The Riparian Corridor

The New Website is Up!

2011-08-23T11:05:00.000-07:00

The new website landing page is active and the link to the blog is on that page.

I have been working feverishly, stumbling endlessly, and second-guessing myself at every turn. I am not a web designer, and have a lot to learn! I'm sure over the next few weeks and months that I'll change things around and make it more...better.

A few things to be aware of with the new site:

1. You should update your links if you have the chance, but I'll leave this post up for redirects.

2. You will have to "re"-follow the site through Google Friend Connect, and I hope that you will.

I hope you enjoy the new layout and features. Come on over and leave a comment somewhere to let me know it's working! Thank you to all my encouraging readers, helpers and really just everyone.

Peter's Progress

2011-08-21T16:57:00.000-07:00

I got an email from Peter C. a few days ago (ok, over a week ago...) that I haven't gotten around to posting and sharing his photos and efforts. I have to say, this surprised me with how much he accomplished and how important it was.

There is, unfortunately, more in our drainages than just water. Typically we think of "drainages" as basins which have naturally formed to carry water down and away, eventually into either an ocean or the atmosphere. We have all seen that more "flows" through these basins than just water; I've seen countless tires, wheelbarrows, refrigerators, and other odd stuff.

To be fair, a lot of this is carried by flood waters (especially flash floods) as they tear through areas that aren't normally clear of debris; a lot of stuff is picked up and carried then. We can't always blame a "dumper," but this means we have to be even more diligent about cleanup efforts since floods can and do introduce some really awful stuff (and in large quantities) into the waterways. To That is almost certainly how this door came to be river-born.

From Peter: I went out yesterday and collected some more junk out of the river. I found this gnarly door half-stuck in the mud on the bank. Glad to have that thing out of there, rusted hardware and nails, and flaking paint (probably lead-based) so it's not leaching into the river. Plus this whole bag of other stuff, cans, wrappers, etc.
A lot of paint is missing from that door, but look at how much is still there--Peter kept every bit of that paint from leaching into the water and tainting it with lead. Good work, Peter!!

Bear River

2011-08-17T18:37:00.000-07:00

I've been communicating with Brian Kozminski throughout this trash contest, and he's provided me with some great information and some inspiring reports on the work he and his TU chapter have done in Michigan. If you don't know Brian, he is the president of the Miller-Van Winkle chapter of Trout Unlimited. He has been especially active in efforts to benefit Bear River, and I asked him to give me a little background on that waterway. Here is what he replied with:

The Bear River is a unique resource that links Charlevoix and Emmet Counties. The Bear River starts at Walloon Lake and runs east, then north, flowing into Little Traverse Bay in Petoskey. The quality of the Bear River depends upon the integrity of the tributaries flowing into it. In addition to its main tributaries, Haymarsh Creek and Spring Brook, there are several smaller unnamed springs and streams that provide cold water to the Bear River and its extensive wetland system. The Bear flows through farmland and wetland that provide habitat for deer, bear, bobcat, and other wildlife. The Bear's last mile contains the steepest drop of any river in Michigan's lower peninsula (approximately 75 feet). The Bear's watershed provides excellent recreational opportunities for hunting, hiking, fishing, canoeing, birdwatching, and exploring.

Problems
Many of the Bear's water quality and habitat problems started over 150 years ago. The Bear was considered a "working river" and its resources generated substantial economic wealth and greatly contributed to the establishment of Petoskey. The Bear's watershed provided rich fish and game resources and valuable timber. Over time, seven dams were built on the Bear to float logs to Lake Michigan, power mills, or generate electricity. As evidenced by the results of a recent river cleanup, the Bear was also seen as a cheap place to dump refuse.

Today, numerous erosion sites along the Bear River, Spring Brook, and Haymarsh Creek degrade water quality and fish habitat. Past abuses are evident in the excessive sand bed loading and widened stream channel. Beaver dams and areas where shoreline vegetation have been removed cause warming. Trash and debris defile the beauty of the river. Changes to the watershed have increased the amount of polluted stormwater runoff. An old dump along the shore has recently been exposed as a result of shoreline erosion. Because rivers carry their illnesses with them, these ailments are transferred to Petoskey's Harbor and Little Traverse Bay.

Local Support of the Bear River
Founded in 1979, the Watershed Council has a long history of working on individual projects in the Bear River watershed, including assistance to landowners regarding shoreline erosion control and wildlife habitat enhancement, review and comment on wetland permits, identification of potentially restorable wetlands in the watershed, review and comment on planning and zoning decisions, beaver control and management, water quality sampling, adopt-a-stream programs, aquatic field trips, assistance with educational interpretation by NCMC, and numerous educational presentations and programs.

In 1999, the Watershed Council initiated a project called "Healing the Bear." The goal of this project is to restore the Bear River watershed to a high quality river ecosystem through a community-based watershed approach. By fixing problem erosion sites, enhancing fish and wildlife habitat, protecting water quality, and planning for future watershed activities, the ecological integrity and recreational opportunities of the Bear will be more fully realized. Elements of "Healing the Bear" are funded by the Petoskey-Harbor Springs Community Foundation, the Charlevoix County Community Foundation, and the Conservation Resource Alliance.

Update on Lamprey

2011-08-16T13:28:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I posted some photos of a lamprey being killed/eaten by a water snake. Some concern was expressed by some (and held by me) that it was a Sea Lamprey. Obviously, that particular lamprey would be an unwanted inhabitant; do a quick Google on Sea Lampreys in the Great Lakes and you'll see why.

I contacted the Parks Department and the Missouri Department of Conservation about it just in case it was a Sea. They got back with me after seeing the photos and definitely ruled out Sea Lamprey; it is likely a Silver or Chestnut, both are common in the Mississippi system. So, breathe a sigh of relief with me (and MDC) that the Sea Lamprey has yet to show up around here.

A Great Motto

2011-08-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

One of the most active contestants in the Trash Contest has been Karli-Rae from Iowa; she's sent me numerous trash reports and is slowly and steadily eating away at the lead. In one of her emails, she mentioned that she had come up with a perfect catch-phrase for the contest:

"Every Ounce Counts!"

Honestly, I think that fits extremely well, both in terms of the contest and the effect on the habitat that you have through clean-up efforts. Even one bit of garbage out of their water, bank or surrounding area benefits the well-being and health of the wildlife we all enjoy. So, absolutely, EVERY OUNCE COUNTS!

Oak Creek in Arizona

2011-08-15T18:49:00.000-07:00

Another contestant got in touch with me and immediately showed a real passion for a certain stream: Oak Creek in Northern Arizona. After a few emails back and forth, I asked him to share a little bit about why that stream means so much to him. Here is his reply to me:

I really love to fish oak creek because it is so beautiful. Red rock views, cool water, huge boulders to hide behind while casting. I have caught stocker rainbows and a few stream-bred browns. Usually less than eight inches but they're still fun to catch. I've done really well on bead head PT nymphs, plus I have never bought a fly, I have always tied my own stuff. I got into tying long before fishing because I inherited some supplies and a vise from an Uncle that passed away from a heart attack when I was a kid. My grandfather was also a fly fisherman.

Any stream that has beautiful Rainbows and certainly wild Browns would definitely be a stream high on my list, too. Pretty darn cool; thanks, Peter!

(I took the liberty of stealing some photos off Google Image, and I'm glad I did--this place is amazing. Look at those boulders!)

Halloween Water

2011-08-14T14:55:00.000-07:00

"You can be whoever you want tonight." That's the line spoken to every doubting fool who doesn't take advantage of Halloween. It's the opportunity to pretend, to explore, and to fool others more than yourself that makes Halloween a grown-up's night. The children, though, are the ones who take that chance and make it the most it can be.

We all know that if we are to be successful on any given stream, we have to play by the stream's rules. The water--and her fish--decide whether we fish streamers or nymphs, whether we wade deep or stalk along the bank, whether we see what lives below the surface or remain blind to what lurks there. What comes with the hard-earned hours of being an "experienced" fly fisherman isn't the ability to always catch fish or even catch a few big fish--it's knowing that once you make the decision to fish this right here water, you are deciding to submit to its lifestyle and attitude. The trick then, is to know how to do that. The treat, if you do, is the opportunity to become someone else for just a while. You have to be who the stream is necessitating you to be. It's Halloween.

I think we all have our favorite water. Water that either is constantly calling us back, or water that we feel especially comfortable in, or even water that haunts us with challenges that have the proven ability to get the better of us. We're human, and humans choose favorites. I have my favorite which stands above my list of other waters I love. The odd thing about it is...I've only been in it twice. There is no question in my mind, though; that is my favorite stream.

I've held a theory for a while now that the streams that we are drawn to the most, and those that we are most likely to call "favorite," are streams that ultimately--perhaps indescribably--represent analogs of our own self. There is enough about life and my self in life that I do not understand; sometimes its simply "nice" to walk up on a place that is more like yourself than you knew to be true 30 seconds prior. It's a bit like going to the costume store for Halloween and seeing one labeled, "Me" and having a chance to see--and be--yourself as you really are. Stream water is brutally honest and we want to know what it has to say. Ultimately, I think that is the best reason why, as fisherman, we love hearing stories of others', but would rather be there ourselves.

When I was on that stream, and why I think about going back there, it was exactly like putting on a "Me" costume and then having fun finding where all the pockets are...knowing I've never been more myself. There are other streams that, because they have demanding rules just the same, allow me to be any number of different types...different costumes for the day. When I want to visit a place that not only inspires the core of myself to be just that--a "Me"--but inspires me to listen and look and be challenged long after I leave...then I think of my favorite water.

Some of you may have no idea what I'm talking about and think I'm drunk or just a complete crazy. Maybe you think I love "fishing" so much that I make it to be more than it really is. Maybe you think that my "obsession" has twisted my brain. A few of you, though, do know what I'm talking about and have been nodding your heads for the past five minutes. You've been to the water that hands you your "Me" costume with that first step inside. You...you know.

Take care of that water because in some very real and very fragile way, you are bound to it. The Odyssean scenes that race before your eyes when you are surrounded by that favorite water are worth learning. When you are there, remember...it's Halloween and you are dressed up as who you may not yet know yourself to be. Find out where all those pockets are while you can.

Saturday Comics

2011-08-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

Hey by the way...

2011-08-11T20:36:00.000-07:00

I am now an official, card-carrying (wait...Hey, Nick--do I get a card?) guest author on Brookfield Angler. After Owl Jones got signed up over there, I figured that I had to throw in my name as well. I approached Nick about the opportunity, paid him $50 and that was a done deal. I'll be the "conservation author" there, but I'll still post "fishy" stuff here.

If you haven't been by the site before, take a minute and browse it. It's legit.

"Catch of the Day" ...yeah, right.

2011-08-09T21:03:00.000-07:00

I don't normally speak up about most things; I try to keep the peace and not be a disturbance. Sometimes, however, something begs for more attention than it is originally given; it's then that I can't resist speaking up or speaking out. In this case, if they could talk, I think the fish and plants of Maple Lake in Illinois would say "thank you" to me (and anyone else who joins me!) for it. Read the article below from The Reporter, on August 4 of this year:

"Catch of the Day"

I'd love to hear your thoughts regarding the article and the actual story presented in it. I was moved to write a response to the publisher which I've included here:

Ms. Richards,

I found your website and this article through a friend who linked to it on Facebook. As an avid fisherman and conservationist, I was immediately curious and read the article through twice as soon as I could. As I worked my way through the story, I enjoyed the writing and the human element of the devoted fisherman and how the catch played out with his and others' reactions. I was ultimately disappointed, however, after finishing the article. I strongly feel that it is incomplete and lacking a crucial element of responsible journalism. The article, I'm afraid, may convey the wrong message about the fragility and value of our local, natural resources.

That now-dead Pacu is not native to any part of Illinois, the Midwest or North America; this was alluded to once in the article. As a non-native, one must come to the conclusion that it was artificially introduced, most likely intentionally. For native species in any given ecological sphere, the introduction of non-natives is an unwelcome and volatile event that can turn dangerous very quickly, often irrevocably so. While it was mentioned that the Pacu is responsible for injuries and a purported death in Papua New Guinea, no mention was made of the ecological effect it has had on the lake there (i.e. nearly complete eradication of native plants and fishes), and no mention was made that there too were these Pacu introduced artificially by humans. Thankfully, the waters of Maple Lake are likely not ideal for a large, sustained and breeding population of these tropical fish; the mention of several Pacu having been caught in the past few years in Maple Lake may suggest otherwise, however. That they are exotic and have a known (and article-referenced) history of destructiveness in the waters into which they're introduced is a real cause for concern. The article, though, made no mention or suggestion that the Pacu, being an exotic, are anything but something about which anyone should or would be "thilled." The fact that it was caught, and therefore earlier released into, a forest preserve lake makes this even more sickening.

While this is a curious catch for the fisherman, it is not an isolated incident. Unfortunately, you are in a hotbed of aquatic invasive species being so near to the system of the Great Lakes. Zebra mussels, Sea Lampreys and upwards of 180 other invasive species are now present in the Lakes; many of these have worked their way into the drainages and are spreading south through the Mississippi and tributary drainages. Zebra mussels alone cost each state hundreds of thousands, and in some cases millions, of dollars in efforts to keep water treatment plants clear of them--that money is drawn from tax payers. Sea Lampreys are parasitic and regularly kill native fish. The now (in)famous "flying carp" of the Mississippi and Illinois rivers are silver Asiatic carp, an invasive species of fish that is steadily sterilizing miles of river of any other species, simply by out-competing them. Silver carp are responsible for millions of dollars in lost revenue, jobs and mitigation costs; no one, however, believes that these waterways will ever again be free of them. Non-native species can and do cause immense damage to native species and cost taxpayers unnecessary bills in control attempts. Obviously, neither is something which should be aired in a whimsical or ambivalent tone.

Given the relevancy, proximity and seriousness of non-native species which have been introduced into waters very near to Chicago, I would expect any journalistic opportunity on the subject to be taken with the intent of education, not just stimulation. There are many resources available to give ready access to a wealth of information, news and activity on invasive species in the Great Lakes region; I recommend that you avail yourself of their information as soon as possible (Illinois DNR, Sea Grant and Protect Your Waters are just a few). It is not only helpful for the responsible citizen in general, but in many ways quite interesting as well.

Finally, please consider issuing a follow-up to the original Aug 4th publication making some mention of the inappropriateness of this catch on Maple Lake and the why it is infelicitous, dangerous, and unfortunate. People are informed and swayed by the media, and there is nothing inherently wrong with that. If the media is irresponsible, however, it does an injustice to its readers. Please offer your readers an opportunity to become more informed, and through that, more responsible.

Thank you for taking the time to read my thoughts on this issue, and--hopefully--for reconsidering the proper content and tone of the article.

Best wishes with great respect,

Will King
St. Louis, Missouri

BlogRod Poll #4: Choose the Seat

2011-08-09T06:50:00.001-07:00

I've taken down the grip style poll--Fenwick stole the show 2-1 over Full Wells. I love that you guys are a little old school with that, and Fenwicks are fun to make, so thank you! Good choice.

The next, and probably last, round of voting is for the reel seat. To refresh your memory, here is the rod so far:

Fly Logic FLP 7wt
Fenwick Grip

The reel seat options are below; please notice that I've chosen seats that are saltwater-safe for those of you who may be getting into some blue with this rod.

OPTION #1: Struble U15 in Black

OPTION #2: Struble U15 in Grey

OPTION #3: PacBay A6 with Dynawood Rosewood

Progress

2011-08-08T17:27:00.000-07:00

The Trash Contest is in full swing, but so is the heat. I'm hopeful that I'll be getting dozens more emails with photos like this soon as it cools off. I need to hear from a lot of people still that have emailed me for entry--you gotta pick up at least a can to be entered!! Get out there and eye some garbage--show it to me and get entered.

Peter C. collected this junk out of Oak Creek in Arizona. Pretty gnarly looking and happy it's out of the water! Great work, Peter!

This from Karli-Rae:Hi there! I would like to be entered in the trash contest! On Saturday, July 30th, my fiance and I were traveling through Iowa City and stopped to take a break and walk around the river there near the River Power Restaurant. Near the river we saw some trash and just started picking it up. In about an hour we picked up the trash shown in the picture.

Great idea and it reminds people that every little bit helps! (A random guy fishing there said to us, "You guys picking up....trash?" And we told him we were. Five minutes later he comes up to us with two HUGE snags of mono that he said he had seen earlier but hadn't thought to pick up since there wasn't a trash can nearby. So it's motivating other people to clean up trash as well!
Thanks!

P.S. I am making a pouting face in the picture because mono in the river makes me sad.

Great work, guys; keep it up! I wanna see more photos!

What's This I Hear??

2011-08-08T12:18:00.000-07:00

I recently spoke with Dave Hise of Casters Fly Shop in North Carolina (check out the website here, great content, videos, etc.!) and he mentioned, in passing and very casually, the name of a fish I've rarely heard spoken in those parts. It peaked my interest and he agreed to an interview about it. He's somewhat of an expert on these matters, so I listened closely!

Me: Where was this fish discovered?
Dave: In the Appalachian Mountain Chain.

Me: What flies does it seem to prefer?
Dave: Anything that touches the water. Just be sure to make a stealthy approach and present your offerings delicately. It is a very opportunistic creature but is also very wary, like the Abominable Snowman. Some have said that it has a particular liking to cigarette butts but I haven't tried a cigarette butt pattern yet.

Me: Do you think it will overtake other fish in terms of popularity?
Dave: Not necessarily but there is definitely a cult following. People in these parts worship the little fellas. By little, I mean little. Most of the streams have minimal biomass therefore there is very little for them to eat. These streams are often over-populated; a combination of that and the lack of food stunts their growth.

Me: Do you offer guiding for this new fish yet?
Dave: Not really. Well... I mean, Ill take people out for them but I have a difficult time charging normal guide rates for a "do it yourself" species. If you are willing to hike 4-8 miles a day along a copperhead and rhododendron laden stream bed, then you can fish for these wily critters. Live by the cooler rule (the rule states- certain anglers can only go so far with a 12 pack of tall boys in their cooler so if you hike beyond that point you will find yourself in the mecca).

Me: And finally, what is the name of this almost unspoken-of fish?

Dave: Brook Char

Me: I think there are more species yet to be identified out there. Misnomers abound in literature, catalogs and blogs. What do you think?
Dave: Well, I have fished for and heard of numerous species but they continue to elude me. Most notably, the lake char, Atlantic brown, and bull char; the lake char resembles that of the lake trout; the Atlantic brown resembles that of the Atlantic salmon; and the bull char resembles that of the bull trout. I have caught the bull trout and lake trout and oddly enough, they seem to look very much like a char. Don't get me started on the Atlantic salmon. I thought salmon died upon the completion of their spawning ritual but those damn Atlantic salmon live on to spawn another day. They must be a special kind of salmon or maybe even the relative of a trout.

(...a little Monday fun.)

Kids Rock

2011-08-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

This is why kids are the undisputed champions of the spirit of fishing.

Bug Card

2011-07-31T20:06:00.001-07:00

I received this as a part of a packet of information for the Missouri Stream Team startup I'm a part of along with Chris and Ronnie. I found this extremely interesting and very helpful, especially how it organizes the various insects/crustaceans by their pollution tolerance. One wonders what "pollution" consists of here and how broadly or narrowly that term is being used, but it still gives an informative overview of the situation. Hopefully you find it equally enjoyable!

Cray-minal Minds

2011-07-27T21:49:00.001-07:00

"Why" you ask would I devote an entire blog post to the gnarly, lobsteresque little crustaceans that roam our streams? Well read on...

These are fascinating creatures on their own, but to an angler they are especially of interest. Here are a few quick points and facts that you may have not known--and may want to know!

