The Perfect Drift

A southern take on ice fishing.

2012-01-19T22:48:00.000-05:00

Okay...I will admit that I have done it....once. Now that I have a little street cred, let me tell you what my thoughts are on the subject of ice fishing.

Find a lake with three feet of ice. Get a snowmobile, tie a rope to an outhouse and drag it out far enough that if the ice were to break there would be no way to make it back to shore, drill a hole through the ice, pull the outhouse over this little hole and get inside.

Once inside, imediately start scooping ice out of this little hole with a plastic strainer scoop while the buddy you are hunkered down with loads bait onto hooks tied to heavy line which are connected to little rods that might make a good bluegill rod for a four year old. And sit...and scoop...and bob your bait...and sit...and scoop some more. All the while you are freezing yer keester off and trying to get your fishing mojo going.

I sat for untold hours in this little outhouse and all I had to show for it was frozen fingers and toes, and a freaking carp. All that for a carp? Sorry folks...I am crazy for fishing, but that is just not my idea of fishing. The steps don't make it all the way to the porch...if you know what I mean....

Give me water that is cool or cold....but moving. Bugs both under and above the surface, and the abitily to actually cast.

No wonder the North won the war...anyone that would willingly do this for fun has got to be a bit crazy...and pissed. I mean...you would be ready to fight a buzz saw after ice fishing for a few hours.

Okay....I feel better now.

Oh, to write and only write plus a contest!

2012-01-18T23:09:00.000-05:00

I have been writing quite a bit lately. Not stuff that is or was intended for this particular location, but the words have been apleanty nevertheless.

I have a novel that I am still tinkering with, several short essays that I have written for magazine publication (I hope), and have done some text work for my friends at 3 Rivers Angler. That added with my personal journaling, various facebook odds and ends, several fly fishing message boards I haunt...well, I think you get the picture.

To me, there is no greater thing than the written word, the conveyance of thoughts, dreams, and desires as they are poured out liberally from the heart and imagination.

Many times when I am on the river and have reached that point in my trip where the zen is overriding the actual fishing, those times in which the mind has been freed from whatever bondage it may have found itself at the beginning of the day, I will allow words to dance in my head. It is really amazing the number of personal benefits one can glean from a good solid day on a stream.

Speaking of streams...I know that it is at least six to eight weeks till I can step into the water again with fly rod in hand...so lets formulate a trip. Go to google maps, locate Knoxville Tennessee, then take a look at the rivers and waters within say...150 miles of Knoxvegas. Pick a spot for me to fish. The winning location will be the one with the most votes. In the event of a tie...I will put the tied locations into my trusty Stetson fedora and draw one out...and this will be where I go. Out of the voters for the winning river, one name will be chosen and a gift will be awarded.

on the back side of surgery

2012-01-16T20:23:00.000-05:00

This post is going to be short. Just to let you folks know that I havent fallen off the end of the earth. Rotator cuff surgery went much better than expected. Seems that my big problem wasn't ligament damage, it was a healthy congregation of bone spurs that were cutting into the ligaments and tendons of my ever important right shoulder. A grinder was used to file them down and free things up. My next available river trip could be mid March...which isn't great, but it is better that mid April - early May. So in the mean time, I shall do my therapy, try to tie some flies, and look forward to the early days of Spring. Also on the horizon is a trip to Colorado that might just be a great way to end the summer!

Christmas

2011-12-20T11:43:00.000-05:00

Christmas. For me it is not Happy Holidays. It is Merry Christmas. If you are Jewish it is Happy Hanukkah, and I would expect you to honor your holiday as such...no problem here. but for me it is Christmas.

This Christmas for me is filled with a little dread. It seems that at some point, my 46 year old shoulder made a desision to shred. Rotator Cuff. Painful. I meet with the sawbones tomorrow to seal my fate. Surgery is perhaps looming and I do not look forward to it at all. The biggest reason? Selfish and obsessive as it may be...I cannot fish till Spring at the earliest. This is not good. Four plus months away from the rivers I love so much. This will be the longest gap in my angling life in longer than I care to remember. In the end it will be good, but getting to that point is gonna suck.

Christmas. The kids are giddy, the house smells of fresh baked goodies, the tree is up, gifts seem to appear out of nowhere. It is good. And so, with the fishing set aside for a while, I will surround myself with my family, have a cup of cheer, and look forward to the budding of the trees.

Merry Christmas. Or, if you are so inclined. Happy Hanukkah.

Here are some tunes selected for this amazing season.

3 Rivers Angler

2011-12-02T11:10:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago a coworker came into my office to give me some astounding news; a new fly shop was opening for business here in Knoxville. She had written the address of this soon to be opened haven of refuge on a post it note, and I gazed at this pale yellow square as if it were some secret map to Utopia. Then began what could only be described as fly shop stalking. In the course of any given week, I am out doing field review at least one day, which meant, at least one day a week, I was driving by to check on progress. I can, in all honesty say, I saw this business grow from a shell. Construction was steady, and with each improvement, I sent a myriad of texts to my angling friends giving them up to date info. “Rod rack installed along back wall.” I had no name, no info on the date they were to open, but I had this place on my radar constantly.

Move forward to this past week; I was nearing this location for my weekly stalking run, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Kayaks. Outside. Over the door a banner...3 RIVERS ANGLER! I pulled into the parking lot and looked inside. It was 10:05. They opened at 10. I had it all to myself.

My experience with true fly shops has been one of two ways. Either, A) it is awesome, full of nice people, and a place you want to hang around, or, B) a shop started by a guy who never fishes, stocked with items you could glean from a Wal-Mart shelf, and as warm and inviting as a funeral home. For me at least...when it comes to fly shops...there is no middle ground...either you is or you ain't.

I started sizing this place up right away, and within my perspective, I held a guarded view. After all, this was my passion we were dealing with and I was not going to be sucked in.

The door handles? Butt sections of old Sage rods. (“Nice touch”, I thought to myself)

I enter the door and before it had a chance to close, I hear...”Hey! Good Morning! Want a cup of coffee?”

What? Could it be? (But to keep from being disarmed by the guy behind the counter, I kindly said sure, and began my tour of the shop)

Waders?- The full monte of Simms.
Rods?- All the heavy hitters. Sage, Winston, Reddington, St. Croix,
Plus a full range of goodies from stalwarts such as Loon, William Joseph, Abel, Simms clothing.

The gentleman returned, introduced himself as Jeremy, shook my hand, and handed me the coffee. Okay, the final test...was it good coffee? The coffee was strong and hot, and though I didn't ask....I thought it was Starbucks.

I then saw...what for me was the grand touch.

When I was a kid growing up here in the land of The Perfect Drift, I watched wrestling...actually around here it is called rasslin'. Now we are not talking about the high dollar steroid infused pyrotechnic entertainment mogal of today. We are talking local guys “rasslin” at the local television station with a modest crowd made up of testosterone fueled teenage boys and old women who always sat up front and cussed like sailors through their snuff.

