I’ve had a lot of time to think about my title at Blood Knot, editor of Bitch Creek. There’s a word in there I still can’t say in front of my mother though I’m inching towards 30. At first, I just saw the sheer humor in it, but I’m that kinda girl—if it’s not funny, I’m not interested.

But I started thinking more about Bitch Creek, and what other people might think about that department title. I assume a lot of people don’t even know that it’s actually a place. Straddling the Idaho/Wyoming border near the Tetons, Bitch Creek is a tributary of the Snake River. Some say the creek got its name because of its steep access—it’s a bitch to get out of. The Bitch Creek fly, a pteronarcys nymph pattern, originated there.

Teton Brewing Company has a Bitch Creek ESB, too. In the age of funny and/or fishing related microbrew names, I love this one because of its Idaho connection. And, for a while, I lived in a gross house full of boys with naked lady posters from Teton Brewing to remind me daily of what beer I should be drinking.

Some people don’t like the title Bitch Creek and I understand. Sometimes I don’t either. We don’t mean it to be sexist or to sexualize through skill, and it’s hard to not be seen that way. There’s a feminist magazine called Bitch, and I like to think of our title that way. We’re bad-asses and we get to call ourselves whatever we like.

Hell, I’d much rather be associated with Bitch Creek than Dame Juliana’s maiden fly nymphets or whatever those ladies like to call themselves. Sure, I could be caught on the river with make-up and pearls, but I’m a lot more likely to be rocking some Nirvana with un-brushed hair and socks I’ve worn inside waders for two weeks straight.

It’s a sign of the times. We don’t have to wear pearls, or men’s shirts, but we can do either. Modern feminism. We get to have it all and kick ass while we’re doing it.

We’re in the feminist era of fly-fishing; while our dads, grandpas, brothers, and other men in our lives got us started, we don’t need to be supervised on the river anymore. When I started fishing, I was always by myself because I didn’t have any friends who fished and my



parents required me to call them every hour (ah, the age of cell phones). Last year, I fished about 50 days by myself. People still stare, though. I had an audience on the Henry’s Fork once. Why? I’m not a spectacular caster by any means, but men can see a ponytail and breasts from space.

We’re everywhere, not that that’s anything new. It has always been socially acceptable for women to fish. It’s always been a weird sporting niche where it’s acceptable for women to excel. The best angler I knew growing up was Mrs. Elek. She wore camo while bait fishing in the San ‘Tone River and always managed to catch more catfish than anyone else.

Long story short, at Blood Knot, we’re Bitch Creek and we like it. We’re women who love to fish and are lucky enough to go fishing whenever we like, with who ever we like, wherever we like. Take it or leave it.

Fly Anglers seem to have a penchant for seeking out which isn’t readily available or easily caught. To justify this rationale, most quickly claim the respectable “all part of the fly fishing challenge” we fancy ourselves around. When a rare species crosses our paths, at minimal there’s a double pause, and if the opportunity presents itself, a quick pursuit seems to be in order.

Through the years it’s come to my attention that I’m one of those rare and elusive species that can be discovered on the waterways. I, Rebecca Anne, more commonly known as “The Outdooress,” fall under the FFF classification: Female Fly Fisherlady. And because of the FFF designation, I’ve experienced just about every imaginable ‘Spot, Stalk, Presentation, Net and Photo Op’ interaction on the riverbank imaginable, and at this point have a few pointers to offer my fellow fly fisherman.

The Approach

Let me just say straight away: the stalk method to approaching an FFF is not advisable. I understand that you may want to get a better look at the FFF and normally a silent stalk method works fantastic for spooky trout, however, us ladies have been taught from a young age that being stalked, especially from the bushes, is deploy the mace , ask questions later-worthy.

