Jan-Marchuary

“’It’s a good one,” Hud proclaimed with the type of calm a passionate angler can only harness after two decades of guiding these miraculously healthy tailwaters.”

Hud and I cruised around the reservoir as a thick late-January fog suspended above the snow-covered ice, with spirits high and a backseat cooler topped off with a fresh case of Silver Bullets. We were running a bit late so Hud pressed the pedal into the floorboard like he was trying to leave an imprint. We found the dirt road that would deliver us to the boat ramp of our favorite section of these tailwaters. We spoke of the future of the outfit, guiding new waters, watching our backs in this cut-throat environment, and why Taylor Swift is such an overrated mass of moderate talent. 

When we arrived at the ramp there was only one other boat launching. A group of guys we hunted Geese with this year were sliding their Hyde in. Recognizing them, we shook hands and wished them good luck. We launched Hud’s skiff and he bolted down to the take-out to meet Tristan. The two of them returned shortly after in Tristan’s pickup, we loaded into the Headhunter and, shortly after rigging our streamer rods with the most obnoxious bundle of hooks and Marabou we could find, we pushed off. 

Hud rowed while Tristan fired shots at the bank from the front thigh hooks. I fished from the aft and I was having a helluva time warming up that morning. The day started a bit slow, with a light amount of slush floating in the subsurface column. Our guides iced up frequently and our line became a bit rigid in the cool air but, eventually the sun reached that pinnacle point in the morning sky when its refraction off the water warms the ambient. As it did, we started moving fish. I pulled one from off the bank with a Goldie but, with a fast and aggressive retrieve, I couldn’t quite convince him to commit. He nipped at the tail and retreated back to the structure he called home. 

“He wasn’t in it to win it,” I stated for the whole boat to hear. “I don’t think they’re liking this mean retrieve today.”

We worked our way around the next bend and into a short slot I call “The Coulee.” I was commenting on how crazy it felt to be fishing these waters in January while the weather conditions more closely resembled March when Tristan decided to change up his retrieve method. It immediately bore fruit. By executing short, accurate casts into structure and then letting his fly sink to adequate depth before beginning to retrieve with rapid “twitching,” motion he was able to entice a strike. The slack in his line was absorbed into a taut right angle so intensely, we all noticed it and paused our next breath. Tristan set the hook with might and “Yea!” loudly and simultaneously exhausted from Hud’s and my mouths. It didn’t take long to identify the behemoth as it flashed and threw punches from the starboard side of the boat. 

“It’s a good one,” Hud proclaimed with the type of calm a passionate angler can only harness after two decades of guiding these miraculously healthy tailwaters. 

I reached for my 85mm and began photographing Tristan as he leaned backwards against the fish’s resistance and demanded its submission. Eventually the lunk capitulated and I remember thinking “what a bucket” when I witnessed the net webbing stretch like the legs of an Armstrong figurine. Hud must have thought something similar because he returned the netted mass of aquatic critter to the water and, when he did, I noticed the net’s handle straighten in relief. We anchored the skiff and I hopped out to get a better shot. This was a memory I didn’t want to let slip by. The boys also jumped into the wade and they took a moment to measure the fish against Hud’s net handle. Twenty-four inches with the shoulders to match a “two-eight.” 

Tristan’s adrenaline levels were beginning to stabilize. “He hit that fly immediately when I started twitching it slightly,” he informed.

“Mr. Twitchy?” Hud suggested.

“Twitchy McTwitcherson” I added with resolve.

I couldn’t help but recognize the fact that we’re all hockey players from our formal lives and even though we’re getting too damned old to take a hit, we all still talk like a bunch of bro-dudes.

I love catching fish but, more so than that, I love watching my friends catch fish. Especially if I can assist in the effort. Especially if I can capture the memory on their behalf. With a gigantic, shit-eating grin, I instructed Tristan to present the fish to me and I shot it in a few different aperture settings. What an incredible moment to share with some buddies. 

