If you missed the first part of Russ’ interview – read it here.
You live in Colorado. How did you end up in the area? What do you like the most and the least about it?
I’m laughing, because “end up” is the best way to describe how I got here. It’s been a long and winding road. Since leaving Minnesota right out of high school, I’ve lived in eight different states. This is my second go-round in Colorado, but I hope to be at or very near the end of my transience. I could blame it on work, but, in reality, I’ve just always been a little restless. New places mean new inspirations, new experiences, new learning opportunities. I get hungry for that sort of thing. What I like least about Colorado is the amount of people, particularly on the Front Range. There’s negative stuff that goes along with that – traffic being chief. But, I’m one of those people, too. I moved here from somewhere else. I’m part of the problem. What I love about Colorado is the spectrum of opportunities, and I’m talking more broadly than just the fishing. I’m thrilled to be in closer proximity to a greater number of friends with whom I can kick around, fish, and all that good stuff. I’m thrilled to be within an hour of a major airport. When river levels in the Pacific Northwest peak, I now have the opportunity be irresponsible, hop a flight, and be waist deep in steelhead water the next day. It also makes me more accessible to disparate friends and family, the prospect of which is almost luxurious in contrast to the remote Wyoming outpost in which we previously lived.
I know I’ve come close to ruining some gear on the river several times. Any good stories to tell?
I’m knocking on wood right now. I have yet to incur any significant loss of photographic equipment in the course of a shoot. I almost always have a camera and lens slung over my shoulder when I’m out, but I’m always hyper-conscious of it and probably a bit over-protective. I always shuttle my gear in Pelican cases. When that isn’t practical afield, I keep the necessary gear in a Patagonia StormFront waterproof backpack. I am never without my Kata rain cover for wet conditions. But, I do have some stories. The most memorable took place in Alaska’s Copper River Delta.
I had just arrived in Cordova, and wanted to get after some fish before meeting up with a friend. I headed out of town solo, and stopped at the first likely creek. I hastily headed down off the road with camera, fly rod and a fly box. After a few minutes of thrashing through alders, I was knee-deep in the creek and fast in to coastal cutthroats. It was a blast after enduring a red-eye flight. As I was releasing the fourth or fifth cutt, I heard something in the brush atop the steep cutbank that was immediately behind me. My first thought was that it seemed to be large. “Must be a moose,” I thought to myself, having seen a couple during the drive out of town. I gathered up my line, and held the fly in my hand. The commotion drew disturbingly close. I spun around to face the alders just as they were parted by the massive face of an adult brown bear. Everything froze. Thinking back on it now still sends chills up my spine. The bear stood there, facing me, less than a fly rod’s length away. I don’t remember all of what went through my mind, if anything, but I do recall the impression made by the sheer size of the bear’s head. The standoff lasted for what seemed like an hour. It was probably a matter of minutes.
I had few options. The bear sniffed, woofed, and took a step toward me. At the same time, and involuntarily, I took a step to the side. Again, time stood still. This cycle repeated itself a few times, during which I became somewhat encouraged that the bear did not wish to kill me. Still, my heart hadn’t forced a beat for several minutes, and I may or may not have been in complete control of my bodily functions. As the standoff drew on, I gained a little more distance between myself and the bear, placing myself between the bear and the embankment atop of which sat the truck. The truck, which I had mindlessly locked, but had left the topper open. That became my goal. By this time, the bear’s attentions were recognizably split between what deliciousness might be in the creek and a very uncomfortable me. When I sensed that I was closer to the truck than the bear, I pitched my fly rod into the alders and made a run up the embankment toward the truck.??With camera swinging wildly, I made for the topper’s open hatch.
As I rounded the truck’s rear corner, I noticed that my wildly-irresponsible gallop had garnered the curious bear’s attention, and it was coming toward me. Fast. I dove in to the bed of the truck, and pulled the hatch shut. Just as I did so, the bear wheeled around the corner, and attempted to join me. Much yelling and kicking at the tailgate ensued, with the bear sniffing at the corners of the topper and leaning tall against the hatch. My camera lay idle, banged against the wheel well and bounced in to the truck bed’s corner. Uncharacteristically, it wasn’t the first thing on my mind in that moment. Finally, the bear grew bored of my yelling, and drifted away back toward the creek. I remained crouched in the back of the pickup, shaking, for quite some time. When I felt as if my legs would again support me, I carefully opened the hatch and looked around. Finally coming to my senses, I reached back for my camera, and crawled out of the truck. The bear was back down the creek, safely seventy-five or eighty yards distant. Still far from calm, I managed to blankly snap a couple of overexposed frames. Those few slides are laughable today, depicting a serene afternoon with a distant brown bear standing in a placid creek. Nothing of the drama, nothing of the excitement. Still, I’m glad to have them. I’m also pleased that, in my blind panic, I didn’t sling my camera in to the slough as an impediment to my escape. It could have gone either way.
Favorite river to photograph?
