The Ides of March ... Plus Two

I have fished the Battenkill (Batten Kill for the linguists and historians amongst us) for over thirty years, and in that time she has remained an enigma. I've covered most every inch of the drainage - from the outlet of Dufresne Pond in Vermont to the river's confluence with the Hudson in New York - and she still confounds me. She's a fickle mistress, but every so often she gives up just enough ... just enough.

Fly of the day ... because I'm too lazy to change over from my steelhead gear

Somebody's been busy ...

Lots of these little guys out today

Very Busy ...

A little green in a sea of brown

This is what happens when Ben knows you're taking his picture ... now imagine he's your proctologist

This is what happens when Ben doesn't know you're taking his picture

That doesn't feel quite right

Wait a minute ... yes it does

Dufresne Pond Dam slated for demolition

Brandon Canevari - staff writer (The Manchester Journal)

MANCHESTER - The demolition of the Dufresne Pond Dam may soon become a reality.

The Department of Environmental Conservation recently approved an application from the Vermont Department of Fish and Wildlife to destroy the dam. The order could still be appealed to the Environmental Court sometime before March 23, according to Stream Flow Protection Coordinator for the Department of Environmental Conservation, Brian Fitzgerald. However, in a telephone interview on Monday, Fitzgerald said he was unaware of any appeal being filed.

If the order is not appealed to the Environmental Court, Fitzgerald said it is expected that they would remove the dam sometime between July 1 and Sept. 30 of this year.

Once the demolition begins, Fitzgerald said he anticipated it would be about four weeks before work was complete.

According to Fitzgerald, one of the primary issues that they have heard from residents so far centers around the loss of the pond and the return of the Batten Kill to a free flowing stream. The reason for that, he said, is because the pond is currently stocked with fish and is a recreation spot for town residents.

Article continues here ...

 

Rockabilly

The video that follows is more an excuse to listen to Imelda May for the better part of an evening than it is an attempt to chronicle our time on the river.

Ahh ... Imelda May ...

"Doin' Different Things Wit' 'Em"

If nothing else, New York's Salmon River has its share of personalities. Just in case you need proof that one never knows what one might find while digging through YouTube for steelhead videos.

"Checking out my flies ... doin' different things wit' 'em."

New Porn

No time to write anything witty or introspective ...

The Business

I've a number of friends and acquaintances who are involved in the business of fly fishing. When I say business, I do not mean that they work in retail or in the periphery of the industry - I once worked the retail end of things; retail is business, but it isn't the business (at least insofar as this post is concerned). Neither are these folks guides, outfitters, or tyers. They do not write product reviews or report on "insider gossip." They work to manufacture a product, and bring it successfully to market. They design rods, form the mandrels, and build the blanks. They test waders and new boot treads. They experiment with tying materials, and they pick new patterns to offer in new catalogs.

Standing outside the cage and looking in, I have to say that the process seems overwhelming. With a wary eye careful not to betray anyone's confidence, I would like to share with my readers a conversation I had recently with someone who lives and works inside the cage. The topic of our conversation was the utter ridiculousness of the particular nuances of contract and commercial fly tying.

Imagine you're a commercial tyer. Every year you fill dozens of orders for thousands of flies. You've been tying for three or four decades, and in that time you've tied just about any pattern asked of you. Thousands of Adamses and Clousers, Muddlers and Buggers, Hendricksons and Gotchas have passed from your vise to the tippets of a thousand nameless anglers. As the years progress you notice a subtle change in the flies you're asked to tie, and the orders you're required to fill. Increasingly, the flies call for plastic bodies, rubber legs, and polypropylene wings. Natural materials are giving way to synthetics. Flashabou, Krystal Flash, Gloss-n-Glint, Estaz, Laser Dub, Holo Fusion, Mirror Flash, Loco Foam, Angel Hair, and EP Fibers have replaced saddle hackle, silk floss, calf tail, and wood duck.

Holo what? Loco who?

What you wouldn't give to go back to the days when Swannundaze was all the rage.

But it isn't just the flies that are changing; the men and women who create and originate them are changing too. With such an array of materials from which to choose, tyers have become more innovative and less likely to abide by any particular tradition or school of thought. This is a good thing. If nothing else, this new breed of fly tyer has forced a debate on just what a fly is, and how flies differ from lures or bait. As contentious as it sometimes is, even this debate is a good thing.

