Musky Math

Musky. The fish of ten-thousand casts. Fact or fiction? Actuality or self-delusive justification for our hours of failure? Truth or elegant lie that we tell ourselves because we suck at catching the bastards?

Let's look at the numbers.

Actually, before we dig into the math, we ought to examine the premise that these fish really do exist and that they are not the part of the formula that requires proof. Admit it, many of us have never seen one in the flesh, despite how long we've been chasing them. They're sort of like dividing by zero. They make no sense.

A quick Google of the word "musky" (well, of the word "muskellunge" as "musky" sends us down internet paths we'd rather not follow) leads us to the species esox masquinongy and to pictures (mostly drawings, actually, which should make us slightly suspicious) of the large, toothy critters we have all imagined someday catching. Since anything we find on the web is true (and especially indubitable since the term is in unpronounceable Latin), I think we can safely assume that somewhere such a creature exists. Probably swimming right next to its cousin the mermaid.

So, having established that musky are in fact real, we can safely begin to pursue this whole ten-thousand cast business. But how? While John Gierach's recent statement that "all fisherman are liars" may be a bit on the harsh side, you must agree that relying on anecdotal data from this particular population is more than a bit sketchy. We need to find a finite, quantifiable, confirmable set of data on which to test this whole postulation.

Luckily, I have such a dataset. The 2018 Hardly Strictly Musky tournament. This past weekend I and host of other hopeful anglers spent a few days chasing our obsession on a handful of western Tennessee watersheds. The numbers were quantifiable. The tournament duration was set, the participants registered, and all catches were reported and fully documented with photographic evidence. From this, then, we can begin making our calculations.

Let’s start with the anglers. Ninety, to be exact. Ninety chasers of the holy grail. Ninety Don Quixotes.

90 anglers

The tournament itself was held over a period of two days.

90 anglers X 2 days = 180 fishing days

But wait, it’s not quite that simple. A large number of the anglers arrived a day early and hit the rivers. Some to scout for the upcoming competition, some to test out their gear, but most just to enjoy a day on the water because, well, why not? Let’s assume that a third of the ninety anglers did this.

180 fishing days + (90/3) fishing days = 210 fishing days

Now, a Hardly Strictly Musky fishing day is a long day, physically and mentally, because you’re fishing for musky which means that you’re working your ass off for essentially a lost cause. Starting times varied widely across the subjects. Some hit the boatramp at daybreak. Others chose to get a leisurely gas station or Smoke House biscuit. More than a few were delayed by their slowly diffusing inebriation. Let’s average it out at, say, 8:00am. Most everyone finished up about 5:00 as the evening festivities commenced at 6:30, confirmed by the simultaneous clusterfuck of boats at the major takeouts. Let’s call it nine hours, minus an hour for lunch.

210 fishing days X 8 hours = 1,680 fishing hours

An adjustment needs to be made here as a large number of the boats in play were drift boats, effectively taking the rod out of one of the angler’s hands so that he could man the sticks. You’d think that would be a bad thing, being the rower, but after a couple of hours slinging a wet sock around on 450 grain sinking line with an 11wt, manhandling a cranky boat feels like a nap. Let’s conservatively estimate that at any given time 20% of the participants were “resting”.

1,680 fishing hours x .8 rowing adjustment = 1,344 fishing hours

Let’s then figure that a single cast and retrieve takes less than a minute. At a constant rate that means 80, maybe 90 casts an hour. Of course, we’re all not machines and time out is required for sips of beer, lamentations, and the occasional retrieval of flies from streamside vegetation. Let’s play it safe and call it 60.

1,344 fishing hours x 60 casts/hour = 80,640 casts

Now, we really should consider that this particular population deviates from the norm. Yes, I know anyone who goes fishing for musky with anything less than dynamite, much less a fly rod, must deviate from the norm, but that’s a psychological study, not a mathematical one and we’ll set that aside for the time being. For our purposes, the statistical deviation I refer to is that there exists in this dataset a large percentage of fishermen who have chased these beasties for some time and have established a certain elevated level of expertise. It might even be safe to say that they are twice as likely to catch one than the average angler. Let’s be uber-conservative, however, and say that they have an extra 25% of a chance.

