Below Notchtop

His arms stretched wide, finally resting just past the width of his broad shoulders, “Big fish up there,” he said with an accent from a place foreign to this. Chicago. Maybe. 

The two rods that were sheathed in my pack must have given me away as to someone in search of something other than a long hike, snow, and a high alpine lake. Or maybe it was the green hat that bore the likings of a trout that gave me away. Regardless, the information was a plus, as I hadn’t been up to this lake before.

“Big ones, I don’t know what they are, but they look pretty big,” he reiterated. 

“Nice,” I said, not wanting to show too much excitement. “Anyone up there fishing?”

“Not that I saw, but we only stayed near the front of the lake. We didn’t take the time to climb over the ice and fallen trees to get to the far side.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” I smiled, as I let the small convoy pass.

I was about four miles in from where I had started the hike, loaded with the normal gear one would expect from an excursion like this. Plus the necessities, like Gatorade, snacks, and an extra layer of clothes. Just in case.

It wasn’t easy passing on some of the lower elevation lakes and creeks. It reminded me of driving through Minnesota walleye country on our way north to fish across the border in Ontario as kids. You’d drive yourself nuts thinking about all of the good fishing you were passing up, just to fish somewhere else. But then, right about the time you couldn’t handle the thought of driving by one more lake that held fish, a comfort would settle in. And that little voice in the back of your head, reminded you that the fishing was always better out of Sioux Narrows. It had to be. So onward it was, thinking of walleye, float planes, and a small musky I caught tossing flukes to smallmouth on one of the last  trips that found me north of the border.

Although the intel had been welcomed, I had a good idea of what to expect from the lake I was about to fish. Greenbacks. And although, the thought of monster fish made the hike lighter, I knew that the chances of catching anything over thirteen inches were slim, ten inches might even be a stretch. But on trips like these, big takes a backseat to what’s native, and more often than not, small rules the day. But I’m alright with that, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

The small alpine lake rolled out beneath Notchtop Mountain, a 12,000 foot peak that sits atop the continental divide, deliberating over the parks’ east and west. The brownish copper water reflected flecks of blue and white, but the canvas mirrored nothing from lofty surroundings. The dark water rhythmically lapped against the southern bank, playing tricks on the uninitiated, as a confused wind changed directions.

Forgoing the faster action five weight, I reached into the bag and pulled out the small click and pawl reel for the glass three weight I had brought along. Straightening the newly attached leader, I opened the aluminum fly box, deciding on a small cluster midge. Wetting the knot, I pulled the bug tight.

Standing on a small boulder that jutted out into the lake, I spotted the first cruising fish. Not big.

Native.

A Day In The Park

Against the vast span of geologic time out of which its scenic grandeur was born, Yellowstone's first century as a national park came and went in a moment. Today, just as in 1872, Yellowstone's capacity to whet man's sense of wonder and refresh his spirit remains ageless and undiminished.

Equally compelling for us today, one hundred years and more after they first unfolded, are the human lessons in the story of the discovery and exploration of Yellowstone Park and its establishment as a preserve for coming generations of Americans to enjoy unspoiled…

Parklands and wilderness become more precious to us with each passing year, and the forces that militate against them intensify. This account thus commends itself not only to the general reader as an absorbing narrative of men, the land, and the laws, and to the historian as a long-needed documentary resource, but also to every citizen who wishes to help apply more widely in our own time the kind of environmental wisdom and foresight that created our first national park a century ago.

- Richard Nixon, President of the United States

We found Chris along the banks of one of the high running creeks that we hadn’t had the time to explore. An open beer can kept him company on the Dodge’s tailgate, as his four weight rod was getting dressed.

“I just have to see,” he said smiling, something we understood perfectly.

There was no poetry in his meaning, no bullshit about the majesty of place or time, just the reality that there was water to be fished, and the possibility of a few fish to be seen. I respect that. I’d tie on a hopper.

We talked briefly before saying our goodbyes, leaving Chris alone for the first time in a few days. I imagined that he was happy to be rid of the four derelict bloggers that had descended upon him three days earlier, and I’m sure he was ready for the time alone on his curious stretch of water. It just looked fishy. And now remembering back on it, I’m not so sure that this wasn’t his plan all along. Maybe he wanted this creek to himself. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

No. That’s not his style, he would have shared.

