Farewell to The Dragon

 

We recently lost a beloved member of the WCA Guide family as Jeff Jennings was called home on February 28th, 2024, at the age of 51.

Jeff has guided for Wolf Creek Angler for most of the years we’ve been here and while I wouldn’t claim I knew him super well, he was, without exception, the most authentic, legit, gypsy fly fishing guide I’ve ever known. Jeff guided here on the MO for us and for other outfitters and also spent time guiding the Big Horn River in both Montana and Wyoming, the San Juan, the Olympic Peninsula and the home waters in Michigan where he, like me, got his start in fly fishing. We are still in shock over the news and we’re going to miss him terribly, as will the countless clients who shared a boat with him over the years.

I didn’t know Jeff in Michigan, though we were very close in age and grew up a couple of hours drive apart. Jeff hailed from Traverse City and I grew up to the south in Montague, both on the shores of Lake Michigan. Jeff got his fishing start on the lakes around Traverse City and was taught to fly fish and tie flies by one of his middle school teachers. He honed his skills on storied Michigan waters like the Boardman, the Manistee, the Betsie, the Platte and the Au Sable and went to work in a Traverse City fly shop right out of high school where his western wanderlust was accepted and encouraged.

Jeff got bitten by the fly fishing bug much earlier on in life than I and he was already a fixture on the waters of the west by the time I got in the game. That being said, we grew up fishing on the same waters and came from similar backgrounds which established an immediate hometown connection when we finally crossed paths in Montana. 

In addition to being among the fishiest people I’ve met, what really set Jeff apart from the pack was his amazingly kind heart. He was, quite possibly, the nicest human I’ve had the pleasure of knowing and his authentically kind demeanor and positive attitude were infectious and made it impossible not to like him.

After his passing it was abundantly clear as evidenced by an explosion of social media tributes that Jeff meant the world to a legion of folks whose hearts he had touched throughout the duration of this, the earthly portion of his journey.

From a family who adored him to his fishing clients and fishing friends to the Montana guide community to the coterie of music lovers in which he was well ensconced, Jeff was loved by so many and while we mourn his loss, the mark he left on this world, the way he lived his life, warrants joyous celebration. If we could all live with half the positive energy and just a portion of his kindness, the world would be a much better place.

Again, I wouldn’t ever claim to have had a close relationship with Jeff but, being fellow Lions-obsessed Michiganders, I can say that I spent most every Lions game for the past however many years texting with Jeff, usually expressing my disgust with whatever happened to be going on in the game. Jeff would acknowledge those issues but at the same time he would always point out the good. Especially this past season when things were really going well for our Lions, I would usually find something to bitch and moan about and he would come back with something like “that wasn’t pretty, BUT we are 7-2!” As Lions fans we are conditioned to deal with disappointment on a fairly regular basis while maintaining an eternal optimism season after season. We’re all there but Jeff wore it better than most!

Unfortunately I never got around to asking Jeff about his origins story, about how he came to be a fishing guide. I expect I’ll learn much about him in the coming months as the discussions and tributes continue to populate my social media feed. What I do know is that it was very apparent that he was doing the job he was supposed to be doing. My own journey into the fishing business took me on a different course, one less to do with guiding and more to do with running my fly shop and lodging and outfitting businesses. I spend some days in the rower’s seat but that is not where my gifts lie. Those who spend days and weeks and months in that rower’s seat have my utmost respect for doing what they do and Jeff was no exception. He was a professional by all measures and his kind heart and positive attitude afforded him years of great days on the water making connections with all kinds of people from all walks of life and I would venture a guess that the vast majority of those days ended with plenty of fish to hand and smiles all around.

One of my favorite Jeff stories is about a client we had who was the polar opposite of Jeff. Definitely a glass half empty kind of guy. This client had been out with one of our guides the day before and hadn’t enjoyed the day much at all. He hadn’t caught enough fish in his opinion and basically considered the day a waste of his time. The next day he was scheduled to fish with Jeff and I warned Jeff what he was in for prior to the trip. He didn’t seem concerned.

By Jeff’s telling they were barely out of the parking lot and the guy started in about what a terrible time he’d had the day before. Jeff pulled over and stopped the truck and told the client this wasn’t how this day was going to go. He told him he was going to improve his attitude and that they were going to go out and have a fun day OR they weren’t going to go at all.

