The Rusty Spinner

Benjamin Bronze Studios

2012-01-31T23:10:00.000-05:00

Ben Jose is one of my closest friends and fishing partners. He's a die-hard dry fly angler, intrepid steelhead junkie, and generally devoted to all things concerning the long rod. When he's not casting a tight loop over seventy or eighty feet of river, he's usually casting bronze in the foundry of Benjamin Bronze Studios.

In all of his pursuits, Ben's focus on excellence borders on obsession. Case in point, he learned to tie simple flies and double haul just days after learning the basic overhand cast. Once he experienced fly fishing, he was in full tilt. Such is the case with the art work he produces in the foundry he shares with the owner of Hudson Studios (a consortium of ridiculously talented artists and craftsmen).

Ben recently branched out, allowed his passions for the long rod and metal-work to fuse, and began producing custom bronze work for the fly fisher and fly tyer. Most recently, he crafted a medallion for Pat Cohen of R U Superfly fame. The two-dimensional logo of Pat's fly-tying business has been carefully reproduced in three dimensions of solid bronze. The medallion mounts to Pat's vise, and was on display during The Fly Fishing Show in Somerset, New Jersey.

Anyone who frequents or follows my blog knows that I am not one to write product endorsements. In fact, Ben's bronze work is the first product I've highlighted on The Rusty Spinner. My reasons for lifting the blackout are twofold. First, Ben is a friend, and I would like to see him be successful. Second, Ben does fine work, extraordinary work actually. While a medallion would be a fine addition to anyone's vise, Ben can make nearly any idea come to life. Perhaps a base for that vise? Bronze caps for rod tubes? If you can think it, then he can make it happen.

Contact Ben Jose of Benjamin Bronze Studios at (518) 653-9192 or via email at benjaminbronzestudios@fastmail.fm ...

The Fly Fishing Show

2012-01-31T17:35:00.002-05:00

This past weekend the boys and I attended the annual Fly Fishing Show in Somerset, New Jersey. The trip was the first I've made in four years (no coincidence that my children are four years old). I'm disappointed to say that the show isn't quite the spectacle I remember it to be. Maybe it's the current state of the economy. Perhaps it's simply that the novelty has worn off all that shiny new gear. Whatever it was, I would be lying if I told you that I wasn't just a little bit disappointed.

http://www.flyfishingshow.com/Somerset__NJ.html

In years past, the highlight of Chuck Furimsky's gathering was for me - aside from meeting old friends and swapping lies - always the sprawling assembly of vendors that plied their wares on the floor of the Garden State Convention Center. While I cannot be absolutely certain, the show seemed to lack many of the shops that had once been in attendance, and I don't know that they've been replaced. There seemed to be more lodges and destinations represented, but there weren't many new products to see, and even fewer deals to be had. I am - after all - all about finding a deal.

I remember attending a show some years ago, and buying inexpensive, one-ounce packages of bar-dyed marabou - five or six of them - before bar-dyed marabou was available through every fly tying catalog that arrives in the mail. That same year, my buddy and I picked up large bags of CDC at the booth representing Rene Harrop's shop; from Castle Arms we snagged a mature blue-eared pheasant skin that was just loaded with large feathers as opposed to the juvenile skins and small feathers available from another vendor this year. Fly Tyer Variant always set up shop just inside the doors, and sold Whiting products that were both modestly priced and available in abundance. This year Whiting was poorly represented and substantially overpriced, but I guess that's an entirely different story.

Bear in mind that new rods and reels - both of which were present in abundance at this year's show - don't really do it for me anymore. Many of them come out of the same one or two factories in China or South Korea; the only difference from one brand to another is hardware and appearance. Given that it's harder to find a bad outfit these days than it is to find one that performs well, I just don't see myself going all googly-eyed over the latest and greatest sticks. Maybe next year ...

Any reason I might offer for the perceived change in the show's offerings would be purely speculation. I'm sure the dwindling economy leaves many shop owners wondering if they can afford the expense of traveling and setting up shop at the show. As gas prices rise (they've almost doubled in three years), I'd guess fewer anglers are attending as well - choosing instead, to use their greenbacks to find some open water. But who knows? While it seemed there were fewer folks in attendance than there were in years past, I've really no way of knowing for sure.

The bottom line is that I remember going to the show five or ten years ago, and feeling a palpable excitement as I walked through the door. It was a feeling not unlike what one might experience as he or she dons waders before a day on the water. This year I didn't feel any of the hopeful anticipation that characterized The Fly Fishing Show in years past, but before I come off as a complete curmudgeon, let me say that the show was not without its highlights.

The door prizes were exceptional, even if the manner in which attendees registered for those prizes was a bit chaotic. Tyers row did not disappoint; I don't know that it ever does. Good friends Bob Mead, Pat Cohen, and Tim Blair were just three of the many talented folks in attendance.

True to form, Bob did his best to talk the ears off anyone who stopped by his table. For those of you that don't know him, Bob is one of the grandfathers of realistic tying and probably the art form's best ambassador. His flies were among the first of the genre (many of his peers would say Bob's flies define the genre), and almost forty years after tying the prototype, his praying mantis is as much in demand as ever. Bob's flies have recently found homes in print advertising and television programming. His mosquito is featured in advertisements for Sarna anti-itch hand lotion, and his black widow and hornets appear in popular sitcoms such as Royal Pains. He and I made tentative plans to hit the hendrickson hatch this year.