80,640 casts x 1.25 expert factor = 100,800 casts

Here’s where the tournament data saves us. We know exactly how many fish were caught. Exactly. No one claimed to have caught a fish on the practice day and you can bet that if anyone did, everyone would have heard about it. Believe me. You wouldn't hear where, but you'd know one had been caught.

Eight fish were caught on Day 1 of the tournament. Two were boated on Day 2.

Ten fish total.

That’s right. Ten...fish...total. Ten.

100,800 casts / 10 fish caught = 10,800 casts to catch one goddam musky

Now, these numbers are preliminary and there's a wide variety of other factors that might be considered. Moon positioning. Competitive juices. The HSM hangout/hangover factor. But we’ll not mess with them in this first pass. They would just be minor puts and takes in these calculations and my head hurts enough already. Besides, we got where we wanted to go.

Proof. Fact. Musky. The fish of ten-thousand casts.

Thanks, Hardly Strictly Musky, for bearing out the numbers.

Laundered

The second I pulled it out of the slingpack I knew there was a problem. It was neatly folded, all corners perfectly square, aligned, possibly ironed; not scrunched in a crusty ball like it should be. It smelled of peonies.

Over the years it had been worn from British Columbia to the Mexican Baja, from the southern-most Bahamas to northern-most Saskatchewan, from North Carolinian farm ponds to Montana trout Meccas. It was my fishing security blanket, my talisman, my mojo. My buff. Now, it was…laundered.

It no longer smelled of sweat and sunscreen and bug dope. Missing were the smoky undertones of Cuban cigars and the subtle spicy keynotes of Gunnison ganja (though I haven’t a clue as to how they got there). Gone were the phantom flavors of tacos and hops, readily available for a quick pick-me-up with just a flick of the tongue. My comfort saltlick was now tasteless. It no longer smelled of fish.

Front was no longer distinguishable from back by the leaked tobacco stains. No amount of twisting found that comfortable impression of nose and cheekbones and chin. Like OJ’s gloves, If it doesn’t fit, you won't catch shit.

Until now, its only cleansing had been courtesy of rainstorms, salt spray, and an impromptu dunking or two; ineffective for proper sanitation but perfect for the maintenance of a proper angling alchemy.

So there I sat, rigged and ready on the flats of South Andros, mojo-less, with all of my angling history, encodings in scents, my comfort zone - washed, rinsed, and tumbled dry into oblivion. We’d been sterilized. The Tide had come in and I wanted to cry.

But tucked neatly inside it was a bright yellow Post-It on which, in a beautiful flowing script, was written “I thought you’d like this all nice and clean. Catch lots of fish. Love you.” Now this was mojo of an entirely different sort. Strong juju. Magic that overrides everything else. Energy that I carry wherever I go, in fishing and in life. Her act was selfless and done for my pleasure. A lovely, thoughtful expression. How could I be mad?

I fucking hate the smell of peonies.


Note: I offer this as a follow-on to Jon Tobey's wonderful piece, She Loves Me, She Cleaned My Truck to which this little piece doesn't hold a candle. I've done so as Jon and I discovered these similar premises were each stolen from our mutual friend (and FlyFish Journal editor), Steve Duda. 

Now, who has a third for the trilogy?

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.

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.

Protocol

We twisted the skiff into the cool morning mists and put it on plane towards Junkman’s Turn and the bridges. Charlie spun his Ranger the other way and headed up Beaver to see what he could find. Birds first, then, hopefully, bait underneath them. And stripers. They were out there somewhere.

Not knowing the protocol, I asked Troy when we should call Charlie in case we found fish. If we catch one?

No. Might be a stray. A single cruising. No need to call till we know more.

Two?

Probably not. Could just be a small fast moving pod. We don't want to bring him all the way here for nothing.

Three, then. Should we call if we catch three?

Hell no! If they’re bustin’, we ain’t wastin’ no time on the damn cell phone. We're fishin'!

Just so we're clear.

Moronidae Abdominus

Give it to me straight, doc. It's bad, isn't it?

Well, there's definitely a problem. Tenderness. A bit of swelling. The early onset of some significant subcutaneous bruising. Does it hurt when I press here?

[unprintable response]

Okay. It’s near your appendix, but I don’t think that’s the issue. Appendicitis would have started closer to your navel, not there between your ribcage and right hip. It’s definitely too low for ulcers and I doubt that there's a blockage of any sort, especially if you’ve had a decent bowel movement recently.