By all indications the guy took it to heart and they did end up having a great day after which this client, who had been nothing but negative for years about every guide and every trip he ever took with us, let me know what a fantastic day he had had with Jeff and of course requested him for his next trip.

That was Jeff!

A life well lived my friend. Well done. Until we meet again….

Tight Lines! 

By |2024-03-16T14:16:06-06:00March 14th, 2024|Categories: Shop Life|Tags: , , , , , |12 Comments

THOUGHTS ON OPENING DAYS

Returning from the hunt circa 1975

Here in Montana we are nearly three weeks into the firearm deer and elk season and it’s been over two months since archery season opened on September 5th. This state is a hunter’s paradise with plentiful game, long seasons and an abundance of access to an expanse of productive lands both public and private. As in many parts of the country, the hunting culture runs deep in Montana.

As I’ve discussed here before, I was raised in that culture and I hold it near and dear to my heart. That being said, since moving to this hunter’s paradise my passion for the sport has diminished. I hunted hard for the first several years we lived here and was able to harvest a couple of animals however I felt less and less compelled to hunt each season. I attribute that to a lack of knowledge about and comfort level with the places I was hunting and more importantly to the fact that for whatever reason, I haven’t really cultivated relationships with folks with whom I might have the opportunity to hunt, due in part to the fact that I’m simply not that passionate about it anymore.

My son was going into the sixth grade when we moved to Montana, an ideal age to get him interested in the sport despite the fact that my attempts to spark his interest in hunting back in Michigan were mostly unsuccessful. It’s simply never been his thing and that’s ok. Credit to him, he did take hunter safety and he did take an interest in archery and he did hunt with me on occasion but it just never really took. Had he formed a real interest in hunting I’m sure I’d be writing a different story today but as it is, his lack of interest likely contributed to my waning enthusiasm for the hunt. Just to clarify, he’s not a fan of fishing either but that has not curbed my enthusiasm for and obsession with trout fishing in Montana.

I share this with you as background for my thoughts today regarding opening day of firearm season back in Michigan.

November 15th will always hold a place in my heart as opening day and unlike what I shared last week regarding Election Day and not having ever taken a day off of work or school to vote, I took many November 15th’s off of school and work to hunt on opening day.

I know this OPENING DAY thing is a part of the hunting culture shared by all of those who grew up in hunting families and I know this sentiment is alive and well here in Montana but my experience with this is from my past and not so much a part of my present. It’s for this reason that every year around this time I can’t help but think about the past. I can’t help but think about all those opening days spent in the Michigan woods with my dad and later with our circle of hunting friends after my dad was gone.

It makes me happy to think about those days and there’s a part of me that very much misses those experiences but I’m ok with that. It’s a part of my past I wouldn’t trade for anything, a part that I doubt will ever be replicated here in this hunter’s paradise of Montana but again, I’m ok with that.

Last year was the first year I did not hunt. This year was the first year that I didn’t even buy a hunting license. My hunting outings here, especially those last couple of years I hunted, felt forced and my heart was simply not in it.

That being said, if I had the opportunity to go back to Michigan to hunt with my life-long hunting friends as I did a few years back, I’d do it in a heartbeat and the spark would be rekindled. So obviously, as it is in so many cases, it’s not the activity itself but rather the relationships that make the experience.

So to all those arriving at deer camp in the Michigan woods this weekend, to all those all around the country to whom fall hunting is a highlight of the year, and to all those who’ve spent the last two months afield here in Montana and who’ve got a couple of weeks yet to go….best of luck and happy hunting.

We share a passion for traditions I pray we never abandon and while I’m at peace at this point on the outside looking in I will always have respect and reverence for the sport and I’m hopeful that at some point I will return.

By |2020-11-13T18:26:08-07:00November 13th, 2020|Categories: Uncategorized|Tags: , , |2 Comments

Autumn Equinox


Autumn has officially arrived and with it the promise of good things to come on the Missouri and surrounding waters.

Terrestrial season is holding on with decent hopper and ant action, particularly in the lower stretches and we’ve begun to see the occasional October Caddis so now would be a good time to work that into your blind dry fly or dry/dropper rotation.