My favorite rassler during this era was “The Mongolian Stomper”. “The Stomper” wasn't from Mongolia, he actually was a jailer at the County Lock-up. But he was next level and Knoxville to the core. And there, at 3 Rivers Angler, on the counter between the register and the flies, was a framed 8x10 of The Stomper.

I had found a home.

I will let the guys at 3 Rivers fill you in on their back story:

The signs immediately adjacent US 129 on either side of the “Buck” Karns bridge connecting South Knoxville to downtown and the university area read “Tennessee River” and “Ft. Loudon Lake”. The juxtaposition of the two is apropos given that the body of water you’re crossing is less a river and now more a chain of lakes formed by the impounding of waters behind monumental structures stewed in the history of our region’s past. I grew up fishing along the banks of the river just downstream from the bridge and recently returned to my natal home after a 12-year absence. Older and wiser (I hope) and with two young sons of my own, I’m still drawn down to the river as it makes its course through downtown, then past the suburbs and beyond, where it eventually meets the Clinch River dropping down from the north and what was the Little “T” rolling in from the mountains to the south. I love driving along Neyland Drive and Cherokee Boulevard
as doing so provides me the opportunity to ponder the river’s form from ancestral state to her role in today’s contemporary politics. Just above town, where legislators of old decided the Tennessee begins at the forks formed by the French Broad and the Holston, three rivers merge to become one. And if you time your upriver journey right, you might even catch glimpses of our collective past, assuming TVA’s generation schedule obliges.
While East Tennessee is probably best known among anglers for its cold-water fisheries below Norris, the South Holston, and Wilbur Dams, to truly grasp the enormity of the greater Tennessee drainage one has to travel into the upper reaches which rise far to the east on the western slopes of the Blue Ridge as they flow northwest across the mountainous barrier of the Smokies. Within a couple hours of downtown Knoxville, both the amount and type of water available for our utilization is immense. It is only now, having come home to raise my own sons in the bosom of Appalachia that I can truly begin to perceive this fact. In my absence I was fortunate to have fished in countless exotic locales. I’ve witnessed lowland Bolivian streams go from a tepid trickles to ranging torrents of dirt, trees, and water. I’ve swung flies to sea run trout in lower Patagonia. I’ve experienced the flooding of the Brazilian Amazon, watched wilder beast leap from the jaws of Serengeti crocs, and spent several years peering into the blue waters of New Zealand’s hallowed rivers hoping for a trigger which might speak to my mind’s eye whispering the presence of some lurking monster.
Flowing water is an opiate to humanity. No matter where you are. Our attempts to tame it attest to our ever deepening dependence. I’m no stranger to this predicament and long ago gave into my primal urges. And so, I returned home to the area and found that while so much remains the same much also changes. In my absence the nexus of Knoxville’s fly fishing community, the Creel, closed and left a gaping hole in the fabric of our angling culture — a culture predicated upon traditions with deep roots which, like our waterways, are definitely worth preserving. To that end, Three Rivers Angler was conceived to simultaneously celebrate the resources at hand while at the same time fostering a dialogue among all actors concerning the region’s past, present, and future. It won’t happen overnight. So there’s bound to be a bump or two. Growing pains, I think they’re called. Nothing that should prevent you from visiting our website early and often, however. And be sure to poke your head in the store, too. But only if you promise to make yourself at home. Because that’s what Three Rivers Angler is. A home. Where you’ll find us hanging out, doing a little business, yet still looking for the time to laugh, lie...and fish.

On opening day, they held a big party at the fly shop. I walked around the store and more than anything, I people watched. What I saw was almost a feeling of relief. Good fly shops are just hard to come by, and when you live in an area that is far from a fly fishing mecca and a shop opens, you are full of high expectations. The guys at 3 Rivers mingled with the patrons and welcomed them. The conversation was vibrant and in the midst of old anglers and a couple of kids that were just learning from their Dad, I saw the one element that can make or break a business like this. I saw community, a fellowship, and a place where you could easily spend a lot of time hanging out.

Yep, there is no middle ground when it comes to fly shops. Good or bad with no in between. I feel that I can say with all honesty, in 3 Rivers Angler....we have ourselves a winner.

Trout for Thanksgiving?

2011-11-21T14:18:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving. For me the very mention of the holiday brings to mind so many things. My Mothers cornbread stuffing. The smell of Turkey lingering heavy in the air. Pumpkin pie. Food induced naps in front of the television. Seeing family and friends we have possibly not visited with since last year. Tradition.

The days are not cold yet, but are moving in that direction with momentum. I think to date, we have only had one light frost. Rain has been a regular here and the temps are topping out in the upper fifties to lower sixties. Rain and cool temperatures mean one thing for me this Thanksgiving…fishing.

Myself, Brad, John, and Jeremy are planning on a trip this Saturday. I don’t know how it is where you are, but around here there is a sure fire potential to nab a huge trout during the latter part of November, and the recipe for it is quite simple. Find a moderately sized feeder creek into a larger body of water and sling something that looks like a military experiment gone horribly wrong.

It almost sounds sick to use the words Thanksgiving and Sex Dungeon in the same phrase, but big uglies are the key to the kingdom during these events. I think it is also worthy to note that I hate to streamer fish.

Having said that, Saturday, I will pack a few leftovers into a bag, grab my sex dungeon, and head to a certain North Carolina stream that- if it all plays out according to reports- should be chocked full of bruisers.

Or: we could load up and hit the South Holston again and gingerly drop size 20 Blue Winged Olives with the potential of greatness.

Thanksgiving? I am thankful to have that choice. Either way, it will be wet and cool and I will love it.

From us here in the land of The Perfect Drift, I hope that you have angling adventures to be thankful for, angling adventures yet to come, and a table full of goodies surrounded by those you love….or at least tolerate.

Later this week, we take a look at a new fly shop. 3 Rivers Angler!!!

And now...some text.

2011-11-16T12:49:00.000-05:00

I find it very odd to be trying to recap a month of fishing. It is near impossible to catalog within your mind each moment as it passes in such a way that you can retrieve it in chronological order, and with any modicum of clarity. As I try to recall the month of October and its adventures, I get snapshots. Much as if you were speeding down a busy street, only catching a few things with enough clarity to identify. It is quite sad actually that in some cases total recall is an impossibility. So I have pondered for several days about this post, and how I would present it. I think the best way to share my month with you is to just go stream of consciousness with it and let you sort out the order as you will, you would have as much a chance of getting it right as me, and I lived it. So....here goes.

*I am standing beside a bridge on Helton Creek in North Carolina. It is a small bridge and the truck that passed was just slightly above me so that I could see underneath. A mylar balloon was caught in the underneath of the truck. Dora the Explorer looked my way as it passed. Her mylar background catching the sun.

*Helton Creek. I am casting to a pod of trout in a deep pool. The water is so clear that I can see each take. At the bottom of the pool is a dead trout, belly up. The others pay it no mind. It was the biggest fish in the pool. I thought to myself that if I were to retrieve it, odds are it died as a result of a careless angler.

