In all of freshwater fishing there is no single fish surrounded by more wide spread madness, mystery, and devotion than the steelhead. From the deep cold water and vibrant blue-green rivers of the Pacific Northwest where wild strains continue their fight for existence, to the widely varying man-made populations of the Great Lakes, steelhead are the subject of relentless pursuit. Steelheaders near and far will describe the endeavor as a visceral addiction, pushing the limits of their bodies and gear in elements otherwise intolerable to willful activity. All walks of life fueled by the hope of what might lay just around the next river bend.

It all begins as a spark of curiosity. An instance that sews the seed into the minds of anglers and non-anglers alike. Perhaps seeing photos on bait shop walls or spread across the Internet showing smiling fishermen with giant, silver trout. Or seeing the crowds of wader clad madmen wandering a steelhead river in the middle of a winter day. “What are they?” Turns into “how do I catch one?,” and the seed sprouts.

It’s a hard game at first for many, but you stick to it. Struggling and begging for the chance to finally catch one of your own. Some are shown the way here, others make it by themselves. But one fact remains the same. When it finally happens, you’ll never forget your first.

From then on, the sprout grows into a problem of replication. “How do I make this happen again?” You’re hooked now, and thoughts of jumping steelhead snake their way into your brain at all hours. The learning curve is not a forgiving kind, as knowledge of timing, method, and conditions are slowly acquired. But eventually it comes together again, and then again, and you find yourself doing whatever it takes to scratch that new itch.

The new sapling grows faster now, and encounters with steelhead of all shapes and sizes begin to occur more consistently. The time it takes to reach this phase varies for everyone, and frankly some never make it this far. This is also a period where egos can develop and run wild, false confidence reinforced by the ignorance of how much more a seed can yet grow. Brands become important, numbers and fishing reports spread like wildfire, and heads swell. Humility lacks. There are many trees that stay this size forever.

Yet still, some trees will continue to grow. Unbelievable days of fishing are witnessed and at times repeated when good notes are taken. Timing becomes nearly second nature, and travels to pursue this favorite fish take on greater lengths as the quest for unexplored river bends continues. You become familiar with “the groove,” and the importance of staying in it. There is a pulse to this game, and he whose finger stays on the pulse will not often be left wondering. Some are consumed entirely by the beast that is steelhead fishing at cost to health, relationships, and whatever else that stands in the way. But this is also a period of epiphany. Suddenly you see that instead of a single tree growing up from the ground, you stand among a forest. Towering over some, and towered over by many more. Here you realize that instead of knowing it all, you’ve only just scratched the surface.

The evolution continues. New methods come and go. Finding new ways to scratch the itch until you find the one (or ones) that fit you best. Debates will go back and forth for eternity, but the correct approach will always be whichever you enjoy most. You seek new challenges, and work to hone aspects of your game that before you never knew existed. You learn to fish in all conditions, and recognize that prime rib doesn’t always mean a full belly. The more you learn and grow, the more the ego is diminished by the realization of all that is yet unknown. Knowledge is passed down, a tall tree casts a long shadow.

There is no limit to how tall this tree can grow. Just when you think that every river bend has been explored, a new facet of each bend reveals itself and the journey breathes new life. Trips may become less frequent for some, or ever more frequent for others. Priorities ebb and flow, physical limitations develop, the forest changes. New trees sprout up at the same time others fall, but the river still feels like home.

In the end, a full lifetime of knowledge gained still brings us all back to right where it first began. The steel woods.

Sunlight was just peeking over the tree tops as we arrived. The smell of fall leaves in the crisp morning air joined the bubbling sound of the flowing stream nearby as we jumped from the truck. Anticipation of this trip was great for several reasons, and I hurried to prepare my gear for what would be the first prospecting trip of the season for me. Precious metal lay just ahead, in a cloak of October emerald.

Dragging our ride for the day to the water’s edge was made easier laughing with good company. The smell of the river and the feeling of the cool pressure against my legs for the first time in months brought immediate joy and fond memories. We had been lucky enough to time this trip perfectly, blessed with favorable conditions and a free day. Gear loaded, we all jumped into the raft and shoved off into the flow.

Our launching point for the day happened to be at the head of a very promising run. Overcome by curiosity, Phil decided to casually dip a bait off  the side of the raft as we began to drift down stream. Not three feet into this first drift, the orange of his float abruptly vanished into the churning green backdrop. Water erupted with a silver flash when he set the hook. We all looked at one another, knowing without speaking that this would be a special day. Raft still moving, I followed Phil’s lead and dropped my float in just above his boiling adversary. My float barely traveled a foot into my first drift of the year before being torn to the depths. It was on. Josh quickly backed the raft to a nearby gravel bar and dropped anchor as Phil and I did our best to keep our fish from wrapping around one another. October steelhead are something special when it comes to speed and will to win. These fish were terrors. Josh moved to the back of the raft and rolled his presentation into the run. Within a few feet he was also hooked up. A triple header on all three of our first drifts of the morning was a fantastic sign of things to come. We landed our fish, and I took a brief moment to appreciate the perfection of the fish that lay in front of me. A first of many this year I hoped, and thanked her as she swam back to the security of deeper water.

Action continued like this for as long as we chose to stay on the run. After a dozen silver ghosts came to hand we agreed we would need to get a move on in order to reach our destination by dark. All aboard, we left the fish biting and shoved off on our float down stream.

