Last year I dropped a subtle hint for the fly fishing industry to rally around Clint Eastwood, to lobby him to make a film that would unite and revitalize the industry. The industry was down in numbers of participants, which translates to lost revenue for those who make a living in one aspect of fly fishing or another. Fewer people fishing means fewer licenses being sold and less money for conservation programs. And we’re no better off today than we were at this same time a year ago. The blog entry in question, Fly Fishing Needs Dirty Harry, put the UA on the map, and subsequently put me into retirement. But after giving it some thought I refused to be a quitter and climbed back on the horse. Be that good or bad, here I am. But this isn’t about me.

It’s about fly fishing. It’s about America.

You don’t need the Unaccomplished Angler to tell you that Clint Eastwood moves people. Just look at his recent Superbowl commercial (can we even say that word–Superbowl? I think it’s trademarked, or something). Admittedly, I watch the Superbowl for the ads, and in most years the ads are pretty darn entertaining. This year they seemed rather lackluster, save for Chrysler’s spot which featured a gravelly-voiced Eastwood declaring, “It’s halftime in America.” Essentially Clint told us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and kick some ass. He growled at us to set aside differences, do what’s right and act as one. In 30 seconds, he united America and solved our economic woes.

The Great Uniter.

This ad just proves what I suggested last year: Eastwood is the perfect choice to bring fly fishing together, to unite us for the better of all. If he can solve the economic problems facing America, he can sure as hell fix what ails fly fishing. I hate to say I told you so, but if industry leaders had listened to me, it might well have been a different ad that aired during halftime of the Superbowl: instead of Chrysler, it could easily have been a fly fishing industry conglomerate speaking as one voice through Eastwood. While that didn’t happen, all is not lost–there’s still something that can be done to insure that fly fishing makes a comeback. My call to action last year may have fallen on deaf ears, but the industry can still listen to Clint. And you can listen to Clint HERE.

America needs Dirty Harry. And so still does fly fishing. Once again I am stating my plea to industry leaders: call everyone together for a round table. Get everyone in the same room, sit down, and unite as one voice. And let that voice tell Clint Eastwood that he is needed. Just one movie–to move us–to bring us toward salvation.

(Thanks to Sean Sanders over at Up The Poudre, for providing the title for this “movie”)

When the box arrived from Bainbridge Island-based Redington, I was immediately excited because I knew the contents were a pair of Sonic Pro Waders. I resisted the temptation to put them on right away, instead opting to take my time; give them a good inspection first.

I liked what I saw.

Redington Sonic Pro Waders (front)

The waterproof, breathable material is supple where it needs to be (3 layers), extra thick and reinforced (5 layers) appropriately where it should be: in the knees, legs and seat. Anywhere there’s a seam, one thing you won’t find is stitching. This is by virtue of the Sonic Welding process which uses sound to replace needles and thread.  I held my ear close to the seams and was unable to hear anything. That being said, I admittedly have some hearing loss so I don’t doubt Redington’s claims. It sure makes good common sense to eliminate needles and stitching when fabricating something that will be submerged. And this process also creates perfectly flat seams, reducing wear spots. I won’t take up your time with all the details, but if you’re really curious about the technical features of the waders, read about it HERE. By the way, Redington has a real nicely designed website, so check it out. There’s a lot of helpful information for the new angler just getting started.

Redington Sonic Pro Waders (back)

I am no stranger to zippered waders, having purchased a pair of Dan Bailey EZ Zip Guide Waders several years ago. When I purchased the Dan Baileys, they were really the only viable option for those wanting a quality pair of waders featuring a full-length zipper. Since then, the virtues of a full-length zipper have been obviously embraced by others in the industry, as evidenced by Redington’s entry into the category. I lowered the RiRi® zipper (standard for most zippered waders), which makes getting into the waders a snap. No doubt ingress and egress are what the designers had in mind when designing these. The zipper also adds to the convenience of engaging in certain other activities, though I am sure that this added benefit is likely nothing more than an unintentional side-benefit. Sorry, ladies–it really is easier being a guy.

