Rising Spirits

Even in the Bahamas the evenings were deliciously cool.
It was just February, after all.



After a day spent standing on the bow of a skiff, it felt good to warm my toes in front of a roaring fire and to lift my spirits, like showers of glowing sparks, in the rising drafts of good companionship.
A couple fingers of brown water didn't hurt either.



The fishing life doesn't get much better.

A Rod Problem

We sit, mesmerized, as they emerge from the rod case, one shiny blue Helios2 after another, and another, and another.

7 to 11wt, with redundancy. We watch as each ferrel is meticulously waxed, all sections carefully aligned, every rod paired with a stealth-black Mirage or glittering NV-G; the reels, like the rods, all appearing out of the bottomless Carry-It-All. Piece upon piece materialize from the case like some impossible number of clowns unfolding from a P.T. Barnum punch buggy.

For bonefish. For permit. For tarpon. Even barracuda. At stick number six we start laughing, bringing a sheepish grin to Bob's face.

Okay, maybe I have a rod problem. But I get a handwritten Christmas card every year from Perkins.

Holding his right index and middle finger together, just so...

Me and Perk. We're like this.

We laugh even harder, not completely convinced that he's kidding, and wonder where we might get one of these magic bags for our own.

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.