The Average Joe Fisherman

Stronger than Steel

2011-10-27T18:57:00.000-04:00

Hi there. How’ve you been? I know… it HAS been a very long time since my last update. I apologize. Where have I been? Well, I can tell you where I have not been. I have not been fishing much lately… hence the lack of posts. Oh, I could have written about refinishing my kitchen table, painting my living-room, or the difficulty of purchasing living-room furniture when one spouse is 5’1” and the other is 6’1”. There would have been accompanying pictures as well. But truth be told, I wouldn’t have read about that, so why would you? The good news is that I finally did some fishing last week. Hopefully it hasn’t been so long between posts that I no longer have readers!

Last year I was unfortunate in that I did not have the opportunity to target salmon in the fall. Trout fishing was too darn good! This year I was going to use my eight weight fly rod come hell or high water. Earlier in the week, I made plans to drive to the Pier Marquette River in Baldwin with Donny P. It has been at least two months since Don found his way to a stream. Unless, (this thought just now occurring to me) he found himself another fishing partner and failed to inform me!

The day was unseasonable warm with bright blue skies and an abundance of sunshine… abysmal salmon fishing weather! Beggars cannot be choosers however, and we were going to fish regardless of the conditions. We arrived at the “flies only” section and were surprised to find only a few cars in the parking area. Being that it was suppose to be the height of the salmon run, we did not take this as a good sign! We quickly suited up and hiked the trail to the river. The trail, significantly higher than the stream, afforded us an excellent vantage point and we were quickly able to deduce that the long drive was indeed worth it. There were salmon holding in every deep dark hole as far as my eyes could see.

Being that there is a debate whether salmon will continue to eat once they leave the Great Lakes to spawn, I tied on a large weighted streamer. If I couldn’t get them to eat, I was going to try to piss them off. Now, for those of you who do not fish, it is important to note that fish, all fish, lack the ability to feel anger, or even pain. Therefore, in truth, I was really hopping my fly would be perceived as a threat and a salmon would strike my fly accordingly… but pissing them off sounds better.

Fighting a salmon is like having an elephant on the end of your line. It pulls you where it pleases and there is not much you can do about it! A salmon will make a run or two, but not at blinding speeds and generally seems content to “bulldog” you. Hopefully you can keep it on long enough to tire it out and eventually land the beast. Over the course of the day, both Don and I landed several salmon.

The highlight of the day for me happened on my third cast. I placed my cast at the tail of a female salmon that was busy laying her eggs. Careful not to snag her, I let the streamer disappear into a dark hole that was directly behind her. The tip of my float line abruptly stopped and I set the hook. Before I could grasp what was happening my line shot down stream at a break-neck speed. The drag of my reel screamed and I made the unfortunate mistake of letting my left hand get to close to the reel. I was rewarded with the handle of the reel cracking one of my fingers as it spun unbelievably fast. This was not the behavior of a salmon. This was something else. The fish cartwheeled on top of the water and then launched itself out of the water like a rocket taking off at Cape Canaveral. Finally I was able to pick my chin up off of my chest. “Net!” I screamed to Don. A moment later I was holding my first ever steelhead. Not the biggest steelhead by any means, but she shined like a new dime. Being my first, she has secured herself a place in my memory, etched into my mind until I am no more. Now I need to figure out how to catch more!

The Engine That Could

2011-09-12T18:50:00.000-04:00

The engine roared to life, only to die immediately. I gripped the pull chord, knuckles white from the pressure, and I pulled again. The twenty some year old Sears boat motor came alive, protested, and died. The little 7.5 horse boat motor had not been started in at least seven years and was reluctant to do so this day. Realizing, as I looked into the eyes of my 10 year old little girl, who had a fishing pole in one hand and a container of worms in the other, that there was no way I was going to deny her spending a couple of hours on a small lake, I grabbed the pull chord again. “Third time’s the charm,” I said to my wife, who also had a fishing pole in hand and look of concern on her face.

The boat motor, purchased by my father long before my little girl was born, was firmly attached to a small aluminum boat. The boat, small in size but large in history, belonged to my great grandfather. Unfortunately, most of the memories, that the small aluminum boat are a part of, died off with the passing of family members who, at one time or another, possessed the boat. The boat is a part of various memories of my own of course. Memories that include fishing with my father in Lake City, memories of fishing with a good friend when I was a single man and memories of cruising around lakes looking at cabins with my future wife, dreaming of owning a cabin of our own one day.

Sitting on the creaky dock in front of my step-mother’s cabin, I pulled again. The engine roared to life, I fumbled with the choke, the engine kept running and the smile on my daughter’s face grew. Memories were going to be made this day after all.

You’d think me a fool if I told you that the little motor ran as if it were in its prime. It didn’t. The fact of the matter is, it barely powered the aluminum boat around at the same capacity a new 4 horse outboard would. But it ran. My wife, who seems to be happiest when on the water, had wind blowing through her hair and the sun shining on her face. My daughter out-fished her mother and later spoke of her accomplishment to everyone who would listen. As for me, I piloted the boat in and out of bluegill holes, listening to my wife and daughter talk smack to one another about who would catch the most fish. I will smile well into old age when visiting the memory of my wife trying to convince my daughter that, although my daughter caught more fish, it was my wife that was the real victor because she caught a small bass and any experienced fisherman would agree that catching a bass should equal two bluegill.

At the end of the day, I left the boat propped up on its side, leaning against a tall red oak at the side of the lake, waiting for someone else to come along and make a memory that it can be a part of.

Fishing Pornography

2011-08-23T20:32:00.000-04:00

I have been fishing… a lot! All my free time in fact seems to be spent fishing, when not spending time with my beautiful wife that is. (Thanks honey for letting me fish so much!) Hey, don’t judge me! I know where my bread is buttered. :)

Because I have had a fishing pole of one type or another in my hand so much lately (fished four out the last five days for example), I haven’t had the opportunity to write any accompanying stories. Sorry about that, but it is a good problem to have. At a minimum, I thought I could share some of the pictures with you. There are a few different trips in the photo montage below. There would be more had I not I forgot to pack the camera for a couple of bass trips. :)

Happy viewing!

What a Shame!

2011-08-04T18:24:00.000-04:00

After taking a few days break from trout fishing, it was once again time to scratch the itch. When 3:30 Wednesday rolled around, I shot out of my office faster than my boss could speak. “Good luck fi…” was all I heard as I hit the door. Average Joe Fisherman Scott must have wanted to chase trout as bad as I, because he was sitting in my driveway when I arrived home. He was kind enough to pack my gear as I changed into fishing attire (shorts and a t-shirt).

In need of spinners, we stopped at a local fishing store. Scott’s spinner collection was in complete disarray and he was able to find quite a few to add to his box. I on the other hand only needed a couple, a solid silver Blue Fox and a solid silver Panther Martin. I wouldn’t be purchasing them this day however, since the store was sold out. “Great,” I said to Scott. “We’re not even on the river yet and I’ve already run out of luck!”

The weather was cooler than it had been. The days prior touched or exceeded 90 degrees. It was only 80 this day, but the air was thick with humidity. The sky was grey and threatened rain and the mosquitoes were out in full force. On the trip north, I had said to Scott, “the river should be high and slightly muddy from the rains the night before.” When we walked down to the stream, we found it low and clear. “Further proof I really have no idea what I am talking about,” I thought.

Although the day was bleak in appearance, the fishing was anything but. Scott and I both handled several trout with several more being hooked. It never ceases to amaze me how far a trout can launch itself out of the water while trying to dislodge the spinner, almost saying, “Gravity? What gravity?”

Still fishing thirty minutes after both of us acknowledged that we should turn around and head back to the car, something off to the right side of the stream and under a log caught my eye. Pointing to it, I asked Scott, “What’s that?” He took a couple steps closer. “Look at that,” came the reply. Reeling his spinner to the end of his rod, he stuck it in the water to snag the thing that I still could not see. Finally, sticking his hand in the water, Scott lifted a very recently deceased 23 inch brown trout. The fish was so recently deceased that its color had not yet begun to fade. Looking for signs of damage, we were unable to determine what caused its death and chalked it up to old age. “What a shame,” I thought.

The large trout was absolutely beautiful. It was the kind of fish that haunts a fisherman’s dreams, the kind of fish that keeps him returning to chase trout time and time again. Walking back to the car, a smile crept across my face as I thought, “Where there’s one, there’s more!"