The following few miles of river were new to all of us, and would not disappoint. This winding vein of bright green through a forest of blazing orange leaves and dark sedimentary rock has haunted the dreams of every steelhead fisherman that’s visited her banks for decades. A precious refuge if one is willing to make their way. Though action slowed in places, every new bend and turn brought more willing fish. We navigated through skinny water and boulders, and floated slowly through plunging deep pools filled with timber. For a steelhead addict, this is paradise.

Throughout the course of a full day we continued to float down stream, noting the beautiful scenery that surrounded us as much as possible between new runs and strong fish. The landscape was changing the farther we traveled, the view incredible every step of the way. It is a privilege to experience this crown jewel of our steelhead fishery every time we visit, and it should always be treated with the respect a place like this deserves.

As night began to fall and we approached our take out point, I couldn’t help but to feel incredibly thankful for places like this one and friends like these. Memories of my every visit to this place flooded my mind all at once, and I couldn’t help but smile remembering laughs with friends and fish gone by. The combination of experiencing the raw beauty of Mother Nature and an opportunity for a sore arm should never be passed up if one can make the time. One should ALWAYS make the time. Some days on the water are just special, and I won’t ever forget this birthday well spent in the emerald city.

It was still pitch black above the gorge as we parked the car. A light rain began to fall, mixing with the rising mist from the roaring monster below us. Geared up, we began the trek down the massive hill that had to be navigated if we wanted to be on the water before dawn. The rain seemed to pick up in intensity the lower we climbed, adding to the anticipation and experience of the place. They say rivers are alive, with a spirit and a mind of their own. You can truly feel it in this place. The sound grew louder the closer we came to the churning, boiling, ripping force of nature that carves bedrock and bleeds life into landscape around it. Upon reaching the bottom of our descent, we paused briefly to take in what sprawled out in front of us. Still midnight dark outside, the river looked like a rolling avalanche of inky black snow, shimmering back any light shown on it. Rain fell harder. We started hiking upstream, carefully and in single file again. Footing here can be treacherous, and a quick slip can drop you right into twenty feet of water or more in places. A grim outlook for someone in waders and heavy boots.

Having never fished this section of river, we weren’t sure exactly where we wanted to start. We navigated the massive broken rocks and wooded bank toward what appeared to be a current break ahead causing a slack seam in the flow. As we approached, the sound of violent thrashing along that dark line confirmed our suspicion. They were here, waiting on dawn as eagerly as we were.

As first light settled into the river valley, the violent splashes broke the already turbulent surface of the water more frequently. The four of us spread out across the current seam and pieced together our rods. Fishing the big river requires an upscale in just about every way from our typical float fishing rigging back home, and we were ready to test it. Bait had been prepared days in advance, and was eagerly applied to razor sharp hooks as daylight caught our side of the gorge. It was time.

First casts were made, and depth adjustments followed quickly after. We watched fish after fish explode out of the water across the entirety of the massive width of river in front of us. Having never targeted kings here, this was a new pursuit for us all. Excitement and anticipation kept the four of us in almost total silence to start.

Second casts were made, then boom. Float drop. “There we go” echoed from downstream as Joe drove the big hook home. The 12 foot casting rod pounded tip down toward the water as an angry adversary tore off across the pool into heavier flow. These are strong fish in any environment, but mixed in with the force of Niagara river current they’re a terror. As the fight continued I made my way toward the commotion to help Joe land his fish. Eventually it tired and began to plane back and forth in front of us. Clambering around the boulders on the edge of the drop off into deeper water, we were able to corral the first salmon of the trip to the bank. Success. High fives and photos were taken, then the thick hen of over 22 pounds was quickly and humanely harvested. Her eggs would fuel a dozen or more fall and winter steelhead fishing trips across all of steelhead alley, and we were thankful for the opportunity and the score she provided.

Several minutes later, Chris P hammered back on a fish that quickly shook free as more continued to roll all around us. It was on, but we feared only for a short time as dawn began to reveal the extreme water clarity we were dealing with. We knew we’d have to capitalize on the morning bite.

A few more moments passed without a fish before Koch had his chance. His float abruptly buried into the head of the current seam we were positioned on and he corked his rod hard setting the hook. His fish tore off toward the center of the river, smoking line from the reel as it went. Even on heavy gear, we were at the mercy of the river with these fish. After a final quick run, the fish tired and Chris swung the big casting stick to the left, guiding his fish into the rocks. Another, slightly more silver hen king salmon of about 15 pounds thrashed as we fought to remove the hook and grab a picture.

Excited that the bite was keeping up, I got back to fishing. I was quickly rewarded with a float drop but missed the fish. Drifting big chunks of skein makes hooking fish difficult in heavy flow at times. Shortly after, the fish activity on the surface began to taper off as the sun got higher in the sky. I was able to read the water a bit better now with more light, and moved down stream to fish an area where the slack water of our inside seam tailed out into a narrow chute. Within my first few casts I missed another fish, then finally swung and connected with a very unhappy animal.

