Mike's Gone Fishin'... Again

Rubbing Noses

2012-02-10T06:00:00.000-05:00

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

2012-02-09T10:31:00.000-05:00

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

2012-02-07T06:00:00.000-05:00

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.

Read more »

EMBT's Twenty Questions

2012-02-01T19:59:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-30T08:24:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-27T11:19:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

"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.

Bloodknot - In the Chair

2012-01-24T17:07:00.000-05:00

The latest edition of Bloodknot has hit the newsstands (newswebz? interstands?) with the second annual Blogger Issue. We here at Mike's Gone Fishin' are thrilled to be a part with In The Chair. We're even more thrilled to be sharing the pages (screen?) with some very good friends.

Oh, and a big thank you goes out to my dentist who, after fixing my cavity, gave me free rein in the ~~torture chamber~~ examination room to take some pretty cool shots for the pub. Here's one more.

Note: For space reasons - at least I think for space reasons - the Bloodknot piece was edited/trimmed. If you're interested, drop me a line and I'll send you the director's cut.

The Photo Bin - January 2012

2012-01-23T11:00:00.000-05:00

Gray days. This month's bin is muted, dressed in drab, but deeply lovely none the less. Dark days have a majesty all their own, eliciting both a hazy, ethereal focus on what is visible and a visceral, instinctual perception of what is not - what is beyond the pale, misty veil.

These shots were all taken from the doorways of our shrouded home, looking outward for answers, finding few. Finding instead a muted, subdued world, deprived of a primary color.

The sun will return, we know, but for the moment it's easy to wrap snugly within the fog and savor the chill for what it means.

Savor that we feel so deeply.

These Woods

2012-01-19T10:09:00.000-05:00

What know these woods of men’s passings?
How could we think they should care?

We’ve done little to deserve their compassion

We've defiled them
Scarred them
Pushed them far from our lives

They should have no use for us

But as I stumble along
Head bowed below bare branches
Gathering tinder for this week’s fires

Fires to warm our now somber home
Fires to pierce the desperate chill in our hearts

These woods comfort me
Embrace me
Soothe me with calm, gentle silence
Wrap me in their blessed endlessness

For man is animal
Like fox and deer and bear
Despite our attempts to deny it
Despite our claim to be more
Man is animal

And these woods embrace all of their innocents
Even the wayward ones

They celebrate our birth with their spring
Energize our life with their summer
Acknowledge our maturity with their fall
And mourn our return to the roots with their winter

And winter is here
Winter is here

So together we mourn a return to the roots
Together
These woods
and I

Friends, I promise that I will not continue to burden you with my sorrow. I simply wish to express a deep gratitude for the wave of thoughts and prayers that has washed over us these past several days. Support such as this holds us up and for that kindness we thank you.

The verse above just wanted to come along.

Shattered

2012-01-12T09:03:00.000-05:00

1977

I apologize, now, for my upcoming absence from these pages. A day. A week. A month. How long I do not know. For at my feet lie the fragments of my dear Mary’s heart, shattered this week when her first born, my eldest stepson, unexpectedly lay down his head, never to lift it again.

I must now steel myself and begin to tenderly pick up each raw shard. To do what I can to help put each precious piece back in its place. But the truth of the matter is that when her heart burst, a large piece was flung far, far away. Thrown to a place from which I will never be able to retrieve it. So, even with the finest of workmanship and puzzle-perfect placement, there will always be a hole that cannot be filled.

I know this for I have such a hole.

So forgive my absence while I try to do for my Mary what she so lovingly did for me, ten years ago, when my youngest lay down his head. When it was my heart lying in fragments at her feet.

Shattered.

We'll forever miss you, son

The Rise and the Fall

2012-01-08T12:01:00.000-05:00

Morning on the Elk

After a balmy, practically tropical, New Years Day, the temperatures here in the Olde North State took a nose-dive, falling through “seasonal” and into the down right arctic. The dip chilled our Appalachian streams to frigid levels and drove their finned denizens into a deep lethargy, if not absolute catatonia.

Mid-week was not the time to be on the water.

So we looked towards a late week rebound in the thermal conditions - and a day on the Elk River - figuring that trout would also snap back, pop off the bottom like jack-in-a-boxes at the quick warm-up, hungry after their brief hibernation, ready to be caught.

We should have known better.

For along with the mid-week winter temperatures came snow covered steamsides and ice encrusted waterways. We were greeted with a classic winter tableau – a pristine white riparian corridor scored with an orchestration of soothing white noise. Winter fishing is a treat for the senses.

Read more »

A Day So Nice That It Sucked

2012-01-01T16:27:00.000-05:00

It was an absolutely beautiful day and I feel cheated. I’d been dreading the plunge for weeks. Tried not to think about it last night. It wassupposed to be miserable, painful, hard. It wasn’t. It needed to hurt. It didn’t.

I’m conflicted. I’m pissed. I’m relieved. I’m wet.

This year’s New Year's Day neighborhood traditional polar plunge, our fourth high noon splash-in-the-pond, was ruined by the weather. I know that, as youread this, many of you are watching the snow pile up. I envy you. Here, the officialrecord keeper of our yearly madness noted 63-degree air, 50-degree pond watertemperature. Downright balmy. Awful.

Better Light

2011-12-30T10:22:00.000-05:00

Have a good time andcatch lots of fish.

Oh, we’ll have a good time, but if we catch anything I’ll be damned surprised.

A man out walking one night came upon another on his handsand knees under a street light.

“What are you doing?”the walker asked. “I’m looking for my watch” came the reply.

“Let me help. Where did you drop it?”

“I dropped it over in that field.”

“Over there? Then why on earth are you looking for it here?”

“Because the light’s better, stupid.”

My Life's an Open Bookshelf - Part One

2011-12-29T06:00:00.000-05:00

There's something about the approach of a new year that sets a man to thinking - sets him to looking back over the year past and forward to the year ahead - to where he's been and where he's going. And to put each of them into proper perspective, past and future, he need also assess where, and what, he is today. It's not always an easy thing to do. Fortunately, this year I have my bookshelves.

You can lean a lot about someone by looking at the contents of their bookshelves. And it’s not just the book titles, though they are important clues, but it’s the mementos and pieces that a person chooses to place in constant sight that bear the inklings of identity.And my inklings are fresh. Our new abode is appointed with a space I can call my own – a man cave, if you will, though I dislike the term – and its pair of bookshelves - more display space than library - are newly populated. They're still neat. What do their contents reflect?

Indulge me.

Read more »

The Photo Bin - December 2011

2011-12-22T18:39:00.003-05:00

We traveled, this past week, to Mary's roots in the heartland of Indiana. Five gray days, outside, but full of warmth and joy indoors with the moms and dads and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and cousins and grands of every sort. It's what the holidays are all about.