Learning How to Fish

2011-07-25T18:36:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, throughout life, something happens that alters the path you’re on. A life changing event, for better or worse, can seemingly come out of nowhere, lifting you to new heights in how you perceive your environment and your outlook on life, or it can dropkick you right in the nuts. Thus far in my life, I have had my share of such events and am fortunate to realize and thank those who are responsible for the good ones. While, due to hindsight, it is easy to look back on life and realize when such events occurred and who was responsible for them, it is a rare event to realize, in the moment, that such an event is occurring, especially when I am not the one it is happening to. Such an event occurred this past weekend.

Sitting at a picnic table on the edge of a private lake, I was taking in the scenery while a heated argument was happening in my head. Turns out trying to make up my mind whether I should fish the lake for the first time or drive to a trout stream was not an easy decision. While the argument in my head was occurring, my nephew, a budding fisherman, joined me at the table. Unaware of the argument, he asked me a fishing question… then another, and then another.

A few years back at my nephew’s 14^th birthday, my wife and I gave him a loaded tackle-box for his present. He had shown some interest in fishing with his friends and I thought the gift was a great way to stoke the coals a little. Now here he was sitting before me, firing questions at me. Not just questions, the right questions. I have encountered individuals who were in the infancy stages of becoming a fisherman before and thought it was pretty easy to determine the ones who were serious by the questions he or she asked. Christian was asking all the right questions. We went from bait to bait in his tackle box discussing how to rig each one and the various methods to fish them. “This kid gets it,” I thought.

Out of nowhere a thought occurred to me. Hit me like a bolt of lightning really. Suddenly, the argument in my head stopped, and it became crystal clear what I was going to this day. “Have you caught anything out of the lake?” I asked. “There’s a couple of a blue gill in the reeds just off of the dock,” he replied. Smiling, I headed to my truck in front of my step-mother’s cabin. I returned with my three weight fly rod. I was going to do for my nephew what someone was kind enough to do for me.

“You’re going to fly fish?” Christian asked. “No, you are.” I replied. Christian fired a whole new batch of questions at me while I put the rod together. Finally, I tied a small rubber leg spider on the end of the tippet. “Time to fish,” I said.

With both of us standing on the end of the small dock I said, “Let’s see if anybody is home.” Placing a cast between two reeds, the spider hit the water. A large blue gill exploded on the spider, sucking it in. I set the hook and felt the weight of the fish. “HOLY CRAP! That was awesome!” yelled Christian.

For the next hour I taught him the basics of fly fishing. Together, holding the rod with him, we were able to pick off a couple large blue gill. Finally, almost begrudgingly to him, I took him to a small stream to do some spinner fishing for brook trout. On the way back to the cabin he asked if he could use my fly rod again. “Sure,” I said, “But this time, you’re on your own.” To my amazement, he had false casting down within no time, even in the face of a slight breeze. Casting, as is the case with many beginners, was more difficult. I sat on the picnic table where the day began, smiling every time I heard, “DARN IT!” Thinking he would give up after 30 minutes or so, Christian proved me wrong. Two hours later, it was I that said it was time to go. In that time, he never did catch a fish, but to his credit, he didn’t give up either.

Life changing events, they come at us in different shapes and sizes, and every once in a while they come in the shape of a fly rod, handed to us by someone who cares.

The Redlight District

2011-07-11T18:22:00.001-04:00

Where did the fish go?

Embarking upon a three day weekend over the 4^th of July holiday, I decided to do something that I have only done once before. A quick call to Average Joe Fisherman Scott to tell him of my diabolical plans proved to be too much for him. Scott put his hand over the receiver for a quick private conversation with the boss of his household, his wife. “I’m going to go with you,” he said after the conversation with his wife was over. “I didn’t ask,” I replied. “Too bad, I wanna go. I’ll pick you up at eight. Be ready."

Friday was one of those work days that seemed like it would never end. Everyone else was on vacation making a three day holiday weekend even longer and I, it seemed, was the only one left behind. My work load was light, which made the day seem longer. With not much to do, my thoughts, as they always do, turned to fishing. While sitting at my desk daydreaming, somewhere deep in my brain, my thoughts about fishing turned into plans to go fishing. With vacation time running short, I was unable to leave work early which meant it was going to be a REALLY LATE evening.

Scott picked me up at eight. Two hours later we arrived at our destination. Using the remaining daylight to suit up, we both joked about not really knowing what to expect. The dark came over us like a sandstorm in Arizona as we busted brush to the river. Not knowing how deep the water was, I sat down on the bank and eased myself into the river. Laughing because the stream was barely deep enough to cover my boots, I told Scott he could just step in.

I had read a report earlier in the day that the AuSable was in the middle of the Hex hatch. The Hexigina, for those of you that are unfamiliar with the bug, is a mayfly about the size of a small bat. While I wasn’t very excited to have large bugs crawling on me all night, I was excited to catch a trout in the dark.

After watching the water for about 20 minutes and seeing nothing, Scott and I decided to fish. We both tied on an extremely large fly and began casting. Scott was casting out into the current while I was fishing the slack water directly in front of me, close to the bank. (I walked up stream a little ways and found deeper water.)

Catching nothing, I decided to turn on my head lamp to make sure my fly was floating. My head lamp has a removable red lens that diffuses the light and presumably does not spook the fish. Sure enough my fly was still floating. I told Scott he should check his fly as well. As it turns out, Scott’s head lamp does not have a removable lens and was similar to having a flashlight on his head. Scott was inundated with gnats, mosquitoes, and other flies of various sorts as soon as he turned on his lamp. It looked like a large swirling mass was trying to eat his face. Scott coughed. Shutting off his light he yelled, “They're in my nose… oh God, I just ate some!” Laughing like an idiot, I almost missed the water move abnormally directly in front of me. I quickly placed a cast, not sure if I had enough line out… nothing. Letting a little more line out, I cast again. The strike on my fly was explosive and startling. Its violence caused me to step backward. Setting the hook, the trout ran out into the current. “Fish on!” I yelled. The fish pulled line off of my reel causing the drag to scream out into the night. “Is it big?” Scott asked. “I’m not sure if it’s big or if it is doing a really good job using the current,” I replied. The trout came in closer and I scooped him up. Feeling its girth, I knew the trout wasn’t a pig, but it was respectable… a gorgeous 14 inch brown trout… the only trout of the evening.

On the walk back to the truck, Scott tried to turn on his head lamp only to be inundated again. “I’ll just follow you,” he said giving up on his lamp. “I gotta buy one of those,” he murmured, speaking to no one really but himself.

As for the big bugs, they never showed. I crawled into bed at 2:30 in the morning, exhausted, but happy. I did something I have never done before… caught a trout after dark on a fly. “What a rush,” I thought. “I gotta do that again!”

Something Wicked This Way Comes

2011-06-27T18:57:00.002-04:00

The sky was overcast with a dark line of clouds crossing over the highway. Lightening crashed to earth all around the vehicle. “Those clouds look like they’re starting to rotate and I’m not fishing in lightening, or a tornado,” Average Joe Fisherman Scott said. “What do you want to do?” He asked. “Just keep going,” I said. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

The evening before, while having a movie night with my wife and daughter, watching the third installment in the Harry Potter series, the sky opened up and a deluge of water poured from the heavens. The rain came down in buckets, with the occasional cat and dog thrown in. With each flash of lightening, my excitement grew. “I’m trophy hunting tomorrow!” I thought.

As Scott and I pushed northward through rain that had not stopped since it began the day before, I began to become concerned that the streams would not be fishable due to high water with little to no visibility. Or, if the streams were fishable, that the fish would have developed lockjaw, already gorging themselves the day before.

My first concern was quickly put to rest as we approached our destination and crossed the first of several streams in the area. “Looks high, but the visibility is good,” I said excitedly to Scott. “Looks like were fishing!”

We suited up quickly as thunder rumbled off in the distance somewhere. Scott practically shoved me out of the way as he raced to the stream. Following on his heels, I watched him fish the first hole… nothing. “Uh oh, not the start I was looking for,” I thought. It took us a good twenty minutes before the first trout was brought to hand, a nicely colored nine inch brook trout. With the weather, I had expected the trout to be in a feeding frenzy, nailing our spinners with reckless abandon, giving chase to even the most errant of casts. That was not the case however. On this evening we had to work for the fish we caught.

