Thursday, April 20, 2017
I’ve been thrown out of bars. I’ve been thrown out of school. I’ve been thrown out of the house. But I’d never been thrown off a skiff before.
Bring it in. Put on your boots. You’re walkin’ back.
To be honest, I probably deserved it. (I typically come by my expulsions righteously.) I’d blown shot after shot. Torrie had busted his ass to find us fish and I’d screwed it up time and time again.
Eleven o’clock. Eleven! You’re lookin’ nine! Square up on the boat, mon.
Put it in front of the fish. He don’t eat out his tail.
I said forty feet. That’s [pick any number less than forty].
You don't see those fish? There’s ten of them!
No. You’re OTHER right!
So he dropped me off and he left me. Pushed off with Jason on the bow and headed out into the sprawling flat, instructing me to walk the edge of the mangroves with the sun at my back and keep going. He’d pick me up on that far point, a mile or so out. Maybe.
It had been frustrating, fumbling all those opportunities. Bad line management, poor accommodation for wind, poor fundamentals. I’d stood on the bow at the ready and took deep centering breaths to calm the inner tension but the moment Torrie said “fifty feet, twelve o’clock, moving left,” the yips came tumbling out. And it’s not like I hadn’t done this before. No this-is-my-first-time excuses. I just sucked.
But this humiliation was uncalled for. This being left to slog along, alone, was unjust. It wasn’t right. Yeah, I’d disappointed myself and I felt guilty about disappointing the guide, but this? I walked and felt pissy about it.
But it’s hard to stay mad in the islands, wading along firm sands on a bluebird day in crystalline, emerald-green, shin-deep water. A light breeze filling your nose with the hint of salt and promise. A fly rod in your hand. There’s a reason that the islands are so relaxed. It’s in the air.
The flats seeped in, replacing everything else. The ripple of wind and the reflection of sun made the waters dance and the feeling of isolation comforted me. My tensions slipped away, left in the blue mud trail that extended behind me. All that mattered was the next waft of breeze, the next breath, the next passing cloud. The call of birds and the hush of slow steps in shallow water. I gave in to the place, in to the peace, completely.
They appeared in my peripheral vision. I saw them, not because I was looking for them, but because I wasn’t looking for anything and they were something. Anomalies. Subtle wrinkles in the fabric of the flat. Movement slightly askew from everything else. Two of them.
And before I thought too much about how it happened, my drag was singing and I soon held one of the pair in my hand. A splinter of silver, chipped from the flats, reflecting everything in each perfect mirrored scale. Wet lightning. And as quickly as it had arrived it slipped back into the warm salt, paused for a heartbeat at my feet, and was gone.
Take that, Torrie. I don’t need no stinkin' guide. I can do it myself.
But, I had to admit, I had done everything he’d said. Read the fish as they approached. Put myself and my line in a position to act. Moved the fly when it needed to be moved, stopped it when it needed to be stopped. Closed the deal. I’d been listening. I’d been thinking. But I’d been trying too hard.
So I smiled and waded on, soaking up the day and nicking a fish here and there, each almost as an afterthought to this splendid stroll on the flats. And quicker than I would have liked (though all day wouldn’t have been enough) I caught up with the skiff at the prescribed far point where the guys were digging into the cooler. Before I could say a word, before I could give Torrie a piece of my mind, he looked up from the box, a huge smile on his face, and extended a cold Kalik in my direction.
I been watchin'. Knew you had it, mon. Could see it in you. Just needed some time to yourself to make it right.
He had seen what I was missing and he had given it to me. Not the cast or the vision or the physical act. I needed the headspace to go with those tools. The room to figure it out in the very best way. My way. He'd put me where I could only disappoint myself, knowing that I wouldn't.
The beer tasted damn good.
We finished the day on the boat with a few more close shots, thirty and in, as the tides dropped out. I blew a few of them, but didn’t sweat it that much. Torrie was quiet until he called it a day and watched as I made my wind-em-up cast, clearing the coils on the deck with two leisurely flicks, sending out sixty feet of line, straight as an arrow. Twelve o’clock. No pressure.