The fish behaved at first, but as soon as I thought I had the upper hand, she caught an angle and rocketed down stream through the quick water at the tail of the run and headed toward Lake Ontario. It was everything I could do to keep from falling chasing this fish down river at that speed. At max drag on my casting rig, the 40# braid I was fishing began to cut through the cork at the top of the rod handle with the rod bent beyond its limit. The fish paused briefly inside of another seam as I gained line, then put on a very impressive burst of power even farther down river. The river level had come up around 3 feet while we were fishing, which made following this fish very difficult. Finally, after skirting around the outside edge of a truck-sized boulder in water about 2 inches from the brim of our waders, Koch and I were able to hold our ground as I leaned on the fish as hard as I could. Reluctantly she came rolling through a choppy section of water and Chris was able to get his hands on her to end the war. Both of us were soaked in sweat as we pounded fists and got a quick picture. Another fresher fish, she had given me a run for my money I wasn’t expecting. I would also take my fish, and her eggs have already given back on several early fall steelhead expeditions closer to home.

Air temperatures continued to climb as the sun rose and the rain finally slacked off into nothing. Clear blue sky emerged, and jackets came off as the projected high of around 82 degrees became a reality. Just as quickly as it had started, fish activity dwindled as the salmon retreated to the security of deeper water and heavier flows away from the bank. We would fish several more hours without another fish hooked before beginning the hike back out of the valley to the car. Fishing that day was far from what it can be, but we were thankful and excited to get a few Niagara river kings under our belts. Every fish on this river is earned fishing from the bank, and opportunities given aren’t soon forgotten.

It was published in In-Fisherman once that “It’s not a matter of the river beating you, or you defeating the river. It’s that the river never even knew you were there.” Never have those words been truer to me than when standing on the bank of the mighty Niagara. One can’t help but feel incredibly small and insignificant when standing on the brimming edges of flow like that. For thousands of years this massive flowage draining Lake Erie east into Lake Ontario over Niagara Falls has sheered rock and housed fish of ever changing varieties. The native lake trout still remain, and flood the river to spawn as the water cools into November. They’re joined now by the human introduced populations of chinook and coho salmon, brown trout, and steelhead, providing angling opportunities throughout the season to anyone motivated enough to navigate the icy corridor of broken rock to reach them. Whether fish are plentiful or non-existent, each time we visit this place it’s an adventure. As we gain experience here and continue to learn the ins and outs of fishing this system from the bank, we can’t help but to feel thankful for each day spent here. Perhaps even more thankful, though, that there is a place so close to home that can still make us feel so small.

 

Until next time,

Ironscale out.

Change is in the air.  An often used phrase that for some means simply that, change is coming. For others like ourselves that rely on the changing seasons and dominant weather patterns to drive our pursuits each year, the “change in the air” is felt quite literally.  On opening day of Ohio’s archery season, a strong cold front descended upon the northern half of the state with nighttime lows forecasted to bottom out into the thirties for the first time this fall. The air felt thin and crisp, with a light wind cutting much deeper than the typical fall breeze. Chris took advantage of the favorable conditions and climbed into his tree stand hoping that the front would have deer moving before dusk.  He was right.  A well placed shot made tracking easy, and Chris’s largest archery whitetail met its end about an hour before sunset. Beautiful deer man, and I look forward to sharing a tree this coming weekend.

The funny thing about a cold front this time of year is that it can make deciding how to spend your time very difficult. The evening before opening day, dad and I decided to take advantage of the remaining warmer air with a night of flathead fishing. Bait was gathered and gear packed, with fishing conditions highly favorable as we approached the lake.  Luckily we thought to pack warmer clothes, as the cold front slammed home early pushing nighttime temperatures down into the forties.  Cloud cover vanished and a bright moon rose high above the water.  With a fine set of baits in place, we hunkered in for the long haul.  At about 1:20 AM, the familiar sound of a clicking reel woke us from our nap.  Dad lowered his rod tip after feeling the fish steadily moving off and set the hook. You could almost feel the fish’s anger in the blistering run that it put on initially, taking 50 yards of line dead away from the boat.  This is not typical of most flathead when hooked, so we didn’t have a clear idea of the caliber of fish we were dealing with. After planing to the side and briefly tangling itself in some underwater cover, the fish tired and came to the boat.  With a well aimed scoop, another healthy flathead came aboard the Lowjaw.  This stout 42.5 pound male would end up being our only run of the trip, but made it well worth the work. As with all of our fish, he was quickly released after weight and photos were taken.

After a quick work week, it was flathead time again. With a tank full of solid baits and gear loaded up, I headed to the lake. I made it to the spot of choice early and set up Camp Catfish while my dad and uncle made their way from work. This time of year it seems each day is noticeably shorter than the last, and we worked hard to get baits into position before dusk.  I had one short run right at sunset that ended up being a small channel catfish biting off more than he could chew, then all fell quiet.  A near full moon rose above us, diminishing my expectations for the night as it illuminated the lake shore to an inky, erie gray. The night rolled on without a tick until some dense cloud cover moved in and shadowed the moonlight.  Almost just as quick, a bait clicker signaled a run.  Dad jumped into action, and hooked the fish that had eaten his bait.  After a brief tussle a small flathead of about 5 pounds was netted and quickly released.  Another bait was selected and re-deployed on the same rod, and we settled back in with new, higher hopes.  Within ten minutes the same rod signaled another run, and dad swung back hard hooking a more sizable fish. A second flathead of around 25 pounds quickly arrived at the net, and was promptly released as well.  Again, a new bait was placed as we discussed our theories about the changing conditions and sudden feed that followed.  About a half hour passed before I noticed the line on one of my rods slowly moving to the right.  I got to the rod just as the clicker began to roll and slipped it off.  Feeling the fish move steadily, I drove the hook home.  I knew right away that this was a larger adversary, as the fish shook its head and drove down further into the depths taking line as it went.  I called for my dad to come over with the net as the fight continued.  This fish just wouldn’t seem to tire, and each time I’d gain five yards of line he’d take ten right back.  My knees started shaking as thoughts of giant flatheads filled my brain, wondering what I’d hooked.  Finally the fish tired, and rolled into the extended landing net.  He was a big boy, but had fought well above his weight.  The fish was quickly weighed, then placed on a bridle rope to recover. Daylight revealed a gnarly battle scar on the big male’s head from previous spawning activity. A true warrior of a fish, this healthy 42.2 pound brute was released to continue his fall feeding in preparation for winter.