There are more than 500 species worldwide, about 350 of them are in North America
Crawfish mate October-November, a rare time when two can be in the same small area (i.e. attached!). All other times of the year, they keep to themselves.
Large crayfish are active from dusk till dawn or on heavily clouded days. Smaller crayfish are active during the day.
Crayfish are born, grow to size and die all within about 2 years
They molt their shells multiple times as a part of growth, and are "soft" for a few days following a molt
Crayfish have been found in the stomachs of trout as small as 5"
The largest crayfish can reach 8 pounds
All legs and claws can be regenerated if lost
"Walk" slowly forward in normal feeding but shoot rapidly backwards if escaping
Are a favorite food of everything from Bass to Browns

Now that you're a little more familiar with these bottom-dwellers, here are some great examples of how to imitate them on the end of your fly line:

Chain Gang Crayfish
(Recipe Here)

Fighting Cray

Hunt's Hybrid

Galloup's Craw

Ritt's Crayfish

Something to notice about all these flies are the massive leadeye and, in some cases, lead wraps on the hooks. Crayfish live, feed, breed, and die on the BOTTOM. They crawl around on the BOTTOM. That's where their food is and that's where their safety is. A crayfish in the middle of the water column is one of two things: 1) dead or 2) fake. Let's think about this....

Fish aren't stupid. If someone walked into your dining room and rigged a system of string and pulleys to make your steak levitate mid-air, would your first thought be to bite into it? Hell no! Same with fish and their dinner...put their food where they see have seen it every other time they've eaten it. They know what crayfish are, how they act, what they look like and where they are normally found.

So that awesome crayfish pattern that you are expertly swinging downstream with quick rips back up...get it on the BOTTOM. Fast current? More weight! Slow current? Crawl it! I am definitely going to be fishing more craw streamers in the next few weeks, and I think they will definitely be a good producer for me. Time to get tying I suppose!!

Trash Totals

2011-07-27T14:57:00.001-07:00

I added a frame on the top right of the blog that will keep a running tab on everyone's collected trash so far in the contest. Am I guilting/shaming you? Absolutely. C'mon Misters and Misses--get me some photos with scales in it of your trash! At this point the contest is ANYONE'S game. I'll update it every time I get a photo+weight from a contestant.

Change that ZERO to HERO!

BlogRod Poll #3: Choose the Grip Style

2011-07-25T19:58:00.000-07:00

The latest round of voting has ended--with more votes than ever--and the Fly Logic FLP has dominated! I'm really happy about the result, but I would have supported any decision of the voters. You will love this blank--very usable. Shaping up to be a great build already, and now it's time to start hanging componentry on it. Starting with the all-important grip!

Fenwick-style Mod'ed RHW
(Front at left)

Half Wells
(Front at right)

Full Wells
(Front at right)

Western/Reverse Half Wells
(Front at right)

This will be a short voting cycle.
Time to speak out about what you want the BlogRod to be!
Vote!!!

Fly on Film

2011-07-22T15:32:00.001-07:00

Trash Contest (Major Prize UPDATE!)

2011-07-18T20:36:00.001-07:00

Trash is gross; it isn't attractive no matter what style of art you subscribe to or appreciate. There is nothing remotely OK about a 32oz QT cup half buried in the bankside mud. Or a tennis ball floating around. Or mono snarled in a tree, gleaming in the sun. We all want healthy fish--healthy fish spawn, healthy fish fight harder, healthy fish are more beautiful.

There is a lot of talk these days about barbless hooks, felt-less boots and other important topics. But isn't ensuring that our trash doesn't become the aquatic environment's trash just about the most basic starting point of any conservation effort? What good are attempts to keep AIS at bay if the water is clogged with bait cups? What good are barbless hooks if there are no fish to catch? I think basic trash pickup is where every conservationist needs to begin...and end.

Put down your rod for a few outings and ensure that the fish you catch when you pick it back up WILL be healthier, and healthier more everyday thereafter.

So I am renewing the contest and working on promoting it better. I'll run this through the end of August. Here are the details:

To be entered in the contest, just send me an email saying you want to be counted. (theripariancorridorblog@gmail.com). After that, keep me in the loop on how much you've collected and send some photos!

There will be two winners

The contest will consist of who can collect the most pounds of garbage/trash from their local water. This is an open-ended deal--you can collect from as many places as you want around you, but you have to send photos of your trash and be able to weigh it (hand scale, bathroom scale, whatever). As we go through the contest, as I get photos and weights of trash collected by contestants, I'll keep a posted, running tab going. That should keep the competition alive, nervous and stressful enough to make everyone collect MORE! The bottom line is, the person who collects the most pounds of trash by the end of the contest wins.

I bought this scale from Walmart for just under 5 dollars. It works perfectly for this!

Since not everyone has the time to devote to collecting trash for hours a day, and since some are blessed with unusually clean waterways, I've made this a two-headed contest. The one winner, described above, will be meritorious. The second winner will be randomly selected. Since everyone is doing their part to clean up their water, this allows everyone to equally have a chance at winning something.

The prizes will be REALLY good (thanks to Feather-Craft Fly Fishing):

Two Redington CT rods! One for each winner. Yup, I said it.
A Meat Locker streamer box from Feather-Craft Flyfishing for each of the two winners.
A Mono Master for each of the winners. If you aren't familiar with these, they are a great product to cut down on the accidental loss of one of the most harmful byproducts of our fishing-presence--fishing line.
A copy of "Red Gold" DVD. Google it and read more about it there or on Feather-Craft's website here.

The dates for this contest are NOW through September 1st. That means that any trash collected during those dates officially counts for the contest.

For this contest I'd appreciate if you'd "Follow" the blog officially (which will help you keep tuned to updates about the contest).

To enter, send an email with your name, address (in case you win!), email address and blog/website to theripariancorridorblog@gmail.com and then keep me in the loop on your progress.

Be cool like this dude and pick some $#&% up!

Fifty Followers!

2011-07-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

I got home tonight from trash collecting at a local lake and noticed that this blog now has 50 followers. I have to say that I never thought it'd hit that many, and is really fun and satisfying to have reached it. Let me say again, I really do appreciate every "follow" I get, and short of getting sappy...it means a lot to me. I'll do my best to keep the activity, photos and stories coming.

The great thing is, for every one of the readers and followers--that contests on the blog are going to start heating up. I have some real smokers in the works that will stretch across the country...and across blogs. Curious? Keep tuned....

Quick Update

2011-07-17T13:29:00.001-07:00

I am still alive, and yes the contests are a go. I am shocked at the votes for the blanks, but I'm excited to build on whatever you all pick.

I am still intermittently fishing, though nothing worth blogging about really. I think the past three weeks worth of fishing could be condensed into one, crappy, short paragraph. I'll throw something together with some eye-catching photos...keep the masses appeased.

Thank you to all my new followers, there have been quite a few join in the past month or two. It may seem like a mundane little button, and even a mundane feature of Blogger, but it gives me a picture of the fact that people really do read this blog, and--for some reason--enjoy it. So, thank you for following!!

Last but not least, my son was born on July 1st and tipped the scales at 7lbs 6oz and stretching to a respectable 18.5". If he were a Brown, he would have made my month! Instead...he blew my year out of the water. Amazing little fella'. I've spent more time changing diapers than rod building, and more time rocking/swaddling/whatevering than I have fishing. When I read Gierach, it's to him. And when I tell fishing stories--again, they are to him. Eventually I'll have him in rubber pants and I'll commence the blogging. ...well, maybe even before that.

Keep readin'. I'll keep writin'.

BlogRod Poll #2: Choose the Blank

2011-07-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

Take note contestants! I've updated the poll now that you've voted and 7wt won out. Here are the basics about the blanks, but ask any questions you like and I'll get you the answer. The photos are purely for seeing what the blanks look like. I've built on all these, and the colors are accurate...if that matters to you. So here is the rundown:

Sevier F/W 7/8: A 2-piece, 9'0" blank that is high on durability, butt-power and good looks. A nice blank with a somewhat progressive feel with what I'd call a fast moderate action. It's IM6 43 million modulus graphite and a nice deep brown/amber color. These are the "Tiger Eye" blanks you may have heard about. I'm going with the 7/8 rather than the 6/7 to speed up the rod a bit since I'm guessing people won't be tossing #24 midges with it; line it with Rio Gold and it's a winner. A great all-around rod.

Batson "Rainshadow" RX6: A 2-piece, 9'0" blank that is a joy to cast and catch on. It's a true moderate action with progressive flex and moderate speed. It's IM6 33 million modulus graphite on a 'glass scrim (i.e. it's really, really strong) and is a deep blue color. This would be the perfect rod for throwing leadeyes or really heavy streamers in close; it'll load tight and cushion the shock of the fly with short line out.

Fly Logic FLP+: A 2-piece, 9'0" blank that is the fastest of the bunch, but still forgiving. It's solidly in the moderate-fast category. The blank is a matte grey-black and is dual-rated for 6/7. It'll be slower with 7 and a bit faster with 6; you choose. This would be the blank of choice for distance work where a balance between durability and sensitivity needs to be struck.

RipCor Blog Contest Updates

2011-06-29T22:10:00.000-07:00

Yes, I said it--"updates." I have concocted a second contest to run concurrently with the BlogRod, and it should be a really good one. First, though, let me update everyone on rod contest.

BlogRod Contest
While 7wt isn't exactly running away with the votes, it is in the lead ahead of 5wt. I have to say that I'm a little surprised; I thought I'd be building a 3wt for sure. It's all the same to me, and building heavier rods is, to be honest, a little easier than skinny stuff.

I've already got a list of three blanks that fit the profile, and I think just about anyone would be please with each one. The exact blank, though, is up to all you voters. After this voting cycle ends, I'll post on the blank options with personal reviews and information about each one.

I realize that this voting cycle has been long, and I appreciate everyone's patience with it. I made it long so that I would have time to devote to a few other things baby-related, like finishing a nursery for my son who is officially now overdue. The rest of the cycles voting on each option (blank, seat, grip, guides and wraps) will be shorter. They'll be just long enough for me to complete them and post pictures of progress before the next cycle begins. So...things will be picking up speed very soon.

Second Contest
I have decided to do another contest that relates to conservation of your own local water. This will be starting in the next two weeks or so and run for a full 30 days, with two giveaways at the end. Here are the basic details:

To be entered in the contest, you must send me 5 flies of your choice. If you tie your own, that's great--send me 5 of your favorite patters; if you don't tie, just grab 5 of your favorites from wherever you buy them and send those. Any 5, it doesn't really matter.

There will be two winners

The contest will consist of who can collect the most pounds of garbage/trash from their local water. This is an open-ended deal--you can collect from as many places as you want around you, but you have to send photos of your trash and be able to weigh it (hand scale, bathroom scale, whatever). As we go through the contest, as I get photos and weights of trash collected by contestants, I'll keep a posted, running tab going. That should keep the competition alive, nervous and stressful enough to make everyone collect MORE! The bottom line is, the person who collects the most pounds of trash by the end of the contest wins.

Since not everyone has the time to devote to collecting trash for hours a day, and since some are blessed with unusually clean waterways, I've made this a two-headed contest. The one winner, described above, will be meritorious. The second winner will be randomly selected. Since everyone is doing their part to clean up their water, this allows everyone to equally have a chance at winning something.

The prizes will be two divided lots of the flies everyone sends in. So if 10 people send in flies, the two winners will get 25 flies each. If there are 40 contestants, each winner will get 100 flies each. Not a bad haul for just picking up trash! It's an especially good deal when you consider the long and short-term benefits to the wildlife and other people who enjoy that water. I think anyone will be able to take pride in actively participating in a real conservation effort on their home water(s).

The dates for this contest are July 15 through August 15. That means that any trash collected during those dates officially counts for the contest.

For this contest I'd appreciate if you'd "Follow" the blog officially (which will help you keep tuned to updates about the contest).

To enter, send an email with your name, address (in case you win!), email address and blog/website to theripariancorridorblog@gmail.com and I will give you the address for fly mailing.

More details to follow!!

Two quick Sunday Notes

2011-06-26T20:42:00.000-07:00

I have been getting a hankerin' (that's a technical term in these parts) to do some "real" photography out on the water. With the arrival of my first child now imminent, I was given the order by Mrs. Corridor to get "some good shots of the baby" in the hospital. That meant setting aside my Sony Cybershot that I use for fishing and hauling out the big guns--an RB67. For you digitites, this will shoot at the equivalent of 100+ megapixels. That is some quality.

So, having gotten out the RB and gone over it fairly well, it's renewed my fever to get it out on some water for fishing duty. Obviously with a camera this size, cost, etc. I won't be shoulder-slinging it and wading with all my damn fly gear. My plan is to just get some good fish-catchers and follow them around. Any volunteers?

On another, though still fishing, note, there is a second contest in the works. This one will run along side the BlogRod and rely on reader's work in their local waterways. I won't give too many details yet, but keep an eye on the blog and the Facebook page for details. This one will be fun!

Fishing Updates

2011-06-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

I'm still hunting trash and I think I found the honey hole for it. ...real trash, not the finned sort that I was really after. It gets pretty frustrating by the end of each summer seeing all the fisherman-brought trash that the wildlife have to live with afterward. I've lost count of how many baseballs, softballs, tennis balls and every other sort of ball I've seen washed up at my closest carp spot. Very disappointing.

My buddy Chris and I tore off after some little known, little visited and little fished water we found via Google Earth. It's accessed by a gravel road up the side of a bluff right off the interstate. Pretty wild to just rip right off the highway and up a hill.

We were rewarded with a really promising-looking bit of water--a quarry lake of unknown depth and unknown inhabitants. Very exciting. We were hoping for a structure-laden bluegill pond, but this was interesting in its own way.

In the hour or two we spent there, we saw gar, carp, bluegill and green sunfish. I can only imagine what else calls this home. I have a feeling some very large fish swim in here.... I cast to a single carp almost the entire time while Chris was hooking up with 'gills and a 24" gar.

I couldn't help but to appreciate the secludedness of the place, even though it was really close to the highway. It seemed like a little harbor of wildness amidst a world that didn't care to notice. I'll go back, I just don't know when. (There are a LOT of ticks out there, a lot even by my standards!).

Stumped (Update--just figured it out)

2011-06-21T18:54:00.000-07:00

Walking along stalking for Carpies, I spotted this just ahead of me. "Hey look at that, that's a water snake eating a leech! A big leech!"

I chased and watched for a few minutes and realized that there is no way that's a leech--way to big. So if not a leech, what's getting eaten here?

You can see here the distinctive seven gill "holes" on the side of the body and the fin-like top and tail. Eyes are possibly visible just to the left of the holes and a bit higher on the body. It's a fish of some sort...

Here's another look at the gills and an awful look at it's mouth, a semi-round soft mouth on the bottom near the front of the head. This is one odd little creature that, by now, is no longer among us.

Any ideas on what this is? It's from a freshwater, warmwater lake that is fed by a large creek and empties eventually into a major trib of the Missouri River.

It is a lamprey!

Trash Talk

2011-06-15T14:33:00.001-07:00

Some of you know that I have gone to the dark side of fly fishing recently. I found a local hole that holds Buffalo, Carp and Drum...along with Gar. It's a trashfishing quadfecta that had me at "hello." Well, not really, but it does sort of have my attention for the moment.

I wouldn't go down alone, so roped a buddy into it. He hooked this Freshwater Drum his first time out. He's lucky in trash. I still say these are darn cool-looking fish, and they almost have a saltwater look about them. I was jealous...still am.

He nailed it on a Headstand off an Orvis 3wt. Not bad. Fat cicada tummy!

After getting a couple of Grass Carp on previous outings, I was ready for some new kind of trash. Seeing his Drum, I took over Chris' spot when he vacated it. I almost immediately hooked into something which I figured was a Common from it's profile in the water.

That's one thing I am really enjoying about these trashy guys--sight fishing. See-Cast-Catch. ...Or that's how its supposed to go. It did for this fella', a Smallmouth Buffalo. Apparently they are really good eating, but it killed my appetite for three days because of the fish smell it left on me. Yes, I did shower; it just didn't matter. Gross, but fun; alluringly fun on 3wts. *grin*

I could hear it saying, "Nooooo!"

BlogRod Update

2011-06-15T13:48:00.000-07:00

So far I have nine votes in for opinions on what weight it ought to be. Now nine votes are great, but I'm up to 41 followers...so if you haven't voted yet (maybe you're coming late to the start of this), go ahead and let your voice be heard.

So far, the 5wt is winning out, but 7wt is close behind. I'm a little surprised, but with a lot of votes left to chime in, things could go any which way. Fun stuff. That being said, I've got some fun options for either a 5wt or 7wt big-gun.

Thanks for voting!

The Trip of a Lifetime

2011-06-10T18:34:00.001-07:00

From its conception, we figured we were in for the best trip of our lives. In the end, that trip changed us. It changed us unexpectedly, and it changed us for the better.

My best fishing buddy, Chris, and I had planned the trip weeks ahead, and talked about it no fewer than once a day during those weeks of waiting. We set up camp on Sunday night, having left earlier than our days-off officially began and arriving late that night. As usual, the dark made navigation on basically unmarked roads in no-signal territory interesting. We found it despite the area's best efforts to hide the campground. Per tradition and universally understood rules, we checked the water immediately after setting up house. Seeing this-and-that and being close to water again made us both ready for morning light which would bring a better view and, hopefully, wild trout.

We quickly identified a cream #24 Mayfly hatch, and I switched to a matching pattern; a few casts later I was connected to wild McCloud rainbow. The joy of the moment surged through me, and barely being able to concentrate and contain myself, I stripped in a modest rainbow. This was one of two highlights of the trip for me; I stood in awe of this little fish who had come to make Missouri his home.

The small Mayfly hatch came and went throughout the day, but clearly peaked around eleven in the morning. Multiple large clouds of the hatch worked their way over our heads and downstream. Surprisingly, the fish were not highly selective on dries and seemed to take anything light-colored, regardless of size. I was happy to tie on larger flies and had great fun watching trout hammer my #16 yellow Humpy.

We moved downstream for a full 8 hours and through a section that stretched our wading abilities and mettle. I was sure I was going to get my leg chomped by something, or get a foot stuck and go for a bath—Chris did draw some blood on a boulder—but we successfully passed a deep section via a hell-walk on land and death-wade in water. I told Chris several times that this had better become worth that travail, and I was getting seriously discouraged that it may not. It did promise to take us into even wilder territory, and should wild trout live there, we couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead.

As we rounded a bend, we were met with a glorious riffle and an equally gorgeous run above it. After missing a few fish in the riffle, I worked downstream and found a small slot beside the bank. A mid-length cast and a short drift ended with a small splash, and my fly was instantly traveling faster than the current. And much faster. The fish gave a quick and cumbersome leap to show its head and size, and then took off downstream like Rocketman. I had about 20' of line stripped out for the cast and drift, and that was quickly pulled from the water and through my fingers as the fish put himself on the reel. A shout for Chris got him wading toward me from the riffle where I later learned he caught nearly 40 trout.

He arrived on scene to see the back and forth battle with this fish who seemed determined to teach me what “wild” meant in this territory. A handful of runs and a few long standoffs downstream all passed and we were both ready to bring the fight to an end. He gracefully let me bring him to hand, raise him for release and photo, and be rod-measured. That, I knew, was the scaled, gilled embodiment of “wild.”

I gave him some spa time, and while I still think he was being a little over-dramatic, took off strongly after a few minutes rest, cradled in my hand all the while. I've now had a few of these moments of reviving a large trout after a real battle; it has proven every time to be an experience of indescribable happiness, satisfaction, and even romance of nature. The world is blinked away in an instant when a big fish is hooked, seems to irrevocably vanish during the fight, yet somehow returns in a new, refreshed, and rewritten way during release.

Not all the fish I caught were big; I enjoyed the vibrant beauty of countless 5-7" fish that faded in photography. Outside of the moment, everything is faded off-stream that was once brilliant while there.

At the end of the second day—the last day—we were satiated. We had fished the majority of the good sections of the stream and seen more than our active imaginations prepared us for pre-trip. We were exhausted from being surrounded by the scenery that, at its core, held truly wild trout. By fishing and catching in that stream, we had enjoyed an honor, being ourselves a rare presence on water that is both wild and admirably refined at once. As tolerated intruders we tried to take it all in, but so much is unavoidably left behind, and found again only when our line falls back to the water.