Pat Cohen may have been the busiest of the tyers in attendance. Throughout the day, he held court with any number of inspired fans. I think the appeal of Pat's tying is three-fold. First, he does exceptional work with deer hair. All of his deer hair flies are suitable for framing, and most are deadly fish stickers. Second, Pat is something of a fly tying Everyman. He doesn't work with particularly expensive or rare materials. As such, anyone can tie as Pat ties, even if they may not tie as well as Pat ties. Finally, Pat is something of an anomaly. Adorned with both tattoos and piercings, Pat stands out amongst his fellow tyers. There's an edge to his appearance, even if there isn't an edge to the man, and people seem drawn to that edge.

Tim Blair is one of the signature tyers for S.S. Flies, a small commercial tying operation that markets flies tied only in America to a predominantly saltwater audience. Timmy and I worked together some years ago, before either of us had children or minds to pursue anything that didn't have gills. I'm a little older than Tim, and I remember his first few rudimentary fumblings at the vise (he had a real penchant for "Gummy" material back in the day). I now have to admit that his tying skills have likely grown beyond my own. He's a talented tyer, a committed bug chucker, and a genuinely good man. S.S. Flies is fortunate to have him on board.

When all is said and done, I suppose it is the people and personalities that make The Fly Fishing Show a success. Most of us can do without the gear. I know I can't make the newest rods perform much better than the stick I've been fishing for ten years. It's the author that shakes your hand and signs a book, or the tyer that whips up a fly for your son and offers it up without charge, that make the three hour drive worth while.

So ... I suppose I'll continue to make the occasional trip to Somerset for the show. I won't expect to be awed by the latest gizmo or blown over by the blow-out, close-outs on fly tying material. Instead, I'll make the drive knowing the show is about people who share a passion, old friends and new ones alike.

Danny LaRusso's Gonna Fight

2012-01-26T19:05:00.002-05:00

Remember that scene near the end of The Karate Kid? I'm sure you know the one I mean. Danny LaRusso - the quintessential, downtrodden outcast - is squaring off against Johnny - handsome, rich kid bully and leader of the Cobra Kai. Standing in the background and off to either side of our antagonists is the always stoic, Mr. Miyagi and the frequently incensed, Sensei John Kreese.

Danny is hurt, but he has held his own. In match after match, he's proven he is every bit the equal of the Cobras, and that he'll never again be pushed around. But this final fight is important. Without this last fight, Danny will never have balance with Allie. He'll never have balance with himself. Without this last fight, there will always be that tiny but constant drip of doubt.

And then come the words that leave an indelible impression upon an entire generation of movie goers.

"Sweep the leg."

In that moment, the tone of the film darkens. The audience recognizes that the battle is no longer between two teenagers, one a cruel tormentor and the other his hapless victim. In that moment, we see that the real fight is between conflicting ideologies.

The first stresses power, and the imposition of that power on the weak and less fortunate.

"Mercy is for the weak."

The other stresses equilibrium, the outward and inward balance of one's life with one's spirit.

"Ah Danielson, you all wet."

"Drive a punch Danielson ... make good fight."

So, what has any of this to do with fly fishing?

Absolutely nothing. This short diatribe (complete with video), just demonstrates how bad the shack-nasties can get in January. January may be the cruelest month for a bug chucker. The rivers slow, and the lakes are frozen. Tying is mere distraction.

The stream of consciousness flows. Sometimes it runs to steelhead. Sometimes to trout, bass, or carp. Sometimes we drift to Danny LaRusso and the silhouette of a bonzai tree on a blaze orange background.

Sigh ...

I need to go fishing.

Mot Juste

2012-01-09T22:18:00.000-05:00

mot juste (noun) mō-ˈzhuest: exactly the right word or phrasing

As much as I enjoy fly fishing and everything the sport entails, I must admit that bug chucking isn't always the most exciting endeavor. That isn't to say that fly fishing isn't my passion, but let's face it, most days on the water pass uneventfully. We make a few hundred casts. We catch a few fish. We have a good but otherwise unremarkable day.

Yesterday was not an unremarkable day.

Yesterday was something altogether different. Yesterday was the kind of day that haunts the average bug chucker - alchemically changing innocuous daydreams into obsessive compulsive disorder. Yesterday was a day of fishing so exceptional as to leave both audience and actors alike wondering if a second such day could ever be possible. Yesterday was special.

And having experienced yesterday, I realize I've an obligation to share the story with my friends and readers if for no other reason than to let them know that yesterday is possible. So now I sit here at my keyboard, trying to string together the narrative of a day that was entirely unlike anything I have ever before experienced, and I find I simply haven't the words. I'm completely at a loss.

Perhaps I lack the spectacular vernacular of a more accomplished wordsmith. Maybe I should stick to fly tying, and forget all about this blogging thing. I suppose it could be true that those who can, do; those who can't, teach (when not flinging flies I'm a high school teacher). All I can really say with any certainty is that I don't know what to say about yesterday. I don't know where to start, how to finish, or what it all might mean in the context of day on the river, let alone a third of a century spent stream side.

Maybe it's enough to forgo the details. Maybe it's enough to dispense with the numbers, statistics and the play-by-play, and simply say we had a very good time. We had the kind of day the river gods parcel out all too infrequently, and if we never have that kind of day again then at least we'll have been given that moment, and the indelible impression of something very special. We'll have the memory of a day for which there really are no words.

2011 Year In Pictures

2011-12-24T14:30:00.000-05:00

A very quick photographic summary of a year that has come to a close far too quickly ...

#%@&tards

2011-12-22T06:23:00.002-05:00

Every November, the boys and I make the annual fishing trip to New York's, Salmon River. My wife asks why I describe this as the trip rather than a trip, given that I'll make at least two suicide runs (read: one day road trips with a minimum five hours drive time) per month throughout the fall and winter seasons. My bride asks a perfectly reasonable question, and I suppose if I stop to think about it, this trip is special for several reasons.

