Arkansas Meet April, April Meet The White.....

Every so often in a woman’s life, there is a calling to do something a little crazy (ok, so maybe it’s a little more regular than every so often)…..

Women acting crazy?  Nah...... (What the hell am I doing in this picture anyway?)  (Brian Niska photo).

See, I believe in living life with no regrets, staying true to yourself (and your heart) and living every single day as though it were your last.  You never quite know when your time will come, and you can be damn sure that you don’t want the last thoughts that run through your head to be thoughts of regret.

Sometimes it takes one of these to make you realize just how important those things are…

Head-on at 200km combined speed on the freeway.  Courtesy of a drunk driver who opted to drive after a late night party.  I was heading to the lake to go fishing, trailer and boat in tow....

3/4 ton Chev takes on my little Toyota.  Poor thing didn't stand a chance....

My accident from last year that opened my eyes.  The result?  Appreciation! Always find a positive through the negatives, no matter how hard it may be at times….

Remember that fishing is not about the race to the river, nor about the mere bite of the trout.  Life is about enjoying these experiences as a whole.  Treat each day as though it is your last and savour every raindrop, cool breeze, laugh and moment.  Savour your friends, your family and yourself. For in a world when each breath you take may be your last, believe me when I tell you that these are the things that you will wish you had taken the time to cherish and the time to love.

Dana Vokey (my little sis) taking it all in.  This girl's the epitome of appreciation.

Anyhow, enough preaching.  Let me get back to my point….

So when my heart called me to spend some time away from BC and venture into the unknown terrain of the South, I opted to get a little crazy and take the leap. So long as the steelhead weren’t running, I was quite content chasing after trout and bass in good ‘ol Arkansas.

Two happy anglers in Arkansas.

We packed our bags (and kennels) and temporarily relocated to the land of Southern drawls and ‘sweet tea’.

Heading down South.

Naturally, as word spread through friends of mine, stories of the White River found their way to me and began to plague my mind.

The White is famous for its gigantic brown trout, and I was itching to see one.  I had never managed to land a brown, and still had yet to see one in person.

Thankfully, word had also managed to spread to the notable guide and writer, Steve Dally of Mountain River Fly Shopwww.mtnriverflyshop.com

Steve is an Aussie who found himself relocating to the USA almost a decade ago. Perhaps he understood what it feels like to be the “new kid in the neighbourhood” because he sent me a welcome invitation to try and break my brown trout curse.

Steve is one of those witty people who’s able to balance an intelligent sense of humour with just the right amount of dry sarcasm. This is the sort of guy that I could find myself getting along with….. We booked a day to hit the water.

Steve Dally working the motor.  (Rebecca Dally photo)

Steve maintains a fantastic blog called Splashes With Fishes www.splasheswithfishes.wordpress.com I thought I’d let him tell you how our day was in his words….

In the words of Steve Dally…

The cast splashed down deep into a nook in the bank, right where it needed to land. The mass of wool, marabou and steel composing itself into something fishy enough to attract the interest of the Lord of the Eddy.

Ape casting a fly the size of roadkill, and a sink tip that would make BC steelheaders blush (Steve Dally photo).

The fly sashayed its way out into the current with a BIG shadow below and astern, and closing. It was at about this time I lost my guide cool.

“Strip April, Strip, Faster!  Strip, Strip Strip,” echoed across the water in an Aussie accent….

It would only be later that we got the giggles, as we were both intent on that fish; the one we were after, tracking the fly out further and further, into the current, and right up to the stern.

Here I thought it would have turned away, but now it followed all the way to the rod tip. This brown was not boat shy.

How big? I’m a chronic under estimator when it comes to fish in the water, but it had mid-20s length and big girth; probably 10+ maybe more, it doesn’t really matter.

April’s eyes were huge, and words were coming in a rush. “I didn’t know trout could be so predatory!  Wow they aren’t like rainbows at all.”

And this wasn’t the only monster brown we would meet.

I knew of the April Vokey internet sensation, Simms calendar pin up, fly fishing ubiquitous “hot chick”, television presenter, and the subject of a popular Face Book group “I want to fish with April Vokey”.  All other opinions were based on a few photos, gorgeous though they are. Since I’d heard she was going to be in the area, I started a little research which lit a fire to get her connected to a White River trophy brown.

April and Colby on their way to 'the spot' with Steve.  (Steve Dally photo)

Far from an internet creation, the real April Vokey guides in British Columbia, running rivers and offshore. Here was a person crazy enough not only to go trout fishing just after emerging from the hospital with screws and plates in her foot (courtesy of a major car wreck), but heck doing it out in the back of beyond, and lugging a film camera.