Our bodies rattled as we continued to follow the loose gravel on our way out of the Centennial Valley in route to West Yellowstone. Mike and I had budgeted the better part of the day to fish in the park, a place that neither one of us had fished before, but had driven through on our way north from Denver. A brief passing that greeted us with an early morning blanket of soft fog that seemed to wrap our perception of Yellowstone in time in space. Maybe it was just confirmation of what we had hoped to find, or maybe it was just how this place has always been.

We bought our park licenses and promised to fill out the “report” card that helps the park biologists study the trout populations of Yellowstone. Information that includes the type of trout caught, size of the fish, and numbers caught. Not to mention the comment section, with just enough space to say thanks for the experience and thanks to the biologists for conducting such good work. Mine is still sitting in my desk, I better send it in.

Breaking from the trail, we crossed the road and followed Nez Perce farther into the park. Mike worked the stream above me, taking his time working some deeper runs that seemed to hold fish, but didn’t yield anything for the scorecard. I worked below him, finding similar results for a lazy effort, spending more time taking in the surroundings than judiciously paying attention to line and flies. Something I am guilty of more often than I care to admit. And in this case, I was somewhere I’d never been, someplace far from the real world, so I cut myself some slack.

I sat down, rummaging through a fly box that looked full of everything one might need to fool a resting trout, but nothing seemed to speak to me. My box had been tied in a different place, for different fish, and for different water. The Copper John’s and Pheasant Tail’s only seemed to upset me. I know that it doesn’t matter to the fish, but somehow, it all started to matter to me. Besides, it wasn’t like that out here, it couldn’t be. This was a famous park, with famous water, with famous trout. The spectacle of catching a fish from these waters with something known felt cheap, it felt too easy. This was Yellowstone for Christ’s sake, and I only had a few more hours to satisfy years of build up to the moment. I swatted at a fly buzzing in my ear. Fucking pheasant tail. My hands worked to tie on the familiar bug.

It happens in places like this, you over think things. You want to believe that in places like Yellowstone that normal doesn’t count, and that only your best is good enough to match theirs. I have felt this on a number of occasions; like the first time I packed a fly rod for an afternoon on the Poudre, similarly the first time I stepped foot in Rocky Mountain National Park in search of some Greenbacks, and even the first time I asked Bridget out on a date. Was I good enough? Did I deserve to be here? But as sure as time has a balanced sense of humor, sometimes I am, sometimes not.

There wasn’t much debate on the ground from which I stood. Yellowstone was protected, it was sacred, founded on the principle that a place like this is more important to the whole than just a certain few. Yellowstone was created in this spirit as the first National Park, ushering in a new ideal of shared ownership to a country still breaking west in exploration. Yellowstone was spared the indignity of becoming something it was not. We saved it from ourselves, we left it alone. 

Well, we left it alone for the most part anyway. Roads were constructed, nice viewing areas of “Old Faithful” were put in place, trails were formed, and even some lodges were built so that people could come to the park and have a bed to rest their heads after a long day of exploring something foreign to them. And in this vein, we tried to make better. We tried to improve upon a place that needed nothing more than an entrance and an exit. But Yellowstone is an extension of who we are, and that is just what we do. And like it or not, we have left our mark. Permanently.

The Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout is the beneficiary of one of our “improvements”. The introduction of the non-native Lake Trout found in the waters of Yellowstone Lake highlights one such bad idea. As now, the Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout is fighting to remain part the landscape we fought so hard to protect. In 1994, the first Lake Trout was discovered in Yellowstone Lake, a predatory fish that has decimated the Yellowstone Cutthroat to about 10% of its native range.  Aggressive gill netting has been conducted since 1995, in hopes of ridding the park waters of the non-native species, trying desperately to rejuvenate the last stronghold for a trout that supports more than just good photo ops. One million dollars is spent annually on the eradication of the Lake Trout from Yellowstone Lake, an unfortunate number considering we did this to ourselves. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay in the name of making right. And it’s a small price to say, “we’re sorry, and we'll keep fighting".

