On Appeal

Hi. Remember me? I used to write with some regularity in this space. It’s been a while, but now the silence can be broken and the truth behind my absence may finally be told. I was sued.

It's not a pretty story. The RFA (Real Flyfishers Association) slapped me with a cease-and-desist order alleging that I was fraudulently posting as, well, a real fly fisher. Apparently they found a sympathetic judge who had actually seen me cast and the lawsuit was on.

It’s been a long slog, fighting the deep pockets of the RFA, but after numerous appeals and a rigorous climb up the judicial ladder, none other than this great land’s Supreme Court vacated all of the lower courts’ judgments, citing as precedent our present “state of affairs.”

Ginsburg (who throws a pretty mean spey) wrote for the majority:

Given the suitability of the current holders of many of our top governmental positions, Mr. Sepelak should reasonably be allowed to assume the role of a fly fisherman, a brain surgeon, or a ripe avocado for all we care.

Alito (trout-setter) for the minority:

WTF were we talking about?

It was a landmark decision, but a close one, won only because Gorsuch (a notorious low holer) is still having trouble with his buzzer.

However it happened, the result is good news, presumably, to my half-dozen followers here at Mike’s Gone Fishin’, and I hope to be back posting shortly. At the very least, the Photo Bins should get started again, though Photographers United is watching me very, very closely with litigious intent.

Needless to say, it’s good to be out from under the oppressive cloud of adjudication and back to the business of dispensing some serious fly-fishing false news.

Stay tuned, comrades.

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.

Just Two Casts Away

Excerpts from an Alaskan journal:

TSA Agent, with a straight face, as I entered the security queue with my travel rod case: "You don't have any guns in there, do you?" Really?

The biggest problem with carrying fly fishing gear on a plane is that you have to listen to everyone else's fish stories.

I'm toast, though the sun has not yet set. I've gained four hours, traveling west, and I feel the weight of them. Too long spent in seat 38B.

Far-flung trips seem unreal until I'm in the middle of them. Before departure there's always the questions. Will it really come off? What will it be like? Will I return from it? (Yes, I ask myself that sometimes.) Trips are a slice out of time, completely disconnected from the natural flow of my life, but they always teach me something new about it. Each trip has a lesson, though it often takes a while for it to be recognized.

First fish in Alaska, a robust rainbow, every bit of four inches long. Glad I came all this way. But hey, he jumped!

Black spruce, cottonwood, juniper, birch, scrub willow, alder. Fireweed, caribou moss, crowberries, salmonberries, wild blueberries. The colors of the tundra are scrumptious.

"They taste so good, it's like an angel pissed on your tongue." - Pete, on Tia's peanut butter concoctions

"Too early old, too late wise." - Grandpa Tex, via Pete, on nothing in particular

It's amazing to fish a stream full of brilliant red spawning sockeye, drifting beads through the schools, searching for the big rainbows and char that linger among them and gobble the roe. But the occasional salmon will go cannibal, take the egg, and they're a load to bring home; a guilty pleasure.

Thank God for Gore-Tex.

"You're just two casts away from the biggest trout of your life." - Bradley's mantra

Bent the 8wt all day long with silvers fresh from the salt, still fully loaded for their hundred-mile trek up the river, still bejeweled with sea lice along their broad chrome flanks. Charles said I caught fifty. He might have been right. I stopped counting at three.

Flannel sheets on an Alaskan morning. It's hard to get out of bed.

7wts with sinks, 6wts with floats. Streamers from all angles. My kind of fishing.

Our last day of fishing, done. The rain picked up as we arrived back at the lodge, washing the week clean. I'm ready to head home tomorrow. Hope the weather lets us out.

It did, with some reluctance.

Bob's World

We spoke of many things.

We spoke of aging with vigor and with dignified acceptance of limitations. We spoke of how shadows on the stream are darker than their hosts. We spoke of brown water, both waded in and sipped on. We spoke of creativity and inspiration and the special disposition it takes to be a painter and a writer and a fly fishing guide.

We threw some mean darts.

There were many things that made my Alaskan adventure special, but foremost among them was time spent with my host, the unsinkable Bob White. Mary often wonders at my practice of charging off on far-flung fly fishing jaunts with folks that I’ve never met and I suppose that I understand her concern. But this was a no-brainer. Before I’d ever shaken his hand I felt a connection to the man. I’ve long admired his artwork, been inspired and entertained by his off-season social media quotes of the day, and appreciated a stimulating written correspondence over the past couple of years. I felt that I pretty well knew what I was getting into.

