The Drawbridge

Here’s the story as it was told to me.

The drawbridge was constructed to connect the two land masses that make up Culebra, joining the north and the south of road 250 as it passes through town. It’s a short span, sixty feet or so, and unique in that, rather than tilting the roadway or pivoting it to parallel the canal, it uses four massive counterweights to lift the entire span straight into the air like some asphalt flying carpet. It’s ingenious, or so it would seem.

It was inaugurated (year unknown to the storyteller) with great fanfare, the island’s population gathering to witness the marvel, and during the ceremonies was raised for the first time to great jubilation - cheers all around for the floating roadway - until it refused to return from its lofty perch.

It remained suspended for months after “the opening” (which no doubt ruined a good party - or, just as likely, extended it) before the engineers were able to unstick the mechanisms and lower the span; never to raise it again. It remains a drawbridge in name alone, having opened but the once. Not much has been said about it since.

True? I don’t know. But it makes a fine tale so my efforts to confirm the report have been lax and half-hearted. And I honestly don’t recall who gave me the lowdown. The recollection’s as muddled as a mojito mint leaf. But I will testify, hand to heart, that during our ten days on the island we never saw it raised nor witnessed any activity or indication that such expectations existed, though we crossed it many times.

So if, by chance, you are able to verify this history, or debunk it, please keep it to yourself. I’m quite happy with this nebulous knowledge. If it’s not true then it should be and the slippery credibility in narrative suits me just fine. After all, facts are overrated, don’t you think?

But a really good story isn’t.

Summertime

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy's rich and your ma is good lookin'

So hush little baby, Don't you cry

It’s stuck in my head and has been since Saturday before last. Tommy Edwards, a local bluegrass favorite, put it there as he crooned these languid lyrics to a small gathering of folks relaxing around a small stage and wine bar tucked comfortably in the back woods of Chatham County. Who knew that Gershwin spun so nicely from a Martin acoustic?

How does a song get so firmly affixed into one’s consciousness? It’s been over a week yet I still find myself humming it constantly, singing it in the shower, playing it in my head on an endless loop; open and soft as a gentle roll cast. Maybe the tune caught me in the just right instant, dovetailed perfectly with my sentiment, and was so perfectly timed, so synchronous with my state of mind, that it simply refuses to relinquish that peaceful place in my brain. Whatever the mechanism, I ain't complainin'.

So while this particular summertime has not always been easy, it certainly has had more than its share of moments of quiet contentment. And maybe the fish are jumpin', but I've not been on the water enough of late to tell you for sure. That's soon to change and maybe, just maybe, this blog will liven up a bit. But until it does, be sure to get yourself out into that high cotton and enjoy these lazy summer days while they're still around.

Tell 'em, Tommy.

So hush little baby, Don't you cry

Where the Redfish Are

Can you keep a secret?

It's always good to get the skinny from the locals - to get the inside poop on where to fish in an area that's new to you. And whether it comes in the form of a GPS coordinate, the description of a landmark, or a scribble on a bar napkin or hotel scratchpad, it's welcome insight. There's a lot of water out there, particularly when you're searching the salt, and it's nice to have a clue where to start.

So just between you and me, here's where to find the reds in South Padre, shared in confidence with us by Shane Wilson, founder of Fishing's Future, SPI resident, and all-round good guy.

Keep it to yourself.

Fight Club

Those that fish it call it Fight Club and, like the movie, it has rules.

1st Rule: You do not talk about Fight Club
2nd Rule: You DO NOT talk about Fight Club

So I'm checking the fine print regarding pictures.

But I'm definitely adhering to...

8th rule: If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight fish.

Big thanks to Jason for the invitation. I can't say any more so don't even ask. You understand. I'm probably on thin ice as it is. Check for more from my good buddy at Fontinalis Rising.

More on my [state not to be mentioned here] visit soon.

And, in a bizarre coincidence, today on Gink and Gasoline... Shit. I am The Borg too.

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.

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...

It's Been Too Long

What the….