It was the highlight of my morning.

Then this is something else.

You don’t think it’s… it’s…

Now, let’s not jump to any dire conclusions until we’ve explored all possibilities. Do you have any other symptoms?

None that I'm aware of.

I have an idea. Let's see your right hand. Yes. Look. Abrasions at the inside of the joint on your index finger and on the pad of your thumb. And do you feel that tightness in your forearm? Tell me. Have you been in or around Weldon, NC at any time in the past few days?

Actually, I was. Friday. How’d you know?

I thought so. It’s the epicenter of a nasty outbreak we’ve been seeing lately. I’m quite certain that what you have is something called moronidae abdominus (in layman’s terms, “striper belly”) and is caused by repeatedly grinding a 9wt's fighting butt into your midriff when leaning into big Roanoke River rockfish. You caught a lot of them, didn’t you?

As a matter of fact, we did. A lot.

Then that's definitely the problem. Thankfully, this affliction isn’t serious, though contagious as hell. I could give you a prescription for something called Tenkarin, but, honestly, it’s pretty lightweight and more effective on folks of delicate constitution. I think that if you just take it easy for a few days and limit your activities to, say, 3wts for bluegill or trout, you should recover quickly and be back to fighting real fish in no time.

Before the spawning run ends?

You can try. Let your pain be your guide.

It usually is, doc. It usually is.

Preparation

She throws up her hands, pushes her chair away from the ponderous pile of papers, and barks an epithet worthy of a well-seasoned sailor.

These forms and computations are ridiculous! I’ll never get this done by the 15th.

Sorry to hear that, dear. Can I get you something?

No, I just need a break. Clear my head. What are you up to?

Just getting my gear ready for spring bass fishing.

What kind of fishing pole is that?

Fly rod. It’s a fly rod. Not a fishing pole.

(She knows this, but likes to pull my chain.)

It’s a 6wt. My favorite stick for our local shoals bass.

What does 6wt mean?

It means that it’s a rod that is used to throw a 6wt line.

That’s awkward. Naming something because it’s used with something else.

I guess.

What’s a “wt”?

It has something to do with how much the first 30 feet of the line weighs, though I suspect few folks know the exact parameters. You usually just buy it to match the rod you have.

The rod is numbered based on the line that you need but you buy the line based on the rod that you have?

(I shift uncomfortably on my feet. She gives me a break and doesn’t dig deeper.)

So that’s a 6wt line on it then, right?

Well, no. It’s a 7wt line. This 6wt rod’s a bit fast, acts like a bigger stick, so I like to up-line it a step.

Then it should be called a 7wt pole.

Rod. And no, I don’t think so.

(She looks at me, expecting a better explanation. I’ve got none. After an awkward moment, she shrugs and moves on.)

And that string on the end. Is that a 6wt or 7wt?

That’s a leader. And no, it’s a 2X.

2X, huh. Okay. So that’s lighter weight than a 6wt?

Well, not really. It’s apples and oranges, lines and leaders.

Okay. Would, perhaps, a 3X, a heavier leader, be better sometimes? Up-leadering?

Umm, maybe. But, actually, a 3X is lighter than a 2X. Rod and line numbers go up as they get bigger. Leader size goes down.

Oh great. That’s confusing. And the fly. Is it a 6wt, 7wt, or 3X?

(Gulp)

It’s a small clouser. A #4.

#4. You’re kidding. Do those numbers go up, or go down?

Bigger numbers are smaller flies. Like leaders.

Good grief. And the reel? What number is that?

Well, that depends on who made it. All manufacturers seem to have their own numbering systems.

You realize, of course, that none of this makes sense. Your 6wt pole – I mean rod – identified in an endless "chicken and egg" loop with the line, should really be a seven. Your leader numbering is completely different and goes down instead of up, like your flies, but on a completely different scale. And your reels are, well, who knows about your reels. Have I got this right?

(I’m defenseless.)

Yes, you’ve got it right. But, I swear, once you get accustomed it all makes sense. It’s all odd numbering systems based on history and innovation, effected by interactions with one another with slippery sorts of guidelines and rules. It’s a hodgepodge, and can be confusing as hell to the uninitiated, but I think I’ve gotten it pretty well figured out. Well enough to get by.

