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Vol. 2, Issue 6: The 2nd Annual “Blogger Issue”

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Vol. 2, Issue 5: “The Off the Grid Issue”

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By Zach Swineart (our web guru)

Whilst wearing the Redington Sonic-Pro Stocking Foot Waders, one naturally finds oneself in a deeply internal state of being, wherein one likens oneself to a duck or other water-dwelling animal—perhaps a platypus. To nip any rumors at the bud: these waders won’t make you lay eggs. They do, however, make you über water resistant; which is a hell of a lot more useful than laying eggs could ever be, unless there’s some Spring run ‘bows in the area.

First things first—I look 1,000 times sexier in these than I did in my old camo neoprene waders, and the crossover straps keep you from getting de-wadered mid cast, which is particularly comforting when you’re completely naked under your waders, like me. These fit just loose enough to keep you moving freely but don’t go so far as to make you look all baggy like a 90’s era skate rat.

The downside’s there isn’t a good spot to clip on a net retractor without it sliding around and/or falling off. I ended up having to clip mine to the belt, and it still fell off. Good thing I didn’t land a 3-foot trout that day, like I usually do when I fish. My net would have been long gone.

Key Features: Pockets cut with futuristic-sounding lasers; ultra sonic welded seams mean no stitching; flip-out storage pouch; crossover straps; and at $249.95, an excellent value for the price.

Vol. 2, Issue 4: “The E-zine Issue”

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Like most, I started fly fishing before I got into fly tying. I was around nine years old and the small brownie I caught couldn’t have known what it was starting. By the second outing I’d tied my first fly, a mess of black and yellow hackle and seal fur, but I caught a trout on it. Since then I’ve bought maybe a dozen flies, and most of those were to take apart and see how it was done.

There was an extremely active competitive fishing scene locally. I didn’t realise at the time but it was also the creative drive behind my tying. I’d come back after a day working the river and improve my flies for next time. I went on to fish for Ireland twice but fly tying was now taking up more time than fishing, and I wanted to see where I could go in the field. I entered some tying competitions just to see how others would rate my work and I ended up winning the Masters’ Leagues.

I started getting serious about competition fly tying. It’s an arena that demands you scrutinise every wrap of thread, every turn of tinsel and spot every stray fibre to become a perfectionist, or so I thought. It was shortly after when I first picked up Mike Radencich’s book, Tying the Classic Salmon Fly, and things were never to be the same again, not least my bank balance.

After all my competition success, I was convinced I could tie a good fly, but the patterns in Radencich’s book completely blew my mind and I had to give them a go. I’d jumped in at the deep end and found I was out of my depth. Those first flies weren’t great but tying these patterns is about trial and error in search for perfection.

Interspersed between the classics in the book were artistic patterns I couldn’t even imagine tying back then. As my tying improved I found myself drawn to them, and realised that I wanted to be able to tie everything. I’d skip from project to project. When I’d worked out how to do something I’d move swiftly on. Messing around with materials would reveal an unusual characteristic of a feather and I’d think to myself, “I wonder if that would work?” and I’d set off on that tangent. It may sound a chaotic process but this is how I developed my style.

I became active on a few forums but focused on classicflytying.com where there’s an amazing community of the world’s classic fly tiers. The board covers classic and artistic salmon fly forums, and it’s great to have your work critiqued by master tiers from all over the world who readily offer opinions and guidance. Sometimes you can’t see the way forward until it’s pointed out to you. Some are die-hard in one or the other camp (I hang out in both), so artistic flies are sometimes misunderstood. I like deconstructing patterns, stripping them down to raw components and then putting them back together in radical ways. This offends the sensibilities of some of the classic dudes but provokes thought in all of them.

One of the most fundamental tenements of tying salmon flies is the continuity of flow– the fly should have a living quality to it, achieved by graceful curves and thoughtful association between materials as one melds into the next, be it in lines or colours. In the artistic realm, flow is not always so apparent and this is what divides the dig it and not for me camps. Some flies are designed and constructed with harsh contrasts and sharp, unnatural angles. The flow is there, it just demands a more lateral view be applied.

I continually explore and search for new materials (online auction sites are also part of the addiction) which then influence the creative process. I’ll rarely plan a fly but see where the flow takes me, which is sometimes nowhere…and then sometimes, something very special emerges. This is how I developed my butterfly patterns using larger, complete feathers. They really are stunning as whole entities and too large to use whole in any classic or conventional salmon fly. I certainly wasn’t comfortable with the idea of cutting them down in size.