But for all the merriment inside, my lens was drawn across the wintry fields to the small tableau of structures, visible off our front porch. Farm living, beautifully framed by a majestic stand of hardwoods. Dusky sunset, morning mists, or winter snow - it was a captivating scene in its stark serenity.

As the holidays take you across the country for family, across town for friends, or across the kitchen for another 'nog, may your travels be safe, your heart be light, and the stream of your life be filled with fat and happy trout.

Happy holidays.

The Backcountry Journal

2011-12-19T07:30:00.000-05:00

If you've yet to discover The Backcountry Journal, I have a tasty holiday treat for you. Ben Smith from the fine blog Arizona Wanderings has created a superb new web outpost featuring original pieces from some of the most interesting and talented folks in the outdoor blogging realm. It's quickly become a must read for me.

And, in a stunning lapse of Ben's editorial judgement, I have been asked to contribute. I'm thrilled to see my short work, The Fine Line, appearing in todays's journal.

"There’s a fine line between adventure and madness. I’ve tiptoed it more times than I’d care to admit, never more so than in the gorge. The gorge, you see, invites you to the edge."

Stop by and read the whole piece as well as all of the fine offerings that precede it. Then, be sure to bookmark The Backcountry Journal for what will surely be your go-to spot for many terrific future outdoor literary and photographic offerings.

Thanks Ben!

'Twas the Week Before... Yes, Johnny?

2011-12-15T06:00:00.052-05:00

Gather 'round boys and girls, it's time for the reading of that beloved Mike's Gone Fishin' Christmas classic, 'Twas the Week Before Christmas. Grab a candy cane, get comfortable, and I hope you enjoy it.

'Twas the week before Christmas and down on the Haw
Not a fish was arisin', the weather was raw.
The water was frigid and brisk was the air,
Too chilly for fishing, but I didn’t care.

A Fishing Post

2011-12-10T11:28:00.008-05:00

Contrary to recent content, this is still a fishing blog. And if I’m going to call it one, I guess I’d better report such activity now and again. It’s not like I don’t get out – I do, fairly regularly – but not all fishing trips warrant a post. In fact, most don’t, and that’s the beauty of them.

Every trip to the water doesn’t need to be epic.

Read more »

Iron Aged

2011-12-01T06:00:00.027-05:00

I love the textures and tones in weathered old-time farm equipment.

A Day at the Maul

2011-11-26T12:44:00.002-05:00

I could think of no better way to spend Black Friday than a day at the maul.

Far, far away from the shopping center.

We Went Awalkin'

2011-11-23T06:00:00.155-05:00

We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, along the narrow gravel road that passes our woods, across the ridgeline, and through the tunnel of redbuds, so robust and full in the spring yet now so gaunt and naked with the approach of our winter. We went awalkin', Sammy and I.

His vet would be pissed.

We’d taken Sammy to the kind country doctor, fearing that age, arthritis, and the effects of a life-long liver condition have finally begun to squeeze the joy from the feisty little terrier. She made the expected pharmacological recommendations to ease his aching joints and suggested that, with limited activity, he should be comfortable for the foreseeable future. But she knew.

We know.

He sleeps a lot. And we carry him to the back yard – down the steps – so that he might sniff the 'coon tracks, stare into the woods, and unsteadily mark his now meager boundaries. It’s still his turf, after all, though he squats like a girlie dog, his leg-lifting balance gone the way of eyesight and stamina. And, at the end of each constitutional, he stands and looks up the drive, towards the road, up the ridge, to the redbuds, where we’ve walked together a thousand times - but walk no more.

Today, instead of just looking, he began to climb the hill, like before.

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The Photo Bin - November 2011

2011-11-22T06:00:00.057-05:00

A photo bin for November simply must be all about fall colors. Each of these three images was taken within spitting distance of the house. The scarlet dogwood, above, reaches for sun into the small clearing behind our home and, in autumn, really pops against the background yellow maples.

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Speckled Trout

2011-11-20T06:00:00.026-05:00

Sorry. I've offered three down-east fishing trip posts without a fish picture in the lot. We did catch 'em, I promise. This guy wasn't the biggest, by far, but he certainly had the prettiest smile.

And they loved the pink and whites, though olive and grey finished the day nicely.

The Photo Bin - Emerald Isle Edition

2011-11-19T06:00:00.012-05:00

A bonus bin! An extra photo triplet - scenes from our day on the marshes.

Two Bucks

2011-11-18T09:25:00.004-05:00

A quick shot of two young whitetail bucks, taken from my window this morning.

How many times have I mentioned how much I love livin' here?

Not nearly enough.

Not Much. What's Gheenoe With You?

2011-11-17T18:31:00.001-05:00

"I'll head your way after training. Be there about ten-thirty, maybe eleven o'clock. Have a beer ready."

"Cool. I'll be here."

"Should I bring the kayak?"

"Nah. I've got an extra down here. Besides, we'll probably end up fishing the Gee-Nu anyway."

Huh?

Read more »

A Departing Perspective

2011-11-14T06:00:00.147-05:00

There's a line in an old Trace Adkins country western song, expressing an unabashed admiration of a certain young honky-tonk patron's "departing perspective", that goes:

We hate to see her go
But love to watch her leave

It's exactly how Troy and I felt - minus, of course, the lasciviousness - as we worked our way off the down-east salt marshes on which we'd just spent a fine Carolina autumn day chasing speckled trout.

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Peletier Prep

2011-11-10T09:08:00.001-05:00

Tied a quick dozen for reds and specs

Hope they like them

as much as the camera did

Something, Something, Something

2011-11-07T04:47:00.005-05:00

Something, something, something.
Something.
Something, something.
Something, something, SOMETHING!
Something?

It ain’t working.

A good friend and gifted writer once told me that when the ideas or the words won’t come, just sit down and "start typing something.” Perhaps I’ve taken her too literally, but I have to do, well, something. It's been another full week without writing anything new.

Read more »

The Photo Bin - October 2011

2011-10-31T03:45:00.007-04:00

Where the hell have you been, Mike?
This is still a fishing blog, isn't it?
And where have the Photo Bins been lately?

Legitimate questions, all.

Me? I've been right here, busy getting settled into the new surroundings. The to-do list has been, and remains, massive and would make interesting reading on its own. Sadly, I haven't been able to find fishing on it. I have managed to sneak away to the Haw just a couple of times in recent weeks, for a bit of sanity time, but the fly rods have, for all intents and purposes, remained tucked away in their new fishing closet. That should change soon and, hopefully, we can get back to piscatorial business.