On October 21st, Chris, Joe, and I piled into Chris’s truck and headed to the lake once more.  With the Lowjaw in tow this time, we planned to set up on a familiar late-season spot to see what might be roaming. We arrived well before dark and anchored the boat into position.  A range of baits from bullheads to giant goldfish were deployed, and the wait began.  Just as darkness began to set in, one of Chris’s rods thumped in the rod holder and quickly went slack.  We watched closely for a moment, noting that his line was hardly moving and that it looked like the frightened struggle of the large goldfish he was using for bait.  Several minutes passed before we began to note the line slowly moving toward the boat.  Chris picked up the rod and retrieved line as the other end continued to come directly towards us ever so slowly.  He had reeled almost all the way to the boat as the line crept below us.  Joe and I watched in total silence as the tip of the rod began to gently bend toward the water.  Feeling this weight, Chris drove the hook home.  His rod tip didn’t budge an inch as the whole blank flexed hard to the cork. A leviathan thrashed below the boat and took line as it threatened to wrap up in the anchor rope.  For several minutes this continued. Chris would gain line, then the fish would take it right back down to the bottom of the lake, bulldogging in large circles as it went.  As the fish began to tire, I came to the edge of the boat and flipped on my dim headlamp.  A sizable brown shape appeared from the depths thrashing back and forth, and a quick scoop of the large net secured it. The hook actually popped from the fish’s mouth as soon as it reached the net, sending the rig skyward over our heads.  I grunted trying to lift the fish over the side of the boat, and had to get better footing to drag it aboard. An absolute creature of a flathead filled up the front deck of the boat as we rushed around for pliers, my sling, and a scale.  The beast tipped the scale to 50.5 pounds exactly, making it the largest fish caught by our group yet this season.  After a few quality grips and grins, Chris released the fish to “grow up” as our old friend Robby would say.  This would again be our only run of the night, as we endured low 40’s temperatures huddled in sleeping bags once more.  But it’s always worth it.

Our brief bout of fall-like weather this year has quickly given way to early winter conditions. As I write this, temperatures are falling back into the 30’s for what seems like the 6th or 7th day in a row.  With lake temperatures falling fast, the door on the 2017 flathead season is closing.  I hope to fish at least one more night when favorable conditions return, then the focus will shift entirely to sitting in a tree or chasing silver ghosts. But it’s not over ’till the fat lady sings, and here’s to hoping she has whiskers.

 

Ironscale, out.

I’d like to start off this extensive update congratulating a brother on not only catching his first flatheads, but catching fish on his first three reservoir trips as well as landing an absolute beast. Trey is new to flathead fishing, but has taken quickly to the work involved and has made things happen for him. Congratulations on your first fish, and also what followed as a new personal best of 47 pounds even. Onward and upward my friend, you’ve set the bar high for yourself.

Fishing had remained consistent for us throughout late August and early September. With mild, typical fall weather through the start of the month, choosing the correct fishing locations was more predictably done. On the weekend of September 1st and 2nd, I pulled a two night trip on one of our favorite reservoirs. I fished solo the first night, during the brunt of a tropical storm driven cold front. As winds shifted and weather blew in on my position around 2:30 AM, I feared I may not see much action for the night. A rolling clicker changed my mind, though, and a fish of 24 pounds found the net and came aboard the Lowjaw. Action throughout the rest of the morning remained consistent, with fish of 22, 29, and 29 pounds also making the scale. Despite no larger fish showing up to play, any night with four bites is a good one.

The following night I met my dad at the ramp for another night of fishing on the same body of water. We chose a different location this time, hoping to find some larger fish. Another juvenile fish of around 15 pounds bit before midnight, then all fell silent. The wind howled for the first portion of the night, then fell slack and the lake turned to glass. At around 6 am, the sound of steadily rolling bait clicker woke us from our sleep. After a solid hook set and a powerful fight, a nice 34 pound female flathead was netted and weighed. We were happy with this success, but crawled back into our respective sleeping locations to seek warmth for the rest of the morning. At around 7:30 AM, another clicker woke me in my tent cot. After feeling that the fish was steadily moving off with the bait, I set on it hard. Fish #3 for the night bent my XH musky rod hard as it angrily shook its head a peeled line. After an extended fight, a beautiful male fish of 41 pounds made the net. Our morning ended with one more run and a dropped bait, but largely successful overall.