I suggest you approach an FFF just as you would any other fly fisherman, respectively. Announce yourself if you’re coming up behind them or simply give them wide berth and keep going. If you circle around, you can steal several glances and probably get a good look at the FFF’s left hand for a ring check. Stop and stare too long and she may stop fishing all together, bolting the opposite direction. If you cannot resist a personal interaction, please keep reading.

The Presentation

If you discover a pressing desire to converse with the FFF, your presentation is key to success. It’s not advisable to cast out a marriage proposal greeting in the first minute. That’s like throwing your entire fly box at a rising trout the first time it surfaces. Instead, if you’ve had success with a specific fly that day, feel free to offer suggestions as a conversation starter. She may not need your advice, but she won’t display the act of a runaway bride either and quickly wade away. Play it cool during this first interaction and she just might tell you what her secret fly is for the day. A win-win situation.

The Hook Set

If you find yourself with a receptive FFF on the line after your approach and presentation, a slow retrieval is essential. This is not the time to yank and horse in the FFF with your excitement. Keep your cool, pretend you’ve hauled in a hundred of these creatures during your years of fly fishing. One wrong move and you could snap off—she’ll wade away and later you’ll still be telling stories of the one that got away.

Netting

Chances are the FFF will know how to net her own fish. If you’ve been watching (not stalking) and notice the FFF has hooked a fish, remain calm. I assure you, a 100 yard dash from downstream over slippery rocks and against the current to net her 10 inch fish probably isn’t necessary. However, she’ll notice your efforts and it can be entertaining for her, especially if you fall into the drink. If you’ve been hiding in the bushes behind her and suddenly jump out to net her fish, don’t say I didn’t warn you.




If you’ve been pursuing an available FFF for reasons beyond making a temporary fishing buddy on the riverbank, getting her into your net takes finesse and careful handling. You’re on your own here, but mentioning you own a drift boat can‘t hurt.

The Grip and Grin

Taking a picture of the FFF can be tricky business. Typically, even if you haven’t approached her, she will notice if you pull out a camera and start taking pictures of her. If you must do this, my suggestion is taking them from afar with your camera’s zoom feature. A broadside will not be as intimidating as say, wading directly in front of her and yelling out, “Say Caddis!” This may or may not evoke a smile. Hiding in the bushes behind her and yelling, “Hey You” will certainly make her look, but the fright factor will spook her. If you see the FFF catch a fish and she is indeed alone, wading up and offering to take a picture for her is an understandable approach and may be appreciated. You can also utilize this photo opportunity in your initial presentation with decent success.

Catch and Release

You will find two FFF’s on the riverbanks. More commonly are the ones that have already been hooked and netted by one of your fly fishing brethren. These types of FFF’s are rarely released for future catching and typically (make no mistake about this) the proud angler who hooked this rare specimen will be close by watching out for his coveted FFF. The real rarity is discovering an FFF that hasn’t been hooked, netted and claimed by another angler. If you’re looking for a fly fishing partner and discover one of these wading about your fishing waters, I suggest showing her all your best moves, fly boxes, rods, reels and save the marriage proposal for your second river date.

And lastly, remember that when the FFF is out fly fishing, she’s probably not looking for a date, nor a husband. She may realize she’s an oddity in passing, but ultimately she is just doing what all fly fishermen are on the river to do: enjoy her day, catch a few fish, and maybe make a new fishing friend or two…

I have this friend—he’s “that guy”. You know, the guy who talks loudly in restaurants. The guy who drinks half your bottle of whiskey while you live to regret it as he embarrasses you at the poker table mid-flush. The guy who blows up your phone with hourly phone calls, and then bitches when you press ignore because you don’t have time to humour another lengthy conversation during your work day?

This friend of mine is most definitely “that guy”, and believe it or not, he’s proven himself to be one of the best friends I have. This mutually distorted friendship we have always proves to entertain the unfortunate people who have to witness us as we evoke verbal abuse towards each other.