The first attempts at creating butterfly patterns were a little crude. Refinement of technique and the account balance depletion from buying fancy feathers rewarded me with some spectacular creations. It was at this point that my wife, Dana, sat up and took notice. Before this she really had very limited interest in my fly tying. The butterflies were different, and they grabbed her attention. Now all butterflies are “Property of Dana”.  She even joins in with the creative process, looking at the different feather options for the wings. I enjoy and value her input—the female perspective.

I’m not sure where this will take me next but I’m enjoying the colourful journey.

Ryan is a veterinary surgeon by profession and a multi Gold medal winner in the UK and Ireland tying Master Leagues. Classic and artistic fly tying is his forte and he ties at fairs across the globe. His creations are available to buy via robertryan_houston@yahoo.com

I don’t imagine many of you have listened to the Clive James/Pete Atkin album, Road of Silk.  But if you haven’t, I commend the track Perfect Moments to you…”Charlie Chaplin policing Easy Street. Charlie Parker playing my old flame.”

I was thinking of that this evening as I lay on my sofa, resting my right Achilles tendon on a bag of frozen peas. The sun was setting on the hills across the harbour; I had a nicely chilled glass of Chilean Chardonnay in my hand; and the radio was tuned to Falkland Island Broadcasting Service’s, The Vinyl Frontier. Roy Orbison, Only the Lonely. Not that I like Roy Orbison too much, but it was a hotline back to the sixties when my brother, nine years older than me, immersed himself in Roy Orbison, Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochrane. It was, for reasons I can’t fully explain, a perfect moment.

Perfect moments can be bad as well as good. Kathleen Ferrier choking on the last “Ewig” in Das Lied von der Erde, shortly before she succumbed to cancer, is, in many ways, as perfect a moment as Jonny Wilkinson kicking the winning points with seconds to go in the 2003 Rugby World Cup final.

It is important always to bear this in mind by the water. The ear-splitting imprecations to a seemingly uncaring deity when a knot breaks and a fish (which will grow daily by the telling) gets away should be tempered by the thought that maybe, just maybe, this is right. Though, being human, we will much prefer the moment when a large sea-trout is horizontal, a few inches above the water, in front of us, and suddenly, in a fit of bemusement and wonder, we realise it has our fly in its mouth, and we don’t know exactly what to do next.

The Falkland Islands provide a perfect backdrop to such moments. The Islands combine some of the nostalgia of a gentler age in England (telephone boxes, a double-decker bus, the ability to leave your key in the ignition when you’ve parked your car) with a more clear-sighted view of the future (advanced regulation of the fisheries industry, wind-power supplying 40% of the capital’s energy, high-end conservation science). The people are friendly, fiercely British, but can be wary of outsiders. Their overwhelming characteristic is grit and determination. They need it. The reason the Islands are not on everyone’s fishing itineraries is that you can’t easily get to them—Argentina deliberately obstructs access to pursue a rather bizarre claim dating back to the few months in 1832-1833 when they had put a garrison on what were, even then, British Islands.

But if you persevere, traveling either through London, where the Falkland Island Government Office can book you onto RAF flights, or Santiago, from which LAN Chile operate a weekly flight, you will find the experience worth it.



There are still signs of Argentina’s invasion of 1982 to be seen, not least in the minefields alongside some of the better fishing areas. But, although veterans from both sides still visit, and military historians organise tours of the battlefields, everyone has moved on. What matters is the future.  And sea-trout fishing will be an important part of that, as tourism develops. The record is over 22lbs, bigger than the British record. The main runs are September –November and February-April, when the climate is at its most pleasant, and you can move from traditional pub to penguin spotting to whale watching to fishing and back to the pub in the course of an admittedly long afternoon.