First, the November trip is a mini-vacation of sorts. The boys and I each take several days off from work, kiss our respective wives and children goodbye, and dive (metaphorically, of course) into the frigid autumn waters of several nearby Lake Ontario tributaries. Second, the duration of the trip allows us to behave more like boys than grown men. We generally don't do anything illegal, but given that we haven't any particular responsibilities for a short while, we do allow ourselves to relax in a way that might be frowned upon if we did it in the polite company of our families (a little "thank you" goes out to the Ommegang and Lagunitas breweries). Third, early to mid November is generally the only time of year when all of us can get together at the same time. That this assembly is a once-per-year event may be a good thing for our families, the towns of Altmar and Pulaski, and the local members of law enforcement and the criminal justice system.

Of course, there are certain draw-backs to wetting a line in the tribs that time of year. Anyone who fishes the Great Lakes with any sort of regularity - especially in that span of weeks between early September and late November - has almost certainly had a run-in with a #%@&tard. #%@&tards are the living, beathing, walking, talking personification of rudeness, and they're the sad reality of fishing western New York for potamodromous steelhead.

Whatever sense of etiquette a #%@&tard may have at home ... well ... he or she (yes, women are #%@&tards too) abandons that behavior once in the vicinity of the big lakes. #%@&tards have an uncanny propensity for ruining an intrepid steelheader's day. As such, I think it incumbent upon me to help my too-few readers identify a #%@&tard should they ever find themselves wandering the shores of the Great Lakes. How do we know a #%@&tard when we see one? It's not so easy as the uninitiated bug chucker might think.

What makes spotting a #%@&tard so difficult is that they might carry heavy action spinning gear or center-pin rigs, but they could just as easily be bug chuckers swinging spey rods or single-hand nymph rigs. They might tie their own married wing Jock Scotts, but they could also be spotted carrying jars of neon or glow-in-the-dark Power Bait worms. A #%@&tard might wade the river's currents in high end breathable waders complete with battery powered leg warmers, but they're as likely to be found in Gander Mountain neoprenes or Red Ball hippers. Ultimately, one can never tell a #%@&tard by his or her appearance, and certainly never by the gear he or she carries. One discerns a #%@&tard based entirely on the #%@&tard's behavior, and that behavior is easily recognized.

#%@&tards are the folks who insist on crossing a river through the very run you're fishing. Once on the far bank, #%@&tards will set up shop directly across from you, and toss their line over yours on every fourth or fifth cast. #%@&tards will step into your spot if you so much as dare to stop fishing for the sake of netting your buddy's fish, let alone to smoke a cigar, eat a sandwich, or pee in the woods. #%@&tards would crawl right up your backside if they thought there might be a steelhead inside.

And all of this brings us back to the November, 2011 steelhead trip.

For three days, the boys and I had been successfully fishing the same run. We caught fish; in all modesty, we caught quite a lot of fish. Most came on nymphs, several took eggs, and a few crushed swung flies. Either the river gods had enough of our antics or word spread that we were into fish because on the final day of the trip we were inundated with #%@&tards. We were simultaneously low-holed and high-holed. A wagon train of nomadic other-siders (bug chuckers who believe the fishing will always be better from the other side of the river) waded through the cherry part of the run. One #%@&tard decided he needed to fish exactly where I was fishing, so he set up directly across from me and began rigging his rod. I couldn't hold back.

"Really buddy? Really? Three hundred yards of river free below us, and you're going to set up shop right on top of me?"

"What'd you mean?"

"What do I mean? I mean there's a quarter mile of river free, and you're about to throw your line right on top of mine."

"I can fish here."

That single sentence encapsulates everything I hate about #%@&tards. Yes, you can fish here. You could also strip off all your clothes, and run down the river bank singing, "Doo-lay, doo-lay ... look at me. I'm an elf." If you were so inclined, you could jump off the roof of a very tall building, play Russian Roulette with a Colt Model 1911 (that's a clip loading pistol for the handgun impaired), or drive down the left side of any one of America's busy and beautiful byways. #%@&tards are very much aware of what they can do, but they often lack the sense to ask if something should be done. So while you can wet a line here, you shouldn't because to do so would be rude. Walking into the run that someone is fishing and setting up right on top of that other angler demonstrates a general lack of etiquette.

"Who taught you to fish?"

"What? My grandfather. Why you asking @$$hole?"

"Well, I find myself wondering if grandpa skipped the chapter on etiquette, or if you're just a naturally obtuse #%@&tard."

From this point, the conversation was infused with testosterone and became increasingly belligerent. Our discussion culminated with the #%@&tard removing his gear and gesturing as if he were going to come back over to the near bank and challenge me for the heavyweight crown (these days it may actually be super-heavyweight).

"Maybe I should just come over there, and kick your ass?"

"You're welcome to try Spartacus. Whenever you're ready, I'll be right here ... fishing the run I was first on at 4:30 this morning, and yesterday morning, and the day before that."

This kind of aggression seems antithetical to fly fishing, and bug chuckers would be right to find it distasteful. Unfortunately, returning a #%@&tard's attitude is often the most effective way to deal with the situation. I once chose to leave steelheading because of the preponderance of #%@&tardation on so many Great Lakes tributaries. I won't let that happen again. From now on, I'll take the fight to the #%@&tards. Perhaps some tough love is just what is needed to teach folks that etiquette and common courtesy are portable, and as apropos on the Salmon River as they are along the banks of the Delaware, Battenkill, Neversink, or Yellow Breeches.

Old Farts

2011-12-12T21:44:00.000-05:00

There are those days when we're willing to walk for miles to find the right fish ... not just any fish, but the right fish. Of course, there are also those days when we're willing wander the countryside, and perhaps - both literally and metaphorically - wade upstream all day looking for any fish at all. And then there are those days when we want it to be easy. We don't want to hike ourselves into blisters and moleskin. We don't want to struggle to find a big fish. We don't want to sweat. We want it to be easy. We need it to be easy.