I punch the snooze, roll over, and burrow deeper under the covers, trying to recall the last time I was roused by an alarm clock. The recollection won’t come. Instead, a number of plausible explanations as to why I can’t remember begin to solidify in the sleepy haze, gaining substance while last night’s odd assortment of inadequacy dreams dissolve to nothingness. Two trains of consciousness, passing in the dark awakening.

Why can’t I remember? To be sure, my memory isn’t what it once was, but that’s too easy an answer. It’s also true that I now live a life unfettered by rigid schedule, scorning all “must be somewhere” situations that require unnatural temporal intervention. A clock, much less an alarming one, is a tad incongruous and easily forgotten. But it’s not that either. The real reason takes a moment to surface and, when it does, it’s enough to push me from under the covers and into the quiet darkness of the house.

It’s been too long since I’ve been trout fishing.

Now, I’ve been on the water my fair share this year (forty-four days, according to my journal) but it’s been months since I’ve been out for trout. Instead, it’s been largemouths, smallmouths, carp, redfish. Fish that live close by. Fish that don’t mind summer heat. Fish that move in patterns independent of their orientation to the sun. Fish I can get to at my leisure. But not trout. Unlike the others, trout conjure alarm clocks. You see, the closest cold water is a few hours away and I like to be in the stream to watch the morning mists rise.

So I get up and move quietly through the dark house, bare feet on cool concrete. Dress. Eat breakfast. Slip out the side door. The truck is packed and I'm on the road as light begins to bleed into the rearview mirror. Two hours on the road in deep contemplation of nothing in particular - certainly nothing important. Two hours that pass in a heartbeat. A sunrise walk along the tracks. A quiet, careful wade down a feeder creek as morning rays begin to filter through the trees. The feeder empties into larger water and I’m on a trout stream once again, watching it come alive. Here early, thanks to the almost forgotten clatter of an alarm clock.

Yeah. It’s been too long since I’ve been trout fishing

A Day in the Life

"Honestly, at this point I think your blog exists largely to taunt those who still work for a living."

A comment prompted by my last post. Harsh. What the commenter doesn’t realize is that being retired is no day in the park.

Unless, of course, you want it to be.

I am often asked how I fill my day. My friends ask because they feel that I’ve abandoned them and desperately need to know that I'm bored shitless. Strangers are just curious how such a dashingly good-looking young man could deal with not having important and productive things to do.

How do I fill my day? It’s a good question and one that I often have a hard time answering. Mary simply says “He fishes,” but there’s more to it than that. At least I think there is.

So, today, I’ve decided to keep track. I’ve purposely picked today because there’s nothing special going on to falsely impress you; no place that I need to be. It’s just another everyday Monday.

At least I think it’s Monday. I have problems with the whole day-of-the-week thing because, typically, it doesn’t matter a whole hell of a lot.

Anyway, here goes.

5:25a – Wake (five minutes before the alarm goes off) and roll out of bed. I don’t get up this early every day, but it seems a good one to wander down to the river before the summer sun gets above the treeline. A quick bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, a Mt. Dew, a half-hour on the computer, feed the dog, and out the door. No gathering of gear necessary. My homewater stuff stays out and ready.

Three hours wading the Haw, pitching assorted bugs under the overhanging trees, unproductively. Summer’s finally baked the river into submission and perhaps it’s time to look elsewhere until September when the bass begin to reanimate. But it’s a nice way to start the day, fish or no.

Return home and spend a couple of hours moving mulch to the north slope – whittling down the twelve-yard pile (the second one) that sits at the end of the gravel parking pad.

Crank the chainsaw and section a fifteen-foot white oak trunk to be split later. Four others remain, all harvested during the clearing of a neighbor’s paddock, but it’s gotten too hot to mess with them. They’ll still be there tomorrow.

Retire to the side porch, strip to the skin, and sit and watch the hummingbirds dive-bomb one another around the nectar feeder. Text some friends about fishing tomorrow, giving them the bad news about the absent Haw bass, while Carolina wrens, goldfinches, nuthatches, phoebes, and titmice struggle to supplant the family of piggish mourning doves on the safflower tray. An incoming red-bellied woodpecker scatters them all, like bowling pins - the thunder of the departing doves’ wings, deafening.

Hang my fishing gear to dry. Toss my soaked and dirty clothes into the wash. Shower.