And the experience is worth it. The other day I was standing waist-deep on a rocky spit in the Malo River when a sea trout jumped just downstream. The gale-force wind mixed with drizzle, which can on occasion be a feature here, made casting difficult, but I was inches away.  A take, and there was a fish, brilliantly silver, clearing the water. Did it matter that, when I landed it, it was less than a pound?  Is a perfect moment dependent on an outcome so that, in fact, it’s only perfect with a hint of hindsight? That’s probably the case with Ferrier and Wilkinson, maybe less with lying back on the sofa resting your Achilles. With fishing, I’m ashamed to say, it’s probably the case too. Half an hour later, in a fit of desperation, I’d tied on my last Copper Frede, and was twitching it gently back, when a much bigger fish cleared the water. After more anxious moments than I’d have preferred, I was able to release her, at comfortably over 9lbs, to continue her journey upstream to spawn. That was, in many ways, more like it. And what was perfect? The take? The fight?  The size? The release?

No. It was the moment a split second or two before the fish took, when I stopped shaking with cold, breathing stopped, and then came easily, the world stood still, and I knew I was going to get a fish.

Nigel Haywood is Governor of the Falkland Islands and Commissioner, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands. He can be reached at nigelhaywood@mac.com

On the River Spey, for example, the best fishing is generally between May and July, but its world famous lower and middle beats usually require that four to six rods be booked for the entire week in the unlikely event of time shaking free. However, some of the Spey’s upper beats are easier to access later in the season and can offer great fishing at that time.

And then there’s the huge influx of Scandinavian fishers that ascend on the River Dee, such is the health of its spring salmon stocks. Though the demand has increased fishing prices, availability on its better beats often remains scarce there too in the spring. Later in the season from June onwards, good fly fishing is obtainable in the middle and upper reaches of the river, and can make for exciting sport in this beautiful, well managed river.

There are still beats available on the River Tweed during the spring and summer, and salmon fishing can be good during these times. The Tweed sees a massive run of salmon enter in the fall, but the cost of salmon fishing then is exceptionally high with a single daily rod permit often being between £350 and £600 (the Dee and Spey are typically between £100 and £250 per rod per day). However, these beats need to be purchased a year in advance with payments made then too. Most other Scottish salmon rivers close their seasons by the middle of October, but the usually productive Tweed can command whatever prices since its still in season through November.

The best bet for a visit is on Scotland’s largest river, the River Tay. Recent changes in its management have already begun to show that it’s officially on the up. The Tay is accessed much easier and it does have a good head of spring, summer, and fall salmon in it these days.

By far the biggest of the Scottish salmon rivers, the Tay requires careful planning due to its sheer size and complexity. The Atlantic salmon shift locations during the different months of the year, but landing them in the 15 to 25lb range is common and provides great excitement on the fly, especially in the Tay’s fast running, deep pools.  The fishing is usually let by the day without a minimum number of fishers and up to the maximum allowed rods per mile ruling for each beat. As with most Scottish salmon rivers, the Tay usually does not exceed six fishers per mile.




Having been a guide on the Tay for many years, I believe there’s nothing to touch the Tay’s Atlantic salmon fishing. Between mid April and late June, the bulk of the spring run is located on certain middle beats there. In addition, the Tay, unlike the other rivers, seldom provides unfishable or poor water conditions. Its 2,500 square mile catchment, which includes huge headwater lochs that act as settling tanks, keep discoloration at a minimum during the flood conditions that normally render the smaller rivers unfishable. During low water conditions, the Tay’s size also allows it to hold enough water for salmon to run when other Scottish rivers have become a waste of time.

There are opportunities on these four rivers, but Atlantic salmon fishing in Scotland is world renown, and its reputation coupled with high demand simply makes it difficult to get onto them at the best time of the season. Independent agents like Les Brandie of www.fishing-uk-scotland.com can offer good advice on availability of guides and salmon fishing on all these Scottish rivers. And regardless of the time of season, there’s always a best bet.

Jock Monteith is a Scottish salmon guide who runs a team of fellow time served professional guides. Visit his website, www.salmon-fishing-scotland.com, for travel information, advice for accessing Scotland’s famous salmon rivers, or to contact him. Jock would be delighted to welcome any American & Canadian fly fishers to Scotland’s finest salmon rivers.

It’s been said that, never seeing something doesn’t mean it does not exist, and just because something exists does not mean you will ever see it.

Steelhead: the fabled fish of 1,000 casts. While that may or may not be an exaggeration, it points to the fact that steelhead are (increasingly) rare creatures. Given the dwindling numbers of wild steelhead, they’ve taken on a nearly mythical reputation and many people––even anglers who pursue them––rarely see them. Some anglers never see them, which puts steelhead right up there with unicorns and Bigfoot.

