The Pastel Dawns of Abaco

On the Brain

He insured that the first rule was clear before we stepped on the boat. One could not have a beer until they caught a bonefish. To my great relief, we each snagged a ghost early so the drinking could begin.

The rest of the rules he made up as the day progressed.

One of the joyful perks of this whole blogging thing is the opportunity it provides to make connections. I've had the pleasure to meet and fish with a host of folks who share my combined passions for fly fishing, writing, and generally baring one's soul on the internet; a combination that pretty well insures some interesting connections. I've yet to be disappointed.

So I was thrilled to learn that my visit to Abaco Lodge would overlap with that of my left-coast pal, Bjorn Stromsness, Mr. Bonefish on the Brain himself. Better yet, we shared a day on the water; my last and his first of our respective trips. It was the icing on the cake for me and, I hope, a good start for him.

No surprise, Bjorn pretty well schooled me that day on the water, confirming that his blog's title is well earned. He's passionate about the sport and the environment within which it's enjoyed. He calls foul when foul needs to be called and he's unflinching in his advocacy of all things bonefishy. On top of it all, he's a mighty fine angler.

Bjorn and his buddy Aaron were to spend another day at the lodge and then wander off on a North Abaco do-it-yourselfer for the remainder of the week. Let's all keep an eye on his blog to see how it went. Given the participants, and the location, it had to have been a memorable adventure.

I wonder if they had any beerless days.

The Dance

We dance with the winds. Play cat-and-mouse with thunderheads. Skip over the salt that swirls in the erratic patterns of spooked bonefish. We circle, circle, circle, to outflank the looming cataclysms, to hide behind keys, to sneak around stray sheets of showers in search of hidden blue skies, to simply get out of the blow that comes impossibly from all sides at once.

Tides shift in minutes, ignoring their lunar influence. Instead are herded like livestock, driven mercilessly by tempestuous phantoms, whipped to a bellowing froth. Stampeded across the mangroves.

Flats empty, then fill, then empty again. Whitecaps in eight inches of brine. Now five. Need to run but no depth to get it on plane. Rumble out slowly, painfully, the grey wall closing in behind. Find a depression and spin the skiff hard, pirouette, slingshot to speed. Escape. Run for the next tack, too stubborn to give in, too hard-headed to go home. The waltz goes on.

Boreas. Zephyrus. Eurus. Notus. They toy with us. No. That’s flattering. They couldn't care less of us as they romp amongst themselves for control of the empyrean. We’re collateral. Insignificant. The Marles are theirs.

But in between the skirmishes we find tails, waving in the chop like crisp silver flags. The bones don’t care about the firmament. It's just air and they have no interest in it. Noses down, not up. Get a fly to them, they eat. And they run. In defiance of it all we laugh and we celebrate our own small conquests, lesser gods that we are.

The winds note this hubris and we dance once again.

Opening Statements: Abaco

Let's get a few things out of the way, right up front:

No Bahamian residents were harmed in the making of the next few posts. A few bonefish, however, may have been temporarily inconvenienced.

There's something downright civilized about getting out of bed a little early in North Carolina and then being on an Abaco bonefish flat by two-o'clock that same afternoon; tipsy on Kaliks by four. One could get used to such days.

Sitting around the same fire pit shared by Lefty and Flip, Yvonne and Oliver, Thomas and Tom, is exhilarating. Fishing with the guides that regularly pole them around, a bit scary. I'll bet Marty doesn't have to keep telling Lefty, More String, mon. Give it more string!

Picking up a fly rod for the first time in twenty-knot trades can't be easy. Hat's off to the brothers from Minnesota who gutted out a tough couple of days and had fun doing it. Respect.

Fan of funk or not, you gotta love Freddie, on the platform, breaking out the KC and the Sunshine Band at every hook-up. That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it!, accompanied by a boogie-woogying drag. Buddy... Buddy...

Fly fishing can be a small world, made clear when you're in the islands and make a deliberately obscure reference to this "secret" Michigan brown trout stream that you've once visited and it turns out to be another guy's home waters.

