1959

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.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors

What's he doing?
He's taking a picture of his reel. And a beer can.
He's doing what?

I totally get it. To regular anglers, we fly fishermen can seem a bit strange at times. And those of us who dabble in the media, stranger still.

He's taking pictures of his reel and beer can.
Why?
I don't know. You ask him.

So I guess it's no wonder that Daniel and Otto seemed a bit perplexed as I hunched in the bottom of the Crestline and rattled off a string of shots of my, well, you heard them. I suppose it's not something they see their sports do every day.

So I tried to explain to them how Sage was good enough to send me their new 6200 series reel to give a try, and how nicely it matched up with RIO's InTouch Pike and Musky fly line and my new G.Loomis Pro4X Long Handles Predator pike rod. How it was good to feature such things on the blog and other media outlets. How fly fishermen are pretty much all gear junkies, deep down, and liked to see such things.

I went into detail. How I find it hard to review reels. It holds line nicely doesn't seem quite enough, though the 6210 did it quite well and looked good doing it. How I couldn't really give the drag a good test as pike didn't run like, say, a bonefish, and that I'd only put a couple fish on the reel this week and the 6210's had started up smoothly and confidently and how it felt solid, without a shimmy. How it felt like a good reel that begged for more rigorous testing.

And how the RIO line with it's short head and powerful front taper did the trick, carrying these big northern pike flies beautifully and how it was well-coated for these cold waters and would be perfect for the winter conditions we'd be fishing in for musky down south. How I'm a big RIO fan.

And that the G.Loomis was a nice surprise, an impulse purchase before I came here to the Arctic Lodge in Saskatchewan, and how it threw these sodden streamers a country mile and had the 9/10 backbone and extended fighting butt to manage these ornery four-foot toothy creatures. How I liked the green.

The beer? Well. It was just really good beer.

And as I finished all this explaining I looked up and noticed Daniel's eyes, and attention, had drifted off to the water again. Where, in a moment, he pointed. Big one there, at the edge. The camera was hastily put down, we dropped a fly on the beast's nose, and all of the advertising was forgotten.

But in the back of his mind I know that Daniel was still thinking. These fly guys are weird.

In the end, though, he had to admit. They're pretty good fishermen.

The Unpacking

It’s a common sentiment, written about with great regularity, that the packing for a trip is often as exciting as the trip itself. The suspense, the planning, the first steps into what one eagerly anticipates being a glorious adventure. The rod selection, the preparation of flies, the compilation of outerwear, underwear, footwear, and where the hell’s that bug spray. It’s heady stuff, previewing the trip as one counts down the days to departure, but I have a confession to make. I like the unpacking better.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the lead up, but it’s not without tension. Truth is, I tend to overanalyze. What will I need? Do I go with just the big duffle or split out the gear into a rod case and pack some contingency clothing? What’s the weather going to be like? Which waders? How do I keep the big bag under fifty pounds and not have to lug lots of carryon around? What will TSA think of those 2/0 stingers? Take the 8wt and the 6wt, or just a 7? Will I carry too much? Will I carry too little? What truly essential, lifesaving item will I completely forget? The preparation is fun, but it’s stressful.

And since my forays of late have been to a wide variety of locations for a wide variety of fishing experiences, it’s been tough to get a pat checklist in place. Every trip has its peculiarities and its special considerations. Alaska has one list. The Bahamas, another. (Yeah. I know. Big crocodile tears, right?) But take my word, starting from scratch every time has its challenges.

But when I get home, that load is lifted. There’s nothing to think about except unloading the bags and remembering the trip. I get to replay it all, what worked and what didn’t, as I dump the contents out on the floor of the office. I get to touch everything one more time.

I take note of what’s still clean and add that to the Exclude Next Time list, what’s well worn and dirty goes on the Frequent Flyer list, and what smells like fish on the Must Take Again. The new gear (for one must always take something new to try out) is assessed and what’s tried and true is once again acknowledged as the touchstones of my fishing life. And every item unpacked plays back into the adventure I’ve just experienced. Each piece bears a memory from the trip. Every object still resonates with the previous week’s travel.

