We Don't Need No Stinkin' Electricity

There's a couple good fires' worth ready on the deck

And a short stack covered up if we need more dry wood.

The truck's at the top of the hill, in as open a spot as we have on these acres.

The boxes of greens and garlic and onions are covered.

Warm blankets have been pulled from the closet.

The tub's full of "flush water"

There's a reminder to stay out of the basement freezer.

The masonry heater is ready to go

with enough kindling to get things started. 

And should things start falling, we'll cut our way free.

The gas stove is set

and there are plenty of periodicals to catch up on.

Most importantly, the pantry is stocked.

Snow and ice in the South? Bring it on.

I Was At The Show... Really

I promise, dear. I was there.

Two full days wandering the Fly Fishing Expo held in Winston Salem. The problem is that I have absolutely no proof of it. I bought nothing. Accumulated no pile of free swag. Took no photographs of significance.

I missed every presentation that I meant to see (Sorry, Dean. Twice.), still have every business card that I left the house with (like this retired old fart really needs a business card anyway), and left no imprint, whatsoever, that can be pointed to.

Worse still, I have no product news to report, no hot gear to review, no industry revelations to pass on.

In short, I’ve epically failed as a blogger/reporter/whatever it is that I’m pretending to be doing here.

At least there are no new tattoos.

Instead, I wandered the aisles with old friends, made an abundance of new ones, and was reminded by each that the joy of this sport lies within the folks that you come to know. My back is sore from two days of standing on hard concrete and my ribs ache from laughing for most of it. The feet feel like lead, yet the spirits soar. My fingers hurt from a hundred handshakes, but the warmth of each and every greeting still radiates up my arm and comforts me like a favored fleece.

The fly fishing community is something special.

In the absence of solid evidence, I have to rely on my compatriots to confirm that I actually was there. So here's an urgent plea for backup. And, at the same time, huge thanks go out to:

First and foremost, Cameron Mortenson (The Fiberglass Maifesto) for having me along, sharing a room, and letting me play with his case full of fly rods. It was a pure pleasure and time that I hope we can repeat down the road. My respect for what you do continues unabated.

Ethan Smith (SmithFly), and his dad, for making the trip down with his terrific gear, allowing me to stow my camera bag behind his display, and not complaining when I occasionally “played saleman” with passers by. You’re a good sport, Ethan, and now a good friend.

My new partner in fly fishing crime, Cory Routh (Ruthless Outdoors), and his dad as well, for keeping the evenings entertaining, whether the place runs out of beer or not.

(To all three of you, and to Tom "Another Quarter-Mile" Gould, three words. Sexual Chocolate Stout.)

Tom Sadler (Mossy Creek Fly Fishing and current president of the Outdoor Writers Association of America). Chris Hunt has been telling me for some time now that you and I would hit it off big. For once in his life, he was right.

Kent Edmonds (Temple Fork Outfitters) for letting me bend his ear, and his fly rods, every time we cross paths. I always look forward to spending a moment (or thirty) with him at each of the shows. I hope that he doesn’t mind the distraction. He’s truly one of the good guys.

Smith River fishin’ buddy, Darrin Doss (Darrin Doss Photography). It was great seeing him at the show and, better yet, meeting the better half. Jennifer, thanks for letting Darrin come out to play with me now and again. Sorry about getting him hooked on musky. And the best of luck on the upcoming half-marathon! Better you than me.

Thomas Harvey (Southern Fly Photography) for not having his camera along, thus making me feel better about not using mine. Oh, and for being as entranced with Lefty as I am.

Dave Grossman (Southern Culture on the Fly) for, well, just being Dave.

Reba Brinkman (Hunter Banks) for keeping the loose bunch of Western Carolina misfits in some semblance of order (how, I’ll never know) and for being kind to me for no apparent reason. It’s good to finally be formally acquainted.

Joel DeJong (A Year on the Fly, Hex Fishing). Glad to finally get to shake your hand, my friend, after all these years. And I look forward to that thing (nod, wink) as it gets going.

Richard Griggs (Carolina Mountain Sports) for always being there for the outdoorsmen (and women) of our state. At the shows, in the shop, on the forums, you’re a treasured resource and good friend.

Paul Puckett and Brad McMinn for making our sport look so damn good. Paul’s Bugger Beast art and $20 original pieces (that’s a joke, folks) are totally fun and I’m thrilled to see Brad’s work being so overwhelmingly well-received at the show. Long time coming.

All my Triangle Fly Fisher mates that wandered the aisles. It’s always a blast to share time, on and off the water. I count myself lucky to be associated with each and every one of you. If you're in the Raleigh/Durham/CH area...

Lefty and Bob and Joe, who, by now, I feel like I can call by first name, though they look at me funny when I do. I’ve watched each of them demo more times than I can count, yet with every presentation I pick up some new tidbit to make my stroke better. (Now, if I'd only apply them.) These gentlemen are the treasures of our sport; our past and our archives.