*The family cabin. A very small brook traverses the property. Rumor has it that at one time a large beaver pond at the top of the mountain was full of brook trout. The dam was destroyed during the fringes of a hurricane as it dumped much water on the blue ridge. I camo up and investigate. Stepping over a log. I see a brook trout. Perhaps five inches long. He is not fooled by my attire, and with one flick of the tail, vanishes right before my eyes.

*Andrew and I go on a nature walk along the afore mentioned brook. A large tree has fallen over it. He wants to walk across it. I stand in the stream and hold his hand as he tries to balance. Right in the middle of this trunk/bridge is bear scat. I show it to Andrew. The adventure ends and we go back to the cabin to play in the front yard.

*South Holston. My friend John makes coffee at the parking area using a jet thing. He has instant starbucks. Creamer and sugar he keeps in a cosmetic bag and I give him a hard time over it. He caught the biggest trout of the trip and offers details. I wonder to myself how many people who see him every day on television have any idea just how great a guy he is. Afterwards he puts me in his spot from the previous day. And I catch a bunch of fish.

*We are in the cabin our group rented, watching the Tennessee/Alabama football game. I look around the room and everyones eyes are fixed on the screen. Their faces look as though they are watching someone die.

*Upstream from me (50 yards or so) an elderly gentleman falls. The water is shin deep at best. He cannot get up and I call out to see if he needs help. Out of pride perhaps he says no, but I keep an eye on him. Three years ago I almost died on this river not very far from where this is taking place. I watch as he uses his rod to get upright and make his way to shore. He disrobes, dumps the water from his waders and redresses. The thought occurred to me then, I wonder when you are to old to be doing this? Then I think of his wife, who probably worries that he is out alone. He will perhaps go home with a story and she will worry more next time.

*I sit on the bank with my friend Jeremy. We watch our comrade Brad working a run. It is getting late on the last day. We are the only ones left on the river. As always on our group outings, we are the last to leave.

*I had worked a run with no luck and moved on to give it a rest. Later came back to same run...still no luck. Came back the third time and was still luckless when a Blue Heron strides over, thrusts his beak into the water, and comes out with a trout that appeared to be to big for it to swallow. I was wrong. The better of the two anglers succeeded.

Hope this paints a partial picture. More to follow.

Marctober...A month in review

2011-11-10T08:43:00.000-05:00

Greetings folks! Marctober has come and gone....and what a month it was. A massive text report is coming soon, but for now...here are a few pictures.

Me and my best pal at the front end of Marctober

The South Holston

Yours truly looking particularly gruff. After day three you aquire a certain..."gameyness".

My friend Jeremy reloading

Gearing up for day two on the South Holston

The road to Helton Creek

My friend John and I slayed em in this run.

My friend Gary high sticking a run.

Setting one free...actually they were all set free!

As you can see...Fall in East Tennessee is amazing.

THE MASCOT OF MARCTOBER

Marctober is finally here!!!!!!!!!!

2011-10-03T11:27:00.001-04:00

Of all the months of the year that I fish (which is all of them), the month of October is especially high on my list of times. As a matter of fact, it is my favorite month to fish and this year my month is chocked full of fishing times and here is a rundown of what is going on here in the land of The Perfect Drift.

This week we will be spending five days in the high country of North Carolina on some creeks that are just a blast to fish. One is Helton Creek which is an awesome Delayed Harvest stream that runs from our families cabin all the way to the Virginia state line. I will be wading as much of it as possible. There is also Cranberry Creek, Peak Creek, and an unnamed stream that serves as my warmup/cooldown.

This unnamed stream has been named Emerson's Creek and is little more that two or three feet wide at its widest point. A tangle of mountain laurel with large plunge pools. And unbeknownst to the rest of the world, it is full of some of the prettiest brookies you will find in the southeast. The entire creek runs across our families property and I have the run of the place!

The family cabin has no t.v., no internet, and just a land line-cell phones are useless. I love it!!!

Fall colors, time with the family away from the rest of the world, and some amazing fishing await.

Then, later on this month I will be spending three days fishing the South Holston River. This time of year is an amazing time on the Soho because the brown trout are on the hunt hot and heavy. Mouse patterns in the early morning and late evening, nymph fishing before lunch, and #16 Comparadun Sulphers for the remainder. With fishing this good 24-7, there is just no time to sleep. I have actually put 16 hour days on this river with no let up on action. If you have the right flies and the right presentation you can have a banner day.

Another reason this trip is so awesome is that all my fishing buddies will be present. I do not like fishing in close proximity to anyone, and I have a bunch of fishing buddies who feel the same way. We meet up at our lodge, have a grand time, but when we are on the water...we keep a very, very respectful distance which is easy to do on this massive river.

My reports will be trickling in for the next few weeks so stay tuned...this could be EPIC!!!!

Almost hooked a hog...no really...

2011-09-16T11:27:00.000-04:00

A couple of years ago, I was on a weekend fishing excursion with my buddies on the Caney Fork River in Middle Tennessee. The time of year was perfect. Cool, Fall colors, brilliant blue sky.

My buddy Jermz and I separated ourselves from the group and were way downstream from the campsite trying our luck. Jermz and I both relish in the solitude and make every conserted effort to have no one around...and we almost succeeded.

We were on a narrow part of the river and were well on our way to getting skunked. Nothing was hitting, so we just took in the scenery. On the far bank from where I was standing, an awful commotion began. It started with several dogs barking as if Satan himself were standing them down. Then came the sounds of brush and weeds being beaten with frenzy. A wild hog was fighting with a pack of hunting dogs. Yelps, squeals, grunts, and growls echoed down the river.

Then came the chase...

Feral hogs are everywhere in middle and east Tennessee. Here is what Wikipedia has to say about them.

Domestic pigs can escape and quite readily become feral, and feral populations are problematic in several ways. They cause damage to trees and other vegetation, consume agricultural crops, feed on the eggs of ground-nesting birds and turtles, and can carry disease.[45] Feral pigs often interbreed with wild boar, producing descendants similar in appearance to wild boar; these can then be difficult to distinguish from natural or introduced true wild boar. The characterization of populations as feral pig, escaped domestic pig or wild boar is usually decided by where the animals are encountered and what is known of their history. In New Zealand, for example, feral pigs are known as "Captain Cookers" from their supposed descent from liberations and gifts to Māori by explorer Captain James Cook in the 1770s.[46] New Zealand feral pigs are also frequently known as "tuskers", due to their appearance.