As for the Photo Bins, those monthly trios of odds-and-ends images that I began in January, where indeed. The camera has gotten as little use as the fly rods lately and that too must change - starting now with the timely little Halloween pumpkin above.

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My Fathers' Gun

2011-10-18T06:00:00.049-04:00

I have little in the way of personal effects by which to remember my father. Such items are, for the most part, unnecessary as I see his face each morning in the bathroom mirror. I do, however, possess one item that speaks clearly of him. I have my father’s gun.

The nine-shot, nickel and steel, wood-handled twenty-two caliber Harrington and Richardson revolver had a previous owner, as evidenced by the H. Smith crudely branded into its snug brown leather holster. The pistol was acquired, I expect, in barter for some service – the shingling of a roof, the repair of a transmission, the breaking of a horse. Whatever the task, you can be pretty sure that Mr. Smith received the better of the bargain.

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Relativity

2011-10-17T10:41:00.007-04:00

A turtle walks into the sheriff's office. "I've just been attacked by three snails," he cries. "How terrible," the sheriff replies. "Tell me what happened." "Well, I don't really know," says the turtle, shaking his head. "It all happened so fast."

Confession: I totally nicked this joke from a New Yorker (April 18th, 2011) profile on neuroscientist David Eagleman who is studying the brain and our perception of time. His work would help explain why everything shifts into slow motion after your wading boots shoot out from underneath you on slippery rocks - a phenomenon I've experienced much too often. Cool stuff.

We're Home

2011-10-11T09:45:00.011-04:00

We’re home.

The journey to this place began the day I decided that enjoying life was more important than earning more money. It might sound like an easy decision, but, six years ago, at the tender age of fifty, it took some thought. But that’s a story for another time. This is about our new place.

Dog Days - June 2011

2011-10-06T06:00:00.019-04:00

The summer swelters are here.

Days that make me want to burrow

deep into the earth, praying hard

for the wet blessing of a rain drop.

Here in the South, there's a certain pace to things - or perhaps more succinctly, a certain lack of pace - when the heat arrives. Ambition melts like a chocolate bar left on the truck's dashboard and time lies suspended, shimmering like the watery mirage on distant blacktop. Life sits on the porch and pants.

Dog days.

Which Way Would You Go? - March 2011

2011-10-05T06:00:00.001-04:00

It changes at the old three-turbine power station.

Upstream there are miles of hard-ass rock hopping and wild browns. Downstream there are miles of easy roadside access and stocked whatever. Upstream there’s steep, skinny water and fish that flee at shadows. Downstream there’s wide, flat riffles and pods accustomed to pellets. Upstream the trout are as small as their habitat, and smart. Downstream they’re as fat and dumb as the day they poured out of the truck.

Now, I don’t mean to denigrate fishing for stocked trout. Lord knows, I do it often enough myself. But if you had the choice, if you had the chance, to chase the wild ones, would you? Would you if you had to sweat bullets and bang your knees to do it? Would you if, instead, you could catch eight, ten, a dozen stockers for every wild fish netted – that is, if you netted any wild fish at all? Would you if you knew with absolute, unconditional certainty that you'd get back to the car bruised and bloodied and spent?

It changes at the old three-turbine power station.

Upstream it’s lonely and it's wild and it's hard. Downstream, it’s not.

Which way would you go?

Rerun Note: A short post, but posing a tantalizing question. It was one of those pieces that just popped out complete - practically writing itself. I wish more of them would do that.

Snowfall - December 2010

2011-10-04T06:00:00.005-04:00

Airborne, my light blue heron fly line disappeared into the thick, falling snow; slate grey strand invisible against the backdrop of heavy, leaden skies and white-coated tree branches. Without visual cues, the other senses are enjoined – feeling the flex of the rod, hearing the textured line whisper through iced stainless steel guides, sensing the gentle rhythms of the slow, steady tick-ticking metronome that is the cast.

There’s magic in fishing the first snow.

Read more »

Tippet Tantrum - September 2010

2011-10-03T06:00:00.008-04:00

I hate 6X tippet. It’s difficult to see, a pain in the ass to tie, and impossible to avoid wind-knoting within the first half-dozen false casts.

7X? Forget about it. Spider-webbery.

8X tippet cannot be seen with the naked eye. One should take extreme care when purchasing 8X so as not to buy an empty spool by mistake.

9X is only one molecule wide and is often used by science fiction villains as a weapon to slice through everything – wood, steel, human flesh.

10X, I believe, is the basis for the particle physics string theory, hypothesizing the sub-atomic base material for all matter, space, and time.

Einstein loved light tackle.

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The Dead Drift - September 2010

2011-09-30T06:00:00.005-04:00

The big brown moved slightly as my elk hair caddis rode the swift currents towards it’s holding place. The trout lay suspended in the soft pillow of water eddying in front of a mid-stream boulder, watching for food in the faster flow on either side – ready to eat. But, as the fly approached the eddy and the brown began to rise, my leader tightened, pulling the caddis a fraction of an inch, against the flow. Startled by the movement, the fish spooked, turned into the faster water, and was gone.

Counting Mississippis - February 2010

2011-09-29T06:00:00.005-04:00

Huddled under the dense streamside rhododendrons in an attempt to escape the downpour, we tried to recall how many Mississippis there are in a mile. You know. Flash, 1-Mississippi, 2-Mississippi, 3-Mississippi, and so on, until, Boom. Divide the number of Mississippis by five (or is it ten?) and you have an approximation of how many miles away the lightning had struck. Five or ten, it didn’t really matter, as our flashes and our booms were now just a startled heartbeat apart, indicating a distance more appropriately measured in feet than in miles. It was no time to be near the water.

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The Silence of a Solitary Fly Fisherman - January 2010

2011-09-28T05:56:00.005-04:00

Silence. Crisp, wintery silence. No, not exactly silence. Something better. Silence gently wrapped around the soothing white noise of an icy, tumbling mountain stream. Silence overlaid by the soft swish of a fly rod, the hushed whisper of line sliding through guides, the occasional rasp of a reel feeding a hungry cast. Silence attained by the crunch of boots in a blanket of snow and the sound of misty breath in cold air. Silence filled with subtle sound. Silence, then, not for the ears, but for the soul.

The silence of a solitary fly fisherman.

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Arkansas River Ambrosia - October 2009

2011-09-27T06:00:00.029-04:00

A time honored, traditional recipe. Good for both body and soul.

1 medium sized Colorado freestone river
2 lifelong friends, aged and generously salt-and-peppered
2 large boxes of hoppers, humpies, and assorted terrestrials
1 flask of Kentucky’s finest
Reduce the river over a slow Indian summer heat and then cool with the first breaths of high country autumn frost until the surrounding aspen dazzle the eye.