They question if we secretly hate one another or if we are both simply deranged and cursed with a twisted and warped sense of sarcastic perversions. Some secretly wonder if there’s a concealed romance we refuse to acknowledge, and both of us slightly barf in our mouths when the assumption arises. Yup, he’s most definitely one of the best friends I have.

So when he called for the fourteenth time as I was enjoying my silent drift down BC’s Bulkley River, my thumb pushed my ignore button through the inside pocket flap of my waders. I turned my music up and continued to push my raft through the current. Colby (my pup) was relaxing behind me and Bob Marley was singing in my ears. The day was perfect, the sun was shining, the fish were rising.

What the hell? My phone was ringing again. Aghh. My friend, Matt, the “this guy” guy, was at it again. I couldn’t ignore call number 15…so I answered. “What the hell do you want? I’m trying to fish in peace today.”

“Listen here, Kardashian,” he shot back with his ever-so-kind nickname for me in reference to the size of my butt, “I’m calling for a reason.”

I clenched my phone between my neck and ear and prayed that should the phone fall, it miss the empty space in the middle of my Water Master. I chuckled. Oh how sweet we were to each other. “Yes?”

“I won a cruise through work and it’s just too depressing to go alone. None of the guys can get the time off to go at such short notice. It’s only for four days and it’s an escape from the cold torture you crazy Canuckstanians call winter—it’s to Mexico…you wanna come or not?”

A recent divorcée, I knew his intentions were pure and that he truly had no one else to join him for the trip. I thought about it… “Separate beds?”
“Yup.”
“Separate tabs?”
“Yup.”
“Can we go fishing?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You know that everyone on that ship is going to think I’m some young gold digging pop tart hanging off my Sugar Daddy?”
“Who cares what they think. Do you want a free trip or not?”

Four weeks later I was sitting on a plane heading to the boat launch in Florida and my sides hurt from laughing at Matt. A Texan, he was obnoxious to a “T” and went out of his way to make sure he was heard. He rapped fellow Canadian, Drake’s “Oh you Fancy, Huh?” as we went through airport security. He blamed our being late on a result of my high maintenance morning routine (which of course was untrue—it was Mr. Diva himself who had to have a shower and style his hair upon awakening). And true to Matt form, he pretended to the airport waitress that it was my birthday, seven months later… It was my birthday four times that week.

So we landed in Florida and headed up the Royal Caribbean stairs and onto the cruise ship. There were people, drinks and bathing suits everywhere, and all I could think about was fishing for bones in the Yucatan. Then it hit me: this was the longest I had ever traveled to fish for a single day.

Matt and I, both not cruise people, took a look around at the happy people and cute bikini clad girls who giggled past us en route to the bar. He and I caught eyes and started laughing. As much as I looked like a gold digging pop tart, his hungry eyes checking out the scenery had him looking like the world’s slimiest “boyfriend”. This should be interesting…

Two days later we had landed on the dock of the Cozumel port and were frantically rushing to meet our guide downtown.We stopped to ask one of the locals where the boat launch was and were shocked to hear that it was a half hour taxi ride across town. We rushed to hail a cab in time to meet our guys.

They were friendly and smiling when we arrived.  Our translator asked if I needed to borrow their spinning gear for the day and Matt explained kindly that I’d be fly-fishing instead.

The translator looked confused but passed the message onto our guide, Victor, who spoke a little English. His face changed from confused to mildly exhausted and I laughed a little at what must be going on in his head.



We loaded into the boat and made the trip across the bay to the flats. The bones here were small and spooky, but quick and fun. The possibility of a shot at a permit later in the day had my stomach excitedly antsy. We approached the flats and Matt was equally as excited. He grabbed his rods, wished me luck, and then took off down the beach squinting and moving slow.

Victor and I headed in the opposite direction and found a small school of bonefish right away. The water was warm and the day was slightly overcast but we could still see them, a grey matte color in the water as they pushed their way towards us and made the water quiver like a warm-water chill.

