Creepy, In a Good Way

The plan was to knock around The Big Easy for a few days. Wander the Garden District, the French Quarter, and maybe a bayou or on the outskirts of town. Eat and drink too much. Listen to some good local blues and jazz. Take lots of pictures. It was a good plan. Hell, it was a great plan.

Mother Nature laughs at my planning.

Shortly after we arrived, unseasonal rains dumped eight-to-ten inches on NOLA in a short few hours, flooding The Bowl and many other low-lying areas within the city. Clubs along the Quarter found waters coming over their steps and seeping into the venues. Travel around town was a disaster, where you could drive at all. It wasn’t pretty. And then it kept raining.

This mess left us to while away a large chunk of our time in the hotel, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We stayed at The Columns, a gorgeous old turn-of-the-century boutique boarding house, now twenty-guestroom hotel, that offered a dark, mysterious charm. And by mysterious, I mean creepy.

Creepy in a good way.

Adding to the creep factor, for much of our stay we were the only guests in the place. Quiet dark halls. Empty staircases. Rows of closed doors. Were one to be effected by such things, there was some serious malevolence brewing.

Did anyone see The Shining?

But we loved the place. While Mary napped or read in the room (number 25), I happily puttered around the haunting hallways and climbed up and down the incredible spiraling staircase to capture a few images, fully expecting to get back home to find soft spectral streaks in the photos. Ghosts of old New Orleans, peeking through.

They were most certainly there, visible or not.

Steve's Dahlberg

I don’t begrudge my fishing partners’ success when I’m struggling. Poor fisherman that I am, it happens most of the time. And I tend to not fish with folks who'd begrudge me mine in the rare event that I get a leg up on them. But I think that, after my seventh or eighth unanswered pike, Steve was getting a bit pissed.

Due to a snafu in weight planning, we were forced to leave a significant portion (actually, most) of our duffels and gear on the runway at the final outpost airport. We grabbed what was truly important for the day, our rods and some rainwear, and lifted off for the backcountry with assurances that the rest would be retrieved later that evening. Always uncertain about TSA’s disposition towards big, gnarly fishhooks, I'd buried my streamer boxes deep within my checked bag and didn’t relish the idea of throwing everything out on the hardpack to find them. Steve grabbed one of his more accessible boxes and assured me that he had us covered for the day.

After the final hop and a few moments for introductions at the lodge (without our luggage, there was nothing much else to accomplish) we jumped into the Crestliners and went in search of our first spring Northerns. As advertised, Steve had grabbed a well-stocked Bugger Barn and, after he took the first dig into it (selecting a shallow-running chartreuse streamer), I picked out a lengthy red-and-white Dahlberg diver, snapped in onto my wire pike leader and let it fly.

I'd chosen wisely.

The pike were all over the Dahlberg's action, that push of water and three-inch shimmering dive, and red-and-white turned out to be the color of the week. I was whackin' them, straight away. But Steve’s chartreuse just wasn’t cutting it and, after watching me boat a handful of toothy critters, he went back to the box only to find nothing like the fly I was throwing. I’d grabbed an anomaly from that particular box. A one-of-a-kind.

So he shrugged and started trying everything else, but nothing worked like mine. Each successive delve into the barn was accompanied with louder grumbling and an escalation in expletives. Of course, between fish, I offered to switch flies with him, but, ever stubborn, Steve grumpily declined. After a while, it got a bit tense so I returned to my casting and tried not to whoop too loudly as yet another pike crushed the Dalhberg. At the end of the day, the deerhair was in ragged tatters but the pike kept coming after it. Steve’s flies remained in mint condition.

Dinner was quiet that evening, until our abandoned gear finally arrived. Steve tore into it like pike on a red-and-white Dalhberg, digging out his other fly boxes and loading up all of the shallow runners he could find for the next day. And he wouldn’t take back the shredded deerhair that I’d plucked from his kit, the only fly I'd used all day. His pride, I suppose, would not allow it.

I guess that I should have felt bad about the whole thing, kicking his ass like that with his own fly. But, in the end, he fished circles around me - around all of us - for the rest of the week. He dialed it in and brought more to the boat than even the guides thought possible. Red-and-white, chartreuse, blue. He caught pike on them all. He was a monster. I like to think that I motivated him that first day.

As for me, I fished that poor Dahlberg until it was unidentifiable, no more than a limp red-and-white string, finally losing it in the jaws of a beast of a Northern when my leader failed, three days after our arrival and my fateful selection. It broke my heart to see it go. That fly was destined for permanent display when it got back home. Red-and-white remained my colors for the week, but nothing caught fish like that first diver.