And then there’s our future. I walked away deeply impressed with the young bucks of Pursuit Anglers and their incredibly beautiful and useful ties. Great young men with infectious attitudes and real joy in the creations that come off their vises. Our sport is in great hands for many years to come.

Finally, my most profound thanks go to the couple of you who stopped me in the aisles to say hello, having somehow recognized my face from these goofy pages. I cannot begin to express how humbled I am and appreciative of these greetings and your kind comments on what I’m doing hereabouts...

…even though I’ve failed you completely, yet again.

Just the same, please tell Mary that I really was at the show. If you don't, she might just believe that I'd actually slipped off and done something else.

Like, maybe, go fishin'... again.

The Photo Bin - January 2014

Yes, this is a fly fishing blog. Mostly. But I have steadfastly maintained the right to wander off topic when it comes to these monthly photo bins because everything that falls out of the camera isn't a fish. Especially when you cast like I do.

This month's images were gathered far from the stream. They were shot, instead, in the dark, quiet halls of the NC Museum of Art as I wandered in a blissful, reverent haze, paying unabashed homage to the sleek lovelies that rolled in with the Porsche by Design: Seducing Speed exhibit.

And while they're not strictly fishing, I fully expect that if you appreciate the graceful lines of a mako shark, the stunning finish on a brookie in spawn, or the raw power of a tailwalking tarpon, these babies are right up your waterway.

Tell me I'm wrong.

If I had to make the impossible choice and bring only one of these honeys home, it might just be this 1988 Type 959. While walking the exhibit (leaving a sloppy, slippery trail of drool so deep you could swing a streamer in it) I listened to one of the museum's audio headsets as they described each of the four-wheeled wet dreams. I remember just two words from the spiel on the 959. Scary fast. When the Porsche engineers describe it in those terms...

Bonefish fast, it occurs to me, and I can see the resemblance.

But let's face it, the 959's totally impractical. These days, perhaps it's best to put away the boyish dreams and help save the world with a hybrid.

Here, Prius, Prius, Prius. I've got something for you...


Note: These shots are just the tip of the iceberg. I have dozens more pictures. But, better than them, check out these beauties, and all of the others on exhibit, here. Be sure to view the complete galleries of each of these amazing creatures. It's worth it.

Oh, and the lovelies pictured above, in order, are:

1. 1949 Type 356 Gmünd Coupe
2. 1938 Type 64 Berlin-Rom Racer
3. 1953 Type 550 Prototype
4. 1965 Type 904/6 Prototype
5. 1989 Panamericana Concept Car
6. Super Cool Porsche Tires
7. 1989 Type 959
8. 2010 Type 911 GT3 R Hybrid Race Car Prototype

What is a Photo Bin?

Like Snow

Suppose we did our work

like the snow, quietly, quietly,

leaving nothing out.

Wendell Berry - Like Snow

Window of Opportunity

Partly cloudy and chilly in the morning with temperatures to rise from around the freezing point to the low 40s by early afternoon. Your mid-day will be moderately overcast, but relatively pleasant. It will be short-lived, however, as more complete cloud cover will move in as the day progresses bringing periods of precipitation which are likely to turn to sleet, then snow, as the temperatures drop during the late afternoon and early evening. Snow accumulation from 1-3 inches is possible, complicating your after-work commute.

For Tuesday, January the 21st, we will start generation at 5:00am, stop generation at 9:00am, restart generation at 4:00pm, and stop generation at 9:00pm. We would like to remind you that this is a tentative schedule and is subject to change without notice. Thank you for calling.

No, honey. As far as I know there's nothing on the calendar for tomorrow. Why?

Someone left a window open. Just a crack.
We squeezed through it.

Off the Ground

Happy New Year!

Yeah. I know. Two weeks ago. But things have gotten off to a slow start around here. We came home from holiday travels with a three-week creeping coughing crud and the Dixie temps have tumbled ridiculously into the single digits, freezing our ambition into inert little cubes that are just now beginning to thaw. So, for us, 2014's just getting going.

And key to getting it going is getting back on the water. This year, instead of my traditional annual kickoff wade in some chilly Appalachian trout stream, I wandered east to find a warm coastal breeze and to wave a 7wt at a few North Carolina puppy drum. (I usually call them redfish, but the locals refer to them as drum and consider anyone using the 'r' word a bit prissy; just a half-step above those twice-a-year visiting Salt Lifers.) Whatever you call them, we put a couple of nice ones into the skiff along with a passel of rats and a spec or three. More importantly, we got the fishing year rolling with brilliant barrier island skies, silky smooth salt creeks, and stunning southern sunsets.

So bear with me as I shake off the chill and begin to warm things up around here once again. It should be an interesting year to come, so have a little patience. We'll get rolling in earnest soon.



Rolling, now that 2014'a finally off the ground and onto the water.