Here was a fish-rat crazy enough to cast monster streamers in the Arkansas humidity all day long for a crack at a trophy brown.

She casts better than I do single handed, and I’m trying to work a trade for her to teach me Spey. In short as they say April’s  “bonafide” and a kindred spirit.  Even better, she and my lovely wife Becca hit it off a treat; to the point where April could harass me about my word selection when that monster brown chased that fly.

“If only we could get him to stop asking me to take my clothes off…”  April joked, referencing my continual demands of “Strip, strip, strip…” The girls were shaking with hysterics, and I’m scrambling to defend myself. Ratbags the pair of them.

Poor Steve getting picked on by the girls....

Sometimes it’s the friends you make on the water that overshadow everything else.

April and Colby share a romantic Titanic moment.

But I badly wanted to get her her first brown trout, and a big one at that. We fished hard in all the zones that had been producing, for a handful of rainbows, a few better smacks and quite a few trees.

No animals were harmed in the making of this blog.  (Steve Dally photo)

Then as the day faded I picked up a stick to try and help focus our efforts, running a big Zoo Cougar, trying to stir up a fish. It was then that I found an aggressive feeder; a big yellow slash shining gold as it missed my fly.  We retied the yellow Zoo Cougar onto April’s rig and ran back upstream for another pass.

Damn, I was thinking, it's gone as we floated over the zone. It was then that I heard April say softly, ”I’m on”…

Her 6wt bent hard. It had to be a brown, head down and doggedly pushing towards the tree line. She held that effort and we worked the fish to the middle of the river. I took a breath at this point, thinking now we had a good shot, when mysteriously everything went slack. Those big browns have mouths of bone and a secure hook set is hard to achieve.

Last fly, last run, last light (Steve Dally photo).

That’s fishing.

Nope I didn’t come away with a pic of “The April Vokey” holding a big brown, but Bec and I had a really cool couple of days fishing, yakking and laughing with April, Colby (her St. Bernard/Coonhound cross), and her friends Adam, Phil and Dalt.

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a tower of midges!?

Do you have any idea how many of those got stuck in my lip gloss?

There’s always a shot at another big fish-  oh yeh she’s coming back and we are due, but kindred spirits are a greater treasure.

Steve Dally ________________________________________________________

Thanks Steve!  We love you and Becca too!

For regular blogs by Steve, check out splasheswithfishes.wordpress.com And for regular reports on the White and the Mountain River Fly Shop, check out mountainriverjournal.wordpress.com

For The Love Of Iceland

I remember the first email I ever exchanged with Icelander, Rafn Valur Alfreðsson.

I couldn’t pronounce his name, and I certainly couldn’t pronounce his river, but the rest of the text was clear.

April, my name is Rafn Alfreðsson and I run a lodge on the river Midfjardará.  We would like you to come to Iceland to put on a women’s school in June next year, are you interested?

Iceland is famous for it's incredible scenery and world renowned Atlantic salmon fishing…..Of course I was interested.

The lower and flatter half of the "Midi".

The deal was simple......  Eight days, four of which were my own personal fishing days and four of which were to be spent instructing, guiding and laughing with twenty-four lady anglers from around the country.

The school was to take place on the third week of June, making fishing tricky, as June 19th had been opening day and the fish were scarce.

The commute from Oklahoma to Iceland was an interesting one to say the least.  I was traveling alone, at times feeling like a contestant from the Amazing Race. Connections, insanely lengthy layovers, and underground trains to off-map terminals kept my tired eyes alert, testing my navigational skills.

Finally, I settled into the cozy seats of Iceland Air.

Nearly 24 hours later, the breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean kissing Iceland’s green fields filled my window and our plane descended.

It was obvious I was in a foreign country.  The toilets flushed differently, the electrical sockets were funny looking, and the language surrounding me was one of a kind; quite literally.  (Icelander’s have their own language and even their own letters.) Try pronouncing one of their words one day….make sure there’s no one in front of you, ‘cuz they’re bound to get wet.

My guides name was Jonni (pronounced Yonni). A quiet, reserved, handsome, early forties, local, Jonni had woken up early to be at the airport for 6am. (Side note:  During these months, Iceland doesn’t get the slightest bit of dark even once throughout the evening!  There’s something strange about being able to get a sun tan at 3 o’clock in the morning….This said, they have set fishing rules, and it is illegal to fish past a certain hour at night).

Jonni’s face said it all; 'it’s opening day on the Midfjardará and I’m stuck here picking up some high maintenance, over hyped blonde chick….'