I was not disappointed.

So here’s to my Alaskan friend, guide, roommate, and fellow young pup. It was a pleasure to spend time on the water, in the lodge, and behind your amazing easel. Thanks for the invitation and the time shared in your special corner of the world. In Bob's world.

And I hope that we’ll get to speak of many more things as we travel down the road.

Secret Waters

I had hoped that one of the “secrets” my friend Chris Hunt reveals in Fly Fishing Idaho's Secret Waters 
is that they are, in fact, not in Idaho at all, but surreptitiously hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of North Carolina. I was disappointed, of course. But, short of that one minor geographical issue, the book stood up to my every expectation. And I expected a lot.

But before we get started, let’s address one pressing issue. Giving away secrets, especially secret fishin’ holes, is frowned upon in many circles. We, fly fishermen, are as tight-lipped a lot as you’ll find and don’t cotton much to having our honey-holes exposed. Early on, Chris takes faces the music:

… our backcountry and backcountry trout deserve the appreciation of anglers who, without a bit of encouragement, might not venture very far from the blacktop to chase fish. The more anglers who experience the backcountry, the more allies our wild fish have when it comes time to beat back a bad idea or stand up to those who don’t share our conservation values. Anglers – and hunters – are more and more important in the conservation discussion all across America… If it gives one angler the motivation to write a letter to Congress or craft a letter to the editor of his local paper when that action is needed to protect the backcountry and our Idaho way of life, it’s worth it.

That being said, Chris doesn’t really give away the keys to the kingdom. There’s no maps with Xs where the trout are or detailed descriptions of trailheads or highlighted pathways into the backcountry. Instead, he gives the reader a starting point; or, as he describes it, a short head start on their own journey to discover backcountry treasures filled with wild fish and experiences we all thrive to uncover. At the end of each chapter (the book being divided primarily by region) Chris gets as close to “giving it away” as he will by providing a page reference in the Delorme’s Idaho Atlas & Gazetteer and an invitation to explore the small blue lines found therein. But, paired with the vivid descriptions and stories surrounding each of the Idaho gems, it’s a hell of a start for those with a true desire.

It’s appropriate that Secret Waters is published by History Press because it’s the history that the book contains that makes it so fascinating. The first two chapters put Idaho and its storied fishery in perspective. Papa Hemmingway, his son Jack, the incredible conservative contributions of Ted Trueblood, Carter H. Harrison. The stories Henry’s Fork, Salmon, Silver Creek, South Fork of the Snake. The Ranch.

But it’s the smaller waters, and smaller histories that make this book special. Each tiny creek and hidden tributary that Chris describes has its own stories to be told. And Chris tells them well. From geological origins to native American inhabitants to Louis and Clark’s explorations; Western outlaws to local politics to more recent legislative battles. Chris gives you the background. A trout is a trout, if you’ll pardon the generality, but it’s the places that sing to the seasoned fisherman. Knowing the past gives perspective - a look into the soul of a waterway that connects a man with his surroundings in a way that sticks forever.

And the history that’s the most comfortably relayed is Chris’s own, his personal memories of each blue line. The folks that he fished with, the color of the sky that particular day, the things that made each splash special to him. Family and friends brought together by a fly rod. This book is personal, not just a dry how-to; appreciated, here, for I feel the most boring part of fishing literature is usually the fishing itself.

And the book's far from boring, especially visually. It’s lovely to page through; full of colorful and inspiring photography. Grand vistas and tiny plunge pools. Wildlife and streamsides. Idaho in its glory. You can easily see the pull of the place.

Okay. A confession, I suppose, is in order. The realization that these streams are not in North Carolina was not my only disappointment upon opening these pages. There was another. After the first few pages of Fly Fishing Idaho's Secret Waters, I found myself disappointed that I was unable to jump a westbound jet, right then and there, to explore some of these hidden gems for myself.

Someday, Mr. Hunt. Someday.

Pray for Poor Fishing

We're headed for the Baja, baby.
You've been warned.

Blue Lines

Grasshoppers whirl at my feet like playing cards snapped into a stiff wind, a sound that is enough like a rattlesnake to skip my heart a couple of beats.

