In a life spent fishing, no one is exempt from the allure and mystery of big fish. No matter how much we try to convince ourselves and others to the contrary, I believe that big fish remain a big deal in every angler’s life until their very last cast. Big fish are the highlights of our days, creating enduring memories. Some, when experienced alongside good friends, or amid particularly inspirational scenery, or at a certain poignant moment in life, are memories that time will fail to substantially fade.

Last night, I joined a few friends for a brief river foray on a quintessential July evening in Colorado. We fished through a fleeting thunderstorm, working quickly to explore a very limited stretch of water. We were aware that big fish were a possibility, but the biggest brought to hand during the first hour was maybe 18 inches. A fine and beautiful fish, but it only served to sharpen the hunger for more.

Don’t bother asking.

When my dead-drifted nymph paused along a deep seam, I tightened up with just the slightest hesitation. Immediately, I felt the distinctive head shake of a large and powerful fish. It is that very moment of realization that is the white-hot heat of fly fishing’s passion. My heart paused and teeth clenched. An enormous rainbow clumsily cartwheeled, a spectacular crashing and splashing commotion coupled with a line-peeling run. “There’s no way you’re going to land this thing,” I told myself. 4X tippet. Seriously?

With all the finesse I could muster, I kept the tension on. Eventually, my 6-weight’s doubled arc prevailed, and steered the fish in to the near seam. This was the first good look at the fish, and my hands really started to tremble. By this time, my friends Cory and Cary were alongside, and Cory jumped in with the net. High fives all around. As Cory lifted the fish, we all laughed at the ridiculous girth of the massive rainbow. I worked quickly to snap some frantic photos in order to get the toad back in to the water quickly. We measured it against my 31-inch net, and it came up just about an inch short.

Cory doing the honors

Tomorrow, I’m taking off for Alaska. I can’t really convey the full extent of my excitement. I’ll be on the Naknek River for the next week, photographing participants in a unique guide training program. If everything works out, I’ll also get some stick time myself, in pursuit of the Nak’s renowned rainbows. It might still be a bit early for kings, but I’ll be prepared for them, as well. Even better, I may get some time with Austin on the back end of next week, on his home turf.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a lot of packing to finish up. Stay tuned, as I may be able to report from the road.

Big water, big flies, big fish. I got spoiled for a bit last week during a shoot in western Colorado. Yes, it was private water, but that’s beside the point for this particular update. I was pinched for time, and thus had to work to take advantage of the conditions. The fish cooperated, but the lighting was a challenge. More specifically, lugging around the gear required to mitigate the lighting was a challenge.

Being short on available time, and trying to squeeze in as much as possible to communicate the experience of fishing some very special water, makes for some long and fulfilling days. I wish that I could have photographed my own 25-inch rainbow, but that’s part of the photographer’s sacrifice. I felt (a little) guilty even wetting a line in the first place.

I’ll probably write more about this place, and the experience it offers, in a future post. For now, I wanted to share this brief glimpse of just how good early summer can be on the western slope, before summer’s heat begins to wear down our pitiful runoff.

Last weekend, a friend graciously allowed me to tag along for some time on the Colorado River. The timing was ideal. With the spring season in full swing, it was almost sensory overload. Cottonwoods unfurling their greenery, the heat of the canyon sun, and the cold spray of early-season water. Rebirth, and all the associated metaphors. It was brilliant, and then there was the fishing.

Sure there were fish. But the real “event” was one of those things that is a cue that the fly angler’s season has begun its crescendo. On the river, and in the eyes of an angler, hatches are always events. They can be subtle, like the early-morning trico and the delicate, sipping takes they evoke. They can be profound, like the mighty salmonfly. And, they can be almost overwhelming, as was the case on the Colorado last weekend.

Now that’s a spring caddis hatch. Such are the days that we lay awake dreaming about during winter’s dark depths. Of course, none of the Colorado’s incredibly strong rainbows and browns were paying any attention to the proliferation of adult insects on the water. However, by early afternoon, they were greedily sucking down emergers fished just below the surface, such as a peacock softhackle. It really is about as fun as it gets.

Fly fishing and sense of place are deeply-linked. For me, the experience is as much about distinct locations – and the associated journeys – as it is about fish. Granted, a particularly memorable fish can help anchor the significance of a place. Conversely, a profound place, whether aesthetically or due to something more intangible, will supplant the absence of a heart-stopping fish. Or, the presence of fish altogether.

My fly fishing life is laced by return trips to a growing list of special places. These pilgrimages are at once sentimental and hopeful, attempts to build on legacy and enrich memories with new layers of experience. Some are seasonal, others more irregular. Perhaps that annual float attempting to intercept the salmonfly hatch, or the too-infrequent trip with Dad to one of the old haunts of your youth. Each one is a story unfolding, with unique characters, dialects and idiosyncrasies. I’ll go as far as saying that such pilgrimages are an important part of our growth as anglers, as conservationists, and as humans. These journeys are at the core of what we do, and, ultimately, who we are.

One of mine is now close to home. They can be, you know. It can be as proximate as your backyard, if approached with the same awareness. This one started several years ago, probably six or seven. April, western Colorado. A friend tipped us off. We thrashed through scrub brush and skidded down dirty snow drifts, then found ourselves at the river’s edge. A world apart.

The water was new, at first appearing mysterious, but soon revealing just enough. The fish were strong, vibrant. Just a couple of good friends, all sharing in that new-to-us glory. That first experience was just a taste, an almost superficial glint off the surface. As subsequent winters melted in to spring, this place would once again move to the fore of my intentions. This sneaky-beautiful place is becoming like an old friend, with just a hint of familiarity and a welcome embrace.

