The Gila River: Free Flowing Forever

Sit for a spell with Dutch Salmon and learn more about another gem of a river under threat.

America's Most Endangered Rivers 2015

American Rivers has just released their report on the ten rivers facing the most urgent threats. 

Click HERE to visit their website to learn more about each river, what is being done to save them, and how all of us can be a part of the solution.

Parker's Top 50 Favorite Things About Northwest Rivers

"Where Go the Boats" by Robert Louis Stevenson

Illustration by Clara M. Burd, from A Child's Garden of Verses, 1930 Edition.

Dark brown is the river,

Golden is the sand.

It flows along for ever,

With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,

Castles of the foam,

Boats of mine a-boating—

Where will all come home?

On goes the river

And out past the mill,

Away down the valley,

A way down the hill.

Away down the river,

A hundred miles or more,

Other little children

Shall bring my boats ashore.

"Where Go the Boats" by  Robert Louis Stevenson from Selected Poems. © Penguin Classics, 1999.

Ireland's Wild River

I'm sorry you missed this, if you did. It first aired on February 26. I didn't see it until last night when I dipped into my stash of previously-recorded programs.

It's superb. If I had known in time I would definitely have gotten the word out to all who love rivers. If I could, I'd post the whole thing now.

But here's the next best thing. Here's the trailer, and two clips from the film. And if you're fortunate, your local PBS station will do what mine does sometimes--replay this at a later date. I'd recommend you watch for it.

Flowing Free

Last week I went down to the river. The frigid temperatures had broken for a second time this winter, and a thaw was underway. Maybe the last one.

The ice was still thick, but it was going. As all things must go.

I looked at the thawing ice, a sign of hope, and felt a bleak coldness. A few nights before a woman had walked out on the town bridge, a mile or so upriver from us. She had taken off her coat and laid it down, climbed over the railing, and fallen through the darkness. In the morning light there was only her coat and a jagged hole in the ice.

So for most of a week we had been looking at the river and wondering where she was. And wondering so much more. We knew her troubled life; we knew her pain; we could even tell ourselves that she was now free of that pain. But at what cost? For we also knew her children, and we knew the way it should have been.

Once again life had confronted us with harsh mystery. No use to ask why. Seasons come and seasons go; life is given, and life is taken away. Nature looks at us with an unwavering gaze. No malice, no apology. As if to say, "Live! Make the most of the season you have. Do what you can. But this is how it will be."

The night before, I had driven across the bridge and seen flashing lights a quarter mile downstream on the river side of the road. The river was opening up, beginning to give up its secrets. She had been found.

This week I went down to the river again. Red winged blackbirds were calling in the evening fields.

The ice had broken up the night before and the river was flowing free.

Flowing as it has for generations, and as it will for generations to come.

Washing everything clean, and, even in the face of death, bringing new life once again.

The Road Trip: Lewis River, Yellowstone National Park, July 2013

What a Beautiful Thing.

A map of all the rivers in the US.

Thanks to Gizmodo. Found on Moldy Chum.

Dude, Check This Out: Dean Evenson

Sometimes you've just got to go new age. For late night contemplation or relaxation I often turn to Dean Evenson. The music is deep and soothing, but what I really like are the natural sounds that always accompany it.

Desert Moon Song is one of his earlier albums, but for my money he's never topped "Desert Moon." Puts me out on the desert every time.

Evenson also likes water, and has many songs that you can wade into and get lost in, just like the best rivers. And maybe tying flies to the sound of flowing water gives you that extra little bit of inspiration.

One Day at a Time

We're taking it one day at a time around here. Monday was the second day in a row that broke the 60 degree barrier. Maybe we'll have some more, maybe not. No one here assumes we're in the clear yet. But in the meantime we're making the most of it.

I made the most of it by hitting the river again. What a difference a few days make. Last week it was steely and cold. This week it was sunny and mild. Last week I was chilled within an hour. This week it took me all afternoon to finally feel chilled. Last week I lost two trout. This week I finally landed one.

I started right in on the Bridge Run, and in the course of the afternoon I thoroughly covered the water all the way down to that dark shadow on the right bank.

But I caught the trout within the first fifteen minutes. It was hanging out near the downed tree that was such a pain in the ass until it shifted over against the bank. The trout came out hard and fast and nailed the fly just as it was shifting into high gear on its swing. I got it to hand out in mid-channel but couldn't get a photo-op grip on it, so I waded in for the photo shoot.

It was a strong, beautiful fish--and one a long time coming--so I think it deserves three photos.

And the fly deserves a little attention, too. It was the Royal Coachman Bucktail I tied up last month. It's always a kick to see a fly you tied, and really liked, in the jaws of a good fish.