About an hour in, thoughts of moving to a different section of stream danced around my head, but the good feeling had not faltered and was as strong as it had been earlier. Finally, I cast my spinner sidearm towards the right bank under an overhanging pine tree. The spinner rolled slowly out of the hole and directly in front of a log jam. My spinner stopped as I caught a log. I pulled back on my rod hoping to dislodge my spinner. The log pulled back. Feeling the large brown trout shake its head from side to side quickly caused me to realize that it was not a log my spinner buried itself into. After a nice battle, I held a deeply colored fifteen inch brown trout for the obligatory “grip and grin” photo.

At that point, Scott seemed to be getting a little discouraged. I had caught seven or eight trout to his two, including one well into the teens. “Just not my night,” he said shaking his head. “Don’t worry, your time is coming,” I replied. The feeling was still there, poking at me, prodding me. The day was getting darker. With mist falling from a gray bleak sky, I thought, “Something wicked this way comes!”

After a fishless stretch that spanned over an hour, it was almost time to call it quits. I had stepped out of the small stream to change spinners and stretch while I watched Scott fish. He approached a log that stuck out on a 90 degree angle from the right bank. The current rushed by at the end of the log forming a deep channel. Scott cast past the log and started to reel, retrieving his spinner. I stepped back into the stream. Watching where I was stepping, I took my eyes off Scott. When I looked back up, he had his rod tip in the air. “Got one?” I asked. “Got a fish?” I asked again. “Yup,” he replied. “Big one?” I asked. “Is it big?” I asked again. “Holy sh!t Ryan!” Then all hell broke loose. Scott’s rod doubled over. The fish, pulling line off Scott’s reel, screamed downstream heading right for me. Backpedaling quickly, I got out of the way. I was not going to be the reason this fish came unbuttoned. The large fish then stopped, sitting at the bottom of the deep run. Scott couldn’t budge it. “I can’t move it! Now what?” He asked. Finally the fish started to shake its powerful head and Scott gained some ground. The fish rose to the surface, showing its first sign of weakness. Scott and I both looked at each other, stunned. With a quick decisive move, Scott grabbed the brown trout by its tail. The fish measured at exactly twenty inches. Patting Scott on the back, I said, “They don’t get much bigger than that in a stream of this size!” And just like that, Scott was finally able to join the twenty inch club.

Fish, Boats and Father's Day

2011-06-23T19:49:00.005-04:00

Memories are a strange thing to me. What is it about a certain moment in time that causes it to be permanently etched in the mind? Why do we remember some things and forget others? Most of the memories I have, or at least the ones that come to mind right now, seem to be of some kind of significance. But then again, there are a few that seem to have no substance whatsoever.

It is a rare occasion to have the presence of mind to realize that a memory is being created while it is happening. Only a moment of such significance can cause you to be swept away by it, lost in its magnitude, a moment so rare that it is all encompassing, polarizing, and more precious than the rarest of diamonds. A moment like that happened to me this past Father’s Day weekend. What was it, you ask? Was it the birth of my second child… winning the lottery… no, my wife put on her waders!

Many years ago, when I was a younger man, I was introduced to a blazing beautiful girl while working. As it turned out, she was hired by the same company I worked for and was to be my co-worker. Over the next few months I learned about the person she was, her interests, her dreams, what made her tick. While I, in the words of Brad Paisley, wanted to check her for ticks.

While telling her about myself, I mentioned that my one true love, at least to that point in my life, was trout fishing. Curious, she asked me to take her. So I did. She really seemed to take to it. Not the fishing so much, but she seemed to like being in the streams and rivers, walking amongst nature. A short time later she had her first pair of waders, purchased for her by my father. She accompanied me on many of the trips when I did not have a fishing partner, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. It wasn’t long until we were married… and her waders didn’t see the light of day again for 16 years! My wife would tell you it is because I didn’t know when to stop fishing. “Just one more bend,” I’d say, when she was ready to call it quits an hour before. She has a point really. I think it is harder for me to call it a day while fishing than it is for a smoker to quit smoking.

The day was beautiful. The sun shined down like God was smiling from up above. Large billowy bright white clouds wafted overhead. The breeze moved the leaves on the trees and cooled our skin. My wife and daughter explored and I fished. My daughter played with frogs and my wife discovered the largest crayfish I have ever seen. We sat on the bank together and ran our hands in the cool water. We held hands while walking upstream. My daughter and I ate a sweet-tart every time I caught a fish. And all the while I knew a memory was being etched into my mind... one that I will relieve for years to come.

I hope your Father’s Day was as good as mine – The Average Joe Fisherman

My Stanky Leg

2011-06-20T18:25:00.002-04:00

When you spend a lot of the time on the stream pursuing trout, strange things are going to happen. I have written in the past of almost being shot, being stalked by deer and realizing I left my boots at home after a two hour drive. While crazy things can happen on any given fishing expedition, many more days go according to plan. All the gear gets packed, fish are caught, memories are made and pictures get taken. This past Wednesday was not one of those “according to plan” days.

Average Joe Fisherman Scott arrived at my house right on time in his new truck. After quickly admiring his truck on my part, we were on our way. Hurtling north on I-75 at almost eighty miles an hour, we arrived a small trout stream in a little more than an hour and a half. Hopping out of the truck, I quickly started to suit up. The trout were calling me! Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Scott’s melon of a head sink as he rifled through the container that holds his fishing gear. Turns out Scott forgot his waders. After the last trip he hung them up to dry and was planning to give them a good cleaning and, in his hurry to head north, forgot to pack them.

Being the friend I am, or try to be, I offered to pack up and head home. “No way,” Scott said. “One way or another, I’m fishing!” After exhausting every possibility, the decision was made that he would wet wade. Now, wet wading is not normally a big deal. Wet wading Average Joe Fisherman style however, is. The only clothes Scott had was the pair of blue jeans he was wearing. After rolling them up as far as he could, we started to walk across a bridge and down to the stream. What a sight he was… fishing boots and what looked like women’s Capri pants.

Pausing on top of the bridge, Scott noticed a flash in the rifle directly below. Casting his spinner some twelve feet down to the run and bringing it slowly into position, a brook trout grab hold. Reeling the fish up out of the river, he brought it to hand. “Now that’s impressive,” I said. “But watch out for the release, it’s a long way down!”

After Scott got over the shock of how cold the water was, we started to fish. It didn’t take long until I was holding my first brook trout of the evening. While brook trout generally run smaller than rainbow and brown trout, I believe them to be the prettiest trout. Over the next few hours, both Scott and I caught several of them between us. In addition to the brookies, Scott was able to entice a few small brown trout with his offering.

As the evening started to wind down we approached a sharp bend in the stream. The bend was completely shrouded by large thick pine trees. Trees littered the far bank with many of them lying in the deep water and piled up at the end of the bend. “That is a brown trout bomb shelter if I have ever seen one!” I said to Scott. I stepped up onto the right bank to walk around a down pine tree that was half in the water and half out. Once I had a clear casting lane, I let my spinner fly. With Scott looking over my left shoulder we witnessed a large brown come from the depths to inspect my spinner with his teeth. I quickly set the hook. The trout shook his head once and came unbuttoned. “Ugh!” Scott, rubbing it in, almost mockingly, said, “Nice fish!” Stepping to the side, I said, “Finish the hole.” Scott stepped into the stream on what looked like sand and promptly sunk to his knee in muck. Scott, screaming like a little girl, said, “That’s nasty!” Laughing, I helped pull him out. After removing his boot and inspecting for leeches, we continued on.

About thirty minutes before calling it a day, Scott, as he had done many times earlier, grabbed a handful of jeans to pull them up. This time however, the material on his right leg gave away with a loud tearing sound. For some reason he did not find this as funny as I did. By the time we stepped out of the little stream, Scott had a huge hole in his jeans over his right thigh and two more of over both pockets in the back, exposing his underwear to everyone who chose to look in that direction. While he did not find much humor in how he looked, I laughed all the way back to the truck. I suggested to Scott that he stick his right leg through the large hole in the front of his jeans so it would not itch on the ride home from the wet pant leg rubbing. He thought that seemed like a good idea until the lady at McDonalds went to hand him our food. Scott, looking like he was wearing a pair of Daisy Duke cutoffs on one leg and women’s Capri pants on the other, fruitlessly tried to cover his bare leg sparing the drive-thru lady from having to see him that way. I asked him, as she approached the truck, what he was doing? “Hiding my stanky leg!” came the response. I laughed the rest of the way home. Just another Average Joe Fisherman fishing trip!