We need a day of steelheading without the sore shoulders that sometimes accompany swinging an Orange Heron on a 15' sink tip with the 13'6" big gun. We need eager fish. We need plentiful, eager fish. We need gentle wading, and perhaps most importantly, we need a short walk back to the car.

What we need is a run that oozes steelhead: four or five feet deep along most of its length, few snags but plenty of current breaks and structure, heavy riffle at the head and a gradual incline at the tail. Swing it or nymph it ... you'll bang 'em. We need a run with a name indicative of the kind of fishing one might expect to find there, a pool that comes complete with its own lounge chair.

What we need is ... Old Farts.


Old Farts Pool ... 11' 8# switch ... Ommegang Three Philosophers ... Three great tastes that go great together (at 9:00 in the morning)

So glad Great Lakes steelhead appreciate rubber legs as I do

Pretty sure, however, that they do not share my affinity for rubberized net bags ...

The pool is literally 75 feet away from the parking lot ... usually a bad thing ... sometimes however ... the best of things

We'll Get 'Em Next Time

2011-12-05T08:01:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I hit the river with Pat Cohen of Got Bronze and R U Superfly fame. As is always the case when Pat and I fish together, we began the day with high hopes. As is sometimes the case when Pat and I fish together, those hopes were quickly dashed upon the jagged rocks of the river.

In truth, we hooked a few fish, which was a few more than some bug chuckers hooked and far fewer than others put in the net. The fish we tagged fought well, and we nearly brought each of them to hand. Ultimately, it just wasn't meant to be.

I did manage a few shots of Pat while fighting one of the steelhead he hooked. Of course, he didn't catch the fish (my fault ... poor job of tail grabbing), but he did look sharp while doing it.

For anyone interested in such things ... Superfly was fishing a 40 year old Fenwick fiberglass rod. I'm not sure if the rod made him look better or if he brought something to the rod. Either way, it did make for a striking picture when the rod doubled over with the weight of a steelhead.

We'll get 'em next time Pat.

On New Friends and First Fish

2011-12-02T00:22:00.000-05:00

It is a moment that remains crystal in one's mind regardless of the passage of time. Indelible, impossible to forget, not unlike the first time you kiss the woman you love. You're not quite sure what is happening when it happens, but you feel something you've never before felt. You're aroused, excited, and so full of hope that you think your chest might burst from the pressure. When it's over, you desperately need to feel that way again ... and again ... and again.

You've hooked your first steelhead.

I remember that first fish better than I remember my last fish; it must have been twelve or fifteen years ago now. We were high sticking a run that I now know is among the most popular for dirty-ass nymphers like myself (an affectionate appellation that I happily wear with pride). My friend and guide for the day had been quite successful, and netting his fish - there were several - had begun to sting. The occasional skipper had somehow managed to impale itself on my fly, but the river gods had so far denied me the joy of a returning steelhead. Hours into the day ...

Magic.

My indicator made the drift from left to right as it had so many times before, but on this run it stopped abruptly and was dragged under the surface. I stood dumbly watching the little piece of orange and yellow balsa shoot upstream through the current. The hook set itself - almost involuntarily - as the line drew tight against the rod. A steelhead - a real steelhead, not a skipper, not a ghost - somersaulted out of the water, turned, and ran back downstream.

I never brought the fish to hand, which is - I suppose - why it swims still in my memory. My buddy suggested the chromed-up hen weighed at least 15 pounds. Who can say? She was big. She was strong. She was fast, and she was one hell of an introduction to what is arguably one of the finest - if not the finest - game fish found in freshwater.

Fast forward fifteen years to the weekend before Thanksgiving, 2011. The boys and I are on the second day of a three day steelheading bender. We did well enough on the first day, but our metal-lust was hardly sated. Joining us for day two is Shawn Combs, a native Kentuckian who has never caught a steelhead. As the day progresses, he watches as the rest of the group hook fish after fish, and I can see in his eyes the same fatigue and hopeful anticipation, which I had felt so many years before.

Shawn Combs ... wishing it would happen.

Although he was too much a gentleman to say it, I am almost certain he thought it ...

"When is it going to be my turn?"

And slowly the morning haze gave way to noon day sun; noon eventually made its move toward night. The hours slipped away, and Shawn went without a pull. Eventually, there were just minutes left in the day. Like soldiers defending a fallen comrade, we converged on the crestfallen Kentuckian. Tippet is cut. Knots are tied. And then with only moments left in the evening ...

Magic.

Shawn hooked a steelhead. A steelhead - a real steelhead, not a skipper, not a ghost - takes Shawn's fly and shoots off downstream. Shawn tried frantically to bring the fish under some semblance of control, and just when it seemed he had gained an advantage, the fish turned straight back at him. It leaped only a few feet from our intrepid steelheader, and just as it quickly as the chaos began, so too did it end. The fish was off.

Game over.

As we shouldered our gear for the trek back to the car, I took a moment to console Shawn.

"I lost my first one too."

"Really?"

"Yep. Schooled me. You did a much better job than I did."

"There's hope then."

"Hell man. This is steelheading. All you ever have is hope."

I didn't have the heart to tell him I lost my second, third, and fourth fish too.

Pornography ... Courtesy of the River Gods

2011-11-30T21:55:00.006-05:00

Not too long ago, the boys and I took three days to fish New York's, Salmon River. The trip was exceptional for many reasons, not the least of which was the fishing.

