2011

An Overview of the Upper Dolores River

fieldandstream-admin — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 16:09:29 -0400

This special river drainage in southwest Colorado is home to perhaps the best elk habitat in the country. Steep aspen slopes give way to high-elevation dark timber that shelters cold, clear streams that team with wild and native trout. Trout Unlimited is working with local volunteers and landowners to protect this prime swath of game and fish habitat on public land, and to keep the Dolores just like it is today so future generations of hunters and anglers can enjoy it years from now.

Part Four: Exploring the North Maine Woods

Sarah Smith — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 14:17:05 -0400

by Lawrence Pyne

Our third and final day broke with overcast skies that threatened rain. So we loaded our gear into rucksacks, threw them into the back of Rick’s truck, and hit the road.

Northern Maine has few paved roads, yet is laced with private logging roads. They range from gravel highways like the fabled Golden Road north of Moosehead Lake to dirt two-tracks that require a four-wheel drive with good ground clearance. The North Maine Woods alone has 3,000 miles of permanent gravel roads, and thousands more that are not maintained. It takes time and a good map to learn them, but it’s worth it. They lead to endless backwoods hunting and fishing opportunities.

Rick drove us down a series of logging roads that became progressively smaller and rougher until we came to an old log landing at the end of spur road. From there we proceeded on foot on an unmarked trail that took us over a low ridge and down to a small, irregularly shaped pond that covered no more than 20 acres.

It was wild and scenic and completely undisturbed, with huge white pines towering above its shore and delicate water lilies sprouting in its shallows. But what made it truly special, Jeff told me, was its regulatory classification: S-18.

Maine seldom employs catch-and-release regulations outside of the fall spawning period. Instead, it protects and promotes high-quality trout fisheries through special daily creel limits and minimum-size regulations. The most restrictive is S-18, which is code for one fish, 18 inches or longer. According to Jeff, it is only enacted on ponds that have shown they are capable of producing brook trout larger than 18 inches. Which is very big trout.

As we dragged two stashed canoes to the water’s edge, Rick told me that if you wanted to catch a lot of trout, this wasn’t the pond. But if you had your heart set on a trophy-size brookie weighing more than three pounds, you had as good a chance here as anywhere in the East. I told him to count me in.

Nothing was showing on the surface, so we paddled out to the deepest portion of the pond. Using sinking lines, we plied the depths with an assortment of streamers and Woolly Buggers. A gusting wind made control of the canoes difficult, however, even when anchored. After about two hours, we had only caught a few trout, which, while nice fish, were not the size we were hoping for.

The wind steadily built, the sky darkened, and soon lightning was flickering beyond the low ridge on the pond’s western shore. Jeff and Greg sensibly paddled back to our launching point, but Greg and I lingered even as a cold rain began falling. The rain, he told me, might turn the fish on.

It was then that I finally asked him about his hat. It was embroidered with “Semper Doodle” and what looked like bass bug with a red body and a deer-hair shellback clipped short in the front.

The hat, he explained, was in honor of his favorite fly: the Doodle Bug. Like the Black Ghost, it is a Maine original, albeit a more obscure one. But my question inspired Rick.

Now, he told me, might be a good time to try a Doodle Bug. So I switched to a floating line and tied on one of the buggy, buoyant flies. Rick suggested I cast it out and steadily strip it back, so that it created a discernable V-shaped wake.

Two casts later, not even the wind and rain could conceal the boil of a good trout, and I was immediately tight to what proved to be a football-fat 13-incher. Three more casts and I had another good trout on. By now we were soaked, so we headed to shore for the hike back to the truck. The two trout, however, were the perfect capstone to my trip, because they left me wanting to come back for more--this time with a supply of Doodle Bugs.

But as Jeff later told me, there is no guarantee that I will find the enchanting little pond in the same condition in future years. Of the more than 550 lakes and ponds in Maine that have been identified as having either “native” or “wild” trout populations, only about half have some kind of conservation protection on their shorelines. The rest are on private land that can be developed, including the idyllic pond we had just fished.

Northern Maine is the largest undeveloped forested landscape east of the Mississippi. It covers more than 10 million acres and is home to a year-round population of only about 15,000 people. Yet it is a landscape that more than ever is threatened by changes in land ownership, Jeff said--changes that might result in either the loss of public access or subdivisions for camp lots and vacation homes.