On the weekend of September 8th, Joe V and I fished this same reservoir again with high hopes. After finding that the spot we originally planned to fish had been taken, we traveled to the plan B location. Baits were set and we began to layer clothing. The low for the night was projected to dip into the low 40s. At about 9:30 PM, one of our giant goldfish was inhaled and line began steadily trickling off a clicking reel. I felt that the fish was moving well, and set. The XH Warrior Cat rod bowed hard against the weight, but something felt wrong. I could feel the powerful headshakes of a flathead, but could also feel wood tangled in the line. I was able to gain some line, but wasn’t sure if the weight was mostly fish and a small stick, or mostly wood with a small fish attached. Suddenly a crisp “POP” shook through the rod handle, and the fish was gone. I reeled in the rig free of timber to find that my hook had been bent open 10-15 degrees. Disgusted, I discarded the old hook and re-rigged. The rest of the night was quiet until around 4:00 AM when a small fish of around 20 pounds came to visit. Dawn came and we packed our things, grumbling about the size of the fish that had come off earlier in the night. One thing is for certain. Fishing for any apex predator is not easy, and the odds are stacked against us from the very start. Sometimes the fish just win.

On September 15th I got to fish with a good friend named Zach. Zach’s been out of town for work for the past few years, and was excited to make it back to his old stomping grounds to do some fishing. We set up on a familiar spot of his and deployed baits. A recent warming trend had brought water temperatures up several degrees, but nothing extreme at this point. The night was kicked off early with a fish of 23 pounds coming aboard the Mudcat II. Excited with our quick success, we photographed and quickly released the fish. Unfortunately, the rest of the night went on without another bump. Any night we get to encounter a flathead is a good one, though, and time spent with good friends on the water is never wasted. Not to mention fishing from a bad ass rig like the mudcat. Zach fished again the following night, but weather conditions continued to worsen and channel cats killed baits throughout the night. This weekend would end up being the start of a ridiculous mid-September heat wave. In the weeks to come, temperatures would reach at or near record highs almost every day. Water temps would soar as afternoon highs peaked into the 90s, throwing both anglers and fish for a loop. Adapt and overcome became the game plan.

Brittan and Chuck fished together at a familiar reservoir the night of September 16th. Again, channel cats destroyed quality bait after quality bait and gave the guys little rest. Finally at around 4:00 AM, the familiar sound of steady clicking grabbed their attention. After a hard hook set and extended battle, Chuck netted one of the longest fish we’ve seen all season. The fish was thin, but had a massive head and still tipped the scales to 41 pounds and some change. After a nice grip and grin, the beast was released to keep packing on weight through the fall.

Finally, the time for our long awaited fishing marathon had come. Brittan and I had planned to fish three consecutive nights from September 21st-23rd, and had worked all week to stock up on bait. Temperatures had continued to climb throughout the week, which would end up being a major determining factor in how and where we spent our time. The first night we fished, we chose a familiar fall location that has produced quality fish for us regularly. However, it was apparent soon after deploying baits that something was wrong. Even the hardiest of baitfish species were dying almost immediately on the hook shortly after being deployed. Lively, kicking bait is paramount to flathead fishing success in reservoir systems, so the outlook was not good. We elected not to bring the boat with us on this trip and ended up taking a skunk due to a lack of mobility options and constantly dying bait. The scorching temperatures had re-stratified the water column in this area, leaving an anoxic zone anywhere near the bottom of the lake. We licked our wounds and worked to collect more bait for night number two of the trip.

While catching bait we decided that a complete change of lakes was in order per the fishing conditions. With prominent weather patterns resembling July more than late September, we decided to fish like we would at that time of year. Joe V joined us on this trip, as well as my Dad and uncle in another boat fishing a different location in the same body of water. After choosing a spot and setting baits, we settled in for the night. We had a variety of bait out in this spread, including a legal length largemouth bass over 12 inches long. The night was quiet and uneventful, and we all eventually drifted off the sleep. At 6:00 AM, several deliberate clicks from my rod with the bass on it woke us up. I picked up the rod to discover the line swinging steadily sideways. A fish had inhaled the bass and was moving parallel to our position. I reeled down to take up slack and set the hook hard. The rod bent into the lower end and shook hard as a solid fish shook its head. Brittan popped up at my side with the net, and waited patiently as I tried to tire the fish out. The fish pulled hard and took line at will on several occasions while circling around the back of the boat, rear anchor, and motor prop. Finally he surfaced, and Brittan scooped and scored. A beautiful flathead filled the net, then took up much of the free space on the floor of my boat. Another long lean fish, he tipped the scales at 40.9 pounds. We placed the fish on a bridle and tied him off for morning photos. Shortly after, one of Brittan’s rods signaled a flathead run. He set hard and the fish boiled out in the dark water. Dawn was just starting to set in, and we watched Brittan fight the fish as a dark silhouette backlit by the orange light of a rising sun. The fish fought hard but quickly tired, and I scooped him into the oversized landing net. Weighing right at 25 pounds, he was released after a quick picture. Dawn came without another bump, and we headed back to my house after taking several good shots of the 40.9 and releasing him. After inhaling a large pizza, we crashed for a few hours of recovery sleep before heading back to the lake.

Night number three was upon us before we knew it, and we worked to set baits in a new section of the lake as the sun set. We all managed to fall asleep much earlier this night, as fishing hard for several full nights in a row had taxed us mentally and physically. All remained completely silent until around 5:30 AM when one of my rods signaled a run. When I determined that the fish was steadily moving off, I set the hook hard. Complete whiff. I felt no resistance whatsoever, then reeled my bare hook into some kind of cover on the way back to the boat. Frustrated, I set my rod back into the holder and went back to sleep. This ended up being our only action of the night.