I cast, stripped…a small bone chased and picked up my fly an arm’s length in front of me. I set hard and it was game on.

The Mexico bones were fun and kept us entertained for several hours before we made the decision to try our luck at permit.  After all, all we had was seven hours of fishing and we wanted to use that seven hours as productively as we could.

Matt gave me first shot on the platform and positioned himself to ensure my line didn’t get caught under my bare feet while casting. A saltwater junkie, Matt had done his fair share of saltwater fishing and was enthusiastic enough for the two of us. Like an old married couple, he excitedly barked orders at me and I excitedly told him to shove it. Poor Victor…

We poled the flats, desperately looking for the infamous permit, scouring every inch of the tropical water until it was time to head back to the cruise ship. The ship was departing at a set time and had made it clear that they were to wait for no one.

Petrified of being left behind, we raced to break down our gear and Matt nearly threw me into our waiting cab. “Señor, quick, quick—back to the cruise ship docks!”

He sounded so dramatic. I rolled my eyes. “They’re not going to leave without us, silly.”

“You wanna bet?”  He challenged.

As we cut through the city, I watched Matt’s face turn white. He had only grabbed enough cash for our guide, and not expecting to be cabbing it to our fishing spot, he had left his wallet behind. As we approached the entrance to the docks, Matt explained that he was going to leave me with the cab driver and run in to grab some more money to pay for the fare.

As I sat waiting in the backseat of the hot car, an awkward silence mixed with the muggy air. “Soooo, do you live around here?” He said something in Spanish and it didn’t take long for me to realize that a conversation exchange was probably not going to be that much fun for either of us.

I leaned back into my seat and realized as the driver became increasingly nervous that I had been left as collateral for cab fare.  Well, isn’t this just great, I thought to myself.

Twenty minutes later, Matt bolted around the corner and sweat stained sleeves threw money to the cab driver and then snatched me out of the car. “Run!” He shouted at me, “They’re leaving with or without us!”

“What?” The two of us must have looked absolutely ridiculous racing like contestants off of the Amazing Race. I ran behind him shouting, wading boots in hand, flip-flops slipping all over the slick cement and gear flailing uncontrollably. Matt ran ahead of me and caught security as they prepared to close the door. I was going to break my neck and made the mistake of stopping to remove my flip-flops so I could run in bare feet.

People lined the decks and hung over the railing bars shouting at me furiously for holding up the ship.  Courtesy of the Royal Caribbean staff, an announcement had been made that they were waiting for one more passenger to sign back in: a Miss April Vokey.

I shouted back my frustrations when I could catch a breath and continued to flog my way through the sloshy cement towards the heavily armed doors. It was not my finest moment.

The rest of the cruise was fun. Matt and I thoroughly enjoyed the belly flop contests and breakfast buffet. Other favourites of Matt’s included watching flying fish as they caught air in the ship’s wake and skipped the waves like little birds, watching the equally entertaining hot blond in the yellow bikini surrounded by peacocking men, and of course, the mango fruit drinks that he ordered for me but didn’t want me to have to drink “such an embarrassing drink alone”, so he got himself one too.

It was a great trip all in all and a week that I most certainly will always remember. A cruise ship escape to the silence of the uncrowded and tranquil white sand flats was serenity like none other. I’d fish with “that guy” again in a heartbeat, and if it means that on the next trip we have to make yet another two day commute to fish for a total of seven hours, then so be it and count me in!

For years I listened to friends talk about British Columbia and the steelhead gracing the rivers there. I drooled over pictures, was entranced by stories, and dreamed of one day being able to partake in a B.C. steelhead adventure of my own. This October, my dream finally became a reality.

With road maps, road food (chips and Twizzlers), and uncontrollable giddiness, my dad and I blazed our way to Canada. We’d been planning this trip for nearly a year and had picked the brains of every steelheader we met to make sure we had all the right gear and knew exactly where to go. Even with all this preparation, we still managed to drive 100 miles in the wrong direction, lose keys, and miss several turns. Oops! Like I said, it was an adventure.