Impressive

2011-06-13T19:16:00.001-04:00

Another Wednesday… another fishing trip. This past Wednesday proved a little different than most of my fishing trips this year in that, as it turned out, I fished with Donny P. It is hard to fathom, but this was the first time Don and I had fished together since before the start of trout season. While I consider Don one of my best friends, there is something you should know about him. Don plays in a different sandbox than I do. He owns an expensive top-of-the-line truck that I do not believe has seen dirt and his other car is a Cadillac that I am pretty sure, if it saw dirt, would turn around a go home. So if Don wants to do some trout fishing he is pretty much resigned to riding shotgun in my truck. He’s my b*tch! Ok, so it’s not exactly like that. (I only call Don my b*tch until he threatens to stop tying flies for me!)

We were in my truck and pointed north by 4:00. With only one stop needing to be made for gas and McDonalds, the trip was relatively quick. I find that the trips north seem shorter when there is good company along for the ride. (Yes I know I am sucking up now, but I did just call the guy a b*tch!) On the drive north, I asked Don where he wanted to fish since he doesn’t get to fish as much as I do. “Oh no, I’m not picking the river or the stretch! I read your last blog post and there is NO WAY you are blaming it on me if the fishing sucks!” Well alrighty then! I gave it some thought and not only picked our destination, but the method in which we would fish as well.

When we left my house it was hot, on its way to 96 degrees, and I had a hunch that, with those kinds of temps, there would be a good hatch. Once again however, I was wrong. Just when I begin to think I really know what I am doing, the weather brings me back down to reality. There was no hatch because it was extremely windy, windier that when we left home in fact. The wind was strong enough to penetrate the trees and hit the river with enough force to put a chop on the water. Needless to say, fly fishing was off the table.

With spinning gear in hand, Don and I tried our best to put fish stink on our hands over the last few hours of remaining daylight. In that short period of time, I was both amazed and impressed with how many fish we saw. (Note: In the previous sentence I said “saw” not “caught.”) It seemed on every cast a small brown or rainbow trout would give chase… sometimes four fish at a time. It is nice to know that particular river is, and will continue to be, an excellent fishery. Generations to come, like me, will be able to know the frustration of not catching fish, although they can see with their own eyes that there are plenty in the river.

At the end of the day, we handled our share of trout. Both Don and I caught several browns and several rainbows. The fishing was almost as good as the company, (sucking up again). My best trout of the trip was a gorgeous 16 inch brown trout that I was able to land after a spectacular battle. How many fish over 12 inches did Donny P catch? None! Take that b*tch! :)

Pressure

2011-06-06T21:24:00.004-04:00

3:30! (Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a school bell ring.) I grabbed my attaché, gave my boss a quick wave and headed for door. “I hope no one wants to talk to me on my way out, cause there’s not a chance in hell I’m stopping to chat!” I thought. It was time to fish!

Last year I was loner when it came to fishing. More times than not, I found myself fishing alone on Wednesdays as the other Average Joes always seemed to have more important things to do. Well, when you’re a third generation trout fisherman, a trout fisherman who, like his father and his father before him, spent more time on the rivers, streams and creeks than most people, there isn’t much that is more important than fishing. Besides, there is peace and comfort to be had when fishing alone. It is amazing to me how I am able to discover more about myself while fishing five to six hours than I can working a forty hour week. With that being said, I still would rather fish with one of the few people I choose to call “friend.”

So far this trout season I have been very fortunate to have fished only once or twice by myself and this past Wednesday was no different, although we did get off to a slower start than usual thanks to Scott being late. I had planned, when he pulled into my driveway, to tell him that it was too late to head out since our fishing time was already limited. Fear of him throwing the car into reverse and heading north without me prevented me from trying to joke around however. During the drive, Scott asked the question that someone always asks when headed to an area that has several A+ trout streams… “Where do you want to fish?”

Don’t let the seeming simplicity of that question fool you. At face value the question seems harmless. It only has six words in it after all. The fact of the matter is, that particular question comes with an enormous amount of pressure because, while Scott and I enjoy fishing, we love to CATCH fish. So you can understand how neither one of us take that question lightly. We discuss the effects of weather, traffic patterns and degree of difficulty to access before landing upon a decision. I, however, being the friend that I am, turned it right back around on Scott by saying, “You don’t get to fish as often as I do, so why don’t you choose?” I had pulled the pin and tossed the grenade. I followed up by saying, “Keep in mind that, if the fishing sucks, it’s your fault for picking the wrong stretch, but no pressure.” That’s right! I said it… because that’s what friends do!

Scott chose a stream that was wide enough for us to fish side-by-side. Arriving at our destination we quickly geared up and started to fish. Within the first few casts Scott caught a small brown trout, followed by another. I too started catching fish right away. Over the next four hours we caught several fish. The best of the evening being a fourteen inch, beautifully colored brown, that I caught. Upon landing and releasing the trout, I quickly pointed out that it was I who caught the largest trout of the trip. Scott smiled and proceeded to keep fishing. I mentioned that it was starting to get dark and that we should head back to the vehicle. Scott kept fishing. Right at dark, Scott placed an excellent cast right along an undercut bank. One turn of the reel, his spinner started to turn and then… chaos. A large brown trout, after grabbing his spinner, exploded out of the water, not once, but three times. Scott was vastly outclassed by the large fish, not by his skills, but the ultra-light gear he had in hand. After what seemed like an eternity, Scott held the trout as I put a tape measure to it… sixteen inches. “Now we can go,” Scott said as he smiled at me, his smile saying, “Eat that Carter!”

In the end, Scott chose wisely.

Bikinis, a Tribute and Tons of Fish Porn (conclusion)

2011-05-31T19:47:00.001-04:00

In my lifetime I have heard men greater than I, speak. From Neil Armstrong to George Bush Sr. I have sat and listened to men who aspired to be something bigger… better… to have an impact on this world. I sat in astonishment as John Glenn described how small and fragile our atmosphere is. I have been entertained as the men from Pike Place Fish Market whipped fish over my head while telling me how their occupation relates to mine. No matter the speaker however, one thing has always remained constant, regardless whether the speaker spoke of motivation, self-help, industry, politics, or their personal experiences. The “constant” I speak of is the fact that, while I enjoyed a great number of the speakers I have witnessed, I couldn’t relate to whatever it was they were trying to sell me. I did not strive to be something bigger or better than I was. I didn’t want to change the world. I felt that if I embarked to achieve something that paralleled the achievements of the individuals I sat and listened to that I would miss something, something that was much more important.

Throughout my life thus far, I have never been motivated to be extraordinary. I was a “B” student all the way through my Master’s Degree. The first time my soon-to-be wife and I worked together, she called me a “slacker.” To say I’m underachiever is an understatement… with one exception.

Three days after returning from vacation in Siesta Key, Florida this year, my Father-in-law passed away unexpectedly. He was only 67 years old. I first met Dave when I was seventeen… he was my first boss. Over the years, I was fortunate enough to learn from him; learn about work, family, being a good person and life in general. Years later I met Dave’s daughter and asked her to marry me. (To this day, she is still the best decision I have ever made.) When I asked Dave for his daughter’s hand, he stood, shook my hand and said, “Welcome aboard!” That is the way it was with Dave. He viewed himself as a Captain. Someone whose job it was to help others, to guide them through rough waters, to hold them up when they couldn’t stand on their own and to offer support and encouragement whenever he could. At his wake, a friend said that “Dave was great… a great husband… a great father… and a great friend.”

Many times over the years, I have sat and listened to Dad not knowing at the time how his words were shaping me… effecting me. Now, at a time when I cannot say “thank you,” I realize that it is because of him, and the impact that I have witnessed him have on others, that I understand what truly is important in this life, something that all the other speakers I have witnessed failed to do. It is because of him that I strive to have a positive impact on all those I come in contact with… to be the best person I can be… the best father… the best husband… the best friend. And for that I am forever grateful.

The day Dad passed away, he was on vacation in Florida. With little discussion, I sent my wife and her sister to Florida to be with Mom. After they departed, I found myself alone. Once I arrived back home from the airport, I did the only thing I could think of… I went fishing.

