Rainy Days

Sitting here on this cold, dull, rainy day, sifting through months of images in preparation for a presentation on fishing my home waters, I came upon this soft, hazy image of another rainy day. A time much warmer and under decidedly more agreeable circumstances. A Haw River moment, tucked under an overhanging tree, waiting for the gentle front to pass.

In no real hurry for it to do so.

The image made me smile and I figured that any smile dredged up on such a dreary Monday was worth sharing. Hope you agree.

Bug Eyed

Dang. Spring’s snuck up on me and the seasonal fly boxes are bare. Seems it's time to get the production line crankin’. Fast.

March. White bass. I need some clouser minnows.
April brings the shad. Clousers again.
May stripers. Let me think. Oh yeah. Bigger clousers.
The largemouth box could use a few too.

Small clousers, big clousers, white and pink and chartreuse and red and gray and orange and olive clousers. And all the combos.

But to start, the eyes.

And, after the first fifty, I'm getting a little bug-eyed myself.

Evidence Photographic

Are these guys having fun? I can assure you that the one holding the fly rod is.
Left to right: Some no-casting old fart, Bob Clouser, Joe Humphreys

For the whole story, read here. And a big thanks goes out to my new friend Jim who sent me this candid shot from last weekend's show!

Breaking In

First fish on the new fly rod
Yes, yet another stick in the closet
Bought for Lone Star puppy drum, but worked quite nicely here

Sixteen inches of Haw River bucketmouth
Don't let the perspective fool you
They always look smaller
Damn camera

9ft 7wt TFO BVK
The cork still shiny and bright
That won't last

Breaking in a new fly rod
Breaking in a new bass fishing season
Breaking in a new year on my home waters

A year very different from the past

The Battle For My Fly Fishing Soul

… the little bass-fishin’, bi-focaled devil that sits on my right shoulder keeps whispering such notions into my ear. "Let's go throw big bugs at big fish," he implores, and suggests that any material not measured in pound test alone belongs in a sewing basket, not a fly box. 

As counterpoint, the Waldenesque, native brookie loving, dry fly angel that sits on my left shoulder sings sweet songs of the inherent beauty of the tiny colorful creatures that inhabit the woodland streams and the dainty, ethereal wisps that it takes to engage them. It suggests that the devil on my right is a cretin and that I should embrace my delicate side by throwing #24 pieces of fluff on silky material to fish that the devil would consider too small for decent bait.

Tippet Tantrum – Mike's Gone Fishin' – September 2010

I had about 15 minutes before my shift began at the Triangle Fly Fishers booth - just enough time to stop by and see the boys at the Temple Fork Outfitters display and to take a Clouser Series bass rod out for a quick test ride. I’d wandered around the Raleigh edition of the Fly Fishing Show, oohing and ahhing over this and that, and had almost frittered away my casting time, but, having pitched the Clouser prototype the year before, I wanted to put my hands on the final product. I had to hurry.

I found the TFO space, conveniently situated next to the casting pool, and began to poke around the racks for the Clousers. When I didn’t find them immediately, I looked up for some assistance. Who better to ask than Bob himself who just happened to be hangin’ around? I figured that if anyone should know, he would.

Rubbing Noses

Chris is freezing his jiggly parts off in Idaho.
Russ sits home in Wyoming and can only dream of his upcoming getaway to Belize.
Erin's snowed in, deep in the canyons of Colorado. Sean and Howard aren't much better off in town.
Jason's in northern Michigan, God knows why, writing year-end summaries until everything thaws.
Emily has given up and gone skiing in Utah.
Len sits waiting in Wisconsin for the Driftless to be driftless, if you know what I mean.
Ken's stuck watching Illinois snow in the wee hours.
In Arizona, Ben could probably fish, but he's too busy pumping birdshot through his Remington.
Steve's watching bugs do the hoochie in Connecticut and hoping it means that the weather's going to break.
Tom's actually getting some angling done in California, but has to wear silly hats to do it.

I'm in shirtsleeves today, pitching bugs to bass, thinking how nice North Carolina is.

And sending out a little left-handed blog love.

Stone and Steel

I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer
More woodsman's axe than surgeon's scalpel
Cleave by inertia more than intelligence

I know this
And accept it for what it is
My lot

But it need not mean I'm dull
A blunt tool
Good for nothing more than rude smashing
I'm more than that

I work hard
Keep my broad edge clean with stone and steel
And with this edge endeavor to strike with rudimentary precision
For effort and proximity can carry the day
If that's what you have

We can't all be scalpels

And axes are needed in this world
They build from the ground the platforms of the knife
There's dignity in their work
Though they're seldom celebrated for it
It's the scalpel that's revered

But blades, unattended, quickly tarnish and rust
Razor edge turns pointless
While axes, when whet, work untiringly, and long
Even when blunted by hard times

I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer
More woodman's axe than surgeon's scalpel
I endure by the sharpening

Stone and steel

The Bream Killer

I make no claims as to the veracity of this account.

