News and Fishing Reports

by Tyler Treece

I met the Predator at TroutHunter late in the morning, by fishermans terms. Anticipating the day, we took time to drink coffee and shake hangovers hoping most the other boats would clear out before we got down the hill. Overcast skies and rain were to our West, and storms seemed inevitable as they loomed toward the river. The weather is constantly changing here this time of year, providing opportunities for outstanding fishing between harsh downpours. The coffee went down easy, for me at least as the lift it brought was much needed. Full of breakfast and feeling better we loaded up the Durango, double checked all our gear, and hit the road. It would be my first float with the Predator and to say I was excited just wouldn’t encompass reality.

 

Conversation on the way down never left the subject of fishing. Streamers were a dominant subject. Colors and sizes, articulated and old school patterns with new era flare we discussed. We talked of big old browns and their love for protein, their carnivorous behavior and how amazing it is to have one crush a moving fly. The Predator’s passion for this sport showed constantly in his words. We talk of individual fish like they have personalities, more out of respect and awe than truth itself. He shook his head remembering big fish lost because of angler error, because of his error, and he talked determinately about how the next time a two foot brown rose slowly from the depths to inhale a fly he would take his time and make sure the fish ate it before he set the hook. Timing, he said, it was all about timing and making sure those hooked jaws were closed before you tighten. What a truly hard thing that is to do.

 

We rigged four rods at the put in, three with a combination of dries and one heavy sink tip armed with a large articulated pattern tied by Pat Gaffney, a guide at TroutHunter. That fly looked great in the box, but in the water it was just fishy. His pattern danced in the current begging for a strike from below.  Boat in the river we crossed to the opposite side and anchored. The Predator was in guide mode, scanning the water and explaining casting techniques meant to deal with the headwind that was picking up. Within a couple hundred yards of the put in I became a perfect example of what we had talked about in the car, as two large browns attempted to eat Pat’s streamer and I missed them both. One flashed as the fly bent around a rock, I set on the flash. The other fish turned and followed downstream, and when he opened his mouth my knee jerk reaction sent that double hooked tetanus delivery device screaming past the Predators ears and away from what would have been a trophy fish. I was pissed, and my foul words showed it. After finally closing my big mouth the Predator shut me up for the rest of the day by simply saying ‘What you’re not having fun?’ His words struck a chord and from that point on I knew I would be learning an awful lot from the guy.

 

We crossed the river and the Predator dropped the anchor. Against overhanging cliffs a fish was rising steadily, it was a big fish, and he was in a tight spot. Sandwiched between overgrown trees and snagging rocks we watched as the big brown casually sipped on a combination of the daily menu, Caddis and PMDs. We switched out rods and I was left with my own familiar stick in my hands to deliver our best offering. The first cast hit three feet above the last rise and drifted drag free into his zone. When he came up I was more surprised than the fish, and again set too quickly only feeling his weight for a split second. The Predator knew it, and explained the nearly impossible once again. Timing, its all about timing.

I had heard what a phenomenal fisherman the Predator is, but watching it was a different experience in itself. He is intensely calculating. Eyes on the water at all times looking for flashes, swirls and rises, any sign of a fish. Rowing the boat I listened as he explained the river, its sweet spots and hidden trout hideouts. I watched his cast and how he worked different structure. He told stories of the time he has spent on the water, about techniques and patterns that worked but always emphasized the changing aspects of fishing and the necessity for observation and adaptation in order to be successful. I hung on his words of advice, attempting to apply them immediately and lock them into my long term memory. We continued rowing until we hit a long, wide flat and I was told to drop anchor. I saw nothing at first, but the Predator jumped out of the boat and motioned for me to follow.

There were rising fish concealed in the current, and I was due for a lesson. We watched as head after head broke the surface, and one less pale morning dun floated downstream. “Its a high cast,” he explained, “and you have to pop it at the end to let your line fall slack.” Normal casts wont do here. The churning current forces micro drags on your flies which won't just get refusals, but will flat out put fish down. The more we watched the more fish we saw, and I began to get my eyes. This water plays tricks on you, the current is swift and broken, perceived rises sometimes are nothing more than a change in water direction, and the detection of a fish is often overlooked. The Predator had it down, and in time with his guidance I could see it all lay out before me, every fish, its position in the river and the bugs it was eating.

Turned loose on the flat I stalked fish with the intensity I had observed all day, working my new cast over the heads of rising fish. I don’t remember how many we caught that day, but it didn’t matter. They were all strong and beautiful, fighting hard all the way to the net. That afternoon the fish were willing to eat, and I was trying to slow down and remember that its all about timing. Every one we caught was a new lesson stored in my memory as the way of the Predator.