Bikinis, a Tribute and Tons of Fish Porn (Part 1)

2011-05-23T18:42:00.001-04:00

“I quit… give up… I’m throwing in the towel” Those thoughts all rattled around my brain after trying to fish several times this spring only to be rebuffed due to horrific weather and even worse stream conditions. Finally a reprieve came in the form of a family road trip to Siesta Key, Florida. Average Joe Fisherman Scott has, as a company perk, access to a condo directly on the beach, giving merit to the saying “It’s not what you know, but who you know!” With my family in one car and Scott and his family in another, the plan was to have a somewhat leisurely two day drive. The end of the first day found us pulled off the highway, parked under a gas station roof, sheltering our cars from golf ball size hail as a tornado wiped out a close by town in Georgia. With Scott’s brother tracking the tornados back in Michigan, we bolted from the gas station at the first break in the weather and hauled-ass south at 90 miles per hour trying outrun the surrounding twisters. We took refuge in a small town called Cartersville. (It sounded like a nice town) In an attempt to relax, everyone thought it was a good idea to hit the local Cracker Barrel for a nice sit down dinner. After paying the bill and literally attempting to walk out the door, we were stopped by the restaurant manager who informed us that we could not leave because a tornado just touched down less than a quarter mile away and that we should take shelter in the middle of the building. Employees lowered the blinds to protect us from flying glass. Thirty minutes later we were allowed to leave and return to the hotel. After thoroughly reading the hotel’s emergency manual, everyone tried to get some sleep.

The next morning we awoke to a blue sky. The local news program told us that two large tornados went through the area, one just north and one just south of Cartersville. Cartersville turned out to be a nice town after all.

After a road trip none of us will soon forget, Florida felt like heaven. The warm weather, the soft white sand and the smell of the Gulf of Mexico never cease to amaze me. The majority of our vacation was spent on the beach.The major decisions that faced me each day while in Siesta Key were; when to toss the football, when to swim in the ocean, when to search for shells with my daughter and of course, when to fish… and fish I did!

I Suck!

2011-03-31T20:49:00.000-04:00

The sun was bright, almost too bright. Standing on the edge of the North Branch of the AuSable, a new layer of snow that had fallen the night before surrounded me. The sun overhead made the snow so bright that it almost seemed to radiate its own light. I glanced skyward and noticed that there was not a cloud in the sky. My Grandfather referred to a cloudless sky as an “Arizona day.” It was an Arizona day, minus the snow, cold temps and four layers of clothes I was wearing to keep warm.

Before me was a most perfect seam. The cold water of the North Branch came around a bend just above where I stood, hit a log and was pushed away from the bank where it wore away the stream bed forming a deep channel. I knew there was a fish there… a big fish! I cast a large streamer into the head of the seam, mended my line downstream and waited as the streamer darted down the channel. I concentrated hard on the tip of my float line… waiting. The fly line straightened out and I let the streamer swing through the bottom of the channel. “FISH!”

The day started a little different than most fishing days. Normally it is tough to find a fishing partner as the other Average Joe Fishermen apparently lead busier lives than I do. I try not to take it personally and just go fishing anyway. But on this day however, I had two fishing partners! Earlier in the week, Average Joe Fisherman Scott made plans to fish with me after he made sure his schedule was clear and, more importantly, his wife gave him permission. Donny P, through the marvel that is e-mail, also said he would be joining us. So the three of us piled into my Silverado and off we went. Have you noticed that it is always me who does the driving? My friends really need to get some manly cars that can handle a little dirt and two tracks!

Once we arrived at our destination the three of us quickly suited up and stepped into the river. Don headed upstream and Scott and I went down. I left Scott to fish a nice looking bend. Finding a seam that looked too good to be true below the bend where Scott was fishing, I started to fish. Within moments, I heard Scott yell, “FISH!” You didn’t think that it was I who actually caught the fish did you? If you did, you might want to reread the tile of this post. “I’m coming!” I yelled back. Bringing in my line, I ran onto the bank and through the woods to Scott’s location. I arrived just in time to take a picture of Scott holding a beautiful seventeen inch brown trout. As Scott told me all of the important information, where the fish was, how it hit, etc. we heard Don yell, “FISH!” Don, being too far upstream to run to, was yelling like a mad man. “This is going to be a great day!” I thought. Turns out Don fought and landed a 21 ½ inch pig! As for me, I fished all day and didn’t see a fish other than the ones my buddies caught! Man, I suck!

Halleluiah!

2011-03-22T20:34:00.000-04:00

After several weeks without fishing, mainly due to adverse weather and a family vacation to Washington DC, the stars aligned and it was time once again to chase trout. The day started off as all days chasing trout do, with the optimism and excitement of a little kid about to sit on Santa’s lap. There were a few things that needed my attention before departing Sunday morning so I instructed Donny P, who would be joining me to chase some trout of his own, to show up between 10:30 and 11:00. There was a knock on my front door at a few minutes after 10. When I opened it I found Donny P standing there giddier than a school girl about to go to her first dance. He had a look on his face that read, “I know I am a little early, but LET’S GO FISHING!”

A couple of things have changed since my last fishing trip. The first is that I have a new Silverado. Not a big deal really, but for whatever reason my mind noted the fact that this trip would be its maiden voyage, and as the luck of being an Average Joe Fisherman would have it, there was a distinct “clunking” noise coming from the front of the truck by the time I returned home and pulled into my driveway. Ugh! The second is that my fishing partner for the day, Donny P, has lost approximately 30 pounds since we last fished together. Now, if you have seen previous pictures on this blog of Don, you know that he wasn’t chubby to begin with. While Don isn’t so thin now that you would miss him if you blinked as he walked by, he is thin enough that I figure I could push him out of the way to catch a fish if I needed to, which in my book makes him the perfect fishing partner!

The plan for the day was to trout fish for a few hours on the North Branch followed by targeting steelhead on a different stream in the evening. The day was overcast and looked like it might snow at any time. The wind was absent and the stream was in beautiful shape. I tied a large streamer to the 7 foot 1x leader on my Scott SAS 5 weight. “If I were a trout I’d eat that!” I thought. For the next few hours I cast that streamer and a couple of others into every pool, rifle, pocket and undercut bank I could. In almost three hours of fishing, I was rewarded with one twelve inch brown trout following my streamer out of a dark pool. That trout was the only fish I saw. To say fishing was tough would be an understatement. Tired and ready to try something else, we moved.

During the thirty minute drive to the next stream, Donny P and I spoke of how nice it would be to catch a steelhead, something I have yet to do. We arrived at the stream to find it high and stained. Despite this, we pressed on. In the end our efforts were futile, but the snow came and it ended up being a very beautiful day on the river, even though we didn’t land a fish. The company was good too. All-in-all it was just another day in paradise.

Relentless

2011-02-15T18:42:00.001-05:00

I stood there motionless, the rain beating down on me, relentlessly trying to penetrate my rain coat. It slammed against my hood with enough force and frequency that it sounded like I was surrounded in machine gun fire. The dark clouds, releasing their moisture, looked angry, almost impenetrable. The rain washed over my face as I looked skyward. I was positioned atop an old beaver dam where only the summer before the water backed up for almost a quarter mile. Now there was a large hole in its right side, a battle wound that allowed the water to rage downstream. The water, still backed up slightly, was beginning to rise from the torrent being released from above. It was only a matter of time before the water would be unfishable and as dark as chocolate milk. The wind, for its part, was silent… almost too silent. I had the sense that something was coming, bearing down on me like a wolf on a rabbit. The hair on my arms stood as the sky was torn apart. ZZZZZZT! BOOM! A bolt of lightning crashed to earth somewhere close. “Let’s go Ryan!” I heard Donny P yell from somewhere behind me. Staring down into the water in front of the beaver dam I whispered, “Not yet.”

I stood there motionless, certain that there was a large trout somewhere below me in the tangled mess of tree branches. An apex predator was waiting for something to show weakness, waiting for something to be forced within its range, waiting for the raising water to bring it something to eat. The rain ran off of the hood of my raincoat in streams like someone was dumping an endless bucket of water over my head. Starring into the water, looking for movement, I whispered, “Where are you?”