And besides, it was Steve’s, making it all that much sweeter.

Arrival

We banked hard right and lined up the dirt airstrip, barely contained on the small island. No margin for error in any direction, short or long, starboard or port, lest a watery touchdown be had. "Your seat cushion may also be used as a floatation device" suddenly took on pertinence.

Reindeer lake, dotted with hundreds of similar spruce-clad keys, albethey runwayless, stretched below us to every horizon. Visions of big northern pike danced in our heads as the Beechcraft danced on the north winds and dropped from the sky, touched down on the freshly graded runway, and taxied to the end where it buried its front wheel into the soft edges. The challenges of trying new aircraft in remote locations.

Out of the hold came the baggage, and into the waiting Crestliners. Well, most of it anyway, as some five hundred pounds had to be left behind, temporarily, to insure that we had the juice for the flight. Chris swears that we all stared at him when the weight problem was announced, but I promise you we were more discreet than that. We'd grabbed what was important, anyway. The rods and reels. Our clothes could follow at their leisure. The only second thought was not having that windbreaking rain shell as we motored from runway to lodge in the cool Saskatchewan spring air.

A small price to pay for arrival.

Timing

Photo courtesy of Steve Zakur

Here’s a dirty little secret about destination angling. More often than not, the fishing is disappointing. Contrary to what you might think, there is no correlation between how much you spend or how far you travel and your actual piscatorial success. If I’m wrong and there is some obscure equation, at its core there’s most certainly an inverse ratio.

Now there are lots of reasons for this – unfamiliar waters, new populations of fish, improper gear, unrealistic expectations – but the biggest, most frustrating factor is timing. We never seem to get it right.

We’ve arrived on The Gulf in the accompaniment of thunderstorms and tornadoes, spent entire Caribbean excursions under tropical rains, and trudged Baja shores mere days before the baitfish arrived (to be followed, shortly after, by the game fish we sought). With distressing regularity, the following week would have been better or the guide’s standard line that you should have been here last week applied.

So why do we do it? Why spend the time and the money, endure the travel, only to get it wrong time and time again? Why the risk? The rote answer is that there’s so much more to such trips than the fishing. The adventure, the companionship, the locations. Nice platitudes, and true to a point, but the reality is that there’s only one good reason to keep trying. Once in a blue moon you get it right.

Last week, we got it right. Really right.

We hit that sweet spot between upper Saskatchewan thaw and spring’s choking weeds, when the ice receded and the Canadian sun rode high and the big northern pike moved up into the shallow, open bays, hungry and mean from too long in cold, deep water. We chased out rain as we arrived and observed it returning in our wake, fished in shirtsleeves, watched big, bushy poppers get crushed by toothy finned dinosaurs, and wondered what we’d done to deserve such bounty. The answer, my friend, is that we’d simply kept at it.

So why is that man in the picture above grinning? Sure it’s a nice fish, but we’d caught lots of them, lots of them, with some a fair amount larger. No, he’s grinning because he and his buddies had just hit a hole in one. Teed it up nine months earlier, aimed at a cup the size of an eighteen-foot Crestliner, and let it rip. To everyone’s amazement and delight, it went in. We timed it right.

So now I sit here, back at home, having pike withdrawals, ready to head out again to be rained on, snowed on, blown off the water, or simply to be skunked day after day for no discernible reason in some far away hell hole. There’s dues that are owed and I’m willing to pay, because someday there’ll be another Saskatchewan…

…or maybe it’s all just the timing.

The Unpacking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unpacking simply closes my möbius fishing loop.


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

No Snivelling

Papa would have hated it. Tourists packed shoulder to shoulder through the halls of his home. His hangouts filled to bursting with folks who thought that it was cool to be there, getting sloppy. The haunts of his Lost Generation replaced by the likes of Burger King and Salt Life.

He'd have freaked as he moved down Duval, carried along like just another head of cattle in the herd of beefy tourists sporting all manner of Steeler paraphernalia. I swear to God, upon landing at the docks, the gargantuan mothership hovering in the harbor had disgorged half of Pennsylvania, clad exclusively in yellow-and-black. I'd probably have retched too.

(No hate mail, please, all you Pittsburgh fans and Keystone State residents. Some of my best friends are so afflicted, bless their hearts.)

Ernest would have chaffed at the noise and the glitz and the commercialization he'd encountered as he moved down the main drag (and I use that term quite explicitly - not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not my thing) and I expect that he'd quickly have jumped over a block, west, probably no later than Eaton, to avoid the Duvallian circus. It's a bit more sane on Whitehead.