High density, ergonomically shaped neoprene booties and gravel guards with molded, anti-foul lace hooks are featured to provide comfort and durability. The waders come with an adjustable, neoprene wading belt and feature belt loops to keep it in place. I actually like the fact that the belt isn’t permanently integrated into the waders because I wear a fanny waist pack that serves as both a wading belt and as lower back support. Having an integrated belt would just cause bulk and interference.

External front pockets

Internal pocket, perfect for similar-sized items.

On the front are two vertical, laser-cut exterior pockets with YKK water resistant zippers which measure approximately 7″ H x 6″ W; plenty big enough for a standard size fly box. On the inside of the waders is a slightly smaller pocket suitable for a wallet and digital point-and-shoot, or similar sized items. There are zippered hand-warmer pockets on the outside, lined with micro fleece for warming the fingers. These are essential if you’re known to stand in a river in the middle of winter from time to time, as I’m known to do. Often times I question my judgment in doing so. The zippered closure on the hand-warmer pockets may initially seem unnecessary, but during the months when you do not need to warm your hands, the zip closure allows you to secure any items you may wish to place in the pockets. Two discreet but much-appreciated D-rings, for attaching things that require attachment loops, are featured at the top edge of the waders.

After pouring over the features mentioned thus far, I unclipped the suspenders and slipped into the waders (which was easy, due to the full-length zipper, BTW). Upon reaching back to grab and fasten the suspenders, I thought I might have had the straps twisted. This was easily confirmed by another ingenious feature: Redington has fashioned the suspender clips so that you can only fasten them properly.  The receiver clip on the right front of the waders is a male connector; the same clip on the left side is female. The strap clips are female and male, accordingly.  If your mind is in the gutter this may sound sorta kinky, but truth be told it’s actually a really nice little design feature. This may not seem like such a stroke of genius until you’ve put a pair of suspenders on and inadvertently criss-crossed the straps.

Apparently I need to hit the gym.

After I had the suspenders adjusted and the zipper secured in the up position, I pulled the inner drawstring tight to snug-up the top of the waders. The only thing I’d like to see changed with regard to this feature would be to have two separate drawstrings (one for each side). By the time I got the waders cinched snug, there was a fair amount of excess drawstring hanging down. Not a big deal, and I suppose if you’ve got a stouter chest than I do this won’t be an issue. Maybe this is an indication that I need to spend some time in the gym, on the bench press. Low reps. Heavy weight. Many sets.

Once the waders were in donned and adjusted, the next thing I did was, of course, a vanity test. A brief glance in the full-length mirror revealed that these waders don’t make my arse look any bigger than any other pair of waders. Butt However form is secondary to function, so next up was a quick mobility test: some deep squats and lunges that revealed plenty of room and flex, even with fleece pants underneath. This flexibility is due to articulated seams and less bulk due to the lack of stitched seams. Then I took off at a sprint down the hallway and bounded up the flight of stairs, taking two at a time. Now you may be rolling your eyes at my antics, but this sort of physical agility test can easily be required while beating through the brush, up and down slopes, en route to and from the river–particularly when being chased by a bear, bison or other large animal. Remember, one needn’t be particularly fast–just faster than your fishing buddy. I am confident the Redington waders will not in any way interfere with my ability to outrun Marck when we’re fishing the Firehole River in Yellowstone again this year.

If you are looking for a pair of stout, high-quality waders with, among other nice features, a full length zipper, the Redington Sonic Pros look to be an excellent choice.  At $379, they are not cheap, but they’re considerably lower-priced than other waders in the class, which will leave you feeling confident that you made a smart choice. I anticipate enjoying these for many years, and hope to have a chance to get them out in the water soon. I’ll report back after their first field test. If they do happen to spring a leak, I have to wonder–will I hear the telltale hissing sound similar to when a tire, or one’s fishing raft, springs a leak?

