the river.
So I was excited to spend our third day on the Yellowstone River, floating through the very heart of Paradise Valley. We are hooking up with Troy’s friend Matson Rogers, a cheerful, gainfully employed trout bum who owns Angler’s West fly shop and guiding service (montanaflyfishers.com) in Emigrant, Montana, about halfway between Yellowstone Park and Livingston.
It’s a treat to get to fish with Matson, a veteran of 15 years of guiding anglers who now spends more time in his shop than on the river. As we drive to Pine Creek, where we’ll launch for the 11-mile float to Livingston, Matson describes the river.
“It’s the longest undammed river in America, and because it’s not constrained, it changes all the time. Shorelines change, channels move, gravel bars migrate. It’s a freestone stream but it doesn’t have the sort of aquatic hatches you’d associate with a freestone. We don’t have much for mayflies or stoneflies. We get an intense caddisfly hatch in May and about every three years we get a decent salmonfly hatch, but this is a terrestrial river. Today we’ll be throwing grasshopper imitations, but big ants and beetles can work at times.”
TROPHY HUNTING
As we load the boat, I notice Matson puts in a couple of his own rods, including one rigged with a frog pattern the size of a beer can.
I expect we’ll pick up the fourth species of this trip, a brown trout, and I’m hopeful we will tangle with one of the big, surly browns that the lower ‘Stone is known for. A fish big and confident enough to swallow that frog pattern.
As we push off, Matson’s expectations are tempered.
“The river is going through a transition right now from its summer to its fall pattern. The fish are moving and stacking up in transitional water, so our first task is to find where they are.”
We add a big Prince nymph, a wet fly, to drift below my Mormish Hopper dry fly. The second fly should appeal to cautious trout, or bruisers that are hanging in deeper water.
It’s clear from the start that Matson knows his stuff. He barks out casting directions, describing my target as numbers on a clock face. He counsels me to mend my line so my flies drift naturally, to shorten or lengthen my cast.
I want to lift my laser gaze from my fly. I long to take in the stunning panorama of Paradise Valley, the unbelievably steep and craggy Absoraka Range to the east, the achingly beautiful foothills, the ancient cottonwoods drifting by. But I don’t dare break my stare in case a trout hits my pattern.
We get into pods of feeding whitefish, which suck up the Prince nymph, and I miss a succession of light-biting trout. We finally land a lively rainbow, then another, then a cutthroat and a cutt-bow hybrid.
We’re getting fish, but they’re modest sized, though they pull like bulldogs in the relentless current.
DISASTER ON THE RIVER
As we are enjoying a refreshing shore lunch, we wave at the few boats that drift by. One is a rubber raft, seriously overloaded with three adults and a kid as well as an assortment of coolers and fishing gear.
Back on the ‘Stone, we catch a few fish and feel the pull of the river getting a little stronger. Matson orients us to shoot a series of chutes and short whitewater froths. We slide through one when I notice a plastic oar on the shore, still wet as though it was recently in the water.
I’m just processing that image when I look ahead and see a cluster of people gathered around a blue rubber raft. Something’s wrong. The raft is capsized and folks on shore are holding it against the tugging current.
Matson doesn’t hesitate. He swings our boat to shore, and starts fact-finding. “Is everyone accounted for? Can we help hold the boat? What can we do?”
Suddenly we’re the center of activity. I pile out of our boat, hold it while Matson ties it off, and we run together to the capsized raft. It’s the same overloaded raft we saw upriver, and we slowly get the story. The boat shot the chute, but instead of making the sharp turn at the bottom, it hit a partially submerged cottonwood and folded in the current, throwing its occupants into the frothing water.
Everybody bobbed to the surface except for one fellow, who tells me he was trapped beneath the tree’s limbs, getting tangled by his clothes.
“I was holding a cooler, so I just threw it off me and launched myself for the surface,” he says. “I wasn’t ready to end it like that, hung up like a fly on a fly strip.”
Matson and I and a burly angler grab the raft and with a synchronized heave, we flip it upright. The frame is bent and twisted. It will need work, but at least its occupants are present and uninjured.