Perfect. It sounds just like our taxes. They’re all yours, sir. I’m going out to work in the garden.


Apologies: First, to all of those who might be reading this who are not familiar with the mathematical absurdities that are pervasive in the sport of fly fishing. This post only scratches the surface. It's part of the charm of it all, I suppose. There can be no other explanation.

Second, and most importantly, to my dear wife who really does have a handle on this stuff, but is just as bemused at it as this conversation represents. She has every right to be. Love you, dear, and the garden looks great.

Resurrection

It appears that a follow-up is in order.

In response to your hundreds of concerned emails (well, Jim B. did write to inquire of his loaned headlamp), I’m happy to relay that the reports of poor Troy’s demise were greatly exaggerated. He awoke on the 2nd in a seedy motel just outside of Clayton, smelling of Vapor Rub, sewage, and Shalimar. He conveniently claims to have no memory of the previous 24 hours.

While we’re thrilled with his resurrection, it does bring to light some serious credibility issues with regard to the originator of last week’s fishing report. But then, dear reader, you already knew that.

The good news is that Troy recovers quickly from such episodes (practice, of course, making perfect) and was ready to get back on the water. We whacked a couple-hundred white bass in a short three-hour stretch (no April Fools joke, I swear, it was silly), laughing and joking and retrieving our two-inch chartreuse-and-white clousers from the lips of fish after fish as if nothing had happened the day before.

And you know, my friends, it's quite possible that nothing had.

But then again...

Changes in Plan

After a long, hard day of sun, sand, and snorkling around, we hatched an ambitious plan. We'd swing by Zaco's Tacos for a blended mojito, hit the small island grocery for a few basic supplies, then wander on down to Soldado Beach to catch the Caribbean sunset.

Yes. That would work.

First step accomplished, no problem. But after the refreshment we reassessed and agreed to a modification of the plan. We'd, instead, swing by the Dinghy Dock for a second drink, skip the grocery, and catch the sunset at Soldado, last minute.

Yes. That would work.

Second libation consumed, and a final change in plan emerged. We'd have a third, skip the grocery, and catch the sunset in the morning.

Yes. That would definitely work.

A Heart-to-Heart with the Jolly Old Elf

Ho Ho Ho! Well hello, little boy. What can Santa Claus do for you this Christmas?

I’m not so sure that you have what I need in that bag of yours, sir.

Now, now, son. You’d be surprised by what Saint Nick has in his sack. Have you been good this year?

Good is a bit of a sliding scale, don’t you think? Do you mean Mother Teresa good, or Mae West good?

An excellent point, young man. How about I just check my list. Let’s see. Naughty or nice... naughty or nice... Ah, here you are. Oh. Ummm. Will you promise to be just a little bit nicer next year?

Yes sir. Absolutely. Done. You have my word.

Well, okay. We'll let you go with nice, this time. What is it that you’d like Santa to bring?

Santa, what I really want is my writing Mojo back.

Your writing Mojo? Mojo’s a very big item, you know. How about a nice camera instead?

Sorry, sir, but I just bought one.

A shiny new fly rod then?

Got a closet full, but thanks for the thought.

Some waders?

I’m good.

Let’s see. How about World Peace?

Asked for that last year. Remember?

Yeah. Sorry about that, kid. Father Christmas had a tough year.

Tell me about it.

So. You want your writing Mojo, you say?

Yes, sir. It’s all gone to shit lately. (Oops. Sorry, sir.) I haven’t been proud of anything I’ve written for months and I’m disappointed that so little has found its way to the page. My blog has been terribly neglected and I’m really struggling to keep it interesting. I need my Mojo.

I hate to tell you this, son, but Mojo doesn't work that way. It’s not a thing someone can give you. It’s something that you already have and simply needs to be tapped into. That’s easy to say, I’m afraid, but not always easy to do. It’s a lot like flying reindeer. Most of the time they just hang around the barn, eating hay and playing games. But every now and then, when the moment’s right, for no discernable reason, inspiration strikes and they float into the rafters. That’s Mojo. It’s a gift, there’s no doubt, but not a gift that can be easily given. I’m sorry.