As a fisherman, there is the illusion of perfection placed upon us by what we don’t see. There are the fish that we know that are there despite the best science and body of proof to confront our reality. We hold onto the belief that on our best day, things will be good, and on our worst day, things will just seem to work out.  After all, that’s what the beer is for. There used to be a trout that swam in the waters near the headwaters of the Arkansas River, up in the Twin Lakes area of Colorado. This trout was said to grow to sizes unimaginable to the cutthroat that we know and catch today. The Yellowfin became victim of the exotic introduction of salmon, foreign trout, and the like. The fish simply couldn’t compete to stay alive. We burdened a fishery we fully didn’t understand, in hopes of making better. We made a mistake that hindsight makes blindingly clear. And in that relative blink of an eye, a native fish vanished. I would have liked to have seen one of the twenty pound fish that had been written about, I would have liked to have shown my kids. And in a perfect world, in a just world, maybe there is still one up there to be caught. It’s worth exploring, it's worth the daydream.

My trucker hat dripped with sweat.The temperature had reached the mid-nineties by late morning, and remained unrelenting for the better part of the day. The backdrop of the cloudless sky did away with any notion that it was going to be anything but hot. And only having a day in the park, we kept fishing, despite the fact that some shade and an afternoon nap might be more reasonable. After all, not in one vision of Yellowstone, do I recall seeing a cloud. So I guess it was perfect.

We crossed back over the road, careful to look both ways as the blacktop was choked with traffic. The smell of sulphur permeated the summer air, as the Firehole came into view. Walking upstream, we tried to spot fish from the bank, searching for a good place to make our first few casts. The absence of bugs and rise forms made the job a little more difficult. We accepted, and fished blind for the better part of a couple of hours. And if not for the one missed rainbow, I would have been led to believe that even in Yellowstone, it's possible to find a skunk.

 

The sun had already begun to sink in the western sky, as the first caddis skitted across the water. That caddis was soon followed by another, then another, and pretty soon the air hummed with life as the Firehole gave way to the first aggressive rings on the water’s surface. Mike reached for his box, grabbing a fly I couldn’t make out from twenty yards upstream. It didn’t matter. I knew. Reaching into my box, I pulled out the same.

The sound of water was broken by a faint laugh, I turned to see Mike lift his rod and set the hook.

Yellowstone.

*Yellowstone. It’s a tough place to write about. Looking back on my experience, the only thing that I’m certain of is that I want to go back. Trying to write this, most everything fell flat, and I feel that this is a poor representation of the place. Maybe that’s why I chose not to write about the majesty of certain locations. Yellowstone isn’t a place to write about, it’s a place to experience, a place to feel, and a place to keep memories and secrets for yourself (myself). This would have been my entry for the Trout Unlimited, Simms, the Yellowstone Park Foundation, and the Outdoor Blogger Network Blogger Tour 2012 contest. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to be part of last year’s crew that got to experience the Centennial Valley, a trip that I will always remember and be thankful for. It is only fitting that fine print excludes myself and last year’s winners from attending, giving some new bloggers the opportunity to experience Yellowstone, the work that is being done in the park, and to spend time with people that are passionate to make each experience on the water better than your last... 

Thank you Trout Unlimited. For all you do.

If you haven’t done so already, get your blog post in for a chance to win. If nothing else, the donation of your words will be greatly appreciated for a great cause and great place. You won’t regret it.

  

Enter Here

Resources:
Trout Unlimited

http://eastyellowstonetu.org/images/savetheyellowstonecutthroat_2.html

http://www.nps.gov/yell/planyourvisit/upload/laketrout2.pdf

Around The House

The House

I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand before finding the half empty bottle of Advil. The four burnt orange pills went down easy, much like the four before them. The bedroom looked defeated, and the white primer on the walls waved as if in surrender to the work that had yet to be done. After all, sometimes new paint isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Finding the two slippers that CiCi had altered, my toes coldly guided me to the five bamboo stairs that drop down into the kitchen.

