Plans Are Overrated

My return to this hidden staircase of rock and water didn't go quite as planned. The intent was to nick a few brookies and take some long exposure images of soft falls and emerging Spring. I was ready.

But the brookies were absent (I saw nary a fish, much less caught one) and the day, forecast to be heavily overcast, turned bluebird bright, and windy. There's not an ND filter made that can fix dancing rhododendrons. I snapped a few shots but my objectives went pretty well unrealized.

No worries, however. The three-hour drive was saved by a quintet of rough-coated whitetails that passed within twenty feet as I sat on the tailgate enjoying my lunch, a leisurely mid-day nap in the bed of the pickup, taken between half-mile rock hops (the first with a fly rod and the second, a tripod), and, after each climb and descent, a cold beer, tucked snuggly in a trailside plunge pool. Nature's perfect cooler.

So while things didn't go quite as planned, it was a joy to be out. To be on the road. On the stream. On the trail.

Besides. Plans, as you well know, are overrated.

Note: Click on the pics for a better look. I'm often disappointed with how Blogger represents them.

Acknowledgement: Thanks, here, to the good folks at Upslope Brewing Company for sending a six-pack of their fine lager. A perfect summer beer, light and flavorful, that would be even more perfect if I could get it here on the east coast. Just another reason that Boulder rocks. Oh, and no small thing, one percent (1%) of revenue from sales of this beer is donated to local chapters of Trouts Unlimited where their beers are sold. Well done, boys.

In All Seriousness...

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

I'm not much of a drinker.

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

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

Why am I telling you this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll drink to that!

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #2 and #1

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

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

Thanks for a great trip, brother.

And finally....

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

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

Baja Bedside

Help find the appropriate sunburn solution.

Peep

They’ve been quiet of late. No noise coming from the tree frogs and chirpers that live in and around the pond just above the house. Winter’s had its way with them and they haven't peeped a peep for quite some time.

… not unlike a certain blogger I know.

The dreary season’s beaten us down - amphibian and fisherman/blogger alike - and it’s been hard to find inspiration. Jack Frost has worn his welcome thin as Lululemons.

But spring is peeking around the corner, finally. And with the budding cherries and blooming forsythia, I assure you, the racket will begin once again. Just be careful what you wish for.

For example, I’ll be getting back to this keyboard a bit in the coming days with a couple of book reviews (what else have I had to do lately, but read?) and maybe a Photo Bin. Then it’s buckle-down time at the ol'e Renzetti in prep for a much-needed spring jumpstart - a week tip-toeing the Tropic of Cancer, wandering the southern Baja, chasing roosters, dorado, and the elusive Mexican tequila pixies with my good friend (and bad influence), Chris Hunt.

Lord knows what noise will come out of that.

So here’s fair warning. Things are going to be picking back up around this place. Ready or not.

Peep

Note: I found the tree frog pictured at the top of this post in Mary's potting soil bin the other day. I felt bad interrupting his slumber but it was a nice afternoon - one of the few we've seen this year - and, once released, he happily climbed around the woodpile. That is, what's left of the woodpile after this much-too-long winter...

On Reputations

Odd. It appears that I've somehow acquired an undeserved reputation as a drunkard beer lover. This misconception crystalized last week in, of all places, the wilds of Wisconsin when my brand new fishing buddy, Mac, upon the end of our first day on the water together, reached into the back of his truck and pulled out a six-pack, saying "I understand that you're into beer."

I, of course, was dumbfounded. Where'd he get that idea? I started to protest, but thought better of it and, unwilling to hurt the dear boy's feelings, reluctantly accepted his largess. It was quite the sacrifice, I assure you.

But I'll give Mac some credit. He picked the wares of a fine small local brewery, The New Glarus Brewing Company, a delightful little summer seasonal, Totally Naked. The bottle says:

Pure and crisp, this is a beer with nothing to hide. Wisconsin two-row barley malt insures a mellow and smooth body. We import Noble hop varieties from Germany and the Czech Republic to insure a fine mature aroma with no course bitterness. Expect this beer to pour a delicate golden hue that sparkles in the summer sun... Kick back, relax and enjoy the simple unadorned flavor. This is beer at its most basic.

I don't know about the pour or the summer sun sparkle, but it damn sure tastes good straight from the bottle, sitting on a tailgate, watching the moon rise at the end of a fine day of fishing. So next time you find yourself in southern Wisconsin, hopefully chasing Driftless trout, be sure to look up New Glarus. Kick back, relax, and get totally naked.

Wait. I mean get Totally Naked.

Crap. I'm sensing yet another undeserved reputation in the offing.


Blogger Geek Note: It will be interesting to see the keyword hits that this posts brings.

Bacon Beer and Belly Dancing

HOGWASH hickory-smoked brown porter
Bacon beer! We house-smoke malted barley over hickory wood, imparting a sweet, subtle smoke to our hickory-smoked brown porter. Depending on your comfort level with smoked beers, you may find Hogwash subtle or overwhelming. Try it with North Carolina barbecue for some smoke-on-smoke action, or go for the Trifecta of Awesome: bacon, beer, and chocolate! 5.5% ABV
Availability: YEAR-ROUND, mostly.*

Good copy, but they had me at "Bacon beer!" Sadly, we missed the "mostly" this time and settled for corn-brewed cream ale and a solid southern lager. Mighty fine fallbacks.