In fact, the future look of the forest might be unfolding just north of Moosehead Lake. One of the largest private landowners in northern Maine is moving ahead there with a proposal that, even after being scaled back, would develop more than 800 house lots and create two resorts with more than 1,200 residential units.

That is why it is so important that the state and private conservation organizations should acquire conservation easements on the remaining unprotected ponds whenever possible, Jeff said. Development presents a real threat to the last, best brook trout fishery in the East, and stemming its tide is a high priority for Trout Unlimited.

Having barely scratched the surface of all that northern Maine has to offer, I sure hope they succeed.

Part Three: Exploring the North Maine Woods

Online Editors — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 10:30:24 -0400

by Lawrence Pyne

Our second day began like the first, with Jeff Reardon, Greg Ponte, and I boarding Matt Libby’s floatplane at the dock at Libby Camps. Except this time our destination was one of Matt’s favorite remote trout ponds, where we would fish from canoes stashed along the shore.

Nestled in a rugged height of land between the Allagash and Aroostook watersheds, it’s officially classified by the state as a “native” brook trout pond, meaning it has never been stocked—either directly or indirectly through fish planted in connecting water.

We would be fishing for trout, Matt told me during the brief flight, that are the direct descendants of the fish that colonized Maine when the glaciers retreated north 10,000 years ago. Even better, he added, the shimmering pond now stretching out before us regularly produces lots of trout from 12 to 16 inches long, which are big fish wherever native brookies are still found.

Now, I like Matt. He has steered me to some terrific grouse covers, and I hope he will do so again. I also respect him as a hard-working guide who has logged endless hours in search of hidden honey holes for his guests. So let’s just call his pet pond “Unnamed Pond,” which it easily could be.

Maine has no less than 12 unnamed ponds that the state Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife has identified as native brook trout fisheries. Remarkably, Maine has more than 300 such waters, which range in size from tiny ponds up to 4,260-acre Allagash Lake. Another 250 lakes and ponds are classified as “wild” brook trout waters, meaning they support self-sustaining populations and have not been stocked in more than 25 years.

That’s incredible.

Jeff and Greg fished from one canoe, while I was paired with registered Maine Guide Rick Young, who had a soft down-east drawl and a wicked passion for brookies. As he began slowly paddling me about the pond in an Old Town canoe, he suggested I start out with a Black Ghost on a sink-tip line.

Like so many classic streamers, the Black Ghost was created in Maine, and it is sure to be included on any must-have list of brook trout flies. Before long I was tight to the first of what proved to be many trout, all of which were pond fat, hard fighting, and 11 to 14 inches long.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, mayflies started popping off the water sporadically, bringing trout to the surface and a change in our tactics. The hatch ebbed and flowed with the cloud cover—as did swarms of black flies—and the trout proved surprisingly hard to fool. But whenever I needed to get my mojo back, it was as simple as switching to a Ghost. After only a few casts, I’d hook another big, beautiful brookie.

Jeff and Greg did as well, if not better. After lunch, Greg caught the largest trout of the day—a heavy fish that probably would have gone 16 inches and well over 2 pounds. But we’ll never know for sure. It slipped from his grasp just as I was about to take a picture.

The fishing was so good that for a while we were stalked by a large, aggressive loon with blood-red eyes and a black stiletto bill—a bird, it turned out, Rick has come to know well. It began shadowing our canoe, and he warned me it would try to steal our fish.

I didn’t believe him at first, until I saw the loon swim directly under the canoe after I hooked a trout, its black-and-white back unmistakable even four feet below the surface. From then on, I played my fish as quickly as I could, while Rick splashed the net on one side of the boat as I led the trout to other.

Our strategy worked on all but one fish that I thought had wrapped me in weeds. But as I leaned back against my rod, I realized I was hooked into a pound of trout and more than 10 pounds of loon. To Rick’s relief, if not the trout’s, I was able to pull the fish free and release it none the worse for the experience.

“If you let him have one fish, we’ll never be able to get rid of him,” said Rick, who did not think much of loons in general and this bird in particular.

All too soon, Matt’s floatplane appeared in the late afternoon sky, and we headed ashore to pack up our gear. As we did, I mentioned to Greg how the setting could not have been more idyllic, surrounded as we were by a vast, unbroken forest—albeit an actively managed one— with the nearest town, industry, coal mine, or hydro-fracking gas well many miles away. Surely, I said, as long as we have ponds like this, we’ll always have good brook trout fishing.