We met up with fellow steelhead friend, Paul Miller, who was kind enough to let us stay in his beautiful home and show us the ropes fishing the Kispiox. We spent that first night talking about flies and looking at Playboy-material steelhead. Just listening to his stories made it difficult for me to sleep that night—you could say I had “wet” dreams.

The next morning, Paul and my dad and I drove out to our first run, Runway.  After a 20-minute hike through the bushes and a quick lesson on how to rig up our leaders, we started fishing. At first my casting was, to say the least, awful. I kept looking over my shoulder at my dad, hoping he didn’t see how nauseating it was. After a few smacks on the back of the head and some untangling, I started making decent loops with some distance. It was a beautiful run and I was feeling it! You know, like, “Oh man, there’s a fish here. I’m going to get a heart stopping grab right here!” The kind of feeling where every sense is tuned into that single swing and in your mind you picture a bright hen racing up to grab your fly. We fished that run hard for nearly two hours before some locals came by and warned us that a sow grizzly whose cub had been caught in a snare was in our area.

Over the next couple days, my dad and I continued to fish hard but didn’t turn up any fish. The weather was the norm for steelheading—rain and overcast, and I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever see one.

Then we hit this run and split it in half between the two of us. My dad started at the eye and I worked through the bucket and tailout. After 30 minutes I looked upriver towards my dad and saw that his rod was bent and he was waving me over. He’d hooked a nice 30+ inch steelhead. He eased the chrome hen over to a small eddy where I was able to grab her tail. She was bright, as if fresh from the ocean. Small spots dotted themselves across her back down to her tail, and a faint red stripe lined its way down her side. We took a couple photos then released the fish back to the river. It was our only fish for the day and we couldn’t have been happier.

The next morning we rose before the sun and walked down to Runway. The angry sow had been caught and relocated, and it was safe to fish there again. I tied on a blue and black fly that a good friend made for me. I made a quick cast, made a small mend, and watched as my line followed the



current. Rain pelted my hood and ran down my face. My hands were freezing along with my feet. The swing was nearly finished and I was contemplating a new cast when I felt a hard tug. My first thought was “bottom” but when I felt a second tug I knew that wasn’t the case. I lifted my rod very gently and instantly my reel began to sing like an opera singer.

I started laughing and hollering at my dad. It felt so good to feel a fish tug on my rod and knowing it was a steelhead made it that much better. The fight was no longer than 15 minutes when my dad grabbed the tail. I sat and stared at my first B.C. steelhead. It had rosy cheeks and an almost non-existent red stripe down its side—it’s when I’m holding a fish and studying its beauty that I realize again why I love to fish. There isn’t a more rewarding feeling than releasing something you’ve worked so hard for. I watched as my fish swam out of view and I sighed a sigh of relief, amazement, and accomplishment.

I’ve heard people say that steelhead get into your blood and it couldn’t be truer. They’re beautiful, mysterious, timeless fish. The more people who know about steelhead, the greater chance we have at keeping them around for generations to come. Forever wild steelhead!

Camille Egdorf spends her summers in Alaska guiding at her parents’ lodge in Bristol Bay and her winters at Montana State University, where she studies Business Management.  In a nutshell, she’s a happy-go-lucky girl who loves the beauty of nature and chases fish with bugs.

Attaboy Tommy!

News flash: women want it all! We want the same level of performance as men’s gear and we want it to fit our entirely different physiology….okay, and we want it to look cute, too. Is that too much to ask? Not for Redington’s women-specific Chena River waders.

For a mid-priced wader ($179), the Chenas deliver the same types of features and materials of comparable men’s waders, but they do it with careful regard to women’s proportions. Redington even found a way to throw in a splash of understated “cute.” The Chena River waders are constructed of 4-layer Taslan with a polyurethane coating. Technically, PU Taslan isn’t a waterproof/breathable fabric (just waterproof), but wearing synthetic base layer bottoms kept clamminess at bay.

