Gone To De Islands, Mon

Sorry,
but activity might be a little light around here this week.
Places to be,
people to see,
and maybe a bonefish.

But do check back 'cause you never know.

Whatever the case,
rest assured,
I'll be back before long with a story.
Or maybe even two.

Oh, yes.
Rest assured.
Maybe two.

The Photo Bin - May 2013

Sad to say, not much went on, photographically, last month. Weeks of wet weather conspired to keep the cameras tucked away, though I did manage to find myself in the Appalachians a couple of times, breaking the meteorological monotony. Here, then, are a handful of shots that came from those much-neeed escapes.

Above, may I introduce, The Usual Suspects - a group of great neighbors and fabulous friends that fill our lives in so many wild and wonderful ways. We took the 'hood on the road for a long weekend of camping and hiking around Hot Springs, NC. Not much fishin' went on, I'm afraid, as the waterways were high and dirty from mid-week downpours. Instead, we traded that time for a handful of communal dips in the open-air hot tubs along the French Broad River at the Hot Springs Resort and Spa. (I'll spare you those images.) This group shot was taken upon our descent of Max Patch, an enchanting bald that provides a 360˚ panorama of the surrounding foothills. A fine place to take an afternoon nap.

Below, Mary enjoys the view from said bald.

A week later, I slipped away to the Tennessee Smokies to fish with my buddies Marc and Steve. More wet weather. Beautiful, but wet. And this time, in the absence of hot tubs, we fished anyway.

Steve, here, in a contemplative mood. I'd wager he was thinking one of three things.

1. Are they sitting in that center seam or tucked under the overhanging bushes?
2. Did I leave the scotch flask and cigar in the truck, or back at the hotel?
3. Why not test the fix on production data instead of that crap sandbox DB? Who can I call and yell at?

Hint: Thank God there's no cell service in the GSMNP.

And finally, it occurs to me that I don't show enough fish pictures on this "fishing blog." Here, then, is the best trout of the weekend.

Well, almost.

In All Seriousness...

It occurs to me that I may have given you the wrong idea. Don't worry, it's entirely my fault. So, please, allow me a moment to set the record straight.

I'm not much of a drinker.

It's true. Despite all evidence to the contrary - the copious references to adult libations, pervasive malt beverage images, incoherent ramblings and tenuous hold on the English language (no doubt interpreted as slurred sloppy-speech) offered here on these pages - I’m really a cheap date.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I do truly love a good brew and can think of few better ways to spend an evening than with good friends over glassware. But two's my limit (three if you twist my arm and I'm not driving) and I've been known to nurse that final pint a long time.

Why am I telling you this?

Simply put, I'm feeling a bit irresponsible characterizing recent trips as alcoholic binges. They weren't. You see, I don’t advocate wasting perfectly good fishing and travel time managing a hangover. That’s infinitely more suited to the office.

But you wouldn't always believe that by what you read here. And I'm not alone in this. A quick check confirms that my favorite digital fishing outposts are rife with similar content. My blogging buddies do it too.

So why is it that we like to boast about our drinking? Why do we celebrate the buzz and believe it makes for a better story? Perhaps it’s our sportsman’s birthright, passed down from our revered patriarch, Papa Hemmingway, to all who dabble with rod and pen. Perhaps it’s the brash young man in us, trying desperately to recapture our “wondrous college days” or to reassert our youthful invincibility to drink. Perhaps we believe that the ability to hold our liquor (or survive those times that we don't) makes us more virile.

After all, the most interesting man in the world stays thirsty. Right, my friend?

And we fly fishermen are the worst. You need only consider that our unofficial official beer is Pabst Blue Ribbon to realize that we’ve come off the tracks on the subject. Completely.

Think about it. Who wants the beer yips when there are 1/0 clousers in the air? Or a good snootful of Woodford when wading wild and wicked waters? And isn’t outsmarting finicky trout hard enough when you're stone cold sober? It is for me.

So when you read here the subtle (or not) influence of demon rum, or of the San Juan worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle, take the passage with a grain of salt (and slice of lime) and know that it’s all in good fun. That it's nuance and texture in storytelling. Okay, maybe there is a little basis in fact, but every now and then I have to act like an adult.

