Growing up in a family of hunters & fishermen has lead Kristen Monroe of OutdoorNews.com to have passion for the outdoors. Recently, Kristen visited South Dakota for some old fashioned casting and blasting.

Some visit South Dakota for the great pheasant hunting.  Others seek a peek at Mount Rushmore.  But I was searching for adventure on the beautiful Black Hills streams.

I was anxious to wet my fly line in the picturesque streams and lakes in the area. The City of Deadwood and the Black Hills, Badlands and Lakes Association were our hosts for the 4th annual Association of Great Lake Outdoor Writers (AGLOW) Spring Cast & Blast event. Both greeted the media and our participating corporate members with open arms.

Twenty-four outdoor enthusiasts shared turkey blinds and hiked the natural terrain with hopes of taking home a Merriam’s turkey. Lori Smith of Indiana and Dean Bortz of Wisconsin saw not only turkeys, but also had visits from mountain lions at their respective blinds. Perhaps these powerful predators were seeking a turkey dinner? The sound of the purrs, clucks and gobbles evoked curiosity from the massive pumas. While ten had successful hunts, others were still smiling after experiencing a city rich in old, Wild West history and plentiful wildlife.

Twelve other event participants split up and headed to local lakes and streams to catch walleye, trout, bass and panfish. Lakes Sheridan, Orman, Pactola and several area streams produced beautiful catches and photos for the AGLOW anglers.

Rapid Creek is a tailwater fishery flowing out of scenic Pactola Lake.  Its shallow, clear waters and large, experienced trout make it a highly technical stream.  The fly-fishing was challenging yet delightful, and my persistence was rewarded with my first beautiful brown trout.

“The insects in this area are very small, and the trout are smart,” said David Gamet, manager and guide from Dakota Angler & Outfitter out of Rapid City.  “You have to trick them with a nymph, long leader and light tippet,” he continued.  If you have ever tried to fish with 7x tippet, you know the thickness is next to nothing. It was light and hard to control. The flies were equally tiny.  I used a San Juan Worm as an attractor and a size 22 beatis nymph as a dropper.  These tiny hooks presented another hindrance, as they kept getting covered with algae. But no algae was going to stand in my way.  I cleaned my hook multiple times.

Indeed, the country trout were canny.  I could almost hear their laughter while repeatedly roll casting my St. Croix 5-weight with careful determination. To avoid spooking these smart trout, I fished from the bank on my knees. Casting with stealth, I could hear faint rumbles of thunder in the background. Anxious to hook a trout before the storm hit, I casted like never before. I could smell the rain. Suddenly, a subtle hesitation of my strike indicator and I saw the brown eat the nymph. I lifted the rod gently and fought the glorious fish to the bank. My first brown trout was captured in the net, photographed, and released.  We were caught by the impending downpour on our hike back to the truck, but needless to say, I didn’t care.

At the end of each day AGLOW members met and swapped stories at the Deadwood Mountain Grand Hotel, Event Center and Casino – a wonderful hopping off point for all of our Black Hills outdoor adventures.  Deadwood is known as the city that never dies, a title it has earned after being rebuilt three times due to fires. Buildings don’t last forever. But like the surrounding mountains cloaked in Ponderosa pines, the tales of the Wild West will live on for eternity – as will our memories and outdoor stories.

For more info visit these helpful links for the Black Hills, Badlands and Lakes Assoc, Deadwood Mountain Grand and Dakota Angler & Outfitter.

‘In Your Words’ explores the incredible stories we’ve received from Filson fans across the globe.  Send us your own experiences with our clothing or product here for a chance to be featured on the Filson Life blog.  Matt from Seattle describes the versatility of his Padded Computer Bag.

There’s not much that can be said about this bag that hasn’t already been stated. This is my go to bag. I use it for work Monday through Friday, but it doesn’t leave my side when I leave for the weekend. I wear a suit and tie to work and I don’t look out of place one bit when I walk into a meeting with this bag! A tried and true Filson product just has that affect. Whether you’re on a construction site or in a boardroom, it says ‘I mean business.’