And here’s where it gets weird. I get great joy from putting it all away.

You see, I have this obsessive/compulsive issue in which I derive insane pleasure in restocking the gear closet, returning everything to its proper place. The outwear hung in the right order, the fly lines stacked by ascending weight, the flies in their proper drawers or boxes, the rods standing neatly in the corner. Having that pile of dirty clothes laundered and hung gives me the giggles, the bags empty and stowed gives me peace.

And while that might seem odd, it makes perfect sense when you consider that this actually means that I’m just a bit ahead of you in the anticipation of the next trip. I’m poised, ready to start it all over, eagerly awaiting the time when I can pack it all up again and head out.

I’m ready to get ready to go. My pre-trip packing, whether I know where I’m going next or not, has already begun. I've just started early.

The unpacking simply closes my möbius fishing loop.


Note: This all comes to mind as I stare at the pile on the floor next to me. It smells of Saskatchewan here, and I know it was a good fishing trip because Zeppelin won’t keep his nose out of my duffle. Stick around for the next few days and I’ll tell you about it.

The 6wt E

At the intersection of passions there often lies magic. Overlapping devotions compound and exponentiate in weird and wonderful ways, lifting each to stimulating new heights. But, just as often, at those same crossroads lies madness and the sad truth is, when in the throws of passion, it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

My love affair with fly fishing is well documented. But those who know me best are also aware that I have been recently consumed by another old flame. The guitar. I’ve owned a trio of acoustics for decades, sentimental pieces more than musical, but the fire was reignited with the purchase, last November, of a Fender Telecaster and Blues Junior amp (electrified devices, for those of you uninitiated in modern six-stringed instrumentation). Our quiet hide-away in the woods has become a little less quiet and a little less fishing has been going on.

And while the Telecaster has gotten the most attention, the increase in musical interest has blown back on my acoustics. I pick them up much more often now, especially when the urge to make noise surfaces and there’s too little time to set up the electric, or when Mary has the girls over and I must be sonically restrained.

Such was the case yesterday as Mary and Susan and Sherry were downstairs, working on their basketry. I picked up the quietest thing I owned, my Yamaha G-231 classical, a box that I hadn’t played in a while, and gave it a good strum. But, with that single rake of the pick, the top nylon E-string pinged at the bridge and I was down to five, the final string left hanging loosely from the headstock like some poor tenkara offering.

At that point, I could have easily set the Yamaha aside and picked up another guitar, but it’s not in my nature to leave things in such awkward states. My OCD won’t allow it. And a quick rummage in the case failed to produce the new set of D’Addarios that I was certain had been there. I had replacements for the Fenders, my steel-stringed acoustics, and a variety, 09s-to-11s, to try out on the Telecaster, but none for the 231’s nylons.

If the strings were not in the case, then they had to be in my toy closet - that cluttered hole in the wall filled with guitar accoutrements, camera gear, and all things fly fishing - and it was there that the passions overlapped. Once the nylon set couldn’t be found, my eyes fell on the carefully stacked boxes of fly lines.

Do you think...

I grabbed an old RIO bass line, a 7wt that I’d had for a while and was likely not to use again, cut out a four-foot length of running line and strung it up. It easily tuned to an E and I got a soft, mellow note, but it couldn’t be held for long. After a bluesy Stormy Monday, it went flat as a Lefty Kreh loop. And I didn’t like the feel of the textured line or the “round-wound buzz” that I got as I slid between notes. That sound’s okay down low, but not acceptable in the upper registers. A four-foot length of the tapered head faired a bit better and had a bit more warmth of tone, but also quickly lost tune after just two bars of an acoustic Layla. That and it felt a bit bulky for the top end. All-in-all, the 7wt was unsatisfying, but the concept showed promise. A more scientific analysis was needed.