Get it?  Sonic welded…using sound? Never mind.

Wow, tough crowd.

The Werner Castle, Akron Ohio

Undoubtedly there are many people in the world who have actual claims to greatness, to fame and fortune: people who hail from families that, by birthright, have a certain lineage that includes the social elite. The Kennedy and Rockefeller families come to mind. My family does not. However, things might have been very different had my great, great grandfather, who built a publishing empire of sorts, not been sued by Encyclopedia Britannica over alleged copyright violations. He won the lawsuits, but the legal fees left him nearly broke, and thus ended The Werner Printing and Lithograph Company and any hopes of fame and fortune for future generations of this Werner family.  In previous entries on this blog I’ve made clear here and here that I do not hail from the other Werner families that have attained fame and fortune for various corporations bearing my last name the same last name as me.

But there was a time. Because of his esteemed position in society, my great, great grandfather personally knew the likes of Queen Victoria and Buffalo Bill Cody. He was said to have made a personal loan to his friend, Frank A. Seiberling, to help Seiberling start a certain business in Akron, Ohio (the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company). He could have asked for a small stake in the company, but he did not. Things could have turned out very differently had he done so.

There’s actually quite a bit of historical reference material written about him because of the impact he had on Akron’s early industry. I find it ironic that the day on which I discovered this article in the  Akron & Summit County blog was also the 82nd anniversary of my great, great grandfather’s death. If you’re remotely curious, I wrote about my great, great grandfather, P.E. Werner, here.

Old photos reveal some pfascinating pfacts

Family histories are full of ups and downs, but who we are today is what really matters. And while it makes no sense to live in the past, it’s fun to research the olden days. To that end I was recently going through old photos that have been stored in my dad’s basement for decades. I’d seen many of these photos before, but this time I spent a greater amount of time and interest looking through them and writing down dates.  With my dad present, I was able to hear some interesting stories behind some of the photos. One photo in particular caught my attention. My grandfather, Albert Richard Werner, is seen when he was a young man in his 20′s wearing his Akron University letterman’s sweater. He’s holding a respectably-sized pike (or perhaps a muskie) that he caught on a fishing trip somewhere in the proximity of Akron, Ohio. I don’t know that my grandfather was what one would consider an avid angler, but he obviously fished occasionally, as evidenced by this photo.

Albert R. Werner, varsity angler (1924)

As we looked through the photos my dad told me a story that had been passed down to him from his father: On a particular fishing trip, my grandfather and a buddy encountered mechanical problems with their powerboat, and they were essentially stranded in the middle of a lake. My grandfather had to dive into the water to perform some sort of makeshift repairs the prop of the boat belonging to his buddy, Bill Pfleuger.

Yes, that Pfleuger– the name behind the well-known fishing tackle. I’ve never given much thought to the Pfleuger brand, although I know many regard highly the Medalist fly reels. Curious about my grandfather’s fishing buddy, I did a little internet sleuthing and found ample reference to a William S. Pfleuger, whose father Earnest A. Pfleuger started the famous company. The Bill Pfleuger in question would have been born around 1903– a generation younger than William S.Pfleuger. I wasn’t able to find any information, but perhaps a descendant will read this and contact me. Who knows, maybe one of the unidentified young men in some of the photos I have is their ancestor. Stranger things have happened.

It’s amusing to think that if things had turned out differently for my forefathers this blog might have been titled, “The Accomplished Angler.” Such is not the case, and that’s all fine and dandy. We cannot change the past and it’s best to let bygones be bygones. That being said I will not soon be going out to purchase a set of Encyclopedia Britannica, but I am tempted to seek out a vintage Medalist. After all, my grandfather fished with a Pflueger. Maybe I should, too.

I think my forefathers would approve of both decisions.

I don’t know if this is really the best work Owl Jones has ever produced or if I’m still feeling a little guilty about boycotting his website a few months ago. Either way, it’s worth a watch. It would take a cold-hearted individual not to get a little choked-up  to see Owl so overcome by emotion.