I understand. I knew it was a tall order. I just hoped, you know, for my readers…

I know. I wish it were possible. How about something else? Anything. Just name it.

Well, how about a leadership that will acknowledge that man-made climate change is real and start to do something about it, that can quantify the value of our public lands and wilderness areas in something other than dollars and cents, and whose members will start to think like individuals rather than mindless party shills. One that will do something for the people of this nation, all of them, and not just for its anthropomorphized corporations. A leadership that actually works.


So, young man, do you want to write poetry or prose?

Directions For Use

Don’t aim directly at him at first. Point the spray about fifteen feet out and three off the ground, between you and the bear, so if he comes he has to come through the cloud.

Having the bear spray on my belt makes me feel badass, but the bravado melts away quickly as Todd gives me tips on how to use it. I know that the chances of pulling the trigger are slim, but the fact that I’m carrying it at all is sobering.

You’ve got seven seconds worth of spray, but don’t blow it all in one blast. Shoot two or three seconds, then pause.

That’s assuming, of course, that I can get the canister off my hip and flip free the safety while ol’e griz is sizing me up. Assuming I can move at all. I idly wonder how bears might react to the smell of freshly soiled shorts, but decide not to ask.

After that first blast, watch the bear, then the cloud. Be ready to adjust for wind or any other atmospheric conditions before spraying again.

So let me get this straight. Strategically position the first blast. Precisely time the duration of each dispersal. Monitor and assess the large, threatening carnivore’s reactions and the meteorological movements of the gaseous deployed deterrent and adjust application in equally measured portions according to these varying factors.

Fuck it. I’m just gonna spray Todd and run like hell.

Communications Breakdown

“Let’s meet back here at 9:00, just before dark,” Todd shouted over his shoulder as he dropped onto the path at the end of the backcountry bridge and disappeared down Wigwam. Mac and I followed, but turned upstream instead. The sun still sat high overhead so we had plenty of time before rendezvous.

But after a mile or so of fast, skinny riffles with scant holding water, we threw in the towel, found an old wildlife trail perched above the river, and bushwhacked our way back to the bridge. A hot day, by Canadian standards, we dropped the waders and penguined our way around the truck for a while; had a bite, a beer, and a quick nap, then tried to decide what to do next. There were still a few hours before Todd was expected.

“Let’s take Todd's truck and drive down that old service road to the turnout just above the canyon floor,” Mac suggested. “Shouldn’t take more than a half-hour to get there. We can fish that switchback for an hour or so and get back here by 9:00”

Seemed a good idea, but...

“What if Todd comes back early?” I wasn’t quite sure how he’d react to find that we’d left him stranded in the British Columbian outback.

Mac thought a minute, and then smiled. “I know. We can leave a note on the windshield.”

Now I’d heard, and gone along with, some pretty hairbrained ideas over the previous several days, but this took the cake. Really? Leave a note on the windshield?

“That’s the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Mac, and you know it.”

“It’s just gonna blow off when we turn on the wipers to clear the dust as we drive.”

--- o ---

Note: Look for more upcoming content related to our ten days of wandering around British Columbia, Alberta, and Montana at Hatch Magazine. Special thanks to the fine folks of Fernie, BC for their terrific hospitality. We sure had a blast. 

Sacrifices

“Sounds good, Troy. I’m in. What time do you want to be on the water?”

“Let’s try to get launched about daybreak and see if we can find a morning topwater bite.”

(Quickly doing the counterclockwise math)

Sunrise - 6:00a

Two hour drive from his place to Weldon - 4:00a

He’s thirty minutes from here - 3:30a

Alarm clock setting - 3:00a

(Shit)

“Cool. See you in the morning.”

Dew Buggers

If you've been around here for a while, you've come to know three things about me.

First, while I love to chase trout, I hate fishing nymphs. I’m an unapologetic, can’t stand still, gun and run streamer fisherman, period, and at times it’s put a serious crimp in my catch rate. That is, it used to. This recent swing in fishing fortune leads me to the second thing…

... I’m a Mt. Dew addict. While you probably wake up each morning and head for the coffee pot, I get out of bed and stumble downstairs to the basement fridge for some green lightning. It’s often what gets me from under the covers, thinking about how good that first slug will taste. It’s a sad thing to admit, but I’m hooked just as firmly as if by nicotine or hard drugs.