Tension was not an issue. Guitars are normally strung in the neighborhood of fifteen pounds tension and a fly line should handle that and more. I’ve broken off enough 20lb floro tippet on bonefish and reds to know that to be true. Size and texture were next to be considered and the possibilities that lay between 5wts and 8, especially when factoring in the tapers, would give me plenty of options. Perhaps a newer line would help address the tuning issue as well. But in the end it would all come down to tone. It’s all about tone.

So I started experimenting. I grabbed a fresh box, a RIO Outbound Short Freshwater 8wt intermediate sinking line, thinking the running weight would be about right. In addition, the untextured, slick finish should reduce the buzz and the sink line might add some weight for a fuller sound. I hacked a few pieces, strung them up, and saw improvement, but the tuning issue remained. One full play of Down By the River and it was flat again. Worse, the coldwater coating began feeling tacky as it warmed under my fingers. Great for avoiding coiling issues in cold weather. Bad for warm hands and hot licks.

A tropical line, then. Snipped up another Outbound Short, this time a 9wt intermediate, but with a saltwater coating. Better texture under my fingers and a decent tone, but the bothersome tuning issue remained. Didn’t hold up through Day Tripper. Barely got through the intro. It was beginning to look like a show-stopper.

Another look into the closet and the light bulb went off. The lines' core was the key. If I could find a more stable core, perhaps it would hold. RIO’s low stretch ConnectCore might be the answer and I quickly took the scissors to a new 5wt Xtreme Indicator line. The running line proved a bit light, but a length of the head – the cool orange front taper – seemed closer. A rousing ten minutes of twelve-bar-blues jamming, bends not normally heard from an classical guitar, didn’t budge the tension an iota so the tuning issue was licked, but I’d lost the tone with the lighter line.

A 6wt InTouch Grand, then. The trimmed out green front taper wasn’t quite as cool, visually, but the tone was better. Not just better. Fantastic. Buddy Guy’s upper licks never sounded so good. Downright buttery.

I’d hit the sweet spot. Beautiful sound. Tuning stability. Silky feel. I’d solved my E string problem...

(with $400 worth of fly line)

…and wondered how fantastic it’d sound if I replaced the G and B strings as well.

A Rod Problem

We sit, mesmerized, as they emerge from the rod case, one shiny blue Helios2 after another, and another, and another.

7 to 11wt, with redundancy. We watch as each ferrel is meticulously waxed, all sections carefully aligned, every rod paired with a stealth-black Mirage or glittering NV-G; the reels, like the rods, all appearing out of the bottomless Carry-It-All. Piece upon piece materialize from the case like some impossible number of clowns unfolding from a P.T. Barnum punch buggy.

For bonefish. For permit. For tarpon. Even barracuda. At stick number six we start laughing, bringing a sheepish grin to Bob's face.

Okay, maybe I have a rod problem. But I get a handwritten Christmas card every year from Perkins.

Holding his right index and middle finger together, just so...

Me and Perk. We're like this.

We laugh even harder, not completely convinced that he's kidding, and wonder where we might get one of these magic bags for our own.

The Duffle

I made it home with no serious hiccups but my big rolling duffle went walkabout. PenAir decided that they needed to lighten the load by a couple-hundred pounds before we lifted off from Dillingham and I won the “left behind” lottery. It’s a sick feeling to be left standing at the luggage conveyor, watching that last sad bag (someone else’s) circle over and over and over again.

Sud'bá, my friend Will would say. My destiny.

After leaving my forwarding info with Baggage Control, I moved on with just my carry-ons, back through security, and settled in at the gate for my next leg. With a couple of hours till liftoff, and my confidence shaken in luggage logistics, I started a list of the contents of the REI duffle. Just in case.

It turned into a challenge, a game, to remember it all. Exercise for this old brain. And since I’ve written it down, I thought I might share it here. Just for grins.