Owl Jones loves him some trouts...especially the brown trout.

Trout Love: The Dating Video from Owl Jones on Vimeo.

Last week I talked about the emotional fishing hangover that followed a recent trip. The trip in question was a day of fishing so diverse–so complex–that it’s difficult to sum it up accurately with a single title. The antics of the day varied as widely as the weather, which was cold and wet early in the day. In the afternoon, the clouds lifted and the day warmed comfortably. As the weather improved, adult behavior went the other direction.

Roe and sand shrimp for those inclined

This entry could be titled, “Roe, Roe, Roe Your Boat” but that would be a bit misleading, as it suggests we fished with bait. Some of those aboard the two boats may gotten their fingers dirty, but I’ll not name names. I will state proudly that I did not. Being a puritan fly angler, it was bad enough that I was forced to use a spinning setup. At least I opted only to fish yarn egg patterns (Team Synthetic!).

Shooting Fish in a Mighty Big Barrel

Another theme for the day might well have been “Shooting Fish in a Barrel” because fishing was rather, well, productive. The total catch among 9 fishermen was 27 steelhead. Unfortunately we were only able to remove 6 hatchery brats from the system, with the remaining fish being native wild unclipped. All were fine Clearwater River steelhead (and one fair-hooked sucker), and the overwhelming majority of these fish were caught before we broke for lunch.

Skunkapotamus?

Perspectives vary, however, and if you were to ask one of those onboard if the day were akin to shooting fish in a barrel, Boane he would have answered that it was a “mighty big barrel.” As we exited the boats after 8 hours on the water, high-fiving and whooping it up in fine celebratory fashion, this fish-deprived angler was overheard using the term “Skunkapotamus” to describe the day.

"Comrade, does this hat make me look taller?"

Yet another title could very easily have been “Fireball and Russian Dwarves” due to the scent of cinnamon that hung in the air and the presence of a particular fur hat purchased in eastern Europe by one of those onboard. Was it my hat?  Niet, although I may have worn it for a period of time.

Rubbers: one size fits all. Or, not.

“Mooseknuckle and Rubber Pants” would also be a fitting headline for the day. When you take a man who is 6’8″ and shoehorn his arse into a pair of rubber rain pants intended to fit a considerably shorter man, the results are self-explanatory. But when it comes to angling attire, it’s function over form that matters and waterproof pants were essential on this damp day that was at times downright wet. Large Albacore wasn’t the only one glad for the rubber pants, as a fair amount of entertainment was had at his expense.

First Fish and Biggest Fish (debatable)

“Fishermen are so Damn Competitive” was another theme that applied to the day. Before we boarded the boats everyone tossed 10 bucks into two cups: one pot for the First Fish caught; the other for the Biggest Fish. I was privileged to witness the First Fish being caught as it was landed by one of my boat mates. Bryan (not his real name) is a seemingly easy-going guy who is soft-spoken and laid-back. But turn your back on him for a second and he’s throwing elbows and jockeying for the best fishing position in the boat. No matter, it was good to get the skunk off the boat early. Around mid-morning yours truly landed an athletically-built fish in the 37-38″ range, as declared by the guide himself. This handsome B-Run Clearwater steelhead was the biggest fish caught should have been taken the Big Fish award. However, the prize was awarded to another fish that was lethargic and out of shape. No amount of formal protesting on my part could sway the panel of corrupt judges. I won. You know it. And I hope you all can sleep at night knowing that I was robbed. In all reality, everyone got a blue ribbon (in fact several, thanks to Pabst).

The unsung Big Fish of the day.

Suffice it to say that on this day, where the weather changed dramatically, fishing went from hot to slow, and behavioral antics ran the full gamut, there’s just no way to sum it all up in a manner that’s nice and tidy. What it was, was a great day shared with great friends.