Eat some lunch - a BBQ chicken leg from the night before, some strawberries, and three scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Clean my mess on the deck. Gear, tools. Notice some tarnish on my Orvis Power Jaws forceps and polish them with a little Bar Keeper’s Friend. Thought I’d paid too much for these things several years ago but they’ve been everywhere, fresh and salt, hung around my neck for countless hours, and have become a fishing touchstone for me.

Make some sweet ice tea.

Sit on the porch and read, William Gibson, ice tea by my side, until Mary returns home from a celebratory lunch with a friend. (Happy Birthday Joanne!) She’s followed shortly by our neighbor Robin, necessitating that I scramble and put on more than my boxer shorts and Sanuks. Damn.

The girls make fresh basil pesto. I pour more ice tea and let the ice melt while I take a nap. Mid-day naps are the single most wonderful thing that retirement allows. I snooze, interrupted occasionally by the whirr of the Cuisinart and warm-hearted laughter that drifts from the kitchen.

Mary and I wander down to the pond and float for an hour or so, socializing with what neighbors show up. The usual suspects generally arrive around 5:00 to wash away their workday in the cool, deep waters. Your neighborhood probably has a pool. This community has the pond.

Home again for another quick shower and to start some rice for dinner. The next hour is spent checking the local weather, coming and going between the laundry, stove, and computer, penning a post for the blog, playing with some pictures.

Dinner (black beans and rice, homegrown diced tomatoes with CSA onions, and a shot of Texas Pete) in front of the TV - which we watch entirely too much of. At least we avoid the commercials. DVRs are heaven-sent. The Newsroom (HBO’s fantastic new series, the first ten minutes of the pilot are not to be missed), The Finder (the final episode, cancelled, dammit), and White Collar. Mary thinks Neal’s scruffy beard is cute. The jury is still out on mine. Been out for years.

Load the dishes into the dishwasher, take the dog out one last time, a final cursory look at my email, and head for bed. The Tempur-Pedic feels perfect after such a long, rigorous day.

That, then, is how I spend a typical day. Not terribly exciting, eh? So, in response to the cruel accusation that I use this forum to taunt those who continue to work, who continue to keep our economy alive, who continue to lead active and productive lives, I have but one word.

Busted.

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...

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.

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.

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.

To Do

Finish Splitting Hickory
Scrap Wood to Landfill
Finish Cutting Red/White Oaks
Store Milled Plank
Cover Garden Boxes (Sat)
Mulch North Slope
Patch Garden Fencing

Clean Shower
Wash Dog
Tie White Bass Flies
Northwoods Soccer Offer
Kayak Practice
Workout Plan

Sammy’s Meds
Canine Acupuncture Referral
Frontline/Interceptor

Shim Master Bath Toilet
Mary’s Bulletin Board
Door Stops
Cedar Chest Hinges
Kitchen Drawers
2nd Shower Head Bar
Bath Towel Rack

Physical
Eye Doctor Appt

Wash Car/Truck
Change Truck Oil
Trailer Hitch
Trailer Registration/Insurance
Test Trailer Running Gear

Haw River Presentation
Back Country Journal Piece
Bloodknot Repost?
Getting Old Post?
Recreate Fav Pics
Save Fav Posts (All?)
Photo Bin Feb
Beer Tie Pics/Post?
Trailer Hitch Post?

Samsung vs. Sony?
Synology Server Setup
Computer Backup for Mary
Upgrade GPS Maps
Fastest DSL?
Lightroom 4

Nike Watch Battery
Patch Air Mattress
Patch Marmot Rain Shell Sleeve
Aquaseal Simms Crotch Seams

Toolshed
Basement Workbench/Area
Stain/Seal Decks

Go Fishin'

The Battle For My Fly Fishing Soul

… the little bass-fishin’, bi-focaled devil that sits on my right shoulder keeps whispering such notions into my ear. "Let's go throw big bugs at big fish," he implores, and suggests that any material not measured in pound test alone belongs in a sewing basket, not a fly box. 