So here's what came back from Alaska:

Simms G3 Waders – Lived in them. Friggin’ bulletproof.
Simms Guide Jacket – See above
Simms G4 Boots – See above
Redington Sonicdry Wading Pants – Seriously Comfy. Wear them whenever I can. Didn't.
Simms Vapor Boots – See above.
Patagonia Stormfront Roll Top Pack – Best piece of new gear of the trip. Stuff stayed dry.
SmithFly Digi-Pouch – Kept the SLR handy and dry
SmithFly 3X Pouch - Catch-all for small gear. Solid.
Simms Guide Vest – Didn’t use this trip. Guides had it under control.
Folstaf Wading Staff – I don’t leave home without it
Socks (REI, Wigwam, Swiftwick, Simms) – MUST have fresh socks. Carried a wad!
Quick-dry underwear (REI, Patagonia) – Absolutely critical
Boxers (Old Navy) – Comfort around the lodge and when sleeping
REI Midweight Baselayer Pants – Because it’s good to be warm
Select Soccer Warmup Pants – See above
REI Light Poly Baselayer Shirt – See above
Redington SonicDry Baselayer Shirt – See above
UnderArmour ColdGear Baselayer Shirt – See above
Simms Merino Wool Light Sweater – See above
Northface Windwall Fleece Jacket – See above
Allsport Heavy Fleece Pullover – My son’s. A very special warmth, and a tear or two.
Orvis Fingerless Fleece Gloves – Keeping the digits warm
Manzella Light Gloves – See above
Fleece-lined Stocking Hat – Keeping the ears warm
Columbia PFG Quick Dry Pants – Because I generally don’t travel/fish in anything else
REI Sahara Shirt – See above
Levi’s 527 Jeans – For kicking around the lodge
Howler Brothers Longsleeve Loggerhead Shirt – See above
Fiberglass Manifesto Retro Fly Longsleeve Shirt – Sleep shirt. Best logo in the industry.
Tilley Hat – Old school. In case of sun. It could happen.
Nylon Belt – No sagging allowed
Bathroom Kit – Travel necessity
Fireball Cinnamon Whisky (2 bottles) – See above

Those were the things I remembered and wrote down. I’m proud to say that I only failed to recall three items:

Book – Corman McCarthy’s Blood Meridian
Sony Digital Voice Recorder – You can’t always write shit down
Nestle Hot Chocolate Packages – Good with a little Fireball in it

Not bad for an old man with mush for memory. But I must admit, as long as it took me to decide what to take, and to pack it, I should have been able to recall it all. And though the list is long (and I carried more than a few “splurge” items), I stayed under my fifty-pound limit. Given my penchant for over packing, that’s pretty amazing.

So. What’s in YOUR bag?


Note: It all worked out in the end. No need to haggle over the list of items. The duffle made it's way home, a day later. Just long enough to insure that everything inside smelled plenty ripe.

Another note: Of course, I carried-on my fishing gear. You can take my clothes and leave them where you will, but the fly rods are coming with me. Maybe I’ll post the contents of that carry-on too, if anyone happens to be interested.

Diablo Day

It was a tough three days on South Padre. Traveling a couple thousand miles for a virtual skunking puts a man to mumbling to himself. But the worst part was not that we struggled to find fish; it was that the conditions didn't allow us to spend enough time with the Diablos.

I was first introduced to Diablo Paddlesport's fine fleet of fishing kayaks a couple of years ago on the northern Laguna Madre. Thomas Flemons, co-owner of Diablo, towed a fleet of his boats out to a remote cabin outside of Baffin Bay where a handful of us gathered to spend a few days chasing redfish. I quickly fell in love with the Adios.

Diablo's craft are a hybrid of kayak and stand-up paddleboard, "thinner and wider, like a SUP board, but still has all the comforts, such as dry storage, wet storage, paddle and drink holders as well as a comfortable seat." I happily paddled about the salt flats, cruising for tailers, staking the boat out and wading when I wished. It was a couple of very good days.