When I refer to steelhead, I’m of course talking about West Coast fish. Now before you Great Lakes folks get your waders in a knot, hear me out. My intent isn’t to lay claims of superiority as to what constitutes real steelhead. But for the sake of my pursuits, any references to steelhead are of the West Coast specimens. You know, anadromous fish.

As to the reference of 1,000 casts, clearly it’s a phrase coined by those who swing flies for steelhead, because those who nymph with beads have considerably better hookup rates. Again, I’d like to avoid adding more fuel to the fire, as there’s already plenty of bi-partisan wrangling over the matter of acceptable tactics employed to catch steelhead. I’ll simply state that 1,000 casts isn’t out of the question, at least for the most unaccomplished of anglers, of which I’m certainly one.

If so uncommon, how did this elusive fish gain such notoriety? It is, in fact, the state fish of Washington, but it wasn’t always so rare. One needn’t look that far back in history to know that Pacific Northwest river systems, such as the Skagit and Snohomish, were regarded as productive steelhead rivers as recently as 10-15 years ago. At least that’s what I’ve been told—I wasn’t chasing them “back in


the day” and only have my more recent experiences to draw my conclusions. And I’ve concluded that while steelhead exist, they’re nearly as preternatural as the hair-covered, ape-like bipeds with large feet that are reputed to walk the nearby forests and mountains.

For a few years, and admittedly with little tenacity, I pursued steelhead with a single-handed 8-weight. I managed just shy of 1,000 casts before deciding that my tendonitis-plagued shoulder would benefit from the merits of a spey rod. Then I quit counting because I wasn’t sure if a botched spey cast counted toward the goal of 1,000. The decision was liberating—keeping score had always reminded me of golf, a four letter word and a game I loathe.

If not for photographic proof, no reasonably intelligent person would believe that any of the fish I’ve since caught were more than fantastical stories. As for unicorns and Bigfoot, while I’ve still yet to see either, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Maybe the folks near the Great Lakes have photos.

Kirk Werner’s an illustrator, graphic designer and author of the Olive the Woolly Bugger series of children’s books. Kirk’s a homegrown product of Washington State where he lives in the small town of Duvall. Read more from him at the Unaccomplished Angler blog.

The Nympher

By Paddy McIlvoy

Bless me father for I have sinned. Aside from my chronic everyday sloth, gluttony, and lust; I have broken the first commandment of steelhead fishing.

I’ve nymphed. A lot.

I’m a serial offender—a fly fishing pervert who digs watching a big, fat yarn indicator dive for the bottom of the river like it dropped into a black hole.

This confession is the steelhead fishing equivalent of walking into the Vatican and calling Mother Theresa a whore. It’s not technically illegal per-se, but it tends to get the pious swung-fly clergy’s hackles up.

I own spey rods, think switch rods are awesome, and, when I’m fishing for trout, tend to single-hand Snap-T and Double Spey as much as I cast overhand. I think hooking steelhead on the swing is awesome. The tug is the drug, and all that. It’s just that, well, I like to catch steelhead.

Perfect example: a couple months ago my hard-core, pious, spey-rodder girlfriend (opposites attract) and I stepped into a beautiful run on a famous western steelhead river. The sun was rising, the water was misty; it was basically the opening scene of every steelhead fishing flick ever.

She went first throwing bullet loops to the other side of the river. I swung in behind her, throwing somewhat short of the other side of the river, loving the spey-dance rhythm. Nothing. Nada.  Completely ignored. So we changed flies and went through again. We were pure and good. Holy, even.  And the fish ignored us completely.

Morgan went through a third time. The run was obviously that good. I broke down, went to the dark side, and slunk off to rig up my favorite combo of a big Rubber Legs Stone and a Summer Love on the dropper.

It took exactly two casts. The indicator ripped down and left, and I said a totally fake “sorry” as I raced downstream past Morgan after the first of two beautiful, chrome hens (two more casts).

I don’t care if I have to grow horns and tuck a forked tail under my waders. Nymphing just works.

I can already hear the shrill wails of the holier-than-thou set. The temple of Dec’ers who think a swung fly is the only righteous way to catch the world’s most special fish. They’re saying I didn’t deserve those fish because my fly was moving the same speed as the current, instead of racing across it.