For those very same reasons, Mary and I took that route and, at the corner of Whitehead and Southard, just three blocks from Ernest's Key West home, found The Green Parrot. We stopped. Papa might have stopped too, wondering where the grocery store had gone.

Let me say, right up front, that the term parrotheads, associated with another Keys-based celebrity, was not generated here. That particular term, actually, originated in Cincinnati. Ohio. Enough said.

The Parrot was packed, but with a vibe unlike the cacophony of Duval. It was a happy buzz, generated, as it turns out, by a fun-loving mix of locals and "regulars" to Key West. Best blues joint on the island, the guide had confided in us as we sat up next to him on the front wheel well of the overpacked tour bus, getting the insider's scoop.

And while blues was not the musical genre for that particular evening, the band (Jeff Clark and the Rondo Rigs, an amalgam of local musicians, our bar mates knew the bass player) was a blast, full of unpretentious country and rock covers that they effectively and entertainingly made their own. Not an easy thing to pull off well. The crowd held a few first-timers, like ourselves, but it seemed many of the folks were regular island visitors who, like Papa and us, had learned to avoid the sightseer flash and landed here. A good crowd, at least the new best friends that surrounded us, and we happily drank and sang the evening away.

There were, of course, a few accommodations made in the name of tourism. Acknowledging the baby boomerish nature of the throngs that wash over the island, the band did two shows that night, starting at both 5:30 and 9:00. We old school rockers don't go as deep into the evenings as we once did.

The early show packs them in.

So after bitching and moaning all day over the state of Hemingway's beloved end-of-the-chain retreat, we finally found what we were looking for in Key West. Good folks and good times that filled the building and spilled out into the street. We could no longer complain, nor could have Papa, as it was plainly posted over the bar - there's no snivelling allowed at the Green Parrot.

None was warranted.

End of the Line

Overseas Highway

Jewfish Creek, Lake Surprise, Key Largo, Tavernier Creek, Islamorada, Plantation Key, Snake Creek, Windley Key, Whale Harbor Channel, Upper Matecumbe Key, Tea Table, Indian Key Channel, Lignumvitae, Lower Matecumbe Key, Craig Key, Channel #5, Long Key, Fiesta Key, Conch Key, Toms Harbor Cut, Duck Key, Grassy Key, Marathon, Vaca Cut, Pigeon Key

Seven Mile Bridge

Little Duck Key, Ohio-Missouri Channel, Ohio-Bahia Honda Channel, Scout Key, Spanish Harbor Channel, Big Pine Key, No Name Key, North Pine Channel, South Pine Channel, Little Torch Key, Torch Key Channel, Big Torch Key, Torch Ramrod Channel, Ramrod Key, Niles Channel, Summerland Key, Kemp Channel, Cudjoe Key, Bow Channel, Sugarloaf Key, Park Channel, North Harris Channel, Harris Gap Channel, Lower Sugarloaf Key, Harris Channel, Lower Sugarloaf Channel, Saddle Bunch #2, Saddle Bunch #3, Saddle Bunch #4, Saddle Bunch #5, Shark Channel, Shark Key, Big Coppitt Key, Rockland Channel, East Rockland Key, Boca Chica Key, Boca Chica Channel, Cow Key Channel

Key West

The End of the Line

Dave

Mary typically asks me, as I’m packing my duffle, if I know any of the guys I’m flying off to fish with. The answer, more often than not lately, has been “No.”

But that’s not a problem because what I do know is that they are guys who are willing to jump on a plane and roll the dice on weather, winds, and the finicky nature of gamefish. There’ll be no crying if conditions are bleak or the prey is absent because they accept that plunking down hard-earned cash for airfare and lodging guarantees nothing. Most importantly, they understand that if the journey and the company alone won’t satisfy them, they might as well stay home. They roll with it.

With such companionship, I’ve been seldom disappointed.

Last month’s trip to Abaco was no exception and for that I’ll thank my week’s fishing partner, Dave. Connected only by a quirk of timing and a common friendship with our (sadly absent) host, Oliver White, we spent a week chasing bonefish together out of Abaco Lodge before he returned to Sun Valley, Idaho, to prepare for a season guiding with Natural Retreats and I returned to, well, this.

So a simple, heartfelt thank you is in order. I enjoyed the hell out of it, my friend. Let’s do it again sometime soon.

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.

The Duffle

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

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

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

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

So here's what came back from Alaska:

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

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

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

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

So. What’s in YOUR bag?