Fast forward two years and I found myself back on the Laguna, this time further south, and was thrilled when Brandon arrived with a trailer of boats - his green Diablo Chupacabra and a couple of the new roto-molded Amigos. And not just any Amigos. Thomas's personal craft, complete with a couple of prototype accessories for us to fiddle with.

The plan was to paddle the flats as we had two years before, but the wind had other ideas. Blowing a steady 20 knots out of the south, it chopped the water severely making sight fishing impossible and paddling a challenge, even with the low-riding, sculpted Adios.

We did get a morning in, paddling around the waters just north of South Padre, and reacquainted ourselves with these sleek, sturdy craft that floated easily in a couple of inches of water. They were as good as I remembered.

I just wish that we could have done more.

Note: A huge thanks to Thomas Flemons for the loan of the craft. Diablo sits at the top of my list of personal fishing boats and I look forward to their continued evolution and success. If you're thinking of getting into a kayak, this is the place to start looking.

22 Ton

An odd provision in the purchase of our home was the conveyance of a one-fourth ownership in a hydraulic wood splitter. I've staunchly resisted its use these past two years.

You see, I love splitting wood by hand. It's great exercise, extremely effective stress therapy, and often an entertaining puzzle in three dimensions. Whiling away a day swinging an axe suits me just fine.

But over the past couple of seasons I have accumulated a stack of "problem" rounds - sections of wood with knots, twists, forks, and general stubbornness that have resisted my maul - much of it hickory which is particularly cantankerous to pry apart as its grains tend to go every which way. Andrew Jackson must have been one mean cuss.

So I reluctantly chased down the splitter, dragged it home, and put it to work, feeling a bit guilty giving in to the convenience. The pile of nasties was split in no time. It was a ton too easy.

Actually, twenty-two of them.

8wts

Bonefish mean 8wts and we bent a few

Redington, Hardy, G.Loomis, and Scott

Mystic and Orvis, TFO and Sage

Smoked a few reels, as well

Lamson, Nautty, Orvis, Redington

Gear junkies, we are. No denyin'

And bones are as good an excuse as it gets

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #6 and #5

Tip #6: Bring your vise.

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

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

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

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

Tip #5: Bring plenty of gear. Plenty.

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

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

A collective masculine groan echoed throughout the southbound 737.

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

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

Whatever's biting.

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

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

A Day at the Beach

I close my eyes and stand, barefooted, a half-mile off the pristine shores of a lush south seas island, rocking gently on the forward casting deck of a brilliant white skiff, an 8wt in one hand, a Kona in the other. I lift my chin and savor the smell of salt, the sultry caress of light Pacific breezes on my tanned brow, and the balmy, soothing rays that radiate deep into my core. I’m at complete peace, drifting blissfully along, warm and toasty, here in this equatorial paradise. This heaven.

The sublime ruse implodes with a teeth-rattling shiver. I open my eyes to find that I’m still knee-deep in this dark Appalachian tailwater. Freezing my ass off.

The only things even remotely “tropical” are my Maui Jims.


I’m a long-time fan of Maui Jim sunglasses. I’ve worn a vintage pair of titanium Mauis on the soccer sidelines and while driving for nearly a decade and I have been fishing in Lahainas, non-prescription, for the better part of the last four years. Mary has a pair of MJs as well and loves them. They’re simply great glasses.

And Maui Jims’ customer service has been stellar. I've played hard and have done some pretty destructive (okay, stupid) things to my Mauis. In most cases they've absorbed the abuse but in the handful of instances where I have taken it too far the company has bent over backwards to help fix what I’ve broken, quickly, and with a smile.

So when the folks at Maui Jim, having somehow seen my earlier post about a competitor’s prescription fishing sunglasses, dropped me a line and asked if I knew that Maui also does prescription glass and would I be interested in trying a pair, I was thrilled. I've been thinking about a good pair of polarizers for low light situations for a while now and Maui's Evolution HT lenses looked just the ticket. I accepted their generous offer and requested a pair of Stingrays, so kitted. They arrived last week and I put them to their initial test on a dreary, snow-edged day on the Smith. They didn’t disappoint.