Much like a general with a map lay before him in wartime, I planned my attack. Ignoring the obvious choice to cast to the right towards the water rushing through the whole torn in the dam, I cast to the left. Holding my rod tip out as far as I could to prevent snagging a branch I reeled slowly. The spinner blade turned and fluttered in front of the beaver dam. For a moment nothing else existed, the relentless rain, the ominous clouds, the pressing storm… all gone. I could feel the spinner working, pulsing like it was alive, and then there was pressure. I pulled back on the ultra-light rod and all hell broke loose. The water exploded as the tail of a large brown trout sent water flying across the small stream. The pressure the trout was able to exert on the small diameter monofilament wound around my reel was intense and forced me to relinquish some pressure. In an instant I knew that if I was going to land this fish I would need to be upstream in order to prevent it from returning back to the depths under the dam. Like a scene out of a ninja movie I launched off of the log I was perched on turning 180 degrees while in the air. Keeping pressure on the fish I splashed down into the river, one leg finding solid ground and the other sinking to the knee. Awkward as I was, I stayed upright. Pulling back on the rod in earnest, knowing that the line would hold at this new angle, I turned the large brown trout. The fish, almost seeming to sense that it was beaten, came to hand. Hoisting the trout out of the water I admired its dark black back and bright golden belly that seemed to radiate even in the gloom of the day. A moment later I returned the trout back to the stream from where it had come, but not before taking one last look and uttering, “I win.” And I did win, at least that day anyway.

The Beaver

2011-02-08T20:09:00.001-05:00

With the weather too cold to fish, I thought I would share a story with you. A few years back I was spinner fishing a small creek not much wider than a single lane road. The day was warm and sunny. Dressed in shorts and a short sleeved shirt I thought about wet wading but quickly decided against it because, although not frequently, I have encountered a leach or two while fishing, and I HATE leaches! The damn things gross me out! Anyway, back to the story. I stepped into the small stream as big white billowy clouds wafted along overhead like big cotton balls caught in the air. They were almost too bright as the sun lit them making them almost luminescent against the bright blue sky. The stream cut through the forest momentarily separating the lush dark green vegetation. Everything was green… the pine trees extending towards the sky, the ferns that blanketed the ground, the grass that grew as tall as large weeds… everything was green and vibrant with life. The warm summer breeze moved the leaves on the trees and the hair on my arms. I rolled my waders down around my waist as a military jet cut the sky somewhere off in the distance. To say it was a perfect summer day would be an understatement.

The brook trout were eager to participate and smacked my spinner with reckless abandon. Brook trout after brook trout were brought to hand and I momentarily admired each one before releasing them back into the cold spring creek. Brook trout are the most beautiful trout after all.

I remember finding a half submerged section of a downed red pine tree along one of the banks. “What a perfect spot to take a break,” I thought. As I sat, I watched squirrels, chipmunks, deer and turkey move through the woods. You’re never really alone when you’re alone in the woods. The sun was setting and my time was coming to an end. I knew my wife and daughter would be waiting for me to return to the campground that was only a short walk away. A campfire, bratwurst and a Mike’s hard lemonade was the order of the evening, possibly followed by smore’s if my daughter had a say in the matter. My daughter, a lover of everything small and furry, would sit and listen as I told her about the animals I had encountered while fishing. Convincing myself that the walk back would take less than fifteen minutes I decided to make a few more casts in one last long deep bend.

I stood facing upstream. Knowing that the deepest part of the bend was the middle I cast my spinner as far upstream as I could. No longer able to see into the water, I slowly retrieved my spinner waiting for the violent strike that I was sure would come… nothing. “That’s odd,” I thought. “The fishing has been way to good not to get a hit, besides there are ALWAYS fish in this bend.” I cast again. This time while retrieving my spinner I felt a sudden weight. “Damn it!” I said. I had snagged a small log. Not wanting to spoil the hole, I tried to move the log… nothing… wait… it budged. I started to pull in earnest. The log was coming to me freely now. About four feet from me I was able to make out its silhouette. It was pretty big around and about three feet long… and it had a tail! Not moving I watched as a large beaver, with my spinner lodged into its head directly behind its ear, headed for the bank. “Not with my favorite spinner!” I thought. I applied as much pressure as I could and was able to cause the beaver to do a 180 where the spinner promptly popped off of its head. As I made my way out of the woods I thought, “Looks like I will have a really good story to tell my daughter tonight!”

Man I cannot wait for summer!

Secret Water

2011-01-26T16:25:00.000-05:00

Trout fishermen and fisherwomen are a funny breed. They are some of the happiest most secretive bunch of liars I have ever met… and I mean that in a good way. People who fish, especially trout fishermen, have a propensity to stretch the truth. I’ve seen many cases where the biggest fish of a trip can grow by several inches from the time it is released to the time the fisherman is telling a willing listener about how big it was.

Trout fishermen, given the opportunity, will talk about fishing until we are blue in the face. Even the most shy of us will talk and talk and talk about the one that got away. I’ve seen introverts ramble on about fishing just because someone asked how a trip was. For those of you who are regular readers of the Average Joe Fisherman but do not fish I’ll let you in on a little secret. The next time you are confronted with an overly exuberant fisherman who will not shut up about the big fish he just caught, all you need do is ask one simple question, the right question, and you will see him go through emotions consisting of confusion, panic and disbelief. His mouth might even be agape as he stares at you like a deer caught in headlights (which reminds me of a previous post you can read here - You Look Like an Idiot). What is this question that can render a trout fisherman speechless? The next time you need to make a quick exit from a loose lipped fisherman ask him this… “Where did you catch it?”

Fishermen are extremely protective when it comes to the rivers and streams they routinely fish.

Serving as an example, I can recall a time fishing my home when I encountered an individual sitting on the deck of his cabin. “How’s the fishing?” he enquired. “Sure not what it used to be,” I replied. “You got that right. I don’t even bother to fish it anymore. Only fish the North Branch now,” he commented. Happy with the exchange I pressed on. There was a beautiful hole in the small stream towards the end of his property that I could not pass up. Casting my spinner I thought, “Just a small fish please.” With the cabin owner watching on I proceeded to fight and land a gorgeous sixteen inch brown trout. In the middle of having a banner day in both the number and size of fish caught, I turned to the cabin owner and said, “Well I’ll be, three hours of fishing and I finally caught one! I guess the sun does shine on a dog’s ass some days.”

Another time comes to mind when I visited a well know fly shop within the vicinity of my home water. It was early in the morning and other than Donny P, Average Joe Fisherman Scott, and myself, there was one other customer in the shop. I was speaking with the owner about the Holy Water of the AuSable when I mention the stream that I grew up on. He quickly shot a look to the one other customer. Turning back to me he said, “We don’t talk about the _____!”

Yes, us fisherman are a different breed indeed. Below and within this post you will find some pictures of my home water, just don’t ask me where it is! =)

New Gear!

2011-01-18T18:37:00.001-05:00

Blessings, I have been given my fair share in this life, but none greater than the heart of a young lady who said “yes” some fifteen years ago. My wife and I go together like ice cream and a hot summer night. She is so much a part of me that she often knows what I need before I do.

A few years ago I attempted to set a budget limiting what we spent on each other for Christmas. “Why are you trying to ruin my Christmas?” she replied. A little caught off guard I said, “Uh… I’m not.” “I like to surprise you with gifts on Christmas, it’s my thing!” she continued brushing my comment to the side like a fly buzzing around her head. How could I argue with that? It was the perfect rebuttal. After all what kind of husband would I be if I took something that she loves to do away from her?

This past holiday season, while sitting at the dinner table, I revisited that conversation with my wife. She informed me that she knew the suggestion I made, curbing our Christmas spending, was doomed to fail because she was the Ying to my Yang. I must have had a puzzled look on my face because she rephrased what she had said into words that even I could understand. “Your suggestion would never work because I like to buy you Christmas presents and you REALLY like to receive them.” Boy does my wife know me!

Some of the new fishing related gifts I received this year whether purchased by my wife, or suggested by her to others as gift ideas, include an underwater video camera, fishing line, boots, waders and a few other odds and ends. Man, I am spoiled!

The End of the Day

2011-01-11T18:47:00.000-05:00

Time, it’s the one commodity that each of us have and how we choose to spend it is as unique to the individual as the individual is to the populace. Like the money in our wallets, time is a limited commodity and often in short supply.

At an early age, due to a Catholic upbringing, I began to believe most things that impacted me positively were gifts, a belief I still have to this day. Gifts seemingly come in many different forms with varying degrees of impact. Some are fleeting and others seem to last a lifetime. While most gifts appear to be distributed randomly, some of us for example are given the gift of what society deems to be good looks, others are brilliant in mind and others the ability to have a profound effect on people whose lives they touch, time is the one gift given to us all.