It was good to be back there last week, to see that not much had changed. We shared the water with no other anglers, and the fish were just as bold and strong. New memories to now span another season, looking ahead to the next pilgrimage.

The new issue of The Contemporary Sportsman, Vol. 3 No. 2, has dropped, and I’m excited to have one of my photos land on the cover. Please check it out if you haven’t already: www.thecontemporarysportsman.com

It is no secret. There’s a highway paralleling the entire fishable stretch of river. It gets hammered. Still, the Arkansas River is one of Colorado’s real gems. It is a vast amount of water from which to choose, and that water is diverse. It is productive, known equally well for its prolific caddis and BWO hatches. And, if you’re willing to do a little work and learn the language of a particular reach, you’ll find fish. Plenty of ‘em.

Yesterday, I schemed with my buddy Sanders (check out his excellent blog, Up The Poudre, if you haven’t already) to make the trip. It was to be his first time on the Ark, and my first time in a few years. For me, it was like getting re-acquainted with an old friend. In fact, the day was reminiscent of the first time I ever fished the Arkansas close to a decade ago. The memory of that day endures as a fine angling memory, and I’m sure yesterday will do the same.

Fish came at first on nymphs, hot and wild browns that lept eagerly. As it will under spring’s warm influence, the river then transitioned, revealing emergent and adult baetis. The fish switched roles accordingly, much to our satisfaction.

It’s always great to fish with a friend. It’s a rare and special experience to share a river with a passionate angler for the first time. Connecting with a couple hours of terrific dry fly action is just icing on the cake. See more of the day’s photos on the schnitzerPHOTO Facebook page.

April is here, and I’m back in action. First thing to report: a new issue of This Is Fly is out, and I am humbled to be included as the “Featured Photographer.” Please check it out, tell friends, etc. Huge thanks to TIF for the opportunity.

This is a sampling of some of those photographs. Many are from iconic rivers and streams. More to the point, though, is that these are images that are my attempts at capturing those qualities which makes fly fishing not just a pursuit, but a way of life.

It’s not quite done – still plenty of tweaks to make, a lot of content yet to add and refine, and just growing in to the new site’s capabilities. The blog is now integrated in to the larger site. I look forward to being able to showcase more photography while freeing up the blog to be a little more wide-ranging. We’ve now got all the social media bells and whistles. Better SEO features. Smooth compatibility with iPad and iPhone. And, most importantly, we have an attractive layout that I hope will prove to be clear and easy to navigate. There are also some cool new dynamic features yet to come that will allow me to better communicate with site visitors.

This has been a long time coming. I’m grateful to all of you who have become regular visitors to the old Blogger site, and I hope you’ll find the new digs to be positive. Most of all, I hope it proves to be a worthwhile site for you, and many new friends and clients, to re-visit. There’s much more to come.

Thanks to Tyler Barnard at Analog Digital Studio in Boulder, Colorado, for working diligently to get this thing off the ground. He’s a solid guy with whom it was a pleasure to work, and he’ll also be helping out with some of the new stuff on the horizon.

In February, 2012, we joined some good friends for a trip to Belize. Though it was difficult for me to be on the Belizean coast and not spend every waking hour in pursuit of bonefish and permit, we did manage to incorporate many different experiences for the enjoyment of all. Bird watching, kayaking, snorkeling, Mayan ruins, great food… It made for a memorable kaleidoscope of a trip.

That said, we packed our fly fishing gear, and spend some quality time on some of Belize’s beautiful turtlegrass flats. Bonefish were plentiful and obliging. And, when the tide was right, permit were also plentiful. They just weren’t nearly as obliging. It was a whirlwind trip, and long overdue quality time with friends. We returned north with sunburns, line burns, sand flea bits, and the haunting memories of permit snubs to carry us through the remaining winter months.

It is my hope that my photographs can continue to emphasize people as much as places. This vision is rooted in the region that is my home: the American West.

My intention for these images is to convey, as much as possible, a sense of place for Cartagena, and a feel for the passions and vivacity of its residents. It is a city to which we will undoubtedly return.

Wildlife are important to me as symbols of something much bigger, the value that lies in the wholeness of that in which we live. Almost everyone has a certain appreciation for wildlife, even if only on the most superficial level. That’s why we have “elk jams” in Rocky Mountain National Park, along with “bison jams” and “bear jams” in Yellowstone. We stop in our tracks to revel in the majestic beauty of a bull elk, or the sublime grace of an antelope herd afoot, because deep inside every one of us it stirs something primal.

In our house, we also rely on these animals for our food, that bittersweet ritual that keeps our hearts and hands rooted firmly in the ground around us. I may dabble in wildlife photography, but I do so with the deepest respect for their place in our landscape, and for the bounty they provide.

Little by little, we’re getting back in to a groove.

The bonefishing experience at Deep Water Cay is hard to describe. Steeped in generations of angling and guiding history, the flats are still perfect and the fishing still fairytale. Still, I did my best to absorb every element. That proved difficult to do with just a few days’ time. I need to go back, to get reacquainted with Deep Water’s legendary guides, and try once again to communicate through photography the unique experience made possible by a combination of heritage, top-shelf guides and staff, and the mind-boggling expanses of bonefish flats.

The mayfly piece in the upper left is a shot from Aleksandar Vrtaric, a fellow photographer whose work I greatly admire. All of this is made possible by Jen, aka Flyfishilicious.