Maui says that HT is an acronym for High Transmission, but I honestly think it stands for Holy $#!T, the first words out of my mouth when I slipped them on in dim conditions. Tucked under the overhanging trees, in deep shade, these “sunglasses” seemed to lose nothing in the light department and their subtle green tint brought a sharpness that made my field of vision pop with surprising clarity. MJ’s literature says that they “embed (their) lenses with three rare earth elements and other compounds to enhance definition and contrast” and, as new-age-hokey as that sounds, it appears to work.

As I’ve gotten older, the amount of light available has become increasingly important for good vision and, to my aging eyes, there is little discernable reduction through these lenses. Quite the contrary, dark shorelines appeared to brighten, dim streambeds became crystal clear. The combination of contrast, clarity, and perfect polarization left me no visual excuses for missing fish, even in the dingy conditions.

Don’t worry. I have more than enough other excuses to make up for it.

Bottom line, these things are serious fly fishing tools and I look forward to them being an integral part of my gear from this point forward. They expand the angling day, providing polarization and clarity, early morning and late evening, when darker lenses are too much. More time to fish. Or, at least, to see what I’m doing.

So if you’re thinking sunglasses, don’t just think sunny southern surf and sand and fruity drinks with little paper umbrellas when you think of Maui Jims. Think daybreak assaults on overgrown eastern mountain trickles. Think rainclouds and snowfalls and fog-shrouded drifts down deep western canyons. Think catching that last hatch as the sun sinks behind the dense North-woods tree line. Think seeing clearly when things get dark, wherever, whenever you’re bending a fly rod.

Think this cold, dreary Appalachian tailwater.

But, if it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather be back on that skiff. Where I could feel my toes.

Aloha

Fishin' Light

I regularly see guys on the trout stream who look like they’re moving in, who appear to have been tossed out of the house for going fishing one time too many, kicked to the curb with their worldly belongings, luggage and all, and they've toted everything to the water.

Backpacks that could attack Everest. Chest packs they can barely reach around, much less fish around. Fanny packs that would take a whole lot more fanny than mine to keep suspended. I shake my head.

But then, I’m a minimalist. I travel light, think light, fish light. I want less to carry, less to lose, less to hang fly line on. I don’t need four boxes with every trout pattern in six sizes and three colors. I don’t want five kinds of indicators, a ten-tall tippet stack, or gadgets and widgets and zingers out the whazoo. All that stuff just confuses me. Not that it takes too much to confuse me, mind you.

I just try to keep it stupid simple. I have enough complexity in my life without dragging it out to the stream with me. I fish because it gives me uncomplicated, quality time, so I do it with uncomplicated, quality stuff.

I load up my SmithFly 2X pouch with a 4x6 C&F box of flies, 5X and 6X tippet, a few spare leaders, some Gink and some Frog Fanny, a bit of wool, and a little shot. Maybe a Clif bar or two. Hang the hemos and the nippers and I’m good to go.

Fishin' light, unencumbered, leaving the luggage at home...

...and trying not to go fishing one time too many.

It's Not You, Honey. It's Me.

Meetup location sounds good. I'll give you a call when I leave Harry's with the boat. I plan to bring a spinning rod along with my fly rod. I've been catching some bass on swim baits on the pond here at Five Points. So feel free to bring a spinning rod if you want.

It took some digging, but I found it. Tucked into the backmost corner of the deepest reaches of the basement. Hidden behind a flaccid float tube and a roll of plastic deer fencing. Draped in cobwebs and dust. The forgotten stick. My old 5’9” Shimano BW-2593 Bull Whip Graphite Fightin’ Rod. Medium Bass/Walleye Special Action. Quantum Escalade loaded with Fire Line. Fat black jitterbug, still strung from some midnight foray to the pond down the hill, years past.

I was young and foolish then.

But we ended up using the darn things. A surprisingly stiff breeze chopped the lake. A blast from the north, forcing us to cast a blast from the past.