And let's be perfectly clear, here. Sometimes, you just have to throw at the barracuda.

Glad we got all that straight. Now, let's get on with it.

Keep Pounding, Panthers!

Photo by Chris Hunt

I'm not going to make the mistake of assuming I'm going to catch anything... rather, the opposite. I'm looking forward to casting to jacks and ladyfish... IF I get to cast to a rooster, I'll be thrilled. If I land a rooster, I'll run naked into the surf. (Dont' think I won't do it, either). - Text from Chris Hunt

Oh, I knew he'd do it. And I shared the sentiment, so it turned into a somewhat inverted bet. First to catch a roosterfish during our expedition to the Baja took the plunge. It ended up being me, though there was some question as to whether I had actually landed our target species. (That's a story for another time.)

Today, we wager again. This time, the one who doesn't get the prize has to go off the dock in Saskatchewan this summer when my Bronco-loving buddy and I get together again, up North, to chase big northern pike with flimsy fly rods. I'm thinking those Canadian waters might not be as hospitable as the warm Sea of Cortez, even in June, so...

Keep pounding, Panthers!

Post-game Update: Hats off to a truly masterful defensive clinic. Well done, Broncos. Dammit. And it's been a pleasure, Peyton. Seeing you go out on top almost makes this bearable.

Almost.

The Photo Bin - January 2016

January was a bust. Meteorologically. Photographically. Piscatorially.

The weather was miserable. The camera came out on just a handful of occasions. The fly rod, not at all. It's the first time in years that a calendar month passed without a line being wetted. And since nothing happened, nothing was written. I can't make things up (as I have no imagination), so if I'm not doing something, I'm not writing. The blog falls silent. Mea culpa.

So this month's photo bin is also a bust. I offer but a single image taken from the side porch one icy morning as a weak winter sun tried to melt the mess, in vain. It's all you get, sad to say.

But, on the bright side, unlike the entirety of January, the next few weeks are busting at the seams. The Fly Fish Expo in Winston, a week chasing bones on Abaco, the Orvis Guide Rendezvous in Asheville, an escape with Mary to the Keys (or some other point south), a weekend with good friends on a stream full of Appalachian brookies, and a hodge-podge of music, sports, and preparations for Spring.

I'll be a busy boy.

And busy is good for both the boy and the blog, especially after the dud that was January. There should finally be things to talk about. And photograph. It's about damn time.

Stick around.

What is a Photo Bin?

The Photo Bin - December 2015

I'm not much for looking back so you'll get no in-depth review of 2014 around here. What's visible in the rearview mirror - just about a month's worth - is more than enough for me and just perfect for the Photo Bin.

I said that last year and haven't changed my mindset all that much. 2015 had its moments, but, quite frankly, not enough of them. A couple of kick-ass destination fishing trips (Beaver Island and Alaska), a great week of summer camp with the grandkids, the rekindling of an old electric flame, a winter escape to the islands, all good. And, of course, a fair bit of local fishing and the day-to-day joys of living here with the lovely lady of the house and the Led head. (That's the dog, folks, not me, though I have my moments.) But you've heard those few stories and the rest of the year seemed a bit of a dud, so let's just let it pass, unexamined, and look forward to a new beginning.

Wait, the December bin first.

The waders hang on the back porch, above, for the final time in 2015 after a year-ending trip to some western Carolina Appalachian waters. Like most mornings, this month, the fog was the feature. And the rain, of course. It was grim.

And speaking of grim, a bigfoot sighting at the Western NC Fly Fishing Expo. On minute David Grossman was there, then the next, the yeti ate him. That's how Southern Culture on the Fly rolls. It's always good to get Asheville-way to see that crew, bigfoot or no.

I told you it was a foggy month. We saw this view from our bedroom window more mornings than not. Soft edged gray monochrome. Lovely, really, in a subdued, melancholy way. Made you want to pull the covers up once again. Often, we just did.