I could hear him chuckling from the platform.
Note: Okay. Torrie didn't really throw me off the boat. Pardon a little poetic license. But I was sent in the described direction, on my own, after a frustrating morning. The rest is true, right down to the reason that he sent me off. My deep gratitude and respect goes out to an extraordinary guide, Torrie Bevins of the Andros South Lodge, for recognizing what I needed and making it happen. I look forward to walking the Dirty South with (or without) you again, my friend.
Oh, and pictured at the top of the post is my buddy Steve Duda of The Flyfish Journal who, if I recall correctly, was heading out on a similar walk our second day on Andros South. We jointly agree that wading's the very best way to play this game.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Catching up, here. The February bin is brief. Not much was done with the cameras, or much of anything else, outside of the single significant event of the month.
Thank you, Duke Hospital. She's doing great.
What is a Photo Bin?
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
To demonstrate how truly disconnected I've been from the usual routines, it's three weeks into March and I'm just getting to the January photo bin. Hell, I don't even remember taking these pictures. Okay, not true. But it feels like it.
At this point, it might have been easy to just let it go but this post kicks off the seventh year of Photo Bins. Blows my mind. A throw-away concept that has stuck around and, let's face it, carried the blog on and off for some time now. The bin makes me good for at least a post a month so I guess that I'd better keep it going.
The shot above is one of those images that comes together through the combination of a little inspiration, a little luck, and a little twist of perception. A big white oak and Carolina blue skies reflected in the salamander pond above the house. Cool stuff.
A standard shot for the January bins - our New Year's gathering of crazies. For nine years running, on the first day of the year, we've gathered at the neighborhood pond and, on the stroke of noon, take a quick bracing plunge. My thanks to buddy Paul for holding my camera for this one. I don't think the image stabilization was good enough to overcome my shivering.
A couple weeks later, the full wolf moon. You can practically hear the howls in the distance.
And it's about time I started wrestling this blog back to its intended purpose. It is, after all, Mike's Gone Fishin' so let's get back to the fishing already. Right? How about we start with the first outing of the year, a quick run north to The Smith, Virgina, and a good day spent bending the 5wt with my buddy Darrin. A nice beginning to the fishing year.
And then a couple of days east, poling the tidal creeks of Swansboro in search of schooling reds. Unfortunately, school was out so we just nicked a few speckled trout and called it a weekend. Tip of the hat to my host Troy for another good outing, fish or no.
Perhaps the best catch of the month, though, was this fine piece of leatherwork handcrafted by my new friend Lee Slikkers. Combines two of my passions into a single unique piece. Lee's a man of many talents so check out his beautiful creations, both leather and bamboo, at www.slikkerssplitcane.com. Fine leather goods and bamboo rods. Don't get no better.
Well, that does it for now. Short and sweet. Catching up. Thanks for your patience. We'll get things going again here soon enough.
What is a Photo Bin?
Thursday, March 16, 2017
I suppose that an update is in order. It has been a month since my awkward Valentine post, penned as I sat in a surgical waiting room. I left things hanging.
That Day of Hearts we learned that there was indeed arterial blockage. No real surprise, but what we had hoped could be remedied by a simple stent or two turned out to be more complicated than anticipated. My precious Valentine would need bypass surgery. Soon.
A week later she underwent a double Coronary Artery Bypass Grafting procedure, or CABG, the acronym pronounced like the vegetable, conjuring the image of the dense leafy head of lettuce-like consistency nestled in her chest cavity. The term felt awkward for a few days. Pipes were transplanted and rerouted. Her heart, already the most amazing thing I’ve ever encountered, was made an even more of a wonder.
Five days later we were home again and the long road to recovery began. This past month has been about pain and expectation management, two disciplines she should be a master at having lived with me for twenty years. That and soups and casseroles from every direction. More months lie ahead as she heals and prepares for many more Valentines Days to come, but the outlook is bright and a full recovery is expected. She'll be better than new in a whipstitch.