Unfortunately, contract tyers have also become a bit more territorial. Increasingly - or so I am told - tyers insist on attaching their names to their flies. This isn't unexpected, it certainly isn't a new phenomenon, nor is it difficult to understand; fly tying is more functional art than science, and artists have signed their work since the days when caves were their canvases. The problem is that an abundance of people wish they were involved in the fly fishing business (or at least what they think is the fly fishing business), and they see fly tying as a vehicle upon which they might rocket themselves to piscatorial prominence (whatever that may be).

Look through any fly fishing catalog, and you'll surely see what I mean. A significant number of the latest and greatest fly offerings will bear the names of their originators. It's a rare occasion when a tyer takes himself out of the equation, and names an entire series of flies after a thespian of note, and gone are the days when tyers named their creations after good friends, prominent clients, or the local postmaster. Yesterday's tyers relied upon the deadly effectiveness of the pattern and its reputation to bring some small financial reward.  

Tyers are not only naming flies after themselves, but they're also trademarking their creations, and patenting the techniques used to construct their flies. I'm guessing the argument here is that the patterns may be easily copied, and this process forces wholesalers and retailers to pay a premium to use the recipe. What happens as a result? Wholesalers and retailers don't offer the fly. The tyer loses his or her commission, the shop loses sales, and the angler loses what is potentially an effective fly.

So count this post as my appeal to everyone in the business, and to those who hope to be in the business. Stop the foolishness. No one ever made a fortune as a fly tyer. Give up the dreams of stardom. Tie because you enjoy tying. Tie because you enjoy catching fish on your own flies, or better yet, tie because you enjoy watching someone else catch fish on your flies. And please ... please ... if you tie for a living or to otherwise augment your income, remember that fly tying is a surer path to poverty and notoriety than it is to fame and riches.

Reflections on Super Bowl Sunday

The Super Bowl was a grand spectacle; a nail-biter that was exciting in a way only the most media saturated sporting event on the planet possibly could be. There were dropped passes and heroic catches, locomotive runs and smothering sacks, genius play calling and misguided officiating. All the ingredients were there.

Half-time was an extravaganza, featuring a 53 year-old, former pop diva who showed that talent and sex appeal aren't reserved for strung out twenty-somethings. Yes ... this year's Super Bowl was something special.

But I wouldn't know. I didn't see it. There were steelhead to catch.  

The day of the Super Bowl may be the very best day of the year to hit the Salmon River. The game is a filter that processes and removes all but the most dedicated bug chuckers from the steelheading equation. Add to that the recent snow melt and the resulting high water, and you've a perfect storm of absenteeism. In what is arguably the most popular section of the most popular steelhead river on the east coast, I could count on one hand the number of people who fished within sight of our group. For most of the day, we had the river almost entirely to ourselves.

It was glorious.

Resurrection of the English made Orvis C.F.O.

When I began writing this post, I struggled to find just the right words for the title. Originally, the headline simply read, "Rebirth of a Classic." After giving it some time, I thought the title needed to be a little less trite, a lot less nebulous, and I wasn't sure I liked the connotation of the word rebirth. To be reborn is to live again, but to be somehow changed in the process.

Consider Stephen King's, Pet Sematary. The beasts that crawled from the graves of that burial ground were not the same as they were before they died. Certainly ... yes ... they were reborn, but they were merely grotesque shadows of their former selves. No, I couldn't reference rebirth in the title. That zombie child, Gage ... far too creepy.



I digress ...

In a move that is sure to surprise collectors and aficionados, the Orvis company has decided to resurrect the original C.F.O. (circa 1972), and release a limited edition fly reel that is made in England by the Hardy company. Yes ... made by Hardy ... in England. The resurrected C.F.O. will only be available in size III, and production is likely limited to fewer than 250 units. Such lineage and limited production suggests the reels will demand a premium.

These are brand new reels ... machined and assembled just months ago.

As I am sure you can see in the photograph, the new C.F.O. retains the hallmarks of the early reels (spindle cap, rivets through the back plate, slim reel foot). The production run will use all the original tooling used to craft some of the earliest variants of the C.F.O., and once machined, these new reels will be anodized rather than painted.

Most bug chuckers wouldn't notice these reels while flipping through a catalog. I'm sad to say that classically styled spring and pawls have been replaced by large arbors, sealed - stop a sub - drags, and custom camouflage anodization. I suppose this is what some people call progress. Maybe it is, and maybe I'm just a curmudgeon. Whatever the case, I have to say that the collector in me is excited to see this new reel, first hand.

If I was especially brave, I might even throw a line on one, carefully mount it to my old Far and Fine, and fish it at the height of the hendrickson hatch.

C.F.O.s - old and new - are meant to be fished.

Benjamin Bronze Studios

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

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

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

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

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

#%@&tards

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

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

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

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

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