Matson asks the young boy in the boat if he’d like to float with us the mile down to their take-out, and the boy is so happy with the invitation to join his rescuers that he almost leaps into our boat.
TAKE-OUT
We drop the boy off and get serious about hunting big fish. I miss a giant strike, but get non-stop action by those 12- to 14-inch rainbows and cutthroats. I’m happy. We’re catching fish. We’re on the most beautiful river in America. We’re tired, scruffy and windblown. But we’re safe and dry, and in very good company.
[ Read Full Post ]September 12, 2009 by Road Trip Trout Adventure – Day 2
>>SEE PHOTOS FROM TODAY HERE!<<
For all its relentless visitation, Yellowstone National Park has some of the finest fishing in America.
The reasons are its location—Yellowstone sits at the headwaters of the nation’s largest and longest river systems—and the fact that only about 1.5 percent of its three million annual visitors are here to fish.
We are here to fish, and today our destination is Slough Creek, a lazy, meandering stream in the park’s northeastern corner. Slough is known for the prodigious size of its cutthroat trout and for the technical nature of its water. It is gin clear and flows slowly, so fish have plenty of time to inspect your fly pattern, spook at the shadow of your line and wait for the next morsel to float past their noses.
But it’s September and fish are fattening up for the fall, so I’m hopeful we can fool some of these savvy cutts with the seductive wiggle of grasshopper imitations. For trout, grasshoppers are like prime rib, big meaty chunks of protein that can be hard to resist.
From Cooke City, we drive through the Lamar Valley, famous for its concentration of wintering wildlife—including wolves—and have to stop to let a herd of bison cows and their young calves cross the road.
We are accompanied by Troy’s friend Jeff Strom, a trout bum from Livingston, Mont., who fished Slough yesterday and proclaimed the Chaos Hopper to be the gimme pattern.
CAUTIOUS TROUT
First pool, nothing. Then sippers cautiously rise from the depths to steal emerging insects in the surface film. I try for two hours to coax a cutthroat to my hopper. Trout approach my fly, then make a last-second rejection and slip back in the dark water.
So I give up on the “gimme” pool and move to the next hole downstream, where a gang of lazy bison bulls lays on the far bank, wallowing in the sand and watching the day unfold with imperious, almost bored, gazes.
I see a cutt cruising the shallows. I cast my Chaos in front of the fish, twitch it and Bam! Fish On! The fish was a 17-inch cutthroat, its throat slashes crimson as lung blood.
Next fish is a longer but skinnier cutthroat, copper and bronze like a maple leaf in October. Then I catch a cutt-bow, with ruby and blue flanks like a rainbow but wearing the bright throat slash of a cutt.
We fish downstream on Slough, instead of hiking upstream to the first, second and third meadows where most anglers encounter fish. Here, the creek is a succession of flat, featureless water broken by lively riffles and deeper grottos. Here’s where the fish are, picking up insects delivered by the current in narrow chutes.
Jeff and I are just figuring out what pods of sipping trout are keying on—brown drake emergers—when we notice the bright afternoon light become muted, then covered over by dark, malignant looking clouds. Before we can cinch cameras and fly rods, the wind lashes us with cold rain. We huddle in streamside willows, soaked to the core, and unanimously decide to pull the plug on fishing for the remainder of the day.
LIGHTNING, HOT TUBS
Before we could can dry, we had to get back to the car. It isn’t a long or difficult mile, but the jags of lightning ripping out of the black clouds give us pause. Troy is toting his very metallic video camera, Jeff carried another tripod, and I carry a pair of graphite fishing rods. We are walking lightning rods as we cross the meadows, but because there is no cover in the stream valley, we figure we are safer on the move.
Finally, we gain the Flex in the parking lot, grinning through our soaked clothes at the other anglers huddled in their pickups, and quickly strip out of our togs and into warm, dry jackets.
We sit in the Ford drinking a welcome beer as we watch the storm sweep out of the valley, and are just about to rerig our rods when we see another mass of clouds scud over the horizon.