Here's the sun setting on my last day on the water for 2015. The winter solstice pushed us back towards the launch much too early after a cool afternoon searching for Lake Jordan stripers. We found a few and enjoyed what little of the day there was. A nice way to end the fishing year.

Okay, I know that you're getting tired already of shots of my new toys. But the focus here is the amplifier stand. I've finally found a good use for the Chicago Manual of Style (as it's quite obvious that I don't use it much in my writing.) I posted this shot on Facebook with some witty comment about Chicago blues, but my buddy Ethan Smith (he of Smithfly fame) trumped me (so sorry for that reference), saying Chicago, so much better than the AP blues.

Writers' humor.

And I suppose that a December bin is incomplete without a holiday image. We spent Christmas in the Windy City with the kids, as we have the past couple years and it's always a joy to be around little ones during the holiday season. Here, the calm before the storm.

I hope your holiday was as joyful as ours and that the coming new year elevates you in every conceivable manner. And may it exceed 2015, for all of us, by leaps and bounds.

Let's get to it!

What is a Photo Bin?

Place

This past week, I attended Christmas Eve service in one of the grandest cathedrals in the country, Chicago’s Fourth Presbyterian, on Michigan Avenue, downtown. I sat in the rear balcony and stared across the expanse as thirteen-hundred worshipers celebrated the birth of a child and must admit to being brought to tears at the opening strains of Silent Night in that magnificent space, lit only and entirely by small candles held by each member of the congregation. I am not a religious man, but consider myself a spiritual one, and I was moved by the wonder of the place.

On a similar night, thirteen years before, I sat in a small brick Episcopal church in old Raleigh. No pomp or grandeur, the aging congregation outnumbered by the modest choir. The pain of great loss still weighed heavy on my heart. From the humble pulpit a simple holiday message, the birth of new hope, was offered into the tiny, solemn space and I was deeply soothed by the quiet peace I felt there.

To close each year, I step gently into the waters of a particular gorge as the fog lifts and the sun begins to creep over the edge of the wide ravine behind me, illuminating the far rock wall in golden splendor. My heart, already enlivened by the solitary hike in, leaps from my body and soars into the pine rafters of that Nature’s sanctuary. Eyes closed, my face to the heavens, I soak in the majesty of our Mother’s temple and send skyward heartfelt prayers of thanks for the year past and hopes for the coming to whoever might be listening. The place, in return, fills me with joy.

Here’s hoping that you find your place - of wonder, of peace, of joy - in the coming new year. May it sooth your pains and give you life and happiness unbounded.

Thank you for reading.

The Photo Bin - November 2015

In a forum far, far away, a group of outdoor bloggers are discussing the state of the medium. The spur for this deliberation was the question "Is blogging dead?" and the discourse has been lively. No consensus has been reached, but it's generally agreed that, at the very least, blogging has a pretty bad cold. The issue is not necessarily quality, but quantity. With a few exceptions, the rate at which folks are posting is dropping precipitously. Nowhere is there a better example of that than right here. Lots of excuses could be made, but there is no really good explanation.

And it occurs to me that, this year at least, these Photo Bins have been the barely-trickling life blood of this place. Without it, there'd have been long periods of nothing. The Bin keeps my feet to the fire, if even just monthly. Ironic, considering that this was just a throw-away post when first stared. That, and the obvious fact that I'm no photographer. But then it could be argued that I'm no writer either, so let's just get on with it.

This month marked the first anniversary of the passing of a dear neighbor and friend. At that time, honoring her request, we committed her ashes to the river down the hill, a place that she loved. In commemoration of that day and to keep her memory fresh in our minds, we gathered this month once again at the waters. The image above is of a few of the flowers that were sent to catch up with her, downstream, to where we will all follow, someday.

I chuckled at the unintentional placement of this Halloween image of hell after the previous solemn afterlife reference, but decided to leave it this way as it might very well be my downstream destination.

One of my favorite holiday events is the Bynum Bridge Pumpkin Walk, held each All Saints Day. The old quarter-mile Highway 15 span, now used only for nice afternoon strolls, is lined, end-to-end, with pumpkins carved in every conceivable manner. From simple kids' punch-outs to intricate works of art, the creations are great fun and it's a wonderful night out under the trick-or-treat stars.