Not so, Greg replied. Brook trout in Maine are still at risk. Not necessarily from wholesale habitat destruction or pollution, but from biological threats. Invasive, non-native fish are increasingly turning up in where they don’t belong, either from illegal introductions or agency-sanctioned stockings gone awry.

Muskies stocked in Lac Frontiere in Quebec now dominate the huge St. John River system across the border in Maine. Illegally introduced smallmouth bass have recently made their way into two of Maine’s most fabled brook trout waters—the Rapid River and vast Moosehead Lake. Northern pike turn up in new lakes and ponds yearly. Even something as seemingly harmless as using live fish for bait in a flyfishing-only pond, like the one we just fished, can threaten its brook trout fishery.

Protecting brook trout waters, Greg said, takes vigilance, a role TU is determined to play. Toward that end, TU recently helped create a collaborative program that enlists volunteers to check remote, never-surveyed ponds where native brookies might still exist. Those with confirmed populations will be added to the Native list, so they will at least get the highest level of regulatory protection the state can provide.

It’s a task I’d like to volunteer for, especially if it helps me find my own Unnamed Pond. Until then, I could only kick myself during our return flight for not bringing a GPS. If one got to know the local logging roads, it would be possible to drive within easy hiking distance of Matt’s enchanting pond. If only I had a waypoint.

As I said, I like Matt. But that was one hell of a pond.

Part Two: Exploring the North Maine Woods

Online Editors — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 10:39:11 -0400

by Lawrence Pyne

In all my travels, I have never been anywhere like the North Maine Woods. About the size of Yellowstone, Glacier and Yosemite National Parks combined, it is home to some of the wildest rivers and lakes in the East, including the 92-mile Allagash Wilderness Waterway. Yet it is neither park nor national forest.

Instead, the North Maine Woods is almost entirely commercial timberland, which is open to the public for a reasonable daily fee. It is a forested world unto itself and hunting and fishing paradise, even if while scouting for moose, deer or a promising place to cast, you must also keep a sharp eye out for logging trucks. Because they do, in fact, own the road.

It is so sparsely inhabited that most of the townships within its borders are named only by their coordinates, and there are no motels, stores, or gas stations. But there are hundreds of campsites to choose from, and countless sparkling lakes, ponds and streams to explore. Thoreau captured the essence of northern Maine best when he described the vista from Maine’s highest point, Mount Katahdin, as akin to looking at “a mirror broken into a thousand fragments, and scattered wildly across the grass.”

The North Maine Woods is also home to a rich tradition of north-woods guides and full service sporting camps that have been hosting hunters and anglers going back to a young Teddy Roosevelt. Places like Libby Camps on sweeping Millinocket Lake in Township 8, Range 9, which since 1890 has been run by five generations of the Libby family.

An assemblage of mostly small cabins made from peeled spruce and balsam fir logs cut on site, Libby Camps is rustic yet very comfortable. It caters to serious sportsmen, and its motto is “catch and relax.” I first traveled there three years ago for some fine ruffed grouse and woodcock hunting, but it wasn’t until early last June, when I joined Jeff Reardon and Greg Ponte at Libby’s, that I really came to appreciate northern Maine’s outstanding brook trout fishery.

I could not have been in better company. Jeff is the Maine Brook Trout Project Director for Trout Unlimited. Greg is an expert angler and past chair of the Maine Council of TU.

Our first morning we climbed into Matt Libby’s Cessna 185 floatplane for a 15-minute flight to Webster Lake on the border of 205,000-acre Baxter State Park, Maine’s largest public land. Had we traveled by truck and then foot, it would have taken us the better part of the day, which, Jeff told me, helps explain why brook trout still reign supreme.

Because northern Maine is so remote, it was spared the inevitable conversion to farmland that followed the cutting of virgin forests elsewhere, and which just as invariably wiped out brook trout by silting in streams and warming their waters. And because northern Maine’s many rivers provided an efficient way of driving logs to downstream mills, it remained largely roadless until well into the 20th century. It thus escaped the indiscriminate stocking of non-native fish that occurred across the country in the late 1800s and early 1900s, which hastened the demise of brook trout in other regions.