This is me, acting like an adult. In all seriousness, partake responsibly. I do, believe it or not.

There. My civic duty is complete, my public service message delivered, the record set straight, and we can now get back to our regularly scheduled sophomoric content.

I’ll drink to that!

Playin' Possum

I'm often asked how I fill up my day
now that I’ve retired
Never quite sure what to say

Perhaps I should write a series of posts
that tries to explain
and call it
Silly Shit That Mike Does

Today
for example
instead of splitting wood
as planned
I played cat-and-mouse with a baby possum
in and around the woodpile

Maybe some other things too
I forget

But distracted
I was
from what was meant to be done
and it really didn't matter

I simply played possum
'til tomorrow

Smack

The first mosquito:

come here, and I will kill thee,

holy though thou art.

Wendell Berry - And I Beg Your Pardon

Smoke 'em If You Got 'em

Daddy, why do they call them The Smokies?
You do favor your mother's side of the family, don't you son?

We took very different routes, coming and going, on our foray into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Going in, we drove around the north side, through Hillbilly Vegas, Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, and we despaired. It's a permanent carnival at the feet of the great tract, a carbuncle of the toe of the foothills, gaudy and neon, even on an overcast afternoon. Hatfield and McCoy tacky. Dinner show after side show after sho' 'nuff. Mind-reading pigs and talking dogs and Jesus Saves; the backwoods Holy Trinity.

Side note: If a pig could read your mind, how would you know? Perhaps all pigs can read our minds and this one was nothing special. Would the dog tell us if he knew (bein' our best friend and all)? Pigeon Forge drags you down to this level.

Coming home, we took the slow route, through the park, and our faith was restored. Here, it was easy to fall under the spell of Marc's Zen Baptist philosophy; the proof spread out before us in all it's uncultivated glory.

And in between the two, the coming and the going, we did a little fishin'.

We stepped out of the Townsend breakfast joint (two over-easy with a side of grits and biscuits, please) and the bottom dropped out. Rain in buckets. We'd have gotten good drifts in the seam running down the center of the two-row parking lot, if we'd cared to try. A trio of motorcycle riders (real bikes, with two wheels, not three), dressed head-to-toe in glossy black, also waited under the cover.

Wet ride ahead? They shrugged, nodded, then noticed our fishing gear and asked if we were going out in this stuff. We confirmed and they shook their heads.

You're nuts.

When the bikers think you're crazy...

Rain in the deep woods makes spring greens pop with color and with life. Rich, ancient earth smells, borne within the thick mists, Smoky Mountain namesakes, seep deep into your core; a fresh, moist presence penetrating impossibly through waders and shell, Gore-Tex is no match, going straight to the soul, undeterred and welcomed at a primal level.

Though I must admit there were times when I wasn't quite sure whether the drifting haze was mountain mist or blowdown from Steve's upstream cigar.

The Sunday morning downpour stopped as we arrived at the turnout and by the time we'd slickered up there were traces of Smoky mountain blue sneaking through the canopy; mercy from the heavens, probably undeserved, but appreciated nonetheless.

The trout were as small as the surroundings were grand and I suppose there's a certain symmetry to that. Nature is balance, after all. For every small trout there's a majestic ridge. For every downpour there's a bluebird sky.

For every Pigeon Forge there's a Great Smoky Mountain National Park.

Let's do everything we can to keep it that way.

Thanks, boys, for a great weekend.

Note: I don't recall if the "Holy Trinity" line came out of Steve's mouth or mine, but we arrived at it together as we turned off Pigeon Forge's main drag onto US321, away from the insanity. I guess, then, that this is an apology, if necessary.

If nothing else, I'm an honest plagiarist.

The Photo Bin - April 2013

Yeah, I know. It's the middle of May. About time.

As you can imagine, most of the images that fell out of my cameras last month were taken south of the border. Sadly, not enough were of fish. It wasn't because we didn't try. But if you've been following along you know that fishing trips are not always defined by the catching. This one sure wasn't.