Aside from the terrestrials action we’re in a bit of a holding pattern right now where dry fly fishing is concerned as we await fall BWO’s. Caddis can fill the gap on any given day and pseudos will satisfy the needs of  the true dry fly masochists but look for BWO’s to arrive with cooler weather and darker days, hopefully sometime in early October.

The streamer set has begun to arrive on the scene led by our Michigan friends from Schultz Outfitters returning to fish the MO with us this week. It’s a Michigan invasion all week long at Wolf Creek Angler and we’re thrilled to have a bunch of streamer junkies back in the boats with us. Leave the wooly buggers behind, load up the 7 and 8 weights and take cover…it’s time to do this thing Michigan Style! Weeds be damned, it’s big game hunting season on the MO’.

For the less bobber averse set, nymphing is good, especially in the upper stretch and should continue to pad the daily numbers. #18 Black Zebras will be back in stock tomorrow, still no ETA on Frenchies or Purple Weight Flies but fear not, we’ve got bins and bins filled with bugs that will meet or exceed performance expectations. Green Machines, Tung Darts, Gold Weight Flies, Purple or Olive Zebras, Tailwater Sows, Split Case BWO’s, BWO Magic Flies, Soft Hackle Sows, Olive Micromays, Olive or Brown S & M’s, Juju’s, BWO Redemptions, Radiation Baetis, Rainbow Czechs…and on and on.

It looks like we’ll see a nice cool down into the low 60’s this weekend but right back into the mid 70’s the first part of next week. Even so, chilly nights are keeping water temps on the drop. Temps are currently holding at around 61 degrees with flows at or near 4000 CFS. You really couldn’t ask for better conditions for fall fishing but these are definitely the days you’ll want to layer up in the morning knowing that you may be peeling off layers throughout the day but adding them back as that sun dips down.

We’ve got plenty of lodging availability this week though the guide calendar is pretty well filled through early next week. Take the time now while you’re thinking of it to book an October trip with us.
Whether you wish to be pampered with luxury accommodations and gourmet meals at Hidden Canyon Lodge or you prefer the cozy rustic charm offered at Wolf Creek Angler we’ve got you covered. Same great guides and same price for fishing at both, it’s just a matter of what you’re looking for outside of the fishing experience. Give us a call for details or to book your dates at either location. 

We welcome fall and hope you join us on the Missouri and Blackfoot Rivers in the coming weeks for the most wonderful time of the year.

Under the Influence Part Two

Long ago and far away – pre fly fishing days in Ontario with my dad

This is the second installment of a two-part post.

A couple of weeks ago I shared a blog on our Facebook page from HATCH Magazine that asked the question “Which Anglers have influenced your Fly Fishing?” The post got a good response and got me thinking about my own fly fishing history and remembering all of those who played a role in my journey from curious observer to reluctant participant to sell it all and move to Montana to be a fly fishing guide and fly shop owner.

As is the case for many of us, the towering figure in my personal fishing history most responsible for my being where I’m at today would have to be my dad.

This breaks slightly from the theme of that Hatch blog because my dad was not a fly fisherman but that aside, he did instill in me that sense of awe and reverence elicited by the sight of mountains and forests, the sound of babbling streams and raging rivers, the smell of spring rains and the feel of a trout on the line.

Like many, I grew up fishing conventional gear. I was handed a Zebco rod at the age of five, prompting a journey which continues today.

I fished worms with a bobber for bluegill, sunfish and bass on the lake I grew up on in Michigan, and eventually graduated to hardware. My first experience on a trout stream was also fishing with worms but the memories I have of those early days trout fishing the White and Pere Marquette Rivers in Western Michigan have much more to do with experiencing moving water than with catching fish.

Michigan’s Pere Marquette River

I remember donning my first pair of waders and stepping into those rushing waters. I remember feeling the force of water pushing against me, lifting my feet off the gravel bottom. It was like nothing I’d felt before. It was both thrilling and terrifying and I loved it.

The twists and turns of the stream framed by the emerging spring vegetation under the radiant heat of the April sun left a permanent mark on my memory and I still recall those mid-spring Midwestern days on the water like they were yesterday.