So how does my trout catch rate lead to Mt. Dew in a single step?

Late in the Fall of 2012 I visited my nemesis, The Smith, in southern Virginia. The river has kicked my ass again and again over the past decade, keeping a stingy hold on its numerous, but finicky, brown trout. Regardless, I keep going back. Stubborn, I guess, both the river and I.

That particular day, like most every other, I parked at the old mirror plant, dropped the tailgate, and rigged my gear. Ready to slip into my waders, I turned and hopped to a seat, clumsily knocking over the ubiquitous open soda bottle, dumping pop all over my boots and small, open Cliff Days Worth box of woolly buggers, soaking everything completely and cruelly wasting half-a-bottle of my green liquid crutch.

The boots would be fine but the flies were a mess. A quick shake was the best I could do, for that moment, so I closed the box, stuck it in a vest pocket, intending to rinse the whole shooting match once I got to the water. I forgot the cleanup, of course, once I stepped into the flow, intent only on catching that first trout. It didn’t happen right away, goddam Smith.

After an hour of frustration and a few changes of flies, I remembered the buggers. They were a sticky mess, as you can imagine, but I pried a mid-sized olive from the tacky blue foam and tied it on. First swing, the skunk was off as a nice twelve-incher came to hand. Second swing, another brown. And so on throughout the day.

The light bulb came on. A Eureka moment ensued.

To make a long story short (you’re welcome), after a lot of trial and error, Mt. Dew-soaked olive woollies have become my go-to trout candy; #8s with a lead wire underwrap and a bright red gill finish at the hook’s eye. “Untreated” olives don’t cut it. Similarly treated blacks or browns or whites don’t work. Saturated olives get attention.

I have a handful of theories as to why this works, but can prove none of them. Perhaps the brominated vegetable oil (BVO) that keeps that soda’s coloration so perfectly suspended (and causes most of the civilized world to ban this ingredient from human consumption) affects the viscosity or hydrological properties of the water around the fly in a manner that’s somehow appealing to fish. Maybe, because it only works with olive buggers, the eerie green solution generates a prismatic effect of some sort. Or it could be that, like me, the caffeine gets the trout’s motor running. I don’t know how, but it works. Consistently.

So now, before I head for the stream, I soak a handful of buggers in Mt. Dew (not diet or caffeine free – only the real stuff), then let them dry before putting them in my “sticky” Cliff box. I’ve even taken to carrying a small atomizing bottle of the soft drink to “re-energize” a fading streamer (or to take a quick, reviving sip myself). I’ve done it quietly, though. My fishing buddies don’t know what my edge has been.

Now I don’t want to get into a protracted ethical discussion about doctoring flies. The way I see it, if I’m willing to drink the stuff then it’s fair game to apply it to a streamer. It’s not like it's a scent or anything. Whatever the reason, it’s helped me tame that bloody Smith River and, as an amusing side effect, has my puzzled compatriots murmuring to themselves with great regularity.

Got a river kicking your ass? Give it a try.

But don't get hooked.


Note: Of course, the third thing that you have come to know about me by now is that I am not to be trusted on the 1st of April.

'Twas the Week Before Christmas

It's an annual tradition here (and a cheap way to squeeze in a holiday post without having to actually work for it) to trot out my home waters version of Clement Clarke Moore's Christmas classic. I missed it last year, for some reason, but it returns now, "original artwork" and all.

Like Grandma's fruitcake and Uncle John's reindeer tie, it's awful but it wouldn't be Christmas without it.


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

The browns were all nestled down deep in their pools
While rainbows and brookies were nobody’s fools.
And I in my waders and old fishing cap,
As usual, just couldn’t cast worth a crap.

When further upstream there arose such a crash,
I started, and slipped, and sat down with a splash.
My glasses went this way, my rod, it went that.
You know you’re in deep when you’ve floated your hat.

The gleam of the sun on the river around
Was lovely, but hell, I was going to drown!
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a funky old kayak. (The end must be near.)

With a little old paddler, too fat for the boat,
Who was trying his best just to keep it afloat.
Through the rapids he teetered, bounced off every big rock.
The dude’s in big trouble, I thought with a shock.