The once dilapidated space showed off its new cabinets and breakfast bar. The work that had been done a few hours before now seemed fitted. Measured work that balanced the weight of our vision on the level, while managing the hard woods, shims, screws, and nails that stared at us from the broken down boxes that now lay quietly in the garage.

Breakfast Bar...

I found the orange juice tucked behind the sesame chicken and between a few bottles of Pacifico. A bottle seemed easier, so I changed my mind. The first sip of the cold beer seemed to ease the swell in my hands, trumping the four pills that had been swallowed and still looking for a place to find work. My mother wouldn’t approve of this recreation, but I was on the clock, and it was going to be another long day.

Picking the yellow Stanley hammer off of the countertop, I walked to the back door. The dogs were playing in the yard, running wild with the scrap pieces of wood their grandpa kindly forfeited to them. And with each buzz of a power tool, the dogs dropped what they were doing, and went in search of the toymaker himself. Sometimes scared of the noise, they understood it was just part of the process. My slippers appreciate the break.

The eleven new windows were pushed against the northeast wall in the garage, patiently waiting for their turn in the lineup. These new windows were to replace the ones born in 1979, windows born the same year as me. But unlike the external failings of an old window, I hopefully won’t need to be replaced, at least not yet. I set the hammer down, careful not to play too close to the un-hung glass. The smell of polyurethane was still fresh in the air, as the oak moldings and trim work stretched unbothered on two old sawhorses, but I don’t think we’ll get to those up until tomorrow. The list just got longer.

Reaching for the hammer, I picked it up, and walked around to the north side of the house. A broken Aspen had been cut down a day earlier, leaving two standing. The yard had seen better days, but with a little attention over the course of an afternoon, weeds and debris were pulled by a patient mother-in-law. A chore that revealed both the good and the bad of a yard that had grown wild in less than a year. A yellow flower showed itself as thanks for such attention. I threw one of the trimmed branches on the pile of remains. Rex barked.

A surprise

Scott was at the back window, measuring the first of several cuts that would need to be made for the removing of the old kitchen window and the replacement of the new. I noticed the Skil saw and put down the hammer. Picking up the power tool, I made a few imaginary cuts in the air. It’s about all I’m good for. I never was good at staying between the lines, and probably never will be. A trait that I have come to accept, but have never really forgiven myself for. I now feel the same way for getting kicked out of band in sixth grade. A selfish blow of my trumpet in Matt Dickson’s ear, and the wearing of multicolored pants to a concert did me in. I should have paid more attention. Maybe I could have made better music, or better friends. I put down the saw before Scott could comment on my pretend cuts, and asked if he needed anything from inside.

“Nope,” he said.

The pills and beer were starting to kick in, and the sting in my back had been reduced to a manageable level. Deb and Bridget were standing in the dining room, discussing which of the rooms needed what, and what color. I kept my head down, pretending to inspect an already used piece of quarter round, my opinion shouldn’t be necessary. I bent down for a closer look at the wood, they were talking louder.

I found a pint glass and poured myself a glass of water. Back on the deck, I rejoined Scott. He told me to grab the hammer and cat’s paw, and start to remove the nails from the siding.

“The hammer and what?” I asked.

“Cat’s paw,” he replied.

“Right.”

He pointed to it, and I picked it up.

“Ohhhh…the Cat’s paw, I thought you said something else.”

I drove the funny little crowbar into the wall and yanked out the first nail. The siding split where it shouldn’t have, and I turned to block my mentors view.

 “We’ll cover it up anyhow,” he forgave.

Scott finishing the job...Sean spectating

With all of the nails extracted, the pre-drawn lines guided my father-in-law, as the employed saw screamed with purpose. He sat down, handed me an unfamiliar tool, and asked if I would finish removing the siding from around the window.

“Sure.”

Calling the dogs from the deck, I invited them inside to get out of the heat, and cut them a few bites of chicken from a leftover breast that had been grilled the night before. CiCi sat, Rex gave me a “high five”, and both dogs were rewarded. Bringing both bulldogs downstairs, I turned on the Cartoon Network and filled a couple of bowls with water before locking the baby gate and returning upstairs.  The deck was empty, the window was still hung. Was I supposed to have done something? I grabbed the Cat’s paw and started looking for more nails. Nothing.