But it wasn’t all warm and fuzzy. Numb fingers on cold mornings, an often-times less than patient guide who was doing his best to enjoy his own escape while making sure nothing terrible happened to his kid, snags and tangles and what felt like an awful abundance of SNAKES all tipped the scales in favor of staying home.

I don’t recall how often we trout fished, probably not more than a couple of times a year, but it was enough to plant the seed. I wasn’t always thrilled to be going and I don’t recall really ever being given a choice but the bribe of snacks for the ride helped and once I stepped in that water I always enjoyed myself. I began to learn where the trout live and why, Reading Trout Water 101.

At some point in my late teens it all clicked and I fell in love with trout fishing. I began to pursue it on my own which has obviously led me to all sorts of places but it was all rooted in those early days on the water with my dad.

He was an avid outdoorsman and did what he could to bring me into the fold but I think more effective than his efforts was his passion. I grew up surrounded by books about National Parks and wilderness and hunting and fishing. I grew up watching my dad head out the door, shotgun, rifle or fishing rod in hand, only to return with all manners of tasty table fare. We watched Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom every week on television and we actually saw The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams in the movie theatre. The concept of wilderness was not a foreign one in our house.

Having spent his army days at Fort Lewis in Washington State, my dad always had a fondness for the Pacific Northwest and the western half of the country in general. When I was eight or nine years old we did the family cross country trek from Michigan to California, traveling through the Dakotas, Montana, Idaho, Washington and Oregon to get there.

The pictures I had poured over time and again in those National Park books on the shelf at home were brought to life as I took in the plains and forests and snow-capped mountains and rivers and Big Skies and red wood trees and finally the big blue Pacific. There is no doubt the immersion in wild places which occurred on this trip planted the seeds for my future as I fell in love with the place I would someday, some way, call home.

My dad and I fished together in an on-again, off-again manner over the years. He spent most of his fishing efforts on Lake Michigan where he operated a charter boat. I worked as his first mate for a couple of seasons but never cared for that type of fishing.

The solitude and the poetry of the trout stream continued to captivate me. We fished Ontario’s Superior tributaries annually for steelhead which pulled me even further into the wade fishing fold and then fly fishing caught my eye.

As is the case for so many of us in this business, A River Runs Through It played a pivotal role in attracting me to the sport of fly fishing and reinforced my infatuation with Montana. After seeing it, I sheepishly told my dad I wanted to try fly fishing. Sheepishly because, as already stated, he was not a fly fisherman and he was not a fan. In fact, I don’t recall him ever having much nice to say about fly fishing in general.

My first fly rod was a Shakespeare kit that he gave me. I don’t remember what weight it was but looking back it seems like it was likely a #8 or #9 weight. Whatever the case, it was a broom stick and not only was it a broom stick but it was a broom stick I mismatched with a trout line because I was afraid to ask questions at the K-Mart where I purchased the line and no backing. Obviously my time on the lawn trying to cast this ridiculous set up did nothing to inspire me to actually try this on the stream. I quickly abandoned the idea of fly fishing based on my experience with this set up but that desire to learn the quiet sport lingered though the intimidation factor would ultimately keep me gear fishing for several more years.

Little did I know how much this particular episode would relate to my future as the owner of a fly shop. It’s where my customer service is rooted. It seems like a few times a season a kid will show up with a similar set-up and a similar hesitation to ask questions about what, for the beginner, is an insanely confusing, overwhelming and intimidating sport. I pride myself on having been in those shoes and I always do everything I can to simplify things and to encourage the would be fly fisher to ask all the questions they want but not to over-complicate it.

My second fly rod was a Cabela’s PT(Progressive Taper) #5 weight which also came in a kit but this one I’d done the research on and it was much better suited for what I was wanting to do. Casting remained a struggle but there was hope. I flailed around on the water with this rig but I would always take my spinning gear as well and would usually spend no more than a couple of minutes frothing the water before switching over to the deadly Panther Martins I loved so much.

I dabbled in fly fishing for trout for a couple of years while continuing to gear fish, mostly for steelhead with my dad.

He called me one summer afternoon when I was 29 and asked me if I wanted to go trout fishing with him. We hadn’t trout fished together in years. My passion for the sport was growing, his seemed to be waning. While I was starting to become proficient with the fly rod I opted for my spinning gear to avoid his criticism. We agreed on a time and place and I headed there early to get a shot at the best water.