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

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

Too Big

My feet are again planted on North Carolina clay but my head is still cruising at twenty-one hundred over Tikchik tundra. My body clock’s somewhere between.

The gear’s scattered across the back deck and my waders and fleece are spread out on the line to dry. I’d take a picture, but they’re interspersed with Mary’s unmentionables and I wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. It’s quite the contrast, Simms and Chantelle, but that’s what it’s like around here, and I missed it.

When my head and my feet find some common ground and my circadian rhythms stop doing the bop, I’ll try to give you a peek onto the experience. Snippets of the trip, vignettes, and an image or three when the words fail me, as they almost always do. In no particular order, bite-sized pieces of a place that’s too vast to consume all at once, if at all. Just too big.

Alaska.

Stay tuned.

On Departure

It’s hard to leave this place, this haven, this quiet home in the woods, and I lie here in bed, a few short hours before my daybreak departure, missing it already. I feel her warmth beside me. I listen to the yip of coyotes in the ravine below. I sense the Aussie moving restlessly about the dark room, finding one cool spot after another to lie upon the smooth concrete floor.

They say that Alaska will change a man and I hope that it’s not true. I like who I am, where I am, what I am. But it’s the “what I am” that sends me that way, I suppose, so the risk must be taken. The rush is on and I’m more than excited.

But, already, I look forward to being back home.

The Photo Bin - July 2015

I suppose that this should really be called The Photo Bin - Beaver Island Edition. So be it. It's been too hot since my return to get out to gather anything else anyway. Here, then, is a random smattering of images from around the island. A hodgepodge of motifs. A nonsensical collection, when you come right down to it.

You know. The usual Photo Bin fare.

Thanks, one last time, to the good folks on Beaver Island, from The Fisherman's House to Stoney's to The Shamrock to Daddy Frank's Ice Cream. And especially to the crew at Dalwhinnie Bakery and Deli for putting up with us each and every morning and packing some mighty, mighty fine lunches. You guys put the trip right over the top.

And, of course, a final nod to Kevin, Steve, and Austin for being hosts beyond all expectations. For a fantastic fishing experience, look no further than Indigo Guide Service, Third Coast Fly, and Grab Your Fly Charters on beautiful Beaver Island, smack dab in the middle of Lake Michigan.

Go there.

What is a Photo Bin?

Punching Above My Weight Class

Austin Aducci

I've said it before but it bears repeating. Authoring a "fly fishing blog" carries no presumption of competence on the water. I am, at best, an average angler and, at worst (and more likely), a guide's cold-sweat nightmare. I know just enough to be dangerous and my casting skills have plateaued at the point that I can generate sufficient line speed to bury a hook deep into tender flesh.

I'm everyman fly fisher.

But I've been lucky. Through these interweb pages I've met a host of good people and have been able to parlay some pedestrian piscatorial skills with the ability to use a thesaurus and to rescue an over/under exposed image into some extremely cool opportunities. The latest, a visit to Beaver Island and a week spent with some of the very best fishermen, and folk, I've had the pleasure to share a boat with.

I was punching above my weight class, and lovin' it.

Cue the introductions.

Austin Aducci

No one wants to be on the water first more than Austin Aducci of Grab Your Fly Charters. He wants it so badly that Steve and Kevin (who you'll meet here shortly) derive great pleasure in occasionally beating him to the ramp. The good news is that this little game of who-gets-there-first puts everyone on the lake early and that means more fishing. Here on Beaver, that's a very good thing.

Austin put me on my first carp and for that alone he should be enshrined in the guide hall of fame, but he's likely not to smile for his induction photo. That's just how he rolls.

Any time, any place. I'd fish with this guy.

Shawn Combs

It's good to know that your rod builder is also one hell of a fisherman. A week with Shawn Combs, Orvis's Rod and Tackle Divisional Merchandise Manager (which is industry-speak for Head Gear Geek) was enlightening on many levels as well as just plain fun. His brain is always working, spinning out ideas for gear, videos, and directions that our sport can and might go. He has one foot firmly placed in the tradition of fly fishing while the other steps comfortably towards new ground and the turf of today's emerging angler. It's nice to see the Grand Old Brand regaining such footing.

And the one-piece Helios2s that he brought along were smooth as Grandma's apple butter. If there'd been a way to sneak out, unnoticed, a nine-foot rod tube, the 9wt might just have gotten "lost" in the shuffle.

Shawn Combs

Steve Martinez

Steve Martinez. The rock. The big man. The Clarence Clemons of Indigo Fly Service's E Street Band. The guy I want in my boat when the weather gets tough or the fishing gets tougher. Or when the weather is sweet and the fishing is sweeter. Hell, I just want him in my boat.