I heard Bridget laugh from the garage. She was happy.

So was I.

*It’s been a long week. Plenty of work has been done, with more yet to be completed. If it wasn’t for very gracious and patient in-laws, I’d still be staring at the kitchen cabinets wondering what goes where and who does what. I am unskilled labor at best, and am thankful to be learning from some folks that have done this sort of thing a time or two. Thank you Deb and Scott, you’re the best…Now, have you seen Stanley and the cat’s paw? There are nails that need pulling.

Thanks Deb and Scott!

Our List:

1. Replace old windows (11 of them)

2. Save and reinstall old granite countertop

3. Install new kitchen cabinets

4. Paint bathroom 1, bathroom 2, master bedroom, guest bedroom, laundry room, living room, kitchen, downstairs living room, hallways, sitting room, Bridget’s room where she sews, Sean’s room where he has stashed his fly fishing stuff.

5. Take out stub wall in the living room

6. Replace stub wall with new wrought iron railing.

7. New electrical covers (every room, every cover)

8. Build breakfast bar

9. New doors

10. Fix garage door

11. Trim trees

12. Install Dishwasher and Microwave

13. Stain trim for railing.

14. Case support post in living room.

15. Install blinds

16. Smile

17. Re-plumb kitchen sink

18. Scrape jacked up wall in lower level and hope for the best

19. Fix fan in master bathroom

20. Figure out electrical box (mislabeled breakers)

21. Hang new light in entryway

22. Figure out and rewire entry so we can use front porch light

23. Haul boxes/branches/etc. to the recycling center

24. Hang lights above breakfast bar

25. Say thanks.
26. Closet Shelves
27. Hardware for Kitchen Cabinets
28. Weed the Wild

Messy new kitchen with an old window...

Tear down that wall...

I don't see it...

Sawing...

Stock photo...taken sometime last week.

A Nomad Net Review

On a recent trip to the river, I had the misfortune of slipping off of a small rock and finding myself sitting in about a foot and a half of water. Lucky for me, my fall was broken by the fishing net I so often forget in the trunk of my Honda. But as lucky as I was to have my fall softened by wood and rubber mesh, the landing net was equally unlucky. The net didn’t stand a chance, as it had been a long winter of hibernating and eating hotdish. My extra weight didn’t do the wooden piece of art any favors, as it was now broken in half, and a mess not worth fixing.

After doing some research, I found myself on the Nomad Fly Fishing website. The monotony of looking at more of the same wooden nets had been broken by the carbon fiber frames that is Nomad's claim to fame, I was intrigued. So being the impulse buyer that I am, I purchased the Nomad Mid-Length net on the spot, and closed the second place tabs that ran across the top of a tired computer's screen, tabs that read like the who’s who of fly fishing nets. Sorry guys.

What initially grabbed my attention about these nets was the durability of the carbon fiber as opposed to the traditional wooden frames that I was used to. And unfortunately, I had just shattered the last net I owned, and the reality is, nets aren’t cheap. So I immediately gravitated towards this more durable good as opposed to the other. The second thing that I noticed was that the weight of this net (37 inches in total length) was less than a pound. It was light.  A feature that is often overlooked, but much appreciated during a long day of fishing. I liked the idea of lightening the load. After all, a fly fisherman is known to carry way too much gear anyhow, we might as well carry a lighter net. Of the three nets Nomad has to offer, I found myself most interested in the Mid-Length. A net that is longer than the normal hand held net, but still easy to haul around and give the extra reach needed while fishing from a boat or just wading in a stream. The last thing that caught my eye was the nets appearance. The green rubberized paint not only helps you have a better grip on the handle, but looks pretty sharp as well, complimenting the black rubber of the mesh basket perfectly.

I was sold.

After fishing with the net for a few weeks, I have not been disappointed. The green machine is everything that it is been billed to be and more. The net is not only incredibly light, but I have also found myself appreciating the extra reach of the longer handle.  I haven’t had to test its durability yet, but I’m sure that time is coming, and when it does, I’m confident that the net will hold up.