Unfortunately I am not referring to the length of our lifetime. It seems all of us have lost a loved one whose time was cut short by illness or accident. I am referring to the rate at which we pass our time here. We all have sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour and twenty four hours in a day. This is a constant that applies to every one of us.

The older I get, the more I realize that there are things that siphon time away from me. Not much different from how unused electrical appliances drain electricity just because they are plugged in. When we are young and relatively concern free, every day is an adventure, every day is new and therefore memorable. As we get older, things start to get in the way of what we once enjoyed. Instead of life being an adventure it becomes mundane, overridden with tasks and lists of things that need to be done, instead of things we want to do. Our jobs become stressful and for whatever reason we seem to focus on the stress instead of the things that can affect our mood positively.

So how do we break free from the stress and drama that seems to be slung at us every day? For me the answer is easy, I fish! I love everything about fishing, the smell of the water, the breeze wafting through the trees, the way the sun reflects off the water during the day and the full moon casts shadows at night, the strike on a well placed fly, the way a spinner disappears suddenly as it is inhaled buy a previously unseen predator, the way my daughter holds my hand when we fish together, I love... well, you get the idea. Fishing to me is memorable. It breaks me free from the things that get in the way of living. Because if you, like me, believe this life is a gift then that’s kind of the point isn’t it?

Someday, before it is all said and done, I think there will be a moment for each of us when we look back on the life we lived and remember how we spent our time here. What we won’t remember are all the menial things that get in the way of truly living, the drama, the stress… the time stealers. To that end I have started asking myself, at the end of each day, “What did I do today that was memorable? Did I spend my time wisely?”

This simple change in my bedtime routine has had a profound effect on me. I find that I now focus on things that might have slipped through the cracks before. No longer do I stress over work. I perform my job to the best of my ability and the rest is just filler. My thoughts are more focused on being happy and positively affecting the lives of my family. Time has substance and is treasured rather than forgotten. Seemingly, life no longer gets in the way, rather it is lived, all from a simple change.

Time, it’s the one commodity that each of us have. Did you spend your time memorably today?

Karma

2011-01-04T18:42:00.001-05:00

Determined to start the New Year off right, Average Joe Fisherman Scott and I decided to spend a good chunk of New Year’s Day chasing trout. Scott did not get to do as much trout fishing as he would have liked in 2010 and he seemed driven to start 2011 off on the right foot. As an individual who enjoys company while fishing, that was fine by me.

The day was unseasonably warm. Traveling north, the temperature gauge in my truck read 42 degrees. Scott and I speculated that the higher than normal temperatures would have melted most of the snow and caused the stream to rise, and in doing so, dirtied the water. In our limited experience of casting large streamers for large trout, this seemed like ideal conditions to us. Unfortunately, it must have sounded that way to many other fishermen as well, because most of the stream access points had cars parked at them. Slightly discouraged, we continued to look for an uninhabited spot. Eventually we found one, suited up and started to fish... and fish… and fish… and fish some more. Fishing just shy of four hours, not seeing a single trout between us, we decided to pack it in and in a last ditch effort we headed to another stream. It was then that, with our waders still on but pushed down around our knees, hurling down a country highway at sixty miles an hour, karma decided to intervene.

Ever since I was little, hearing my father say things such as, “What goes around comes around” or “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” I have believed in karma. The funny thing about karma is that you never know when it will rear its head. The only thing you can be sure of, for better or for worse, is that it’s coming.

As Scott and I raced toward our next fishing destination, probably faster than law enforcement officials would have liked, we noticed a small animal up ahead. Not slowing down, we were able to see the animal was in fact a small dog. In my rearview mirror I saw the dog stop, turn, and watch the truck as we continued on. “Pretty small dog out here all by himself,” I said to Scott. “Do you think we should turn around and see if he has tags?” Scott replied. Sure that this was the end to our fishing for the day, I turned the truck around. Scott hopped out of the truck and called the dog, “Here pooch.” The dog, being friendly, ran to Scott. Once in the truck we quickly found his tags. As luck would have it, the dog’s name along with a phone number was easily visible. I called the number and asked the gentleman, we’ll call him Dave, if he had a dog, a dog that was missing. He said he did and gave me instructions to his house which just happened to be a cabin situated on 28 acres of land with the North Branch of the Ausable running through it. The owner, who was extremely grateful to us for returning his dog, gave us a history lesson on the stretch of water in front of his cabin and invited us to fish it. “It’s the least I can do,” he said.

Still half dressed in our fishing gear it did not take Scott and I long to be standing knee deep in the North Branch. Within the first fifteen minutes of fishing, Scott, who has never caught a trout on a streamer, fought and landed a beautiful seventeen inch brown trout. Dave, who seemed genuinely excited, watched the whole thing unfold from the bank and even cheered Scott on. Shortly after Scott’s fish, I caught an equally beautiful thirteen inch brown trout just before dark. Upon returning to my truck, Dave once again thanked us for our kindness and gave us his name and phone number inviting us to come back anytime.

If that’s not karma, I don’t know what is.

The Borrower

2010-12-28T18:24:00.000-05:00

“Can I borrow your old five weight fly rod?” I asked uncomfortably while making plans to chase trout the day after Christmas with Average Joe Fisherman Scott. I was uncomfortable asking, not because of concern that Scott might say no, I knew he would say yes, but because this was a role I was not use to playing. For well over a decade of fishing together, I was the guy with all the gear and Scott was the borrower. Over the years, more times than not, Scott would need to routinely borrow something. From spinners to dry fly powder, you name it and I’d bet that he had asked to borrow it. It occurred with such regularity that it became a joke between us and got to the point where I would ask him if he needed to borrow anything before we even got in the stream. But now, because I snapped my fly rod two weeks ago, the roles were reversed and it was I who was asking to borrow something of his. While in reality I am positive Scott’s answer to my question was a quick “Sure,” in my head I heard a long drawn out, “Why yes Ryan YOU can borrow MY fly rod.” While Scott would probably never admit it, I am sure that part of him was enjoying our change of fortunes. What goes around comes around I suppose.

Upon leaving my house the day was dark, cold, overcast and reeked of winter. Almost two hours later, arriving at our destination, the day had transformed into a “bluebird” day with a vibrant shinning sun and crisp clear blue skies. As we assembled our gear, and put on multiple layers of clothes, we were joined by a couple of other fisherman who jumped out of their truck and asked if we would be fishing upstream or down. We chatted with the strangers as they suited up. One of the two men brought his son with him, which both Scott and I thought was pretty cool. The other brought a six pack.

Within the first few casts, after we parted company from the other fishermen, my streamer was followed by a nice thirteen inch trout. Scott and I took this as a good sign and thought that it might be a banner day, at least as far as fishing in the winter goes. Two hours later, with nothing to show for our efforts, our conversation was reduced to praying to the fishing gods to allow us to each catch just one.

Finally I had some action as I fished a submerged log on the opposite side of the stream. I placed an accurate cast upstream, mended my line downstream, and watched as the streamer swam along the entire log. I felt an immediate weight as I allowed the streamer to swing in the current as it reached the end of the drift. To my amazement the watered swirled as I set the hook. That is when I saw the large trout. Had we not been fishing a river with obstructions preventing fish from venturing upstream from the Great Lakes, I would have sworn that it was a large lake run brown trout. I screamed “Big fish!” as all twenty four to twenty eight inches of the fish violently began to shake its head. On the third shake, seeing every detail, I witnessed the brown trout snap my line and take my streamer. With my head facing the sky and Scott looking on, I whispered, “Damn.”

Wanting to blame everything other than my lack of skill, I continued to fish. The frozen reel or the ice on my leader was to blame, I was sure of it. Well, not sure, but it made me feel better. About ten minutes later, fishing a run, I hooked into a beautiful eighteen inch brown trout. Thinking that it was poor cancelation prize, I fought it too long, and it spit the streamer.

In an effort to make myself feel better while walking back downstream to the point where the day began, I told Scott that my skills as a streamer fisherman must be improving because I was now, with some regularity, able to coax large trout into hitting my presentation. Scott, being the good friend that he is, said nothing about me being lucky or lacking the skill to actually land the fish.

Hope

2010-12-23T18:40:00.000-05:00

I originally posted this on the Marvelous Minutia blog and thought I would share it here. =)

There are unexpected little things that each of us encounters every day, little things that have the ability to block out all negativity, little things that have the power to make us feel, if we only take the time to notice them that is.