Above, my travel buddy Chris contemplates whether or not to push a kayak into the rising sun on our last morning at the Buena Vista. It was the kind of morning that you could simply sit and enjoy, especially if your feet are burned to a blistery crisp, but the big guy sucked it up and paddled quietly out into the Sea of Cortez. He's a trooper.

As we traveled along Mexico Highway 1, I was struck by the number of small memorials that dotted the roadside. Elegant monuments, more elaborate than the simple crosses we see around the States, well and actively maintained, many with glowing candles among the numerous relics they contained. I was quite certain that I understood their significance, but was none-the-less moved to ask my driver of them. He confirmed my notion with a solemn pause, then a simple response.

"Suceden cosas malas, amigo." Bad things happen.

I know this all too well.

For the most part, every roadway branching off Highway 1 was dirt. Well traveled, well defined, but simple packed sand byways. And the soft colors of the structures that sat along these stretches provided a constant warm palette.

Chris noted that he wished he had the cinder block and rebar concession as most every structure we saw was built in this manner.

Our last day in the Baja was spent in Los Barilles at the Playa del Sol. A fancier place than the Buena Vista, but without the lovely gounds and fisherman's soul. This shot, taken across the pool deck, looks like something out of a travel poster.

Our last glimpse of the Sea of Cortez as we headed for the airport and flights home. The ocean turquoises and blues in this image don't begin to do justice to the real thing.

We'll be back.

It's only fair to show that other stuff happened in April. A shot, here, from the F3T's (Fly Fishing Film Tour's) stop in Asheville, conveniently held at Highland Brewery's wonderful facility. I had a great time hangin' and sampling Highland's wares (two thumbs up on the Kashmir IPA) with Cameron Mortenson of the The Fiberglass Manifesto and Dave Grossman, Steve Seinburg and the crew from Southern Culture on the Fly.

The flicks weren't bad either.

The most important event of the month, however, was the now annual Live Free Cornhole Tournament. More than most anything else, my step-son enjoyed a gathering of friends, of which he had many, and every spring he held an impromptu cornhole tournament in his back yard, complete with competition brackets, homemade trophy, and plenty of malt beverage. It was loved by all who attended, as was he, and it continues on in his absence with the addition of a nominal entry fee which goes directly to the Freeman York Memorial Scolarship Fund at Georgia Tech.

We gather to honor him and enjoy the day as he would have us do so.

My favorite little bean bag thrower.

Live Free!

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #2 and #1

Tip #2: It's not about the fishing. It's about the friends. So go with a good one.

A no brainer, here, but it's always worth reiterating. Share the adventure. Especially if you can do it with a fast friend, with a buddy that travels comfortably, and with someone who takes the ups and the downs at the same easy pace that you do. Someone who makes you laugh and makes you think. Someone with whom you enjoy sharing the road.

Thanks for a great trip, brother.

And finally....

Tip #1: Don't forget the bottle opener!

Note: For dissenting viewpoints on this excursion, see Chris' reports on the trip at Eat More Brook Trout, but be cognizant of the fact that he's a master with Photoshop - the only plausible explanation for some of his most questionable content.

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #4 and #3

Tip #4: Take some down time.

As much as you might wish to, you can’t fish every minute. Sucks, I know, but you can’t. Or at least you shouldn’t. You’re doing this for fun, remember, and it seems a shame to get burned out on it. Gives fun a bad name.

Now the weather often takes care of such things for you - wind, rain, frogs and locust - but when you find yourself in paradise and the meteorological gods smile down on upon you, you don’t always get that needed intervention. So, in the event of catastrophically perfect conditions, resist the temptation to cast ‘till you drop. Give the water, and yourself, a break every now and again.

As I tire my stroke starts falling apart and I begin to be a danger to myself and those around me. It's probably difficult for others to recognize the difference (my stroke always looks that bad), but I certainly feel it. So taking a break keeps me a little safer and prevents the repetition of bad habits. At least casting ones.

But, of course, if you’re supposed to be blogging about your trip and you’re staunchly committed to both of your loyal readers to experience and report back non-stop fly fishing exploits, putting the rods aside for an afternoon and settling into a hammock with a cold beer or dog-paddling about poolside with a high-octane fruity libation can make you feel awfully guilty.