I am worried however, as I tend to drop, misplace, and lose my fair share of stuff. So I would have liked to have seen a ring or some sort of attachment on the handle itself, where I could hook up the magnetic net release I had on my older, now shattered wooden net. Knowing me, I’ll be swimming after the net sometime this summer because of it. And I’m no Michael Phelps.

Nomad builds three different styles (more accurately sizes) of nets, at price points comparable to the high quality wooden nets we have known for so long. But with the quality of make, and the durability that these nets boast, they are well worth the money.

Check out Nomad at www.nomadflyfishing.com.

A Bridge Season

The electric green of newly born leaves whistled through rejuvenated cottonwoods, as a sleepy Poudre River stretched into season. Warm air washed through the open window, cooling the cabin of a car that had lost its coolness sometime last summer. The aging “Pearl Jam” album reversed time, as I climbed into the lower canyon.  Alone.

Spring on the Front Range has been shortened by a prolonged period of above average temperatures, turning today into summer, and energizing storm clouds on the eastern plains. It was a season that not only failed to deliver the snow needed to avoid drought, but a season that promised to rip water out of the high country early, as if unaware of time and date. Already, off-colored water is being choked down a canyon that is sure to come alive in the next couple of weeks with the others that enjoy this river as much as I do. A “skinny” summer is near, and the calm before the storm is made evident by a rugged quietness up and down this two lane highway. Two lanes that carry the wayward intuition of people like me. People who search for something outside of themselves, but hopeful for what might seem possible. A new season has arrived.

Shrinking boulders gave way to a gravel bar midstream.  Looking back, the crack in the Honda’s windshield frowned at me, a curious judgment from above as I pinched the barb on the chenille and rubber mess that was meant to imitate a stonefly, I’m not so sure. The fly was tied months ago.

The stained water quickly ate the fake stone as it disappeared into the foam line forty five degrees upstream of where I stood. I should be fishing a bobber, but I never have liked the look of the things. In my mind, I graduated from those a long time ago back in Minnesota. I've never wanted to go back. Maybe it’s time I revisit this stubbornness and unwillingness to ask for help. I’m sure that these “thing-a-ma-bobbers” work,  people fish them all the time. But I do fish a dry/dropper combination quite a bit, so I guess it’s just semantics anyhow. You say about, I say aboot. And in the end, it seems to break us both even.

The tip of the line pulled straight as I stripped line with my left hand and set the hook. Quietly, nine inches of brown trout relented and found its way to the basket.  It had taken the stone, passing up on the smaller offering that had been trailing the bigger bug. The finesse of spring had all but passed, now left hanging somewhere in the distance behind us. Upon release, the impatient fish bumped my boot as if giving me the bird, before retreating back to more turbid water. "Thanks, and sorry my friend (Thanks for all the good reads Will)". My car watched on, still frowning as I pulled the two flies from their mesh captor. 

The water had spiked a week or so earlier, bringing the first wave of pre-runoff to the Poudre. A season that shouldn’t last deep into this years’ summer, as the snowpack in the high country at last calculation is 28% of its annual average. Compared to last year, it’s just a drop in the bucket, as a stormy winter in the mountains caused runoff to last well into July. A condition that chased the trout fisherman down from the hills for a month or two, to square off against the warm water quarry that conveniently catch a short attention span, mine was one of them.

Fishing my way upstream, I caught and released a handful of small fish. One fish went all of thirteen inches, and was a respectable brown trout for the Poudre.  He was a feisty fish that proudly showed his broad shoulders and some impressive red birthmarks to match his strength. A trout like this defines a freestone river like the Poudre; strong, healthy, and wild. And in places like these, the fish adapt. They fight to make the best of each season, eagerly taking what is given to them, while occasionally making the innocent mistake of grabbing something that hurts in the name of survival. They’re not unlike us, just more practical.

Taking a break, I rested for a few minutes on a boulder tight to the far bank. I let my feet rest in the cool water, while the high sun warmed my shoulders and neck. I yawned. Clipping off a frayed section of leader, I retied in a fresh piece of tippet for some piece of mind. My flies looked alright, although a few of the rubber legs on the lead stone had gone missing, but the fish didn’t seem to care whether the stonefly had six legs or four and a half. The trailing fly was replaced with an averagely tied soft hackle. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I dipped my hat in the water before returning it to my head.  The break was over.