Flathead fishing continues to be as humbling as it can be rewarding. The major switch in weather patterns challenged us, but putting two nice fish in the boat made the challenge well worth it. As I write this, the winds of change are upon us. Fall weather has returned and air temperatures will drop back into the low 40’s in the nights to come. Fishing can only improve, and we look forward to the kind of nights that fall can be famous for in our part of the country. Until then, stay frosty.

Ironscale, out.

The word “strength” can carry many meanings. Strength can refer to one’s physical ability to exert force. Strength can be used to describe a person’s mental fortitude and will power. Strength can even be used simply to describe an attribute or particular skill. For the purpose of this article, we will be discussing physical strength.

 

As Mark Bell always says “more strength is never a weakness.” Though simple, the quote always hit home with me.  If you really stop to think about it, are there any downsides to being physically strong? In my mind, the answer is no. Strength makes you more physically useful. Being strong typically also makes you harder to kill. Strength is a building block of self defense, and can greatly aid on your ability to protect yourself and your loved ones. Strength is also the foundation of speed, and a stronger athlete is usually more dominant against weaker athletes of the same skill level. Most of all, strength makes you durable. And durability is survival.

 

As a boy, like most other young males,  I always looked up to and admired physically strong individuals.  My father and uncles were giants to me then, and I always aspired to be “big and strong” like them one day. I think in many cases this is instinctual. As with most species of mammals, human males are generally larger and stronger than their female counterparts. Young males look to older individuals as examples, and learn from their behavior and appearance. Growing up, super heroes were almost always depicted as strong. Main characters in action films were big and built, modeled after super heroes themselves. Even in ancient myths and legends, heroes were larger than life and won great victories with god-like strength and skill. All I knew was that strength was good, and I wanted it.

Socrates once said that “no man has the right to be an amateur in the matter of physical training. It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable.” I firmly believe this to be true for both men and women alike. Human beings are the evolutionary product of countless years of environmental pressure, and are  generally accepted as the most advanced combination of physical and mental capabilities of any species alive today. No, we are not literally the strongest. But we are mentally aware and physically capable on a level far above our closest competitors. Each of us has been given one body, and one lifetime to do with it what we choose. In my mind we owe it to the infinitely small odds and countless past ancestral generations to develop our bodies to be as physically effective and capable as possible. We also owe it to our loved ones and fellow humans to be physically capable of helping and protecting one another from harm.

Now, on to the training. Physical training is truly an art. From developing strength to coordination and endurance, molding ones body into an affective athletic machine requires discipline and attention to detail. From the beginning of my strength training career, I typically modeled my weight training based on a bodybuilding style weekly split. Training cooperating muscle groups on individual days, making sure all were trained weekly across the span of 4-5 days. As years passed I began to focus specifically on powerlifting, with emphasis on training the “big three” competition movements (back squat, bench press, and deadlift). Making sure to still train each muscle group as effectively as possible weekly, my training days began to focus on training each of these movements on a specific day with accessory work and “beach muscle” days worked in.  This is a very effective method of training when your weight/rep schemes are properly programmed and your diet and sleep regimen support the training. However, these workouts are incredibly time consuming, and I almost always found myself spending 2-3 hours at the gym for each lift, 4-5 days a week. In order to compete in the sport of powerlifting, this kind of training is necessary. If you’re going to do the damn thing, you’ve got to commit the time to doing it.

Currently I am not training to compete in any specific powerlifting competitions, and as we move farther into the fall season I will become increasingly busy balancing work time, family/relationship time, the continued hunt for giant flathead catfish, weight training, occasional days in the tree stand, and a steelhead fishing addiction.  However, letting all of the strength and endurance progress I’ve made throughout the year slip away is not acceptable. Why train hard all year to lose what you’ve gained in two months, right? This drove me to devise a routine that was not only all encompassing and effective, but streamlined and quick. I will have time to train 2-4 times weekly, and would have to make lifts count with limited time. After discussing specific movement combinations with several friends and comparing my lifting notes to suggestions from top-level athletes and strength coaches, I’ve developed the following program.

This training block is designed to get me through the coming 2 plus months by doing more with less time. The goal is to maintain and build strength, build muscle, and increase endurance and cardiovascular capacity.  Training is broken into four workouts (w1-w4) performed in succession as regularly as possible allowing proper recovery and sleep time between sessions. Weight and rep schemes will be hammered out the day of, based on what I can bring to the table that particular day.  On days when I’m admittedly low on sleep or have not recovered well, I plan to push the volume with higher rep ranges while reducing weight.  On days when I can bring the intensity, weights will increase to a higher percentage of my one rep maximum, and rep ranges will decrease. The workouts themselves are outlined below.