To say we did well might be a bit of an understatement. We caught more fish than the river gods had likely allotted us, but we worked hard to put them in the net. No two fish took the same fly. Some wanted eggs, others took nymphs, and a few slammed the hell out of half chicken skins, swung through the seams.

As with all things pornographic ... we begin with a bald man ...

Like Cyclops - the defacto leader of the X-Men - should Shawn remove his glasses, a beam of light will burst forth from his eyes and destroy everything in its path ... this brown was one of the lucky ones.

Not sure why ... but looking at that photo of Shawn, I am reminded of Ming the Merciless - a little Flash Gordon flashback for ya' right there.

Ever wonder what they're thinking when they stare at you like that? Bet if they had legs, they'd kick you in the ...

Catching them is great, but watching them swim away is especially gratifying.


Anybody play guitar? Is that a G chord Ben is plucking on this fish?

Even the small fish can spool you in an instant.

Hard to say how many fish we hooked in this run ... more than two, less than 100.

It's an amazing fishery that provides an environment for fish like this ... clean, strong, fast ... and abundant.

Hard not to finish the day with a grin like that ...

TO BE CONTINUED

Greetings from New Zealand

2011-11-28T17:04:00.001-05:00

Ruhan Neethling has made several appearances here on The Rusty Spinner. He's a world traveler, top notch bug chucker, and an artist whose skill at the vise approaches that of the most accomplished fly tyers. Since Ruhan and I began our correspondence, he has made several trips to New Zealand, and each time he has sent along some photographs for my perusal and enjoyment. It's hard not to be jealous, and just as easy to forget how bountiful our own, local rivers may sometimes be.

So, here we go again. Ruhan recently went back to Kiwi-land, and once again I have to ask that you raise your glasses to toast to my man on the other side of the globe. He's proof that fly fishing is universal in both its appeal and its madness.

FYI ... in the message that was included with the following photographs, Ruhan laments that this year's trip didn't witness any of the really big fish he saw during last year's trip. I couldn't help but laugh ...

Look at the size of that adipose ...

This picture could just as easily have been taken in the Battenkill or the Yellowstone.

Another skipper ... not sure why Ruhan bothers with the little guys.

Trout live in such ugly places.

Wouldn't it be a shame to wake up to this view every day?

Guppy ...

I wonder if there are any big trout in New Zealand.

Double jealous ...

Nothing at all fishy about this spot ...

The fish is yawning because she's bored ...

Mustad to be Sold

2011-11-25T14:38:00.000-05:00

Norwegian investment company is the surprise bidder for iconic hook brand

After months of fevered speculation, the future of troubled Norwegian hook manufacturer Mustad looks to have finally been assured.

In a surprising twist to the long-running saga which has seen both Rapala and Pure Fishing linked to moves to acquire Mustad, Norwegian industrial and investment company, NLI Utvikling, has announced its intention to purchase the company.

The owner of NLI Utvikling, Borre Nordheim-Larsen, this week notified the Norwegian Competition Authority about the ‘possible acquisition of O.Mustad & Son AS’. He told it that some financial matters had yet to be settled, but that these were likely to be resolved in the next month after which a final decision on the acquisition will be made.

News of NLI Utvikling’s interest in Mustad has come as a shock to industry insiders as it was widely expected that one of the angling industry’s giants would eventually acquire the iconic hook brand.

Relatively unknown outside its homeland, NLI Utvikling, describes itself as a company that has a tradition in investing in companies in ‘demanding’ situations.

In a press statement the company said: “NLI Utvikling sees great potential in further developing the Mustad world brand.”

NLI Utvikling is a privately-owned and independent investment group with a strong tradition and deep roots in Norwegian industry. Since its inception in 1946, it has grown into an organisation that has nearly 1,300 employees and in 2011 had revenue of approximately 2.3 billion NOK.

It is said to invest in companies with potential for growth, but which find themselves in ‘demanding situations’.

Mustad seems to be an ideal fit for its growing portfolio as the company’s financial woes have been widely reported in the media. Speculation over its future heightened earlier this year when it closed its troubled Philippines operation – making around 200 employees redundant – and announced its decision to concentrate on its core business of hook manufacture.

NLI Utvikling currently has interests in the oil, gas, hydropower and renewable energy industries as well as the property and health sectors.

Per Angusta Ad Augusta

2011-11-23T09:41:00.000-05:00

We should have known. When we pulled off the exit and the first flakes started to fall, we should have known. On this trip to the river - a November ritual that unites our small group of friends in the pursuit of piscatorial perfection - the river gods would be exacting their dues, but we were hopefully giddy and otherwise oblivious. We ignored the omens, and paid heed to no portents. We continued off the highway, and spent the next two and a half hours crawling along blizzard blackened back roads.

Midnight ... somewhere west of Rome, New York ... Notice the rod rack installed on the hood of the man-van.

Day one had us crawling out of Brenda's bunk beds, bleary eyed, exhausted, and cursing our decision ever to pick up a fly rod. We fumbled through the process of donning our gear, slid into the car at 4:30 a.m., and were stumbling down the trail that leads to the river by 4:40. We set up our day camp and drank our first Jetboiled coffee more than an hour before sunup; we drank our first beer an hour after daylight.

Mad Elf ... hoppy, tasty, and 11% ABV ... that's the sweet stuff.

Years had passed since I last fished the run, and she changed substantially in the time since our last dalliance. The roaring rapid at the head had been replaced by a gentle glide that slid into a long riffle. That heavy riffle then split into two distinct seams - steelhead would surely hold in either lie. The tailout was much the same as ever, aside from the three current breaks that divided the water into thirds; the confluence of these three eddies looked to be the perfect place to swing a fly.