Wild boar/domestic pig hybrid, displayed at Rothschild Museum, Tring, EnglandA very large swine dubbed Hogzilla was shot in Georgia, United States, in June 2004.[47] Initially thought to be a hoax, the story became something of an internet sensation. National Geographic Explorer investigated the story, sending scientists into the field. After exhuming the animal and performing DNA testing, it was determined that Hogzilla was a hybrid of wild boar and domestic swine.[48] As of 2008[update], the estimated population of 4 million feral pigs caused an estimated US$800 million of property damage a year in the U.S.[49] The problematic nature of feral hogs has caused several states in the U.S. to declare feral hogs to be an invasive species. Often, these states will have greatly-reduced (or even non-existent) hunting regulations regarding feral hogs. In Missouri, no hunting permit is required for the taking of wild boar; hunters may take as many as they like with any weapon. The Missouri Department of Conservation requests that hunters who encounter feral hogs shoot them on sight.[50]

So they go racing down the river bank (from my right to my left). and the sound fades. Shortly thereafter, our day was saved as I tied on a redruM (size 12) and started hooking into browns. The fishing became glorious as vibrantly colored trout were coming to hand with nearly every other cast.

Then another sound. Slow and subdued.

Then the slight parting of the weeds across from me.

And then, jumping into the river in front of me was a very tired hog. And this hog was swimming right for me.

I moved.

It moved.

This pig had his sights set right on me, and much to the humorous pleasure of Jermz. My fishing was interupted by the fact that this pig was coming my way.

He found land not six feet from me and just stood there shaking. Exausted. I couldn't fish for having to keep an eye on this thing. He wasn't Hogzilla by any stretch, but when you have an animal that is under duress within the length of a fly rod, you keep watch.

Eventually this kritter chose to slip into the brush. And I was very happy.

Yours truly trying to make enough noise to turn the hog elsewhere. -Photo by Jeremy

My life as told by water...

2011-09-12T11:42:00.000-04:00

I haven't been fishing in quite a while. We are under some construction at our home which has had us living with my in laws for going on two months so as you could imagine...things have been in quite an uproar.

So what do you do when you have a fly fishing blog but aren't fishing?

You rehash the past!!!!!!

1989...

I am on the banks of Lake Norris. Summer. Late at night. We were catfishing (yea, I know it isn't fly fishing but like I said I haven't been in a while so work with me here!).

The routine was the same on each trip we took that summer. Get there about dark, start a good fire, chum up the water, and load multiple rods with chicken liver. Now...here was the trick. After casting out the line, we would take a bottle with just enough water in it to keep it upright, and wrap the line around the lip. After rigging all the lines like this, we would go sit by the fire and shoot the bull. Shortly you would hear one of the bottles fall over. Get up, walk over and pick up the rod, line moves again, set the hook. You got yourself a catfish. This "bottle fall method" worked like a charm all summer and we caught a bunch of catfish.

Many mornings I have watched the sun rise over the mountains of my hometown while sitting on a lake bank with my buddies. We would come dragging in the next morning, smelling to high heaven; woodsmoke, fish, chicken livers. Not exactly a sweet smell.

Times are much different now. Lives go different directions. People move. Hobbies are redefined, or in some cases dropped altogether. Yet time and time again I go back and relive these moments...and though I know I can never go back, I often wish that the pace of life as I live it now were a little closer to the days when I was younger, thinner, and for some reason more at ease.

Now I sit in a sterile office amidst stacks of paper, a few drawings my kids have made, and a photo of My Jill which is always in view. And on the wall above my desk is a photo of myself and my oldest friend. Fly rods in hand, river flowing wild behind us. I can hear it, I can smell it...I just can't get to it...and that is probably the most difficult memory of all....

The liquid of life

2011-09-05T09:46:00.001-04:00

Here I sit on the back side of a three day weekend. I made some very loose plans with Jermz, J.B., and Brad to sneak out early Saturday morning to do a little fishing. The issue I posted last week about over stressing fish in extremely hot conditions prevailed. So I acquiesced in favor of spending the day in blistering heat as My Jill and I took our oldest to her first University of Tennessee football game.

The heat index had to be at least 110. Hot. No clouds. A throng of 90,000 orange clad people meandering as if it were the zombie apocalypse. Bottled water prevailing over stronger libations.
That was the situation until gametime. Then came the rain. And it has yet to stop. And it will not stop for at least another 24 hours. Flooding will no doubt follow, which will in turn blow out the rivers and turn them into a chocolate milk of churning rolling water.

From the heat and hardly any water to early fall temperatures and flooding.

An angler just can't get a break.

I try to convince myself that the water will be good for the health of the fish around here. Rain will replenish that which the sun has depleted, and things will get back to normal. But in the mean time, I sit in the sun room listening to the percussive white noise of rain on the roof and picture better days, dancing line, and healthy fish.

I have thought today about my long distance fishing buddy Steve. He's been in Alaska for the past few days and I bet he hasn't had to deal with tripple didget heat and no water. He has had one heck of an adventure I am sure, so I choose to sit here and imagine myself standing downstream from him with my backing searing off the reel as one of Alaska's speed boat fish tears downstream with my fly firmly imbeded in its jaw.

I also have four kids who are stuck inside. This could get very interesting.

I have a tip section of an old broken fly rod that I built a handle on out of old wine corks. To the tip of this "rod" I have tied a four foot section of yellow yarn. To the end of the yarn I have made a "fly" out of a foam strike indicator. In the floor I have placed several plush toy trout that I belong to my son. Seated comfortably on the couch, we will fish. if the indicator hits the mouth of the stuffed trout, it is a catch.

Sometimes the liquid of life isn't the stream, or the rain. Sometimes the liquid of life is improvising with a house full of kids. Quality time spent honing skills that might pay off when better weather prevails.

Even when you can...maybe you shouldn't

2011-09-02T15:13:00.000-04:00

We all love to fish. I'd say most of us would say that we don't get to do it enough...myself being the ring leader of that crowd. But what if you can, but you shouldn't?

Here is our problem.

It is the first weekend in September, and a three day weekend at that, however, we haven't seen rain in maybe a month or close to it so the water levels have dropped. The temperature of these waters has, at the same time, risen substancially. When you face those kind of conditions as a trout fisherman, you have one big moral delima on your hands.

You COULD go fishing. You PROBABLY would catch some trout. You WOULD put undo stress on the fish and the chance they wouldn't survive is pretty great.

So...

I have a three day weekend, have not fished in a while...and it will be a while more.

I just don't like being a hinderance to a sport I truly love and a fish that makes it all worthwhile.

Got one heckuva trip coming up soon though...

Now, for some odds-n-ends...

The last video is by Shawn Madison who, if he is fishing, odds are he's on the Clinch.

when i'm not....

2011-08-29T11:56:00.000-04:00

WHEN I AM NOT DOING THIS

YOU'LL FIND ME DOING THIS

OR THIS

I am busy...sometimes more than I want to be. Actually, most of the time more than I want to be. But when it all comes together, when joy and passion find there way to where I am, these are the things that will be with me.

And as always, and forever, the glue that keeps all three of these things moving and thriving is...

My Jill

Where I really want to go fishing

2011-08-25T21:21:00.000-04:00

I am blessed by good (and sometimes great) fly fishing waters that are close. I know these places like the back of my hand and enjoy my time on them immensely. However...there are two places on this earth that I really want to fish that are so far away that it might be that I never get the chance. These locals are distant enough that getting to them would be at a great expense of both time and money...money being the biggest elephant in the room.