The design and fit of the Chenas were spot on for minimalist women’s waders because Redington reached out to Northwest Women’s Fly Fishers for input in the design. The result: nicely fitting waders with enough width at the hips, but tailored enough to not feel like a giant trash bag. The solitary zippered accessory pocket, fleece-lined chest pocket, and hidden D-ring keep things sleek and simple. Remembering that cuteness counts, Redington includes a cute fish design sewn into the belt and just below the zippered pocket on the chest. Understated and just enough.

Whether you’re a hardcore lady angler on a budget or just taking up the sport to share the pastime with a loved one, Redington’s Chena River waders provide simple but well-considered features in a women-specific design with just the right hint of femininity. See, we really can have it all!  

Check them out at www.redington.com.

I was stoked to try out the Fishpond Chica Women’s Vest. The first thing I noticed about it was the awesome light green and blue color combo. I’ve used Fishpond products for years and have often been shocked by their loud colors, but this vest camouflages easily on any spring creek. It also has super cute (I know, but cute matters to me) decorative stitching on the front and back. Even one of my girlfriends who doesn’t fish commented on how cute it is!

The Chica is lightweight and features adjustment options on the shoulders and waist to accommodate diverse female forms. The shoulders also have some cushy padding to lighten the load. There’s a neat hook on the back as well as a nice pocket to stash lunch or a rain jacket. Four zippered pockets per side and hand warmer pockets fill out the front.

The biggest problem I had with the vest was its capacity to carry stuff. I filled up the front pockets with only four fly boxes and it’s not particularly figure flattering. The vest has a plethora of pockets and compartments, but it lacks volume. It’s almost impossible to use the hand warmer pockets—it took me a while to even find them. Three or four larger pockets would have made it easier to pack and find your stuff.

I still recommend this vest for the ladies, but only to those who aren’t packing a lot of gear on the river. The vest is lightweight, supported, and bare minimum you’ll look fabulous as you fish. This women’s specific vest is new for 2011 and is available for $139. Fish in style at www.fishpondusa.com

April Vokey needs little introduction. She’s the Queen Bee of the NW Fly Fishing scene in North America, and a goddess of the sport for her visual appeal and angling prowess. Fly Gal, her outdoor guide and adventure service, crowns her enviable web presence and is evolving to offer the best in steelhead trips and ladies’ specific swag. She is a conservationist, an advocate for women in fly fishing—she’s also an outspoken personality and a lot of fun…

BK: You know those calendars with chicks posing in bikini tops and hip waders—have you personally encountered ladies who favor the cast-turn-pout technique?

AV: Ah yes, the cast, turn, pout and push your cleavage together shots. …Let’s take the “cast” part out of there. I’d love to tell you that I’ve only seen this “technique” on calendar pages but I’d be bold-faced lying. I may know a girl or two who strive to get those sorts of photos for their Facebook profile or God knows what else, and it always gives me a good chuckle. The truth is I don’t think any of those bikini clad gals are actually serious when they’re posing and if it’s not in good fun, it’s likely for a pay cheque. As far as the girls who do wear clothing under their waders yet sex up the photo with smouldering eyes and pushed out pouts, well we can blame Angelina for that. That pout’s showing up everywhere—yes, even on the water.

BK: Do you knowingly keep fly fishing feminine or is it just a side effect of being naturally fabulous?

AV: (Laughing) Fabulous, huh? I like you. So, do I knowingly keep it feminine? Do men knowingly lower their voice, grow thick chest hair and create testosterone? I’m a girl. I can hold my own and I defy most anyone to pick a fight with me, but I’m still a girl who runs with my hand out to the side, stands in the river with one hip cocked, and sings along to the beat of Erykah Badu as I harmonize with the sound of the river. All we truly have in this one life we’ve been given is the opportunity to be the best we can be. How can we be our best if we’re trying to be like someone else? Yes, I’m naturally feminine.