Driving home, we continually reflected on the moments, now memories, that passed before us on the water. A change began to settle into our fibers. I understand now it is an inevitable change that is one you are found by, never the other way around. That change, or at least its beginnings, is the realignment of yourself to the stream. You begin to view your own life as relative to the water, those inhabitants, that passion. What was once merely a part of life becomes life itself, and all water becomes “home water.” You feel, at every re-approach to the water, that you are coming home. You are changed to one who comes fishing, never again one who goes.

All this, and yet still this trip is not my best trip. There are, in some sense, trips that are higher quality than others, whether that be in the number of fish, the size of them, the company (or lack thereof), the setting, or whatever one trip's distinguishing features are. No doubt, some trips are better. This trip during which we were changed was a better trip, a very better trip. Best, though, it was not.

The best trout trip is ahead. It is always ahead, luring you forward into the next trip. And while the “best trip” remains locked in the future, just out of reach, it never lies. Every trip has that moment where you know it's fading, having lived its life and about to be over. Once a trip begins to languish, hopefully gracefully, the next trip is born. Possibilities are suggested. Rumors are aired. Old hankerings are brought up. In that intermediate period, the next trip speaks and you hear, “I am the Best Trip, come find me.” And we go looking.

At this point, one cannot help but begin to see the tangible significance of conservation. The “next trip” depends entirely on it. Organizations, such as Trout Unlimited, work and speak for the preserving the habitat of the trout and for the trout itself. No doubt, the effort in itself is worthy; they are both beautiful things which instill humility, appreciation and responsibility. There is more, though, to conservation; there is the preservation of all “next trips” that, otherwise, would vanish as quickly as the trout. Conservation is the air that next trips breathe in, and is later let out as a softly spoken invitation.

We go on that next trip not because we are gullible, not because we are foolish, but because we have been changed into one who knows that best trip will come. It won't be the trip of a movie or even a great book. Standing wearily, maybe even frailly—but comfortably—as old men in water we call home, in a way beyond what we care to understand, a life of trips will be woven together into a single story--one long and brilliantly faceted trip. It becomes, in the realest sense possible, the Best Trip, for it is the trip of a lifetime.

Fish on the Brain, Technology...not

2011-06-07T08:30:00.000-07:00

I dramatically underestimated the complexity of mobile-use of my favorite social network--good ole Facebook. I regularly update my status via my phone, and get updates/comments/whatever else notifications on that phone. I updated twice yesterday afternoon following two momentous events.

After getting my second grass carp on the fly yesterday afternoon, I posted to the world immediately. A few minutes later, I got a notification on my phone telling me someone had commented on my status, "Can't wait to see him!" The frustration of having my camera miles away with my wife, I responded via text message, "The only photos were taken by the wide-eyed kid next to me. [My wife] had the camera."

I realized a moment later that the status comment I had just re-commented on wasn't the one about my carp, but about my in-utero son. An hour earlier, I had posted, "Ultrasound measures Trip to be 6lbs 6oz..."

I guess my mind defaults to fishing-mode. Ooops.

BlogRod....ACTIVATE!

2011-06-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

The time has come to start the BlogRod build and giveaway! I've reached 35 followers, and am ready to start finding out what you guys want.

I made a poll that appears on the top right of the blog with some questions--weigh in and on July 2 I'll take it down and put up the next one.

The next question will relate to what blank to build on, so be thinking now about what type of action/feel you'd love to add to your arsenal.

Vote and have fun!

Oh and one vote per person...please.

Finally, a Carp!

2011-06-05T17:46:00.000-07:00

I wasn't the only fish-stalker out that day sight-fishing.

My first carp came at the peak of the Cicada hatch, and NOT on a Cicada fly. I noticed that while they were going for the 'cada flies, they were not getting hooked up; so I tied on a small #12 hopper pattern and made it act like a Cicada. I spotted this ghost about 40' out, made a single cast, and no more than a second after dropping it on its nose....VOOMPH! A ten minute battle on bringing it in and running back out ensued before it was in my net and ready for photos.

I'm not going to go all roughfisher, but I did really enjoy this fish. A fun and surprisingly technical diversion from Browns. I have a feeling these are going to get a LOT harder to catch after these 'cadas disappear. Fun morning!

Stickered-up Fish Rides

2011-06-02T08:26:00.000-07:00

I've always loved stickers, even when I was too sophisticated to call them "stickers" and only said "decals." For the most part, I sticker up everything, and my truck is no different. There is something about making your ride your own with a simple, sticky-backed piece of vinyl that feels right.

So, send me a photo of your stickered ride you use to get to fishy waters and maybe even a little story about it, and I'll feature it in a future post.

Send photos to me at theripariancorridorblog@gmail.com

A Blog Worth Reading

2011-06-02T07:43:00.000-07:00

I don't have as much time as I used to for reading other people's blogs, much less for finding new ones. I took a break this morning and ran across this one, and I'm really glad I did. ...hopefully, I'll have time to read it again!

The Search for Native Salmonids

A Night's Tale

2011-06-01T17:57:00.000-07:00

I had to get away. I did get away. I took the afternoon after a workday, drove down to my favorite water and camped out. I've been dying to nightfish this river again for weeks, and too many "almost went but didn't" were piling up. The decision to camp came at an odd combination of times: 1) fit perfectly with my exhaustion level and likely inability to stay awake on the drive back after an all-nighter on the water and 2) Memorial Day weekend. I headed out Monday afternoon, hoping to catch the river and campground in mass desertion. Basically, I did, but I was still nervous about finding an open campsite. I figured if I didn't, I'd either sleep in my car or drive down to the Eleven Point and camp on a gravel bar. Thankfully, I ran into very helpful campground Hosts (those people are always the coolest) who directed me to Site #128--an available, Basic Walk-in site.

Host: "Go get #128--it's open and definitely the best one. It backs right up to water."
Me: "That's great, sounds perfect! Thank you!"

I was a little suspicious when the road that took me to #128 turned continually away from the river, but I figured he was the host and I was the camper. Finding #128, I found it was a road over and away from the river. Oh well, it's open...I'll take it! The old host was nice and helpful, but clearly he's a little confused....

Later that night, as I was drinking some coffee, I happened to look up in just the right direction and see this water spigot. A huge "Ohhh!" moment dawned, and I felt like a real idiot. So that's the "water!" Well, I still hold him responsible--you can't throw the word "water" around like that in a campground that backs up to prime Ozark trout water. It was a clarifying moment for me in more ways than one, but certainly I know now that I consider fish-water more important than potable-water.

I parked the 4Runner triumphantly in the drive, quickly unloaded my tent, pad and bag and went to work setting up home. I arrived on-site about 7pm, with just enough time to get out on the water afterward to wade up in the light. After the recent flooding, I'd heard the river had changed a lot, and that's dangerous for a solo fisherman in the dark. I was previously very familiar with it and could wade it with my eyes glued shut--now, though, there were new holes, deeps and hazards. I figured I'd better see 'em once and remember where they were for the dark wade back.

The campsite became increasingly less scenic the more I looked (and smelled) around. I definitely felt like a fireman--running straight into where everyone else is running out of. I completely confused the check-in lady by...well, checking-in. The looks I got from the few holdovers in the surrounding sites confirmed that I was going against the acceptable norm. They looked at me like I needed a calendar. I looked back like they needed a clue.

A team of yahoo canoers with coolers is not what I wanted to see pull up.

I fished almost through the night, having waded quickly upstream in the fading light of a clear sky. Rather than casting, I spent more time making mental notes of "OK, at this tree, wade left" and "Everything's OK through here until I get to that plastic bag in the tree." Though I didn't throw much line in the light, I did have the chance to stop and talk to a few old timers who were still fishing. They didn't care that the holiday was over, and I think they appreciated that I didn't either. I had some of the best on-water conversations I've ever enjoyed; they were all bar-like in honesty and warmth...not the more typical operating-room coldness. No one likes to see another fisherman on the water, but sometimes, under perfect conditions (i.e. one is leaving), it works out that two guys meet for the first time and pick up on a conversation that never really was begun. There is a "you're like me" tone that old fisherman offer to a few lucky souls, and they usually offer good advice right after. One yelled back to me from downstream, "Will! Fish the tailouts!" With those words he gave a knowing nod, like he'd just given me the keycode to the bank's safe. "You're like me...aintcha?"

I didn't throw down any mad domination on the trout that night, in fact...I didn't hook a thing. I had some interesting companions the following morning and day, though. This friendly otter was pretty badly injured, missing an Oreo-sized piece of fur ripped off his back. He seemed generally ok, but was saddeningly unafraid of me. I don't pray for animals too often, but this guy got a streamside prayer.

Night fishing is weird. Guys who do it are even weirder, I'll admit that. We excuse or try to hide the nonsense of the endeavor by claiming we do it in the name of better fishing and bigger fish. Maybe that's true, but to be honest, I've never had better fishing or bigger fish at night. I guess that means I'm just weird. Apparently, they are also the subject of myths, shared between daytimers; I was asked by one, as I headed upstream, "Are you the guy who throws mice here at night?" Huh, there's someone else who fishes this at night--I thought I was the only one, and I'm no mouser, so there's at least two of us. Damn.

There is something about it though, especially alone, that draws me out there. It depends how you take the dark, being surrounded by the current and surprisingly unfamiliar sounds of nighttime on the river. ...Nighttime in the river. When it get's to be real night, really dark, your entire world shrinks to the few cubic yards that are illuminated dimly by your headlamp. The water diffuses and steals that light, making seeing the bottom sometimes impossible. The reflection off the surface of the water beams upward, showing you the undersides of tree limbs and banksides--these suddenly flash into existence without warning or intention, seeming to appear out of nowhere. Eyes glow and glare curiously from you out of the blackness in the corridor along the water, and sometimes from the water itself.

Danger is there; it is one of the more hazardous ways to fish, but when you collect your mind together into a little ball of clarity, refusing to let it wander, and gather it into a cast beyond your light, you are rewarded with the greatest feeling of anticipation possible. Casting in the dark, sensing the drift rather than seeing it, it feels like you're fishing off the end of the world--and who knows what might be caught there.

So I fished through much of the night's dark, and finally called it quits when the caddis and skeeters were so intense that I couldn't walk forward with my headlamp on. Besides the obvious frustration of being swarmed by hundreds of little buzzing bugs, they are just big enough to reflect back a blinding amount of light when they fly in front of the headlamp. It was like waving a sparkler in front of my face in otherwise total darkness...and it brought a new meaning to "I can't see shit." Figuring that as time wore on I'd be forgetting my mental notes about trees, holes and plastic bags and would have to make most of the wade back without my headlamp on...I started back. So, in the dark I slowly retraced my steps, occasionally forgetting a crosspoint or crossing too early and wading deeper where I thought I'd be ok. It's a bit like closing your eyes and trying to walk down a highway, but you figure out ways to make it work. At least the holes don't move. I made it back, exhausted and dripping with DEET, and de-wadered.

I returned to camp, slept for a few hours and got up to fish again. The night repeated itself, with more conversations with old timers and not good fishing for me, but it was a lot brighter. I waded up, fished, and waded back. My world was bigger then, too big to cast off the end of.

A New Build

2011-05-25T10:13:00.000-07:00

I've been hankering for a build that departs a bit from what I've done in the past, and I think I've found just the project.

While I love fiberglass and would happily build with glass blanks only for the rest of my life, sometimes I need a little less flex and weight. Open water and big streamers, which I am fishing more and more, calls for something fairly fast, long, and light. I'm not a big guy by any means; most people say that I have to run around in the shower to get wet. My father refers to me as two watermelon seeds nailed to a 2x4. I'll be the first to admit that I get a little worn out casting my 8wt glass rods all day. So...a new build is born.

I envisioned a real tank, something with the power down low of glass and the ability to load in fairly close with big stuff and an intermediate line but with the guns sufficient to bomb some serious line out regardless of fly, wind, or chop. I think I happened on the perfect blank.

I don't want to give details now, but it's a graphite 6wt that has blown the socks off the rod building community, performs exactly as advertised, is from a fairly small shop and brilliantly USA-made. To really depart from my norm, this blank is FAST, perhaps even truly ultra-fast (though that is an elusive characteristic, far more rare in reality than in catalogs). From what I can tell from spec sheets, reviews and gut-feeling, this rod is going to be a straight-up streamer howitzer. ...exactly what I need for big browns and medium salt. hee-hee

Stay tuned!

Old 'Glass Updates

2011-05-05T15:20:00.000-07:00

The H-I #1600 refinish is coming along, but waiting on spar finish. I turned a Fenwick-style grip to do the Struble D-27 and 'glass justice and used chrome double-foot snakers down the line. Thread is "Dark Brown", over which I'll apply a few coats of spar.

Modern wraps, guides and spacing brought this old girl into the present era of rods, but there's still no mistaking it for a wise, old, experienced bit of 'glass.

I may decide to overwrap the steel ferrule. At this point, I'm too busy tying to worry about it.

Next in line for at least a little refurb'ing is this St. Croix Challenger 8'6" 8wt.

Sutures Sown with a Hook

2011-05-02T18:53:00.000-07:00

I think all the most desperate fishermen, even those who don't flick flies, have somewhat sorted lives. If not presently, they have sorted pasts. It's not a matter of pride that I include myself squarely within the fold of these desperate men and women. It may be pain; maybe there are wounds cut by some easily remembered moment, wounds that have yet to heal into scars; perhaps, though, its something more diffuse like a life that just doesn't work like it should. In any case, the desperation is real; the most devoted fly fishermen I know all have a distinctive furrow cutting down their brow, and eyes that reflect their favorite stream without exception.

One cannot help but to draw a few rough conclusions about the people who, as I've said before, do not go to the water but come to it. It can probably be safely said that every human being who has lived even a sliver of life has suffered some damage from it, and no different for those who live it intermittently on the water. The difference between the desperate whole of man and desperate fishers is that I continually perceive when one of those desperate flymen is sending his fly out, he becomes, for a defined moment, not desperate.

I find it no coincidence, yet without explanation, that tippet looks strikingly like suture thread; no more so that the hook on the end of that tippet bears limitless resemblance to a needle. And so, when that yet-unscarred wound pulls further open and reminds the man that he is yet desperate and in dire need of attending to that wound, that same man who is irreparably tied to the stream flees to his hook and suture for relief, for recovery.

With each cast, one more loop and knot is made (quite literally sometimes!) and the desperation from a life that is so often battled with or beaten by is made...less desperate. All the excitement, the thrills, the peace and rest that we find on the water, it all seems to me to be less a distraction and ever more as surgery. Beyond that, I can not offer, propose, or provide understanding. It is simply: life-giving.

It's Spring!

2011-05-02T18:31:00.001-07:00

GSMNP II: More from the trip

2011-04-28T07:06:00.000-07:00

Freak snow storms (how freak can they be in the GSMNP?) had the Park delay opening by a full day. That delay was in addition to the unpublished, unexplained late opening by a day compared to the published opening day on the website. That explained, however, the young man in the parking area having slept in his car the night before. He looked awesomely disheveled, and for a moment Chris and I both wanted to be him. While we were waiting for the park to open, we entertained ourselves in the fine town of Sevierville; an Orvis shop was rumored to be there.

Driving over to S-ville was eventless; arriving in S-ville was also eventless. For some reason, the bums who run and work in the Orvis flyshop in Sevierville don't get to work until some time past 7:30am. Shaking our heads, we loitered on the front porch and checked the chalkboard of very authentic looking hatch and water information. It was then and there, on that rustic porch, our hearts began to sink. They didn't quite sink yet, it's just that they knew they were on the edge and just about to be at that tipping point where the only thing that can happen is f-a-l-l. Water levels were all "HIGH" across that damn board. We shrugged it off (or tried to), figuring this was a chalkboard on a fly shop's front porch--it's all for the tourists. It probably hadn't been updated in weeks. We will be....fine.

Heading back to the campsite came after one more stop. Walmart. The pilgrammage of pilgrammages had to happen for fishing licenses (hey, they're open at 7:30!). We hunted down someone to issue us something official, paid up, and marvelled at the fact that the Walmart there sells fly rods. We are used to seeing nothing but catfish rigs with poles as thick as my upper thigh. While waiting/paying/getting official, Chris asked the nice lady if she knew if there were any water purification tablets around. Standing in the camping/hunting section, we figured the answer would be a quick "yes" and a short point to a few feet away. No, she directed us to the "pet department." Why? Because it's Sevierville and that's where they keep them. Unfortunately, they must have been out of stock or something....we never found them. Apparently there is a high demand for purification tablets among local pet owners.

Arriving back at the campground, we saw that the "Road Closed" sign was still firmly in place, and there was no way of getting in. We waited and watched, and finally the debris and timber were cleared sufficiently for the road to reopen and allow us some access. Having waited most of the morning away, we skipped setting up camp and went straight to fishing.

Much debate over coffee and ragged-out nerves and temperaments from the all-night drive led us to a hike up into the mountains not far from the campsite. The fresh snow really had us doubting if we were on the trail: "I think this snow is just covering the trail; we gotta be on it, right?" We wandered, checked the map a hundred times, compared our wanders to the map compared to the little creek (little is a joke, it was supposed to be small...but was presently whitewater death that sounded like a horizontal waterfall). We were not quite lost and not quite found; we were sort of just lound, or maybe fost. Either way, fishing was damn near impossible in that water. Just looking at it gave the impression that any Brook Trout in it had been beat to death a day or so ago and their sad bodies washed miles downstream, out of even snagging range. Of course, that wasn't the case...but we were fost and had to occupy our minds with something.

We legitimately crossed the water twice, and both times confused the hell out of us on the map. You would think that definitive points in a landscape and a very good trail map would match up such that there is no doubt of location. We thought that, and were wrong. We did finally find ourselves on the map, and the real trail (boy did it look BIG compared to what we thought was the trail!). We tried to fish two and a half times, and we tried to enjoy that...but this was just not our day for fishing or hiking.

Discouraged, we pressed onward a bit in dim hope of calm, fishy, minimal headwater. Getting closer to dark and no closer to headwater, we turned back on the trail and pointed ourselves at our empty campsite. An hour later we arrived there, but very much with the feeling of being turned down by that cute girl a grade above you when you finally got the courage and opportunity to ask her out. Damn.

This half-dead spinner summed up the situation perfectly.

We set up camp, or something that looked like one and gathered our senses. We pep-talked each other; we pep-talked ourselves; we pep-talked the whole trip. We had all the next day and the water is only falling (well there was that snow-melt...ignore that) and we have seen the water. Really, we had nothing to go on except intel that was completely negated by the weather and water conditions ("Man, you guys came at a horrible time; this is just an unusual amount of water"). We decided to go back to that S-ville fly shop and see what they knew beyond what they scratched on the tourist chalkboard. As it turns out, it wasn't touristy.

We got some information out of the guy there, but that meant we had to pretend to really be about to buy something. Forty-five minutes of caressing rods, opening and closing little wooden and aluminum fly boxes, and the always-convincing walk-by-the-fly-case with a ponderous pause thrown in here and there. Once, I even picked up one of the little things, grunted, and replaced it after a long inspection. I was convincing...but wanted information. Real information, not information that gets handed out for free to every dude who walks in, spends $1000 with his wife (only $300 was on fly gear, the rest was on dog shit), and asks where the best place is to learn to fly fish and catch a "real Smoky Mountain trout." I think the desperation/exhaustion/desperation in our eyes took the place of the thousand bucks and dog collar. We were pointed in a genuinely good direction by the guy, and I swear he looked jealous. He looked at us the same way we did at the guy sleeping in his car. We were defeated, but we were "those guys."

In then end, Chris caught 2--landing one for a photo. I caught zero, but had the distinction of not having missed any. I didn't even get a bite the whole trip. I fell in, three times. From the perspective of many, it was a total failure of a trip. If you know Chris or me at all, you know it was anything but.