That is why even the largest lakes and ponds in northern Maine are still home to wild brook trout, Jeff said. Elsewhere in the East, brookies in countless waters were either out-competed or outright eaten by non-native fish, often decades before many of the roads in the North Maine Woods were built, such as the road that finally connected Libby Camps with the outside world in 1968.

Once we landed on Webster Lake, we taxied to its outlet, where we met Matt’s son, Matt J., who had arrived ahead of us in his floatplane. Matt took off to ferry other guests to their destinations, while Matt J. guided us on Webster Brook, a burly freestone stream with boulder-strewn pocket water stained brown by tannins from the surrounding softwood forest.

Webster Brook is an artifact of Maine’s logging past. Because it eventually empties into the Penobscot River, its’ flow was augmented in the 1800s by the “Telos Cut.” It diverted water from the north-flowing Allagash waterway into Webster Lake, which made Webster Brook more useful for driving logs south to the mills in Bangor.

Brook trout in the lakes of northern Maine move in and out of connecting streams to feed and spawn, and we were hoping to find Webster Brook full of hungry fish. But the water was still early-spring cold and we managed only about four or five trout apiece. Mine took dead-drift nymphs, while Jeff and Greg coaxed a few into eating dry flies in the flat water at the head of the stream.

According to Matt J., it was uncharacteristically slow fishing. Still, my largest trout was more than a foot long—bigger than the stockies in the rivers near my Vermont home—and every fish was as wild as a June day in northern Maine is long.

After lunch and some more fishing, we flew back to Libby Camps for dinner. With the sun still hanging low in the sky, we then took off on foot for nearby Millinocket Stream. Matt J. led me down a narrow trail pocked with moose tracks that ended at a long slick where the stream formed a huge pool.

We spotted a few soft rises along the far bank, so I tied on a White Wulff in the hope that I would be able to see it in the approaching dusk. After a couple of casts to get the range right, my dry fly disappeared and my light, 4-weight rod throbbed with life.

The fish stayed deep, so I knew it was not a landlocked Atlantic salmon, which are also found in streams across northern Maine and are apt to go airborne. Strictly speaking, landlocks are native to only a few Maine waters, but introduced stocks have replaced the sea-run salmon whose once great runs were wiped out by downstream dams.

Sure enough, Matt J. eventually netted an especially colorful fish that had the big, dark head and large, black mouth of a mature wild brookie. Its pale yellow flanks were covered with bright red spots surrounded by faint sky-blue halos and its belly was streaked with orange. As I released it in the fading light, it was like briefly holding the sunset in my hand.

In 1846, as Thoreau camped along the Penobscot River on his first journey into the “virtually unmapped and unexplored” woods north of Bangor, he dreamt of “painted fish” that rose to his flies the evening before. That night, so, too, did I.

Day One: Exploring the North Maine Woods

Sarah Smith — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 13:53:21 -0400

by Lawrence Pyne

Photo: Dave Sherwood/wildfilephoto.com

The species name for brook trout—fontinalis—tells you almost all you need to know about the native trout of the East. Roughly translated, it’s Latin for “from a spring.”

More than anything else, brook trout are a fish of clean, cold, undisturbed streams and ponds. Which is why wild, truly native brookies are such a precious commodity. They not only look like jewels, they have become almost as rare.

Once abundant from southern Appalachia north across the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast, brook trout now occupy a fraction of their native range. Habitat destruction, water pollution, and competition from non-native fish have eliminated the colorful speckled trout from all but the most pristine waters. Continued human encroachment, natural gas development, and climate change threaten even these remnant populations.

To be sure, there are still plenty of brook trout to be caught in the East. But in most areas they are dull, hatchery-bred imposters. With one notable exception: Northern Maine.

Covering more than 10 million acres and sitting atop New England like a wild, woody crown, northern Maine is the last stronghold of brook trout in the East. Despite a long history of logging, much of it remains as Henry David Thoreau described it 150 years ago: “The wildest country.”

At its core is the 3.7 million-acre North Maine Woods, a conglomerate of mostly private forest lands that is home to moose, black bear, lynx, landlocked Atlantic salmon, Arctic char, and the largest intact populations of native brook trout in the United States. To visit the North Maine Woods is to step back in time—to when wild brookies measured in pounds filled vast lakes and rivers alike—and to gain a first-hand appreciation of the need to preserve this unmatched resource for future generations.