Fishing, of course, has been set aside for a while as my life is here for the time being. Supporting her as she’s supported me all these years. I’ll sneak away soon enough, but only when I know she’s strong and in good hands. There’ll be time. This blog will resume before too long. I promise.
What’s important right now is that my Day of Hearts wish came true. That the only heart I that I wanted is still mine.
And will be for quite a while longer.
I must extend my profound thanks to family, friends, and neighbors who were here for us in any way that we might have needed. Without them... Your ongoing support is appreciated more than you can imagine. We are blessed by your presence in our lives. We thank you from the bottom of our, well, you know.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Today is a day of hearts. Frilly paper ones, professing undying Hallmark devotion. Floral ones, by the dozen, care of Cupid’s weary delivery boys. Culinary ones, consumed in a collective conflagration of candlelit tableaus. But the only heart that I am concerned with today is that which beats in her breast, for, as you read this, I am probably sitting in a surgical waiting room while she’s being prepped for a cardiac catheterization. Waiting. Worrying. My own heart, hurting.
She works harder than I do. At everything. Not because she has to, but because it's who she is. She's a wonder. But lately, as she’s busied herself about, she’s been feeling some discomfort that a stress test has determined to be probable arterial blockage. Given her family history, it’s no surprise, but it’s stunning just the same. I was supposed to be on a plane for Abaco this week, but the doctor’s pointed use of the phrase “without delay” changed all that. I sit here instead, no regrets, happy that we've gotten out in front of this and scared all the same. February 14th has new meaning.
So there's no elaborate cards, or flowers, or romantic dinners this particular day of hearts. It's become quite simple.
The only heart that I want is hers.
Monday, January 30, 2017
I had the great pleasure, the other day, of having lunch with the man who was a great resource and influence for me as I got back into fly fishing, some 20 years ago, and who later encouraged me to begin writing about it. It had been too long since we'd last gotten together and I was thrilled to see him doing well. As we parted, he called me over to his car and handed me this well-loved Pflueger 1492. There's no telling how many trout it had connected with over the years, but, knowing him, a lot.
The next day he sent me a link to a webpage that showed the history and progression of these Medalists, challenging me to identifying its age. It's just like him to not simply give me something, but to also make me reach, to teach me something with it; a gift more valuable than the reel itself. I owe the man more than he'll ever know, as do many who he's mentored over the years, fly fishing and otherwise. We should all have such positive role models in our lives.
And, Frank, it's a 1959. Thank you...
... for everything.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Hello. Remember me? I used to post around here every now and then.
Lots of excuses for my absence, none good. The holidays, not fishing enough, the distraction of guitars and travel and winter colds. Piddly stuff. But, in truth, the slowdown has been long-running. Were it not for these photo bins, the blog would be barren. Funny, as photography is far from my strong point. It's a source for talking points, however, so it seems as good a way as any to get started again.
The holidays raced by, and crawled at the same time. We spent the better part of two weeks on the road, north, starting with a family gathering in what I affectionately call the frozen tundra, Mary's sister's house in Indiana. It was a grey and frigid visit, this time, in stark contrast to our visit of just a couple of months earlier.
Luckily, whatever the weather, it's always warmed from inside by family in abundance.
From Indiana it was on to Chicago for the week before Christmas. I am fascinated by the city this time of year. Downtown is alight like a Christmas tree, though the dark expanses in the highrises show just how many folks escape to the 'burbs or places elsewhere (warm?) for the holidays.
Thankfully, the blues dives keep hoppin'. Cheery watering holes, made more so by the festivity of the season. If you've gotta have the blues at Christmas, here's the place to have them.
After spending time with family, my favorite thing during these holiday visits is to sneak out after the grandkids have gone off to bed and wander the residential streets of Old Town, particularly on Christmas Eve. Like the highrises, the normally parked-up streets are empty as folks have escaped the city, and the quiet, semi-dark avenues are a delight to walk along. A different experience for this southern country boy.
So there you have it. I'm back on the board again, post-wise, but there's plenty of catching up to do. Hell, it's almost time for another bin. We'll see if I can't do better than that in the coming weeks.
But then, you knew that.
What is a Photo Bin?