I remembered what it’s like to send a weighty lure sixty yards with a flick of the wrist. No false cast. No double haul. Never mind that a decent hookset from that distance is unlikely. It was startling just to watch it fly.

Jitterin' the bug. Walkin' the Zara pooch. Slingin' spinnerbaits. Deep-divin' big-lipped cranks. Bass moves I’d almost forgotten.

But after a few hours the wind dropped and the guilt moved in. This dalliance with the old girlfriend seemed cheap and tawdry. I’d taken easy comfort with another when the times got tough. I’d backslid.

I was ashamed.

So I put down the short whip and tenderly pulled from the gunnels my sweetness, my steadfast 6wt, strung and ready to go. Long elegance and light as an angel's kiss. I stripped a little line, gave it a quick roll, and sent the deer hair flying…

…twenty feet.

It felt like shit.

You Can't Catch What You Can't See

Chris: Sheepshead. Three of them. Eleven-o’clock. Seventy feet out.
Me: Huh? Where?
Chris: Coming your way. Sixty feet. Fifty.
Me: I can’t pick them up!
Chris: Wait. They’re turning. They're gone.
Me: @#$%

Len: He took it! Hit him! Uh, too late.
Me: Really? I didn’t feel the take.
Len: Didn’t you see that indicator move sideways?
Me: No, I lost it in the wash.
Len: Too bad. Looked like a nice brown.
Me: @#$% *^%

Bill: Listen to them carp slurp. Oh. There he is. A bruiser. By that rhodo snag.
Me: What snag?
Bill: Seriously?
Me: @#$% *^% @#%$^)(*@!!!

It had been a few years since I’d had my eyes checked. My ophthalmologist of nearly thirty years passed in 2008 and I had not brought myself to find a new one. He was a good friend and I didn’t mind the annual long haul to Raleigh to avail myself of his professional skills and his good nature, but the trip was not so inviting once he was gone. So I let it slide. For years.

But in the past six months exchanges like the ones above have become annoyingly commonplace. Now, I love my non-prescription Maui Jim’s – they’re fine polarizers - but I was obviously missing details and missing fish as a result. Something had to give.

So I bit the bullet. A new eye doctor, a new prescription, and the birthday splurge of a pair of Costa Del Mar Joses with Rx 580P ambers. Take that, old eyes.

The first day on the stream was mind-blowing. I saw everything! I saw texture. I saw detail. I saw nuance. I saw every leaf, every rock, every ripple. I saw more than my poor brain could deal with. I saw too much. I was driven to near catatonia by information overload - by extreme visual stimulation - by clarity.

A glance over my shoulder to check clearance picked up things that, previously, my mind would have discarded as inconsequential (which, of course, they were) but, having snagged my attention on the distant perfect detail, I held the backcast and had to reset my spatial bearings.

It was disorienting. It was unsettling. It was overwhelming.

It was fabulous.

A couple more trips under my belt have calmed my consciousness and I’ve settled in on having more to assess. Extreme detail is now mentally filtered and the incredible clarity of my field of vision has become a delight rather than a distraction. I’m gonna love these things.

After all, you can’t catch what you can’t see.

I Love the Smell of Naptha in the Morning

Pow! Pow!

He hit me, twice, in quick succession - once just under my left armpit and a second time, lower, on that little ridge of disappointing softness that rides just above the waistline – before falling out of my shirt to the ground where I unceremoniously dispatched him under the toe of my Keen.

It’s not the first time I’ve been hit this summer, nor will it be the last. It’s but a small part of the price one pays for spending life outside. And wasps are just the beginning. Caustic plant life, sun, and bugs bearing all manner of insidious irritation keep an outdoorsman harboring a constant itch of one sort or another. At least, out here, no one sees you scratch.

So you do what you can to prepare, prevent, and, if avoidance doesn’t work (and it seldom does), prescribe for the nagging little nasties that lie in the weeds. Even a diehard naturalist needs a little chemical weaponry now and again.