I heard his vehicle pull up and a few minutes later heard his door close so I made my way to a spot where I could signal to him where I was. I waved and thought I had seen him wave so went back to fishing. He looked to be about a 10 minute walk from me.

A half hour later I wondered where he was and figured he must have found good water so I continued to fish. Finally he emerged from the brush looking perturbed and a little out of sorts and told me he had gotten turned around trying to make his way to the creek.

It was now getting towards dark so we fished within ear-shot of one another and then made our way back to the vehicles. Neither of us caught fish that evening. The Panther Martins were ineffective, as were the Rooster Tails.

 

When we got back to the vehicles he offered me a beer and cracked one himself. At this point in his life my dad was not a beer drinker so I found it maybe a little strange but I was incredibly moved by the gesture which I felt affirmed our emerging relationship. My dad and I clashed a lot over the years and were never particularly close. This invitation to fish followed by streamside beers exemplified the new norm. We worked closely together in the family business and the battles of the past were gone. He was 60, I was nearing 30, the time had come to develop an adult relationship and it was perfect!

In retrospect, I think he had other reasons for inviting me to go trout fishing that summer evening. It was purely a gift.

I was anxious to talk him into trying fly fishing and I was looking forward to a summer of trout fishing and a fall of deer hunting with him.

Alas, it was not to be. This would be the last time we would fish together. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor a couple of weeks later and was gone before I turned 30.

20 years later, looking back, while he didn’t have so much  to do specifically with my fly fishing history, there is no one more responsible for shaping who, what and where I’ve come to be.

 

The Return

If you’ve been following this blog for a while you probably know that my Michigan roots run deep. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Montana and Montana is where I shall stay but there are many things I love about Michigan and as you know, every once in a while I just cant help but self indulge on this blog and share.

In addition to the friends and family who keep us coming back, some of the things I love about Michigan in no particular order are Lions; Tigers; Red Wings; Two Hearted Ale; Oberon; Montague; Traverse City; Mackinac Island; the Pere Marquette, Upper Manistee, White, Muskegon and Au Sable Rivers; Lakes Michigan,  Huron and Superior; Norwood; White Lake; Bells; Founders; Legs Inn; Ludington State Park; The Mitten Bar; St Ignace; Leland; Art’s Tavern; Old Channel Inn; Old Channel Trail; Wildcats and Tahquamenon Falls just to name a few.

One of the things I really miss which hits home every November 15th is Michigan’s firearm deer season. Last year I talked about why which if you’re interested in you can check out here,  and I also decided that I was going to return to the Michigan woods in 2017 which is exactly what I did last week.

The reaction I got from most everyone here at home when I announced I was going to Michigan to deer hunt was the same, a look of bewilderment generally accompanied by some  comment regarding the unprecedented hunting opportunities afforded us here in Montana. I get it. Believe me. I’m well aware of the opportunities here and it’s not lost on me that leaving Montana to hunt deer in Michigan would be something akin to leaving the Missouri River to trout fish most ANYWHERE ELSE! There’s simply no comparison but sometimes we’re looking for something more than the best. Sometimes it’s the fabric of a place along with those with whom you share it that makes it great.

So off to Michigan I went to reconnect with lifelong friends and to spend a few days in the deer woods.  Opening day was Wednesday so we spent Tuesday scouting the woods and making sure all was in order for Wednesday’s pre-dawn ritual. It had been six years since I was last in these woods so I wanted to take some time to reacquaint myself with the surroundings. A major wind storm had taken down many trees some time last year, blocking many of our old trails so we spent the good part of the day brushing out new routes to our blinds but aside from that not much had changed. What did strike me was the sweet smell of decaying  leaves and soil which I can’t say I missed or even thought about but which I haven’t experienced since moving to Montana.

We hunt on the shores of Lake Michigan in an enchanted mix of sand dunes and cedar swamps and hardwood stands. The smell of the swamp and the carpet of oak and maple and beech leaves underfoot coupled with a few peeks of the  late fall sun and a stiff breeze off of the lake made for a magical return. An abundance of huge scrapes and shredded saplings and scarred trees made it clear that there was no shortage of bucks in the area and made for a restless night of anticipation.

