Revisiting the New Hardy / Orvis CFO

Some time ago, I wrote to announce Orvis' introduction of a limited production, Hardy made CFO fly reel. In that post I remarked, "... 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."

I take it back. 

I am now the proud owner of one of these reels - a gift from friends - and I am so very impressed by the fit and finish of this latest CFO that the collector in me won't let me fish her; although, I am certain the reel would perform supremely well if I did. With time, she (this latest incarnation of the CFO is definitely a she) is sure to prove every bit as collectible as her older, more sought after sisters.

The new Orvis CFO is in every way the equal of the reels that were manufactured by Hardy throughout the 1970s and 1980s. Her check system is identical to that of her forebears as is the porting across the frame and spool. The spindle cap matches that on the second generation of CFOs,  and the rivets protruding through the frame are almost certainly a nod to those of us who recognize those rivets as the hallmark of a Hardy-made reel. The finish - unlike anything I've seen on any other reel - seems much more durable than that on the CFO's older counterparts. The color isn't quite the same as we've seen on previous reels - either Hardy or BFR; it is a deep grey with shades of blue and green that become more pronounced as the reel reflects light. She sparkles in a way that older CFOs do not. To my eye, this latest reel is one of the most attractive of the CFO's many variations.

I am sure to be accused of shilling for Orvis if I don't discuss the reel's Achilles heel: the price tag. At $695.00 the latest CFO is a very costly spring and pawl reel and certainly not for everyone. Truthfully, there are reels to be had for a fraction of the cost that will perform every bit as well. As a consequence, I have to believe that this reel is aimed at collectors who enjoy the CFO as I do. This reel is a remembrance of the CFO's heritage and a reminder of a time when the words "Made in England" were synonymous with both the House of Hardy and an expectation of quality.

For my part, the new CFO's perceived value or collectibity is of little consequence. I enjoy the symmetry, form, and function of objects that are cleverly designed and very well made. In its allegiance to the CFO's past, this latest collaboration between Orvis and Hardy is just that - a perfect marriage of form and function.

On Bug Factories and Slave Boys

Some years ago, an acquaintance told me that the trick to fishing the Delaware River - and by extension any river on which prolific hatches are the rule rather than the exception - is to discover both the biggest and the smallest bugs that are on the water at any given time and to fish an imitation of one or the other. This strategy has worked for me many times on many rivers, but I'm still convinced that on a bug factory like the Delaware no method is sure to work all the time, most of the time, or even much of the time.   

What the hell is he eating?"

"How in Christ's name should I know? Every bug on the planet is on the water right now. Just open my beer, pass it back, and keep casting."

So went our conversations for the better part of a 12 hour float, and that's typical of the Delaware. Drift a few hundred yards, find a riser - either along a current seam or tight to the bank - set up as close as possible without spooking the fish, and cast until you're bored with casting or your arm falls off. Occasionally, the river gods will smile on you, and you'll hook up.  

More often, the fish to which you are casting - likely one of the best trout you've ever witnessed feeding on top - will slowly but surely emasculate you. She'll take naturals to the right and left of your imitation. She'll thrash the surface on every drift, but only after your bug has passed over her snout. She'll follow your emerger, and nose up behind your dun. She'll do all of this, but she'll rarely ever commit. In turn, you'll slowly lose your grip on reality; you'll begin mumbling to yourself. On the worst days - which paradoxically are also some of the best - you will curse the gods as your manhood shrivels and recedes into your abdomen.

Ironically, you'll finish the day with a smile on your face. The Delaware can be a harsh mistress, but you enjoy the torment she gives. You're her slave, her submissive, and you know that while the beatings are sure to continue they will eventually reach a climax. Once she has punished you enough to satisfy her sadistic nature, she'll give you the release you crave. She'll give you your reward, and you'll hook a fish. You might even hook a good fish, perhaps several, and everything will be right with the world.  

And while I'm not one to kiss and tell, I will say that last weekend - after fifteen fly changes, twelve hours, six river miles, five tasty IPAs, two bags of chips, and a partridge in a pear tree - everything was right with the world.

Faith and the Tongass

I spent the better part of my morning perusing the myriad blogs - all but one fly fishing related - that I follow. Two of them made mention of a contest being hosted by Trout Unlimited, promoted by the Outdoor Blogger Network, and sponsored by Fishpond, RIO, Redington, and Tenkara USA amongst others. There are a number of prizes with the grand prize being a trip to the Tongass area of Alaska to fish for its wild trout and salmon.

Why not?

"Faith and the Tongass"

I was once blessed with a teacher who was nothing less than a modern day Socrates - minus the robes, beard, and hemlock laced whiskey sour. Professor Callahan was both brilliant and quick witted. Her words were sometimes acid, but more often she whispered encouragement. Like any good teacher, Professor Callahan was a harsh task master, and though she did not demand perfection from her students she did insist that we strive toward that goal. In turn, she modeled the very same work ethic she demanded. Professor Callahan was no Hollywood, Edward James Olmos caricature of a teacher.  She was every bit the real deal. I've banked twenty years, fifty pounds, and three children since I first stepped timidly into the Iron Lady's classroom, and still there's one lesson that stays with me.

"Mr. Daley ..."

"Ughhh ... Yes."

"Tell us Mr. Daley, have you a romantic interest - a woman, perhaps a man - whose company you enjoy?"

"Yes ... a woman. Definitely a woman."

"Spare the emphasis. No need to proclaim your manhood to the class. You're in love?"