As is often the case on the Salmon River, we hooked up with hot fish shortly after first light. Ben was first to bring a steelhead to hand, and shortly after Shawn followed suit with a corker of his own. Both were good, solid fish that tore the hell out of the water, and reminded us of why we chase steelhead.

Shawn's first fish of the trip was arguably one of the best fish of the trip.

Darkened by days in the river, but no less acrobatic than its chromed up brothers and sisters.

As for me ... well ... the river gods deigned that I was to pay penance for the group's continued success. I hooked fish that first day, quite a few fish by anyone's standard, but there's many a slip twixt a cup and the lip. The fish I hooked were slippery indeed. Each made a fool of me in short order.

What I felt after those steelhead came loose - either by throwing the hook or splitting my tippet - was akin to what a pugilist experiences when he's on the receiving end of a low blow. Nausea burned in my gut; my mind was a flood of frustration with my piscatorial impotence and anger at my deplorable luck. By the end of the day, I reeked of negative energy, and was ready to forever forgo November steelhead.

But that's the thing about steelhead. Chasing these fish is simultaneously one of the most frustrating and singularly gratifying experiences a bug chucker might have. All it takes is one fish. One fish and you're suddenly impervious to the cold. One fish and you don't mind snagging dozens of painstakingly-tied flies or losing yards of over-priced tippet. One fish and all the fish you've lost become so much background noise. All it takes is one fish.

They're all so fast ... oftentimes it is impossible to keep up.

And after 12 hours in and out of the water on that first day, cast after fruitless cast, I finally hooked that one fish. When Ben slipped the net under his snout I was exhausted. My hands shook, my legs trembled, I was effectively snow-blind, but none of that mattered. I had a fish in the net. I could touch it. It was real, not a ghost.

One fish ... even a gnarly, river darkened buck ... that's all it takes

Fly fishing - fly fishing for steelhead in particular - is a sport of small victories, and the hopeful anticipation that precedes those few, fleeting moments of triumph. Likewise, fly fishing for steelhead is a sport of frustration, irritation, vexation, and the particular anguish that accompanies complete and total defeat. Even the best amongst us know the bite of such defeat. It is these moments, however (times when we curse our fascination with water and with woods), that make sweeter those too few moments of victory.

Per Angusta Ad Augusta.

Like Father Like Son

2011-11-03T00:04:00.001-04:00

Shawn Brillon is one of several talented product developers who work to bring the Orvis company's ever expanding line of fly fishing goods to market. Perhaps more to the point, he is among my closest friends. Like any man who is both a father and a fly fisherman, Shawn does what he can to impart his love of the sport to his boy. More often than not, this means that Shawn and Riley tool around the lake in Dad's drift boat, looking for midging trout or post spawn bass. At least once a year, however, Riley and his father make the trip to the Salmon River in hopes of finding some chromed up steelhead. This year R.J. showed his old man how to get the job done.

I had to use an old photo of old man Brillon as this year the river gods took a shine to young RJ.

Like father like son.

Hang on there kid.

Makes me wonder why I wasted my adolescence on girls.

Must have been one hell of a day. Well done RJ.

The Best Fishing Trip I Never Went On

2011-10-26T20:00:00.000-04:00

I consider myself a fortunate man. I'm blessed with a wonderfully understanding wife who does her very best to tolerate my obsession with bug chucking, three children who - at least in this early stage of their lives - both adore and respect their father, and a small but tight-knit circle of friends who share my passion for tight loops and an evening spinner fall. Within an easy drive of my home are myriad opportunities to cast a fly in warmwater, coldwater, or saltwater, and my career is such that I'm usually in position to take advantage of these opportunities whenever they arise. Again, I'm a lucky guy.

When I consider that I've been casting a fly, however poorly, for a little over thirty years ... well, I have to admit that the avalanche of memories brings a smile to my face. There are certainly far worse ways to spend the better part of three decades. I owe this and so much more to my father, who had the foresight to give me that first fly rod. I'm grateful, and while I don't know that I could ever repay the debt I owe my dad, I do try to pay it forward whenever the opportunity presents itself.

To that end, I've taught any number of people to tie flies and cast a long rod. I've watched as these folks grow to appreciate that water as I do. In some ways, the small part I've played in the development of each of these anglers affords me the opportunity to live vicariously through their experiences. It feels good to see someone catch a fish on a fly I've taught them to tie, to throw seventy feet of line after a casting lesson, or read the water and locate a fish without any suggestions from me. I suppose it's a teacher thing. The carpenter or mason can step back from his or her work, and know that he or she has done a job well. Teachers can only look to their students, and hope the successes those students achieve might just have something to do with the teacher's tutelage. This brings us to Ben.

Ben and I have fished together quite a bit over the last three or four years. I've helped him clean up his cast, taught him how to tie some knots, and to wrap a hook with fur and feathers. In return, he's helped me rediscover my passion for steelhead, and to think creatively when sitting at the vise. Ben has an artist's eye; I do not.

In the time we've shared stream side, I've watched Ben come into his own as a bug chucker; I'm almost sad to say that he no longer needs my instruction.

That he no longer needs my help was obvious on a recent trip Ben took to Idaho with his uncles. Everyone caught fish, and they did so in some of the most beautiful places in this country. I wasn't able to tag along - although I was invited - but I did get to enjoy the trip vicariously through Ben's photographs and stories. Some of those moments, he's most graciously agreed to share on The Rusty Spinner. With luck, you'll be able to live Ben's vacation as I have. I should tell you that it's probably the best fishing trip I never went on.

The road in...

The Hairy Ass Stone Fly @ the tailout.

No unicorns but a lot of these guys.

The snow had ended...applying desiccant to a blue wing olive.

You should see this place rock on Movie Nite.

First morning...

...neighbors

...more neighbors

Quick Fix...all waders leak.

Please Dislike ...