1st. A British Chalk Stream

2nd. ALASKA!!!(with a bronx cheer to my friend Steve Zakur who is there right now)

The first is refined, proper, historic. The chance to fish in the birthplace of my ancestors. As odd as it may seem to some, the stereotypical weather of Britain is my favorite kind of weather. I picture it as the Pacific Northwest with an accent...and of course much flatter.

The second is wild, untamed, epic. The chance to fish in wild country where one false move could mean trouble. To be taken into my backing at least once in a run.

Will I ever get to either? Considering that I have four young kids, I'm 46, and my income has not one square inch for overtly frivolous endeavors- it would seem that the only way I could find myself in either place would be by sheer luck.

But isn't luck a part of fishing?

Best wishes to Steve on his Alaskan adventure. I hope that his trip is every bit as amazing as I picture it to be.

Death... one year removed

2011-08-23T11:29:00.000-04:00

I have kept a journal for years. Not an every day kinda thing, but a solid three or four times a week. In it I have written about my Jill when we first started dating, the birth of our children, stuff that rubbed me the wrong way...general day in the life kinda stuff.

On occasion, such as yesterday, I will write an entry and then flip back and find the same date-years removed. This has shown me on more than one occasion that just because I am having a bad day on...say...July 14th 2011, on July 14th 2009 I caught more fish than I could count. Kinda helps me keep everything in perspective.

So yesterday, I flip back to an old entry. It was the day I almost died on the South Holston River. Reading the post was difficult and honestly, I had a hard time breathing. Twice I had to stand up and walk around for a bit just to shake the anxiety. Death staring you in the face will do that to ya.

But, in spite of my brush with the dirt nap, I am here.

In honor (however infamous it may be)...I will offer to those of you who have not read "Brush with Death on the Soho", an opportunity to read about how the whole thing went down. It is also important to note before we dive in, that I fished this same area with amazing success several times since.

BRUSH WITH DEATH ON THE SOHO

We had anticipated this trip for weeks. Three days with my buddy Brad on the South Holston River, camping and fishing. It was late summer and the reports had told us that the large browns were feeding actively on surface patterns. The thought of hooking into a 20+ inch brown on a dry fly is something that any red blooded fly angler lives for. This was going to be our weekend for greatness.

We arrived at the camp and set up our site which was right on the bank of the river. Drift boats came by one after another and with just about every one that passed, a fish was caught. It was late in the afternoon and the generation schedule was going to make the river unwadable till morning so we loaded up our pontoons and headed upstream with the thought of floating back down to the camp site.

We went to a put in that was about two miles from the camp and shoved off. The water was pushing pretty hard and I remember thinking to myself that it would be a quick float back to the camp. I had cast my line out as I rounded a bend in the river and saw a huge elm tree that had fallen into the water directly in front of me.

I tried desperately to row away from it but the current was to swift and I hit it head on.

What happened next seemed like an eternity, though it was mere seconds. When the pontoon hit the tree I was thrown into its branches, being plunged down into the water. I remember opening my eyes and seeing the bubbles rolling round my head and hearing that awful submerged roar of the water. To make matters worse, my legs were bent at the knees and wrapped under the trunk of the tree.

People talk about their lives flashing before their eyes; this was one of those times. I knew that panic was not the thing to do so I first oriented myself by letting my arms go limp so that I could detect the surface. My arms floated upward so I knew that I was upright, but still completely submerged. I thrust my hands out of the water and felt the sweet warmth of the air touch my hands. It was then that I felt a branch of the tree and in what could only be attributed to the assistance of the divine; I pulled my 250 pound body up enough to free my legs and get my head above the water.

When I finally oriented myself, I saw that I was sixty feet or so from the bank, and several drift boats were trying to rescue me.

For over an hour I clung to the branch as icy cold water filled my waders and tried to pull me under. To make the problem more severe, the front of the pontoons had lodged under a branch about six feet in front of me and was loosening. It was obvious that they were going to break free, and when they did, the metal frame of the craft would hit me square in the face.

Luckily I was rescued and brought to shore. Not ten minutes after I was saved, the pontoon broke free and totally ripped the limb I was clinging to to shreds.

Just like falling from a horse, I knew I had to get back in the water, which I did, with much success. But without a pontoon.

Classic Fly Rod Forum

2011-08-16T11:44:00.002-04:00

Every angler has there "thing". Some guys like streamer fishing, some guys will only fish blue lines, and some...like myself are lovers of bamboo. Bamboo is the highest form (in my opinion) of the fly fishing community.

For those of you who, like myself, love fishing with a bamboo fly rod, you really need to check out The Classic Fly Rod Forum (http://clarksclassicflyrodforum.yuku.com/).

The common perception of the bamboo fly rod and its supporters is visualized with tons of tweed, a wallet full of 100's, and and elitist mindset. Quite simply...that is not the case.

I feel that a bamboo angler is not developed. A bamboo angler is born a bamboo angler. His approach to the sport reaches a zen like level that goes beyond the one who fishes graphite. Yet within the community is also the same thoughts and tactics of the graphite brethren.

Bamboo anglers like the slow dreamlike cast. The grace of the rod as it bends in the hand. The joy that comes from feeling every move a fish makes while the fight is on.

The Classic Fly Rod Forum is THE perfect gathering place for the bamboo angler, and the folks that are active on that forum are just amazing people. For instance; in my daily visit today, I saw a post where a members dog had died...and the other members of the forum shared in his grief. I also saw a post on heavily pressured waters and how to best fish them. The folks there are smart, respectful, and offer some amazing advice.

I build my own bamboo, and the instruction I have found there is what brought me to the point of biting the bullet and starting my own rod construction.

You always find incredible photography, book reviews, info on fishing and building bamboo rods, an open exchange of the multitude of tapers available, and a classified section where you can find some amazing buys.

On a scale of one to ten...The Classic Fly Rod Forum is a solid ten in my book.

In closing. If you have never been blessed with the chance to cast a dry fly with a bamboo fly rod, you need to do yourself a favor and seek one out. But, proceed with caution. Bamboo anglers are not developed, bamboo anglers are born bamboo anglers, so if you are one of "us" and don't know it...your entire fishing world is about to change.

http://clarksclassicflyrodforum.yuku.com/

Waiting on the ideal day...

2011-08-11T12:06:00.000-04:00

I am not a fan of Summer. As a matter of fact, I hate hot weather. Many moons ago I lived in Phoenix Arizona, sun bathers on Christmas Day...that is just wrong. Phoenix is a very interesting place, and I still have friends who live there, but central Arizona instilled in me a bitter distain for temps that are better for cooking than living.

And so, after a few years of enduring the constant barage of sun, I moved back home. Tennessee does have seasons other than Summer...but Summer is still on the books, and I dread seeing it coming. A heat index of 110 with 70% plus humidity...you get the picture.....misery.