I think a passage from his bio on Indigo's website pretty much says it all.

Steve is currently Indigo’s record holder for longest trip, at 16 hours. We were just about ready to call in search and rescue when Steve pulled in with his two very happy customers. After they left I asked him if something went wrong and Steve said no, we were having so much fun that we talked about it and none of us wanted to quite, so we decided to just fish till dark.

If you get the chance, go have some fun.

Steve Martinez

Kevin Morlock

Fly fishing for carp is just a little bit different. And it's complicated by the fact that there are so many ways of going about it. Drifting for crusiers and tailers. Dapping (heretofore referred to as Googling - don't ask) in the deep weeds. Stalking mudders in the tidal pools. Casting into the wind and surf of the Third Coast. There needs to be a class.

Wait. There is one and its name is Kevin Morlock. My carp professor for the week. We tried it all and I learned more about chasing the golden bones than I could have imagined. (Now, execution...a whole different matter.) I appreciated Kevin's patience and persistence, qualities necessary for a top notch guide in such a unique setting.

He says that I've graduated Carp 101. Maybe I have. But I think that I'll audit the class one more time. It's hard to find a good teacher.

Kevin Morlock and Friends

Cameron Mortenson

No introduction is necessary, here. The incomparable Cameron Mortenson, Mr. TFM, and the organizer of this little soirée. He's been coming to this island for a number of years now and loves to share it with an annual grouping of friends and fly fishing industry acquaintances; a group that manages to have a great time in good weather years and bad. Cameron always puts together a good crowd.

I've long admired Cam for what he's accomplished with The Fiberglass Manifesto. He's resurrected a segment of our sport and done it with basic hard work, people skills, and a love for what he's doing. I gets no better than that.

Thanks, Cam, for the invitation and the friendship. It was good to finally get on the water with you and I sincerely hope that there's more to come.

Cameron Mortenson

Mike Ward

He couldn't contain himself. As Steve pulled the empty trailer away from the launch, Mike hooted, leapt into the boat to grab a rod, and then raced around the dock to thread lasers through the pilings at a shadow that caught his eye at the edge of the short pier. The day hadn't started and he was already on fish. It's simply how he's wired.

I don't know which he does better - make a boat or fish. One thing's for sure, Adipose's Mike Ward can sure do the later. When the rest of us returned to the house after a long day, he was back in the weeds down the shore, catching bowfin for God's sake. He out-fished us all, every day, once we finally got him out of bed in the morning. I guess he was still on a Caribbean schedule and Montana time. Not a bad timezone to live in.

It's fun to watch a guy doing what he loves.

As I write this, Mike's down in the Keys, competing in the 2015 Del Brown Permit Tournament, chasing his 67th black tail. I wouldn't bet against him.

Mike Ward

Kyle Wilkinson

It seems that every picture taken of Kyle Wilkinson this trip has him sporting a big smile and a bigger fish. And there's a good reason for it. The guy can bring it. We finally got to share a boat the last day of our visit and while a week of hard fishing was catching up with this old man, my casts looking tired and sloppy, Kyle's stroke remained long and straight as an arrow. Ah, to be young again.

We only got one eat that day (and by we, of course, I mean he) but it was a great way to end the trip. Good weather, a beautiful location, and stellar company.

Be sure to check out Kyle's day job - Outfitting Manager, Professional Fly Fishing Guide, and killer blogger at Denver's TROUTS Fly Fishing.

Kyle Wilkinson

"Craig"

And finally, the last member of this illustrious crew politely declined to have his image shared on social media. Something like If you show my face on the web I'll @#$%ing kill you. I respect his request and will do him one further by not even mentioning his name. Let's, for the sake of anonymity, simply refer to him as "Craig."

A fine angler, videographer, and co-owner of a somewhat respectable fly shop out west, Craig has his finger on the pulse of fly fishing. Like Shawn, he is well grounded in the heritage of our sport but has an enthusiasm for what is coming down the feeding lane. He knows freakin' everybody.

I couldn't have been in more entertaining company.

Hope he still has all his fingers after the hometown 4th celebration.

Photo by Kevin Morlock

Top shelf anglers. Top shelf companions. I thank each and every one of them for a fabulous week in a fabulous place. The takeaway here is that if you want to improve your game, you take these opportunities. You swallow your pride and you expose yourself to the best and then grow from it. You keep swinging.

And the best part of punching above your weight class is that every now and then, against all odds, you actually land a blow.

Damn sure feels good.