I’d like to take a moment to individually thank everyone on the trip: Jawn, thanks for the over-the-top generous hospitality and for putting the trip together (I’ll send you a bill for my share of the gas that was required to get there); Lenrod, much appreciation for getting us there and back through freezing rain and Wenatchee rush hour traffic, and not stopping to harvest road kill; The Brothers Albacore, thanks for the fun and for being so damn tall (and Large Albacore–my neck still hurts and we’re still friends); Micro, thanks for letting me sport your pelt hat for a while, and sorry about that whole P.O.T.Y. thing 30 years ago (get over it already); Bryan, thanks for getting the skunk off the boat early so we could just enjoy fishing without the pressure; Boane, sorry, man. It happens to men your age (try baking soda and hydrogen peroxide to get the stink out); Red Pig, you were missed this year–do not miss next year.

If the guys at Hells Canyon Sport Fishing will have us again, I’ll see you next year, boys. Bring on the 3rd annual Clearwater River Debauchery!

I don’t watch “The Bachelor” on TV so I would not have known about this if not for some impressive internet sleuthing on the part of Montana Fly Company’s Facebook page. Apparently Ben Flajnik (the guy who is The Bachelor) grew up in a fishing family so he took his harem to a lake near Park City, Utah for a group date and they did a bit of angling. You can read the riveting story here if so inclined.

I suppose there are worse places The Bachelor could have taken his gaggle of gals. But as much as I approve of fly fishing as a wholesome activity for anyone, there’s something wrong with this picture: Where are their wading belts?! Not only is it unsafe to be wading perilous waters without their belts, but wading belts offer a slimming effect.

And I believe PBR in cans would have been more appropriate than whatever they’re drinking out of their fancy glasses, not to mention that glass is to be discouraged when fishing. Glassware, that is- not glass fly rods. I don’t want to get in trouble with Cameron Mortenson over at the Fiberglass Manifesto.

Forgive the headline–it was a shameful act intended for no other reason than to get your attention. Ahem. Lefty Kreh actually said that Tenkara is a fad.

I personally don’t have any strong feelings about Tenkara, period. Fad or not, it is what is is. However, there’s been a great deal of buzz throughout the fly fishing world this past week with regard to what the legendary Lefty Kreh said about Tenkara. Anyone with a website that doesn’t feature the words, “Lefty Kreh Tenkara fad” is missing out on some great Google Analytics opportunities. All the kids are doing it:

TenkaraUSA
Windknots & Tangled Lines
Field and Stream
Troutrageous!
Fontinalis Rising
Roderick Hawg-Brown
Eat More Brook Trout
Owl Jones
Mystic Waters (a shamefully late entry, posted even after the UA went to press, for no other reason than to get some Google love)

So, count me in.  While perhaps a bit late, I’ll jump on that bandwagon. And I’ve even got some pictures, of Lefty Kreh, Tenkara, and “only a fad”! I want some of those hits, if there are any leftovers

lefty kreh tenkara is a fad

No Sports Allowed, Volumes 1 and 2

When Volume 1 of No Sports Allowed hit the market 3 years ago, I was in line early for my copy of the dvd. Actually that’s lie, because I didn’t really stand in a line. Truth be told, I avoid lines and crowds whenever possible. But I did order an advance copy because I was eager to see what it was all about.

I am not what I would consider a connoisseur or collector of fly fishing videos, but I do enjoy good footage of fly fishing set to the sounds of good music, and to that end I was not disappointed with No Sports Allowed, Vol 1. In fact, I was rather pleasantly surprised by the contents. It was better than I expected, even though I wasn’t quite sure what to expect in the first place. Having seen a few fly fishing films with music soundtracks, I can tell you that they all have a couple things in common: fly fishing and music. And there’s nothing wrong with that (duh!). But after you’ve seen one, you may feel like you’ve seen them all. No Sports Allowed (NSA) Volume 1 was different from anything I’d seen previously, and what I particularly enjoyed about it was the approach the crew took when capturing the footage: those in front of and behind the camera are good, solid fishermen, but they’re obviously having a huge amount of fun and not taking themselves too seriously. It’s almost as if what you’re witnessing is just a bunch of unpretentious guys out doing what they love.