Words by David S. Lewis.  Executive Editor, (614) Magazine.
Photo by Judith O’Keefe

Mother’s Day marks the beginning of spring fly fishing for many.  It takes a different breed (and a river out West) to brave the freezing waters of February, or the rapids of the snow melt in March and April.

Truth be told, I could have easily waited another couple weeks, but I’ve had my tomatoes growing since February, and I started my beans inside the house.  I get antsy towards the end of winter.

My first trip was fraught with the usual frustrations: my leader was more snarled than a Rottweiler farm; my finely-honed cast of last year is now suddenly impotent.

Still seething on the way home (some delightful chap saw fit to take my clearly empty fly rod case out of the back of my pick-up), I had the hindsight to remember a few things that I wish I’d been only slightly more aware of while actually fishing.

1.  Use a leader stretcher first, and often. That reel and line sat in your closet for months.  Memory happens. Put on a new leader and strip the first 40’ of fly line (at least) and stretch it out.  Do it twice; the difference in performance will be dramatic.

And stretch the leader after every fudged cast.   You’re not going to be throwing them like you were last winter, certainly not at first.  Every time you remove a wind knot, you should be using the leader stretcher, too. Stretching it after each (inevitable) tangle is wise because not only is the line going to cast more forgivingly, it’s also going to perform better in the water.  The very experienced fisherman will have been working hard throughout the winter, honing his technique.  The rest of us weren’t  give yourself every advantage you can.

2.  So you spent the winter fantasizing about that special hole, and when you roll in at noon, someone’s already there, fishing YOUR spot? Well, you’ve just got to go somewhere else. Your “hole” isn’t something you’re sharing with that dude, who by the way is rocking a spincast reel and a bucket of minnows, and is just assassinating fish in your hole left and right.

Them’s the breaks, kid.  Fishing etiquette dictates that the early bird gets the worm. Plan to arrive at the hole you need to be there.  Very rare is it that the time you need to be at the hole is the same time you want to be fishing.  Don’t let spring fever make you a discourteous sportsman; the fish will know.  They always know. Angler’s karma can be a savage force.

(On my first day out, I had been working a small island for hours when another angler stumbled down the hill and came out to the island, clearly having every intention of jamming himself into my peaceful Sunday afternoon.  Unfortunately for him, my Catahoula, Roscoe, doesn’t take kindly to discourteous fishermen, either.  Extend courtesy, but if you’ve got the hole, don’t give it up easily unless you’re hurting for company.)

3.  Fish the water you have, not the water you want. Fishing in early spring means the water’s going to be cold, it’s probably going to be moving fast, and it’s not going to be as clear as it will when the slower waters of summer give streams a chance to settle down. Trout will be paying a lot of attention to sulfurs in the next couple weeks, and sulfur nymphs are going to be killing them until at least Father’s Day. As always, the vast bulk of the fish are biting sub-surface. Make sure your wallet includes lots of brightly colored flies, to catch their eyes in all that sediment.

I find brass and gold work better in sediment-filled spring streams, while silver is better suited for muddy lakes and ponds. And your “lucky” fly? If it doesn’t jive with the water conditions you are fishing, it’s not going to catch fish.  You might be sentimental, but I promise you the fish aren’t   Foolishly caught fish are young fish; that lucky fly might well bring in the 6-incher while that heavyweight cruised right by, looking the meal he knows he wants.

4.  Keep your eyes open. Your leader is in worse shape than the tangled strings of Christmas lights in your attic.  Your fingers, cold from surprisingly chilly spring weather, can barely grasp that 6X tippet material, let alone tie anything onto it.  Your strike indicator won’t float. And, to add insult, the damn fish aren’t biting.

Set down the rod.  Don’t even untangle the leader first, or you will be tempted to make another cast, and that’s not what you need.

Look at that pretty little creek, and try to figure out what you’re doing wrong with the rod out of your hand.

Spend a moment with your surroundings. What are the birds doing? If there are fifty swallows taking bugs of the surface of the water, you might try something dry; try to get it right at the edge of that shady area.  Fish are more likely to strike at temperature shelves in the water, and the birds are using their eyes to find bugs; they’re probably leaving that half shady spot alone, which makes that fish even more likely to be there.