2011-10-23T20:22:00.000-04:00

Was hoping my all too few readers might do me a favor, go to YouTube via the link below, and dislike the video you'll see. Watch it and you'll understand why it is that I ask. The Salmon River in New York could be a top notch fishery if only chuckleheads like the one in the video respected the resource. In the words of Bartles and James, "Thank you for your support."

Suicide Run

2011-10-22T12:25:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, we bug chuckers need to fish. We do not care if it's convenient. We do not care if our schedules or day-planners agree. Ultimately, we do not even care if the fishing is particularly good. We need to fish, and wetting a line is all that matters.

Such was the case yesterday. We knew the river was low, and had been low since the summer. We read the reports, and knew that few steelhead were coming to hand. We knew that gear-slinging chuckleheads would likely line both banks of every likely hole and run along the river's entire length. We knew that if we were measuring our success by counting fish in the net, we would likely leave the water both exhausted and disappointed. We didn't care. We needed to fish. Our suicide run began at 2:30 a.m. with the two and a half hour drive to the river, and ended twelve hours later when we drank our victory beer.

We thank the river gods for bestowing upon us their benevolence and largesse.

There are few experiences a bug chucker may have that are quite as sweet as that first (or second, or third, or ...) steelhead of the season.

Eagle-ish-ous-ness

2011-10-19T21:11:00.003-04:00

Via Fat Gut Fly Fishing ...

More Perfect

2011-10-05T10:45:00.000-04:00

"When I was young, a teacher had forbidden me to say "more perfect" because she said if a thing is perfect it can't be more so. But by now I had seen enough of life to have regained my confidence in it." - Norman Maclean, in the NOVEL, A River Runs Through It

There's a certain air of expectation that precedes any fishing trip. For days, perhaps even weeks or months, we'll think about the possibilities. We tie flies through the early morning hours, and crawl - bleary eyed - into bed alongside disapproving, less-than-understanding spouses. We check and recheck our rods and reels, cleaning lines, lubricating drags, and waxing ferrules. We buy topographic maps, examine routes, form plans and back-up plans. We could be traveling 20 miles by car or 2,000 miles by plane, the anticipation we feel is the same; the difference is only a matter of degree.

Springing from the same place as our anticipation and hope, is the disappointment we feel when a trip falls through; for one reason or another, the river gods sometimes conspire against us, and rob of us those long anticipated moments. Such was the case this past weekend. I had thought to visit the Salmon River one last time before the real rush of king salmon - thousands of fish - dash upriver followed closely by ten sets of waders for every chinook's tail. Sadly, it just wasn't meant to be. The gods of water, fur and feathers conspired against me, and I spent Sunday afternoon mowing the lawn.

And maybe having missed a trip, having forever lost the promise of that moment, I've discovered a small part of the formula that makes our time on the water so precious. As much as anything else - as much as the rods and reels, flies and fish, rivers and lakes, mountains and meadows - fisherman need hope. We need the undiluted anticipation the precedes that first fish, that first cast, that first moment of revelation when we step into the river.

I think that hope may be the best part of any fishing trip. Hope gives us a reason to string up our rods, struggle into wading boots that are always just a bit too tight, stumble across the currents and the rocks, and set up in a run where we think there might, possibly be a fish. Hope is what keeps us coming back to that run when that fish does not necessarily follow the script. Hope is what makes every day we spend on the water just a little more perfect than the last.

R U Super Fly?

2011-09-30T14:35:00.000-04:00

In fly fishing and fly tying circles, there are certain folks whose names have become synonymous with the quiet sport. These talented men and women have contributed to our piscatorial passions in such a way as to impact nearly every bug chucker who followed after them.

Lee Wulff, Carrie Stevens, Gary LaFontaine ... I could go on ad infinitum, and I'd be willing to bet you would know most every name I mention. In my time, I've been fortunate to meet some of the folks that continue to contribute to the lexicon of our sport. Of these, I've become friends with a select few. One such person is a young man whose emergence as a fly tyer of note has been nothing short of volcanic.

Pat Cohen and I have corresponded for well over a year. We've even had the good fortune to fish together on one of my favorite rivers. As you may know, Pat's work with deer hair is nothing short of extraordinary; he has an exceptional eye for color and proportion. What is most inspiring - or perhaps a better word may be, humbling - about Pat's work is the simple fact that he has only been tying for a short while.

Pat first picked up a bobbin just over two years ago, and already his work has been showcased on various bug chucking blogs (including my own), in the pages of fly fishing and tying magazines, and at The Fly Fishing Show in Somerset, New Jersey.

Most recently, Pat has taken his tying commercial. Some of Pat's most popular flies are now available through his website, R U SuperFly. Rest assured that while each of Pat's creations is suitable for framing, they're intended - each and every pattern listed - to be fished and fished hard. I've cast one of his deer hair mice for nearly an entire season, and the fly looks almost as good now as it did on the day he shared it with me.

Please take some time to check out SuperFly's site, and know that if you've a few dollars to spare they would be well spent on any of Cohen's bugs.

Feels Like The First Time

2011-09-22T14:00:00.000-04:00

She probably weighed an honest 18 or 20 pounds, but I never brought the fish to hand so I guess I've the luxury of suggesting that she may have been heavier. Across the back, she was thick - at least as thick as my thigh, and I am 6' 3" tall and weigh in at 290 pounds. Her tail looked like a Geisha's fan as it danced through the air in wide circles above the shallow tailout of the pool. I remember thinking that fin would have been as wide as both my hands if I were to place them side by side with fingers spread. I suspect she knew I was a rookie. At the very least, she took full advantage of the fact that I was a rookie. The first steelhead I ever hooked was likely the biggest steelhead I've ever hooked, and I never had her inside two rod lengths.

