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.

Bonding

It had been baptized in Floridian salt just a few miles from its birthplace, but there’s something special about putting the new boat into home waters for the first time; adding a bit of spice to the old stompin' grounds and seeing the flats that you've come to know from a fresh new perspective, perched high on the polling platform of a shiny new skiff.

You couldn't have knocked the grin from Troy's face with a two-by-four.

So we skipped along the NC IC, trolled the creeks, poled the skinny water, and got out and pushed when in less than six inches. We put the first oyster bed scrapes on the bottom, nudged a dock or two, and talked about where to stage the stickpin, place a fly patch, fashion an icebox.

And, yes, we tossed a few flies and chased a few reds, but that wasn't particularly important. This weekend was all about the boat. It was all about the bonding.

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.

Downsized

Photo Credit: Bill Gregory

I've been downsized.

After weeks of slingin' aggressive saltwater tapers with broomstick-fast eights, twitching my whippy little 4wt once again is, shall we say, interesting. But, like riding a bike, it comes back quickly, though the off hand feels left out with no hauling to do. Sorry, friend, your job is no longer required.

Surprisingly, the hardest thing is remembering to clear the backcast. There's no sycamores, no rhodos, on the flats. No tight quarters. I am reminded, occasionally, and get personal with the flora.

My fishing world shrinks from the horizon to a mere thirty feet.

Downsized, in a good way.

The Photo Bin - June/July 2013

I enjoy taking a camera to weddings. I like to think that I'm annoying the "official" shooter by having the freedom to chase whatever I please rather than having to get all of the stock situations - cake, garter, first dance, blah, blah, blah. That said, I respect immensely what they do and stay out of their way. No way I'd take that on. It's not like you can look at the proofs and say "Oops! Bad light. We need to reshoot all of this. Next week good for you?"

The above, taken at a family wedding, is a perfect example of having both the freedom to find my own shots and latitude to deal with the Oops Factor. I had fun with the kids but the shot was horrific. Overflashed insanely. But, as I looked at the blown out raw, I loved the faces, could see the broad strokes, and prayed they'd be enough detail remaining. With a bit of digital tweaking, this image emerged. The flower girl and her bodyguards ring bearers. I love the result and can't imagine it being any better. Just one of those happy accidents.

For those of you new here and wondering where the fish are, this is a Photo Bin - my once a month (or so) examination of what's fallen out of the camera, unaccounted for in any real posts. Odds and ends, tidbits, any topic, things of interest - at least to me. Sometimes fishing. Oft' times, not-so-much.

Like, maybe, a submerged wine bottle - cheap wine, at that - bending and distorting the light as its original contents probably bent and distorted it's purchaser's grasp on his world, already misshapen by his liquid existence.

And the perfect home for an exhibitionist hermit crab.

Just up the point from our Long Island lodge, a beached Bahamian freighter, the Mara II, rusts into oblivion. Bright colors, dulled, then re-illuminated in oxidation and golden evening light. Texture on texture. One wonders where the Mara I lies; in what condition. And what of a III?

And fiberglass sinks too. We wandered the back channels of Nassau, on our way home, and blind-casted the waterways along docks, small shipyards, and empty lots. Quite a departure from wading the pristine sands of the flats, but bonefish pop up in the darndest of places and I hooked the biggest of the trip just off that sunken starboard stern, Sandy's aftermath.

But it's good to be home again, from far-away family trips and Bahamian beaches. On my return, our neighbor/friend/architect-of-our home asked that I take a couple of pictures around the place for something or another, and I happily obliged. In doing so, I realized that this southern exposure perfectly reflects the essence of our solar-focused abode.

Large windows, shaded in the summer with perfectly computed overhangs for our particular latitude, become portals for light as the sun drops in winter, heating the four-inch concrete slab flooring so that it radiates warmth throughout the evening hours. The panels on the roof are for hot water - completely sufficient through sunny stretches or, with the throw of a couple of valves and the flick of a switch, as pre-heat for a secondary gas heater. And to escape the heat, the shaded screened porch on the west side is simply the best room in the house.

Actually, I think I'll head out there right now.