Yup.....this one.  (Photo by Larus Halldorsson.)

Jonni didn’t know it yet, but we were about to become extremely dear friends.

Jonni you're a babe!!  I miss you buddy...... (Vokey photo.)

The truck ride to the river was two hours long and I hit Jonni with 1001 questions.  This was the most beautiful country I had ever seen!

Ocean view, volcanoes, rolling hills, gin clear water and picture perfect waterfalls told me that if the fish were as beautiful as their surroundings, that I had found heaven.

Cliff top view of the "Midi".  (April Vokey photo.)

We headed straight for the river in true Vokey all-nighter fashion.  Man, I’m starting to get too old for this whole live without sleep thing…..

The first run we hit up was a flat, steady flowing piece of water that required no more than a short roll cast.  Our flies were small and everything that I had imagined fishing for Atlantics would be.

'Oooooh so romantic!'  I squealed to myself.

The "blue box"...

Arriving at the run.  (Vokey photo.)

Cast, strip, cast, strip, I worked the run and moved step by step through the pool.

The run widened and my casts lengthened. I cast, adjusted my footing, and then looked back at Jonni to ask him question #1002. His eyes almost popped out of his head; he was looking straight past me. Idiot girl had missed a nice sized salmon splashing at her fly.

“Damn!!!”  (The censored version).  There was no need to be disgusted though, for Jonni was disgusted enough for the both of us. He shook his head and looked down.

Great start.

I tried at that fish for another ten minutes before Jonni took the rod from my hands.

Three casts and his rod was doubled over with the perfect specimen of a fish jumping on the other end.

Bastard.

My, uh I mean, Jonni's first salmon of the season.  (April Vokey photo.)

The day went on and we hit countless other pools.  Every so often I’d close my eyes to take it all in….I was in Iceland! For me, this was a dream come true.

Our rig.  (Vokey photo.)

Near the end of the day we hit a long run, and I cast into the head of the pool. I recognized pools like this one from the steelhead rivers in BC.

I cast.  Only this time instead of stripping, I let my steelhead instincts set in and prepared to let my fly swing through.

“Oh my God, this run is money”, I said to Jonni, anticipating a tug.

Sure enough, a large mouth broke the surface and my small black fly was engulfed by a magnificent fish! I raised the rod tip and prepared to battle. It jumped, ran, splashed and turned for close to twenty minutes. I was getting my ass kicked!!!

Eventually I landed my first Atlantic Salmon.  My God, it was beautiful!  Chrome and spotted with sea lice, it was one of the most magnificent fish I had ever seen.

Yay!  First Atlantic ever!  (Jonni Birgisson photo.)

It was well worth waiting for.

When I first started fly-fishing, there was a perception that I held in my head.  When I would close my eyes and envision the epitome of why I was so drawn to the sport, I would imagine a romantic stream, with cascading waterfalls, classic flies, floating lines, tight loops, and flawless silver fish.

Flawless.... (photo by Helgi Gudbrandsson)

Casting at holding fish beneath the falls.  Can you believe we actually caught fish in here!?

Iceland was everything I dreamt fly-fishing would be.

Oh so cute (Jonni Birgisson photo.)

Soon, the ladies arrived from various towns around Iceland; every one of them excited to learn and have a shot at a fly-caught Atlantic salmon.

I’ll let several pictures speak for themselves……

Ape with a glowing angler (photo by Helgi Gudbrandsson.)

Ready for release (photo by Helgi Gudbrandsson).

This fish made this lady work for it! (Photo by Helgi Gudbrandsson)

Fishing with style (photo by Helgi Gudbrandsson.)

Iceland was one of the most mind blowing trips that I have ever taken and if I could preach to somebody loud enough that this is a MUST TAKE trip, I would shout it as obnoxiously as an old-school click pawl reel.

The guides (when they weren't beating on me in a brotherly sort of way), the food, the lodging, the scenery, and the fishing (during the months of July and August, it isn’t irregular to have 50+ fish days) far exceeded any of my expectations.

The trip's not cheap, but if you sub your next two trips with this one, I can promise you that it will be more than worth it.

For more info on booking a trip visit http://www.fhd.is/

For so many fresh water anglers, this is the reason we started fly-fishing in the first place, so why on Earth wouldn't you try to revitalize that passion....

Think about it,

Ape.

Hey Daddy! Step it up.....

I was a Girl Guide for nine years (for those of you from the US, a ‘Girl Guide’ is the Canadian equivalent to being a Girl Scout).