What's amazing is that in the ten or twelve years between then and now, the memory hasn't dimmed or been otherwise distorted. Naturally, the details on the periphery of the moment have been blurred just a bit, but every heartbeat of my connection with that fish is crystal, as clear as a Montana spring creek. While I cannot imagine our connection lasted more than 20 heartbeats, it's hard to be sure. Time slows to a crawl when a steelhead takes a fly, the world moves frame by frame, and it's impossible to focus on anything but the fish.

I suppose it's safe to say that my too few readers might assume I've spent the past decade trying to recapture what I experienced in the fleeting moments of that first hookup. If I were reading this blog and not its author, I would probably think the same, but nothing could be further from the truth. Yes. Fishing steelhead does have a narcotic effect, but unlike cocaine, steelheading does not give up the ghost and leave an angler forever chasing that original high.

The thing about steelhead fishing - whether it's done with sucker spawn, classic speys, or even egg sacks I suppose - is that every time is new. Every time is original. Every time is exciting. Every time is unfiltered, undiluted adrenaline.

Every time a steelhead takes a fly is just like that first time. There's nothing else in the world quite like it. Steelhead never lose their appeal; they never fail to impress. There is little I would rather do than throw a line in the hopeful anticipation of that first hookup.

It was a long, hot summer. Thank God steelhead season is finally here.

Chronic Absenteeism

2011-09-20T18:08:00.000-04:00

If you're one of the few followers of The Rusty Spinner then I owe you a most sincere apology. I have been going through something of a fallow season, one in which the words stay just out of reach. I average one or two such periods a year, but this sucker has been a real doozy. On top of my short attention span and general lack of creativity, I haven't had very much time to tie or fish. The collision of these two forces - writer's block and fishless, fly free weekends - results in my chronic absenteeism from the blog. Rest assured that I haven't forgotten my passion for fly fishing. Rest assured that I haven't forgotten my little corner of cyber space. I may chase some salmon and steelhead this weekend, and with any luck I'll bust out of the funk. Until then ...

Na-noo ... Na-noo ...

By the power of Greyskull ...

May the force be with you ...

A Face that Only a Mother ...

2011-09-11T23:55:00.000-04:00

Or a bug-chucker ... could love ...

And in that monstrous aspect I see reflected a much more beautiful visage ... steelhead, following close behind the salmon, will soon arrive in numbers that inspire dreams and tremors alike.

Too Much Like Work

2011-09-05T11:51:00.009-04:00

There are those days when we need things to happen. If you've been a bug chucker for any length of time, you know exactly what I mean. We need everything in the universe to come together, and to do so with a minimum of fuss. The weather, fish, wading and casting must blend into a seamless harmony. Of course, if you've been a bug chucker for any length of time then you know that the river gods rarely see fit to grant us such moments. Far too often, the universe conspires against us. The wind is too strong. The hatch comes off late, or not at all. Our knots fail. Waders leak.

In these moments, we do what long rodders have always done. Faced with variables that exist outside of our ability to predict or control - we soldier on, and try to make magic happen in spite of the river gods. We clench our jaws, and push double-hauls into the wind. We run loaded rigs of split shot and heavy bead-head nymphs when all we really want to do is cast a delicate no-hackle dry to browns feeding on top. We leave the flats, fish off the shelf, and have little to show for our efforts other than sunburn and sea churned nausea welling in our guts. These are the moments when fly fishing starts to feel too much like work, and needless to say, fly fishing should never feel like work.

What do we do? How do we bug chuckers avoid the malaise that sometimes accompanies a fruitless day on the water? How do we turn the page on our frustration, and find satisfaction when fly fishing is ... well ... just a little less than satisfying? The answer - I suppose - lies in the periphery, along the edges of our poorly timed casts and slightly beyond the fish that is snubbing its nose at our poorly tied flies. We need to appreciate the small things, those little victories that can mean the difference between having a good day and sulking on the drive home.

I'm suddenly reminded of my years working in a fly shop, and a gentleman that came into the store on one otherwise nondescript evening. He looked haggard, much more so than the legion of other bug chuckers who've been soundly throttled by the Battenkill. Sheepishly, he approached the sales counter; I noticed his hands were shaking, and he cleared his throat several times before speaking.

"Uhh ... is there a free clinic in town?"

"Pardon me? How can I help you sir?

"A clinic. Is there a clinic in town?"

With a grimace he turned his head to the side, and it was all I could do to stifle a laugh. There, in the cartilaginous flesh behind the man's ear - in that nebulous bit of space between the jaw and skull - was a #6 beadhead Prince Nymph. The fly was buried to the hilt, well past the barb, and would require the skilled hands of a physician to remove without further injury. Sure I could have done it, and had it been my ear I probably would have had at it while standing in the middle of the river, but I wasn't going to be responsible for this fella' needing a Miracle Ear the rest of his days. I pointed him in the right direction, and had my laugh once he was out of earshot.

And that's the one. That's the image I keep in mind whenever the day isn't going the way I'd like. No matter how badly the river treats me, no matter how poorly I perform (piscatorially ... I mean), I am not the Prince Nymph guy. My ear drum isn't impaled by half an inch of chemically sharpened steel, and I've never had to suffer the humiliation of asking another bug chucker for directions to nearby medical assistance (although I have come close). This little nugget usually makes for a pretty good day when everything else seems a distraction.

When that one doesn't do the trick ... I just think about the upcoming steelhead season. Soon ... soon ...

Irene

2011-08-28T23:18:00.000-04:00

Wow. I've never seen anything like this, and I don't know that I ever will again. God bless anyone in the path of the river. Irene was bad enough, but the flooding makes her seem just that much worse.