It was shared, last night, over the communal fly tying table - roll cast across the backroom bar setting of vices, bucktail, and pitchers of Yuengling – presented to the bi-weekly gathering of the fly tying artists of our local fishing club. That alone makes it highly suspect. But, as all good stories should, it has the ring of truth to it, so I share it here and will let you decide whether to believe it or not.

Every fly tier has a go-to fly. One that they have mastered the creation thereof and that they swear is a never-fail fish magnet. This is the story of such a fly. It seems that my buddy Terry… Wait. I’ll let the story be told in his voice.

It had been a productive day on the Neuse. I’d tried a number of new patterns and had caught my share of bluegill, redbreasts, and assortment of panfish that occupy these waters. As I prepared to leave, Puddin’ arrived with a beginner fisherman in tow, intent on helping the poor fellow get his feet wet with a fly rod. They thrashed around, Puddin’ casting smoothly and accurately while his charge, despite expert advice and example, struggled horribly.

EMBT's Twenty Questions

My good friend and Montana fishin’ buddy Chris Hunt over at Eat More Brook Trout has a weekly series of posts that he calls Twenty Questions. He “interviews” folks from around the fly fishing realm – photographers, writers, guides, conservationists and, yes, even bloggers. It's always entertaining and informative.

Guess who’s in the barrel this week. Yep. There goes entertaining and informative right out the window.

In a summer post, part of the thread on my wonderful western excursion, I describe Chris as follows:

Chris is as big as the Montana landscape that we visited - in both size and personality. As Trout Unlimited’s Communications Director for the Sportsmen's Conservation Project, he thought to use this weird new blogging medium as yet another way to get the TU message out and, with the help and partnership of the Outdoor Blogger Network, the trip was born. Chris was the life of the party, keeping us laughing deep into the nights, yet ready to hit the stream at the break of dawn. He’s obviously had lots of experience at both. And I have a new appreciation for his book’s title, Shin Deep. Shin deep on him is damn near waist deep on me.

Thanks, brother, for the TwentyQs invitation and for all that you do on our behalf through the offices of Trout Unlimited and your personal commitment to the sport. I'm lookin' forward to being on the water with you again. Soon.

My Boots

A day on the stream. A day on the pitch.
Storm trooper brogans. Ballet slippers.

Four pounds of Schoeller®-dynatec high performance abrasion-resistant mesh panels and Vibram sole
Eight ounces of Ultrathin Pittards 80 SD Lite Leather and eCell cushioning
Carbide chipped, zinc plated Hardbite Star Cleat Studs
Molded PU scimitar firm ground-hugging traction

Built to survive. Built to fly.
Built, both, to keep me boot-side down through slick runs and hard challenges.

Simms. Puma. G4s. Cellerators.
Drying side by side
While I lie on the couch, barefooted, recovering from their wearing
Recovering so that I can go out and do it again.

A day on the stream. A day on the pitch.
Me and my boots.

Note: Under the category of Things You Might Not Know About Mike, my other recreational passion is soccer. Fūtbol. The beautiful game - though it may not look quite so beautiful now that I'm in my late fifties. But I'm still running around like some crazy kid - with an emphasis on the crazy - and hope to continue for a while longer. That is, when I'm not fishin'.

On the Tracks

St. Croix Imperial 8'6" 5wt

Orvis Battenkill Mid-Arbor III
Scientific Anglers Mastery Series Trout WF-5-F

Norfolk Southern Timber and Steel

On my way to Trestle Pool
To fish the falling waters
Tramping down these well-worn rails
Towards another Smith River skunking

Fish or no
It's good to be out here again

Sandwiches, 'Shine, and the Space/Time Continuum

"Never let the lack of a sandwich stop you from having fun."

Unable to find a flaw in his logic, I accepted Chris' generous offer to assemble a stream-side snack for me. We had crashed, for the night, at a convenient inexpensive hotel in blustery Boone, sandwiching a night's slumber between a day on the Watauga and one scouting new Caldwell and Wilkes county trout waters. He was digging through his larder, preparing for the next day, and took pity on me and my cuisine de Clif.

With little in the way of a coherent narrative, I simply offer these three disparate images from the outing. A bonus photo bin, of sorts. The first pretty much speaks for itself - a warm, dry night's sleep under the 8.

The next day's scouting landscape was miles and miles of country road, winding through the foothills of the Appalachians, small streams running just beyond each guardrail.

This image's yesteryear filter seemed appropriate as the roadside view has probably changed little since the 40s when 'shine runners barreled through these passes, revenuers hot on their heels. This is, after all, a backfire away from the birthplace of NASCAR - a country lap or two from the old North Wilksboro Speedway - and it's early stars spent their night jobs running wide open through these hills.

We were looking for trout, but they proved as elusive as the feds had found those flying flathead 8s - those lightning loaded 'forty Ford coupes - smelling of corn.

The final shot was taken by Chris who pointed the camera at me but somehow cracked the space/time continuum and captured an image of my father, an old dirt tracker himself, hat-head and all. Not bad for a guy who also makes a mean summer sausage and crisp cheddar on hard roll sandwich. The banana chip and peanut trail mix wasn't bad either.

No one eats better on the stream than Chris. No one.

Thanks buddy.