The first few outings can be frustrating, due to inclement conditions and out-of-practice anglers, but remember why you like fishing: the woods smell like spring rot, earthy and fertile, and the stream is just humming along. Paying attention to everything that’s happening around you won’t just help you relax: it’s going to help you fish.

Filson and Apolis pooled resources to create the Philanthropist Briefcase.  Here’s a behind the scenes look at the development of this unique product.  Below, an excerpt from the Apolis article, read the whole story at Apolis.

“Our Uganda Project is a microeconomic program employing formerly displaced Ugandans in the rebuilding of the once-strong Ugandan cotton business. The result is a 17.5 oz organic cotton canvas that was grown, milled, woven and dyed in Uganda. Every 100 units of the Philanthropist Briefcase utilizes the entire annual yield of cotton for one Ugandan farmer.

With over a thousand units handcrafted in Seattle by Filson’s team the Philanthropist Briefcase is a great story of two worlds being connected and how true it is that we might as well have the best!”

The winter months had been rough.  Dark days veil the distance and wet wind pierces marrow.  The city skyscrapers hide among low clouds, mountains drown, windshields streak and stain with light played through endless precipitation.

Those days, one can’t help but wonder.

Thoughts of spring shoot up like dandelions, wild-eyed and full of promise.  In the Northwest, the first signs of warmth shatter cocoons and stagnant lakes ripple and teem with life once again.  On one of the first beautiful days this year, the Filson team took to the highway with a car full of shooting vests, shotguns, and shells, and returned with endless appreciation for this new season.

‘In Your Words’ explores the incredible stories we’ve received from Filson fans across the globe.  Send us your own experiences with our clothing or product here for a chance to be featured on the Filson Life blog.  David C., an over-road trucker with 22 years of experience, wrote us regarding his Filson jacket which has faithfully served him for over 2 million miles of travel.

I hope you can repair this old friend of mine.  I’m a trucker working with Werner out of Omaha, Nebraska.  I’m at 2.9 million accident free miles, and 2 million of these miles have been with this jacket.  It’s been in blizzards, chaining up trucks, working in -10 degrees or below.  Been in winds in Arizona, rains throughout South Florida and Louisiana,  dust storms — you name it.  It’s been through every state in the lower 48 and in Canada.

This coat has never seen a hanger.  It’s just been wadded up and thrown on the floor, on seats, or on bunks.  I even washed it a few times before I found out you weren’t supposed to.

The jacket’s been through hell and back.  Thrown off flat beds, hit with hail, flood waters, snow, ice, winds, for over 2 million miles.  I would like to get it repaired, so it’ll be with me when — Good Lord protect me — I make 3 million accident free miles.

I bought this jacket at a store in South Dakota which was going out of business in the 1990′s, I’d never heard of Filson.  I saw the jacket, and being his last day in business, the owner gave a me a good discount so I said ‘why not?’  It didn’t impress me initially, out on the road you go through coats like crazy, and I was hoping it’d last a season.  Man was I wrong!  It’s lasted me almost 20 years of everyday use.

This jacket is an old friend, hope you can patch it up.  If you knew all the miles, and things this jacket has been through, you would understand how it became an old friend.  Don’t care about looks, as long as you can fix the jacket with patches, sewing, whatever you need to do.

Rest assured, David’s jacket is being returned to him after a thorough inspection.  While unfit for repairs, Filson is replacing the jacket free of charge. 

Tyler Sharp is a documentary photographer, writer, and filmmaker based out of Dallas, Texas. Traveling extensively on assignment, he has filmed and photographed a myriad of cultures and landscapes, and slept under the stars in some of the most remote regions of the world.  Spend 6,000 miles in the saddle with Tyler as he details a cross-country motorcycle trip.

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with the idea of the great American motorcycle trip. With a mixture of adventure, freedom, and danger, there’s something ruggedly romantic about the concept of jumping on a motorcycle, and taking off on some forgotten country roads, cameras and camping gear in tow. And following the purchase of my first motorcycle last winter, I did just that. I planned a route, made some arrangements, and ripped out of town on my dream machine. I call her Night Wing.