Add the fishermen and sprinkle liberally with the terrestrial assortment until the mixture begins a slow boil of rising trout. Whisk lightly with 6wt utensils and carefully strain with a fine 5X monofilament mesh, removing the fisherman and a precious few trout after a long, satisfying day.

Clean and dress the fish - a simple field gutting is sufficient - and place them on ice. Marinate the fishermen with the contents of the flask to soften their grizzled flesh and set both fish and fishermen aside to chill for a couple hours.

Read more »

Explaining Another New Fly Rod - October 2009

2011-09-26T09:08:00.001-04:00

And now, the winning ticket for the TFO Lefty Kreh Signature fly rod is, number 4-1-8-7.

YES!!! It's MINE!!!

And, best of all, Mary was there with me at the annual club pig pickin' and saw that I hadn’t spent an arm and a leg on my newest fly rod, this time. All was right with the world until that all too familiar sense of deja vu began to creep in…

Read more »

Explaining the New Fly Rod - July 2009

2011-09-23T06:00:00.019-04:00

Mary just doesn't get it.

“Is that your new fishing pole?” she asked as I excitedly opened the Cabelas package that the UPS guy had just dropped on our doorstep.

“It’s not a fishing pole, it’s a fly rod”, I replied. “A Redington Predator”.

“And why again do you need another fly rod?”, she politely asked.

Read more »

The Fish - January 2009

2011-09-22T06:00:00.020-04:00

The boy in the grainy, sepia-hued 8mm home movie can’t be more than four, maybe five years old. Frayed dungarees, flannel shirt, crew cut, freckles, ears and teeth he'd one day grow into. But you don’t catch these details right away because your focus is first drawn to the fish.

*****

The boy loved being at the Camp, a remote three-roomed cottage overlooking a woodland creek, somewhere in upstate New York. Downstream, the water split into channels, shallow and brimming with cattails, full of the chain pickerel and bass that loved the cover. Above Camp, the water was faster, rockier, and home to bluegill and sunfish whose colors made one shade their eyes. At the cottage, the stream grew slower, wider, deeper, and held spiked bullhead - white catfish, but the old name fit perfectly - and huge, lumbering golden carp. Here he learned to fish for them all, and learned to love doing it.

Read more »

Mike's Gone AWOL

2011-09-21T06:00:00.008-04:00

At least it seems that way.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of real estate and handyman madness as we prepare to sell our house, purchase a new one, and get moved from one to the other. Those of you who have followed along here for a while will be shocked to hear this, knowing how much we adore our little slice of Piedmont heaven. But don't despair. I'm not going far and I'm going someplace good.

Someplace really good.

Read more »

Homeward Bound

2011-09-08T05:00:00.173-04:00

We knew that leaving Yellowstone, the Tetons, and our whole Montana experience would be difficult, but we didn't know how difficult. It seems that the place did not want us to leave any more than we wanted to go for our path through the Teton National Forest was delayed a few hours by road construction. With no other way to get from here to there, we simply waited. At midnight, WYDOT led those of us who had accumulated through the pass and sent us on our way. The next group would not be allowed through until 4:00am. I hope they had comfy car seats.

With the delay, we once again rolled into Dubois, Wyoming in the wee hours, looking for a hotel room. The Super 8 accommodated and we spent another fall into bed late and hit the road early cat nap. We had to keep going.

I had a plane to catch in Denver.

Read more »

A Day in the Park

2011-09-06T05:00:00.024-04:00

A late departure from Centennial Valley - it's hard to say goodbye to such a good gathering of guys - put us back in Yellowstone later on Tuesday than we had hoped, limiting the time we had to be on the water. At the confluence of the Firehole and Nez Perce, amid the vacationing hordes, we rigged up and headed up the NP, hoping to put some distance between us and the crowds - it's said that 90% of Yellowstone visitors get no more than one-hundred yards from their vehicles during their entire stay - and to gain some elevation in order to find cooler water.

The Firehole is aptly named.

Read more »

Two Monkeys Walk Into a Bar

2011-09-03T05:00:00.023-04:00

We reached a point during our last night at the Elk Lake Camp that every joke opened with the phrase “Two monkeys walk into a bar.” What followed may or may not have made sense with that particular opening line - it usually didn't - but you can be sure that it was uproariously funny and unrepeatable here.

Fish camp evenings - particularly when the week's fishing is done and the next day’s agenda reads clean up and depart - get a bit, well, sloppy.

Read more »

Yellow Stickies

2011-09-02T16:23:00.004-04:00

Being away from home - even fishing - is not always easy. But the distance is often diminished by the yellow sticky notes I find scattered throughout my gear box, my duffel, and my kit - secreted there by my wife before my departure. I'm not sure how she does it, as I am typically packing at the very last minute, but somehow she manages.

Discovering one never fails to bring a smile - just like a nice, fat trout.

Thank you, my dear. This much.

Sexy Beast

2011-08-30T05:00:00.010-04:00

There's simply no way to explain this. I refuse to try.
Let's all just nod as if we understand and move on.
Please.

The Upper Ruby

2011-08-29T05:00:00.089-04:00

Sometimes words just get in the way. Mindful of that, I'll simply let this handful of images depict for you a day on the Upper Ruby River. I struggle to recall time on the water spent any more pleasurably.

Heading for the Distant Hills

Up from the Reservoir - A Surprise Cutbow

It Was a Crap Day

2011-08-26T05:00:00.174-04:00

It started early. Breakfast. Time for an omelette. Some juice. A quick post about our arrival in Montana. Hard drive goes up in smoke. Acrid, burned electronic circuitry smelling smoke.

The laptop is toast for the rest of the trip.

It was a crap day.

On Our Side - Trout Unlimited

2011-08-24T10:47:00.014-04:00

"If you’re fishing for trout anywhere in the U.S. and you are not a Trout Unlimited member, you seriously need to ask yourself why not."

Chris Hunt - Communications Director for the Sportsmen's Conservation Project

This is a No Politics Allowed! blog. Because of this, you won't hear me rant about my profound disappointment in the impending extinction of elected officials who are able to think independently rather than as party lemmings, who are unafraid to at least listen to the ideas from across the aisle, who understand that compromise is not a sign of weakness, and who are capable of hearing the quiet voices of the majority of their constituents above the din created by the political fringes, twenty-four hour news bobble heads, and perpetual re-election campaigns.

Such things have no place on Mike’s Gone Fishin’.

Read more »

I Think It's Getting Lighter

2011-08-23T06:00:00.021-04:00

Yes, there has been fishing since Montana. Not enough, perhaps, but some. So here's a quick diversion from that western story, just long enough for an image from last week's Tour de New, our annual getaway to Virginia for smallmouth and an occasional trout. The shot above was taken from under a Virginia Creeper bike bridge where we stood and watched the rains roll in and listened to the thunder-boomers shake the heavens.