“How wet do you want to get?” Troy asks as I eye the clouds, then my rod. “Not enough,” I return, and started the car. It’s 5 p.m., time to head to Mammoth Hot Springs, where we have a cabin with a hot tub waiting for us.
We turn onto the highway just as the skies opened, and with windshield wipers whipping we can barely see through the deluge. Good call.
We’re in Mammoth tonight, eating a fine meal in the lodge and soaking our trout blues in the hot tub, preparing for tomorrow, when we’ll float the Yellowstone River through Paradise Valley.
[ Read Full Post ]September 11, 2009 by Road Trip Trout Adventure – Day 1
>>SEE PHOTOS FROM TODAY HERE!<<
After a late start from Red Lodge—our departure delayed by the acquisition of fishing licenses, lunch fixings and bear spray—photographer Troy Batzler and I turned our Ford Flex south, up the winding, switch-backed Beartooth Highway.
This road is known on atlases as U.S. Highway 212, but no numeric designation can do justice to this monument to humans’ timeless battle with gravity. This highway bends and claws its way to nearly 11,000 feet above sea level, to a sterile, fragile landscape that’s at least partially covered by snow 12 months a year.
We get out of the car at an overlook, and immediately catch our breath in the thin air, the chilly wind. Also taking our breath are the views, which stretch deep into Wyoming to the south, across Yellowstone National Park to the west and across the alpine Absaroka-Beartooth Plateau in Montana to the north.
We are here to fish the constellation of trout lakes on this plateau, and as we consult the map Troy and I are like Little Leaguers at a Yankees game. We are drooling with anticipation. Dozens of lakes dot the landscape, and most of them have trout. Some are stunted brookies, others trophy cutthroats. There are even rare golden trout in a few of these lakes.
We opt to fish Island Lake, on the Wyoming side of the plateau, and as we grind down toward the lake we discuss how to fish it. I’m sticking with my original plan to cast dry flies, figuring that every trout in these cold, clear waters is looking up to feed for the coming winter.
FISH ON!
Island Lake is probably the most accessible alpine lake on the plateau, just a half mile off Highway 212. It’s a great place to bring a family. The fish have a reputation as abundant and gullible, but I’ve never been clear what species inhabits this big, rock-strewn lake. We aim to inventory it.
Troy and I park, gulp down a lunch and pack our fishing and photography gear. It’s a late start, but the alpine air is clear and we have a full moon to guide us back to the car this evening.
After a gentle half-mile hike, we pick a boulder jutting into the azure lake to start our fishing. I rig my rod—a 4-weight, 4-piece G. Loomis Whisper Creek GLX pack rod—and tie on a rubber-legged Chernobyl Ant, a black foam pattern with a bright pink patch on its back that I can see from a long distance on the choppy surface.
On my second cast, a silver rocket surges out of the deep, right for my fly. I get anxious and jerk the line, taking the hook right away from the eager fish. I’m not proud to say that I behaved the same way for the next six or seven rises before finally I hook a fish.
Troy gets his camera ready as the tranquil surface splashes and roils with the fighting trout. It’s a rainbow, slashing and flashing through the shallows. The 8-1/2-foot rod bends with the tension, but I can tell through the clear water that it’s a modest-sized fish. Finally I bring it to hand: a 10-inch rainbow, bright as a diamond in the brilliant alpine air. I admire the fish, then slip it back into Island Lake.
I caught another dozen rainbows, missed just as many takes, and am getting my rhythm with the rod. I tied on a Copper John nymph below the hopper imitation to appeal to trout that might be too bashful to take a dry fly and catch another handful of small rainbows on the bottom pattern.
ALPINE BROOKIES
After a couple hours, Troy and I opt to pull stakes and move to the next lake in the chain, Night Lake. We hike a mile over boulders and marshes, and while Troy sets up for a wide scenic shot I find a huge boulder on the shore of the lake and make a few fruitless casts. I’m wondering where the fish are when my Parachute Hopper disappears, and I set the hook. It feels like a substantial fish, and burns line off my reel.