Fortunately, it’s a focus area for Trout Unlimited and Field & Stream, and one of our selections for the country’s Best Wild Places. TU is working in Maine and elsewhere to protect intact populations, restore degraded habitats, and keep the eastern brook trout from disappearing altogether across its native range.

Day One: Exploring Colorado’s Upper Dolores River

Sarah Smith — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 10:00:32 -0500

by Kirk Deeter

The Upper Dolores River in southwestern Colorado is one of those special places in the West where the story doesn’t revolve around memories of what the flyfishing or hunting was like “back in the day.” The “prime time” experience—when wild, lightly pressured trout attack gaudy dry flies with almost reckless abandon, and massive elk herds roam aspen-lined mountains and valleys—is happening right now.

The Dolores is a home river of sorts for me. I have fished its upper branches and small tributaries for 25 years, and I don’t think these waters have ever fished better than they do at present. I feel the same way about the hunting. That’s partly because the region’s relative isolation from big cities like Denver, Phoenix, and Salt Lake City keep it just out of reach for most weekend warriors, and partly because those hunters and anglers who have discovered this region have worked to maintain its pristine value.

If ever there were a place where the conservation agenda should revolve around maintaining the status quo, this is it. That’s exactly the goal for Trout Unlimited as it endeavors to conserve and protect these waters and this region through coordinated efforts with private and public stakeholders. It’s also why TU and Field & Stream listed the Upper Dolores one of the country’s Best Wild Places.

I had a chance to join TU last year for a three-day backcountry adventure in the Upper Dolores watershed, where I showed several TU staffers and volunteers some of my old haunts, and gleaned some new lessons and insights from them along the way.

Bear Creek

Located in the Four Corners region of southwestern Colorado, the Dolores headwaters are high in the San Juan Mountains, a rugged patch of the Rockies that contain the highest concentration of 14,000-foot peaks in the continental United States. Getting here requires a long drive from the nearest major population centers of Denver, Phoenix, or Salt Lake City (several hours drive time from the northeast, southwest, and northwest, respectively). Air travel isn’t much more convenient, requiring commuter hops to the towns of Telluride, Montrose, Durango, or Cortez, and at least an hour’s drive after landing.

But when you get here, you’ll find a unique setting well worth any effort. Part of the appeal is what’s not here—no ski slope condos, power lines, billboards, or the like. The centers of “civilization” on the Dolores are the no-traffic-light Old West town of Rico on highway 145 and the namesake town of Dolores further down the main stem of the river where it meets the plains and is funneled into McPhee Reservoir.

Much of the Dolores River fishing “lore” revolves around the tailwater dam section below McPhee. Indeed, in the late 1980s, the Dolores below McPhee was one of the most productive fisheries in the West, akin to more notable waters like the San Juan and Green Rivers. But severe drought and increased water demands have had a devastating effect on that fishery, and it’s only now starting to tenuously reclaim the character it once had.

Even back in the tailwater heyday, I always preferred to work around the relatively small crowds and focus my attention on the Upper Dolores and it’s feeder creeks. We decided to make such a jaunt on our Best Wild Places adventure, driving 9 miles up a dirt road along the Bear Creek tributary, then hiking another mile down slope to the stream, which was no wider than a city sidewalk in most places.

I found a pond that had been created by a beaver dam and positioned myself by its natural spillway. Peeking over the twisted branches, I was eye level with the flat, glassy water of the pond and watched as trout sipped small tan caddis flies from the surface.

I fastened a simple one-fly rig (size 18 Puterbaugh black foam caddis with a tan elk hair wing) to the 5X leader on my 6-foot fiberglass three-weight and flopped a modest cast on the surface. It landed with an awkward, unappetizing thump, but to my surprise, within a few seconds, a trout sucked it down.

The fiberglass rod pitched and heaved, as I realized I’d hooked a large fish—especially for that type of water. When I landed the fish, the signature markings of a native Colorado River strain cutthroat trout glistened in the sunlight. It was an 18-incher. And it wasn’t the last of the day. Trading casts in subtle creek pockets and beaver ponds, we caught dozens more like it. The fishing was just as I had remembered. And it was a reminder that wild trout—big ones—are hidden gems in these mountains. They’re there to be experienced, so long as you’re willing to look up the small blue lines on the topo map, then roll and walk the miles to fish them.