There’s this high lake in Montana, perched invitingly above the Centennial Valley, and at the bottom of this lake lies a swim fin. It belongs to Tom Reed. I know this because I put it there.

When I ultimately got the float tube back to shore, doing one-legged kick-circles all the way in, I breathlessly fessed up, apologized profusely for dropping the fin, and promised to replace it. Tom just laughed. With a warm grin he waved off my offer said it was just a damn good excuse to get a better pair. I like his perspective.

And I like his book.

The soul of the fisherman is filled with places like Cochetopa. Rivulets to streams, streams to rivers, time rolls on. But the heart of the angler remembers. It remembers places where sunlight slants to laughing water, it remembers perfect fish and precise casts and it remembers place. Years slip over life's smooth stone, and still the soul does not forget.

And Tom's soul remembers with an easy style and grace. Blue Lines is a simple gem. No earth-shattering revelations. No deep contemplation on why things are what they are. No new-age, belly-button examinations of the mystical powers of fly fishing. The book, like its author - or at least my impression of the man after our all-too-short two-day adventure - is focused on the celebration of the now. The short essays in Blue Lines are the honest, beautifully expressed observations of the sights and sounds and smells that surround someone immersed and in tune with the outdoors. They’re the lean-back-and-close-your-eyes recollections of someone who has spent a lifetime in a dogged (and dog-accompanied) pursuit of his hunting and fishing passions.

Sometimes, at a cost.

The carnival was in town when she moved out…

She left me a note, not an explanation. “Thanks! We had some fun. I left you the boat. Enjoy!”

I went off to work that morning and came home and she was gone. The only thing the note lacked was smiley faces and hearts. Lots of exclamation. No explanation. Maybe, I told my buddy, she ran off with the carnival. I was only half kidding.

“Dude. She left you a boat.”

Perspective.

Perspective, indeed, but done simply, allowing the reader to draw the conclusions. Or not. From the simple recount of day-to-day living during a summer spent on a grass farm in the plains and celebration of the hardy folks who live these lives (The Endless Thirst of Grass), to the earthly quiet of a late summer ride on the day the towers fell (Beneath an Untracked Sky), this book lays the day bare and lets the readers wander where they will within it.

But it’s hard not to follow along directly in Tom’s boot prints.

I have the afternoon and the river is just outside of town. It flows clean and cold. It is early yet and the water is too cool for a good bug hatch, but I go anyway, for I have the afternoon and when an afternoon is stretched out before you with nothing to do but fish, you should fish. You need to fish, if only for the fishing.

What more needs to be said?

My Summer Reading

I’ve been bad. Very bad. I’ve not been reading.

There’s been lots of reasons for this, but none of them are good enough to excuse the deplorable lapse. For, if I truly aspire to someday become a passable writer, I simply must read more. Those that think otherwise are fooling themselves.

It doesn’t have to be Shakespeare, or Tolstoy, or Faulkner. It just needs to be something that speaks to you, something that draws you into someone else’s point of view for a while, something that teaches you, or not, but subliminally imprints language and it’s proper, or thoughtfully improper, use upon your brain. Learn, if you will, by osmosis.

But mostly, something that makes you think.

So, with summer’s arrival, it’s time to start whittling away at the small stack of books that have accumulated in my “read next” pile. My summer book stack, from top to bottom, looks like this:

Brook Trout and the Writing Life – Craig Nova
Craig’s from just up the street, at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and the title alone hints at my attraction to the book. Fly fishing, writing, living - and how he’s dealt, over the years, with the uneasy reconciliation of the three. Right up my alley.

Twelve by Twelve – William Powers
An examination of the logistics and the lifestyle of kicking the traditional American dream square in the ass and living in a twelve-foot-by-twelve foot cabin in rural North Carolina. I’ve visited this place, for it, and others like it, exists here in my home county. A fascinating book filled with the quirky characters that I know as neighbors and the headspace that I am more and more attracted to each day.

Distrust That Particular Flavor – William Gibson
Gibson may be the only “sure thing” purchase I’ll make when it comes to authors. Neuromancer rocked my world and it blows my mind that it was written nearly thirty years ago. Distrust is a series of non-fiction articles, “reportage from the technological and cultural frontiers of the evolving world.” I can’t wait to find out what’s ahead of us. Gibson always seems to know.

No Shortage of Good Days – Jack Gierach
Okay, a no-brainer, except that I’ve had it for several weeks and haven’t worn the cover off of it already. Sex, Death and Fly Fishing was my introduction to the trout bum’s trout bum and I have yet to get my fill. And speaking of bums...