As counterpoint, the Waldenesque, native brookie loving, dry fly angel that sits on my left shoulder sings sweet songs of the inherent beauty of the tiny colorful creatures that inhabit the woodland streams and the dainty, ethereal wisps that it takes to engage them. It suggests that the devil on my right is a cretin and that I should embrace my delicate side by throwing #24 pieces of fluff on silky material to fish that the devil would consider too small for decent bait.

Tippet Tantrum – Mike's Gone Fishin' – September 2010

I had about 15 minutes before my shift began at the Triangle Fly Fishers booth - just enough time to stop by and see the boys at the Temple Fork Outfitters display and to take a Clouser Series bass rod out for a quick test ride. I’d wandered around the Raleigh edition of the Fly Fishing Show, oohing and ahhing over this and that, and had almost frittered away my casting time, but, having pitched the Clouser prototype the year before, I wanted to put my hands on the final product. I had to hurry.

I found the TFO space, conveniently situated next to the casting pool, and began to poke around the racks for the Clousers. When I didn’t find them immediately, I looked up for some assistance. Who better to ask than Bob himself who just happened to be hangin’ around? I figured that if anyone should know, he would.

He cheerfully took me to the proper rack, strung up a 6wt, and followed along to the pool to give me "some pointers.” I didn’t have much time, but how can you turn down tips from the guy whose name is on the rod? We spent a thoroughly enjoyable ten minutes stretching the rod’s legs and my meager casting skills. One tip in particular had me throwing lasers – well, as close to lasers as I’ll ever throw - from green target ring to far post to yellow target ring, changing directions with nary a false cast.

(I’d share the tip, but for the second time in a week I’ve been sworn to secrecy. As before, I will respect that promise. But I do wonder how many other folks Bob had told not to tell his secret that day.)

Just as things were really coming together, there was a ruckus behind us. Through the crowd stepped this skinny little cuss, yelling in a Jerry Lewis voice, “What are you telling him, Bob? That’s all wrong! Let me show him.”

So for the next ten minutes I had Bob Clouser on one shoulder and the irrepressible Joe Humphreys on the other, two of our sport's treasures, locked in an uproarious tug of war - my airborne fly line and caster’s ego as their rope - playfully tussling for possession of my fly-fishing soul.

I laughed and casted and laughed again as each loudly corrected what the other had just told me, back and forth and back and forth, all in good fun. And despite the instructional tugging match – or probably because of it - my casting suddenly got a hell of a lot better. Good thing, too, as a crowd had gathered to watch the fun.

Now it might seem strange that these two master casters would be giving me wildly different directions, but understanding their backgrounds and their fishing styles tells the story. Bob Clouser is the smallmouth king, master of throwing heavy flies with rods that can handle the fly’s weight, big waters, and obstinate smallies. Joe Humphreys is the sprite of the small, Pennsylvania limestone creeks – tiny waters fished with wispy sticks and tiny flies for dainty trout. Bob fishes with his body. Joe with his wrist.

But what Bob and Joe have in common is an understanding of the fundamentals of Newtonian physics, the laws of motion and how objects are propelled, though they most certainly don’t speak of it in those terms. These classic mechanics are, after all, what fly fishing is all about. By knowing why the fly line reacts as it does, you can apply the basic principles to any gear, location, and body style you’re bringing to the table. Each of them knows this and each of them teaches it well.

The other important thing that Bob and Joe have in common is an engaging, exuberant personality and a willingness to have some fun, so their spirited skirmish over my stroke was twenty minutes of joyful mayhem.

I had a blast. I learned a ton. I was in fly-casting heaven.

I was late to my booth gig.

Note: My deep appreciation goes out to Bob Clouser and Joe Humphreys for their time and attention. It was a fabulous experience and could only have been improved by relocating the three-ring-casting-circus to some mountain stream.

Another Note: Photographic evidence of this little episode exists and I am working on getting my hands on it. If successful, I will share, though none of the three of us win any beauty contests.

A Final Note: That TFO Clouser rod is sweet!

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.

Mike's Gone AWOL

At least it seems that way.

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

Someplace really good.

Writer's Block

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

“You’re happy.”

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

How could such a thing have happened?

Lightweight

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

Hoped for bass. Expected pickeral. Caught crappie.

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

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

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

Hucked

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.

Princesses

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