Over the course of 4 weeks, I rode through 10 states, and clocked 6,000 miles in the saddle. Setting off from my home state of Texas, I rode east through Arkansas, and into Tennessee and Virginia. The rolling hills of the south were by far some of the most beautiful terrain, as the lush and fertile landscape stretched north up through the Smoky Mountains into the Shenandoah Valley. Cruising up the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia was breathtaking, and I had to stop on several occasions to let black bear or deer cross the road.

Rain was a factor during the first week of the trip, as I got caught in several storms, and had to pull over to stay dry (somewhat). Even with rain gear on, riding a motorcycle in a downpour is not a good idea. But as the storms passed, and the sun would set, the moisture of Tennessee and Virginia would take to the air. Despite it being summer, it was surprisingly cold riding at night. I would put on my mackinaw wool vest and the whipcord jacket over it to keep some warmth, and block the frigid evening air. I camped along the way, stopping at National Parks & Forests, having just enough energy each night to set up camp, and exhaustedly crawl into my tent for a seemingly dreamless sleep. Breaking down camp, loading and unloading the bike became harder each day, as the miles, weather, and solitude began to wear on me.

Pressing on, I wound my way through the forests of Western Pennsylvania, intersecting the Appalachian Trail at several points. I befriended the owner of a small historic hotel in a tiny town called Carsonville, who let me camp on the back lawn under a giant white oak tree. Given that a large portion of the surrounding area was public hunting land, I was glad to set up camp in a known safe zone.  From there I pushed to upstate New York, where a group of 35 other photographers awaited at an annual creative retreat called Phoot Camp. It was refreshing to spend a week in the woods with my friends exploring, taking photographs, writing, and preparing for our gallery show in New York City shortly after.

I stayed in New York City for two weeks, exploring the streets, shooting film, and meeting up with friends. The medium field bag is a mainstay in my Filson armada, as I am able to fit my SLR, several lenses, a Polaroid camera, my trusty Contax G2, some film, several journals, and a pair of sunglasses all in that modestly sized, and rugged carry all. It also fits nicely on the saddlebags of my bike, so that I could get to the cameras quickly whenever I rode upon a vista, saw a character in the streets, or spotted a black bear meandering across a rural road.

Reaching my point of metropolis saturation, I headed back to Texas, crushing the 1,400 miles to Dallas in three days. I was home for 48 hours to rest, re-pack, and gather attire to celebrate America’s birthday. Joining forces with my Dad, we rode through West Texas into New Mexico, stopping in Santa Fe and Taos to photograph and explore. Carrying ideal riding weather with us, we eased into Colorado to the Rocky Mountain National Forest, where his best friend hand-built the log cabin of his dreams. As we celebrated the 4^th of July, I had time to reflect on the fact that I had just ridden through a fifth of the states in our great country, and seen some of the best America has to offer. There are few places in the world where you can ride uninterrupted for that long, and experience such a diversity of landscapes, altitudes, and climes.

Being on a bike forces you to experience the landscapes you are encountering on a physical level, feeling each change of weather in your bones.  You are not just viewing the passing landscapes through a window, but riding openly through the very heart of them. I will never forget the scents of that trip; the earthy smell of fresh rain on green grass in Tennessee and Virginia, the cool, clean forest air of Western Pennsylvania, the arid juniper scrub deserts in New Mexico, the crisp pine laden breezes in the Rockies, and the methane stench of cattle farms in the Texas panhandle. They are all seared into my olfactory memory, which is the strongest of all our recollections, and it’s not likely they’ll fade anytime soon.

And as the motorcycle remains my main mode of transportation, I do my best to enjoy the open-air everyday in my comings and goings. But there is much less magic in city riding; with traffic jams, oblivious motorists on cell phones, and where intermittent weather is less of an adventure, and more of an inconvenience. Motorcycles were made to be out in the open, moving freely, unhindered by the congestion of urban roads and this is clear to anyone who has taken a distanced trip as I have. Knowing this, there is a constant pull in my soul to just tear out of town, take the back roads, and leave everyone else behind. And I still frequently do. Not necessarily to get anywhere, or to find anything, but just to ride. To borrow wisdom from a classic novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than to arrive.” And so I travel, and Filson goes with me.