You already know that I have a new toy. Been wanting another electric for many years now, but knew myself well enough to want a good one. Seemed a frivolous idea, given that I haven't played with any real seriousness for forty years.

But Fender pushed me over the cliff with the release of this quirky new limited edition double-cut Telecaster. I've thought for some time now that the Tele was what I needed, but couldn't get around its blocky look. (Yes, I'm that shallow.) The double cutaway swayed me and the absolute clincher was the ash blonde finish. I'm a sucker for blondes and have been ever since Lindsay Rosebrock's sweet wheat-colored Mustang, way back in my junior high days. That and Honey West.

There's no having a November picture post without at least one Autumn image. We had a run of spectacular sunsets, here on the ridge, and watching the evening sun spotlight a single, stubborn oak was magical. Shot off our back deck, this just illustrates how nice it is living out here.

Finally, an image not from this month, but one from November a-year-past that I stumbled upon the other day when looking for something else. I really miss this little guy so broke the rules to include it here.

I hope that the imminent holidays are wonderful for you and yours and that the coming year arrives with promise and hope. And with any luck, these blogging sniffles will clear up and maybe things will liven up around here. Who knows, there might even be some fishing.

If not, I guess that there's always the Photo Bins.


What is a Photo Bin?

There's Always Rock 'n' Roll

Hate to tell you, but there's more to life than just fishin’. There's also rock 'n' roll.

It’s a familiar story. I was going to be a star. Got my start in a local band during the late sixties and early seventies. Rock covers, mostly, with a few heavy jams just for fun. I wasn’t the most competent of musicians, but volume and fuzz (with a modicum of wah-wah) can cover a host of technical inadequacies. Talent aside, I had the look. Long hair, hip-hugging jeans, a carefully cultivated aura of indifference. Most of all, I had the burning desire to stand up on stage and bathe the masses in power chords. Good times.

Too good. My pipe dreams, and the lifestyle that came with them, drowned out my first attempt at higher education like bad feedback. A degree in mathematics couldn’t hold an incense stick to Guitar Godliness so in three quick semesters I was out the university's back door, a coiled cord trailing behind me. No big loss. The only calculus I needed was the derivation of twelve bar progressions and integrations on the five positions of the minor pentatonic. Newton dug the blues.

But the band flamed out in a blaze of personality and the girlfriend became the wife, then the expectant mother of my child, at a pace that was truly terrifying. Adulthood reared its perverse, ugly head. The Strat and the stack were sacrificed on the alter of domesticity, pawned to pay tithe to the working stiff’s holy trinity; Carolina Power and Light, Southern Bell, and the blessed Piggly Wiggly.

Decades passed.

I must admit that I’ve not been completely fretless. Over the years I’ve been bestowed a pair of acoustics, a gift born of love and a bequeathment steeped in sorrow, and I cherish them each dearly for their origins. But I've played them sparingly, all this time, as I have always been more moved by their emotional resonance than their tonal. They've been strung with my heartstrings.

But for all of their unplugged joy, I’ve missed the hot smell of over-driven tubes and the crunch of Jensen paper. I’ve missed low action necks and sustain lasting for days. I’ve missed being coaxially tethered to enough raw power to rattle your bones and pop out your fillings and make your ears bleed. I’ve missed the noise.

So, last week, I wrote off getting that next couple of fly rods and new pair of waders to realize, instead, my neglected Fender fantasies. Beautiful things. Just the boogie-woogie kick in the pants I’ve been craving. Sure, my having this rig is like giving the keys to the Ferrari to Grandma, but goddamn it feels good. It's time to shake the house once again.

Have no fears, fly fishing is still my passion and I'll continue to write of it here for it holds a part of my soul and always will. But something older has retaken my gut and it won’t be set aside, ever again.

‘Cause, Son, even when the fish won't bite, there’s always rock ‘n' roll.

1971-ish