Every weekday for me starts out basically the same, wakeup, shower, take my daughter to the bus stop, drive to work and finally start my work day. Today was different however; I encountered one of those little things. Several months ago I stumbled upon a sticker. Truth be told, I am not sure where I found it or how it is that I came to posses it. It is green in color, soft to the touch, in the shape of a heart and has the word “hope” on it. In hind sight, I do remember peeling the paper off the back and sticking it on a mostly unseen part of my desk in my office at work. Months have passed since then and the sticker, for the most part, has gone unnoticed, until today. Today, for whatever reason, my attention was drawn to the sticker immediately snapping me out of my routine. A smile crept across my face as I ran my finger around the edge of the heart.

Hope is a wonderful thing. In fact it is one of the greatest tools in the optimist’s satchel. Hope gives us the power to push through our darkest hour and keep sadness at bay. Hope is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. In a life filled with so many uncertainties, hope allows us, no matter the situation or the level of despair, to believe that circumstances in the future will be better. In my humble opinion, hope is one of the greatest gifts mankind has ever been given.

Embarking upon Christmas and a new year, it is my sincere hope that, no matter what your current circumstances are, hope finds you and guides you to a better tomorrow. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world. Someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.

-Tom Bodett

Fishing Amongst Bikinis

2010-12-20T18:20:00.001-05:00

“How exactly are we supposed to fish this?” I said to Average Joe Fisherman Scott as I looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. “I have no idea, but we found two fishing poles in the condo, therefore we must fish,” came the reply. “Can’t really argue with logic like that” I thought.

While on vacation with Scott and his wife in Florida, at a condo directly on the beach, owned by the company that Scott works for, Scott and I stumbled upon two fishing poles hidden in a closet behind a couple of boogie boards. It was as if we discovered gold in some Aztec temple hidden deep within the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. We had discussed renting some gear and trying our hand at pier fishing while on previous Florida vacations, but, mainly due to time and money constraints, those ideas never came to fruition. This trip however was different. It was as if God was saying, “Here you go boys! Just take these, walk out into the water and catch some fish.” Our wives, as long as we continued to supply them with drinks with little umbrellas in them while they lay in the sugar soft sand of Siesta Key, didn’t seem to mind what we did.

Being completely out of our element, Scott and I decided to stop by a local marina that just happened to be on the way to taking our wives out to dinner one evening. We spent a few minutes talking to a nice gentleman who was full of helpful information. We had learned, after relieving my wallet of some of its weight and purchasing a couple of really expensive crank-bait type lures, that we would be sight fishing for a slew of different fish. Scott and I, trying not to look too surprised, thought “sight fishing?” “We’ve spent two days in the water and we haven’t seen any fish!” Funny thing about fish, they are really good at camouflaging themselves and you generally won’t see them unless you look really close. Turns out we just weren’t looking close enough.

Feeling somewhat uncomfortable like everyone was looking at us, Scott and I walked the beach the next morning with fishing poles in hand searching for cruising fish. Finally, unable to take the looks anymore, Scott suggested we wade out into deeper water and start blind casting. I concurred as we made our way past a rainbow of different colored bikinis as they frolicked in the warm water. “Man I love the beach!” I thought.

Scott and I were making small talk as we repeatedly cast our overpriced crank-baits as far out in the ocean as we could, saying all the things fisherman say when they have no idea what they are doing or if they will catch anything…. “Even if I don’t catch anything this is still pretty cool,” “Can’t do this in Michigan,” “How cool is this!” Then it happened. A large twenty plus inch fish crushed my crank-bait, launched three feet into the air and spit the lure back at me! With a face that must have been filled with the look of shock, I turned to Scott and said, “Well alrighty then, game on.” With renewed enthusiasm Scott and I caught several fish over the next hour with the highlight being a Jack Crevalle that Scott caught. The fish was remarkable to both of us not because of its size but because it sounds like a pig when it is out of the water. Saltwater fish are strange.

On the walk back to the condo I notice a group of small minnows swimming right up against the beach. I watched them dart back and forth with no sense of direction. I stopped walking and just stared. Somewhere in my peripheral vision I notice something move in the water. I wasn’t the only one watching those minnows. The larger fish, even while directly looking at it, was difficult to see. In fact it wasn’t the fish that I saw but its shadow. I cast past the fish and made my lure appear as though it was frantically trying to get away. The fish gave chase and smashed my crank-bait. After a most excellent fight I brought a beautiful Snook to hand, smiled for the “grip and grin” and then released it. Just after smiling for the picture I was approached by a very nice looking lady in a bikini who asked me all sorts of questions about the fish she witnessed me catch. As it turns out fishing will attract the ladies as much as puppy dogs or babies will, and if you do it in Florida, they will talk to you in their bikinis. Who knew? =)

The Kick is Good!

2010-12-14T19:11:00.000-05:00

My window of opportunity to fish this past weekend was small. For a period of time I wasn’t sure I would be wetting a line at all. By Thursday evening other plans and obligations had eaten up most of the weekend. Between a trip to a funeral home supporting a friend, Christmas shopping with my daughter and a family Christmas party, I felt like I was trying to hit a moving target. Or, for those of you who watch football on Sundays, which is what I am doing while writing this post, I felt like a kicker trying to split the uprights from fifty four yards out.

Friday evening I strategically laid out the weekend’s activities in my brain, looking for the opening I hoped was there. In my mind’s eye I saw the long snapper hike the ball. Realizing that Saturday morning was my one and only chance to chase trout, I mentioned to my wife, amid casual conversation over dinner, that there appeared to be some down time Saturday. The place holder snatched the ball from the air as I began my kicking routine. With my intentions to fish clearly laid out, I watched my wife’s facial expressions as she digested what I had just said. The kick was on its way. At one point, judging by her facial expressions, I was sure an objection was coming. I had pulled the kick. In a last ditch effort I mentioned that she too would be able to take advantage of the window we were afforded and take a friend out to lunch she had not seen in quite some time. Suddenly a cross wind blew. With a smile on her beautiful face, permission was granted. The kick was good!

The dilemma I faced while driving north was not the usual where to fish, there are only a handful of streams that are still open around these parts, but how to fish. I have found, through trial and error, that streamer fishing is normally better as far as producing fish than spinner fishing this time of year, at least for me. It might have something to do with streamers being able to be presented a little slower to lethargic trout, or it might be that I have more confidence in them when it is cold. Either way, I seem to be more successful using streamers in the winter.

Normally there would not be a dilemma, grab the fly rod, a box of streamers and head out. It was not that simple however since I broke my five weight fly rod the weekend before. You can read about it here. With my five weight being MIA, my choice was, if I was going to fly fish, to try to turn over a weighted streamer in the wind with a three weight rod, or use my eight weight salmon rod. Confident that my efforts using the three weight would be futile, and catching smaller trout with my eight weight would feel like I was using a broom stick, I elected to use my ultra-light spinning gear. While, as I previously stated, this is not normally as productive, I felt it was my only real choice.

The day was dark. The sun, hidden behind thick grey winter clouds, seemed to give up in the face of an oncoming storm. The temperature gauge in the Silverado read 32 degrees before I stepped into the stream. As it turned out, the day would not get any warmer. In fact the temperature began to plummet as soon as I began fishing. To say the river was cold would be an understatement. Shelf ice, which started growing from the bank, already stretched farther into the river than I had imagined. It made an eerie sound as the current flowed under it. Occasionally a loud snap and crack would accompany a large piece of ice that broke off only to be swept away by the current. I must admit that at first I was a little unsettled and it took me a little time to get use to the new sounds.

Fishing slow and methodically it took over an hour before I saw my first fish. A small eight inch brown trout decided to follow my spinner for a closer look. Relieved just to see a trout, I pressed on. An hour later, with numb toes and fingers, I was ready to call it quits. The lack of trout certainly did not help either. As most fishermen do, I elected to make one last cast. A beautiful sixteen inch brown trout crushed my spinner and I was able to bring it to hand. The trout fought valiantly and put a nice bend in my St. Croix spinning rod. After the battle and a few pictures the trout was released back into the stream. No longer noticing the cold that had a grip on me moments before, I continued to fish for another hour. In the end I caught two brown trout; missed two more that I saw hit my spinner and three that followed it. Not a bad winter day of trout fishing.