We never did find those purification tablets, though.

Contest Coming

2011-04-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

To say thanks to those who already follow and to encourage more, I've all but decided to do a "Blog Cabin" sort of rod build and contest. I haven't worked out the exact details yet, but the basic works will be options for the rod build that readers will vote on via poll.

At the end of the build, I'll use a number generator to draw one voter as the winner who will get the rod.

I'm thinking I'll start this at 35 followers--realistic and hopefully soon enough to not forget about it.

Mohawk Refinish

2011-04-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

I acquired a very early version of the Horrocks-Ibotson Mohawk 1600 "Buddy" 'glass rod this week. It was donated to a yard sale, but then pulled from the sale and listed online for sale. I still got it for a steal, even considering this is a cheap rod. I've wanted to do a refinish for a while, and this rod gave me the perfect opportunity. It'll get a complete re-work with all new components (minus ferrules). As it sits now, it is a raw blank with a new grip completed and ready to have it and the new seat mounted.

(I'll post more, larger photos as the project wears on; I didn't have time today to post more than a collage.)

Lonestar State on the Fly

2011-04-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

Before heading down on our bonzai-trip to East Texas, Chris and I took at day-trip to middle Missouri to refresh our warmwater fly skills. I had fished so much through the winter, I forgot what it was to have a non-trout on the rod...and what it took to get it there. This little BG was my favorite catch of the day; you can see the first shades of spawning colors starting to shade down. That, my friends, is very good news.

I robbed the weed line of this little bass, my first catch in TX! If you aren't familiar with Buffs, please do so. They are amazing, effective, sort of stylish (??), and make you look like anything from a pirate to a robber to a safari-man. I finished the 5wt 'glass rod in this photo a day before leaving for TX. I was able to find a Martin MG-7 to pair it up with, and boy oh boy do I like that old reel. It performed very nicely.

Chris is on the phone and his conversation went like this:

Chris: "Hey there, how's it goin?"

Dude: "Good--hey, how's the fishin?"

Chris: "Man, it's freakin' windy! Wind like you wouldn't believe!"

Dude: "Caught anything?"

Chris: "Dude...it's unbelieveably windy here."

It really was windy, but we managed (to not hook ourselves or each other). The wind was sustained 20-30mph with gusts into the 40s. That part hindered the fishing, but we tried to be patient, cast carefully (ok, we were just chucking, but we would have been casting if not for the ridiculous wind), and time things right.

Chris showing me how it's done. He turned me on to the Buff, by the way.

He was happy as a clam to be back in TX, back in warmwater, and about to be back into big 'gills.

Chris took delivery of his MHX 4wt 9 footer just minutes before we left STL. I'd been dragging this build on for...months. He was patient, and I think fairly happy with the build. His heart was set on fat bluegils, and the 4wt just wasnt' the right tool. His old Orvis 2wt sure was though!

I worked non-stop through the week prior to leaving on rods, trying to get them done. I decided on white wraps on the black 'glass blank for my 5wt 8footer. I'm still undecided about the aesthetics, but the wraps did their job either way and held the guides on. Can't complain about that!

"Yessir, I will take one of those!" The fishing was slow at times, very slow; we entertained ourselves in various ways. My cheekbones were as sore as they've ever been; thinking back on the trip we did laugh a lot...and painfully hard a few times. It's becoming a theme of trips with Chris that things rarely go as planned, the fishing can really stink at times, and we end up making the best of it and laughing a few weeks worth in the space of two or three days.

Chris fished his 2wt Orvis more than any other rod, and for good reason. That old Orvis does the job with style and grace! I give Chris a lot of grief for "going Orvis," but fishing his stuff these days has changed my opinion about the "O" brand. I still think there is a lot of gimmicking going on, but they do have some great rods that are top-performers. Go figure.

Chris laying out some line, stalking those 'gills!

We stayed in a house owned by some of Chris's TX friends (helps to know all the right people!), and it was absolute bliss to sleep in a bed, eat real food, and be around normal people on a fishing trip. Pretty amazing really.

I built the three on the left and Orvis did the one on the right.

All these rods saw action, fish and WIND. We realized how many rods we brought when we had to carry them back from the dock. We brought....enough. Rods were everywhere on the house porch, staged in various conditions of readiness. I don't think the locals quite knew what to make of us and our feathery concoctions, but they were totally accommodating.

Two fiberglass, three graphite, all fishy.

The second day we found the big stuff. The hungry, eager, powerful stuff. Oh yes, we found the 'gill honey hole! We immediately turned to squealing, giddy kids having far too much fun.

Coppernose Bluegills fight H-A-R-D!!

What a chunk!

I had read about and lusted after Coppernoses, but never had the chance to catch one until this trip. Seeing those frankenheaded coppery heads was a definite highlight. We just don't get too many 'gills like this up in MO.

Chris' goal was to catch a 10"+ bluegill. He did it, but blew right past the 10" mark and landed on the 12" mark. Typical for Chris.... He sure was happy though.

That's over 20" of Bluegill there, and the result of a really fun double. Did I mention "honey hole?"

Those Bluegills knew how to put some bend in my Lamiglass 3wt and make themselves look and feel super big. I don't think it gets too much better than huge 'gills on light 'glass. Yessir, I could have done this all day.

My first Warmouth, another great moment.

It's Bucketmouth time!

This guy put up a worthy fight, but the new 'glass eventually overcame and Chris netted her at the side of the boat.

We kept catching on-and-off through Sunday, but sadly then had to leave to make the next stop (Dallas) before driving back on Monday. We both agreed we'd be back...with big smiles on our faces as we nodded our heads. Oh yes, we are going back.

Coming Soon

2011-04-12T17:53:00.001-07:00

While I have been fishing, I haven't been writing. The good news is
that in the next few days (ok, maybe longer) Ill have more photos,
stories and whatnots up for more time-wasting pleasure!

I still have to finish the recount of GSMNP, for which there are more
episodes and photos worthy of sharing.

I'll also throw something together about Chris and my most recent trip
to Texas. I'll try to make the post as good as the trip. Anytime
'gills, Buckets and Texas are mentioned together, you sort of figure
it's gonna be good. It was.

Be patient O faithful followers!

From the Smokies

2011-03-28T19:32:00.000-07:00

A Hare's Ear about to get dunked in some very high water deep in the Smoky Mountains. I still have stories upon stories--and a few photos--that I haven't shared yet. This is just one of my favorites...simply because of that beautiful 'glass. Anyone who knows me well or fishes with me often knows I'm a huge fan of fiberglass rods. This 7' 3wt Lamiglas did really well on the water, but I wasn't able to blood it there on some Brookies. It really is the perfect small-stream rod, though.

If you haven't tried 'glass lately, please do. (I can build up one very inexpensively if you like; shoot me a message!) While you may not go full-glass like me (well, minus my ZXL), you will almost definitely discover a very useful tool for certain situations. If you're rough on rods, 'glass is immediately perfect for you; these rods are amazingly strong and shatter-proof. Impressive in performance and endurance. Give 'glass a try this season!

It made me smile

2011-03-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

I saw this on my way out of fishing, having to drive through a trout park on the way to the highway. I'm not sure why, really, but it just made me smile.

More Blood on the Lami

2011-03-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

I have my loved-things on the water and streamers are one of them. I picked up the new Feather-Craft Meat Locker box and it is performing perfectly.

The water was still way high, but falling steadily. In this deep pool, there were fish everywhere it seemed. Every swing of my Meat Whistle got a hit of some degree, several ended with fish in hand. Last fall, I stood on those rocks and look forward to again this summer.

I was very happy to get into at least one Brown, and it was a treat to have it come on the new Lamiglass. I may have enjoyed having Brown on my 'glass a little too much; I'm concocting several new rods because of it.

Ate the fly!

This guy never held still for a decent photo, and finned-off almost immediately after hitting the water. I'm amazed not so much by the strength of Browns, but their stamina. They never give up.

GSMNP I: The People

2011-03-15T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'll jump right in and throw chronology to the wind. There were enough interesting interactions with people during the trip to fill two books, and they were definitely one of the highlights. Well, they were at least one of the aspects over which we most laughed, and laughed the hardest.

Our campsite was situated right on the Little River which, at that time, was running unusually high and was swollen into a raging, rushing, rapid that sung us to sleep each night. Our campsite was also located next to another campsite; it was also swollen beyond capacity, but not with beautiful Brown and Rainbow-laden whitewater. A large group of very loud, very foreign and very messy campers were at site B9.

It's worth mentioning one instance when the group pulled up in their minivans, opened the side door, and out came some very Arabic, very loud, and very surprising music. What normally would have been Godsmack, Nelly or 50cent was, in this case, Azam Ali or something like it. Chris and I glanced at each other with the same look--"huh, now this is new. Can't wait to see where this ends up..."

I'm accustomed to camping with loud families--hoosiers and rednecks, or at least college students--but what really set this group apart from all the rest I've known was their messiness. The first sign that greets you when entering the campground is one reporting "Bear Habitat--Food Storage Regulations Enforced." (The first sign to greet us was actually "Road Closed," but that's a different story.) While sitting around the campfire, Chris and I told old fish stories, mostly from when we were kids, and with each hoot and holler from next door, he and I came closer to paying the Arabs a visit and asking them to settle down. I'm not sure if it was the Scotch or a particularly captivating story, but we failed to notice them leaving (that would be difficult to miss, there were upwards of 8 of them in two vans), but did later notice they were quiet...and gone.

The next morning, we awoke to the scene they left behind. Food. Beer. Boxes. Trash. More food. More beer. Garbage. Half-empty pots of food. Coolers of food. FOOD AND BEER EVERYWHERE! I've never seen a campsite destroyed like that, regardless of campers or group size. Between the piles of food and our campsite was a park ranger asking Chris if we were "with them over there."

An emphatic "no" led right into the perfectly phrased question from the ranger, "What's up with that?" Well, we knew perfectly well what was up with that--a bunch of foreigners in the mountains having fun...not able to speak or read English well enough to know to keep their food locked up. The one ranger turned to three, and added another ranger cruiser, and one really sweet ranger dually truck. They set to the task of cleaning up the food and trash, packing it all into the back of the truck and cars. We offered to help, but they pretty much had it done in 30 minutes or so. We were asked more questions about who the campers were, when they left, what they were doing, and at the end heard two comments from the rangers that confirmed our fears about what was really going on over there.

No, they weren't criminals, but almost as bad. One ranger commented, "They (I think he meant US, but didn't want to say it) were really lucky they didn't draw in a bear with all that." He actually said that three times throughout the cleanup. Another ranger added, "In 10 years here, I have never seen a campsite trashed like that one." They were quite the neighbours to have.

We spent a lot of time driving around, probably way too much time that we could have spent fishing or used the gas money to buy flies or some tippet later on. We drove, though, through and around and in the park on those winding, curvy, steep roads for a least an hour each day. That introduced us to a lot of people.

There were the people we'd pass who were also wasting time driving, and we'd wave. And wave. And wave. It wasn't until the 100th car and Chris practically hanging out his window waving both arms that we got a wave back. After that, we figured that we'd found a challenge and a mission--bring some damn friendliness to the park! So we'd usually wave, but we'd always let out two hello-honks at the people stopped on the road taking some touristy photo of the mountains. One drive, there was a family having a snowball fight. My honk was crucial in that battle--I let out two quick ones at the very moment the daughter was loosing from her hand a softball-sized ball and it distracted the dad long enough such that he didn't see it heading straight for his head. Honk-honk...look away...BLASH! Nicely done. By the time we left Sunday, we heard cars everywhere honking at stop-on-the-side-of-the-road-and-take-a-picture people. Mission accomplished; you're welcome, O great Park.

The hardest and longest laughter came unexpectedly, though, as they often do. We had just left the hell of downtown Gatlinburg on some sort of necessary expedition into town. As we were ascending into the park, I realized I needed to call my wife and wish her goodnight before I lost cell signal. It was pretty dark, but I spotted a good pull-off on the other side of the road that would probably be my last opportunity to get a call in. I whipped the 4Runner into the gravel area, but didn't notice I wasn't the only car to be there until I saw a green Honda Civic a foot in front of us....parked. I killed my lights and began my call. The fun unfolded as I talked to Cheryl on the phone, while Chris and I watched with childish delight.

That little Civic and its two (or three, we still aren't sure) occupants were up to romance. I carried on my conversation with general innocence and unawareness, but to those two up front I was anything but harmless. They had been caught, suddenly and without warning. Thinking back, I did pull in behind them pretty quickly, and pretty closely. After they figured I wasn't a cop, they flashed their reverse lights a few times at me. I'm still at a loss as to what that was supposed to do. Well, I was just talking away on the phone and didn't budge. That didn't sit well with them; they jostled around nervously in the front seats doing all sorts of things without trying to appear to be doing anything. At one point, the driver reinstalled the GPS screen on the dash and fooled with that. They probably wanted to broadcast "We're a little lost and have pulled over to find out where we are" and impress that image on the cop/ranger/stalker/whoever behind them. Since we weren't any of those, just a guy on the phone with his wife, we stayed put a while longer.

Finally, I finished my conversation and turned my lights back on to leave. My lights, when I turned them off, were on high-beams and returned to high-beams the instant I turned them back on. I blasted the cabin of the little Civic with some serious light, surprising both me and them (all over again), and I saw one very fogged up set of windows. The back window had just a hint of defogger lines crossing it, though, as if they realized a few moments before that they probably should start taking care of the giveaway-condition of what they'd really been up to in there. Not lost...just necking. I dimmed my lights, but as I backed away for an exit, two ranger cars with lights flashing and sirens screaming came barreling up the hill. Panicked for sure, from either the cops coming or us and my high-beams, they pulled halfway into the road in front of the first ranger. Nearly getting hit wasn't enough to keep them from pulling out even further into the road in front of the second blaring ranger. They backed back into the pulloff barely enough to avoid being creamed. After that, I went my way and they went theirs. We were dying of laughter, and they were, we imagined, dying of other things.

There are other people, other stories. The Eddie Bauer couple walking through the campground carrying their tent down the road. The guy who slept in his car at the campground because the park opened a day later than published. The park ranger who followed us back to the campsite to check a fishing license. The creepy pair of girls at the ridiculous diner who gave Chris a smile...and left him with a weirded-out look on his face. The waiter at the restaurant who, when bringing my coffee, heard, "Actually, we're just gonna leave. We're burning daylight and there's something we need to do." I may get to those people later, but if not, well maybe you can ask Chris or me about them on the water some day.

Returned from the Smokies

2011-03-14T16:41:00.000-07:00

After having a dry spell in fishing that I hope to not repeat....ever, Chris and I did a bonzai-run to Great Smoky Mountain National Park. We left Thursday night after I got off work and packed up; that put us leaving STL around 9:40pm with a 9-10 hour drive ahead of us. Our plan was to drive through the night, switching on and off, sleeping when possible, and arrive in the morning rested enough to do some fishing Friday. After that we'd fish all of Saturday; Sunday would offer no fishing, only the longish drive back home.

A bonzai trip, to be sure, but one we would both repeat without question. Those were our plans, and we stuck to the itinerary, but the rest of what we had planned didn't work out quite right on any level. On one hand the trip could be called a failure, on the other hand a complete success.

I jotted down cryptic notes today to remind myself of the various and lengthy list of worthy-to-tell stories wrung from the soggy (that's three stories right there) hours of the trip. As I write, there are no fewer than 26 tales I'll be trying in vain to weave cleverly together into something that resembles the trip--a series of otherwise disconnected events that somehow came together to form one damn great fishing road trip.

I have photos, some photos. I'd have more, but one of the 26 stories has as its climax my digital camera pretending to be a streamer as it went in....along with me. Hopefully Chris will have some photos to fill in the dark side of the trip as I have it recorded in photos.

I'll try to be regular, brief, and tireless in my accounts in the coming...weeks. Or months, I'm not sure. I'll get 'em in.

Life of Late

2011-03-09T17:57:00.001-08:00

I've sure been late getting around to fishing; I've barely done any in the past four weeks. That's something akin to going four days without drinking water--I'm beginning to die, and I can feel it. Before you accuse me of being over-dramatic...well, you just have to know I'm not being!

I've been doing a ton of work on the house, specifically a nursery--I'll be a dad to a son sometime around June 29th this year. That means I have to gut and rebuild a bedroom for the little guy. And that means, of course, I don't have much time left over to fish. But, I suppose that's alright. :)

I'm also trying to spend as much time with my new pup, who is now grown to a whopping 30 pounds at about 18 weeks old. She's a trip, for sure!

I'll have more stories, photos, and whatever else next week that I'll be anxious to get out for all of you.

To all my new followers--I am really glad you are coming along for the ride! I'll get to putting up links to your blogs and am looking forward to browsing over some new-to-me blogs. Thanks for the comments!

The Focus of Fly

2011-02-03T08:10:00.000-08:00

Chris and I drove down to the Eleven Point River in southern MO a couple of weeks ago. We both were suffering from a severe and debilitating case of C. feveritis. I'd been down here once before, alone, and was really anxious to show the place off to Chris. The beauty is unique, rare, and unmatched in my travels around the Ozarks of Missouri. He was happily impressed.

In the photo above he's looking up at Turner Spring, something I stumbled on during my first trip (go a few posts back here for some photos and copy about that trip).

There is a danger with the water down on the 11...it's like a Siren. It's always deeper than it looks, it's calmer than it looks, and always stands between you and some amazing-looking stretch of water. We didn't have tubes with us, and we weren't floating it--just wading. It takes two guys to safely wade this river--one to get allured and the other to say, "Hey man, be careful there." It's impossible to be in this water and not get tempted deeper. It's just that good.

The sections we were able to really work through were great, though. We barely caught anything--just two all day--but the experience of being back in water that captivates, surprises and challenges us was enough. I left this river nearly fishless and still happy as a clam. The more time I spend away from water, the more I realize that there is something in my soul that dries out when I'm away from it. I wish I could say I am such a good fisherman that I love catching fish the most, but I'm not. I love the life of a fisherman the most, and that includes having my ass kicked by water that is smarter than I am. Days like this one make me feel as though the trout and water I tangle with are older brothers--they teach me with punches and kicks of "failure" sometimes. At the end of the day though, bruised or not, my "brothers" and I are best friends, just happy to be together in one place again.

The guy I fish most with, Chris, is more of a real brother than I've ever had. We aren't related in a single way--genetics or law, but damn if we aren't related in some more real way. There are friends you can take for granted too easily--those are the closest ones. Chris has the unique ability to make me a better fisherman, better husband, and worse person-in-the-world. He and I are traveling the same road for sure.

Being surrounded by all this makes it impossible not to see the rest of life--jobs, money, houses, cars, politics, etc.--as worthless distractions. I find myself continually asking and searching, "What can I get rid of or avoid that is keeping me from being in the water?" It's funny how definite priorities can clarify life and bring it into submission to simplicity.

All of life rests in focus just above the surface of water like this. I am convinced that fly line, tippets and wet fingers are conductors of that focus.

No Fishing

2011-01-25T06:15:00.001-08:00

I haven't been fishing in weeks (see one reason why here) and I am aching to get out. I have plans to this week, but things seem to keep coming up that need my urgent attention. Patience is a virtue...

One of the major reasons I haven't gotten out is the little girl to the left--this is Amelia. I've been wanting a dog to be a hiking/camping/fishing companion for a long time, and finally committed to finding one. I adopted her 2 weeks ago, and haven't looked back. She was 10 weeks when I got her, and within a day or so found all the rumors about Chocolates were TRUE. She's goofy, exuberant, possibly a little ADHD and a real sweetheart.

I've started training this week, and it's almost an enjoyable "hobby" as fishing. Almost. Dogs like her need "jobs" in life, and while I'm no hunter I still want her to be able to practice field trials and other bird-dog activities. Gotta wear her out somehow!

So instead of venturing out for fish, I've been tending to the constant needs of Amelia. It hasn't been too bad of a compromise--she's already a pretty darn good pup.