Al James is a musician and avid fly fisher based in Portland, Oregon.  Al has carefully combed the banks of the Deschutes River for over 10 years, and offers 5 hard-earned lessons for fishing this beautiful waterway.

Drop everything and fish the salmon fly hatch

It’s estimated that there are more than 3,500 Wild Redside Rainbow Trout per mile on the Lower Deschutes River in Central Oregon which stretches for 100 miles from Pelton Dam down to its confluence at the Columbia River. That’s a helluva lot of football-shaped, blood-red trout that –pound for pound– might be some of the strongest fighters in the salmonidae family. Mid-May through early June is a special time on this glorious river with the yearly explosion of gigantic salmon flies that hatch and provide a non-stop old country buffet style feeding frenzy for these aggressive lunkers.

This year will be no different and most guides and shops that service the river are predicting a mid-May hatch which means there’s a 2-3 week window to head over to the Deschutes and experience one of the most epic trout fishing experiences on the West Coast. If you haven’t tried it, make the trip. There is plenty of river, tons of access, and like I stated before, lots and lots of hungry fish. I’ve fished this hatch on and off for a decade and here are some basics I’ve learned over the years:

Fish the banks. I’m serious about this one. If you are wading up to your knees (unless you’re fishing toward the bank) you probably spooked all the fish in the area. I wear waders, but try to step in the water as little as possible. The fish on the Deschutes hold right up against the bank. This is good news because it’s a big river. It’s not about long casts here. It’s about breaking the river into manageable pieces and working the banks with short, careful casts.

Keep moving. Work a section of river and then move on to the next one. If you hook and lose a fish, give it a rest and come back in a half hour. Head up or downstream and then revisit spots where you’ve seen or hooked fish. The more you move, the more fish you’ll find. Last year a monster Redside broke me off three times under the same overhanging branches in the course of one weekend. I’d visit the spot in the morning, the afternoon and in the evening every day I was there. I’ll be back this year to the same exact spot with heavier tippet.

Come early or late. Often hitting the Deschutes just before or after the hatch by a week or two can yield incredible fishing. During the peak of the hatch the Redsides are often too full to feed. You don’t have to hit it perfectly. Check with online reports from Central Oregon fly shops for current details.

Spring has arrived here. This means you’ll likely see an awesome array of critters and wildlife: wild turkeys, river otters, mallard ducklings, mergansers, osprey, mountain goats, and on the downside, poison oak and rattlesnakes. For all the cool stuff pack a camera and binoculars, for the other two bring Technu skin treatment and a cautious step when you’re hiking around the riverbanks.

Check in with the experts. Fly shops in Eugene, Maupin, Portland and Welches start posting up-to-the-day reports on the hatch starting in May. They’re on the river every day and are monitoring it as it develops. They’ll post when and where the salmon flies are starting to show up. They’ll also steer you in the right direction for fly selection, but then again, that’s the beauty of this hatch. The flies are big and simple and in most cases, foolproof.

‘In Your Words’ explores the incredible stories we’ve received from Filson fans across the globe.  Send us your own experiences with our clothing or product here for a chance to be featured on the Filson Life blog.  Charles commuted daily by plane with his Filson briefcase and after ten years of loyal service, he’s ready for his next.

Well, I am not sure how many years I have had this great bag but it is close to 10.  I commute by small plane to rural areas on the plains of Colorado and Kansas daily.  This bag has made all the trips with me.  I was hoping maybe to get a discount on its replacement.  I laughed a little when I saw “nearly indestructible ” in its description.  It has truly been a great bag.

I would be willing to send it to you if you wanted to see its weak spots over time.  It had been showing some wear on the corners but finally, a wear spot came wide open and stuff can fall out.   I would recommend this bag to anyone.  Was looking to replace with the same in the otter green color, style #70257.  My Filson duffles are still going strong but do not get the daily use this bag sees.  Thanks for your consideration.  For your information, this is the only Filson product I have ever seen wear out (I own 2 overalls, 3 coats, 2 duffles, and 1 work bag).