We awoke to a steady rain on Wednesday and spent the better part of the day fighting off the chill in our blinds before retreating to the comforts of camp. The nights of reminiscing about the past, of bourbon and beer in our glasses and wild game on our plates and the daylight hours in the blind watching and waiting blurred into one. And just like that it was over. I found myself  tearing down my doghouse blind and once again fighting off the familiar melancholy that starts to creep in on that last day of deer camp. This is when the ghosts of the past are most active and I exit the woods sad that the trip has come to an end but  on a deeper level saddened by the fact that I have to leave this portal to the past. These woods that hold the memories of times long past and of those who have departed stand in stoic silence, indifferent to our presence or absence.  Life continues, lives end, change is constant and the woods remain.

As happens more often than not when hunting public land in Michigan we came away empty handed, at least as far as game goes. We saw plenty of does and a few nice bucks but were not able to seal the deal. My heart was heavy as we drove out of the woods on that last day but the sadness was temporary. By that evening my thoughts had turned towards home. I was ready to see my family and to be back in Montana but the trip turned out to be everything I had expected and more.

It’s often said that you can’t go home again and in some respects I agree. We can  go to the physical place we once called home but we can never return to the essence  and the actuality of what that place was when we lived there…that place still lives only in our minds. These deer woods on the shores of Lake Michigan still feel like home to me if for no other reason than the majority of  my time spent in these woods has been spent one on one, just the woods and me. Midwest hunting is essentially sitting for hours on end with nothing but your thoughts, waiting for the deer to appear. The actuality of these woods has not changed and it will always be the same. The people and the events occurring outside of those hours in the blind continue to change but when it’s just the woods and me I feel the presence of home in my thoughts magnified by familiar  surroundings.

I wonder if perhaps I will turn my back on this place when the rest are gone, I suppose that I may. But for now I am happy to have this place that binds together the present and past. This place that allows me to return.

 

Back on the Pere Marquette

PM Steel - photo by Brad Turner

PM Steel – photo by Brad Turner

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I spent Monday floating the Pere Marquette River with my friend and fellow fly fishing guide Brad Turner. Brad taught me much of what I know about fly fishing many years ago and inspired me to pursue guiding which eventually led to career 2.0 at Wolf Creek Angler. We try to get together and fish whenever we can so following a great couple of days on the MO late last summer this time it was back to my home waters of the Pere Marquette for steelhead and streamer fishing.

We floated the fly water on what turned out to be a gorgeous spring day with near perfect water conditions. The first hours were spent trying to find a streamer the fish were interested in which proved to be quite a challenge. We didn’t move a fish for the first two hours. Though I’ve had some EPIC streamer days on the PM over the years I’ve also had plenty of days like the way this one was starting out where it’s just not happening. I ran through my tried and true PM favorite patterns unsuccessfully and finally found something that worked with a Wilson’s Articulated Sparkle Minnow. We moved a few, hooked a few and landed a few over the next miles including a couple of 20″+ fish following right to the boat but opting out of the eat. A frustrating scenario but definitely what has kept me throwing streamers all of these years. The visual aspect of streamer fishing a river like the PM is something we miss on the MO. Streamer fishing on the Missouri is  still a blast but there’s something about bombing the banks and the structure on small water like the PM and seeing those big browns emerge from their hidden lies to chase down a streamer that gets your heart racing and makes you throw until you are too sore to throw anymore which was definitely the case yesterday.

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It was after lunch time before we decided to try some steelhead fishing and as is usually the case with Brad he had us fishing some spots I never even noticed in my years on the PM, the second of which yielded a couple of hookups and one bright small female to hand (though not to hand long enough to get a picture). It’s been a long cold winter in Michigan and the new fish are just starting to move into the system so we were excited to see this fresh chrome beauty.

It was back to the streamer for a few miles, working a few steelhead spots along the way. The action definitely slowed towards evening though I did hook a steelhead on the streamer which resulted in a screaming reel battle which I lost.

As night began to fall we did find a couple more fish willing to play and it was near dark when I landed the biggest steelhead of my career after an epic battle which included plenty of coaching from Brad. I’ve had some great fights on the MO with some sizeable rainbows and coached clients through many a fight but I had forgotten just how powerful these fish are. What a rush and what a great day on the Pere Marquette!

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