However hot and miserable Summer is, I know that Fall is on the way. The leaves will turn to vibrant colors, the air will become cool, and the trout will turn that magic switch and my fly fishing world will be made right.

The festival of color will begin and a party will insue!

The South Holston is the place to be in the fall. Sulphurs and Blue Winged Olives are abundant and the Brown Trout are unreal.

So now...all I have to do is put up with just a few more weeks of this heat and then its Trout time....and football time....here in Tennessee.

What I learned on the river was joy

2011-08-07T18:34:00.001-04:00

Went fishing yesterday. The water was almost to warm for trout, and what few trout we saw, were very tight lipped. I was basically just enjoying the casting. A mindless endeavour that just seemed to occupy my time until we left. Not that my heart wasn't in it, it just didn't feel "trouty" enough for me. I tried every bug puppet in my box with empty results. Just one of those days.

About an hour before I clipped and headed to the car, I spotted a man on the far bank carrying a folding chair out into the water just off the bank. He secured its legs firmly in the soil/rocks and disappeared. He came back with a girl, perhaps in her mid teens, I was far enough away that judging her age was difficult. She clung to his arm as they stepped out into the water with two spinning reels. He sat her down, cast her rod and then began working with his own.

The girl had Down's Syndrome, a condition brought about by the presence of all or part of an extra 21st chromosome. My Jill and I have friends who have a daughter with this condition, and in sharing their journey from a distance of space and time, I have learned a lot about it. I won't go into the details, but I will tell you that without a doubt some of the greatest human beings I have ever encountered in my life have children with Down's.

So...having this knowledge, I watched.

I would cast my fly, and just let it swing in the current. If I got a hookset, fine, but I was getting more out of the open display of love and of life happening on the far bank.

It wasn't long before she hooked into a fish. Folks, I have had many memorable days on the water, and have caught some truly remarkable trout in my day, but nothing I have done as an angler could come close to touching the joy that young lady had as she fought with that smallmouth. Her cries of joy and excitement literally echoed up and down the river. She was so loud that anglers far upstream stopped to look. Had they looked my way, they would have seen tears falling down my face. My spirit was lifted to untold levels watching this life event take place.

Who cares if I didn't catch anything. My soul was stirred, I was moved, and life became much sweeter to me. And that is one of the biggest reasons I go fishing in the first place.

My friend has a blog that I am going to link you to. She is a remarkable woman, and spectacular mother, and her husband is a fly fisherman so you know its gotta be good.

http://superdownsy.blogspot.com/

Be blessed my friends. where ever the river may take you.

John Gierach teaches me something new

2011-08-03T11:56:00.001-04:00

Phenology: the science of simultaneous natural events.

I found a link on Midcurrent (http://midcurrent.com/) to a Denver Post interview with John Gierach. As I read through the text, Mr. Gierach made mention of the science of Phenology. He discussed how he could tell what flies to use by what wildflowers were blooming. In essence what he depicted is just how interconnected everything really is when you look at the bigger picture.

I had never heard of the word, much less the science behind it, so I did a little Googling. I found a wealth of information...but in the end I discovered that I really already knew how this science works.

When I was a kid, the white bass would come up into the creek behind my house to spawn. I knew it was time to go after them when the redbud trees began to bloom. This system of indication worked without fail and I had many exceptional days fishing as a result of it. Though as a lad I did not stop to ponder the interconnectedness of the two, I now see the framework of creation in that light. I also, through the kind and loving tutelage of a man named Elmer Russell, learned to plant by the signs. This is a practice that is shunned in most circles but I have seen it first hand...and it works.

Did you know that there is even a better time of the month to dig a hole? Yep. Sometimes you can dig a hole for say a post, and you will not have enough dirt to refill it, other times there will be dirt left over. It all has to do with the moisture in the soil I am sure, but this also works

Cycles, Seasons, Weather, Blooms, it is all interconnected. Like one huge living machine, each part plays a role in another part. Separate, but intertwined within the framework of life itself.

Back to Fly Fishing. Trout live within a specific range of water temperature and their activities are dictated by how high or low the water may be on the thermometer. Spawn- water temperature, hatches- water temperature, water temperature- weather.

I think that, as John stated within his interview, when we take the whole ball of wax into consideration, we gain a clearer understanding of just exactly what is going on around us. Here in Appalachia, the yellow stone fly, the sulphur, the blue winged olive, are all pretty predictable as to when and how they will appear. I have also learned that there are spots on some of my local rivers in which I can almost guarantee a catch in the early Spring and early Fall, but any other time you could frail at the water all day long and not get the first take.

No disrespect intended to my Bass Tournament friends, but they go at break neck speeds, with enough electronics on their fleet watercraft to track satellites in outer space, and cast feverishly at the water. It is productive for them - no question about it, but for me it seems far to stressful. I would rather step slowly to the rivers edge, scan the bank and turn over some rocks, get the feel for what is happening. Then wade in and look for that single fish who is living its life in perfect time with what is going on all around it. All around me. To make a choice of fly, cast softly but with purpose, and let the pace of the nature around me dictate the terms.

All the signs are there. We just have to plug into what is occurring and move as fluidly as the stream or the wind as it moves the trees around us.

Phenology....I like it.

Here are some links for your review.
http://www.denverpost.com/outdoors/ci_18555499

http://www.usanpn.org/

And for those so inclined (as I hope you are)
http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+104&version=NLT

A few random thoughts to start the week

2011-08-01T11:57:00.001-04:00

In search of the God particle

I read last week that scientists are close to discovering the God particle. The European Organization for Nuclear Research is using a massive Hadron Collider to smash atoms together in search of the subatomic God Particle. According to the article, they are smashing this stuff together at 99.9 percent of the speed of light and think that this collision will release the information they believe will reveal this particle. No doubt they feel that all the answers will be found when this occurs.

I am not an anti science guy, so don't take my comments as such...but I have to ask myself why? On a purely personal level, I think that they, as do all of us on some level perhaps, long to nail down the existance of the Devine.

I also wonder if they have ever caught a native brook trout and looked closely at the amazing handiwork that went into creating such a creature? The lines, the colors, and to think that there are a bazillion other things within eyeshot at any given nanosecond that proclaim the same amazing results. Is it all a grand accident? I think not.

They can spend all the money they want to try and derive a conclusion that is just as easily found by stepping outside and taking a good look around. I wish them luck, but will be less amazed at their findings than I was when being right there when my children were born. Seeing my four kids take their first breath was far more profound.

You can read the article here: http://www.christianpost.com/news/god-particle-scientists-to-find-out-its-existence-by-2012-52850/

Hooking up with old friends

This weekend we are having a summer get together with all our fishing buddies. Usually we see each other two times a year, winter and fall, but this year we are having a good old fasioned southern get together. A big meal at an amazing restaurant that specializes in southern cooking, and afterwords a casting contest which is a fly anglers version of pitching horseshoes. Should be a grand time and I am looking forward to reporting the events.