W1:

• warm-up (includes light stretching and active hip mobility/warm up routine suggested by Chris Duffin)
• deadlifts (sets of 8-10 on higher rep days, 1-5 on heavier days)
• incline bench press (weight/reps fluctuate as described above)
• abdominal work (choose one exercise and train it hard for 3 sets
• burpees (four physically demanding sets)

W2:

• warm-up (as described above)
• front squat (focusing on perfect depth and form, push the weight when possible)
• pull ups (generally weighted, increasing rep range and weight used progressively)
• abdominal work
• jump rope (four physically demanding rounds)

W3:

• warm-up (as described above)
• hang cleans (almost always trained in lower rep ranges as intended (1-5 reps, 4 to 6 sets)
• single leg Romanian deadlifts (RDL’s) – (8-15 reps, 4 sets)
• abdominal work
• sprints (6-8 sprints, 40 yards each, high intensity)

W4:

• warm-up (upper body mobility, light stretching)
• dips (generally weighted, body weight used in high rep ranges, 8-25 reps depending on weight)
• chin-ups (body weight, rep ranges increasing with ability)
• abdominal work
• jump rope (four physically demanding rounds)

Rotate back to W1 and repeat.

 

Again, this collection of exercises was designed to be the most well rounded and effective “bang for your buck” on limited time. I’m currently one week into this rotation and surprisingly sore. I’ll report back with some progress and numbers as time passes.

Iron sharpens iron, get after it.

 

Goals are a beautiful thing. From the simplest improvement to the most lofty, goals are the driving forces that keep us moving forward.  Goals are the benchmark of progress, and for many such driven individuals the realization of one goal is simply the setting of another. The bar raises ever higher.  A goal can be the end result and final victory, or simply the constant improvement toward that end. A never ending quest for betterment.

Goals provide direction, and can act as a guidepost during the lowest and darkest times of our lives.  They give us hope and purpose, and in dire times may be the only source of both. Much of who we are as people, and who we are to become is shaped by the goals we pursue.  It’s my belief that most goals are born of passion, and are the product of an internal fire manifesting itself in an outward pursuit.

The setting of any particular goal, however, should not be a careless matter. Whether it be related to improving a physical or mental ability, acquiring a possession or financial gain, to building a business or chasing the buck of  lifetime, what you pursue should mean an awful lot to you. Time is the most valuable currency for any living person, and how this time is spent should never be taken for granted.  For any goal worth setting it worth achieving, and should be pursued relentlessly for the simple fact that the time spent doing so can never be repaid. If you chose to do something, simply do it.

In reality working toward any goal, no matter how exciting or fun, will not come without setbacks. Failure, doubt, plateaus, injuries, financial loss, the list goes on. Along the way there will always be days when you don’t feel like taking that step forward, or times when you doubt both your decision to chase this thing and your ability to go the distance.  Motivation is waning and overrated. Steadfast resolve trumps all.  You’re on your way for a reason.  You’ve carefully chosen to spend your time, money, effort, and emotion on pursuing your goal for a specific purpose. You’re giving portions of your life to this achievement that can never be taken back or spent any other way. The message here is very simple:

Love the process, master your craft, and stay hungry.

 

Ironscale, out.

 

Our trip last Friday started off like many others. I prepped the boat and several rods, transferred bait from the garage live-well into a cooler for transport, hitched up the boat, and blasted off.  Quinn and I had made arrangements to meet at the boat ramp when he got off work, giving us an early start on the night of fishing. It was around 85 degrees for a high that day, with stable conditions forecasted for the rest of the night. Nothing special, but a normal mid-August night.  After meeting Quinn and loading up his gear, we were on our way.

After a boat ride of several miles we arrived at our chosen fishing spot to unload gear and deploy baits. This spot had proven itself in the past, so we were hopeful. After a quick strategic discussion, I was in the kayak paddling lively baits to their precise locations. The sun set as I dropped the last bait, enveloping the lake valley in the inky gray of dusk. It was time.

It wasn’t long before we experienced our first action of the night.  Quinn and I were discussing placement of a specific bait that I’d taken out farther than the others when I noticed his adjacent line steadily swimming sideways. The fish took no line against the clicker, but we knew there was no way a bait could be dragging a three ounce bank sinker with such steady ease. Quinn reeled down to the fish and set hard, but the massive loop of slack in the line from the fish swimming across to the right prevented a solid hook set. The fish must have realized that something wasn’t right, and ejected the hook from its mouth. We were disappointed, but happy to have had a run so early. This was a good sign. We retrieved another bait from the large livewell in my boat and re-deployed it to the same location.

Only a short time had passed after re-baiting Quinn’s rod when one of my reels gave up several steady clicks.  I ran to the rod and waited.  After a few seconds, another brief set of steady clicks sounded. I disengaged the clicker and felt for tension on the spool with my thumb.  I could feel a fish moving, but it wasn’t taking steady line, and it wasn’t my goldfish. I began to reel down slowly and discovered that again, there was substantial slack in my line.  After a few turns of the handle I felt weight, and set the hook hard.  This time I connected, and after a short battle a juvenile flathead planed to the net. Quinn quickly scooped the 15 pound fish, which we released shortly after unhooking it.  A high five was had, and a new bait deployed.  We figured that while I was out in the kayak, I may as well do a stealthy inventory of bait on some of our other rods. As I made my way down toward Quinn’s last rod, I heard its clicker start to steadily pay out line from the boat.  Quinn didn’t think much of it, under the impression that I had the line in hand and was checking his bait. As quietly as I could, I let him know from the kayak that I didn’t have his line.  He picked up the still clicking rod, reeled down, and set.  Fish number 2 was hooked solidly and the fight was on.  Quinn told me that the fish didn’t feel that large, but I made my way to the bank to help regardless.  I reached the back of the boat at the same time a flathead of about 20 pounds broke the surface. After an interesting wrestling match, I jawed the fish from the kayak and handed it to Quinn on the back of the boat.  He was unhooked and quickly sent on his way.  More high fives, as now we’d caught two flatheads before 11:00 PM. Since I was still in the kayak, I ran a new bait out for Quinn once more.  Trap set, again.