Oh hell. Even I don’t buy that.

Barkeep!

Tip #3: Don’t waste valuable fishing time looking for stuff.

We spent way too much time and energy searching for misplaced articles. Wallets, sunglasses, room and car keys, spools of 30lb hard mono, cell phones, reels, laptop chargers, purloined coconuts. It was maddening.

For those of us with a few years under our belts, this is an everyday problem; the most effective solution to which is putting things away in the same place every time. This breaks down, however, when two fishermen are dropped into a location with no “same places” and the contents or their overstuffed duffels quickly expand to fill the allotted living space. It gets ugly fast.

Stuff gets lost in the expansion and subsequent reshuffling. There’s even a mathematical formula for it.

G = (Ix$xT²x(P+1)) – ½F

Where:

G = Gone factor
I = Importance of the item
$ = Replacement cost of the item
T = Shots of tequila consumed immediately before search
P = Number of people waiting for the item to be found before they can go fishing
F = Quantity of F-bombs dropped during the search

When the Gone factor exceeds one-thousand (or ten times the ambient air temperature, whichever is higher) your only hope of seeing the item again is if it has a hook in it. If it does, don't worry. Regardless of the G, you can be assured that it'll turn up. When you least expect it. Painfully.

Note: There’s some difference of opinion in the statistical community regarding the true effect of the mitigating variable F, but all do agree that it tends to make you feel better.

Sadly, there is no viable solution for this vexing misplacement problem.

We fishermen are slobs.

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #6 and #5

Tip #6: Bring your vise.

It doesn't matter how much homework you do, how many people you ask before you go, or how many flies you tie and bring along, you won't have what the fish want. I promise. The guide will ask to see your fly box, take one look, and grimace. No bueno. And, unless you are chasing bonefish, the chances are pretty slim that he'll have a box of his own. We fly fishermen are few and far between in his world, especially in the salty scheme of things, so be ready to be self-sustaining. Be ready to adapt.

That first day you'll struggle, limited to throwing what's "close" and hoping to surprise your guide (who'll probably be wondering why these foolish fly fisherman handicap themselves the way that they do - a truly legitimate question). And while you won't choose to avail yourself of his usual fare of spin-casting lures or live bait, you should ask to see them. Perhaps even snap a picture. Then, go back to the room, pull out your vise, and get to work making fluffier imitations.

Tomorrow's another day. And you'll be ready.

Gratuitous Technical Tip: If you're fishing surf, save the space and leave the bucktail at home. It doesn't hold up for shit in the salt.

Tip #5: Bring plenty of gear. Plenty.

Take tip #6 a step farther. You have a fifty-pound limit on that duffel, so scrimp on the Hawaiian shirts and throw in another couple of rods and reels. What's important, after all?

Luggage side note: The quote of the trip comes from the shapely young lovely who, when asked if she needed assistance with placing her carry-on in the overhead bin on the flight to Cabo, smiled ever so sweetly and replied, "Oh, no, thank you. It's light. There's only, like, twenty bikinis in it."

A collective masculine groan echoed throughout the southbound 737.

So much for continuity. Where was I? Ah, yes. Gear.

If the roosters aren't running, be able to set the 9wt aside and pull out a 7 and have some fun with ladyfish around the pier. Ditch the light surf intermediate if the jack are AWOL and stick on a 375g and do battle with small groupers and sea bass in the rocks. And if all else fails, spool up a floater and pitch it in the general direction of the poolside bar.

Whatever's biting.

I think it's appropriate here to extend a quick THANKS to the good folks at Redington for the loan of a pair of Link fly rods and Rise II reels and to RIO Products for their Tropical Outbound Short fly lines. I truly wish I could say that we tested them to their limits, but that's fishing. I was warned that the Baja surf can be tough on equipment but the gear took the abuse, including my fair share of inept surfcasting, and came through splendidly.

If you like 'em fast and need to do some heavy lifting, the 9wt Link's definitely worth your consideration.