It's important to note that repeating constantly "I think it's getting lighter" doesn't make it so.

Trust me.

Note: My special thanks to Chris K. for this image of T'bone and I, watching the light show and regularly observing that we thought... well, you know.

The Cast of Characters

2011-08-22T05:00:00.033-04:00

Before we go any further with this Montana narrative, I think it’s important to introduce the main cast of the production. From left to right in the above shot, taken as we prepared to head our separate ways at the end of the TU/OBN adventure:

Travis “The Kid” DuBios – I call him “the kid” because he’s about the same age as my youngest step-son. But, despite those tender years, I have never met a more complete outdoorsman. He’s a hunting and fishing machine with enough backcountry experience to fill a lifetime - and he’s just getting started. Always smiling, ready to get on to the next adventure, infinitely prepared for whatever comes his way. I knew he was hard-core when after dinner our first night at the resort, well after dark, he grabbed a float tube and headed for the lake. He was simply a joy to have around.

Elk Lake, MT

2011-08-18T08:49:00.008-04:00

11:00am - Elk Lake Resort - somewhere west of Lima, MT: Two questionable-looking characters wander in and belly up to the bar that serves as the base of operations for the place.

Good morning gentlemen, how can I help you?

Howdy. We’re with the Trout Unlimited – Outdoor Blogger Network group, here for a few days of fishin’ and bloggin’.

Nice to have you. I’m sorry, but your cabins won’t be ready until about 1:00. You’re welcome to hang here in the lodge in the meantime.

Great. Thanks. So, while we’re here at the bar, can we get a couple of beers?

I’m afraid we don’t serve alcohol until noon - in about an hour.

Really? Well, I’ll bet it’s noon somewhere right now... don't you think?

She smiles - a warm and genuine smile.

It probably is. How about a couple of cold sodas?

It seemed that Lerrina, the wonderfully hospitable I’ve-heard-it-all-before proprietress of the fine hunting and fishing establishment, was immune to our boyish charms.

Read more »

A Change of Address

2011-08-13T08:15:00.004-04:00

A brief and exciting administrative note. Mike's Gone Fishin' has changed addresses. It can now be found at its own domain name, www.mikesgonefishing.com. Much easier to remember and communicate. Blogger made it a pretty easy transition and I understand that all current .blogspot references will be redirected transparently so, basically, you have nothing to do. But be aware, if things seem squirrelly with anything MGF related - content not included as that's always squirrelly - or if you have any questions about the change, please let me know here.

I suspect that if you have MGF links, in blogrolls or any other intertube pointy thingies, it wouldn't hurt to update them at some point in time. You see, I have no clue how all this works. I just trust that it does.

THANKS for reading!

Centennial Valley Arrival

2011-08-12T05:00:00.017-04:00

Recalculating…. Drive point-one miles and do a U-turn

The Girl, my Garmin nüvi GPS, had done a stellar navigating job to this point. She had placed us on a lightly used, beautifully scenic diagonal route through northern Colorado and southern Wyoming rather than along the sterile square of Interstates 25 and 81, she had all but parked us in the Lander Bar back lot where we found our buddy Russ, and she had motored us through the great national parkland, keeping track of where we were and where we were going so that we could gawk like slobbering fools at the delights of the Tetons and Yellowstone without getting hopelessly lost.

Read more »

Iconic Waters

2011-08-11T05:00:00.015-04:00

It takes gut-wrenching discipline – that, or incredible stupidity – to gaze upon iconic trout waters and not race wildly back to the car to rig up one’s 5wt. But that’s how we found ourselves as we entered Yellowstone early Saturday morning with the intention to scoot through the park ahead of the tourist traffic. The plan would get us to our Montana destination with some time to spare, but doomed us to little more than longing glances at streams we’ve dreamt of since we were tiny fisherlings.

And while the variety of terrain in Yellowstone is mesmerizing, it was the waters that captivated our attention and imagination. The names alone are poetry to the fly angler.

Teton Sunrise

2011-08-10T11:01:00.014-04:00

Dubois, Wyoming - 5:30am: We slipped quietly out of town, under cover of pre-dawn darkness, like a couple of ranch hands dodging their tab at Miss Kitty's Saloon and Boarding House of Delights.

Sanders and I had arrived a few hours earlier, just shy of midnight, after a day on the road and some Wyoming trout waters. We drifted into town expecting to find a room, shake the trail dust, and get a few winks before remounting for Centennial Valley. But, to our surprise, as we rode in we saw more than a few happy cowboys and cowgirls wandering Dubois' main drag and, at our first hotel stop, learned that the rodeo was in town. It seems that the rodeo is in Dubois all summer and, at least this particular Friday night, there was no room at the inn - the Stagecoach Inn. And none down the street at the Super 8. And none at the.... well, you get the idea.

Read more »

Cruisin' Big

2011-08-05T09:30:00.003-04:00

Cruisin' in the boat
In the big ol'e hoopty ragtop Eighty-eight from another time and another place
Outward into that wide, wonderful Wyoming expanse
Big hats and big skies and big dreams
And doin' it, of course, in big style

It's all big out here

Old Friends I'd Yet to Meet

2011-08-04T16:08:00.012-04:00

My Montana traveling companion, Sanders, made the comment recently that my decision to fly into Denver and spend four days traveling the west with him was a leap of faith on my part. Granted, I'd never met the guy and had committed myself to twenty-four hours of in-your-face car time, not to mention a couple of nights on the road in remote reaches, so the comment holds some creditablity - particularly with my wife - but I had little in the way of concern. You see, I'd been reading his blog.

Hopefully, he'd been reading mine.

Read more »

Lander, WY - My Montana Moments Begin

2011-08-03T16:38:00.011-04:00

Grab a beer, boys and girls, belly up to the bar, and prepare to sit a spell. I have a story, maybe a couple, to tell about some boys who went to Montana.

And it’s about damn time.

Yes, I’m finally crawling out from under the steaming remains of a week of meltdowns – a hard drive gone all chernobyl on me, an AWOL DSL connection, and a visit from the ever delightful virus fairy – the real world, kick-your-physical-ass kind, complete with seventy-two hours of 103-degree fever spikes and energy sapping, sheet soaking cold sweats.

You just gotta love air travel.

Read more »

Just Fishin'

2011-07-25T22:19:00.005-04:00

I'm still limping along, technologically, so will just have to wait 'till I return home to tell the Montana tale(s). I apologize. The silver lining is that it will give me a little time to let it marinate, to let it gain a little perspective, to make it a better narrative. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The good news is that the others are going strong, blogging their tails off, making it work realtime. Be sure to check them out!!!