I still want to go fishing. Soon.

My Life as a Stripper

2010-12-18T16:30:00.001-08:00

I strip. I like stripping. Im a stripper, no doubt about it. I also
dead drift, jiggle and swing. That doesnt make me sound like a guy
youd find at church or someone you really trust or even like...unless
you too are a fisherman.

I find myself having to explain myself a lot, forgetting that everyone
I speak with doesnt spend at least 2-3 days a week in waders. The more
and longer Im throwing line, the harder it is getting to function
"normally" in the non-stream world.

Im not fishing right now; Im on a lunch break from my very non-fishing
job. But Im still thinking about it, talking about it, and planning
for it. There are such things as funtioning addicts, but Im not one.
Not anymore. I feel as suffocated and out of place when Im out of the
water as the fish I catch.

I fail more and more at understanding people who don't fish. They just
don't seem quite right to me, like something is missing about them or
a bit off. The irony is that I seem the same way to them.

The question Im most asked by "the normals" these days is: "How do you
go when its this cold?" I always answer: "Same as before--west on
I-44." I don't think that helps me fit in.

On the water, I am not explaining myself or apologizing for my
fish-life. Usually it's the other way around--I get to listen in on
the stream explaining its way of life to me and experience the way it
welcomes me to its repeating ritual of balancing upstream with down.

I have to go back to the country of Normal now, but Ill be thinking
about the riparian corridor that, I think, misses me as much as I miss
it.

Ice Road Fisherman

2010-12-17T13:45:00.000-08:00

I don't have much time today for a detailed report or in- depth stories, but I wanted to throw some photos up from Thursday's trip back to the Current. I hoped for some more Browns, but ended up catching nothing but Rainbows (what a bummer, right?). It was one of the good days of winter, and I left smiling and in a great mood.

There is a small population of wild rainbows that successfully reproduce in the stream, and these are always a pleasure and joy to catch. The difference between a wild and stocker is immediately recognizable in most fish, in both appearance and fight. Wildies...those're my drug of choice and completely dictate where I fish.

This male is in spawning colors and proved his bull status as I was unhooking him (see below). This is more than likely a stocker but could be a diluted wild (spots extend heavily below lateral line), but still beautiful in spawn colors.

Teeth! He intended to shred that Slump Buster!

No, I wasn't making coffee and spilled my half-and-half, that's milt from the male shown above. I've been...initiated. I wonder if it's any coincidence that the rest of the fish of the day were all female? Hmmm.

Stocker holdover, but still a pretty girl. The stockers from Montauk are really high-quality and well-bred. If I have to catch a stocker, those from 'tauk are pretty darn good. This one slammed my bugger at the bottom of a very, very deep pool. I thought it was a Brown for sure during the first minute or two until I saw her. She put up one very impressive fight.

She ate that fly!

A little moss forest that covered a log I rested on for a while. Couldn't help myself but to take a photo.

No idea how it formed, but these ice ribbons were amazing. They were just piled up on a fisherman path streamside. Pretty interesting.

It's winter, but there is still life everywhere on the Current.

Outcome

2010-12-14T18:34:00.001-08:00

First things first, here is the latest build on my table. While I have three builds going right now (a 2wt, a Lamiglass 3wt, and this one), this is the only active one. The other two are waiting on either parts or motivation. Both have yet to arrive in the mail.

This build is for Chris B. who heard of Ronnie's mid-weight quick stick and wanted one. As soon as MHX opened their line to fly rods, I jumped on it and got his build started. From there it has taken some interesting design directions, since he wants it to be subtle, but attractive. Building on black blanks is limiting for varied design, but I think I found the ticket.

The Struble U-17HG seat came in the other day along with the thread, and they pair perfectly. I didn't want to do the standard black-black-black, so am using the grey U-17 seat and matching grey thread with a darker metallic for the trim. You all know my opinion on color preserver, but I think I may be forced to use it from an aesthetic position on this rod. I'll do test wraps and find out if I can nix it.

Next job is to finish turning the grip and fighting butt. I'll do it when I'm not fishing. Speaking of which....

I went as planned, well, sort of as planned. I didn't go overnight, or even dark-time morning. I woke up at 1am feeling very tired, a little flu-like, and not in any kind of mood to be frozen. I left, instead, at 7am feeling MUCH better. I made the right call. I'll do night fishing some other time.

I got on the water a little before 10am, and the temperature was hovering around 12 degrees. I dressed appropriately, and didn't feel chilly except during breaks when I took off my jacket, hat and gloves. It felt good to be cold for a while, but it was never a distraction during fishing! I spent the most time I ever have dealing with frozen-ness: guides, line, leader, fly, and reel all would ice solid without constant maintenance. My boots, still wet from the previous trip, went on frozen as well--that was a challenge.

This was a pure, hardcore Brown fishing trip. I wasn't interested in Rainbows, or any other fish I may run into down there. I love my 'bows, but I was a man on a mission. No matter what, I decided I'd not give up the go at catching a Brownie. It was gonna be a Brown or nothing! Expecting to catch none the whole day, I tried to enjoy it by really taking in the scenery. There were some great views, sights, and sounds--and I didn't take a photo of any of it! I just got in the zone, and waded slowly, fishing my way downstream in a very relaxed sort of mood.

I stuck to my streamers, having tied on a #6 Sculpzilla at the car. On the first cast across the current, a fairly nice Brown flashed over and up as the fly swung down and by him. This instant interest in my fly was crucial for my day, I think. Up until now, on my 10 or so trips to this river, I only think I hooked up with one Brown. I was convinced that I had some sort of curse or block against them. Seeing this early on gave me confidence to really fish my flies and be patient. For me, it's easy to lose hope after a while, and I definitely notice a difference when I'm presenting flies with confidence.

The Brown in the photo hit a ways into the day, but I knew it would come--and it did. I changed to a #6 Slump Buster after toying with some rising 'bows. At first, the high sink rate worried me because I had numerous snagdowns with the larger rocks on the bottom. I kept fishing and kept swinging as I went, focusing on deep, slow runs with good cover. It was only a matter of time.

She hit it hard, chasing it down from a few yards away and put up a great fight for being so cold. I was surprised by her strength and gusto, and had to quickly get my reel unfrozen so I could get on the reel. A few minutes later, she was in my net and ready for photos. While I was taking the last one, my camera died ("low battery") and she released a good number of her eggs all over the front of my waders. Preserving battery, I didn't take many more photos on the trip (I found out later that they were fine, it was just the cold that sapped them; I'll have to find a warm place for next trip).

The second Brown came a little while after, and actually was hooked in the right pectoral fin with the Sculpzilla. He put up a heart-stopping fight, jumping and running for at least 5 or 6 minutes. Foul-hooking has a way of making the fights more exciting...but what a bummer. During the fight, he scared two or three other Browns in the vicinity out of the water, so much so and so often that there were two points where I was very confused about what fish I was actually fighting--splashes in one direction and my line in another.

Some people think they're ugly and just good for a great battle on a rod. Well, they are great fighters as I found out today, but holding them and seeing them close gave me an appreciation for their beauty. They are certainly all business with their camouflage, gaping mouths, teeth, and sheer muscle. They're clearly smart, clearly spooky, and clearly great predators. I don't think they'll be topping my list and displacing wild Rainbows, but I do think I'll continue to target them purposely and specifically next time I return to this river where Browns and 'Bows live side-by-side.

I missed another two or three, and had at least that many more flash and refuse. Had I hooked up with every Brown I saw/felt, it would have been one hell of a day...especially for never having come close to bringing one to hand before. It's amazing what a little determination mixed with some patience and stealth will do....

I'm ready for more!

Preparations

2010-12-11T16:39:00.000-08:00

After my trip to Eleven Point, I am feeling rejuvenated but also thirsty for another endeavor. Every good adventure has to have its certain elemental features. It must:

Require good planning that takes into account the fact you are attempting to predict what cannot be planned
Threaten sufficient danger and risk to cause the people that love you worry the whole time, but only so much as to make yourself worry occasionally
Contain the chance for utter failure, and the possibility that success will happen in the face of that chance
Be an objective based on a worthy ideal
Be in a beautiful, captivating setting

And so it is framed, this next adventure I've concocted. It seems that it will be solo; either that is what enhances the risk element or the risk element itself is causing it to be solo...I'm not sure which. I have the rare fortune to often have days off during the week, while the rest of the better-paid world is working and NOT fishing. Having water to myself is something I've begun to expect, but never take for granted.

I'll be heading about 2.5 hours south of STL hoping for my first Brown. I'm dying to get on one/some/tons and have done everything right, except land one. I'll be fishing my Sage ZXL 3wt on a familiar stretch of the Current River, but this time it will be overnight. What concerns me is not so much the isolation, the solitude, or the dark, but the temperature. The latest predictions have the mercury in the low teens.

I organized my streamers and buggers, and snapped a few photos to give a peek in my flybox.

The upper section of this box is pure poultry: Butt Monkeys, Double Bunnys, Fatheads, Sex Dungeons, several Sculpins, Beldar Buggers, Slump Busters, and a Peanut Envy for good measure.

Excited about these new Trout Minnows in a Rainbow scheme; they look just like the little teeny 'bow parr that skip around down there.

The mighty Clouser.

Now that's some serious flash right there. I'm planning on using these as attractors ahead of the bigger streamers or as trailers.

I have more marabou, feather and poof jammed in these boxes than a Vegas nightclub.

As it Should Be

2010-12-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

On one of our mid-fall outings, Chris and I headed to some bigger trout water where we'd had some success over the summer. It is a frustrating place, that challenges me as a relatively new flyfisher everytime I go. This day was no different, and I left the water exhausted, confused, and a little pissy. Chris was sicker than a dog, that day, and left feeling the same way, though less pissy.

Getting back to the car, we found another fisherman pulling on some waders. We said hello, and tried to be friendly. Though he asked how the fishing was and had originally started the exchange of words, he really had no interest in anything we had to say. He walked away silently after wishing him fun and luck, and being generally a rude guy before that. He just wasn't right, and Chris and I just didn't know what to make of it. It was strange, here is this guy who clearly is governed by the same noble passions as Chris and I are...but was unexpectedly unpleasant. It left both of us with a bad taste in our mouth. Forget the fishing, we were bummed out by our would-be fellow compadre!

A week or so later, Chris drove out after work to meet me on some different water. The backstory is that I had been up for almost 2 days straight because of work and decided to go fishing anyway. Waiting for Chris to arrive, I sat in my car and drifted off for a bit. I was awakened by the sound of a calm, but excited voice outside my door:

"How's the fishin'?"

"Pretty good, gotten a little slow. How are ya?"

As I tried to gather my thoughts and appear as if he hadn't just woken me up, I gave him the report from the morning and got talking with him. He was an older gentleman who had come out to meet up with a friend of his own: Rick. He had called Rick that morning and talked to Rick's wife; she told him he wasn't there. He figured from that situation that Rick was already on his way out fishing and drove to meet him.

Earl, as he introduced himself to me with a handshake and smile, had been fly fishing since he was 15. I asked him about his first rod, and he told me it was fiberglass job that I've now forgotten the name of. I asked him if he still has it, and with a great big, proud, and unashamedly nostalgic grin he said, "oh yeah, still have it." With his 50+ years of fishing experience and all the technological changes he'd seen and enjoyed, he was delighted to hear of my affection for 'glass and that I had just started a 'glass rod build of my own.

Chris eventually arrived, and the three of us stood talking water-side for a solid half-hour. We conversed, laughed, and shared a story here and there like we'd all known each other for years but hadn't talked in a while. He was a picture of what each of us wanted to be in life, to be as fishermen. Rick showed up too, and the meeting wound down as Earl paired up with Rick and got his very-not-'glass Sage strung up.

As Chris and I did the same, all we could talk about was Earl. How different he was than our "friend" from the week prior.

"Now that is what an old fly fisherman is supposed to be like!"

"I just want to go to a bar with him and listen for hours."

"I want to be like Earl"

"That's a perfect name, you know? I bet the other guy had a horrible, mean name like...well something awful."

"I'm going to name my kid 'Earl.'"

I'll never forget Earl, or his friendship with Rick. It was good to see two guys who had been fishing together so long that they didn't need to talk about going fishing--they just did and ended up there. There was so much to be admired about Earl; but we never did see him catch anything. I think about that every time I skunk-out. Earl wasn't caring,; it was another great day on the water for him throwing tight, effortless loops to the trout. Now that is wisdom, and he was a happy old sage on the water.

Fourth Blue

2010-12-09T11:37:00.000-08:00

My past week or so has made up in full for my lack of fishing. Chucking most of responsibility to the wind, and not shedding a tear to see it temporarily blown out of reach, I got on four blue ribbon waters in six days. Not bad. Two of those waters were new to me, something I always enjoy. The freshness of the water, the fish, the scenery has a way of washing clean expectations and returning me to the core of why I am infatuated with fishing.

I ventured out this time, not solo as had been the case on the other three trips, but with a fishing buddy I don't get to fish with often enough. Of course, no fishing buddy--if he is a true buddy on the water--can ever be fished with enough. I am fortunate to have a great set of fellas that are as blown-out as me about fly fishing and all thing related. Matt called me up a few days prior aching for some water to blood his new 3wt TXL and Hardy Flyweight on. I convinced him that some skinny, new blue ribbon water with wild trout would be a fitting setting for such a task.

The day was supposed to be one of the coldest yet with the temps never rising out of the 20s. Arriving on the scene, we were delighted to find that while the weather was cold, and the predictions were correct--we were comfortable. I went without my sweater and gloves; Matt chucked his new gloves, too. The air was warmed nicely by the sun, but the water was still chilly in the mid-40's. Warm, fed, coffeed and ready to get some wildies on our line, we quickly came up with a plan of attack that consisted of a stealthly approach to the springs upstream.

Not quite as picturesque as Eleven Point, but still beautiful in its own wintery way, we waded quickly up, stopping every so often to fish a promising looking hole or seam. We figured we'd be nymphing and midging most of the day, so we both started off with dries for fun. I worked down through the water, searching each layer beginning with a #20 Bob's Fly. No action up top (except for some chub and shiners) moved me down to a Hares Ear and finally to a BH'ed soft hackle.

When the sun got high enough to light the water, I think the buggy action really kicked into gear beneath the surface. Matt had great success with a Brassy hung below a #12 Stim, blooding that Sage like a champ on wild rainbows. Doesn't get any better than that!!

My little soft hackle, swinging across and down, got pounded most of the time as it began to rise through the column at the end of the drift. I found that throwing it at the head of a deep pool and letting it sink and drift through it would usually result it a fish on at the tail of it. I had a lot of fun with this, taking 3-4 little McClouds out of each pool.

Whoever wants to write a book about a prototypical tight, skinny spring stream with wild trout--this is your subject water. It was a challenge. Trees overhung both sides of the bank for most of the run, and getting into a position for a good long backcast or tall steeple cast was difficult. I'm still terrible at rolling, but this stream taught me I need to get back on learning that one. The fish were spooky, as I'd heard rumored, and to get on them required either a long (and I mean LONG) upstream cast or an over-and-down search through a deep pool. There were some absolutely delicious looking pools, too.

No huge fish were caught, but I'd like to meet the guy who'd care (actually, no I wouldn't--he already sounds like a tool). Any chance to hold a wild trout in the Missouri Ozarks is a chance to go back in time. I don't think the fish know they're anything special, after all, all we did was to simply interrupt their day of eating and swimming (look at the belly on the one just above!). They don't know they're not stockers, or that they give guys like me occasion to laugh and smile.

I'll never be a hardcore, trophy fly fisherman. I'll never fill this blog with photos of massive hero fish. I don't carry a ruler. You'll never see me holding up a fish with a Boga. Sure, I enjoy big fish; they're fun. What I live for, though, is the clash of exotic and domestic...where I am the exotic surrounded by the domestic. When that happens, even just a little, well, does it really matter what number a fish reaches on a stick of wood? No sir and no ma'am, it does not. This little stream gave me another chance to experience the clash, and it was wonderful!

An Adventure Solo-style

2010-12-06T19:28:00.001-08:00

This solo adventure took me about 30 minutes from the Arkansas-Missouri state line, and to new water. I have been curious to see the Eleven Point, having read and heard echos of its beauty and offerings. All echos were correct, but faded in comparison to the real thing.

It was another MO winter day; the temps hovered in the upper 20s until midday when it finally got to about 32. There is something I enjoy about iced guides, not sure what or why, but I like them.

The intense aquamarine glow of the water was enticing, calling me like a watery siren to its body. Being alone, though, made me err on the side of caution and I allowed myself to be restricted to the water I could access (safely). When I return, I'll have a float tube. The sheer beauty of the color, clarity, and really "glow" was nothing I've seen matched anywhere else. It is magic water, to be sure.

This is wild hog country and, of less concern, black bear territory. I saw numerous places which suggested that a hog had been around recently. I kept my eyes split between the water and land, and especially listened for bad sounds. Thankfully, I didn't knowingly encounter any of the destructive little demons.

Having failed to catch anything other than chub from the river and being unable to fish more than a few dozen yards up and down from the two accesses, I gave up on the river trout and was set to another fun-mission of locating one of the river's many springs. This took me up a hilltain (a Missouri mountain), and on one of the most enjoyable, interesting walks of my life. I found the original mill (for which the access is named), but somehow the wheel is situated backwards.

My mouth hung open further with each step and I climbed up the rocky hillside, following both the flow and rushing sound of the bubbly water that cascaded down. It varied from a single, purposed stream to a trickling from what seemed a hundred different places, but all fell back down together at the base of the hill.

I had expected a pool as the source of the water, but found that it instead came from the base of a sheer limestone cliff. As it poured out of a small cave, it began its journey down, pausing here and there for a small pool; each of these little pools held small fish.

I stood amazed at the mouth of the spring cave; I may have stood there for an hour, but I really don't know. I honestly just couldn't believe or take in all that I was seeing, and more than once I broke out and down in laughter and chuckles.

Figuring that I had to either drink the water and live forever or leave for the time being, I chose to leave and return later. I worked my way down the hill, weaving in and out of the stream at random and enjoying the view fore and aft with every step. I took over 40 photos in this one area, not wanting to ever risk ever forgetting it.

My troutless streak for the day ended abruptly when in one pool, this little McCloud accepted the offer of my soft hackle. This may possibly be my most beloved and special trout ever. I would not trade a 20" 'bow from the river for this little 4" caught from a pure spring-water stream pouring from a cliff. I have never felt so intimately close to or at ease with what is truly wild in this life.

I cannot wait to go back, but I know it will never be the same as it was this day, because this day I fell in love all over again.

A Rough Day of Fishing

2010-12-02T19:28:00.000-08:00

There are those days which, to the optimist, make the good days of fishing better. To the realist, or at least to the poor fella who is living one of those days, these days are just rough.

Today was a rough day. Tomorrow it will be a day that makes the good days better, but today...it's rough.

I planned to head out at 4am for an early, chilly arrival to a stretch of a good stream that is always challenging, holds still-elusive Browns, and hasn't been visited by me in months. This took me almost 3 hours from home, so a 7am on-the-water-time would have been perfect. My first alarm didn't wake me up at 3:30, my second alarm didn't wake me up at 3:35. I slept soundly until 7am, the time I was supposed to be stepping into the water. Oh well, so I'll leave late.

I arrived on the water to find another fisherman as surprised to see me as I was him--this wasn't a day that would have attracted too many others, especially to this secluded spot. Since we knew we were the only two out there, we exchanged some words and fishing reports and it was a friendly meeting. With his report of huge browns being hooked earlier still fresh in my head, I moved downstream to produce my own version of that report.

I fished streamer after streamer, working every hole and side of structure. With the recent heavy rain, the water was still a little off color, so I knew the Browns would be roaming a bit. I fished streamer after streamer, working every deep run. Nothing. Figuring that since I have a record of 0 on Browns this year, I switched to my happy dries and began hunting the 'bows that roam around there. Again, nothing. One small chub and I was done. Cutting my losses and scratching my head, I waded back (to find the number of fishermen had grown to 4; completely unacceptable) and decided on going to a familiar stream with a good population of small wild rainbows.