Actually, that’s exactly what it is.

So when the second dvd arrived in the mail recently I was expecting more of the same, and again I was not disappointed. Volume 2 is more of the same, with emphasis on more because No Sports Allowed, Vol. 2 is considerably longer. It’s also better than the first, in my subjective opinion. As I said, I liked Volume 1. But in the time since it was produced, the crew has honed their cinematography skills such that it’s even better this time around.

Like Volume 1, the second dvd is broken into chapters of sorts and each chapter is as different as its accompanying soundtrack. Footage spans everything from guys roping a raft through some water that is obviously best not floated, to 3 young boys exhibiting what fishing, when stripped down to the basics, is all about: having fun. There’s fast, furious fishing through harrowing waters where only an experienced oarsman would dare go, to a lazy bend in a small river that appears to be no more than 10 feet across. Some of the music is hard-pounding, edgy rock while other songs dial it back several notches and feature toe-tapping acoustic guitars. Chapters 5 and 6 feature my favorite tunes, respectively: Fly of my Dreams by Joe Rood and Robby Mason; and No More Time to Lose by Joe Rood. Your opinions may vary, but that’s the beauty of the dvd–there’s something for everybody.

Like the music and fishing footage, the fish caught are themselves widely varied.  Some of the trout caught are not large even by my standards, while others are real brutes. All are beautiful, as trouts tend to be, and fish of every size are featured, from diminutive brookies to respectable browns. For the “wow factor”, some absolute slab rainbows are caught in what appears to be a giant spring creek. The smorgasbord of fish porn is certain to entertain all, but you’ll be left with the feeling that this is all within grasp of the average fisherman.

What an unaccomplished angler like me enjoys about a dvd like this is that it’s real, not make-believe. In other words I can actually imagine myself fishing for those fish, on those waters. Videos shot in far off and exotic locales such as Mongolia, New Zealand or Patagonia are fun to watch, but face it–how many of us Joe Average anglers are ever going to experience something like that?  Conversely, fishing for believable fish in Eastern Idaho doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination. That being said, actually landing some of those fish may not be as easy as the guys in the dvd make it look.

If there’s one thing missing that I’d like to see included with the dvd’s it would be a detailed booklet complete with GPS coordinates for the waters featured in the film. Something makes me think that’s not likely to happen, but a guy can dream, can’t he?

If you want to treat yourself to some great music, lively fishing (and other) footage laced with a solid dose of humor and plenty of great fish, look no further than No Sports Allowed, Volumes 1 and 2.  Oh, and the teaser footage of Volume 3 looks to provide yet more of the same, plus a LOT more.  I’ll be first in line for it.

Get some at www.nosportsallowed.com

Anyone who has ever enjoyed a great weekend fishing trip will know what I’m talking about with the title of this entry. You’ve returned home from a weekend that was months in the planning and thus filled with extreme anticipation. Expectations were handily exceeded, and everything about the trip was an adventure. But now it’s over and you’re emotionally spent, because it was that great of a trip.

In this instance, the trip was the second annual Clearwater River trip with a group of college buddies. The trip this year was expanded to include additional characters and the result was something that I never thought possible after last year, when the bar was set pretty high: it was even better this year.  Not only was the day of fishing exceptional, there was more to the trip that made it extra special. It was a trip that very well might not have happened.

In the days leading up to the departure date, Mother Nature dealt a blow that attempted to alter my plans. The Pacific Northwest became the recipient of a winter storm beat down that, while arriving later than usual, came with a near knockout punch. A few inches of snow fell, then more. Schools were closed for 4 days. The snow shovel became a familiar daily tool. The Honda Rancher with the plow blade saw active duty for several days in a row, ensuring that we and our neighbors could escape the grips of a fairly steep road that was entrenched in snow; snow that has a certain high-level of water content that resembles concrete when it accumulates on the ground. One neighbor was so appreciative after I cleared their driveway for the second time that they brought me $20 for gas and a bottle of wine.  I’d have preferred an 18 pack of PBR, but I appreciated the thoughtful gesture all the same.