I finally wrangle the fish in to shallow water and get a look at it. It’s a bright brook trout, a good 13 inches long and surly as a hungry wrestler.
We get photos of the fish and I catch another handful of brookies, all starting to color up for their fall spawn. Our light is fading, and I aim to reach Snyder Lake up the trail by dark. My sources have told me that Snyder holds golden trout, but it’s clear after a mile that we don’t have the time or the light to get that far.
So we opt to fish a shallow marsh that’s almost boiling with rising fish. I tie on a tiny, size 18, Mosquito and cast to the fish. I miss my first three fish, then hook a hand-sized brookie. It’s the first of 10 fish in as many casts, the best kids’ fishing hole in the world, located at the top of the world.
Troy and I hike out under the rising full moon, tired, happy and not quite ready for the 30-mile drive to Cooke City, where we’ll bunk at the Elkhorn Lodge, eat at the legendary Beartooth Café, and prepare for tomorrow’s trip to Yellowstone Park’s Slough Creek.
It’s been a satisfying day. We’ve been in to trout on almost every cast in the most stunning scenery you can imagine. Can the rest of the trip live up to this opening? Stay tuned to find out.
>>SEE PHOTOS FROM TODAY HERE!<<
[ Read Full Post ]September 10, 2009 by
Road Trip Trout Adventure – Intro
>>SEE PHOTOS FROM TODAY HERE!<<
Out on the baking prairies below dust swirls around wheat harvesters. To the north a wildfire that closed Interstate 90 yesterday throws up columns of black smoke.
But to the south of Red Lodge, Montana, where the Beartooth Mountains rise like a granite wall, fresh snow gleams in the high country. That’s where I’m headed, to chase trout and reconnect with the headwaters of America.
This is the first day of Outdoor Life’s latest Road Trip Adventure. Astute readers may recall the first installment of the series, a motorbike trip that my colleague Terry Gibson spun through the Florida Keys, searching for sailfish and the essence of that string of fabled islands tumbling into the Caribbean.
My trout trip aims for the same intersection of great fishing and local color, to explain why this rugged plateau of peaks and meadows is like a cathedral for trout bums like me. This is where it all starts, not only the great rivers of America and our first national park but the whole notion of fishing and hunting and wild places as an expression of who we are as a culture.
I also hope to hook a few fish along the way. My partner for this adventure is Bozeman photographer and videographer Troy Batzler (troybatzler.com). I met Troy years ago when he was my guide on a Montana elk hunt and we’ve been in touch ever since. This fishing journey is the ultimate buddy trip, and I can’t imagine a better partner than Troy, who is as fit and energetic—and keen for adventure—as I am.
TROUT ITINERARY
Our road trip begins later this morning on top of the Beartooth Plateau, where we’ll rock-hop and scramble into a constellation of alpine lakes, hoping that their occupants—rainbows, brook, cutthroat and even golden trout—are looking up expectantly at the grasshopper imitations I’ll cast.
Tonight we’ll bunk in Cooke City, a curious settlement of year-rounders and vacationers clinging to the northeastern corner of Yellowstone Park. On Saturday we’ll fish the park’s smaller waters, Slough Creek and the Lamar River, dodging buffalo and keeping an eye out for grizzlies feeding up for their hibernation.
We’ll camp somewhere in or near the park Saturday night and on Sunday we’ll drift down the Yellowstone River, casting to lively bright cutthroats in the upper river and big, sulking browns down closer to Livingston.
Our final day will be a return to the park, where we’ll hike to a remote reach of the Upper Yellowstone for big, colorful cutthroat trout. It’s our trophy hunt of the trip, and I’m hoping to break the 20-inch barrier with a big wild trout.
GRAND LODGING
My fishing trips usually are based out of cheap motels or the back of my truck, but on this trip we are touring the grand lodges of the greater Yellowstone area. Last night I bunked at the Pollard Hotel, a century-old red-brick anchor of downtown Red Lodge. Tonight we’ll pull into the Elkhorn Lodge in Cooke City, then it’s Mammoth Hot Springs in the park before we descend on Chico Hot Springs in Paradise Valley.