Sean at Up the Poudre
Owl at OwlJones.com
Travis at The Tailout

It's been a blast so far and I look forward to telling you all about it.

Later!

We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties

2011-07-24T12:02:00.003-04:00

So, we're here in Montana, at the end of 17 miles of dirt track, tucked into the incredible western scenery, far, far from home, or anywhere else - here to fish, learn about the good work Trout Unlimited is doing here and around the country - here to tell you about it as it happens.

And my laptop goes belly-up.

It would be painful at home, but devastating here, given what I'm in Montana to do. I still haven't quite figured out how to deal with it. You'll have to be patient with me while the reality settles in and a plan forms. My thanks to Travis for his quick connection loan here.

So while I mourn for a bit, I offer the above shot, my first westslope cutthrout, caught yesterday in Elk Lake as we waited for our cabins to be available. Seventeen inches of powerful, beautifully colored dynamite. And the week is only getting started.

I guess I may be forced to just concentrate on the fishing for a while.

Shucks.

And So it Begins - Montana Bound

2011-07-22T09:52:00.002-04:00

Thursday 3:05pm

Raleigh-Durham International Airport

Gate A27

As my buddy Sean so aptly put it in a quick note this morning, and so it begins…

Sitting here at the gate feels odd. During my thirty-two years in the I/T industry I’ve done my share of flying, so it’s not that. And as a travel team soccer coach, an occasional vacationer, and the grandfather of two cherubs in Chicago, I’ve flown my fair share of friendly skies on the way to fun places and wonderful adventures. It’s not that either.

Bad Habits

2011-07-18T20:40:00.014-04:00

With only a handful of days left before climbing onto a plane for a sweet western trout trip, I figured I’d better visit my home waters one last time and reinforce some bad habits. You know. Bass habits.

You see, I have lost the two truly large trout that I've ~~inexplicably~~ ~~accidentally~~ ~~miraculously~~ managed to hook this year by lapsing into my river bass fighting habits. The little-to-average fish have been no problem but when the stout trout have hit - and run - I've been too stingy giving up line, too heavy-handed with the rod, too impatient to turn the torpedoes my way – forgetting, of course, that I was dealing with 5X tippet, not 10lb test. The breakoffs were inevitable, but heartbreaking nonetheless.

Read more »

The Photo Bin - June 2011

2011-07-11T23:11:00.006-04:00

They do sit still...

Shin Deep

2011-07-05T12:03:00.013-04:00

There are two ways to plan a trip. The first is to agonize over the details, to spend late nights devouring maps, setting waypoints, gauging distances, scheduling travel times, and establishing to the nth degree every move, every stop, to be made. The second is to book a flight to and from a jump-off point and, in-between the coming and the going, trust the wind to blow you where it will. I like the later.

With big plans come big expectations, often unfulfilled. Sparse plans come with the tingling sense of uncertainty and adventure that can't help but be realized, for better or for worse. And you have to admit, once survived, the for worse often makes the best stories. Besides, the things you remember about a trip are seldom what you expect. What’s remembered is the chance encounter with a colorful local, the stream found far from where the knowledgeable crowd congregate, or the local off-the-travel-guide fly shop and impromptu bar-and-grill. What you remember is the color of the sky, noticed only by looking out to the horizon rather than down at an itinerary. You simply can’t plan such things. Why try?

Read more »

Dog Days

2011-06-26T07:24:00.019-04:00

The summer swelters are here.

Days that make me want to burrow

deep into the earth, praying hard

for the wet blessing of a rain drop.

Dog days.

Big Sky Bound

2011-06-22T14:20:00.004-04:00

Just a quick and humble thanks to Trout Unlimited for their kind invitation to join them in Montana for some fishin' and a first-hand look at some of the fine work that they are doing on our behalf. Thanks, as well, to the Outdoor Blogger Network for participating and facilitating this wonderful experience.

I'm psyched.

Fathers and Sons

2011-06-17T06:09:00.021-04:00

Summer 1982
Durham, North Carolina
Rice's Farm pond
My father, my son, a Zebco and a few zealous 'gills

Dad, I'm glad that we finally saw eye to eye
Glad that I grew to understand
Wish that those last five years could have been twenty-five

Son, I simply wish I could touch you one more time
Just one more time
I miss watching you grow into the man that I know you would have become
Miss it desperately

Don't let being Fathers and Sons get in the way
of being fathers and sons
Today is more precious than you know

My father, my son
on my mind this weekend

My love goes out to all of our boys - Greg, Freeman, Ben, and Amo, as well as dear Andy.
Thanks for being the fine young men that you are. I'm incredibly proud of each and every one of you.

The Best Trout Fishing Trip Ever

2011-06-09T15:55:00.024-04:00

"… and as she’s releasing this big, beautiful brown - a fish she’d caught with G-Man’s setup and from the pool that G swore was as empty as Frank’s beer cooler - she looks up, gives him a wink, and says that when he’s ready for some real fishing lessons he should give her a call. Poor G-Boy couldn't utter a word."

Hearty laughter flares around the campfire, though G’s is understandably a bit forced, as another best trout fishing trip ever story draws to an end. It’s time for a brief nature-driven excursion beyond the fire’s bright glow, another pass of the flask, and the start of the next tale. My turn.

Read more »

Hot

2011-06-08T15:06:00.008-04:00

The phone rings. It's Cope.

Whatcha doin'?

Not much. It's hot.

Let's go fishin'. I can leave work early today.

It's 94 freakin' degrees Cope!

Yeah. It'll suck.

Yes. It will.

What time can you be here?

Writer's Block

2011-06-07T13:31:00.009-04:00

Standing knee deep in the comfortable, warm waters of my favorite bass river, casually casting a chunky cork popper in fat, lazy loops, I mentally rewind to the previous day’s writers’ group meeting. As has happened much too often lately, I'd brought nothing new, nothing to read – my pen strangely quiet. So, when my turn arrived, I apologized and suggested that we take my allotted time to discuss the dreaded writer’s block, for I was clearly experiencing one. With a wry smile and with great assurance, Catherine waded in. “I know the problem” she said.

“You’re happy.”

I laughed, at the time, both at the concept that a contented man is a writer in trouble and at the odd notion that I might be such a man. But here, a mere twenty-four hours later, as I blithely toss a fluffy fly towards a shaded riverbank, I realize that she’s right.

How could such a thing have happened?

Read more »

The Photo Bin - May 2011

2011-05-30T13:50:00.008-04:00

May 6th: Save 15%...

This month's trio of odd shots could be called the Backyard Creature Collection - except that the first two were actually taken in the front. There's always something interesting going on around here.