Days 3-4: Exploring Alaska’s Tongass National Forest

Sarah Smith — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 13:58:28 -0500

by Darren Dorris

The day after the hunt, I boarded the Fairweather, a high-speed catamaran run by the Alaska Marine Highway system (AMH) and one of the fastest in its fleet. In a scant four hours, I would travel the 150-plus miles to Juneau. Getting around the Tongass is very unique, with 656,000-plus square miles of islands and water, travelers must go either by air or boat. The AMH makes traveling this region simpler with stops in all the major ports.

While all ferries offer vehicle and passenger space, depending on the length of the trip they offer cabins, restaurants, game rooms and more. The ride from Petersburg to Juneau was filled with the stunning scenes of the famed inside passage. As tired as I was from the previous day’s hunt, the sheer beauty of the glaciers, icebergs, snow capped mountains and whales made it hard to even blink for fear of missing an instant, let alone some sleep.

Juneau is Alaska’s state capital, yet not a single road connects this city to the rest of Alaskan mainland. The only ways in and out are by plane or water, and in this city most visitors arrive by water. Juneau is a major cruise ship destination with almost a million visitors and crews disembarking from April to September. The influx of tourists makes this bustling port one of the most visited cities in all of the Tongass. Even with this huge influx of summer population, the areas directly surrounding Juneau are still as wild as it gets, as I would soon find out.

At the ferry terminal, I was greeted by Mark Kaelke, Trout Unlimited’s Southeast Alaska project director. Mark gave me the quick tour of Juneau beginning with the Mendenhall Glacier. This glacier is a popular tour spot for tourists. With a viewing platform and facilities, this park makes seeing the glacier accessible for all. From there we walked to a small creek just off the parking lot. Here in a crystal-clear small stream I finally caught my first glimpse of what the heartbeat of the Tongass is truly all about--salmon. In the creek were the last of the sockeye salmon finishing out their life cycle spawning and expiring.

Mark and I made plans to fish the following day on a little creek called the Montana. It feeds directly into the Mendenhall River and ultimately runs into the Pacific. The Montana is a major spawning creek for both pink and chum salmon. These types of salmon are two of the lesser sought-after species primarily due to their subpar table fare once they enter the freshwater.

On the Montana Creek--like many other creeks, rivers and streams in the Tongass--once the pinks and chums begin dropping their eggs during the spawn, the Dolly Varden begin their feast. Dolly Varden, a member of the char genus, time their migration into the rivers and streams on the heels of the salmon and feed voraciously on the salmons eggs. These colorful “dollies” as they are known, were our target the following day.

Armed with a Temple Fork 3-weight fly rod, a floating line and an 8-pound tippet, Mark and I drove out to the creek and began the three mile hike to where we would step in. Astonishingly enough, the Montana is just 15 minutes from downtown Juneau, but once in the stream the wilderness takes over.

From the moment we stepped foot in the stream, there was not a square yard that did not have at least five pink or chum salmon in it. The stream was amazingly prolific; salmon both alive and dead were everywhere.

On my orange bead egg’s third drift past a salmon redd (a redd is the depression the female digs out to lay her eggs) I felt the take of my first Dolly. Ounce for ounce these fish can pull. They were constantly using the current to their advantage; I was truly impressed. Many times the fish would run downstream with Mark or I running as well. These fish were simply awesome in a three weight. What was even more impressive were the markings and colors of the fish, they looked like an artist had painted them.

Both Mark and I proceeded to catch countless numbers of fish along the entire three mile stretch back to the car. Some topping out at over two pounds! Every so often I would take a break before my next fish to look around at the lush greenery and soak in the sound of rushing water. This was truly a special place, and it is all yours. The Montana Creek is public land waiting for the people to access it, as is the entire Tongass.

What was even more amazing was the number of spawning salmon we passed on our quest for Dollies. It is a conservative estimate to say thousands and thousands. This really drove home the point that Mark had been making since my arrival: Salmon are truly what the Tongass supports. This 2011 commercial salmon season alone will boast a record harvest for Southeast Alaska, with a net worth of well over $1 billion.