Shin Deep – Chris Hunt
I first read this book a year ago, just before spending a few days fishing with Chris in Montana, to know what I was getting into. I have since spent another week in his company, chasing redfish around the Texas gulf coast, and have kept up with him through these intertubes. I'm betting that a second reading will reveal nuances that a stranger would have missed, then, and that a good friend will chuckle at now.

Accidental Birds of the Carolinas – Marjorie Hudson
Another close-to-home selection. Marjorie teaches writing at the community college just eight miles up the road and relates her immersion in North Carolina living – a thirty-year process. More of my neighbors will undoubtedly pop up in the pages, in one form or another. I do know that a satire of the local “planned community” is included and I wickedly await the reading.

A Home on the Field – Paul Cuadros
A final local selection, this book features my other outdoor passion, soccer, in the true story of a Hispanic community struggling to find footing in our Chatham County seat. Fútbol was their respite, their escape, their expression, and ultimately their bridge to acceptance and respect in this rural southern community.

Points Unknown – Edited by David Roberts
A gift from my good friend and neighbor, Sam, this is a compilation of “The greatest Adventure Writing of the Twentieth Century." From the summit of Everest to the depths of the oceans, this compilation, put together by the editors of Outside, should be fascinating and inspiring.

Colonel Roosevelt – Edmund Morris
The third in the award-winning trilogy examining the life of one of our country’s most fascinating characters, Theodore Roosevelt. The original work, the Pulitzer Prize winning Theodore Rex was fascinating, depicting Teddy’s early years and his genesis as an outdoorsman, politician, and champion of the conservation of our natural heritage. It hooked me, carried me through The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, and I’ve anxiously awaited the finale.

So that’s what I’ll be reading this summer.

How about you?

Stream Weaver: Living Art with Rod and Reed

I'm an author.

Do you have any idea how odd, and exhilarating, that statement feels? After eighteen months of ripping and tearing with editors, publishers, and my own personal demons, it’s finally a reality and I can spill the beans. I’m an author.

But that statement does not come without a price. To make the admission, I must now make another. I’m also a basket weaver.

While that might raise a few eyebrows, you should not be surprised. Fly fishing and basket weaving fit like reel in reel seat. Bamboo rod and natural weaving materials come from the same soil – the same earthy center – and their employment elicits the same emotional satisfactions.


They are a perfect compliment to a simple and creative existence – both the active and passive expressions of our connection to our natural surroundings and loftier ideals. Each is rhythmic. Each is subtle. Each is all-encompassing if we allow ourselves to be enveloped within the rudimentary, repetitive motions. The practices are elementary, but each carries within it profound implications that can reach deep into our souls and our lives, if we let them.

That's what Stream Weaver: Living Art with Rod and Reed is all about. The book is a series of essays and images that celebrate the intersection of stream and studio and natural living, some of which you might recognize from previous posts here on Mike’s Gone Fishin’, most of which are new views of life lived deep in the Carolina woods.

To my great surprise, the concept has resonated with everyone who has touched the project, from my new good friend Bob Clauser (who has a secret connection to the woven art, one that I won’t reveal here but that you will learn in his surprising Introduction), to Jeffery Long-Berger (who, honestly, could give a shit about fly fishing but is a weaving god and writes a darn good Forward), to the publisher, Natural Presses, who will print the book on 100% natural kudzu and wisteria fibers and who’s owner, Kevin Smallie, is a member of the 20/20 club – coaxing a 22 inch brown on a #20 BWO from the South Holston last November.

So here’s the pitch. We’re going straight to paperback (fly fisherman and basket weavers are both notoriously frugal, except when it comes to their “gear”), but Kevin thinks we can pre-produce a number of first edition hardbacks for special distribution - coffee table books, if you will - and is ramping up a short-run production process for them. These will be available, before the general publication of the paperback, to family and friends. You, dear readers, having put up with me here for more than three years now, are considered friends.

To sweeten the deal, the first ten pre-orders will also receive a very special gift. I started basket weaving shortly after I started fly fishing because I wanted a creel. I couldn’t bring myself to pay the crazy prices I encountered for them and, with a forest full of natural fibers sitting just outside my door, decided to weave one myself – and was hooked on the craft.