I love this argument because they’re doing the same thing. They’re casting across the river and then mending.  Because, well, steelhead are basically lazy; they are generally more likely to grab a fly that’s not moving real fast. I like to think I’m just mending better.

Am I a bad person? Bound for fish Hell? Maybe. I’m already a guide, which is about as far down the moral spectrum of fly fishing as you can get, so I don’t have far to fall.

In the end, would I rather catch a steelhead mid-way through a swing, at the end of the greatest spey cast I’ve ever made? Sure. Will I love the incredibly electric dance of fish and fisherman any less if it eats a dead-drift glo-bug? I think not.

The Swinger

By Zac Mayhew

Yank. Prick. Pull. Grab. Pluck. Sound familiar? An entire year can be defined by the frequency of these words. Most steelhead fishermen are misunderstood and resemble homeless vagabonds—clothes tattered, waders patched (insert duct tape here), have marginal hygiene. There’s a homely glimmer of hope in our eyes.

We’re willing to throw away everything—relationships, money, jobs, and family. We’re down for outlandish trips despite costs, or sleeping in cars, and boozing on early mornings. We’re making weird motions with huge rods to get flies fishing and we take two passes on water that didn’t produce the first time.

But heed this warning: there are imposters among us. People who choose to flop lead, pound beads, and sling bobbers. Even more frightening than their tactics—which they’ve stolen from their Key Stone Light drinking, trash negligent, fish whacking, bait slinging counterparts—these “steelheaders” claim fly fishing glory. And they are among us—at grocery stores, post offices, and even… our friends.

To the trained eye they’re easily distinguished. Nymphers exhaust the talk about steelhead, fish on bright-sunny-cold days successfully, fish holes and pools, and believe that two-handers can cast up stream. They never get heated about low-holing anglers or pocket picking Jedi’s, and they seem to have impeccable steelhead karma. Their tying desks are not heaping with pounds of purple, seas of “slutty” blue, or an armament of black bunny—they actually take pride in creating the next great glo-bug, yarnie, or stonefly.

Nymphers don’t understand why we’d choose to “two step” down a run or why our go-to fly has always been our go-to fly—why our days are spent waiting for that mysterious pull, and why days without grip n’ grins are still great days.

Find solace in the fact that we’re misunderstood. Watch the nymphers drive up and down the river, or boat through the center of a tasty run. Just bury your head under that rain jacket, and simply take another step. After all… it’s just fishing.

Secret Fishing Spot from Alkota Beats on Vimeo.

By Travis Brady of Alkota Beats

Over the years I’ve sat through numerous alcohol induced ramblings about an epic multi-day fishing trip consisting of a train ride on the Alaska Railroad, ornery brown bears, and landing sixty rainbows a day. Having never been on this magical tour, I dismissed it as angler embellishment.

But then…

It was August, and the silver and pink salmon spawn was in full effect. We drove an hour and half north of Anchorage to the eclectic town of Talkeetna. Chalked full of anti-government libertarian types, overpriced gift shops, and “charming” restaurant-cafes, the town marked our departure via the Alaska Railroad. We parked our vehicles at the train station, unloaded our gear, and purchased our tickets.

The Alaska Railroad is one of the nation’s last “flag stop” trains. Remote homesteads along the rail tracks rely on the Alaska Railroad for transportation, mail, and supplies. Outdoor enthusiasts also take advantage of the flag stop service to access numerous remote camping, hunting, and fishing areas throughout the state.

For $45 each, we were handed roundtrip tickets, a train schedule, and extraction times for the coming days, and soon after we boarded with enough gear, beer, and 8mm beads to last a week. The train skirted along the Susitna River heading north for almost two hours before coming to a halt. Few places make grown men throw their hands in the air and cheer like children, but we’d found one.



The rivers and creeks of the Susitna River drainage were stacked with salmon, lurking rainbows, and creeping arctic grayling. Clouds of multi colored roe, eventually replicated by 6-8mm beads, supplied gorging fish with an endless food supply. It was a sub-surface fly angler’s dream.

Some claim that fishing beads to Alaska’s hungry rainbows is “cheating” or “too easy”, but it’s apparent these same individuals have never participated in the glory!

Travis is an Anchorage based entrepreneur and hip hop producer, otherwise known as Alkota. He is also a fulltime outdoor enthusiast and conservationist.