Arriving there, I found I was the sole rod on the water. I stepped into my waders already feeling the little wildies on my line. I didn't have much time, but figured I could work 2-3 of the better riffles before retreating before dark. I tied on my go-to fly for this stream these days: a #22 Griffith's. The first came slowly, but he still managed to save the day. I plunked him back into the water, telling him out loud that he was the salvation for the day. I brought only 3 more to hand, missing a nicer one, and left. The hour I had there wasn't quite the replacement I needed for the rough morning, but it helped ease the sting a little. At least for a while....

Rushing from spot to spot, I willfully neglected to get gas in the car. On empty, I drove back to the connecting town that sits on the highway home. Almost to the gas station (and coffee!), I stopped at a light and waited for the traffic to start moving again. I heard an odd sound behind me, and had exactly half the time necessary to realize it was screeching tires. By the time I began to figure that out, I was shooting forward at an unusual rate with an accompanying, distinctive "GRUNCH." Looking in my mirror, I saw the horrified face of a college girl. My first thought was, "The Sage is in the trunk--is it ok?"

Forty-five minutes, an inspection of my rod, and one police report later, I was back on the road and headed home. The Sage is fine, thankfully. The car is too, really; the bumper got a kiss that falls somewhere between a solid peck and half-hearted french one.

Rough day. One made better by today will soon follow, I'm sure.

Latest Rod Build

2010-12-02T19:16:00.000-08:00

I am still building more rods than I am fishing these days, which is mostly OK with me. The nice thing about building is: 1) it's above freezing in my "shop" and 2) I can do it 5 mins at a time if needed. I finished this order a couple of weeks ago and snapped a few quick photos before delivery.

My friend ordered a 6wt that he wanted to be nimble, but a solid-performer on bigger trout waters and the occasional trip to some salt. He gave me a few ideas on what he wanted the overall look and feel to be, and I immediately settled on a blank and design: Batson RX7 8'6" 6wt with an R7 aluminum seat inletted to a full-wells grip and framed by a little 1" fighting butt I turned and mounted on the blank. To compliment the sleek look of the matte black blank, I chose black chrome guides from PacBay, using two strippers (16, 12) and wrapping them with black thread and no color preserver. The thread blacked-out as planned and the silver trims really pop sharply from the FlexCoat. It's nice when things go as planned!

The third guide fell dead-on the ferrule after load testing. I did a full underwrap for the ferrule and overwraps for the guide feet. I wrapped the 3-turn trim integrally with the ferrule wrap and started my guide wrap just shy of it inside the underwrap. When I applied finish to the wrap, it melded together well.

Last Few Outings

2010-11-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged much lately; the reason is excusable I hope--I've been doing too much fishing! I had a few frustrating days on the stream and some amazing ones. Chris and I got out to a local wild trout stream again, and a few days later the whole gang of Chris, Ronnie and me returned to it. Here are some photos from the outings....

Chris showed his amazing talents at fishing soft hackles and nymphs in the riffles, schooling me three-to-one on fish.

Chris, Ronnie and I fished until dark and waded back by the half-moon light. Thankfully, we had been here so often that we knew the stream-bed well enough to wade back with flashlights.

Dark, but easy wading. We were hoping for an evening hatch that never came, but it was still a worthwhile trip.

A day or so later, Chris and I headed to the Current River searching for Browns (that we didn't find!). Bill, this photo is for you--this is my normal rig: A Konic 1.5 with GPX 3DTF and a Sage ZXL 8'6" 3wt. I typically run a 6' furled leader and a few feet of 5x or 6x tippet.

While we didn't get any Browns, I caught some very interesting non-trout fish. I caught this hero of a little shiner in a riffle. Notice he has only one eye.

I wondered about the story behind the eye: was it an injury? Did he narrowly escape death from a bird or fisherman? Was he born like this? I returned him to the water feeling both sorry for and proud of him for surviving life.

No Browns, but we did catch a number of fine rainbows in the 10-15" range.

About mid-morning, we noticed a moderate hatch of PMDs and these day-saving caddis. We had been fishing nymphs when the first emergers appeared, and had success with those. Once the caddis hatch hit full-swing, we started really catching fish on EHCs.

Here's another interesting fish. I think its a chub of some sort, maybe a Creek Chub in spawning colors? I call them "Lipstick Chubs" for obvious reasons; they were really colorful in any case. The streams hold so many interesting, beautiful fish!

After being up 30+ hours because of work, I decided to go fishing instead of going home to bed. It was a good call (except for the brief moment that I fell asleep on the highway driving home...that was no good). I was fishing at a Conservation Area lake that had been stocked with trout and was rewarded with this fella'.

I caught him on my third cast, on a mohair leech. Leaving the car, I left my net thinking I wouldn't need it. Well, I did. I had tied on 5x tippet thinking that would be alright too; that is what I always use first and adjust from there either to 6x or 4x depending on conditions. So, 8 minutes of battling this fish on 5x had me tired and it had him tired enough to hand-land.

I was thinking after about 5 or 6 minutes that if I couldn't land him soon I should break him off to avoid exhausting him. Thankfully there was enough of a break in the action (and not my tippet) to scoop the beast from the water for some quick photography. I field-estimated him at 22" and by that length is somewhere between 4 and 5 pounds. His kyped jaw held some pretty gnarly teeth, one of which surprised me and connected with my thumb as I took the fly out. I wanted to keep him out for hours to look at him, to marvel at him--but I had to rush him back to the water. I am so thankful for the pictures I took, though.

The most tense and stressful part of the fight wasn't the actual fight, but the release. I'm always careful to revive fish that I fight hard, and this was no different. I cradled him in clean water near the top where the oxygen is highest and watched his mouth pump water over his gills. Minutes passed and he was still a little tipsy, so I kept holding him upright. I was getting worried about him after a few more minutes, and shifted him to new water a few inches over. When I did, he pulled away from my hand and confidently swam straight and true back to the deep water. Seeing that gave me more of a sense of success than when I first held him; it's almost impossible not to gain a load of respect for a fish like this, and I would have hated to have him die because of my forgetfulness of my net.

My initial intent for going to that lake that morning was to meet a guy to sell my TFO Finesse. Talking with him before I started fishing, I learned that this guy had been caught before, about a week earlier by the buyer's friend. I contacted him afterward and he sent some photos from that catch. This photo was one of those, and it shows the very recognizable lower jaw. He had fattened up considerably in the week between this catch and mine, which was fun to see. I'm a little sad to think about the day that this lake is no longer C&R in a few weeks--this guy deserves to be in the water dominating! He certainly has already brought a lot of joy to at least 2 fishermen; I was lucky enough to be one of them.

Wild Trout #3

2010-11-05T16:18:00.000-07:00

Chris and I had a bum day together again and we returned to a favorite small stream that holds wild rainbows. The fish don't get very large, at most 12" or so (except that one...), but are so incredibly beautiful and healthy, we don't care a thing about the size. Every one we get to see is like finding a $50 bill on the sidewalk or finding out you have one more present under the tree.

The day would be cold, we knew that all week. We knew it'd probably be sub-freezing, and we were totally OK with it. We love this stream so much, fishing together so much, that we'd go no matter what. The cold made it better, I think. We earned our fish with a little bit of toughness that isn't needed on a nice Spring day. Ice formed on our guides immediately, occasionally freezing my casts mid-air. If I didn't stop every few casts to clear the guides, they would become encased in large hunks of ice instead of small ones. That became a little frustrating, but we laughed it off, broke off the ice and kept on fishing.

The little McCloud parr came early and remained catching through the day. Once the sun came out enough to skip its rays across the water, the fish really starting getting active. I fished only dries today and had countless fish, in their eagerness, swim up at my fly, miss it and end up somersaulting over it in the air. One fish did it three times in a row on one drift; I think he was just showing off. Not all the fish were this small, some were smaller. A few were larger and fewer still were a lot larger. Again, we enjoyed every fish we caught regardless of size simply because of how vibrant they were, both in color and vitality. To boot, they were all born in the wild. We sort of root each fish on that we catch, being quite proud of them for doing so well.

The stretch we were on was mostly new to us, and we were delighted to find that it was 100% fish-able, 100% wade-able, and 100% awesome. There was only one small section that consistently produced no fish. Every little pool, riffle and run had something to offer; some sections had 5 or 6 fish-able spots. We worked our way slowly upstream, leap-frogging each other and fishing as we went.

Chris used his 2wt TXL with a Sage Click III and was perfectly matched to the water. I played with it for a bit and immediately starting trying to figure out how I can get my hands on a TXL blank. That is one amazing rod and reel...and line. Chris fishes with a Ferrari, no doubt about it.

Quick photo and back to the water....

You know you're not 21 anymore when you see a log and flock to it for a sit-down. I said I just wanted to sit there and enjoy the scene for a moment (and I did), but I wore myself out! I'm not sure if it was the adrenaline, endorphins or the cold, but this trip really hit the exhaustion button for both of us. This ended up being a great place to take a break.

Back on the water (log in the background) we were right back into fish.

I fished my 3wt ZXL all day and am falling ever more in love with it. I love how progressive and consistent it is; it casts like a dream with SciAng GPX 3wt DT. I am getting VERY attached to this rod (but I still really want that Lamiglass 7'0" 3wt 'glass blank).

At the end of the day, we stood stream-side and admired the water and sunshine. It was a day that just went right, felt right. Anytime you get to hold a wild trout is a time worth enjoying and remembering. Today was one of those days, many many times over.

Trip to Westover

2010-11-04T14:31:00.001-07:00

A friend and I headed to Westover Farms on Wednesday for some trout action in a very scenic part of Missouri. We hoped to get into some big rainbows and the possible Steelhead stocker.

The fishing is skinny water and pretty tight quarters. A lot of roll casts and digging flies out of trees/bushes/grass were the order of the day. The fish being so close and tight in also required some stealth. The fish didn't spook too easily, but you did have to be careful: a shadow or careless rod-tip would definitely shut them down for a bit.

Hookups came pretty quick, which kept us going in the cold. We started about 7am and the temperature was hovering above freezing, I thought. Ice buildup on our lines and guides told us different; it really was cold that morning. Our hands were numb, but the fishing was good enough to keep our minds off the cold and ice.

Later, it warmed up and the fishing got better as the trout became more active. They didn't fight much in the morning, but came to life a bit more as the sun came out. Holding on to the fish for unhooking was hard enough since we landed them quickly and our hands were less than fully functional--we didn't bother with too many "Here's my fish" photos!

Matt had been here before and was my experienced guide for the day. He is one of those guys that is fanatical about fly fishing and really knows how to read the water and fish. I lost count of how many he brought to hand.

I had the pleasure of fishing my ZXL that returned repaired from WA a couple of weeks ago. It did a great job of handling the water and fish.

This was the first outing ever that I brought a net and it helped tremendously in landing fish quickly and safely. Definitely something I'll carry normally now, and since I don't wear a vest/chestpack it is wonderful that my wading jacket has a D-ring for a net release. My netting talents need work, though.

The fish were healthy, most of them very fat and all had better color than a normal stocker. Again, the net really helped limit landing-time and speed their return to the water. If you don't carry a net now, consider it. Mine cost a whopping $15 dollars (so I don't worry about banging it around).

I also had the fun of taking out my second self-built rod: a 6'0" 2/3wt on a Sevier blank and PacBay UL seat. For a $15 blank, I was VERY impressed. It was great for the tight spots and yet could really reach out without too much work. A good haul on the forecast sent line out as far as I ever needed it there. I fished that little stick for the majority of the day, caught the majority of my trout on it, and had a blast doing it. There really is something satisfying about catching and landing fish on a rod you built that has your own handwriting on it. Very happy moments were had on the water with that rod.

Matt and I fished until 6pm, so 11 hours total. Unfortunately I had to get home so was responsible for cutting our day shorter than either of us liked. Our fly boxes took a good hit from losing flies in trees, but a lot died good death of just being torn up by fish.

There also was a General Store that we were told has "hot food, beer and coffee" but what we found was anything but that description. It offered cold sandwiches and colder service. I still cannot believe that place or lady; I can't even start to describe it. Matt and I left jaws hanging open having no idea what just happened. Tips: When in Cuba/Steelville--carry cash, do not go looking for a bathroom on your own, and say NOTHING bad about Walmart.

FISHING BRIEF:
Air temp: upper 20s to mid 60s
Water temp: ~54
Water level: low
Water clarity: Clear to very clear
Flies that worked: 20 Adams, 18 black ant, 12 brown hopper, 24 white midge adult, 20-18 Renegades, 24-22 Griffths Gnat, 22 Black-faced midge

New Water with an Old Rod, Old Water with a New Rod

2010-11-01T17:43:00.000-07:00

Chris and I convinced each other to get out fishing last week; it didn't take too much for us to get on the water. We each have frequency requirements of our own, but we so enjoy fishing together that we have a whole other requirement for how often we fish together. It had been way too long and we were double cranky from not fishing.

We decided on some Smallie hunting and settled on fishing the Big River. There is something mystical surrounding the Big for us--we can never quite remember how to get to the access points every time we go and always end up somewhere other than we intended. It happened, as usual, again this time. We found ourselves at a previously rejected spot, but found that it was one of the prettiest and fishiest-looking stretches that we'd been on. Definitely photo worthy.

We didn't get any Smallies, which was disappointing but OK. We were so happy to be back out, and the 'gills and hybrids we were catching made it even better.

The scenery got better as we worked upstream, but the fishing didn't. Again, we weren't that disappointed.

This is the old (very old) broken mill at the access point for which it's named. Pretty interesting; was a little sad to see the place's namesake and history just laying around like trash.

The next day I was able to get the 8wt I had just finished out on some water. I decided to head to a lake I used to fish as a kid since it's known for (and I've caught) some very large LM Bass. Figured that might hopefully justify taking an 9'0" 8wt to Missouri water. It didn't, but I had a ball casting and fishing the rod.

I "blooded" the rod on a 6" Crappie, not what I was hoping for but at least the rod and I weren't skunked. I caught it on a Salt Shaker late-dusk in some rocky shallows. Needless to say, the fight was neither epic or long-lasting. Still, a fish is a fish.

On my way back, I saw a sadly ironic sight. This appeared to be a rod graveyard of pieces collected from a group of rods that met their end by either an angry knee or a lawnmower. Having my new rod out that I built made this a painful sight; someone built these too. I gave them a moment of silence and moved on.

I had fun going out to old water that I hadn't seriously fished since I was a kid. Memories definitely floated to the surface, and they were all good. It was a bit surreal to be out there again, on my own rod and fly fishing. I doubt I ever thought I'd be doing that when I was a kid.

Finished with Finish

2010-10-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I've now finished the rod. It's done. I've actually built my first rod after all the talking, reading, planning, more talking--I completed #1. Whew! It took way longer than it should have; I had to re-do more than even I expected. And the kicker is that it'll be a while before I can justify taking an 8wt out on the Missouri waters. Oh well, I will anyway. Here are some finish photos:

The seat is a basic milled aluminum job that I probably should have inletted, but decided I'd better just finish a rod before I start that sort of thing. Next time.... That is the Konic 3.5 that will spool this beast; love the Konics. It balances the rod just right, which means I'm glad I didn't inlet the grip. That EVA fighter will get replaced with a cork one; I just have to make it after the rings arrive. I'm thinking of chopping the end of this butt and capping the cork one with it.

Here's the finish on the wraps without CP. I figured not using it would give me the dark and semi-translucent look I was after--it worked perfectly. The color of the thread is now a shade darker than the blank and reveals the guide feet nicely. I'm pretty happy with it.

Beginning to fulfill her destiny. I just cannot wait to cast this rod and compare it to the 'glass 8wt. Even with the slightly heavy reel, and loaded with guides and finish, this rod is SO much lighter.

I made enough mistakes along the way, but I'm happy I did--fewer to remake next time. There are some small details that I will do better next time or just differently, but this rod is ready to fish and will probably outlast me. A pro rod-builder I am not (yet), but I'm addicted to the job anyway. Love it.

The latest from Barelyatall

2010-10-27T07:53:00.000-07:00

I am taking the advice of some wiser-than-me fishermen and am heading out to trout tomorrow on a day off, but I figured some readers may want to see what life has produced in Barelyatall as of late. Here are some simple and, honestly, pretty poor photos of my baby. After it's done, I'll post photos of the rest of it; for now I'll just highlight the wraps.

Here's the bench that has been re-purposed into a rod-building metropolis. I love getting this thing messy and covered in thread bits, tape, and whatever else I'm doing that particular day.

Hook keep and cheap winding check. One thing I did not do on this first rod was drop a lot of cash. I figured I'd screw up at every turn and I was basically right; this is the Professor Rod since it's taught me so much. Very fun. It's a Sevier Salt 9' 8wt that I will use a bunch in the surf and for freshwater carping next year. I'll miss the 'glass 8wt in my heart, but my arm won't miss it one bit.

The wrapping was probably my favorite part, especially sprinkling the trims around on the hook keep, first stripper (this has two, a 16 and a 12), ferrule and tiptop.

The rod is complete, but as you can see I haven't applied the finish to the wraps. I hope to tackle that tonight. I'm opting to fore go CP, so we'll see how that turns out. I definitely think the "dark brown" thread needs to be darker (much darker) and it seems the skipping of CP is the way to get there. Plus, I have always liked the look of the guidefeet being visible.

My next rod, which is on its way to my abode now, will be a Batson Forecast 6'6" 2wt. I'm still not comfy dropping mad cash on any component, and I've heard amazing reviews about Batson IM6 blanks. I just wish it weren't blue! Photos on that after some time in Catching.

A Lapse in Sanity

2010-10-25T17:20:00.000-07:00

The past few weeks, as you know, I haven't posted a letter on fishing (or anything). The reason for that is my lapse back into the land of Barelyatall, spending most of my time in the city of Fishing.

Fishing, Barelyatall is a sad place, and it's one that I hope to leave soon. Before I can go, I have to do more work on the house before winter shuts me down on exterior work.

Just because there isn't any fishing in Fishing (strange, isn't it?) doesn't mean I have been totally unproductive. I've gotten two rods to the guide wrapping stage (ruined one because of a dumbass mistake with epoxy; won't do that again!). Learning to build rods has been very enjoyable...and very humbling. This is the first new pursuit I've undertaken in a long time, and it's a little refreshing and a little stinging to feel what it feels like to make mistakes again while learning something from the start (seasoned mistakes are constant companions, though). I'm glad I started which inexpensive components! I'll try to get some photos up when there's something worth showing.

I'm ready to go to the sister city Fishing that is in the neighbouring country of A Lot. Fishing, A Lot is a much happier city.

Technomologimical Oddities

2010-10-08T17:55:00.001-07:00

My two best buds that I fish with both have iPhones. I love having
guys on trips with iPhones because that means I have access to Pandora
and good maps in the car. But the text messages (usually related to
fishing) are sometimes...unclear. Here are some recent examples:

CHRIS: "I have your grottoes" trying to tell me I left my waders in his car

RON: "bladders" trying to tell me he cant go fishing because of class

CHRIS: "I see you in cah" trying to tell me...I don't even know what.

CHRIS: "Igbo can come over" trying to tell me he might come over for
beers. I now call him "Igbo."

My wife also sent me one today...she was trying to say "great idea"
but it came out as something too dirty for this non-adult-rated blog.

I love iPhones. I love their messages even more.

Heading on Down

2010-10-05T17:44:00.001-07:00

The parallel is too obvious for me to go into loathsome detail about, but there is a striking similarity between a person's life...and a stream.