BK: Where’s the appropriate balance between sex appeal and celebrating our accomplishments as lady anglers?

AV: Hmmm, that’s a great question and a tricky one to answer without going all out on a tangent. I wish I could answer this for you as a woman who hasn’t been the center of such a “sex appeal” debate in the past. The hilarity of it all is that even when a woman is dressed in fleece, a hat, and the most unattractive boots ever made, she still gets ripped on for “holding the rod so good,” followed by the age-old, “she can ride my pole anytime!” and “I did her!” I swear, according to the forums, I’ve slept with half the fishing world and almost half the computer dork population. It’s a damn shame that I don’t remember getting that much action. Anyhow, to the point, “celebrating our accomplishments” should be so far on the other end of the spectrum of sex appeal that I feel awkward even putting them in the same sentence. True accomplishments of a lady angler should be made by breaking barriers, inspiring others (both men and women), fighting stereotypes and battling the industry idiots with a grin and a Jay-Z shoulder brush. Most importantly though, the true accomplishments for us as lady anglers happen when we fish our asses off knowing that no one on Earth can wipe the smile off our faces. Accomplishments are incredible things. On the contrary, sex appeal, whether it’s deliberate or otherwise, doesn’t take that much talent. The unfortunate part of it all is that sex appeal, more often than not, is simply a perception. So, where’s the appropriate balance you ask? There is none. Either a woman in this sport makes accomplishments or she doesn’t. How she’s perceived along the way is simply up to the observer.



BK: I have to ask then—do you usually wear a little make-up on the water?

AV: (Laughing) Well, this is a first. It’s hard for me to answer this one with a straight face. Casting, fly-tying, steelhead, guiding stories, and my makeup list. One of these things is not like the others… Sure, I wear mascara and Chap Stick. A little eyeliner and I have been known to befriend each other on occasion as well. C’mon, most of us gals wear a little. Don’t let the brown tones and neutral shades fool you. I wear the same amount of makeup when I go to the store, on a date, or to the river. It’s a five minute job at most and that’s if I didn’t fall asleep with it on the night before only to run out the door the next morning “as is.”

BK: So what would you say if a manufacturer asked you to use your sex appeal, rather than your skill, to sell a product in an ad?

AV: Let’s be honest with each other—isn’t that already how it is? Some companies are sincerely interested in recruiting more women to the sport and are genuine when they ask to “use me” to help the cause.  When I’m approached by someone who I feel is looking to “use me” for the wrong reasons, I simply say no, regardless of what the offer may be. It’s very simple. For the most part, I keep from regularly fishing in a bikini or flipping my hair out of my eyes with a ditzy giggle and lingering stare.  Let’s get real though, I get hit with this whole selling “sex appeal” whether I like it or not, clothes on or off.  It’s the world of marketing and all I can do is stay true to myself.

BK:And speaking of the cause, I heard Fly Gal Ventures is expanding—what’s going on over there?  

AV: Well, we’ve been spending some serious time redoing our website and have recently joined forces with several other strong fly-fishing gals in the industry. Fly Gal Ventures has since morphed into Fly Gal Nation and we’ve got a pretty incredible team lined up and are excited to come out stronger than ever! We’ve got some new and incredible 2010/2011 deals, merchandise, schools, and trips lined up. See http://www.flygal.ca for regular updates and details.

BK: Nice. Well, this is our Holiday Issue you know—what does April Vokey want for Christmas this year?

AV: How about a full December on the Thompson without having to answer a single email. Oh, and a new Tacoma might be nice too…

Reckless, so I’ve been told.

