Adventure photographer Mike McPhee has traded adrenaline seeking for the Zen of fly fishing. He explains why his new preoccupation with the mysterious trout is taking over his life. Words :: Mike McPhee.
Cold, Rocky Mountain meltwater starts its trek high in the watershed amongst the peaks, ridges and snowfields of the Continental Divide. It makes its way down in dramatic fashion through scree slopes and boulder fields until finally mellowing below the treeline. Progressing into a freestone stream, it follows the path of least resistance down towards the valley. Flowing with purpose through postcard-worthy meadows and sporadic trees, the mountain backdrop adds to an already surreal scene, reminiscent of oil paintings from a previous century. Along the stream audible splashes seem out of place at first; it takes some patient observing to see what’s making the ruckus: A trout is intermittently rising to the surface, making a meal of insects in the midday sun. Closer inspection of the gin-clear water reveals a nice-sized cutthroat trout holding in a back eddy, with grass and wildflowers hanging delicately over the bank.
Our reverence is often directed at the more robust land-dwelling mammals that also call this exceptional landscape home. But make no mistake, the native trout not only impress, but leave one fully enthralled with their mysterious ways. This type of scene has led to my fly fishing obsession that, almost solely, motivates my outdoor pursuits.
After a lifetime in the action sports industry, I am now fully captivated by fly fishing for trout in these mountains and other obscure and hard-to-get-to places. Adrenaline-fueled activities and backcountry adventures photographing pro athletes has given way to more Zen-like, intimate wilderness escapes. The pursuit of trout now occupies my daydreams and quiet moments of reflection. The sound of moving water soothes and provides therapy that transcends monetary value.
The Components of an Obsession
A primordial need for exploration is one of the leading causes of my affliction, to be sure. Hiking, bushwhacking, seeing what’s around the next bend of a stream—exploration is instinctual to humans. I tend to be attracted to lesser-known streams in remote corners of the Rockies. Tributaries of major rivers are often overlooked and provide craved quiet exploration. These places often do not have many trails, except the ones made by our quadruped friends.
The act of fly fishing itself is an ever-unfolding journey, a learning curve with no end. Some of us gravitate to this educational element, where one never really attains perfection. This quality is sure to teach even the most high-octane characters a bit of patience and an affinity for the journey. Casting a fly line is an art that teaches perseverance—especially amidst trees and bushes. To watch an expert cast is hypnotic and enthralling. Beginners often try to muscle the line and force it out, but in fact a gentle, easygoing approach is the better strategy.
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There is also the “stalking prey” factor. This feeling, also instinctual, is embedded in our inner animal and sometimes takes the reins. Reading water is another required skill; back eddies and the seam between fast and slow water are always good bets for a trout hideout. Trout seem to prefer a bit of structure and often can be found hanging out behind boulders and under log jams.
Entomology and insect life cycles are a never-ending pedagogy. Insects change with seasons and even throughout the day. This part of the tutelage is as old as the sport itself. Some take “matching the hatch” to extremes, and spend much time tying flies to mimic the various stages of an insect’s life, taking great care with size, colour and hackle.
Methods of Fly Fishing
The sport encompasses three main types of fly angling. Nymph fishing is the imitation of the early stages or subsurface stages of insects. These insects are often larvae as they rise up from the bottom of a stream or lake from where they hatch. Most then emerge onto the surface, eager to begin the flying stage of life. Attempting to mimic these airborne insects is called dry-fly fishing and is generally considered the pinnacle of the sport. There is usually a short period of the day when temperature and circumstance are right and insects start hatching and flying on the surface, coaxing trout into a feeding frenzy. These are rare, but magical, moments that linger in the mind and occupy the space reserved for life’s finer moments. Streamer, or wet-fly, fishing is the imitation of a small minnow or baitfish. This is generally the best method for catching bigger fish. Each style requires a different technique and varied gear.
Most of the streams and rivers of the Rockies are classified as protected waters, and therefore are usually designated as catch-and-release only. Most fly anglers practise conservation and generally do not keep trout, especially from these often-fragile mountain waters where fish grow slowly and are often in small numbers.
The Fish
Then there is the quarry itself: the sometimes elusive and always wary trout. Learning their habits and their favourite places to reside is also part of the obsession—er, progression. Life slows down, and I spend time watching. The satisfaction of sitting on the edge of a pool, listening to the moving water and spotting trout, is the leading factor in the obsession.
Cutthroat trout are the native mountain trout that thrive in remote cold streams of the Rockies. You will find them in often picturesque mountain creeks and high places that, at first glance, may seem devoid of aquatic life. They require clean water and have a voracious appetite for feeding off the surface. The Canadian Rockies are home to the subspecies westslope cutthroat trout; the Elk River watershed near Fernie has the largest remaining population on the continent. Some say cutties are too easily caught compared to other species of trout, but those of us who love dry-fly fishing dream of them. Cutties spend more time looking up, while other species of trout focus on subsurface aquatic prey.
Life slows down, and I spend time watching. The satisfaction of sitting on the edge of a pool, listening to the moving water and spotting trout, is the leading factor in the obsession.
Their preferred habitat just so happens to be the same as my happy place. There is something magical about watching cutties rise slowly from the bottom of a stream to nab a flying insect out of the air before it even lands on the water. Their cadence can be hypnotizing as they hold in their preferred spot.