The insurance policy I love to have and love to use.

Over the course of the week, tree branches and whole trees came down. Across power lines. Just not our power lines. Hundreds of thousands of homes in the region were without power, but somehow we dodged a bullet of sorts (knock on wood). With the fishing trip weighing heavily on my mind, I watched the weather forecast with great interest. Depending on the news source the worst was either behind us or it wasn’t. Being a man who is not one to shirk my responsibilities, I informed Mrs. UA that I would not go on the Clearwater trip if the power was out. No man worth his salt would  leave behind to those he loves just to venture off on a fishing trip. There are things more important than fishing. On the day before our scheduled departure, with the worst of the storm hopefully behind us, I was confident that we would not lose power. Then came the sucker punch: freezing rain which added to the weight of 8-10 inches of already heavy snow. And so at midnight on Thursday, the house went dark. When we awoke on Friday morning (the day of departure for the Clearwater) the house was chillier than normal. There were no telltale flashing digital clocks to indicate that the power was back on. I immediately went into survival mode: the first order of business was to get  the generator hooked up and running, followed by the coffee maker.

The insurance policy I love to have and hate to use.

In the next few hours, our emergency heat source slowly took the chill off the house, bringing the inside temperature up to a cozy 67 degrees (fahrenheit). There were two, 5 gallon containers of gas to keep the generator in business for at least a couple days, but later that day I would send my son, Schpanky, to the neighboring town to secure another several gallons of fuel for good measure. The refrigerator would run to insure that food was not spoiled. The well would continue to pump water so that nobody would fall victim to dehydration. The septic system would remain functional so that toilets could continue to be used. If the power were to remain out of service for a few more days we they would be all right.

And so I loaded my gear into the back of Lenrod’s Suburban and off we went on our long, adventurous drive to Idaho. We would encounter considerably more snow and freezing rain as we made the 370 mile trip across the state. We would arrive 2 hours later than intended, but we would arrive safely. There would be much rejoicing and celebration as old friends were reunited and glasses were raised in many toasts. There would be stories told, behavior unbecoming middle-aged men engaged in, and many fish caught. There would be serious fun had, and there would be a perilous return journey over a mountain pass still gripped in a winter storm. I would return to a home that was back on the power grid, with a cooler full of meat to feed my family during the remaining months of winter that lie ahead. After all, I am not one to take my responsibilities lightly.

All that remains of a once beautiful snowfall.

Upon waking to this particular Monday, I feel physically fine but emotionally I am drained. A week of invigorating weather, during which I felt very much alive, has given way to a bland feeling that accompanies the calm after the storm. School is back in session and Mrs. UA is back at work. The ATV is tucked away in the garage and the snow shovel has been traded for the poop scooper. A memorable fishing trip is now but a memory. It feels too calm, and as I reflect on the drama of the past week that peaked with a great fishing trip, it could be easy to be left feeling a bit gloomy, as if there’s nothing left to look forward to. But a quick glance in the mirror reminds me otherwise: I still have the continuing progress of the beard to keep me going.

Depending on who you are, it just keeps getting better.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait until the day I could shave. Let me rephrase that: I couldn’t wait until the day I had to shave. Shaving has always been a sign of manhood, and every boy looks forward to the day that he becomes a man. For me, that day (shaving, mind you) came decades ago, and after a few years of having to shave, I realized that it’s just another pain in the day-to-day arse, like mowing the lawn (although admittedly I’ve gotten some of my best ideas while mowing the lawn).