The Tongass is a perfect salmon producing habitat. It has all that the salmon need to procreate and to do so with great abundance. And not only does the Tongass give the salmon a place to grow and spawn, but the salmon give the Tongass nutrients back to grow. Researchers have found that the salmon carcasses left behind by feeding bears and eagles pass organic nutrients back to the trees and vegetation of the Tongass.

Scientists have found conclusive evidence of salmon signature molecules showing up in analyses of ancient trees rings. This fact has given the Tongass the designation of a “Salmon Forest.” While the salmon numbers are impressive, resting on laurels rarely produces the best results. As one would expect, Trout Unlimited understands the interconnectedness of the salmon, the water and the forest, and has taken a “watershed” approach to protecting these vulnerable areas.

Thirty-five percent of the one thousand plus watersheds are protected, but that is not enough. Of the remaining unprotected watersheds, TU has identified 77 of these, roughly 1.8 million acres, as the most prime salmon and trout habitat in all of the Tongass. TU plans to push for legislation to protect them. Named the Tongass 77, the legislation would protect these 77 essential watersheds from industrial encroachment and other threats, and for the first time ever these areas would be managed for the fish, and ultimately be available for generations to come.

By the end of the day, my right arm ached from fighting fish. Other than Mark, I never saw another person all day, and gained a true appreciation for the “dollies” of the Tongass. As for the salmon, at one point during the day I had to actually push the salmon out of the way to cross the creek. That scene will forever be etched in my memory.

The following day promised the chance to get out and catch some of those salmon the Tongass is so good at making, ones that were fresh from the ocean and strong. The following morning I had to meet owner Arne Johnson of Bear Creek Outfitters, and my guide at eight a.m. sharp for a float plane trip in search of pink and silver salmon on a fly.

Day Three: Exploring Colorado’s White River Basin

Online Editors — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 16:58:35 -0500

by Kirk Deeter

On our third and final day of the adventure, we traveled far downstream from Meeker, past the trophy trout waters and into the epicenter of the latest drilling operations in the Mesa Verde Play in the northern basin of Piceance Creek. We brought along Scott Warner, an avid elk and mule deer hunter from Steamboat Springs, Colorado, who has hunted this specific area (Unit 22) for the past 15 years.

While this unit has traditionally been one of the hottest mule deer spots in the state (it is home to one of the largest migrating mule deer herds in America), Warner said he has seen decreased production as drilling operations have ramped up. As we stood atop the Cathedral Bluffs, a giant earth formation that towers over the creeks and draws that feed the White, Warner said: “You used to get on top of the mesa at night, and look east and see nothing but dark silhouettes of the rocks, and stars above. And now you see the twinkles of dozens of gas wells. The deer hunting is not nearly what it was--not even close.”

But the reality is that those oil and gas operations are needed. In many cases, energy companies are among the strongest allies (and funders) behind regional conservation efforts. And the energy they tap is vital--not only to the country, but especially those in Rio Blanco County. Seventy-five percent of revenues in Rio Blanco County are now energy related.

Kai Turner, a county commissioner, is also a fifth-generation resident of the area. He’s an outfitter and fishing guide as well. “There’s a special feeling you get when you’re in the White River Basin,” Turner said. “Whether you’re riding horses in the high country or fishing on the river. The Ute Indians called the White the Smoking River, and there’s still a spiritual connection that awakens the senses.”

There also happen to be billions of barrels of oil sharing reserve in the area.

“We, as a county, support multiple use philosophies,” said Turner. “And the decisions that get made, should be local decisions, made by those who live here. We worry about it. We care about it. And we see the value in all the resources.”

Trout Unlimited, for the record, is not opposed to energy development in the region. It’s a matter of ensuring that things are done with utmost concern for the watershed. And doing things “the right way” means considering the total watershed. After all, 88 percent of the species here rely on the riparian habitat, which comprises only one to four percent of the total land mass.

In other words--one way or another--the elk herds, the mule deer, the native trout, the people, as well as the lands and water, are connected in the White River Basin.

Especially in spirit.

Day One: Exploring Colorado’s White River Drainage

Sarah Smith — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 13:17:20 -0500

by Kirk Deeter

On day one of our Best Wild Places adventure in the White River drainage of Colorado, Aaron Kindle, Chris Herrman and I went trout fishing on the upper-middle section of the main stem of the White River. This middle section meanders through a valley of expansive ranches. Indeed, private landowners control much of this water, and access is restricted. However, the Colorado Division of Wildlife has secured a number of quality easements, and there are state wildlife areas that afford access to quality trout water as well.