Bull trout also call the Rockies home. They get a fair bit bigger than cutthroat, often pushing into the 5-kg-plus category. Bullies are not even trout, but imposters in fact. Their classification as a member of the char family becomes evident when viewed coloured up and spawning in the fall. Bright-orange bellies, blue dots and iridescent white edging on their fins make for a colourful display. These apex water predators can usually be found in many of the same streams as cutties and are native to the Rocky Mountains as well, although often deep in bigger pools of a river. Unlike cutthroat, bullies do not usually feed off the surface, but prefer other small fish and invertebrates. (It is not unusual to have one attack a smaller cutthroat as it’s being reeled in.) Catching a bull trout can be more difficult, and one must put in time casting big-weighted streamer flies.
Many lakes in the Rocky Mountain Parks and area are home to trout species introduced in the last century, including rainbow trout and sometimes eastern brook trout. Fortress Lake near Jasper is famous for holding very large specimens of brook trout and is a renowned fishery. Brown trout with their ancient origins in Scotland were also introduced into the Bow River watershed in an era before we understood the idea of invasive species.
The Hook
A few years back I was exploring a favourite area, where moss-covered rocks watched over by old growth trees lined an idyllic stream. It was a late summer evening on a small tributary of the Elk River, and evening sun filtered through a mixed forest of spruce, pine and cottonwood. The water was low and the warmth had brought out a prodigious mix of insects, which were enjoying the quiet evening as well. My expectations of trout spotting were low, as the water seemed a bit thin with the stream-feeding snow having long since diminished higher up in the watershed.
I tried to match the brown caddis flies I observed fluttering around and carefully tied a small-sized imitation onto my line. I noticed a little inconspicuous pocket of slightly deeper water under the protruding roots of a large tree. These little unremarkable spots are often home to a trout or two taking cover from the sun and predators alike.
My expectations of trout spotting were low, as the water seemed a bit thin with the stream-feeding snow having long since diminished higher up in the watershed.
I cast the line gently, trying to aim just upstream from the pocket and taking care not to tangle in the branches guarding the potential trout. My fly drifted smoothly, bobbing along in harmony with the cadence of the slow current. A large cutthroat slowly emerged from the darkness of the hollow under the tree roots, carefully observed my imitation fly and followed it downstream for several feet. The water was shallow, and the trout was displaying the added caution of an older fish. After a patience-testing minute, the brute delicately sipped my fly off the surface. This is the moment of angler addiction; the tug is the drug as they say.
A wee bit of adrenaline hit and heightened my senses. It soon realized its mistake and we played a bit of back-and-forth. Always careful not to pull too hard and break the line or damage the fish, I let the trout win for a few minutes and slowly brought it closer. Finally in the net, I enjoyed the beautiful colouring and estimated it to be 17 to 18 inches (43 to 46 cm) in size. A larger cutthroat to be sure and my biggest of the summer. (They generally max out at around 20 inches [51 cm] in these cold mountain waters.) Gently removing the fly from his lip, I placed it back in the water and he scooted back to the hideout under the tree, no worse for the wear but probably still hungry.
I stood silently and enjoyed a few moments of contemplation, soaking in the ambiance of the place and moment. The big brute had made a mess of my fly, so I took a few minutes and slowly started tying on a new imitation. Some movement upstream along the creek caught my attention. In my peripheral view I saw what looked like a dog trotting straight towards me. I assumed another angler was coming down the stream and continued tying, as I was almost finished. A few moments later my knot was complete and I looked up and quickly saw a dark-coloured wolf headed right for me. There was a tree lying down across the small stream, and I was very still and fully engaged with my fly—he hadn’t seen me.
Astonished, and honestly a little panicked, I felt the flow of adrenaline rush through my veins. With heightened senses, I looked around to see if a pack was closing in. The wolf made short work of the gap between us at a steady but somewhat leisurely pace. It then leaped over the tree separating us and finally took notice of me while in the air. All four paws came down in a skid about three metres away, and gravel sprayed up almost comically. The wolf quickly realized I blocked his route and with another leap bounded into the brush and disappeared.
The bewilderment was mutual; I had to sit down and let the moment sink in. Though this experience was rare, it speaks to the immersive nature of time spent in creeks and the expansive forests of the Rockies. The quiet and observant nature of fly fishing lends itself to a holistic wilderness experience.
I looked up and quickly saw a dark-coloured wolf headed right for me. There was a tree lying down across the small stream, and I was very still and fully engaged with my fly—he hadn’t seen me.
Trout fishing is an escape from our sensory-dense world. Immersion in the river habitat is a foray into the Japanese concept of forest bathing, which tells us that time spent immersed in nature is just straight-up good for us. Elements of education and exploration, along with the satisfaction of an ancient, primordial hunter, transport me into another realm. And the focus required results in a time warp where, somewhere along a peaceful Rocky Mountain stream, five hours become one. I often emerge from this time warp shocked by how far the sun has progressed from east to west.
In my daydreams, clear mountain waters, deep forests and rising trout coalesce. Though I still enjoy the other mountain activities, more frequently my mind drifts to planning the next foray into the addictive realm of fly fishing.
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