Happy not-so-New Year!

The Photo Bin - December 2013

So far away from this Southern boy's place.
Snow. Ice. Big city lights.
Chicago on Christmas.

But intimate indoors, tucked away from the chill.
Grandkids. Family. Big time love.
Chicago on Christmas.

Cold on the outside, warm on the in.
Both the city and I, that night.
Chicago on Christmas.

What is a Photo Bin?

'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!!!

Young Guns

Nothing energizes me (and makes me feel very, very old at the same time) like spending a couple of days with the young guns of our sport. No creel carryin', Thoreau spoutin', Tilley wearin' fishermen, these. I'll bet not a one owns a proper vest. Soft hackle nymphs and #24 midges? Ha! Let's tie the biggest friggin' musky chickens that will stuff into these Regal Big Game jaws. And let's put it all on the web. Realtime. And while many of the old guard shake their heads and mumble dejectedly about the direction of fly fishing, I damn well love it.

Okay, maybe I'm still trying to get enthused about video, but that's a small quibble.

I was reminded of all this as I spent a couple of days in Asheville, hangin' around with the SCOF crew (that's Southern Culture on the Fly, for those of you who've been hiding under a rock) at the Western North Carolina Fly Fishing Expo and subsequent Iron Fly.

I've wracked my brain, since my return, to distill a story from the experience(s), but it ain't happening. So, to save myself the headache, I'll just dump a few pictures on you and leave it at that.

And, with this crowd, it seems completely appropriate.

Except that there's no video.

I spent a lot of time wandering around the expo and I'm proud to say that I didn't buy a thing. It took great restraint, let me tell you. But I also didn't take many pictures. I suppose that if you've been to one show... The casting pools always fascinate me, though.

For a better (yeah, video) feel for the show, check out Southern Fly Photography's quick treatment, here. Nice work, Thomas. My favorite part is watching TFO's Kent Edmonds tuning a really young gun's stroke at the pool, starting about minute 1:45. It's always good to see Kent as he passes through.

My Hoosier homey, Pile Cast founder Dave Hosler, made the long trip from Indiana and along with the intern (both pictured at the top of this post) held court at the SCOF booth - the busiest, and most entertaining, table in the place.

They both tie a mean musky fly.

And speaking of mean flies, there's the ultimate young gun fly tying event, The Iron Fly. The boys from Pig Farm Ink somehow found their way from Fort Collins, CO, to bring their unique brand of fly fishing insanity to Asheville. I don't know where to begin.

So I won't.

Sadly, I needed to put it on the road before the competition got started in earnest. Next time...

Gotta give a nod to our hosts, the brains (and I use that term with great care and affection) behind SCOF - Dave Grossman, pictured above in a rare quiet moment, and Steve Seinberg who somehow evaded my camera throughout the trip but who can be understood completely by the artwork in the background and the workspace below.

In the end, these young guns are irreverent, raucous, and riding an edge and it's a joy to see. They have a passion for the sport and a energy that's impossible to resist. Say what you want, old guard, but they'll outfish you, outdrink you, then outwork you when it comes to protecting all of our waters. They're the future of our sport whether you like it or not.

And I'm good with that.

Special thanks to the boys, most especially Dave G, Steve, Dave H, Alan, and Chris, for letting the old man hang around. I had a blast.

But now, I think, I need a nap.

One Bug is Quiet

We stood back and watched as she roll cast the slow, shaded run that tucked tightly under the thick rhododendrons. Cast, drift, cast again; avoiding the encroaching branches with a quiet ease. “And she’s just getting started,” he whispered with a subtle hint of pride. “She’s figuring it out.”

I hadn’t seen Brandon since our week chasing redfish on the Laguna Madre, a year-and-a-half past, but had followed his exploits through One Bug is Fake, his online journal of fly fishing, survival, and whatever. I kept up with his angst through job changes, moves, and the generally painful business of sorting out what was important in his life. Kept up, that is, until the blog fell silent earlier this year. I worried a little.

So when I caught word that he’d be in my neck of the woods for a family Thanksgiving gathering, I wandered westward and reconnected with him on a chilly Appalachian trout stream. There, I came to understand his disappearance.

“Have you been writing?” I asked, thinking I knew the answer. “Not really,” he replied, watching her swing the fly once again. “I’ve been happy.”

Those who write understand. Words, all too often, come from deep, dark places and passages born of hurt carry a weight and an edge that can resonate. It’s been suggested that contentment is the death of good writing. I’m not completely convinced, but do know that it’s easier to express when things are broken. Through the cracks seep emotion and heart and, inexplicably, craft. It’s a gruesome tradeoff.

“But I’ve been thinking on a piece for a while now,” Brandon added, as his companion concentrated on her next drift. “About what’s changed.”

I nodded, and smiled, and thought to myself that there was no need to hurry. No need at all. I’d be glad to not hear from One Bug for a while.