Flesh

When enunciated correctly, the word is both deeply erotic and profoundly disturbing. Say it with me.

Flesh

Feel the tingle?

When you get tired of catching fish after fish, drift after drift, grayling after goddam grayling (with the occasional lipsticked dolly tossed in to make it marginally worthwhile); when you get tired of fishing that piece of costume jewelry, that perfectly round trinket, that princess-pink bauble painted with just the right nail polish; when easy fishing degenerates from easy to boring (perhaps thirty minutes, if even that long), your buddy says the ‘f’ word and something dark inside of you moves.

You know what you’re giving up. The numbers, the clockwork tug, the comfort and ease of your trapped air technology. (No Charles, it’s not a fucking “bobber.” It’s a strike indicator! For God’s sake, have some dignity.) You give up that mind-numbing rhythm of mending and catching, mending and catching, mending and catching.

They say that you don’t leave fish to catch fish, but they’re wrong. All fish are not equal. All fishing is not sport.

So you ignore the outside bubble line and focus, instead, on the inside snags; the slow water and blow-downs where rotting corpses gather in underwater creep shows. Phantoms, waving in tatters like carrion sheets on Lucifer’s clothesline. You dead drift (acquiring a whole new perspective on the term) tan stingers that, for all the world, look like soiled shreds of toilet paper flushed down Seward’s folly, but promise their targets the carnage they crave. You dredge the putrid downstream abattoir where the meat eater lies. You pursue the beast that's following its basest of urges, not daintily sipping on priss caviar as it gently flows by. You stalk the savage. You want him at his baddest, his inner zombie full-blown, his depravity manifesting in glorious carnivorous splendor.

He deserves a hook in the face and you’re all about giving him one.

Sure, you’re probably foregoing twenty, thirty, to chase just that one. That cannibal. That monster. And maybe, just maybe, he’d think about taking a bead, but what fun is that?

He wants… you want…

... flesh.

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.

The Rookie

It sucks being the rookie.

The abuse. The practical jokes. The shit jobs.

And it’s worse when you’ve been the rookie for six years.

That’s right. Six years.

So let’s give a little extra viz to the “new” guy,

The guy at the bottom of the seniority totem pole,

The guy looking up.

He damn well deserves it.

Note: That Tyler’s been "the rookie" for six years now speaks volumes about the guide staff at the Royal Coachman. Top notch. Experienced. And treated well by the lodge, it would appear, thus the low (actually NO) turnover. It’s a darn good crew and I thoroughly enjoyed fishing with each and every one of them. Even the new guy.

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 - August 2015

They flew in from Chicago, our big-city kids, and spent a week here at Camp Redbud. A week away from the hustle and bustle of Gotham. A week in the woods. A week without Mom and Dad. A week without video games. A week where a traffic jam is three whitetail on the gravel road. A week of, well, let's just see.

Oh dear God. He's not going to post a bunch of pictures of his grandchildren, is he?

Yes. Yes I am.

The centerpiece of the visit is always the pond and the kids love it. At six and eight, they're both terrific swimmers and, with a couple of noodles (and when the bluegill aren't nipping at their appendages), they could stay in the water all day. That's fine with us.

And when you're too tired to be in the water, you can simply be on it, exploring the back corners of the big swimming hole.

And then there's the new tree fort that Grandpa threw up the week before. Just above the house, up the ridge a-ways, it's a great place for picnic lunches, card games, and a night under the canopy.

Photo by Mary York

But Camp Redbud is not just about swimming and playing in the woods. There's also some cutthroat games of Sorry...

...and blowing spit bubbles at the Durham Bulls ballpark...

...and watching Star Wars with Aunt Mel...

...and having just plain silliness with Uncle Amo and Zeppelin (who, by the way, has finally given up trying to herd the youngsters and simply has fun with them).

But all good things must come to an end and the ten-hour drive back north was quiet, contemplative,  and uneventful. (Okay, the iPad helped).

Photo by Mary York

But they'll be back. Oh yes, they'll be back. Camp Redbud always awaits.

What is a Photo Bin?

this blue moon

this limbo, this midnight, this blue moon

dark as Death at the edges
quiet as the grave but for the sweep of a paddle through still waters
and the soothing wash that trails a sixteen-foot Old Town under pull

when it's my Time, I forgo the ash,
lie it gently at my feet,
and slide silently towards the light

the spark manifests, full-faced, above the eastern tree line,

illuminating this liquid rent in the forest with bright monochrome

black and white, dark and light, somehow both

soundless to the center, in flight o'er the stars that shine beneath me,

waters as deep as the Milky Way reflected, the Universe above and below

I glide to a stop between worlds

here to sit
here to stay
here to spend my Forever in this stark transplendency

but I am mistaken, it's not my Time

as much as I might wish it to be

my immutable Forever's not yet mine

for there's one on the shore that awaits me

a love that keeps me afloat

so I must scatter the stars with my stroke, once again, and return

but not right away

a minute, an hour, an eternity I'll pause 

to savor

this limbo, this midnight, this blue moon

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?

Windward

We drift quietly to the lee side, set the anchors, and slip over the aluminum gunnels into the cool turquoise water. Crystal clear. Rocky bottom. Surface slick as glass. Smallie haunts. But being a day short of the smallmouth season opener, we wade instead to shore and dive into the dense, hardy cover that keeps this thin spit of island from blowing away in the Lake Michigan winds.

But for the vegetation, you’d swear you were in the Bahamas. Emerald-edged coastlines fall to Indigo blue depths. Water so clear you could read the mint date off a dime at six feet. But the spray isn’t salty and the sun shines until ten and it’s Oberon, not Kalik, that waits at the takeout. South Andros, Beaver Island. Two sides of the dime, heads and tails, both shiny and bright.

We bushwhack over the spit, trading glances between our rod tips and our feet, avoiding tangles in the scrub with the former and snakes with the later. Steve hates Mr. No Shoulders, but we see only the occasional garter or northern so there’s no worries there; though Steve might disagree. Cam leads the way, pushing through the brush, the whisper of slick waders passing through undergrowth adds hushed compliment to the rising wind. Another Bahamian anomaly, waders. That and the snakes.

Along the windward north shore they flow, dark shadows that slide east to west along the edge, following contours that we can’t comprehend. Thermals. Geology. Perhaps the pheromones of preceding passages. Ten feet from shore, then sixty and back, in long graceful arcs, seeming random until you realize that each single, each pair, each pod of three that pass, follow the same line, as if on rails. A train of loose cabooses, they’re that big.

We pick our spots, our stations, where the invisible rails bring the carp close enough to reach in this facefull of breeze, tucking in tight to shoreline weeds to break up our profile, finding seams in the brambles through which to thread our backcasts. Following contours of our own. It’s a dance.

But today the fish aren’t interested and ignore our invitations to tango, spurning faux crayfish and gobies and other enticements, even on the occasional proper presentation. They just ride along on their rails as we curse them and the wind and our casting inadequacies.

But we don’t really mean it. We just wait for the next string of cabooses and then we try again.

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.