P.E. Werner circa 1870's

The simple presence of the “Y” chromosome does not guarantee that one will develop a thick beard, and exceptionally dense whiskers do not run in my family (although I believe my grandmother had some impressive chin hairs that she did her best to manage). Some of my German ancestors had some impressive mustaches, but I’ve never seen a full beard in any of the old photos. My dad grew a beard back in the 70′s, and if I recall it wasn’t a bad looking beard but it was never allowed to manifest into a thick beard; a real beard. My brother, Hal, has sported a neatly-trimmed beard for years, but he prunes it regularly so I’m not sure what potential lies within his chin follicles. I think he ought to show what he’s capable of by letting that thing go fallow…

Round about the time I was 14 or 15–if the lighting was just right–a faint trace of dark peach fuzz was visible on my upper lip. By the time I was in college, I was capable of growing a very poor mustache, and in fact I did just that. I reckon it made me feel like more of a man: a rugged, manly, virile man. What it really amounted to was a pathetic patch of immature whiskers attempting to be cultivated on a youthful baby-faced college boy. No amount of ridicule could convince me of that, although eventually I would come to see things objectively and hence the growth was removed.

That wasn’t the end of my dabbling in less-than-impressive facial hair experiments, however. There would be other times over the years, and each time I would eventually come to my senses and acknowledge that some guys look good with facial hair, while others do not. Those that can grow a thick beard are the ones that look good with a beard. Those that cannot grow a thick beard, like me, shouldn’t try. Particularly if they have any self-respect, which apparently I do not.

My first, and last beard.

Bobby Ayala circa 1993

UA circa 1993

The first, and last time I attempted a full beard was a little more than 20 years ago. It didn’t go particularly well, although my dog never rarely judged me. After deciding that the beard wasn’t working out quite as I’d hoped, it was reduced to a goatee of sorts.  At the time, every major league basbeball player was sporting this particular look, so why not me? That actually lasted for a period of nearly a year. When my daughter was born, one of the first things she saw was her father with a bad goatee, and there ensued much crying. Not wanting her to grow up with a false impression of what real facial hair should be, the goatee gave way to a clean-shaven face, and in the nearly 20 years since then that’s how I’ve remained. Yes, I’ve gone several days at a time without shaving, but it has always been with the intent of taking a razor to the whiskers sooner than later.

Now, at age 49, I’m coming to grips with the fact  that I may never be able to grow the beard of my fancy– certainly not The Beard, which is an enviable display of testosterone adorning the face of a man by the name of Marc Crapo. The Beard lives and breaths in Ashton, Idaho, where trout live in fear of such facial hair. I passed through that general area last summer and caught a few trout, but the trout did not fear me, nor did I stay long. Had I a proper beard, and the confidence that would surely have accompanied it, who’s to say how long I might have stuck around and how many more trout–trout that feared me–I might have caught?

THE Beard

Some things in life just weren’t mean to be, and being incapable of ever playing the guitar the way I want to is not the only thing preventing me from being more like The Reverend Billy Gibbons. One would think that I could accept this and ease into a clean-shaven middle age, complete with Dockers and sweater vests. One would think I’d have learned by now. But the fact of the matter is that Mrs. UA loves facial hair and lately has been urging me to grow a beard, which is something I’ve resisted. Until 7 days ago.

The beginnings of an unaccomplished beard.

I realize that the growth of hair which is currently spreading slowly across my jawline does not yet constitue a beard–I’ve a good long ways to go before it can be called that. I also realize that real men, with real beards, can probably grow more than this in a 24-hour period. But I have to give this thing time. In fact, patience is key in growing a thick beard, as pointed out in these instructions:  How To Grow a Thick Beard. According to these helpful guidelines, in 5 more weeks I should have a thick beard.

I remain skeptical of those lofty claims, but only time will tell. Maybe this time will be different, because I never before had guidelines.  As I sit here watching paint dry facial hair grow, my head is filled with both wonder and self doubt: Will a beard make me a better fisherman?  Will a shoddy beard make me an even worse fisherman? With all the white hairs sprouting in my beard, will I resemble a skunk?

There is so much yet unanswered, including whether or not this “thing” will last more than another week before I’m reminded that I cannot grow The Beard. Until then, damn does this thing itch…