Follow our friends from Filson retailer Badowers on a weekend fishing trip through Iowa.

Words by Kevin from Badowers
Photos by Justin Salem Meyer

When I was 19 I fell in love with Iowa.

It stopped just being the place I was born, where I’m from, where I live.

I was given a copy of the Iowa Sportman’s Atlas. I have spent many days since chasing fish in the rivers and streams.  More importantly I realized how many interesting people and places exist between the two great rivers that border the state.  We spent a weekend in April trout fishing the Driftless area of Northeast Iowa.  This is part of a series highlighting the people, places and products that make Des Moines, and Iowa, special.

Photos courtesy of Jim Klug.

“Imagine an open pit mine in the remote wild lands of Alaska that covers an area 50 percent larger than Manhattan, with dams the height of Hoover Dam, and the potential to hold more than 7 billion tons of waste.

That is exactly what could happen if foreign-owned companies are allowed to build the proposed Pebble Mine in Alaska’s Bristol Bay watershed. This pristine system of rivers and lakes is home to the largest runs of sockeye salmon in the world. These salmon support recreational sport fishing and allow Native Alaskans to maintain their centuries-old way of life.

The future of these remarkably productive and irreplaceable Alaska lands could be changed forever by the prospective Pebble Mine or other large-scale mining activities, unless the Obama administration decides to protect the rivers and wetlands of the region. That decision will rest on the results of a Clean Water Act assessment that the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) is currently conducting.” – PEW Charitable Trusts

The EPA is taking public comment until May 31^st on this important issue – please make sure your voice is heard today and send a comment to the EPA here.

Let the EPA know you support their effort to conduct a thorough, science-based analysis of the impact that large-scale industrial mining, such as the proposed Pebble Mine, would have on the Bristol Bay watershed. Ask them to take the necessary steps to preserve one of the earth’s last unspoiled ecosystems.

Gary Lewis is the host of Adventure Journal and author of John Nosler – Going Ballistic, Black Bear Hunting, Hunting Oregon and other titles.

They took out the stoplight on I-90 in 1991 and the townsfolk in Wallace, Idaho, their feelings hurt by the freeway bypass, proclaimed a manhole cover the Center of the Universe.

I remember the stoplight. We stopped for lunch in Wallace in the 1970s. I remember looking at the stream that ran alongside the road. It ran white with poison.

Last week I packed my Filson duffle and headed to the Center of the Universe for a conference of the Northwest Outdoor Writers Association.

Chub Eastman, who lives in Bend, Oregon, remembered Wallace back in the 1950s.

“When I was a kid, growing up in Coeur d’Alene, the South Fork had outhouses hanging over the water. The runoff from the mines was so toxic that when ducks and geese landed in that end of the lake, if they stayed for more than two or three days, they never left.”

Outdoor writer Scott Richmond recalled the South Fork as that proverbial creek up which you didn’t want to be without a paddle.

We had two 14-year-old boys with our group, Austin Sixta and Caleb Rizio; cousins, one from Kansas and one from California. When they looked at the water, they saw an opportunity to catch a fish, something that would have been impossible here three decades ago.

With the teenagers in tow, I assembled a couple of fly rods. Neither boy had fly-cast before and although there were fish that might be caught on a worm and a hook, it was more important to impart a new discipline.

Austin took to the 6-weight Fikkes Fly Hiker, while Caleb started with the 5-weight Albright.

Fourteen-year-old boys are not about finesse, but soon they could cast far enough to catch a fish if the fish were willing. Trout splashed for mayflies and midges, just out of range.

We progressed from the simple pick-up and lay-down to overhand casting to roll casting and then dusk was upon us.

Two days later we drove up through Woodland Park, Gem, Frisco, Black Bear and Yellow Dog to a ghost town called Burke at the end of the road.

Back when the silver mines roared, real estate was so scarce they built the four-story Tiger Hotel over the top of Canyon Creek and two sets of railroad track.

We paused at the Frisco mine where, on a Sunday night in July of 1892, a shooting battle erupted between striking mine workers and mine guards. During the fight, union men circled around behind the guards, dropped a box of black powder down a shaft and blew up one of the mine buildings. The violence continued at the nearby Gem mine.

A lot of the old buildings are still in place and silver still comes out of the ground. Greater treasures, the cutthroat trout have returned to their old haunts.

Today that old traffic signal lies in a coffin in the Wallace Mining Museum and the red lights have been extinguished, but, for fly-fishermen of all ages, it is still a great place to stop.

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.