That’s like asking “who is your favorite musician?” It’s impossible to name just one. There have been a few rivers with which I just connect with in a very visceral way. I hope the experiences made possible by these rivers come through in my photography. One is the Deschutes. What an incredible place. The textures of the landscape, the morning and evening light… To be there when there aren’t crowds, and maybe during the salmon flies or when there’s still a chance at a summer-run fish, is to be in heaven. Another is Idaho’s Silver Creek. Spring creeks in general are pretty often photogenic. But Silver is in a class of its own. It’s like an elite model; you can look at it a hundred different ways, almost any time of day, and it’s always beautiful. There are a couple others in Wyoming, but I can’t name names, let alone go in to specifics. Wyoming’s real gems – none you will read much, if anything, about – require substantial effort. You won’t just stumble across them. After choking on miles of dust, probably digging your rig out of the mud, and at least a bit of heavy-duty bushwhacking, you might find some of the most memorable water in the West.
Favorite species to photograph?
I’m infatuated with native trout, so I love to photograph cutthroats. But, I’m drawn to anything that seems to have its own story to tell – fish with a certain “charisma,” or attitude. I’d like to say steelhead, but I need to put in a lot more time and effort before I can claim that one. Same holds true for permit. If I go through my own archive, big browns are by number my most popular. Based solely on pure personal aesthetic gratification, my favorites thus far have been Alaskan rainbows and Bahamian bonefish. I’m going after tarpon this year, which holds some serious obsession potential.
Conservation is drawing more and more attention in the fly fishing world. Any causes / concerns you are passionate about?
Outside of photography, conservation is my background and foundation both academically and professionally. I am on the staff of Trout Unlimited as a policy advisor for TU’s Western Water Project, and am also a Life Member. I’m particularly passionate about collaborative conservation – something TU does incredibly well. It is also the organization that has been leading the charge against the development of the Pebble Mine in Alaska, a campaign that is one of the touchstones of our generation. If we can’t find our way to keep Alaska’s remaining wilderness pristine, we will have failed as a society. I also like the fact that Trout Unlimited is comprised of a robust network of local chapters and state councils, all driven by volunteers who are just as passionate and committed to conservation.
Beyond Trout Unlimited, I’ve done a lot of photography work for Western Rivers Conservancy. I’ve also supported Western Rivers for several years now, and I continue to be impressed by the results they earn. Theirs is a somewhat unique approach in the non-profit conservation realm, a hybrid that blends traditional land trust / conservancy “protection” tactics with an additional emphasis on comprehensive conservation strategies for crucial watersheds throughout the West. Western Rivers aggressively pursues its objectives not only in the Pacific Northwest, but also in the Intermountain West, with current projects in Montana, Colorado and Utah. Even if you’re as-yet unfamiliar with this group, consider this: In 2011, WRC permanently protected sixteen river miles on the lower John Day River in Oregon, and began the process of conveying it to the State of Oregon. It is scheduled to open in 2013 as a State Park, thus making available sixteen river miles of fishing to the public. That’s a big win, and that’s the kind of results you can expect from Western Rivers Conservancy.
Another group I support is the Bonefish & Tarpon Trust. Bonefish, permit and tarpon are species that many fly anglers dream about, myself included. All it takes is one experience – one introduction to those turquoise flats, one heart-thumping shot at a tailing fish – and you understand why this version of saltwater fly fishing is so storied and revered. Yet, amazingly little is known about these fish, their habits and patterns, their genetics, and the intricacies of the habitat that supports their populations. The Bonefish & Tarpon Trust is the lone organization working at every level to better understand these mysterious species and their importance through science, and then applying that knowledge to protect and sustain them. In Belize, for instance, a BTT study revealing the economic contribution of these species alone helped motivate the Belizean government to make catch and release mandatory for all bonefish, permit and tarpon. That’s a huge and positive step.
Finally, I am a member and proponent of the Native Fish Society. This group is dedicated to ensuring the future of wild salmon, steelhead and coastal cutthroat trout. The Native Fish Society pursues its vital mission through hatchery reforms, Endangered Species Act advocacy, and the development and application of sound science in fisheries management. They do this with a relatively meager budget and very low overhead. If you’ve ever fished the rivers of the Pacific Northwest for steelhead, you know just how important and magical those wild fish are. NFS is committed to sustaining that magic, which, to me, is definitely worth supporting.
Where is your favorite place to go and just “get away from it all”?
I’ve been fortunate to travel and fish in a lot of great places throughout the US and beyond. If I had to pick just one ultimate place of retreat, it would be Alaska. The experience there is unlike anything else, and you can definitely “get away from it all” in a big, big way. It will always be a very special place to me, and has figured significantly in both my angling and photographic life. Aside from that, one of the functions of having lived in many different places is adopting the ability to quickly and deeply become familiar with your surroundings. Every place I’ve lived has had its own relatively local escape. Recently, in Wyoming, it was a canyon stretch of a particular river that was a world unto itself, yet could still be done as a day trip. In Colorado, I like the Upper Arkansas a lot. It’s therapeutic, and you can almost always find a stretch to yourself. There’s also a particular stretch of the Roaring Fork to which I’m drawn during certain times of the year. In fact, I think I’ll head that direction soon.