Fishing new waters

Another thing that is happening this weekend is a trip to some new water. Not exactly sure which location, but with over 800 miles of fishable water within the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the choices are limitless.

We have some things in the works here at The Perfect Drift that I think you will find interesting. There is a very unique rod builder we are working with to review, and another gentleman with an amazing story that links him directly to one of the greates bamboo rod builders of all time. If we can get everything together, the information is gonna be amazing.

Have a great week everyone.

Here is a cool tune to start your week:

You do realize this means war?!?!

2011-07-28T17:44:00.002-04:00

There is a belief, and I am one of its proponents, which holds that all God's creatures have a purpose; a function they serve for the greater good. It is often the viewpoint of those who do not encounter nature on a regular basis, that things in the wild are evil or are lurking about seeking whom they may devour. It is the idea that the snake that bites the hiker awoke that morning and positioned itself in the perfect spot to deal out its evil plan of poisonous destruction. Bears crawl from their hibernation and the first thing on their minds is a blind rage infused rampage on all mankind. Of course these people are sadly mistaken. The snake bites man out of self preservation, the bear...well they do seem to be one walking juggernaut of fur, teeth, and claws...but in truth, just like the rest of us, they are just trying to survive. Self preservation is the highest indicator that life is sweet and must be maintained at all costs.

But, for the sake of discussion, what happens when your life is directly infringed upon by another of God's special creations? What happens if, say, a mouse...a small creature in the big scheme of things, finds its way into your home. And what would happen if the same tiny mouse were to find, out of all the potential munchies in all the rooms of your home, a stack of nice, clean Pheasant skins? What would be the impact, if, an angler such as myself were to go to his little slice of fly fishing heaven in the lower reaches of his domicile to find feathers strewn about, beads knocked across the table, and the skin of the Pheasants had been nibbled...or better yet gnawed. And what if, there were tell tale droppings scattered all over the table, chair, floor, without the slightest hint at modesty?

There might be some that would chuckle as they found holes chewed into each item contained in a brand new pack of thingamabobbers as if they were fruit ripe for the picking. Perhaps others may find a soft spot in their heart for the little one that apparently likes to build a nest out of the finest of dry fly dubbing. The most Godly of the bunch might be touched by the cork that had been nibbled, or the starling skin that had been wrestled with in some small scale donnybrook.

I wish that I were as kind, loving, and understanding as those people...but alas, I am not.

Two days prior to finding that my fly tying/ rod building cubbyhole had been effectively ransacked, my wife found what she believed to be the sign that at least one rodent might be present within our downstairs living area. We have lived here nearly eleven years and have never had the first problem of any kind with any creatures other than the stray wasp, a few gnats, and some amazingly colored moths that slip into our house at night as we enter the door. But this assumption of home invasion took a different twist when I went into my little area. It had been several days since I had been back there so the exact date of the crime is impossible to pinpoint; but the evidence was everywhere. I, began my war.

I told my wife to pick up some mouse traps, and she did, but the ones she bought were big enough to clamp down on things like rats, young opossum, and raccoon. In hopes that it might work, she set each of the four traps and the next morning each of them had been picked clean. So we purchased some more, but this time they were small, stealthy, quick, and hopefully...lethal.

Tonight when I came home from the office we went down to inspect. It is my solemn duty to inform you that our world is short two rodents, their bodies collected and disposed of with at least a modicum of dignity.

There are many things you can mess with. You can disrupt the peace and tranquility of my home with the minor inconvenience of rodent invasion. But when you mutilate some of the most beautiful Pheasant skins I have ever seen, and knock enough tungsten beads across the room to sink a battleship, I have no choice but to declare war, and when I go to war, I do not play.

I didn't tell my wife, but I saw a blacksnake around the utility room outside. Being someone who doesn't do snakes very well, I may just live and let live on this one...unless my wading gear is infringed upon.

But lets hope and pray that the battle of blacksnake ridge never comes to pass...

Did I mention that I don't do snakes?

But...if you've seen this DVD (which I highly recommend http://www.amazon.com/Once-Blue-Moon-Adventure-Lifetime/dp/B00284BVC2 )...perhaps there is something else I could do with the little fur balls.

On the Fly Productions

A place where all things are fly fishing

2011-07-26T12:44:00.000-04:00

Between the Great Salt Lake and Utah Lake in the community of Sandy is a location near and dear to us here at The Perfect Drift. It is there you will find Fishwest, without question one of the coolest fly shops I have ever had the pleasure of doing business with.

No…unfortunately I have not shadowed their door, but I do have a computer, and it is through the magical medium known as the world wide web that I have hung around like a regular.

All things fly fishing. These folks live it, love it, and believe in it…no posers here to be certain.

Fishwest has an outstanding variety of merchandise to meet absolutely any need you have and are swift to get it to you. Not a day goes by that I do not visit their site, particularly to check their specials and closeouts; amazing deals on everything from rods to shirts. Another thing that is really cool is they have a link to items specific to the women of our sport. You know, the impression most (including myself) get about angling, is that it is a guy thing. I have learned, and am still learning, that is not the case and Dustin and his staff are quick to provide the ladies with things that might be better suited for them including waders and vests that are tailored for the female body shape.

They offer live online support, are quick to reply to any email questions you may have (I know this first hand), and have an ordering system that is effortless.

Another cool thing you will find on their site is a link to Pisciphilia. Now there is a ten dollar word for ya. What is Pisciphilia you might ask? Well, I could tell you, but it would take away from the fun of you finding out for yourself. I’ll just say that it is an outstanding blog/online magazine that covers all the issues and also has helpful info on knots, dubbing, news relevant to the sport…and on occasion, you might find yours truly with a post as well. Currently there is a report on nymphing the Green River that is absolutely epic. Go read it for yourself.

At a time when so much of our world is impersonal and just about the bottom line, it is refreshing to see that there are a few folks out there who are not only good at business, but good with people. Dustin has knocked it out of the park on both counts and I am very glad to have found a friend in Fishwest. Give them a visit…it is worth your time…I promise.

You can find Fishwest here: http://www.fishwest.com/

And, you can find Pisciphilia here: http://explore.fishwest.com/

Tomorrow, it is all out war in the land of The Perfect Drift!!! Stay tuned!!!

Steve and Marc go fishing (Pt.2)

2011-07-25T11:56:00.000-04:00

Steve:
Moving to some faster water I switched to the second of the Two Fly menu – the Pheasant Tail nymph. I chose a ugly little Beadhead Pheasant Tail. I had tied this particular fly early in my tying career and it was too fat to be a true PT. But given that the fish weren’t going to get too good a look at it and they were borderline suicidal I didn’t think its proportions would matter much.

And I was proven correct.

First cast, fish on. Fish to net. It happened so quick I thought I had snagged the bottom. Another feisty fight in a place where I rarely fail to find a fish.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent casting my pheasant tail in likely places. I got a few more fish. A bunch more tugs on the line and caught the bottom a bit too often. Such is the price of putting a heavy nymph in small water.