We found the five-lined skink, above, tucked into a deteriorating tree stump just off the front porch on what was perhaps the final cool spring morning - so cool that the little guy was sluggish enough to let me handle him. As he warmed in my hand he quickly considered his position and bolted back to his hiding place. We appreciated capturing this cameo.

Read more »

Fly Fishing Math 101 - Fly Lines

2011-05-24T12:27:00.019-04:00

Good morning class. I’m Professor Mike, an adjunct instructor here at Fly Fishing University (FU), and today we will begin a series of lectures on the baffling mathematics of our chosen sport.

While it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to be a fly fisherman, an advanced degree in math certainly doesn’t hurt. The numerology imposed upon us is confusing, at best, and often downright diabolical. This lecture series is designed to help you sort your way through the math maze so that you might become a more knowledgeable angler. Upon completion, you still may not be able to catch a damn thing, but you should be able to talk a good game – which is, after all, the basis for a successful career in fly fishing.

In today’s lecture, we will begin with the fly line.

It Seems Like Forever

2011-05-19T09:01:00.006-04:00

It seems like forever since my river has been fishable. Sporadic spring rains have kept it high and dirty for so long that I've wondered if I'd ever get back on it. But as summer approaches - and here in the south it will arrive in a whipstitch - things are finally settling in.

I like fishing when it's been under 4ft for a couple of days. Such a tease!

I walked down the path and fished the dingy, but blessedly wadable, waters - with expectations - for the first time this year. Wet waded, to boot. I was not disappointed. It's good to be home again.

It seems like forever.

81 Rock

2011-05-13T14:40:00.043-04:00

81 Rock. No, that’s not some television sitcom with Alec Baldwin, tony New York City address, or kids’ Saturday morning educational snippet. It’s how the fearless crew of the SS Minnow fared on the Roanoke yesterday.

Inspired by the boat named Minnow, I considered riffing on the whole Gilligan’s Island motif for this post, but realized that, as owner and operator of the tidy little 14-foot skiff, Terry was The Skipper. That made me Gilligan. Unfortunately, my parallels with the hapless sixties TV character are just a little too close for comfort, so I decided to pass on the approach. Besides, it seems that every time my buds and I begin discussing the fascinating character archetypes, the thoughtful studies in situational morality, and the in-depth analysis of Darwinian evolution in isolated populations presented by that landmark series, the conversation inevitably degrades into just another Ginger or Mary Ann debate.

We won’t go there today.

Read more »

The Photo Bin - April 2011

2011-05-09T06:14:00.011-04:00

April 15th: Tax Day on the Haw

This month’s photo bin is late, not because I'd forgotten, but because I’ve struggled for images. It’s full-out spring here in the Carolinas, perhaps the most picturesque time of the year, and I've got nothin'. Many things have kept the camera in its pack – weather, a family trip north, more weather, laziness – so I’ve scrambled for content worth posting.

I even considered skipping the month, having a photo bin gap, but realized that it would set a bad precedent, making it too easy to skip it again… and again. So, instead, I sorted through my meager April catalog and picked the three presented here. They interest me for reasons other than their visual impact, obviously, so you get a short story with each. Lucky you.

Read more »

Fish Pictures

2011-05-05T16:27:00.009-04:00

I like reading your blog, Mike...

(wait for it)

... and I like the photos...

(have patience, it’ll come)

... but...

(bingo!)

You see, there’s always a but when it comes to discussions of my literary and artistic endeavors. I suspect that there always will be. My knee-jerk response is to suggest that the commenter might kiss my but(t), but, this time, as buts go, my buddy JimBob’s was fairly benign.

... but you don't post enough fish pictures.

Blooded

2011-05-04T10:31:00.029-04:00

It’s exciting times here at the worldwide headquarters of Mike’s Gone Fishin’. After weeks of constant spring rains, the skies are clearing and the Haw is settling into something that approaches fishability. This year’s generation of fawns will soon begin to appear alongside the gravel road leading to the house, raising the local cute quotient but lowering the potential for any of the new green to survive on the open forest floor. The new 5wt is getting an occasional workout. Pine pollen no longer coats every surface, including the interior of my sinuses, oak squiggles don’t clog the Ridgeline’s cool air intakes, and the old woodstove has probably held its last warming coals of the season.

But the big news is that one of our favorite online fishing publications, BloodKnot Magazine, has temporarily and inexplicably abandoned its high editorial standards and included a short piece of mine in their current issue. We’re excited. Check out My Way, in the Crumbs section. Crumbs. How appropriate.

Read more »

Lightweight

2011-04-26T10:23:00.006-04:00

A lightweight beer. A lightweight fisherman. A lightweight day on the lake.

Hoped for bass. Expected pickeral. Caught crap(pie).

Not much of a challenge on an 8wt.
But there are worse ways to spend a glorious Carolina Easter weekend.

Most ways are.
A lightweight beer. A lightweight fisherman. A lightweight day on the lake.
Southern spring delight.

Thanks, Jo and Dewey, for a wonderful time. We love ya!

Hucked

2011-04-20T06:24:00.009-04:00

I cut me a good straight sapling, ‘bout half-ag'in tall as Pap.

Decided to go with the Predator - graphite, 7’10” 6wt. It’s sturdy in the backbone and fast enough for big flies and a good strong hookset. Slotted on a mid-arbor Battenkill III, the perfect compliment. Good drag and quick retrieve.

Found some old string behind Widow Douglas' place.

Spooled up a 7wt bass taper, overlining the Predator a step. Heavy front end punches the breeze and carries wind resistant bass bugs well while the stiffer coating doesn’t go noodley in warm waters. Added a six-foot 1X knotless tapered monofilament leader, stout enough to turn over the big stuff.

Read more »

Back On Home Waters

2011-04-18T07:00:00.012-04:00

I could stand it no longer. Spring is in full riot and my river has been completely unfishable. Regular rains have kept the flow high and the waters dirty – conditions not particularly conducive to my wading habits. But the itch finally demanded scratching and the USGS’s website showed potentially marginal level and flow. That was close enough for me. I headed down the path, bass rod in hand.

Forgot my belt and gravel guards.
Scraped a leak into my waders clearing a trail blow down.
Found the river higher and muddier than I'd hoped.
DUH!

The First Hundred

2011-04-14T19:18:00.007-04:00

My most reliable fishing buddy turned 100 this week. 100-thousand, that is. Miles.

My Ridgeline has gotten me to the stream before dawn and back to the house on schedule more times than I can count over the past three years. Well, maybe not so much back to the house on schedule, but those perpetually problematic punctuality issues are mine, not the truck’s.

Read more »

How Many?

