SCHLAP DAWG MILLIONAIRE

By Zac Glaser

At an undisclosed location in Wyoming, two men (and I use that term loosely) trudge through the brush and emerge in what can only be described as “fly boy’s paradise.” Crystal clear water meanders through a rocky river valley at every bend dumping into deep glacial green pools. The snow capped Absaroka mountains curiously peak over the top of an impenetrable army of lodgepole pines as if to say “ok, that's close enough.” As I look around at my surroundings, a sudden sense of relief comes over me. It’s been just about ten months since I went trout fishing in a place that looks the part. No disrespect to the western hills of Massachusetts, but to me, this is fly fishing. The perfect concoction of immaculate scenery, sauntering runs, and a bounty of fish that reject my streamer with a look that says they’re not mad, just disappointed.

You see, I am not a streamer fishermen. “Well, Zac, if you’re not a streamer fishermen, what the hell are you doing blogging for a predominantly streamer based fly company?” An astute question, reader — allow me to explain. As I said, I’m not a streamer fisherman; however, in my everyday life, I am a teacher. Now in order to be a teacher, and A.M. Giacoletto can attest to this, one must commit to the maxim that we are all life long learners, so scathing reader, in accordance with article 1, section 1, clause 1 of the Teacher’s Constitution, homeboy’s got some learning to do.

Enter, again, A.M. Giacoletto who’s my proverbial Yoda in this journey to become a “stream-dog millionaire.” Alec and I met a couple years ago on a journey to rediscover myself during the beginning of “the early midlife crisis” as it stands. We met through a mutual friend, Nate, who Alec and I affectionately refer to as “Crazy Nate” for reasons (allegedly) that shouldn’t be recorded for eternity on the internet, and subsequently used to defame, and/or prosecute Nate for any of said alleged reasons. Alec, a long-time fly fishing guide, and avid streamer fishermen, also happens to be the editor-in-chief of this blog, so rest assured any flattery toward him is most likely either put in here by the EIC himself, or a simple attempt to cajole.

*Editor’s note: I have edited no such words — fact-check: true.*

Alec and I began our complicated tactical assault on the pools of the river, hunting our worthy adversaries, stalking from one pool to the next. Alec would start, slowly working his way through a pool top to bottom. I would sneak around the outside cautiously and end up at the next pool down. Employing the same cast, and strip, two steps down, cast again. When Alec exhausted his run he crept down around me to the next pool, and so on and so forth. If only there was an innocent children’s game to describe this complex way of attacking a river… Admittedly, we had approximately zero success for the first hour of our day fishing. Alec had warned me that this river had migratory fish, and if the fish hadn’t made their way down yet, our success would be few and far between.

As we made our way to the final pool, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude as I assessed the features that made this such a perfect holding tank for an emaciated early spring trout, rousing from its relative “winter diet.” At the top of the run, some slightly too aggressive white water frothed at a bottle neck between a large boulder and the bank. As the river got deeper and slightly wider the water slowed to a trot, and eventually to a stroll with some slack water on either end of the middle run. It finally ended at another large bolder conveniently placed snug against the middle waterway providing even a little extra cover from the aforementioned passage. Rarely do you see a spot so perfectly fit for the “king of the pool”.

After a few passes through the pool with a few different unnamed streamers, Alec came over with a couple of sage nuggets of advice, “Strip the streamer you shouldn’t, twitch the rod you must!” If you didn’t read that like Yoda, than you’re not as much of a nerd as Alec and I, and you’re most certainly hanging out with more women than we are, I digress. His point was simple: stripping the streamer, while necessary, is not what gives action to the fly; the rod movement does. It makes sense. Bait fish don’t just swim in a straight line pause, and continue swimming forward. They bounce up and down in the water column, and they careen side to side because they have life, and that is what you’re trying to imitate. It’s very easy, as an amateur, to get lost in the strip, strip, strip, pause, and put the blame on the fish not wanting that fly or not being in that pool. His second piece of advice, put on the Schlap Dawg. My initial response, “I’m not your dawg, friend”, cause I’m a clown and I never miss an opportunity for a terrible joke. My second response, “English please.” Alec reached into his pack tossed me a small olive and white bug eyed zonker and walked away, as if to say, “my work here is done.”

I inspected the fly and was delighted to see some resined on realistic eyes surrounded by a beautiful white collar of schlappin, ah, now I get it. The tail, an olive fluffy rabbit fur strip fastened to the hook with some erratic olive dubbing. What really struck me was how light it was. I had my seven weight with my sink tip line on, ‘cause your boy was not going home with out landing a fish on a streamer, however, I could have easily cast this thing using a three or four weight. I tied it on to a four foot leader consisting of a two foot butt section of 12 pound test, and two feet of tippet consisting of eight pound test, and cast it at the top of the pool almost to the other bank. I let the current take it down the waterway, and let the sink tip do its work while I gently twitched the rod intermittently stripping some line to keep tight contact to my fly. As the fly made its way to the end of the pool, just past the last boulder and hopefully occupied throne, I gave it a final twitch and pause, and my strip was interrupted by a seismic thump. The line went tight and I watched as a volcanic eruption at the surface caused me to pause in aw at the sheer size of the tail fin responsible for the distress on the water. Unfortunately that pause in admiration created enough slack to let the river monster spit my fly back from whence it came. Slightly worse for the wear, as I stood there, aghast, humbled beyond measure, I looked up at Alec to see a big grin on his face, “Schlap Dawg” he whispered. I agree reader, super creepy, and I didn’t even have to tell you that he was making unobstructed eye contact, and he was rubbing his hands together the way a Disney villain does when they have a decidedly maniacal plan.

We packed up and moved to our next spot, and I spent the rest of the day and weekend both avoiding Alec, and fishing the Schlap Dawg, a Blue Line Co. exclusive (shameless plug). I ended up netting some beautiful cutties, but, more importantly, not catching a 20-22 inch brown that when spoken to others will inevitably end up being a 28 inch monster that broke me off on eight pound test.

Tight lines, and don’t forget to “just keep stripping” or suffer the fate of almost catching a 35 inch brown trout that snapped your rod, and ate a merganser out of the air as it swam away.