Bye Bye to Bones and a Few Thanks

It’s been three weeks since I stepped off the plane back here in RDU, completing an eleven day round trip between home and the flats. Yesterday I shook the last grains of Bahamian beach sand from my Keens and today notions of bass and trout finally began to creep back into my brain.

I guess it’s really over.

It probably would have happened sooner had it not been for the recent spate of crap conditions keeping me off the water here in the southeast; storms, flooding, insane generation schedules driven by an insatiable need for air-conditioning. How did mankind survive before the advent of the condenser?

Anyway, I’ve channeled the tropical vibe long enough. Tried to share the island sun as much as I could. Hope that you felt it, warm on your face, but it’s time to move on. It's time to shake off that out island rhythm and get back to normal, at least for a while.

So, to wrap it all up, a few thanks...

...to Pinky for the kind invitation and unbelievable hospitality at the Long Island Bonefishing Lodge. The out islands are a joy and Pinky's outpost is a bonefishing destination to savor. All the comforts of home, miles of flats to explore, and all of the guided support you might want - or none if you prefer. DIY the right way.

...to Darlene for being the heart of the lodge. From her warm smile in the morning to her divine conch fritters to her delightful grandchildren, she kept a light mood throughout the house, making us all feel right at home. Did I mention the conch fritters?

...to Markk for some mighty fine days on the flats and the single best piece of fishing advice we received all week:

Leave the barracudas alone!

...to the Coral Harbour Beach Villas for letting us crash in their beach house for a couple of days as we wandered the back channels of Nassau, finding bonefish in the unlikeliest of places and New Providence peace off the back deck.

...to my homeboy Tbone for the boxful of flies that carried the day, every day, on this trip.

...to my bonefish-brained blog buddy Bjorn for all his advise and the shrimp pattern that brought the biggest fish of the trip to hand, almost.

...and, of course, to Sam, Marc, Chris. Couldn't have asked for a better crew to share an island with.

Let's do it again sometime. I'm hooked.

Gordon Beach

We put down the rods and we wandered, we swam
Watched stingrays and sharks glide the bright turquoise waters
Or simply sat on the unblemished sands and meditated on the glory before us
Too exquisite to fish
Too beautiful to believe

Gordon Beach, Long Island, Bahamas

8wts

Bonefish mean 8wts and we bent a few

Redington, Hardy, G.Loomis, and Scott

Mystic and Orvis, TFO and Sage

Smoked a few reels, as well

Lamson, Nautty, Orvis, Redington

Gear junkies, we are. No denyin'

And bones are as good an excuse as it gets

The Moments We Remember

The radios crackle in synch with the skyline.

Get back to the boat, boys. We gotta get outta here.
Yeah, I don’t like the looks of that lightning.
Not the lightning, mon. The darkness. We need to get off the flats while we can still see the bottom.
Huh? You know this place like the back of your hand, Pinky.
Sandbars, Mike. They move.

Point taken. We turn and we race, Sam and I, as much as one can in shin-deep chop, the three-hundred yards to the skiff, dragging the rod tips in our wake. Pinky might not be sweating the lightning just yet, but, as the highest two points on these flats, we don't feel the need to add another nine feet. There’s enough of a charge running down our spines already.

These are the moments we remember. Sure, the thrill of the catch is what those back at home think that we’re chasing, but it’s more. It’s the rush. It’s the feeling of riding the thin edge of control. It’s the realization that you’ve pushed it as far as you should, and maybe then pushed it a little bit more.

It’s watching a big ‘cuda slide by, close, as you wade ass-deep, resurrecting every adventure article you read as a boy suggesting who’s really the king of the flats, then impulsively putting a fly on his nose, only to watch him confirm that reputation, leaving shredded mono, visions of razors, and questions of sanity in its wake.

It’s tip-toeing to the edge of a bottomless blue hole and considering swimming across.

It’s hearing Pinky transmit Bones on your three, coming fast. Two cruisers behind. If they show interest in your fish, crank the drag. Break it off. And if they show interest in you, throw a handful of bottom their way.

Throwing mud at sharks. Unconvincing.

It’s finding one of those migrating sandbars and, with the rain lashing down and salt spray in your face, jumping off and dragging the skiff to deeper waters; eyes on the horizon, adrenaline pumping, heart rising to your throat, and a big, albeit nervous, grin on your face.

Yeah, these are the moments we remember.