2011-04-13T12:30:00.016-04:00

So, how many fishing poles do you have now? she asked, peering into the back of the closet at the jumble of rod tubes. She knows bloody well that they aren’t “fishing poles”, but she also knows how to yank my chain for a little fun.

Not too many, I responded, and immediately realized the hopeless inadequacy of the answer.

Let me think.

You see, I’m turning into a hopeless fly fishing gearhead, tragically addicted to the feather slinger’s drug of choice - fly rods. And, like any junkie, I always need just one more.

It all started innocently enough with a gift, a seven foot Dogwood Canyon 4wt, an inexpensive Bass Pro starter rod and reel combo, given to me by my step-sons. They’d seen my fascination with the clear mountain streams as we hiked the North Carolina Appalachians and they thought I would enjoy splashing about in them with the small stream rod.

They were right and I’m forever grateful, and forever changed. My problem is their fault.

One.

That starter rod was followed shortly by a sweet nine foot, 6wt Winston IM6, sold to me by my professional and fishing mentor, Frank, for the ridiculous sum of $200. He’d only fished it once, briefly in Scotland, but said he wanted a faster stick. Maybe that’s true, but really I think he just wanted to get me going right. Good friend, that Frank. Pusher.

Two.

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Princesses

2011-04-06T07:00:00.029-04:00

We live in North Carolina, our grandchildren in Illinois. It’s not a grandparent’s ideal, but we do what we can to stay in touch. We visit when we are able, do the occasional phone call, and Skype at every possible opportunity. But one of the most fun things we do is send to our three-year-old granddaughter a weekly picture postcard – a Because it’s Monday card.

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The Winds

2011-04-03T09:08:00.028-04:00

The stiff westerly wind blew our fourteen-foot Henry O around the lake like it was just another dried oak leaf. Fin and I had hoped to find a few of the trophy largemouths that occupy this small Piedmont reservoir but they appeared to be hunkered as deep against the howl as possible. The fly rods, our preferred tackle, remained under the gunnels, or, in my case, never left the rod tubes, and we futilely tossed our dusty spinning gear against the gale. Sitting here, eighteen hours later, the blast still reverberates in my ears.

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The End of the Road

2011-04-01T09:03:00.011-04:00

It's a sad day here at Mike’s Gone Fishin’ for today I must say goodbye to you all. With a heavy heart, and with great reluctance, I plan to pull the plug on the blog, effective immediately. This will be my final post. I’m sorry.

When I retired, I thought that keeping a blog would be a fun thing to do, giving me a creative outlet while keeping me in touch with the I/T industry from which I’d departed. I reasoned that a blog would also allow me to incorporate my rediscovered love of the long rod and share my adventures in the outdoors with whoever might be interested.

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La Smith et la Mouffette

2011-03-30T19:47:00.010-04:00

[LePewOn]

Oh, mon cheri. Why do you treet me zees way? I come all zees way to wade in your beauty and chase your bright feesheez. Eeet's spreeng, ze time of loooove. So show me ze love, mon révérer, show me feesh love.

[LePewOff]

Such lovely sounding language. La mouffette. I was la mouffette on the Smith River yesterday. Seems springy, and nice, doesn't it? Well, I'm afraid that skunk smells like skunk, in any language.

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The Photo Bin - March 2011

2011-03-24T12:04:00.008-04:00

March 18th: Dan River brown on a rubber-legged stone

This month’s set of unusual images could easily be titled The Photo Bin - Lemonade Edition. Sometimes what comes out of the camera after an outing is disappointing. Sometimes it's pure crap. Don't despair. Like people, every photo probably has some redeeming quality. You just have to look a little harder and work with it. After all, you took the shot, didn't you? You saw something that inspired you to trip the shutter. It might still be in there, somewhere. So, occasionally, and as a last resort, take those digital lemons and give them a creative squeeze.

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Which Way Would You Go?

2011-03-19T12:05:00.035-04:00

Let the Stream Talk

2011-03-14T11:56:00.016-04:00

"There was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds of woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building erected for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased when he sat in my doorway to arrange his lines. Once in a while we sat together on the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other; but not many words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my philosophy. Our intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, far more pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech." Henry David Thoreau - Walden

Writers and fisherman venture out to the stream, not to listen to one another talk, but to hear nature speak. There's too much yammering going on in the world these days and it would be a great shame to let our all-too-few quiet outdoor moments fall prey to the din. We go out there for the serenity. At least I do.

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A Fishing Day Saved

2011-03-11T08:48:00.014-05:00

This was supposed to be a post about the dozens of hickory shad that the Professor and I boated during our mid-week assault on the Roanoke River near Weldon. Unfortunately, the Corp of Engineers bollixed up my publishing schedule by pinching that waterway’s flow to a mere 2,200cfs, exposing rocks seldom seen and turning our intended day’s float into a brief boat ramp drive-by. It was a long drive for a short look.

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Spring Whites

2011-03-06T07:51:00.002-05:00

Forget the blossoms. Forget the birds. Forget the warm, gentle breezes and the lengthening of each day.
I know that it's spring 'cause the white bass are on the run.

It's about dang time.

Stream Jordans

2011-03-04T07:00:00.052-05:00

In today’s vernacular, I was a baller.

From my early teens to my mid-thirties, I snuck away to the streets and local playgrounds for pickup basketball games every chance I could. Though not particularly tall, I was long of arm, quick off the floor, and in possession of the sweetest little fade-away J this side of Raleigh. I learned a lot of things on those hard asphalt and concrete courts, but one of the most important, and one that sticks with me even today, was that footwear mattered.

LMBs Coming Back Into the Picture

2011-02-28T07:00:00.033-05:00

Goodbye #20s. Hello 2/0s.

Goodbye 6X. Hello 10lb test.

Goodbye delicate presentations. Hello splashdowns.

Goodbye lifting the rod tip to set the hook. Hello lifting the rod tip, with attitude, to set the hook.
Rip it.

Goodbye 4wt. Hello 8.

Goodbye sips. Hello flushes.

Goodbye nettin’ ‘em. Hello lippin’ ‘em.

Goodbye four-hour drives to the mountains. Hello five-minute walks to the pond.

Ten to the river.

The Photo Bin - February 2011

2011-02-23T08:35:00.004-05:00

Feb 19th: Haw River Crawdad (a Hawdad?) in his Element.

February typically sucks for the casual outdoor photographer around here. Yes, the Piedmont does get an occasional picturesque snowfall or, with luck, a pre-spring warm spell that fools a few photogenic blooms. But, for the most part, it's simply drab.

So I consider myself lucky to have this trio of orphan images to share this month. You can always count on sunsets and mountain streams to save the photographic day. Even in February.

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