I graduated from three years of Brownies, to three years of Guides, to three years of Pathfinders; gradually stepping up the Girl Guide chain, learning cool tricks about camping, wildlife, survival and countless other subjects.

When I was done my nine years?  Hell, I went and helped to lead the little ones by being the “cool” Girl Guide leader amongst the Moms and the Grandmas (who believe it or not, were pretty darn cool themselves). I still think that to date, I am the only “responsible role model” in girl guide history to sneak candy into the bunks and give the kids a sugar high so as to keep camp interesting….

So, when my Aunt (still an active leader) made mention of me teaming with Girl Guides of Canada to help educate the young ladies about fly-fishing and the environment, you know I couldn’t resist. After all, I remember how good those badges felt when Mom ironed them to my scarf. If I could help these girls with some outdoor skills, I was all over it.

A happy brownie clinging to her Mom...I worked my ass off for those badges!

So, there we were several months later, myself and good friend Adrienne Comeau, heading to Girl Guide meeting headquarters to give twenty-five eight year old girls lessons on fly casting, conservation, flies and safety. It was a wee bit nerve-wracking.

The girls were hyper, and Ade and I fiddled nervously as they whipped our expensive fly rods through the air. “Deep breaths…”  I smiled at her and headed upstairs to begin the classroom session with the first half of the group.

Our group of little ladies (photo blurred for privacy purposes).

There they were; a dozen of them surrounding me at a table in an old conference room, and they were as antsy as the night I played the Easter Bunny in the bunkhouse years earlier. Hmmm.  Karma sucks.

Regardless, I quickly discarded my carefully formulated plan to educate them classroom style, as it was evident that their attention spans were about as wide as the wings of a sparrow. They shouted over each other, each of them trying to be louder than the last. “Hey, hey, hey!”  Me, trying to sound grown up… “Ladies, put your hands up if you’d like to be heard.”

A dozen hands shot up towards the ceiling and stretched as if trying to dislocate their arms. One at a time, I listened to what each of them had to say.  What I heard was truly an eye opener…

“My Dad”, in short, unsure, gaspy breaths, “My Dad he goes fishing all the time with my Uncle Bob…..”

“My Grandpa, he loves fishing!  He goes every summer to…..”

“Well, my Dad, he’s a great fisherman!  He takes a trip every year to…”

One after the other, each and every girl had a male role model in their life who in some way, shape or form, had the fishing bug.

Ironically, the girls all shared yet another surprising characteristic. Every one of them was eager to go with their Dads/Grandpas/Uncles, but simply didn’t know how to go about doing so.

That same night, twenty-five eight year old girls went home bugging that male role model to take them fishing.

Little Emma Cortes with her proud Dad (rightfully so!)  Adrian Cortes photo.

So Daddy, if you don’t already, ask her if she may be interested in joining you.  Show her pictures of other girls angling!  Show her that she can too!  If for nothing else, than to simply boost her confidence. Let her know while she’s young that she can do whatever she puts her mind to!

Danika Rodgers casting a tight loop as proud Dad, Jamie, snaps a picture.  This kids the real deal!

Yes, you may lose a rod tip (as I so painfully experienced that same evening), and yes you may gain a migraine (as I so amusedly watched Adrienne endure), but you may just develop the best little fishing buddy a guy could have. And really, does it get much better than that?

Breaking the Bikini Rules....

It’s always been a dream of mine to fish the salt.  No, not the cold, survival suit, jigging for salmon, salt….. but the tropics. So when a  friend invited me to join him and some of his friends on a trip to the Bahamas, there was no way I was turning it down.

The group.

We were off to Freeport, chasing after bone fish and anything else that happened to have the misfortune of being spotted by one of us.

Even the poor starfish weren't safe (April Vokey photo).

Among this list of unfortunate species included shark, sting ray, permit, baby tarpon, barracuda, and snapper;  Each of which we hooked (with the exception of the permit; no surprise there) though didn’t necessarily land.

April Vokey releasing a sweet little bone fish.

Day one on the boat was incredible.  Our guide worked the pole better than an upscale dancer and the amount of visible bones were plentiful (no pun intended).

Our guide working it....

Never, would I have imagined that a reasonably small fish could run with such speed.  Truly a bullet, I was starting to understand what all the fuss was about.

Bullet.

Straight into backing, silver as a rich kid’s spoon, and pulling pound for pound, I was able to temporarily forget about my hangover and the glaring sun long enough to laugh hysterically as a feisty bone kicked my ass.

Getting my ass kicked.

The next day, I was ready. Only today, I was going to break one of my steadfast rules….I was trading in my long sleeves and khakis for….gasp….a bikini.