But as he arrived at my favorite hole
He snapped it in place with a neat barrel roll
And glided in softly, as smooth as can be.
No fish would be spooked, except maybe me.

And then in a twinkling he popped out of his craft
Like a cork from a bottle, I shouldn’t have laughed.
He reached back inside and he slowly withdrew
A lovely old 4wt of shiny bamboo.

He was dressed all in Gore-Tex and looked straight from the pages
Of catalogs like Orvis’, Hardy’s and Sage’s.
A vest full of goodies encircled his frame
With gadgets and zingers, too many to name.

He spoke not a word but went straight to his fun,
Throwing laser-like casts, seeming straight from a gun.
His roll casts were graceful, his loops were so tight.
Presentations were flawless, each drift was just right.

He threw pheasants and hare's ears and woolies and strymphs,
Hoppers with droppers of copper john nymphs.
He had all of fly fishing's mysteries debunked,
But darned if old Santa Claus didn’t get skunked.

I felt sort of bad for the jolly old elf.
But why fish the Haw, I was asking myself.
He could have fished Battenkill, Madison, Snake.
It seemed that the Haw was a foolish mistake.

I needn’t have worried, I had nothing to dread,
For he gave me a wink and here’s what he said.
“We all should remember, and here’s what I’m wishin',
That it’s not about fish, but it’s all about fishin'.”

He sprang to his 'yak, to the rocks gave a push,
And shot down the stream with a splash and a woosh.
But I heard him exclaim as he drifted from sight
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all keep lines tight.”


Here's wishing the happiest of holidays to you and yours!!!

Ambition

If redbreasts grew to be five pounds, I wouldn't go near the water.

When bass fishin' around here I throw big flies, big poppers, #2 at a minimum, so the bluegills and sunnies can't get ahold of them. But it doesn't stop them from trying. Blip. Blip. Blip. It's maddening.

And with all due respect to my buddy Cameron, The Year of the Bluegill? Really? More like Year of the Creek Cockroach. Pond pestilence. River vermin. Stealers of flies from the mouths of real fish.

That having been said, you do have to admire their ambition.

Bad Boyfriend

Forgive me, Dani. I knew he was trouble.

I should have known better, that he'd steal you away, spend your money, leave you breathless. But I introduced you to him anyway. What was I thinking? How did I not see that you’d fall for him? Hard.

Sure, you asked about him first, but that's no excuse for my actions. What I missed was that he’d already caught your eye out there on your forays into the southeastern woodlands, restoring those pretty little brookie streams, learning to love the surroundings. But, when you asked, I should have talked you out of it. I should never have helped with the whippy little 'glass starter setup. You said it was just for an alternate sampling method, but I should have known better. It was about spending time with him.

It happened so fast. Seems like just yesterday you called me from Virginia, excited about catching your first small stream rainbow. Next thing I know, you're with him, sending grip-and-grins from Colorado’s South Platte; Eleven Mile Canyon, Dream Stream. You’re even posting about the big one that jumped and spit the hook, telling the one that got away stories like a veteran. He put you up to that, I'm certain. He’s sweeping you off your feet like a swift, tumbling current on worn vibram soles.

So before this infatuation goes any farther, there are a few things you need to know about him.

He’s moody. He’ll stand you up two, three times in a row. Skunk you bad. And just when you’re ready to toss him out he gives you a day that makes your head spin. He keeps stringin’ you along so you never know where you stand.

He’ll dress you up in ways you could never have imagined. Kinky. Belts and rubber and big boots kinky. To show you off to his friends.

He’ll get under your skin and you’ll find yourself thinking of him constantly. Every waterway you pass, no matter how big or how small, will bring him to mind. You’ll drift away at work, at play, in your dreams. It’s scary sometimes.

And just so you know, he treats his men friends just as badly. I'd rather not talk about it.

I implore you. Dump the bum. He’s no good. He’ll consume you. He’ll take you to far away places and then rain on you. He'll make you buy him stuff. Lots of stuff. That 5wt's not enough. He’s a monster.

If it’s not already too late, turn and run. Please, please, please listen!

Fly fishing is a bad boyfriend.

Bad.

But, then again, sometimes bad can be very, very good...