We pulled off by a bridge, slipped on our wades and hiked down to the river where we immediately noticed a number of small trout sipping dry flies in the shade of the bridge. The White runs clear and clean throughout the late summer and fall, and prolific hatches of mayflies, as well as hordes of grasshoppers are found in the tall brush along the bank.

I cast a small Parachute Adams in the riffle and connected with a 14-inch rainbow trout on the third cast. I released the fish back into the water and smiled at Hermann. That’s when I first heard the chop-chop-chop of a helicopter banking and turning over the hills. It buzzed directly over our heads and glided down for a landing at a nearby ranch.

Apparently one of the valley’s newest (and wealthiest) residents had popped in for a little fishing getaway. I asked Herrman about the influx of money in the region, and the way that changes the fishery, for better or worse.

Herrman--who handles TU’s outreach efforts to private landowners in the region, securing conservation easements and so forth--admitted that it is a good news-bad news situation. “On the one hand,” he said, “having river miles in the hands of people who care about the fishing, even for their own private use, is a positive thing for the system. We know that fish migrate throughout the river, and good habitat ultimately enhances the overall fishery, even in areas where most people will never wade.”

“On the other hand,” he continued, “building giant homes right along the river bank can destroy important riparian habitat. So we have to be diligent in working cohesively among all private and public interests to ensure things are done responsibly, with the big picture in mind.”

Herrman added that the same theory applies to the elk herds in the region that rely on the river valley as a winter range. Keeping open spaces connected (“connective corridors”) in a way that extends from the high country (summer range) through the valley floor (winter range) is vital to the overall health and populations of elk in the region, and private landowners—especially those with a vested conservation/outdoor interest—are vital to maintaining that system.

“It’s about balancing high impact and low impact activities with the issue of access and no access,” concluded Herrman.

Best Wild Places: White River Drainage, Colorado

Sarah Smith — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 15:22:13 -0400

by Kirk Deeter

Rio Blanco County in northwestern Colorado is just far enough removed from the Interstate highways, the ski resorts, the National Parks, that there’s still a palpable “Old West” authenticity here. There are few majestic granite peaks to lure tourists; the landscape is a more rolling, meandering array of sage, pine and aspen covered benches and bluffs. Nonetheless, beautiful for its lack of billboards, strip malls and hillside condos.

This region around the town of Meeker is deeply rooted in ranching, hunting and fishing. Each year the area records 64,000 hunter days; 75 percent of them focused on big game hunting (the largest elk herd in North America is in this region).

As for fishing, the White River runs unencumbered from headwaters in the high alpine Flattops Wilderness into a brushy coulee zone, and it’s filled with wild trout throughout this stretch (It eventually turns warmer and muddy, and flows into the Green River in Utah). The White may indeed be the most underrated fishery in Colorado. Together, hunting and fishing add $30 million in annual revenue and more than 300 jobs to the region.

But that merely scratches the surface (literally) compared to the real economic boom that’s happening here. There’s been a three-fold increase in oil and gas drilling in the White River drainage since 1997. And given America’s appetite for domestic energy, that promises to grow even more. For example, between 550 and 2,500 well pads might be developed within the next 15 to 20 years within the Bureau of Land Management’s White River Field Office area alone.

With the increased drilling activity also comes increased trucking and heavy-equipment operations— pipelines that intersect big-game migration corridors, as well as erosion and other threats to habitat for native trout.

The White River Valley is also seeing more real estate development, as working ranches are sold to investors and developers, some of whom are making riverfront trophy homes that destroy riparian habitat. Public access to fishing is therefore a prominent concern (As it is on any trout river in Colorado, where stream-access laws allow landowners to fence off their sections of the river to the public).

I recently spent a few days exploring the many facets of the White River drainage with Chris Herrman and Aaron Kindle, of Trout Unlimited. Together, we saw firsthand the raw, sheer natural beauty that earns this region a ranking as one of America’s Best Wild Places. But we also saw the evolving environmental and commercial issues that could pose a threat to the fishing and hunting heritage of the region. And we spoke with a number of outfitters, elected officials, and average hunters and anglers who are wrestling with ways to balance economic opportunity and protect the natural resources and outdoor culture that depends on them.