And, after a couple of pints, the strangest thing. A belly dance recital broke out.

Just shoot me now.

That's odd. This picture seemed in perfect focus when I took it.

* Text from the Fullsteam Brewery website. If you're ever in Durham, their sweet potato beer is amazing.

Drool

Not something you see every day on a southeastern screen porch, Montana-brewed Moose Drool. But for some reason I don't feel much like writing about it this morning.

Go figure.

Coping

Our fully exposed southern garden gets it bad, but even the thermometer on our cool northside shaded deck reads triple digits so we're pretty well cooked any way you look at it. So we learn to deal with it. We learn to cope.

And believe me, there's a bunch of coping goin' on today.

Stay cool, my friends.

Southern Comfort

It’s hot here on the carp flats this time of year and the experienced southern angler knows how to be prepared. A quick stop at Bo’s on the way to the launch to carry him though the morning and a dip into the cooler to revive him when the mid-day sun cooks the top of his head. Think hummingbird nectar followed by a cool, refreshing rain.

Sustenance. Survival. Southern Comfort.


Please. Partake responsibly. Put safety above all else. Have just one and live to fish another day.

The Photo Bin - April 2012

I know, it's only been a couple of weeks since my last "monthly" photo bin. But the rest of April looks to be rather full (more on that in a minute) so I thought I'd sneak this month's edition in early. Besides, there's always an odd image, or three, floating around here to share.

Spring raced through here at a breakneck pace, as though Ma Nature wished to be done with it and move straight to summer with no more than a howdy-do. The trees went from bare to lush, seemingly overnight, but I did manage to shoot the emerging mottle of greens, posed against a crisp Carolina sky - a wisp of the moon for added interest.

And Wilderness Dog Sammy's always good for a cameo. He's been doing reasonably well of late, despite his age and arthritis. We finally seem to have found a decent balance between un-medicated joint pain and drug-induced stupor - a balance which makes for a livelier and more active little guy as well as happier dog owners. Here he's taking an Easter stroll in the yard of our friends' lake house, lookin' for the big dogs.

Finally, in preparation for that "rather full" rest of April, referred to earlier, I've spent a few evenings at the vice, tying a couple of Bugger Barns full of clousers and sliders that I hope will appeal to some South Padre redfish.

Yes, Texas, here I come. You'll be hearing more of that in the days to come.

Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and a spot of Maudite and the Allman Brothers channel on Pandora make the flies fly by nicely.

So, to steal my buddy Tom's post-closing convention, see you on the Gulf.

Bring It, Spin Boy

Yeah, it's your lake, your boat, your domain. 

But let's go. Let's see who's got it this fine Easter weekend. 

My fly rod against your spinning tackle. 

Best fish wins.

Oh crap! Nice start.

But I finish well enough to be in the arguement.

And there are some things we can agree on.

So we call it a draw and enjoy our time together on the lake.
That's how it should be.

Thanks, my friend, for putting up with my fly fishing fetish.
You're a good man...

...for a spin boy.


Admonishment: Do not imbibe and boat. Bad. Bad. Imbibe and enjoy the view from the dock. Good.

The Beer Tie

We tie a few flies
And tilt a few ryes
And tell a few lies
Though not always, you see, in that order

And it occurs to me
That there’s more hair see
On the table than on the north border

But what better way
Than to finish the day
At the vise/vice (take your pick) with good friends

Another pitcher, boys?

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.

Worse, neither veteran nor novice raised a fish. So, feeling sorry for them, I wandered over, said hello, and gave the poor rookie one of my secret weapon Bream Killers – a bead-chain eyed, size 12 bit of fluff with wiggly rubber legs. I wished them luck - it looked like they'd need it - and took my leave, quickly, so as not to be snagged by an errant backcast.

I bumped into Puddin’ a few days later at the shop and asked him how the fly had worked. With a snort of pure disgust he replied, “I had to take the damn thing away from him.”

Why?

“Because every time he casted it, he caught a fish. It didn’t matter how badly he threw it, how far he missed the mark, or how much line he piled on top of it, something ate it. I would try to get him to place it near this log or in that eddy and he’d screw it up royally, miss the target by miles, and still catch a goddamned fish. I swear that if he'd hung it in a tree some fat bluegill would be jumping out of the water after it.”

That’s good, isn’t it?

“Hell no! He wasn’t learning a damn thing. Every awful cast produced. And the part that really frosted me was that he was catching so many fish that he starting to tell ME what to do.”

Bummer.

So that’s the story. True? Maybe. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that it was told among good friends over a cold brew and that it had the hint of possibility.

And among fly fishermen, that’s about as close to the truth as you're likely to get.


Note: The fly shown in the picture is, sadly, not the Bream Killer. I have been sworn to secrecy on that particular bit of fluff. Hell, if you had a fly that had bluegill jumping out of the water, wouldn't you be tight lipped about it too?

That is, if you believe...

Lander, WY - My Montana Moments Begin

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.