A number of rivers, creeks and streams I've been on recently have been new to me. While on the water, I only rarely carry or refer to a map (if one is even available). Often, the fishing or just the surroundings are so captivating that I get very near-sighted. That has resulted in countless close-calls and trips, but it also has given me a moment-by-moment way of being on the water. That way of being inevitably leads to never quite knowing what will be up ahead, what will be brought to sight from another few steps downstream. Bends that shoot to the left have never given me warning, either on the stream or in life. They're a thing of beauty when fishing, but not always so when not. Having reality take radically new directional bents can be tiresome, stressful and confusing. I'd love life to go straight ahead all the time, at least then maybe I could see more than 50' of what's coming.

Those bends, though, are where the fishing is. Arrow-straight runs are great, especially if they're a bit roughened by a lively stream-bed or a small fall or two. The bends are more dynamic, and they always produce more fish for me. The difference between a pleasant, watery bend and a frightening, real-life bend seems to be rooted in a few different places. I let go of control when fishing, relishing all the ways I find myself on the edge of it; life, though, at least a good "American" one, is not one to be--we are taught--left to an uncontrolled state. I've been a very good American.

The bends come, though. Oh do they come. And it is in the head of those bends that I am met with uncontrolled water. It is water that misbehaves and cuts the bank, rushing forward in one spot and rushing back in a spiraling whirl in another. The very question of what to do is out of control--"Do I follow the water or do I continue straight?" If I follow the water I continue to fish, and that is a certain continuity in its own right. If I go straight, I leave the water but continue my direction. Bends, wet or dry, propose questions that demand a decision on which continuity takes priority. I have recently realized that the most important question for me to ask in light of that first question is: "Am I here for the sake of the water or am I just passing through?" If I am on the stream-path for the sake of doing what can only be done in a stream, then I had better well follow that bend. If I am only passing through, then its really only a matter of utility that I ever entered the water, and getting back out to continue straight bears no penalty.

I have never once dipped into water for the sake of reaching land, though. It is quite the other way around. I take all bends with rod in hand; I'm learning to take all bends...period, though. There is a paradox of being flexible and deathly stubborn at once. Directionally, even circumstantially, I have had to learn to be flexible on the water, going left or straight or right without question. There is a stubbornness there too, though; I've set myself to following the stream, to following where the fish live. I'm not sure if that should be said as stubbornly flexible or flexibly stubborn, but both elements have to be in you. They cannot, I've found, be isolated or ignored.

I've made the mistake before, and still suffer from the syndrome of making it now, of confusing the path with the destination (and vice-versa). I've even become so focused on the destination that I've gotten upset over the path, forgetting its necessity and ability to result in a destination. That aside, knowing to certainty one's own destination is usually impossible; it has been for me. That's why I'm writing right now.

These days, in life, I'm choosing to fish the water down from the bend. I'm fishing the water in the bend one step down at a time; I'll reach new water beyond what I can see any moment now. There are casts to be made, fish to catch and fish to lose, and water to leak into my waders. I can see the dry land that went straight, some of my friends are up there. Their waders aren't leaking, but I don't think they came to fish. I did, though, and I like it. I can't say what's around the arching corner, but I know it's wild down there and I know it's what my life will be if I just keep fishing. I'll get there eventually, and I might even find a calm stretch to patch up my waders.

Catch of a Lifetime

2010-10-04T18:22:00.001-07:00

I thought it was about time I told a story from a few years back about a fish that I continue to regard as my best catch ever. Fishermen love stories. I love hearing them above almost all other stories--the details, the excitement or grief on the face of the teller, the suspense and, most of all, the way a good story draws the listener into a moment forever frozen in time. This time, though, is my turn to be the teller.

It was March 18th 2006; the evening was an impromptu trip close to home. As dark settled on the water and night began to take hold, the fish swam by me close enough that I could get a decent look. The first thought I had was not one of catching it; the fish was beyond me and I knew it. My first thought was, "I want to catch a fish like that one day." The idea then sank in that "one day" may be "this day." I knew then that this fish would be life-changing...if I could hook up with it. I don't often hear it mentioned by others, but I often experience an acute sense of pressure and excitement in these situations--just the idea of casting to an amazing fish. The world seems to shrink exponentially from the moment of sighting, the preparation, the cast and drift planning, and finally--the cast itself.

I took my time on the planning stage, even collecting myself with enough dignity and self-restraint to hold off slinging my line too soon. A few moments of careful watching, something akin to studying, and a short while considering the implications of all the possible outcomes: hooking and landing, hooking and losing, never hooking at all. I knew I was in over my head with this fish; my equipment was barely more than an insult to it, my abilities were shamefully exactly an insult. I didn't deserve to land this fish, or even hook it; the dignity that I had just formed in the moment would not, however, let me go without a few hopeful attempts. Unanswerable questions loomed: "Was this fish even feeding; was it just caught and released or lost moments ago and now ultra-wary; was it an educated monster that by wit and experience had grown to this size by eluding or escaping every previous fishermen?" Unanswerable questions.

And so it went, a fly selected based on limited knowledge gained in the short moments I forced myself to pause, and one aimed cast with a clumsy and quick presentation. Honestly, my confidence in moment consisted more of a request--"Please take this fly, please!"--rather than a delicate and sophisticated offer--"Take this if you like; I doubt you'll be able to resist."

My stress in the situation of earnestly trying to catch this specific fish was heightened by the presence of other fishermen in the area. Perhaps you've experienced the sense of needing to be stealthy and aloof-seeming around other fishermen; the last thing you want to do is tip them off to the fact that there is an epic-class fish in the area that may actually be catchable. One of the fishermen, I thought, had an eye on "my" fish; worse, I thought that "my" fish may be more tempted by the offerings of that next-closer fisherman. Not wanting to spook the beast by throwing my cast while this guy was close in the area and possibly throwing his own at any moment, I entered into dilemma-mode: do I cast and risk spooking or wait and risk having it caught by another? Dilemmas often accompany extraordinary circumstances, and so realizing this I chose the former risk.

I cast; the other fisherman cast, and I watched as our flies bobbed on the water. My fly was closer as I was closer in general to the fish, and I saw movement beneath the glassy surface. The fish made a move toward the flies, but it was not obvious to which it moved or by which it was tempted. The lack of my own confidence birthed the assumption that the movement was intended for the other fly. I pulled my fly off the water and laid it back down far upstream to regroup. The fish had not spooked yet and neither had it been hooked; I hung on to that as my singular hope that I was still in the game of at least hooking the fish. I redressed my fly, checked my tippet, recast and again watched as my request drifted over. A quick, soft sip that was barely discernible in the riffle suggested I ought to tighten the line and set the hook. I did and found that I was now in stage-two of being in over my head. Hooking the fish was a challenge balanced on luck; landing the fish, now, was a challenge balanced on skill.

I had fought some strong fish before, fish that make reels sing and water boil. They became minnows the moment I hooked up with this fish. The battle consisted of a schizophrenic pendulum of screaming runs both away and toward me and moments of calm where I felt the weight of the fish, but not its fury. This was going to take a while, I knew. I grew older during the fight, I know that, but I also grew wiser. The fish was, whether it knew it or not, patient with me. I made a few mistakes and probably should have lost the fish several times, but somehow the hook remained implanted and my line stayed a singular piece. I began to think that I might actually land this....

And I did. Unbelievably I did. I not only somehow--miraculously--was blessed that night to have this particular fish swim by me, but managed to get it to take my fly. Beyond that is more on most days than I can convince myself is true--I brought that fish to hand and raised it out of the water for a closer look. Tired but noble, with fire in its eyes and colors seeming to radiate outward from deep within it, the fish was finally captured. I had imaginations about the beauty of the fish before that moment, but there is always more to be appreciated about a fish like this once it is cradled in your hand. Indeed, this was the catch of a lifetime, the fish of a lifetime.

That fish...is my wife. I "landed" her on May 11th 2007 at Covenant Presbyterian at 6:30pm, but knew long before that wedding night that I was really the one captured by her.

I love you, Cheryl!

Bragging for a Friend

2010-10-04T17:58:00.000-07:00

While I was toiling away at work this past Sunday, I received an update via text message from (the evil) Facebook letting me know my friend had uploaded some photos. I looked over these photos and my coworkers watched me smile and turn jealousy-green. I had to brag on his behalf here, especially since the story I demanded from him shortly after I saw the photos is so good. Here are Matt's words (with photos following):

"I had been hunting this big trout for about 30 minutes. He had been biting and snapping at the other fish I had hooked. I floated a small hopper into the riffles, a 5-6 inch trout parr took it, and the the Fat Man immediately struck the Little Boy. I waited about 90 seconds for Fat Man to swallow Little Boy, then fully tightened the line and hung on for dear life. He fought for about 10 minutes. He made two pretty long runs right when I tried to land him. I had to borrow a kid's net because I typically don't carry one...should probably change that next time at Westover. Wicked fun.

The other rainbows were good sizes as well (14-16 inches). Dry flies were the only successful ones yesterday, although scuds apparently work pretty well at Westover. Successful dries were small cracklebacks, 'hoppers, and white midges."

Good job, Matt! I'm sure I'm not the only jealous one--that is a beautiful fish (and a gorgeous Sage/Ross pair-up)! And Go Cards!

Where he went and more information: Westover Farms

Followers

2010-10-01T14:33:00.001-07:00

I just wanted to thank everyone for "Following" my little blog. I know Google Reader has limited space to quickly display updates, so thanks for spending some of that front space on my stuff. Thank you especially to Josh Shock and my mother and wife for most recently following and to Chris and Bill for your comments. I'll try to keep you all entertained and wishing you were out fishing!

Wild Trout

2010-09-29T08:00:00.001-07:00

Chris (his blog here) beat me to the blogging punch and posted some info on our recent trip to the Ozarks for some wild rainbows. The question came up during the trip, "When does something become native" while we wondered how native these wild trout had become; we concluded little except that life in a stream seems to generationally run on a spectrum consisting of Stocker-Wild-Native categories. Regardless of exactly where on that spectrum we were entering, we were definitely throwing flies at the farthest-right point yet.

We set up camp on Sunday night, having left earlier than our days-off began and arriving late that night. As usual, the dark made navigation on basically unmarked roads in no-signal territory interesting. We found it despite the area's best efforts to hide the campground. Per tradition and universally understood rules, immediately after setting up house we checked the water. Seeing this-and-that and being close to water again made us both ready for morning light which would bring a better view and, hopefully, wild trout.

We quickly identified a small #24 Mayfly hatch and I switched to a matching pattern; a few casts later I was in shock that I was actually connected to a non-stocker trout. The joy of the moment surged through me, and barely being able to concentrate and contain myself I stripped in this modest rainbow. This was one of two highlights of the trip for me; I stood in awe of this little fish who had come to make Missouri his home.

In my excitement, trying to snap another photo, I dropped at least 50% of my camera in the water. It turns out that it was not an operationally crucial 50%, but definitely an imaging 50%. The next few photos I snapped were eerily foggy. There was a chilly fog on the water, but not as much as it looks like. The air temp was in the low 50s when we got on the water and in the upper 50s nine hours later when we got off it.

The small Mayfly hatch came and went throughout the day, but definitely peaked around 11am. Multiple large clouds worked their way downstream over our heads. Barely visible in this snap is one of those clouds; it looks like dust or snow, but it is tens of thousands of #24 'flies. Surprisingly, the fish were not highly selective on dries and seemed to take anything light-colored regardless of size. I was happy to tie on larger flies and had great fun watching trout hammer my #16 Humpy.

We moved downstream for a full 8 hours, even wading through a section that stretched our wading abilities and mettle. I was sure I was going to get my leg chomped by something or get a foot stuck and go for a bath--Chris did draw some blood on a boulder--but we successfully passed via a hell-walk on land and death-wade in water. I said to Chris several times that this had better become worth that travail, and was getting seriously discouraged that it was not.

As we rounded a bend, we were met with a glorious riffle and an equally gorgeous run above it. After missing a few fish in the riffle, I worked upstream and found a small slot beside the bank. A mid-length cast and a short drift ended with a small splash, and my fly was instantly traveling in a faster than-current manner. And much faster. The fish gave a quick and cumbersome leap to show its head and size, and then took off downstream like Rocketman. I had about 20' of line stripped out for the cast and drift, and that was quickly pulled from the water and through my fingers as the fish put himself on the reel. A shout for Chris got him wading toward me from the riffle where I later learned he caught nearly 40 trout.

He arrived on scene to see the back and forth battle between my Konic's drag and this wild rainbow. A handful of runs and a few long standoffs downstream (he was a smart guy--never having once swam upstream, only down) passed and we were both ready to bring the fight to an end. He gracefully let me bring him to hand, raise him for release and photo, and be rod-measured. What a fat 'bow!

I gave him some spa time, and while I still think he was being a little over-dramatic, took off strongly after a few minutes rest, cradled in my hand all the while. I've now had two of these moments of reviving a large trout after a real battle; it has proven both times to be an experience of indescribable happiness, satisfaction, and even romance of nature. The world is blinked away in an instant when a big fish is hooked, seems to irrevocably vanish during the fight, yet somehow returns in a new, refreshed, and rewritten way during release.

All the fish I caught were not big; I enjoyed the vibrant beauty of countless 5-7" fish that I have yet to have really show up on a camera well. Outside of the moment, everything is faded off-stream that was once brilliant when there.

At the end of the second day--the last day--we were satiated. We had fished the majority of the good sections of the stream and seen more than our active imaginations prepared us for pre-trip. We were exhausted from being surrounded by the scenery that, at its core, held truly wild trout. I think I can speak for both of us in saying that it felt as if by fishing and catching in that stream, we had enjoyed an honor, being ourselves a rare presence on water that is both wild and admirably refined at once. As tolerated intruders we tried to take it all in, but so much is unavoidably left behind, and found again only when our line falls back to the water.

Religious Views

2010-09-24T15:23:00.000-07:00

I'll post more extensively, honestly and (hopefully) insightfully later, but when asked by Facebook concerning my "Religious Views," without thinking or any other hestitation, I entered: "Fly Fishing."

Back into Cold Water

2010-09-20T17:15:00.001-07:00

Sunday had me off work and on the road. Ronnie (his blog here) and I headed out early, leaving STL at 4am. Anxious to get there, I didn't exactly obey all posted speed limits, and the places where it wasn't posted I just made up my own. We were nervous about the rain having screwed up the water to some degree; it poured and stormed the night before and was still raining when we left. A handful of miles down the road revealed that we would almost certainly be fishing rain-less, and later found out that it had barely rained where we were headed.

Montauk is a drive for us, at least on the way back. Somehow when headed there it always feels about an hour away, even though its actually more than twice that, but leaving feels more like five. We made good time on the "Rollercoaster Road" that marks the last stretch and pulled in early. Way early. We usually give ourselves 30 minutes to rig up and get our spot before the buzzer sounds; this day we had more like an hour--start time changed to 7:30 Sept 1st.

While we waited very impatiently, talking and making plans for future trips trying to distract ourselves from the wait, we couldn't help but look intently around. We each sighted fish immediately, but the real game was studying them and having a particular 'bow selected to work once that damn buzzer did sound. The minutes ticked by with watch-checks every 30 seconds or so to confirm that time really had slowed down. We knew our fish--had a good idea of each's personality, habits, behavior and feeding lanes. The only thing we didn't do while waiting was name these fish. When the buzzer sounded (40 seconds late, by the way), we loosed our flies from our fingertips, cast and immediately began watching the drift that we had pictured and planned for the past half hour. Before the buzzer stopped sounding, we were both almost about to release our first fish of the day. Oh yes, this would be a very good day.

I don't want to paint the picture that I am a superstar trout fisherman who has any clue what he's doing; I really don't. I'm a warm-water transplant everytime I go trout fishing, and a lot of what I do out there is just imagining these trout are just oddly shaped BG, asking myself, "What would a Bluegill do [i.e. WWBD]?" Even in my novice, greenhorn status I started getting bored with the action in the park. Ronnie did too. The fish are very uniform in size, fairly predictable, too damn numerous, and too well accompanied by other fish hunters. In a simultaneous glance, quick nod, and immediate stowing of gear, we were off. We headed to the Catch and Release area for some bigger, tougher fish. We found 'em. Well, Ronnie found the bigger fish; I found the tougher fish.

Ronnie hooked up with one of the bigger trout that haunt that spot and I got called over in an excited voice for a photo. I ran over ready to assist and capture the moment. It was fun to watch him slide the fish onto the reel and fight him off that, plus this fish put up a spectacular fight with a lot of cycles in and back out.

He landed the 18" bow, lost his hopper in the onshore battle that ensued, and released it back.

He landed the bow relatively quickly; he's a good conservationist and knowing this was a C&R area wanted to make sure the trout would easily recover. So the onshore action was as lively as the water-fight; amazing how powerfully these fish can "wriggle." As he slipped back into the water, he immediately and confidently swam off--always a good sight. You don't have to be a good conservationist to at least gain some respect for the fish during the fight to land him, but it doesn't hurt anyone when you already are.

I landed a few there, none very large and all hard earned. I fished another small section and unhooked some number of trout that seemed to be addicted to small C-backs and Bob's Flys; what a hoot! I nearly landed a real hog, but net-less had him break off my 6x when I dipped my hand down to him.

We left the C&R area altogether after two very non-conservationist males (they were grown, but hardly "men") showed up and began to be human weeds. One set up directly behind me and made it difficult for me to cast and dangerous for him to stand. I didn't move and didn't catch him; a testament to my strengthening casting skills I suppose...and my stubbornness. The boy over by Ronnie was a little more offensive: he hooked into a nice rainbow and proceeded to rail it in and intentionally drop it from chest-height onto the concrete access walk. He just dropped it! On purpose! Another quick glance and nod between Ronnie and me and we were off again.

We moved to two access points outside the park that we know have Browns, fewer but bigger bows, and far far far fewer people. More our style.

We split up as soon as we hit the water; Ronnie stayed upstream to work a beloved pool and I ventured down. As I walked out of sight I soon became all by myself on the river. I reached a great looking pool bordered by a riffle, and since we were after Browns, I stopped for some casts. I looked at the water, hoping to at least see some signs of life, a rise or shadow maybe, and saw a flash of some real color. It was the largest bow I had seen at this access, and may stay that way for a while. I was intimidated by it, even if only by the brightness of its color. The overwhelming desire to hookup with this fish set me up for massive disappointment, I knew, and I had just lost my last EH Caddis that, until I lost it a few casts earlier, had been terrorizing the far bank. I inspected my little #18 Humpy, willing it to be Caddis-like and prepared myself for the disappointment as I stretched out a cast. The drift brought the little Humpy just on the far side of the bow and I saw him rise, turn, and sip it off the film. You're kidding!

I was happy to be on 5x, but I still went to the reel after two screaming runs stopped my heart. The fight lasted somewhere between 5 and 10 minutes, plenty of time to lose that fish. Weighing the exhaustion level of the fish in the balance of landability and health, I brought it in for a try (remember, I'm net-less today). Nope, not even close to ready.

He tore off again, this time dangerously into the fastest part of the current. As I worked him out back into calmer stream, he eyed a nice downed limb. Sure enough, he fired down the current, looped back under the tree and paused long enough for me to wheel around and begin dealing with the problem. We were both upstream of the limb, but the line took a terrifying track downstream to it, under it and back to the fish. I momentarily tried to pull the fish back downstream and under the limb, but didn't want the strain on the already-tired tippet that would have created. After a second or two of stalemate, I decided I had to act and moved down to the limb, loosened my drag and threaded my whole rod under the limb and back up out of the water. I was losing to this fish, but had at least I was back on level ground in the fight.

I tried again to hand-land him, and this time was successful. I looked hopefully upstream for a sight of Ronnie to return the photo-favor, but I was alone. Totally alone. It hit me then that this entire episode that had completely defined and filled my life for the past 10 minutes had been completely contained to one small area of the stream and just two characters--the fish...and me. I struggled to cradle the fish and snap a few photos and rushed to get him back into coldwater for some reviving spa time.

A minute or two in the calm flow was enough, and this trout that had been the only life I knew for a bit was ready to swim off. I gently lowered my hand from underneath him and he took position just beside me to finish his rest.