In my youth, I found myself searching for ways to escape the dull, everyday routine of a boring 9 to 5 job or attending community college—looking for something better than what I had.  Eventually, I found my soul in a beat up 1976 Chevrolet Nova.  We drove over snow-covered passes in the Sierra Mountains and we eventually parted ways due to a blown transmission. I spent hours and days on the snow, curving through open meadows of light, fluffy powder and charging down narrow chutes, with no room for error.  Then, I found steelhead.

I redirected my senses to my next endeavor, chasing steelhead during winter months, a time when most sane folks are curled up in front of a fire with a hot toddy.  I found myself standing in cold water, wading into runs that could sweep me away, to chase the mystery of the powerful, silver, torpedos.  Their energy keeps me fueled, along with making cast after cast, and rafting through boulder fields that will pucker my ass and flip a boat.

Waking up early assures the first reward.

Nothing beats being the first person in the morning on a virgin piece of prime steelhead water. Excitement overwhelms me as I look at sparkling river reflections. The anticipation is high when I wade into the run, strip the line from the reel, and send out that first cast. To feel the river moving around my ankles and the line shooting through my cold, stiff fingers puts me at ease. Nothing beats the feeling of standing in a river, and laying out the perfect cast.

I live for those moments.

Like the Babylonian Proverb says, “God does not take time off your allotted lifespan for time spent fishing.” This must be why hours or days go by in an instant.

My palms get sweaty and my heart races when the line goes tight, and the Hardy starts to spin.  The silver torpedo jumps out of the water, cart wheeling, and the Hardy keeps screaming. I know I am part of something superior to me.  The tranquility is as religious as connecting with God on Sunday morning, but without the gospel preaching.  Landing the fish is just the bonus.




I’m engulfed in the moment of my freedom.

After the day is done, I ride home smelling of wet, musty wool, and sweaty worn out clothing and socks that never get washed. Traveling is just part of the ritual that motivates me to get out of bed in the morning and not hit the snooze button.

While caught up in steelhead fishing, I’m at my best when all thinking comes to a halt and actions take over. So what if I make a bad cast or catch no fish. At the very least, the triumph comes from just being present.

Mia resides in Brightwood, Oregon, with her husband Marty, daughter Tegan, and bird dog Cedar. She is co-owner of Little Creek Outfitters, a guide service for smallmouth bass and steelhead on Oregon rivers. When she isn’t guiding or paper pushing, Mia can be found chasing steelhead and chukar, or snowboarding down a mountain in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, and playing with her daughter.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve spent the happiest days of my life standing in the middle of the north fork of the Coeur d’Alene River with a fly rod firmly grasped in my hands. The closest descriptor to this feeling of escape falls on William Wallace’s famous last words—that’s what I experience on the river, usually without the shouting.

I’m a new obstruction to the river’s flow today––a pink river rock. It’s late July, the conditions wrap themselves in the usual fly-fishing clichés. I imagine this suits most just fine. But for me all this sun and shine aren’t cutting it. Give me rain. I cannot say with any authority that rain brings out the best in the fish, but it does bring out the best in me. It’s been my experience that when it rains I yield a better catch.

I seldom fret about standing in the middle of the river, where I am the highest point, the point that could be struck by lightening. I’m the proverbial kid who didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the elements. Besides, summer showers in Idaho are rarely accompanied by thunder or lightening. To boot, I’m wearing bright pink rubber boots, and a lightning strike would just be mean.

Rainbow trout in these waters proudly wear pink, as do I. Standing statuesque in my glossy rubber waders and matching long billed hat, I look like a giant flamingo blown off course. For a moment I have an urge to balance myself on one leg.

I raise my rod, which is not pink, and quickly fall into a familiar rhythm. The rhythm matches the beating of my heart. It’s the rhythm that my father has ingrained into my memory and blood since I was a little girl. Yet it is my own, beating in sync with the four count, and to my chagrin, is somewhat pink as well.

I’m wearing bright pink rubber boots, and a lightning strike would just be mean