I’m wrapping new line on my reels, inventorying my fly collection and preparing for dawn, when we’ll get the wheels rolling on my new Ford Flex and grind up steep, magnificent, breath-taking Highway 212—the legendary Beartooth Highway—to my appointment with gem-bright trout.
[ Read Full Post ]September 10, 2009 by
Internet message boards throughout Michigan are abuzz with word of a possible world record brown trout taken on the Manistee River yesterday morning. Tom Healy of Rockford, Michigan caught the huge brown which weighed in at 41 pounds, 7 ounces and measured 43.75 inches long. Biologists have reportedly taken scale samples of the fish to verify the catch.
The fish easily surpasses the former Michigan state record of 36 pounds, 13 ounces and should also top the 1992 Little Red River, Arkansas mark of 40 pounds, 4 ounces set by Howard Collins. It is expected that Healy will contact the IGFA to claim the record.
[ Read Full Post ] August 29, 2009 by
Sharks will always draw a crowd and the one that 20-year-old Taylor Sears of Scituate, Mass. hung on the dock scales the other day was no different. But it was really quite different—perhaps the biggest male mako shark ever caught on a rod and reel.
Sears, a summertime charterboat mate, and crew were fishing for bluefin tuna in the southwest corner of Stellwagon Bank on Thursday when they hooked into a tuna. After a 45-minute fight, the big shark decided that it was time to eat and chomped the tuna in half. A quick re-rig and Sears was shark fishing and hooked the mako within minutes. It took two-hours to boat the 624-pounder.
Whereas many larger makos have been taken on hook and line, most big fish are females. Shark specialist Greg Skomal of the Division of Marine Fisheries, says that the 10-foot fish is the largest ever male mako recorded in the Atlantic Ocean.
To read more about record sharks click here: outdoorlife.com/photos/gallery/fishing/2009/05/world-record-sharks
[ Read Full Post ] August 21, 2009 by
“I made it in the hospital through the bleakest, worst times of my entire life. I was in there for 90 days. I made through 80 of them before they broke me! I just couldn’t do it anymore,” says Tred.
According to Tred’s wife Anni, the last high dose of chemotherapy destroyed his kidneys and some liver function. He suffered major depression. Anni and Tred finally decided it was more important to get his head turned around than anything. So Tred—at long last—returned home. Since then, things have brightened dramatically. His kidneys look like they’re responding positively. His most recent blood tests show improvement in his Waldenströms. The local Shaw Cancer Center is trying something new – a milder treatment that can be done at home one day a week for several months, then once a month forever.
Not surprisingly, Tred decided that quality of life is more important than aggressive, big-name, big-city treatment regimens. He just wants to be home. And since he returned, he has gotten his fight back! Certainly, Tred has a long road ahead yet, but he finally has hope and optimism again and that is huge right now from where he and Anni have been. Tred is once again shooting his bow and shotgun from his wheelchair. His TV crew arrived today to shoot his next show and life is heading in the direction of normal – within Tred’s new context. He honestly hasn’t been this upbeat since this all started.
Anni is searching for live-in help for Tred as she can’t handle the heavy lifting, household management and well – Tred – all by herself. In addition, the Bartas face some staggering medical bills: As you can imagine, rebuilding every door, adding an elevator, completely redoing a handicapped bathroom, adapting the truck so he can drive, ramps, a powered wheelchair – it all costs megabucks and not surprisingly, health insurance provides them with $1,500 over a lifetime for these maladies. So anyone who feels inclined to make a tax-deductible donation to help the Bartas return to some semblance of real life can contact for Tred Barta at the Vail Valley Charitable Fund, PO Box 1275, Avon, CO 81620, 970-845-6339. Or Donations can be made by credit card at www.v vcf.org <http://www.v%20vcf.org/> , again mention for Tred Barta.
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