With a healthy boost in boat morale, everyone enjoyed a big hearty pull off the Crown Apple bottle before the anchor was pulled up and we continued downriver. We proceeded firing shots into the abyss, through the next few river bends and, into the long stretch that serves well to conclude this float. I took over on the sticks, moving Tristan to the rear hooks and affording Hud the opportunity to chuck meat from the bow. I love rowing Hud’s skiff. I borrowed it a few times last season to target fish in small water and, thanks to it, my dudes were able to boat some fish that I wouldn’t have bet would be in those shallow environments. It’s an extremely tactical little sneak vessel and, when you line it up in the lane you want, it tracks like a bullet train. That being said, it’s a bit harder to move laterally than the dimpled draft of my CaddisLack. It took me a moment to remember to set my purse down before attempting to skull the craft between lanes. Once I put my big boy pants on however, I grabbed some current and we drifted with ease, while the fellas sniped structure and bull-runs long range style. 

Returning to my earlier thought, I expressed a concern. “It’s hard to complain about this winter. Damn, it’s a nice day but I get a little terrified when I think about what this lack of snow will do to the rivers come July.” 

The guys nodded their heads in agreement. “We’re going to have to get creative this year, for sure, if it keeps this up.” Hud proclaimed it like he already had a plan. He did. He always does. 

“It feels like March,” I affirmed. “We should definitely get the word out. If this Spring is going to be like this, we should get our dudes down here to get in on the bite while it’s still happening.”

More head nods from the boat. 

“Jan-Marchuary.” I mumbled it quietly to myself, sure that the guys didn’t hear it. From a marketing perspective, I still don’t love it but, it’s name I’m calling the winter of 2024.

We made it to a run Hud calls “Sadness.” It’s a long, sorrowful story that led up to his naming it that and, in my time fishing this river, I would have to report that it is well suited. My most recent anecdote to support that label involved a dreadful loss in which, while fishing this stretch with Hud and Sugarfoot, I interacted with a Rainbow that very well could have dwarfed the big Cutbow pinned to my Instagram that has circled the internet a few million times. It was an absolute buriser and, when it ate, it did so with a type of aggression inspired by hatred – not by an instinctual need for satiation. I’ll never forget the oar-length, “V” shaped wake that goliath cut into the water column as it bolted for my drifting jig and ran up river before I could get a decent set. The hook stung him and he leaped from the current to present himself. The moment he returned to the dirty water from which he came, my line slacked and my heart broke. “Sadness” is the correct name for this run. It isn’t without some irony, however. The whole crew relies on it to satisfy customers. While it has broken a few hearts over what could have been, it systematically and chronically produces good sized fish for our dudes. None of us float by Sadness in disregard and no exceptions would be made on this day. We parked the skiff and stepped carefully into the thigh high water and, we immediately began hooking up. Cutthroat were on deck. Tristan yanked a couple good ones out. Hud fought some monolithic trout who further saddened his admiration for this water. I too lost a couple decent fish. We pulled a few Whitties from the hole, making more opportunities for our cash-crop. We fished for a couple more hours, boating some marginal fish and laughing our way through the afternoon. 

It was fantastic day and, it reminded me of something an old outfitter my dad befriended on the Kenai River once told me later in life, when I was back home guiding for a lodge based out of Soldotna. He said, “As a guide, you have to remind yourself… Hell, sometimes you have to force yourself… to go fishing. You have to go, and when you do, let it remind you how much you love this game.” Ole Kenny is right. There’s something healing about rounding up a few guides from the outfit and effectively throwing the punishment to the aquaculture for a day. It reminds you that this gig isn’t all broken rod tips and untangling drop rigs. It reminds you how lucky you are to have a position in this occupation and to live a life you don’t need a vacation from. 

It reminds you that you work with good people and a strong team. It reminds you why you love this sport so much. 

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. I write these stories as a supplement to my lifestyle as a sportsman and guide, and with them comes a certain accountability. The details of my stories are purely based on my recollection alone and in no particular way do they reflect a chronologically factual, indisputable timeline of events. They are in no way intended for official use or as a reference for official purposes. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

All the photos and content featured in my tall tales are my own, unless expressly cited otherwise, and the unauthorized use or reproduction of them is strictly prohibited. That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

On another quick note: I’ve launched a new publication on Substack, specifically to showcase my serialized fiction and poetry! 

I hope you’ll join me there! Follow THIS LINK to have a look. 

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