I stood there and admired the view for another few minutes, and then we both left. I went back upstream in search of Ronnie...and we were off again to the next access point (which will probably end up as Part 2 to this post).

Little Bit Here, Little Bit There

2010-09-17T16:04:00.001-07:00

I am still struggling horribly to get out fishing. I am still on this house-fixing kick, and I am trying to make the most of it while I have the wherewithal and motivation (it'll re-depart eventually). My Finesse 3wt did arrive back from Texas a few days ago, and I had to (had to!) go test it out to make sure it was ok. It was, of course.

I had a few nights back at my buddy's lake-pond. There are five large (at least one very large) grass carp that live in there, and they are unwanted guests. Chris and I have been assigned the task of cutting the population down to 1-2. It's hard work, but someone has to do it! This past week, I drove out a few evenings to chum an area with corn and tomatoes, planning to fish it Thursday night.

Wednesday night, though, gave me enough time for 8 casts with the fixed TFO. I landed this one little bass and left. I left because it was getting too dark to see and too windy to hear or cast. The dark was getting so dark it starting creeping me out enough to cause me to give several quick, nervous glances over my shoulder at the woods which back up to the water. This place is in the middle of nowhere, so the dark is a real dark. No light pollution! After the bass, the wind really picked up a lot, a lot of weird noises started, and I just got plain scared. I packed up, gathered enough courage to take the time to take down my rod and reel, and piled into my car. Preparing to turn on my headlights, I was sure an Eastern Missouri Zombie or the like was about to be lit up staring right at me, but I was alone. I still locked my doors and didn't bother looking back as I reversed out of my little parking spot (I figured if there were something behind my car, it'd be in my best interest to kill or injure it since it probably had ill intentions for me). Short night, quick departure, fun time back on the TFO.

Thursday brought Carp Day. With corn flies, red globugs (for tomatoes) and 1x tippet on a 7wt and glass 8wt, Chris and I headed into the fray with polarized glasses and high spirits. We soon spotted a finner just off the dock, and I stalked up into casting position...threw my line and fell just short. "Good, didn't spook him; he's still there" I thought. I recast and had it set perfectly, I knew, for dropping the corn-bug rig just in front of him without going over and as I brought the rod forward in the cast anticipating the line unrolling in front of me, I felt a hard TUG behind me. Cedar tree. A damn healthy cedar that should have been a Christmas tree long ago held my dropper rig like it was saving the carp's life! I ended up breaking my whole rig off in the tree and immediately called Chris over to take the spot. He's significantly smarter than I am, so he didn't take the same spot, but a little closer and more open. It worked.

He saw the carp still out there and dropped a red globug close enough for a notice and later described the hit as a hard "UHHNGG!" Chris had a carp on, and he was ready for a fight.

Less than 2 seconds later, the carp was gone. The globug too. Even a section of the 1x tippet left. The carp ended up breaking it off at the start of a hard run and never looked back. Chris did, however, hook into another big fish that seemed to be carpish, looked carpish in the murky water, and fought carpish. It ended up being a channel cat, but it was probably the most exciting, torturing few minutes of the night.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1x tippet is not enough; glass 8wts really are tiring; globugs work for everything, everywhere; "dipping your fly in corn" is not a known euphemism but probably should be; carp are damn hard to catch.

Life Recent

2010-09-13T18:32:00.000-07:00

In a dramatic shift from weeks and months past, I have barely fished in the past two weeks. That has been partly due to two broken 3wts and partly due to an unexpected resurgence of a will to work on my house again. So, instead of a Sage in my hands, I've wielded a Wagner paint sprayer. Instead of cutting tippets, I've sliced miles of masking tape. The work goes on...but so does fishing.

I was able to get back out to my friends lake-pond for some Sunday-afternoon water time. Not having my 3wts still, I brought the "boomer" 'glass 8wt out hoping to justify it with some big bass or perhaps even the-fish-which-I-dare-not-name.

I didn't quite justify the 8wt, but had a lot of fun. I even got my buddy to fish the fly rod some, and before it wore his arm out, he managed a few 'gills. I don't think I quite convinced him, but had I had something other than the broomstick, I'm sure he'd be buying into it right now.

I am continuing to read, learn, think and dream about rod building. I have my blank selected and am now in the process of researching and selecting the other components (I'm a hideous perfectionist). While I do that, I've started building a stand for threading guides and whatnot. I got the idea/design from the building book I'm reading, but being the fella that I am, I couldn't leave his design well enough alone.

It'll be made of a nice curly piece of Red Oak and instead of being screwed together, I opted for a stopped dovetail. The hold-down banding pins will be through-dowels with multiple placements to adjust tension. I'll use a traditional green felt in place of the more techy polypro or teflon. Fun, small project that is coming right along and keeping me in the fishing-game without actually having to fish.

The Massive Popper

2010-09-06T04:16:00.001-07:00

One day prior to today...I cant quite remember which, but it was recent--Chris and I struck out into some high-winds fishing. He was using a TXL 4wt and I had my new-to-me ZXL 3wt.

For the fall I've made it my goal to hunt bass. Not having the right flies, I picked up a huge 1/0 frog popper at Feather Craft the other day. What better time to throw that chicken than on the windiest day of the year?

I was able--to my and Chris' shock--to cast it pretty well and while I didnt get the huge bass attack I hope for, I did get one nice little LM on it. It's definitely time for big flies and big bass...and its only a matter of time before the two meet.

Chris did some serious damage on the 'nator he always dominates with, though. You can read his side of the story on his blog, but the short story is that he caught back-to-back a 15" crappie, a 9" RE and then a smaller RE. Lucky guy!

Labor Day Fishing (Updated)

2010-09-06T03:59:00.001-07:00

Happy Labor Day indeed! After finishing with work, my wife and I headed out to our friends property west of STL for some food, friends, beer and...fishing. I had the ZXL with me ready for battle, and after a quick survey of the 4 acre pond-lake I determined there were a lot of catchable fish ready to be assailed.

I quickly started catching small bass and greenies. As I worked around the lake, the bass got bigger and the greenies more voracious. I was getting excited. Working from a tight spot on the bank, casting over to a particularly productive spot, I caught the largest of the bass for the night. It was only 14" or so, but a healthy, fat guy that delighted the owner. I think he was more excited at the sight of real fish--bass fish--in his lake. While holding the young bass for a photo, my line got a little tangled up in some bankside brush.

Waggling the rod to free my leader got me 90% free and one last lift with the rod would do the trick....but the wrong trick. The sound that I thought was the tiny branch snapping was actually the sound of my tip section greensticking and becoming 2 pieces. Once again I was beside the water in amazement. The branch it broke under was 1) dead and 2) smaller than the section that broke. Had to be a fracture, I imagined. So the ZXL is on her way to Bainbridge Island along with the TFO which is headed to Dallas. I'm, once again, rodless. This has got to end.

I quickly returned to the house, grabbed a beer, downed the beer, sent Chris a text about the incident, and then tried my best to be a sociable fun guy. Later, we all went to the lake dock to "feed the fish." I saw dozens of 6-8" bluegills swarming around, with half a dozen or so large Channel cats mixed in. I declared that a fish-fry was in order and borrowed the host's rod (an old Zebco 33 with a locked up drag). I plunked down a globug to mimic the fish food and started catching gill after gill. I realized that larger gills were a little deeper, so I let the bug sink...right into cat territory. I ended up (accidentally) nailing to cats on a globug. Yup, a glowbug.

So in the end, it was a fun fishing day, broken ZXL aside. I'm definitely anxious to get back on the water with my own rods, though. The break cancelled a Montauk trip I had planned for Tuesday. I now see the point of owning more than 2 rods.

First Outing with the ZXL (Updated)

2010-09-02T18:43:00.001-07:00

This evening I sneaked away for a bit to try out the new (to me) Sage
ZXL 3wt. Chris had asked some guys what reel they'd recommend and the
first response was a Konic 1.5--the reel I've had and been loving. I
can attest that this reel does indeed balance really well with the
8'6" rod.

I arrived out at lake 10 at BWCA just ahead of a long line of severe
storms complete with awesome displays of lightning and distant booms
that seemed to roll toward me from the west and north. I love fishing
ahead of storms since it really seems to excite both bass and BG. This
was shaping up to a perfect evening to put the Sage through the
fish-test.

I hurriedly installed the leader and tippet on my line and topped it
off with what i affectionately refer to as a "fake Briminator." I
assembled the rod, installed the Konic, and literally ran to my
bank-spot.

The long rod casts beautifully: both smooth and crisp loading up in
close but with lots of bone to really reach out. I was instantly in
love and could not wait to get into the 3-4 pound bass that populate
the lake! I had a great feeling.

The first hit came quickly, but a little soft. I reeled in the bass--a
3" dink. Oh well...at least they're definitely hitting! The second
fish came a few minutes later--a 2" dink BG. Oh dear.

The wind direction and speed would have been comforting to a lot of
people. It was strong and out of the SW...which would presumable take
the main cell away from me. In reality the wind was the effect of the
storm acting like a vacuum cleaner all around it. The storm and others
like it were headed right my way. Wanting to take down and store the
Sage properly and have a dry drive home, I bugged out.

Two juvenile fish and one very choice rod. All that with a front row
seat to an amazing light show--it was a good night of fishing!

...I am still anxious to get some hoggers on it though.

A New Addition to the Growing Quiver

2010-08-31T18:51:00.001-07:00

I cannot begin to say how excited I am about this! Thursday I'll be
picking up a Sage ZXL 3wt 8'6". Now the hunt for the perfect reel for
it begins... I have a couple in mind and I'll be on ebay all day
tomorrow looking for some.

I'll post photos soon.

The Fly-fisherman and His Superstitions

2010-08-31T08:24:00.000-07:00

I have gotten a lot of grief from my wife and other close associates about the condition, appearance and general state of my favorite fishing shirt. I got it last year off the clearance rack at Target, so it's nothing fancy--just a white, 100% linen button-down. It, at least, started out white.

Since I first wore it out fishing, it has become my almost "always-gotta-wear-it" shirt. It has two handy pockets up top that are big enough for a small flybox, but not too big that they're baggy or loose when loaded. I don't use a fishing vest or chest pack, just an old, olive-drab canvas South African military bag (a whole separate post). That bag, when wet, oozes 70 years of grime, grit, and grossness that ranges from brown to...well, brown. After I first wet-waded up to my armpits one day, I noticed a horrible and very large stain on the bottom/back of the shirt. I figured it was mud from sitting stream-side, but it didn't wash off. The stain grew each trip I got wet and I finally concluded it was from my bag slowly cleaning itself on my shirt.

Since then, the stain has deepened, grown, faded slightly around some of the edges and generally has become a mature, well-worn-in stain. It has grown an appendage that reaches up and over my shoulder, presumably from the strap. Dots of rust spatter over the right side from the ancient steel fasteners, clasps and whatever else on that bag.

The collar is eternally blackened in spots from an equally old and rotting set of neoprene Chums for my sunglasses--I won't get rid of those either. There are multiple spots/spatters/wipes of blood on the shirt; they were each once redder and brighter, but have now darkened to that dried, reddish-brown color that war movies never really get around to showing. Some of it's mine, some from various fish, but it's all permanent for sure.

In short, I deserve the grief I get for the shirt, and I probably should have washed it more frequently. If I had, it probably wouldn't bear the camouflaged-look it's starting to have now; but I let all the stains really set up house and they aren't going anywhere now.

I had a good rationale for not letting it ever get to the washing machine: that'd be bad luck. Of course. There was a streak where I would catch little to nothing wearing that shirt "clean." It didn't take long for me to conclude that there was something metaphysical residing in that shirt and its stains. Washing it could bring nothing but unfortunate things.

It isn't that I think the shirt is good luck (I don't believe in good luck), it's that I believe in a sort of sub-superstitious way that washing it is bad luck. It is really just a statistical conclusion born out of a pattern of experiences and the belief that there is more to this life and world than I can possibly ever understand, and I know that washing that shirt is a bad thing. It disturbs something in the fish-world, or at least in the fishing-world. Whatever it is, I don't want to mess with it, disturb it, or take any chances. ...just don't wash the shirt. Besides, it's not as if I'm trying to win any girls' affections or a fashion contest out there in the water; I'm there to fish and, hopefully, bring a few to hand while I do.

Anyone else have superstitions or the like? I seriously doubt I'm alone....

Montauk Salvation

2010-08-29T19:26:00.000-07:00

Returning from saltwater fishing, a beach house and the beach would have been devastating at best had it not been for a pre-planned trip with the boys to Montauk for some coldwater trout. Here are a few photos from the day of salvation....

My first 'bow of the day on a borrowed rod. Both mine are in the shop, so Chris lent me his: am 8'6" Reddington CT. What a great rod! I described it as casting with butter, super-smooth and roll casts almost automatically. Another item of Chris' that I'm jealous of!

Ron did really well and pulled up a hog from the C&R area.

Ronnie caught this little bow and while it doesn't show up in the photo well at all, but this was a gorgeous little guy. Very bright colors and charcoal stripes covered its body; gotta love the tiddlers!

Some Thoughts from the Road Back

2010-08-29T18:42:00.001-07:00

I wrote this and tried to post from the road on Saturday, but failed miserably at actually posting it. Technology and I aren't best friends just yet.

I found it interesting today while driving back to STL that you
realize just how uninhabited and barren the US really is when you have
an urgent need for some restroomed-civilization. There are vast
stretches of not "nothing" just "no one." Or maybe its just
need-induced impatience that makes the minutes and miles together
stretch on like gum out of a teenage girl's mouth. Long...and
irritating.

I saw a bumper sticker on a car that said "Live simply: that others
may live simply." I was almost lured into the idea that this driver
was actually a simple living sage who had--or at least was
trying--found true simplicity. The idea found its mortality at the
sight of the car's rear view mirror. There were more objects slung,
hung, and dangled from that essential mirror to make it look like a
hook for all things unnecessary. So much for the sticker.

There is something about memorable fishing trips--even though this
trip qualifies more as a fishing-modified vacation--that sticks with
you for as long as you can hold on to it. Sometimes its conversation
or story or a near-death run-in. I don't see any evidence anywhere
that you ever get to choose what does actually stick, but whatever
does always seems like the right thing to have stuck and gives one the
impression that we do in fact have a choice...and choose the best
things. For me, at least this trip, what I cannot shake is the feeing
of biggish Skipjack on the end on my 3wt.

There was such an intensity in their convulsive way of fighting that
shook the rod so violently...for a few seconds each fish I felt as if
I were hooked up with something really bluewater. I remember being
surprised looking closely at the first one i brought to hand--"this is
what did all THAT?!" Like a kid at the amusement park...I wheeled
around again and again to get back in line for that one ride.

Roadtrips and fishing...they just belong together.

8 26 and 27 Updates

2010-08-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

Here are just a few things I brought to be prepared for...if things didn't go as planned. I really thought I'd get into toothier stuff (hence the gloves, pliers and knife for ditching) and was concerned I'd have more downtime than I wanted (hence the book). Didn't use any of it!

One of the Wildlife Refuges near where we stayed. Sorry, Chris, no nudity allowed.

View of the lagoon in Bon Secour--I scouted this for fishing but never did anything here. I still don't know quite what to do with brackish water. There are plenty of fish in there, though, some of them large.

I pretended these were tarpon...on the end of my line...at the same time. But really they were just dolphin on a watch-tour. Bummer, no tarpon.

My favorite fishing pants: linen, sun bleached, salt stained, raggy-edged, blood spattered and comfy as hell. Best pants ever.

We had lots of contact with the local oil cleanup team and safety crews. They patrolled the beach looking for...I don't know what, but were all really nice guys and gals. I got to know a few of them fishing so much. I even got to sit in one and talk to Mike; he gave me some great tips on fishing. From what he said, word of the successful fly-fisher on Ft. Morgan spread. I definitely didn't see a single other flycaster this entire trip. I think people down here think its only for trout--no one could believe that I caught anything, much less as much as I did.

More cleanup....

The sea was angry that day, my friends.

Fishless Days, but Not for Naught

2010-08-26T16:10:00.001-07:00

Bay-side "practicing"

Gulf side "practicing"

Fish Weight vs Length Charts

2010-08-26T07:55:00.001-07:00

I found this the other day while searching for AL fishing info. It's one of those things you have to do while not fishing...otherwise you'll go mad. It was interesting to play around with the chart, and it includes lots of basic midwestern freshwater species. I'm sure if I looked around, I could find a more comprehensive one for FW fish native to Missouri.

Check it out here.

Aug 25 Update

2010-08-25T14:25:00.000-07:00

No fish yet today, the coast is being hammered by some pretty heavy surf. I tried a few times to get out on the second sand bar...and got beaten back in every time. I'm venturing over to the bay side to check out the action there. We shall see....

Aug 24 Updates

2010-08-24T17:23:00.000-07:00

Cheryl and I ventured over to the real Gulf Shores west of Fort Morgan to try to find some wavier beach action. There was none to be found, but we had some fun in the water anyway. As Cheryl commented to me, there is something about wildlife and...me. She never saw crabs, jellyfish or stingrays before we first came together a few years ago. That was the year of many rays and one bad sting by a bad, bad jelly on my arm. This year has been less filled with encounters, but today sort of changed that.

I was shuffling my feet like a good boy and all of a sudden I felt a strong shock shooting through my foot and up my leg. What the? Seriously? What just happened? Oh crap, I just stepped on a ray, I thought, as I saw it swim out from under me. I waited for the supposed excruciating pain...and waited, and it never came. Huh, that was weird. I turned to Cheryl: "I just got shocked by something!"

A few steps later (I was leaving the water!), it happened again. Crap it hurts! But no sting, no puncture, no blood. What the heck is doing this to me? Well, I got on Google tonight and found out--it's the Lesser Electric Ray. Read about 'em here.

Beyond that experience, I was able to add another fish species to my list during some sunset fishing. It's a Needlefish, and they can grow to three feet long--pretty fearsome sight at 3' I'm sure. This one was only about a third of that, but a fun catch anyway.

I am falling in love with this saltwater thing. I just wish there were more flyshops around--these boys tear up some flies...and tackle. Everytime I meet a local and ask about fly shops, no one has a clue. I don't think many are on the fly down here. Oh well, more for me!

More 8/23 Fun

2010-08-23T13:09:00.001-07:00

Went out again and caught more Ladys and mystery fish. It turns out that Orvis Super Strong tippet....is horrible. I am cursing all things Orvis right now. That aside, had some more fun out there.

We also spotted a pod of dolphins just offshore. With the sharks I had spotted while fishing earlier in the day, I immediately thought these were more. At first, all that was showing were dorsals cruising, but that soon turned to porpoising and this one jump. Pretty cool stuff. And no, Chris, I did not cast to them.

Success

2010-08-23T08:49:00.000-07:00

I just returned from the surf, and I have a positive report. I finally started landing all the fish I was hooking up with. It turns out that these fish, while not huge, are strong enough to snap a 2x tippet in a run...horsing them in on a 3 wt is not possible. After I started playing them out a bit (even had one on the reel) I had success at bringing them to hand. I would've taken more photos, but I was pretty far out and didn't want to drop the damn camera in the water. I caught Ladyfish after Ladyfish, more than I remember. I lost about a third, but landed lots. I learned to tire them out just a bit and pounce on them for landing--that was, Im sure, quite a sight from shore.

The jumping and aerobatics of the Ladyfish are incredible, like Tarpon on a small scale. Having one run in, jump a few feet in the air just a few feet from you is one of the most incredible fishing experiences I've ever had. The water is gorgeous, the fish are amazing...and I'm catching them!

I fished from sandbanks 50' or so out that gave me much better visibility and options for casting.

My first Ladyfish on the 3wt, and my first ever salt fish!

I am in love with these "girls." I know they're everywhere, supposedly easy to catch, and whatever else. But I don't care--they're awesome on a 3wt.

I have no idea what this is, but its my second salt species. I am amazed at how shiny everything in the surf is. I felt like I was catching broken mirrors.