Blog

  • Dry Dropper Setups that Work in Fast Water

    I know it’s time to fish the dry dropper when the dogwoods explode with foliage and the grasses awaken from their winter slumber to weep over the banks. With Memorial Day quickly approaching, the big bugs begin to emerge, sending out scouts in anticipation of the annual salmonfly hatch.

    It’s probably my favorite way to fish a dry fly. It offers the consistency of nymphing, coupled with the excitement of explosive surface takes. The only catch? You need to commit to fishing one fly or the other with integrity. It’s very difficult to fish two different strike zones—running at differing current speeds—effectively.

    Clark’s Golden Stoneflies are a staple in my box during May and early June.

    When I fish dry droppers in fast water, I usually tie on something big, visible, and buoyant. Think Chubbies, hoppers, large Stimulators, and Clark Stones. For the dropper, I tie something dense that sinks quickly, such as a Perdigon or bead-head Pheasant Tail. It needs to be heavy enough to reach the strike zone—but not so heavy that it sinks your dry.

    Certain species of bugs prefer fast water more than others—namely, stoneflies and caddisflies. For the dry, I like to match the hatch with Clark’s Stones and Chubbies. Clark Stones are my favorite: they’re easy to cast, more realistic than a Chubby, and less resistant in the wind than a big chunk of foam. On the dropper, I opt for something impressionistic that sinks quickly—think size 14–16 olive Perdigon or flashback bead-head Pheasant Tail. The dropper should tumble in the current and over boulders like a real nymph.

    The length of your dropper depends on how deep the riffle is. Sorry—there’s no universal answer to “Is it long enough?” I’ve fished droppers as short as 18 inches and as long as 5 feet, and they’ve all caught fish. The trick is finding a length that gets into the strike zone while still allowing the dry to drift naturally. Too short, and you’re not getting down. Too long, and you’ll hang up constantly. But the occasional hang-up? That usually means your dropper is dialed in. Just beware that too much length introduces slack, which can cost you strikes.

    Salmonfly season in the high desert!

    There’s plenty of debate on how to attach the dropper to your dry. I’ve tied off the bend, the eye, the tag, and a tippet ring. They all catch fish, but tying off the bend is the easiest and most pleasant. If you keep the barb on your dry fly, you can tie on using a basic clinch knot in five seconds and start fishing. If you’re adamant about fishing barbless dries (I exclusively fish barbless nymphs), then tying off the tag end of a blood knot is my favorite. The right-angle coming off the blood knot lets your dry drift freely and helps prevent tangles better than an Orvis tippet knot or triple surgeon’s. Check out my post on different fishing knots to see what to use in each situation.

    Don’t overcomplicate tippet choice. Use 3–4X to your dry fly and 4–5X to your dropper—this works well in fast western water. Fish aren’t as tippet-shy as you’d think, and fast currents put stress on your tippet even when you’re into half-pound fish. I fish a 7.5–9 ft tapered leader for dry dropper setups. With this technique, you’ll often need to cast under overhanging limbs, and a long leader won’t do you any favors—unless you’re fishing a spring creek with tons of microcurrents.

    -T

  • Hello, beautiful people.

    Summer steelhead stoke on the Deschutes.

    I’m not a fly fishing guide, or the greatest fly fisher of all time (if such a thing even exists). I’m not a writer by trade or a polished content creator with a million followers. What I am is a guy who works an 8-5 job, pays the bills, and finds a little peace in this chaotic world by chasing wild fish with a fly rod in hand. My connection to the natural world is through that cigar-shaped piece of cork.

    Fly fishing, for me, isn’t just about the catch—though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love that part. It’s about the process, the ritual, the quiet moments that slow the world down. The hum of the current. The soft snap of a cast. The total focus that comes when you’re watching your sighter or waiting for a tug on a swung fly. I wouldn’t call it an escape, exactly—but let’s be honest, it kind of is. When the screen-time piles up and the noise of the world gets too loud, stepping into a river feels like recalling our deep primal nature. Something we weren’t meant to forget.

    I’m based in Central Oregon, surrounded by high desert, snowmelt rivers, and one of the last strongholds of native redband trout. I write about fly fishing because it keeps me tethered to something real—swinging traditional flies for steelhead, euro-nymphing for trout in pocket water, sleeping under the stars, or simply burning gas in a quest for the next great analog experience.

    This blog is where I share my thoughts—raw, unfiltered, and mostly unedited. You’ll find gear rants, trip reports, camping misadventures, thoughts on conservation, and the occasional detour into my personal life. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I do believe there’s value in telling the story anyway. Because that’s what connects us—the stories we share, the places we love, and the fish that haunt our daydreams.

    So poke around. Read a post or two. Or don’t—and maybe just go fish instead. Either way, thanks for being here.

    -T