About an hour later, the same rod I had caught the young fish on earlier in the night payed out several steady clicks and stopped once more.  I picked up the rod and disengaged the clicker right away.  As soon as I did this, line began to steadily roll off the spool under my thumb. After engaging the reel and coming tight to the fish, I set hard.  Whiff.  The rod never bent and I almost fell backwards. With nothing but slack in my line, I reeled until I felt weight and set again. Whiff number two! Discouraged that I’d missed our fourth run of the night I quickly cranked in line grumbling under my breath.  About 25 feet from the bank the line stopped dead in its tracks and the rod corked in half.  Realizing I had caught up to the assailant, I set the hook hard. Game on.  Line ripped from the reel as the heavy fish shook its head and ran out to deeper water.  We knew right away that this was a better sized fish.  After an extended fight of a minute or two on heavy tackle, Quinn made the scoop on a very plump 40+ pound flathead.  More high fives as the weigh sling and scale came out.  The fish was unhooked promptly, and weighed in at 41.8 pounds. A healthy female with a full belly, the fish was temporarily placed on a bridle for better photographs in the morning.  We discussed our continued early success, and ran another bait.

Mosquitos were becoming an issue as Quinn and I settled into our chairs. Luckily, he had packed a thermocell unit with him and fired it up. Problem solved. These things are worth their weight in gold, and I highly recommend them for mid-summer fishing. We sat back in our reclining chairs and killed a bag of kettle style jalapeño chips. They always taste a bit fishy on successful nights like this.  Discussion drifted through several subjects before being abruptly interrupted by yet another clicking reel.  This time it was one of Quinn’s, and a reel that somehow had never been picked up by a fish after years of use at that. After determining that the fish was moving steadily away, Quinn set hard.  The rod buckled and the drag slipped on the hook set, implying that this was another grown fish. The heavy adversary pulled hard, taking line several times and planing both left and right quite a ways.  I positioned myself with the landing net, and Quinn dragged the fish to me perfectly. With a quick scoop she was in.  I mentioned something about the fish being around 30 pounds, but grunted trying to lift the full net from the water. I had underestimated this one a bit, another very plump female weighing in at 45.3 pounds.  High five number four of the night, and the fish was placed on a temporary bridle near the bank for morning photos.  Thrilled by our success, we quickly re-baited and sent another goldfish to the depths.  A stellar night already.

By this point we were getting quite sleepy. We checked to make sure all of our reels were in freespool with the clickers on, and set up the reclining chairs to get some sleep.  Finally dozing off at around 1:00 AM, I was occasionally awakened by the sound of a lively bait pulling a few clicks of line from a nearby reel.  I got up twice to check the reel, and could feel the bait’s tail vibrating wildly against the line. Eventually I ignored his struggle and slipped off to sleep.  At around 4:00 AM, that same reel began to steadily pay out line. I jumped up and ran to the rod, slipping off the clicker.   The fish was moving off steadily, but just as I was about to set it stopped abruptly.  I waited, then picked up the rod tip. It felt like the weight was snagged on something, and I no longer felt fish or bait.  I reeled in my line to find that my active bait had swum several circles around a whole brush pile about four feet in diameter.  The line was impossibly wound around the 20 pound pile of branches, with about 8 feet of tag line to the hook on the far side toward the lake.  I then realized that a flathead had engulfed the bait post tangle, and had been steadily swimming off with the whole pile of brush in tow.  The brush must have snagged on the bottom, alerting the fish and causing it to spit the hook. We wondered how much fish it would take to casually carry a pile of branches along with it, and dropped out another bait.

Morning seemed to come quickly after that, as Quinn and I woke up around sunrise to begin packing up our gear.  We left the rods for last as is usually our custom, and retrieved the well rested pair of 40+ flatheads for a quick photoshoot.  After angrily biting hands and thrashing us with their powerful tails, the pair of fish were released and steadily swam off.  There is so much satisfaction for us in watching a massive predator like a flathead swim back to its murky environment in full health. A warrior of a fish, living up to and over the 20 year mark in many habitats, deserves this kind of respect.

We packed up gear and chairs, and began to reel in our lines.  Quinn alerted me that something was up with his last rod, and I saw the line swimming hard to the right.  The reel never clicked, but it was obvious that a flathead had eaten the bait as Quinn caught up to the fish and his rod bent. After a short struggle a fifth flathead of around 15 pounds made the net. The little guy was quickly unhooked, and sent back out to resume terrorizing the rest of the fish community. Thrilled by our late success and the nights happenings overall, we packed the rods into the boat and shoved off.

On the way back in, we ran into several friends who were also flathead fishing down the lake. Chad and Richard had caught several flathead, with fish of 20, 30, and 43 pounds weighed and released.  With 8 fish caught between us, we made note that nights like this one don’t come around very often. Truth be told, catching a single flathead during a full night of fishing is sometimes a rarity.  Excited about the night’s fishing, we all headed back to the ramp.

We’ll be taking a week off of fishing this weekend to prepare for a two night trip the following week, but hope to have a noteworthy update for that trip as well. Our release video of the two 40’s can be found here: 41.8 an 45.3 Release Video

Ironscale, out.