Notes: My thanks go out to my good friend and neighbor Dani for allowing me this bit of fun. Despite my warnings, I am thrilled to have her as a fellow fly fisher and wish her the best of luck in all of her angling endeavors. I sincerely hope that they bring her as much joy as they have brought me.

And be sure to visit Dani’s blog, Chasing Spring: Each Day a New Beginning. It’s a warm and honest look at the challenges of raising a family with a special needs child. The lessons are universal, lovingly told and beautifully depicted.

A nod and a thank you, as well, to Mike Taylor of the Peak Guide Shop, located in Colorado Springs and Woodland Park, for the image of Dani and her first western rainbow. Well captured, sir. The smile is priceless.

Finally, a reminder to all you women anglers out there that your first year of TU membership is currently free. Take advantage of this great offer to get started with this fine organization.

Fish Dinner

I am forever amazed and amused at the dedication, creativity, and outright wit of my vegetarian friends. Night One on Bald Head Island - four couples, the Usual Suspects, neighbors and friends, sharing a house on a southeastern island adventure - was fish night. And while most of us drooled over our poached salmon with peppers, carrots, and water chestnuts, over rice, smothered in Paul and Alecia's secret marinade, Robin and Sam kept the spirit with similarly appointed tofu swordfish, grouper, and shark steaks.

Bon appétit.

Playin' Possum

I'm often asked how I fill up my day
now that I’ve retired
Never quite sure what to say

Perhaps I should write a series of posts
that tries to explain
and call it
Silly Shit That Mike Does

Today
for example
instead of splitting wood
as planned
I played cat-and-mouse with a baby possum
in and around the woodpile

Maybe some other things too
I forget

But distracted
I was
from what was meant to be done
and it really didn't matter

I simply played possum
'til tomorrow

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #4 and #3

Tip #4: Take some down time.

As much as you might wish to, you can’t fish every minute. Sucks, I know, but you can’t. Or at least you shouldn’t. You’re doing this for fun, remember, and it seems a shame to get burned out on it. Gives fun a bad name.

Now the weather often takes care of such things for you - wind, rain, frogs and locust - but when you find yourself in paradise and the meteorological gods smile down on upon you, you don’t always get that needed intervention. So, in the event of catastrophically perfect conditions, resist the temptation to cast ‘till you drop. Give the water, and yourself, a break every now and again.

As I tire my stroke starts falling apart and I begin to be a danger to myself and those around me. It's probably difficult for others to recognize the difference (my stroke always looks that bad), but I certainly feel it. So taking a break keeps me a little safer and prevents the repetition of bad habits. At least casting ones.

But, of course, if you’re supposed to be blogging about your trip and you’re staunchly committed to both of your loyal readers to experience and report back non-stop fly fishing exploits, putting the rods aside for an afternoon and settling into a hammock with a cold beer or dog-paddling about poolside with a high-octane fruity libation can make you feel awfully guilty.

Oh hell. Even I don’t buy that.

Barkeep!

Tip #3: Don’t waste valuable fishing time looking for stuff.

We spent way too much time and energy searching for misplaced articles. Wallets, sunglasses, room and car keys, spools of 30lb hard mono, cell phones, reels, laptop chargers, purloined coconuts. It was maddening.

For those of us with a few years under our belts, this is an everyday problem; the most effective solution to which is putting things away in the same place every time. This breaks down, however, when two fishermen are dropped into a location with no “same places” and the contents or their overstuffed duffels quickly expand to fill the allotted living space. It gets ugly fast.

Stuff gets lost in the expansion and subsequent reshuffling. There’s even a mathematical formula for it.

G = (Ix$xT²x(P+1)) – ½F

Where:

G = Gone factor
I = Importance of the item
$ = Replacement cost of the item
T = Shots of tequila consumed immediately before search
P = Number of people waiting for the item to be found before they can go fishing
F = Quantity of F-bombs dropped during the search

When the Gone factor exceeds one-thousand (or ten times the ambient air temperature, whichever is higher) your only hope of seeing the item again is if it has a hook in it. If it does, don't worry. Regardless of the G, you can be assured that it'll turn up. When you least expect it. Painfully.

Note: There’s some difference of opinion in the statistical community regarding the true effect of the mitigating variable F, but all do agree that it tends to make you feel better.

Sadly, there is no viable solution for this vexing misplacement problem.

We fishermen are slobs.