I pushed further upstream, trying to calculate the distance I had put between the Honda and where I now stood. In my mind, I was miles from where I’d started, too far to put a number on. Realistically, I’d find the car in a matter of minutes if and when I decided to turn around. But when that time comes, and it will come, I’ll be happy for the short walk.

I fished the next stretch of river close to the bank, respecting the slack water that seemed to be holding fish. Some fish came easy, while others seemed wise to the game that they now found themselves in. A game played in a place where a winner or loser forgoes judgement for the experience. And like each passing season, stats mean nothing, they're just numbers.

An eighteen wheeler broke the silence, downshifting loudly above me. I turned to see a puff of black exhaust suspended mid-air, a small cloud that partially hid the truck before it completely vanished purposefully down the silent canyon. I watched intently for another signal of dark smoke, but none came.

 I was fishing. Alone. 

Well...I wasn't completely alone.

Revo Bearing Polarized Sunglasses Review

It wouldn’t be wrong to assume that growing up fishing on boats in deep water for fish that may or may not be there, that polarized sunglasses were not high on my list of priorities. I was more interested in the depth finder and other gadgets that were built to help one spy on the unsuspecting walleye, lake trout, panfish, pike, bass, and other miscellaneous fish species that call the waters of Minnesota home. But after graduating from boats to boots, I realized that reading the flowing water of a river was light years different than locating structure in a lake using sonar. I struggled to see what was in front of me, and I was certainly not catching as many fish as a result. This is when I made the decision to listen to the advice that I had received from a good friend and fellow trout angler to bite the bullet and buy a good pair of polarized sunglasses. “It will open your eyes”, he laughed.

So I did.

Since then, I have owned a few different pairs of glasses. Some better than others, and some not so good. Most recently, I had purchased a pair of Smith sunglasses from the local shop in town, which were a significant jump up in lens quality from the glasses that I had been wearing before (A cheaper pair of Costa’s). Unfortunately, the increased visibility came at the cost of comfort. These new glasses, although great for being able to see into the water, would pinch behind my ears violently. A discomfort that usually cost me a small headache at the end of a long day of fishing, but that’s just a small price to pay for seeing more fish, right?

About a month ago, I was presented with the opportunity to review a new pair of Bearing Polarized Sunglasses from Revo. The opportunity was welcomed, as I wanted to test a lens that I don’t ever see in the “Fly Shops” that I frequent, and I wanted to compare the new Revo’s  to the sunglasses that I had recently purchased, hoping to confirm that they were indeed as good as they were marketed to be.

There were two sets of criteria that I wanted to test; Quality of the lens, and comfort. More to the point, would I see fish and read the water without getting a mind numbing headache at the end of the day.

The Revo Bearing lens I was able to test was the graphite lens in their lineup. It is the most neutral lens choice that they offer for this pair of sunglasses. The dark tint performs well in bright light conditions, but is not optimal for overcast days on the water (It is however better than the Costas that I own on similar days, which are a darker lens as well.) However, the Bearing Sunglasses come with your choice of three different lens colors. The choices include graphite, water, and bronze. Yukon Goes Fishing has recently tested the water lens with success in all light conditions, so I’m confident that Revo has a lens that works for whatever condition you finds yourself using these glasses.

As for the comfort of these sunglasses, I think Revo knocked it out of the park. Not only am I able to wear these shades comfortably all day, I am no longer going for the Alleve bottle when I get back to the car. I find myself wearing these sunglasses all of the time, and they are now my "go to" shades.

I have been wearing these sunglasses for over a month now, and have been very happy with them. The only complaint that I have with these glasses is that they aren’t the best while fishing on cloudy days. However, Revo does make more than one lens choice, and I am confident that either the bronze or the water lens would take care of the issue. I would happily recommend these sunglasses to anyone who is looking for a good pair of polarized glasses.

Now…If Revo could just find their way into more fly shops.

For more information on the Revo Bearing Sunglasses, click here.