So the first ten friends will get one of my handmade creels. Be forewarned, however, that, as a strict catch and release fisherman, I will lash its top permanently closed so that it cannot be used to actually store fish. But it will definitely look “classic” on your hip. Or on your coffee table. Next to the book.

But here’s where reading Mike’s Gone Fishin’ finally pays off. If, when ordering, you type in the secret regular-reader’s code, you‘ll also receive your choice of a wide-brimmed faux Tilley hat, completing your classic look, or a genuine T.F.M. Comrade baseball cap, for those a bit more hip.

To pre-order your hardback edition of Stream Weaver: Living Art with Rod and Reed, a one-of-a-kind handmade creel by the author (I still get goose bumps when I type that word), and the hat of your choosing (all for a mere $29.99 - credit cards and PayPal happily accepted), go to The Outdoorsman's Bookshelf and type “April Fools” into the special offers box.

I’ll be glad that you did.

Rubbing Noses

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

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

And sending out a little left-handed blog love.

EMBT's Twenty Questions

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

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

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

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

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

My Life's an Open Bookshelf - Part One

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.

The stuff on top takes me back. The Fender acoustic was given to me many years ago by my then best friend, now my wife, and still my best friend. I'd put the axe down years before but always admired the instrument, and she knew it. The gift awakened my interest and confirmed how much she understood me. Scary.

The photo, of course, is of Mr. Jimi and is particularly relevant in that it was captured on April 11th, 1969 at Dorton Arena in Raleigh, NC. Relevant, you see, because I could have taken it. I was that close. Fourteen years old, first rock concert, third row, stage right, blown away. Nothing like starting at the top. The print was a Christmas gift from my stepsons who share my love of music and, despite his being years before their time, also appreciate the Voodoo Child. How could they not?

The top shelves are "display" shelving and the right holds a vintage Time-Life Series book on the camera. It seems to me that there's a bit of obtuse circular logic about pictures of cameras, but that's for another time. The book's images are fascinating and its photographic advice - though predating the digital revolution and in-camera metering by decades - is what separates the point-and-shooters from real photographers. Just because the camera's smart, it doesn't mean you should let it do all the thinking. 

The plaque is a new acquisition - a memento from this year's high school squad. You'd have to look close, but the next-to-the-bottom-line reads 2011 NC 4A State Champions. 

'nough said.

On the other side is some very special literature. Calvin and Hobbes. The pages are dogeared from hours spent sharing with my two young sons, some thirty years ago. There are cartoons in these books that, even today, make me laugh 'till I cry and there are memories saturating the faded pages that make me cry 'till I laugh. In Calvin I saw each of my boys and in Hobbs I saw myself. Still do. No one has captured the raw energy and creativity of a young manchild any better.

Well, I see that getting through these bookshelves is going to take a while. So, with your permission, I'll stop here and return to it in future posts. One must do something during the cold winter months. I hope you don't mind the glimpse into what makes Mike tick.

And before I return, take a look at the bookshelves of your life. Appreciate what you find. Decide what they say about you - where you've been, where you're going, what you are. 

Let that self knowledge lead you into a Happy New Year.

The Backcountry Journal

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!

A Change of Address

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!

Shin Deep

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?

Blooded

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.

Hucked

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.

The End of the Road

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.

Rejected

I’m devastated. I’ve been rejected.

One of my favorite magazines, Wildlife in North Carolina, has just dealt me a humbling blow. Annually, they hold a photography contest and invite readers to submit photos taken around our beautiful state. Winning shots in several categories - including birds, plants, wildlife behavior, wild places and outdoor recreation – have been selected and will be printed in the January edition.

I submitted a half-dozen. None will appear in January.

The Longest Silence

What is most emphatic in angling is made so by the long silences – the unproductive periods. For the ardent fisherman, progress is towards the kinds of fishing that are never productive in the sense of the blood riots of the hunting-and-fishing periodicals. Their illusions of continuous action evoke for him, finally, a condition of utter, mortuary boredom. Such anglers will always be inclined to find the gunnysack artists of the heavy kill rather cretinoid, their stringer-loads of gaping fish appalling. - Thomas McGuane

This opening paragraph from McGuane’s The Longest Silence simply stuns me. In four short sentences, he’s expressed my deepest feelings, thought impossible to communicate in such stark and eloquent language, about my sport. It describes precisely why the one fish day is the cornerstone of my fly-fishing passion.