Because it’s a war out there. War.


Note: Too weird. As I am preparing to post this I receive my daily Fly Talk email from Field and Stream and, to my amazement, it's Kirk Deeter talkin' about Fels Naptha soap. Great minds...

One Shirt, One Pair of Pants

It occurs to me that some of my closest friends, my fishing buddies, might believe that I own but a single shirt and pair of pants. It’s not an unreasonable assumption. They may never have seen me wearing anything else.

When it’s time to go fishing, first out of the closet is my REI Sahara Tech long-sleeve shirt and a pair of quick-drying Columbia PFG Aruba convertible pants. Sure, I own other “fishing apparel,” but this combination always seems to be on my back, and my backside, when there’s fish to be caught.

After a few years of bushwhacking and stream-stumbling, hundreds of outings, they are definitely showing their age - loose at a few seams, frayed at some edges - but then, so am I. I do wear other things, but usually only after being out for a couple of days when my favorites have reached the point where they can stand in a corner on their own.

At home, when I come off the water they hit the laundry immediately. I say that it’s so they’re ready for fishing the next day. Mary says it’s so they don’t stink up the place. Both arguments have considerable merit.

The irony is that Mary swears that 80% of our laundry load is my clothes. That's not bad for a guy with just a single shirt and pair of pants.

A dozen fly rods, yes, but, apparently, just one set of fishing clothes.

Fishing With the Devil

It was a sight - or so I’ve been told. An odd duck family moving down the intercoastal. Gavit’s nineteen-foot Action Craft momma skiff followed by six Adios babys with a Chupacabra ugly duckling bringing up the rear. A daisy chain of bobbing boat birds. The Diablo brood was on the move.

Twenty–three miles, two-and-a-half hours. The same twenty-three miles we smoked in forty minutes the next day. Bless Thomas (Diablo Paddlesports' co-founder), Gavit and Brandon for their patience and care in keeping the watercraft from ending in a wad.

Two-and-a-half hours. Ugh.

But it was worth it.

The sturdy boats gave us the flexibility to come and go on the flats as we pleased – alone or in numbers. Take it out, stake it out, and walk the flats. Stable enough to scout or fish from - standing or sitting high, dry, and comfortable in the Larry chair.

Gavit suggested that such a thing has never been done before – a concerted assault on these waters by a group of kayakers. We certainly got some strange looks from the guided skiffs that occasionally wandered through our domain.

Where did you come from?

If Gavit's right, I don’t understand why no one else has done it. It was an absolutely perfect way to attack the far-flung flats.

Fishing with the devil.

I want one.

Note: A huge thanks to Thomas Flemons for towing the fleet out and turning us loose on the flats with his boats. It was a fine gesture. Better yet, it was great to have him around.

On Being Ready

I’d tied a hundred flies for this trip. Mostly clousers - 2s thru 6s. Chartreuse and white. Pink and white. Olive and white. Grey and white. Tan and white. White and white. Pink and chartreuse. Olive and grey. Orange and brown. Two big bugger barns. Slam full.

I’d tied rust and tan Borski sliders. I'd ravaged my bass boxes for poppers, gummy and gulley fish, gurglers - flies of all configurations and colors that I thought might, just might, come in handy. I'd even nicked some candy-colored spoon flies (I'm sorry, I’m weak) from Todd’s box as he slept.

I was loaded. I was ready.

I didn’t have black.

The damn fish wanted black.

Luckily, any good fish camp has a central, vital, station - the tying table - and Austin, Brandon and Jen were on the job. Need black? Have a seat.

And, honestly, how could I think I was prepared? Saltwater boxes look nothing like what I'm used to. More Victoria's Secret than Bob's Fly Shop. Even my outrageous largemouth box is drab by comparison.

So while the salt mavens were better prepared, not even Austin was ready with black.

But it didn't take long to fix that.

Please pass the marabou.

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.

Bug Eyed

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

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

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

But to start, the eyes.

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