By David S. Lewis
Executive Editor, (614) Magazine

Funny thing about hunting, sometimes you know exactly what’s happening, and that what’s happening is working.  Assuming all things go properly, something delicious is going to die, and you’re going to get to eat it.

Other times, it is spring turkey season, and you and your bud will sit in a strange wooden shack in the middle of the forest and use various devices to squawk and scream at each other for what is probably no real reason at all.

My pal and hunting buddy, Andy, lives on a rural southeastern Ohio tree farm. Deer are in hog heaven here for 50 weeks of the year – and hogs love it, too.

Similarly, wild turkeys are abundant in Vinton County and on his farm every moment of the year – except, of course, the two weeks or so when they become the most interesting to everyone.

Andy had just bought his box call a day before the season opened. In the cabin, he’s fluent in Turkese.  As soon as we get to the blind, however, everything breaks down.  The noises emitted from that $12 chalkless hellbox are deafening, at least a hundred times louder than any turkey born after the Second Ice Age.  Sometimes it creaks like a barn door plugged into a Marshall stack; others it shrieks like Rhodan from the old Godzilla movies.

At no point does it sound remotely like a lady turkey, however.

I don’t do much better.  At one point a farmer’s turkey hears my gurgling, and hollers back half-heartedly.  We made small talk for nearly an hour, him gobbling a response to every flaccid rattle I produce.  I assume now that he knew the deal, in which I was trying real hard and he just chose to play along for my confidence’s sake.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have him quite so well ID’d: I grew increasingly excited and impressed with myself, waiting for him to stampede my location, until I realized that he wasn’t the turkey I was looking for.  (I later learned that the little jerk was trained to poop in a litter box.  Clever girl…)

The hours crawl by the days when you’re out in the woods, and I soon realized that I had only one day left.  Some friends on motorcycles had come by and ruined an entire day of hunting, and proceeded to make up for it with some poker and good whiskey.  Before long, I realized that I had one of two options: wake up in two hours, or make my way out to the blind now and pass the night there. It was raining, and I knew that any birds still in the woods would be interested in digging up some worms in the morning, so I hiked out around 2:30 a.m., en route to a turkey blind I would never find.

Andy’s property has been in his family since his grandfather, a Kentucky coal miner, picked it up in the early seventies, as the lay of the land reminded him of the central Kentucky steep hills and long wooded hollers of his youth.  Around 80 acres of land, most of it is either up or down hill.  I headed towards the very back of the farm where I knew the blind to be, wearing only a light jacket and Filson packer hat, as I had left my sleeping bag in the blind.  It was cool, especially with the pouring rain, but I knew I would soon be snug and the possibility of waking up to a randy gobbler was very real; the pines had shown the most promising sign, scratches everywhere and the telltale parallel lines on the dirt trail, the wingtip drags that tell you a dominant tom has been strutting.

My anticipation for the morning’s evaporated in an instant as the battery in the flashlight died and I was thrown into overcast darkness.

I had already been hiking for an hour, and with the clouds over head, there was absolutely no light available.  I stumbled off the trail, and while I could normally have oriented myself somewhat by the sound of the nearby creek rushing with water, the rain cascading down every hill was far too loud for that.  I knew I was in the area…but where was the blind? Frustrated, I finally found a tree to climb, and made my way into the crook of two branches coming out of the main trunk.  My muscles were screaming from three days of hiking, and — apart from my head which Filson’s shelter cloth had kept entirely dry — I was soaking wet.  But, at least I would be near the pines in the morning.  At least I’ll get in a good early hunt was my final thought before I succumbed to whiskey and exhaustion, and amazingly fell sound asleep as the rain fell heavily through the young leaves.

Also amazingly, I woke well after the sun was up; in fact, my jacket had mostly dried off.  Not as amazingly: I was nowhere near the pines I thought I had been hiking through.  I was nowhere near the blind.  And I was nowhere near any damn turkeys.

At least my head was dry.  One more weekend, turkey devils.  I’ve still got one more weekend.