That was fun. Nice to have the tree providing cover for fish and plenty of room now to go after them.

From there it was about getting serious (do I look serious?) and covering the water--with nothing to lose.

I figured I might catch another trout or two, but I was also intent on finding out if a Steelhead or two was lurking in the tail of the run.

I didn't find them, if they were there. I switched to a Stonefly nymph and fished it with and without the sink tip, but there was nothing. I did dredge up a lot of sticks and branches, though.

After fishing out the run I walked back up the well-worn fisherman's trail to the bridge.

I took a quick break under the bridge, then went out and took another pass through the head of the run.

I got some teasing bumps in mid-riffle, so worked it over carefully, then reeled in some line and started over on that section. I finally hooked another trout on a fast strip, but it came off before I could see it.

That's when I sensed a difference in how I was feeling and fishing. I felt the grip of that old familiar friend of the fly fisherman: obsession. I was getting cold, it was getting dark, I had already caught a nice fish, it was time to go--but I didn't want to quit. You know how it goes: just one more cast...OK, now just one more cast...

That's another sign of Spring, in my book.

So I went right back after that fish again...and promptly snagged and had to break off the Stonefly. OK, I can take a hint. I waded out, packed up, and headed home.

I get it. This was one day. There will be other days. Yes, we'll take it one day at a time. Blah, blah, blah...

River Report: The Right Stuff

I finally returned this afternoon to the realm of the Eagle--and the Swan, and the Trout. It was a day of high overcast, temperatures above freezing, and, I presume, a dropping barometer as a result of a big storm rolling in off the Pacific.

I waded up to the Glide, and never was the name more appropriate than today. A juvenile Trumpeter Swan was gliding over its smooth flow. We get a few Trumpeters every Spring, and it's always a cheering sight. I've never seen a solitary bird, though, and my guess is that this teenager somehow got separated from the flock. Or, based on my experience with teenagers, managed to get separated from the flock.

I took a long, slow pass through the Glide. The river is low, lower than it appeared to me as I drove over the bridge last weekend. I went deep and small, but found no fish. The surface was covered with tiny midges--what I've seen called Snowflies--and every once in awhile I heard a little splash, and once, turning quickly at the sound, saw the rapidly dissipating ripples of a rise.

By then--I admit it--I was a bit chilled, and had little to no feeling in my thumbs. The temperature was at a good place, but a persistent wind and the icy water did their work. I waded downstream and across and climbed up under the bridge out of the wind. My thermos was in the truck nearby so I got it and took a little warmup time with some hot coffee. You know, sitting by a river having a cup of coffee is one of the things I hope I get to do in heaven.

I had been wondering how the Bridge Run might fish with the lower flows, and especially where the run dumps into a deep, slow pool and backwater. So I climbed down on the downstream side of the bridge to check things out. As always, others had been there before me.

I found that the big tree that had been lying in the middle of the run since last June's high water had somehow shifted over against the bank. That's good news. It opens up the run again. With the low water I was able to wade through the silty backwater and out to a higher and firmer gravel bar. It was like old times; this is where I used to stand to fish this stretch.

I went at it for a good long time. On one swing I felt a good bump, then another, and another. I knew it wasn't a Steelhead, and at first decided to let the fly keep swinging. Then it whacked the fly again, and I lifted and hooked up with a nice trout. I worked it in close enough to see its flash and color before it came undone.

I fished on and snagged the bottom twice, breaking the fly off each time. Then I hooked another trout and it was deja vu all over again. I lost it just as I could see it flashing in the darkening current. I thought sure I was going to have some fish photos tonight. But what I have is that sensory memory of those bright, pulsing lives at the end of the line. That's high pay for an afternoon's work.

I had been standing in the river for a long time, and I was cold again. I waded out--those first steps over the cobble on numb feet make me feel like a baby learning to walk--and climbed back up to my sanctuary under the bridge. One more cup of coffee, and some time to reflect on the day.

I was happy. Steelhead or no Steelhead, this was a day with all the right stuff.

River Report: I Get Lucky

I headed straight to The Glide on this drab afternoon, thinking about those tugs last Friday. I had been thinking about them frequently over the weekend. I stayed with the same fly, but this time I added a sink tip.

At about the same place I had gotten those tugs, I hooked up. Same fish? I think it's a good bet.

The fish took as I started to strip in after the dangle. It pulled, but it didn't fight at first. I was expecting a Whitefish until that first big swirl when I saw that flash of red that lit up the day.

It wasn't big, but it acquitted itself well, making long lunging runs as it did its best to get to the other side of the river.

I took another pass through The Glide, but that was it for today.

But, boy, it sure felt good.