The fast water ran through a dark evergreen forest that caused the evening to come quicker than upstream. And upstream there were the slower sections that practically promised rising fish. And so I hike back up into the light.

Unfortunately the bugs and the fish weren’t on the same wavelength with me. Not rise. Not a fish. But the Two Fly was a success. Two Flys attracted fairly regular attention and I got to fish with Marc.

Marc:
There is a hard riffle thirty yards or so upstream so I tie on a size 16 Pheasant Tail Nymph with some weight and try to high stick the turbulent current. Seems that there is always a rainbow or two hanging out in this spot, but trying to high stick a heavily weighted fly on a 3wt. bamboo is next to impossible.

Its strike indicator time in Tennessee. I tie on a bright orange cut of yarn and go back through the run. Still not easy to do with this rod, but easier. Three or four casts and I hook up yet again with another small rainbow. This one had been caught before and its captor was of the feathered variety. Deep gashes on its back. I put it back in the water and think to myself that the little guy will probably not make it much longer. I wish him well and move back downstream.

With my nymph and indicator rig still intact, I go back to my true target…the brown. At this point I am straight upstream from him along the bank so I just roll cast a few feet in front of me, then feed out line as the fly heads downstream. The indicator, a bright beacon of glorified bobber fishing, drifts nonchalantly with the current, goes under the elm branch, moves in line with the rock ledge. And out of nowhere this large brown mouth appears.

One thing you think I would have learned by now. Strike indicators such as the one I was using do not have hooks, therefore, it one has a fish strike said indicator, the likelihood of catching a fish is next to nada. Unless of course the yarn gets massively tangled in its mouth, or, as was the case here, you foul hook it in the tail with the fly you were presenting.

Now, I have stated previously in this post how weighted flies are difficult on a 3wt bamboo. That problem is nothing compared to the trouble you face when you have that same light rod and on the other end is a large hooked fish whose head is free from the guidance of the line. All I could do, and I do mean ALL I could do, was just hang on. He ran far and fast till the backing on my reel started to show. One last raise of the rod tip ……he, my fly, and my indicator were gone.

Later, as I headed to my car, I looked back at the river and could have sworn that I saw an orange piece of yarn just under the surface of the water.

*Closing Comments*

I was amazed at how in many ways Steves report and my report are so similar. What I learn from that is that no matter where you are, in most cases, our sport is the same. We both got off the beaten path, we both caught fish, and we both left a little better off for having gone.

I hope this experiment has been enjoyable for you as the reader. Perhaps Steve and I will fish again...I know that I would like it. Who knows, maybe next time we will find ourselves on the same body of water, but if not, it'll still be good spending time on two rivers with a friend.

Tomorrow, we take a look at Fishwest!!!!!

Steves Blog: http://sippingemergers.blogspot.com/

Steve and Marc go fishing (pt. 1)

2011-07-21T12:48:00.000-04:00

Steve:
The rivers in the area are starting to settle in to their summer flows. They’ve come to this state later than normal due to a good snowpack and productive spring rainfalls. Soon the water will no longer cool your toes when you wade in. But not quite yet.

The air is heavier than it was only a few weeks ago. The mercury has dodged towards the triple digits once or twice. While it never quite got there it let you know that it was possible; that summer was here. Soon the fruit on the wild grape growing on the banks will purple and fill the air with it sweet scent. But not quite yet.

The Noname River is a pretty little stream that I’ve fish relatively often this year. In past years I fished this river only in the spring and fall. Most years the summer flows are very low and too warm to play with the trout. But this year it is still flowing at a reasonable rate and the water retains a good chill as measured by my Teva’d toes.

The stream has a pretty solid wild trout population but like most of these small New England streams the bug life is sparse. While that lack of solid biomass inhibits growth of trout it also means that when they see something foodlike, they pounce. That’s this stream’s appeal.

Along the first hundred yards or so from the road the water is thin. I’ve fished it a couple of times but even the likely spots that have some depth rarely yield a fish. There is this one little pool where the stream flow encounters a large boulder and some ledge. The hard turn of the current has carved out a bit of a hole. I’ve seen fish scurrying for cover as I’ve approached. But that usually means I’ve spooked them and I pass them buy.

This time I was smart enough to bushwhack a bit off the trail as I came upon this pool so that the fish were fresh. I noticed a rise as I walked by so I knew where to cast. With a Parachute Adams, the first of the Two Fly, on my leader I walked out on that piece of ledge and commenced to casting. It took a few drifts to get into the right spot but once I was in the zone the response was immediate. A beautiful, wild Brown Trout came to hand.

The Parachute Adams did the trick several more times as I worked through the slow runs below. I got about half the fish that slashed at the fly to hand. The biggest was an eight inch Brown. All thin. All feisty. All returned to catch again.

Marc:
The water was unusually vacant for a summer afternoon. It is the peak of vacation season which usually means an unending flotilla of yellow, orange and lime green tubes are meandering down the river. This day however, it was empty, but large piles of river stones and more than one piece of trash let me know that they had been there at some point during the day. I was glad that they were gone. Not to besmirch their right to enjoy this wonderful place, but casting is hard enough here without having to worry about hooking a child.

I tied on a size 14 Parachute Adams, stepped in the stream, and stood for a minute or two so that my bare legs could adjust to the abrupt change in temperature. Honestly, I could stop right there and just stand looking at this wonderful place, but when you are a middle aged man, and you are standing alone in a river, you had best be DOING something. So I scanned the water for signs of life.

Across the stream, underneath an overhanging branch of an Elm tree was a sipper. Nothing huge to be certain, but the fish was active. I sidestepped upstream about twenty feet to get a better presentation as my fly drifted into the feeding lane, fed out a few feet of line and came back with my cast. That is when I was reminded that trees line BOTH sides of the bank. My fly had found an oak branch. An oak branch that was out of reach. An oak branch that, unless something very severe has occurred in the interim, still has a size 14 Parachute Adams dangling like a Christmas ornament.

I tie on a size 14 Parachute Adams, move a little further out into the stream, and stand for a minute or two to see if my target was still eating. He was there. And this time he had a dinner guest, just behind him and closer to a rock ledge. This one was bigger, much bigger, and it was he who now garnered my attention.

The cast was as close to good as I could get and the path of my drift would put it right between them. The fly came in close, intersected the two trout, and the smaller one hit it as if its life depended upon it. The Riverdale Classic 6’6” 3 wt. (the name of rods I build) bent with short quick dips as the fish darted left and right, then airborne before being handed, unhooked, and released. Not much bigger than my hand, but with color that just isn’t found anywhere else around here.

I redress my fly, check my knot, and flick it back out into the same run. I know that there was also a big fish feeding, and I also know that one of my good friends caught a 22” Brown from this same spot. My imagination begins running wild. I get nervous. The fly reaches ground zero…nothing. I cast again. Nothing. Then I begin to think that perhaps the remaining fish was put down by my previous catch. I move on to let it have enough time to forget about me…I will be back.