I always sneered at the girls in the photos who rocked the swim suit, making the fish appear invisible, all the while keeping the boat afloat with an abundance of silicone. “Not this chick.  Long live those who don’t need to get naked to produce a good shot…” But damn, it was hot, and these Canadian thighs were blinding and as white as the sand on the beach. Guess some rules are made to be broken; don’t get used to it.

Holding a mutton snapper.  These things were so cool!  (Anthony Reiss photo)

We headed for the flats in search of tailing bones.  Our rods were rigged and our eyes were trained; it was going to be a good day.

I brought the Spey rod (packed it for shits and giggles, which for the record, ended up leaning more on the side of the shits), and set it up with a wire leader and monstrosity of a fly (spinner blade and all).

I’d be damned if I had to watch another huge shark or barracuda swim by me again this trip.

Got the Nautilus reel ready for business (April Vokey photo)

Wading the flats was awesome.  A true test for the caster, we chucked and ducked into the wind and nervously watched black tipped dorsal fins swim close by.

Screw this….I grabbed the Spey and cast at a six or seven foot blacktip shark, failing to have the common sense to realize that I was wearing long, flowing, black sarong style pants over my bikini bottoms.  That’s right, the equivalence of a playful baby seal swayed in the water around my hips, and I was up to my waist casting at a shark. When did I get so smart….? I cast a long cast with the Spey, slamming the obnoxious fly in front of his snout and stripped vigorously.  He turned and charged my fly, excited by my fast, jerky strips. “Keep stripping!”  My guide shouted.

Ok, pause the story.

You know in the movies when you see the dorsal fin coming at the stupid blonde chick who’s half naked and everyone knows the water’s about to explode in a nauseating scarlet color?  Yeah, I was thinking I was that girl.

Thank God, at the last minute he turned (probably had something to do with my increasingly weak and unsure strips), leaving my heart pounding and my “fear no fish” attitude somewhere amidst the piss I’m sure I released in my seal-like pants. That was enough shark fishing the flats for one day.  I crawled back into the boat.

Not all was lost; I did end up getting this little guy the next day....

Small but toothy nonetheless.

That evening when the guides headed back to the dock, one of the guys in our group, Anthony ‘A-Train’ Reiss was standing on the shore unusually quiet. Anthony is one of the rare people I know who can actually make me look well-behaved.  Needless to say, when he’s not cracking jokes or exercising his wit, it’s obvious that something isn’t right.

I looked at him inquisitively.  His eyes sparkled and he mouthed “Tarpon!” Poor guy, I thought.  Resident tarpon were unheard of….he must be mistaken.

“What!”  I said. “Tarpon!”  He said, only this time louder.  Several of the guides overheard him and laughed. “No tarpon here mon…”  They chuckled and shook their heads.

It wasn’t until I looked over at Anthony’s guide Perry Demeritte (www.captinperry.com) and saw a perplexed, yet excited look cross his face. Maybe the A-Train was actually being serious. If his seriousness didn’t prove it, his point and shoot camera sure did.  There it was, proof for all, a fair-sized tarpon thrashing the surface before breaking free and leaving poor Anthony shaking.

Holy hell, why was I chasing bones again?

The next morning, Anthony’s fishing partner was the victim of a late night celebration inclusive of booze and a smoking’ hot wife.  He was in no position to be going anywhere. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was wishful thinking... Either way it left a spot open in Anthony’s boat and I was praying that he would need a fishing buddy.  Preferably, one with long hair and an unbearable itch to see a tarpon. “Ape, wanna come in my boat?” Hmmm, let me think about that…..

Captain Perry knew exactly where he was going.  He had discovered these fish less than 24 hours earlier and was just as excited as we were to get back to them. He waited for the rest of the guys to push off and then floored it to the spot.

There they were. Clear as day, hugging beneath overhanging bushes; Tarpon!!

Anthony cast, strip, strip, strip, set!  He had one on and it was not impressed. He bowed when it jumped and played the crazed fish text-book perfect.  All too soon, it was over and the fish had succumbed to the side of the boat.  It was small, but it was beautiful! The romance of it all was soon ruined when Captain Perry pulled it into the boat and the two men were immediately covered with tarpon feces. Yup, that beautiful tarpon left it’s mark on Anthony’s heart and on his crisp salt-water shirt.

Go A-Train, it's your birthday.......

Our trip to the Bahamas was one to be remembered. Great company, fishing, weather, entertainment…..what wasn’t there to love? It may not be a trip that I can take regularly, but it sure is one that I will think of often.