"Yes."

"And she loves you?"

"Yes."

"Prove it." 

Needless to say, I could not prove that I was in love (with the woman who eventually became my wife) any more than I could demonstrate the existence of God. For what seemed an hour, I only managed a stammering picture of my own juvenile insecurity and sophomoric ineptitude; I have to believe that was precisely the point of Professor Callahan's lesson. Some things simply have to be taken on faith. Faith - and her sister Hope - sometimes demands we move beyond the limits of the tangible, empirical, data-driven world in which we live. Sometimes we simply need to believe.

And I do believe. I believe there are places in the world that are well worth my day dreams. I believe in wild places hidden from the lecherous gaze of human progress - places that remind us of what the world once was and demonstrate what the world could be. I believe there are places worth protecting - places that are foreign to me but every bit as precious as the places I know well. I believe in the Tongass.

The sad and simple fact is that most of us will never see the Tongass. We'll never know the stinging sweetness of its salt tinged air. We'll never feel the moss give way under our feet as we stroll along one of its 17,000 river miles. We'll never see wolves sprint through the timber, or brown bears gorge on wild salmon. We'll never know the feel of a place that counts time not by the hour, but by the millennium.

Still, I believe. I believe the day may come when my children or grandchildren will travel to the Tongass. I believe they'll taste the air and wade the rivers that wind across our collective unconscious. I believe they'll see a place that remains as it always has been - untouched, wild, primal - "the best of what's left." Finally, I believe that those of us who do the work now will inspire those who'll continue the work later.

This is my submission to the Trout Unlimited 2013 Blogger Tour sponsored by Fishpond, Tenkara USA and RIO, and hosted by the Outdoor Blogger Network.

When River Monsters Came to Town

As a rule, television programming sucks; it has for years. Maybe I'm just being a curmudgeon, but I think the advent of reality T.V. has gone a long way to turn an entire generation of young people into vacuous imbeciles who are unlikely ever to make a meaningful contribution to society. I might be a little harsh in my assessment, but consider that we live in a world that puts Snooki on a pedestal and deifies Dance Moms.



There are, however, a few channels that offer programming that I do enjoy - as much as any cynic can enjoy such things. History is alright, but it was better when it was The History Channel. I could watch footage from WWII all day, every day.  Comedy Central has its moments - at least when it's not being overtly political; I'll admit to thinking South Park is pure satirical genius (maybe I'm the vacuous imbecile).

There's also Animal Planet and the network's highest rated program, River Monsters. The premise of the show is simple. Jeremy Wade (the show's host) investigates stories of massive and/or deadly fish that inhabit freshwater environs across the world. Wade and his crew have recently found themselves in Nicaragua fishing for tarpon that reside in a tidal river, and in the Ukraine hunting Wels catfish in canals that once cooled the reactor of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant. 

Sometimes the dialogue is canned and a bit too dramatic. It seems that whenever fishing is difficult, Wade consults a local shaman who will cast a spell or craft a charm to help Wade channel his inner Aquaman. If we believe the program's editing then we have to believe the charms work because Wade always gets his fish.

Theatrics aside, Jeremy Wade is a very impressive angler. He catches some truly remarkable fish, with increasing frequency he uses a fly rod, and he is a devout proponent of catch and release. Perhaps most impressive is that the man has figured out a way to fish the remote corners of the world while earning a paycheck for his trouble. There are certainly worse ways to earn a dollar.

Wade's show is currently in its fifth season, much of the filming for which happened over the last year and a half. I know this only because last year at this time the River Monsters crew was in my neck of the woods - or rather, just northeast of my neck of the woods. They filmed a portion of tonight's episode on Lake Champlain in Vermont. As is always the case with the show - the crew utilized local guides to help Wade track his monsters. One of the guides who assists Wade in this week's episode is a friend who calls Lake Champlain his home water.

Drew Price is a masterful fly fisher, a talented guide, and perhaps more to the point - he knows his water intimately. As it happens, Drew is also cut from the same cloth as Wade. Both men have a penchant for chasing prehistoric fish, animals that many anglers - especially fly anglers - might otherwise discount or avoid. Drew opened my eyes to the potential of some of these beasts - bowfin and longnose gar foremost among them.

So I guess this post is a plug - for both the show and for my friend. I've no idea what to expect, but knowing Drew as I do, I am certain we'll be given an interesting hour of television. Unless you're planning to be on the water, I can think of few ways to better spend your time.

  

For the River Monsters home page and programming schedule, click here ...

To inquire as to Drew Price's availability and rates, click here ...

Winter Coats

My son is a behemoth of a boy. He weighed 65 pounds when he started kindergarten back in September; now he tips the scales at just a few ounces under 80.  That kind of growth - 15 pounds in roughly nine months - is difficult for my wife to abide. She wants her baby back, but we won't be seeing him again. Baby boy has left the building. Little man has taken his place.

For my part, I enjoy watching my children grow. Sometimes the process is slow and subtle; so slow and subtle in fact that I hardly recognize it for what it is. Still other times the changes are so enormous that they seem surreal - if not unreal - simply because of the scope of their enormity. These moments sometimes bring a tear to my eye, but more often than not they make me laugh. The things kids do - the things they say ...

One night, after corraling the triplets into the tub for baths, my daughter Emma screamed at her sister, "Get the F out of the Tub!" When I ran into the bathroom - all full of daddy fury - to chastise my daughter for her language, I discovered there was a foam letter "F" floating in the water.

Another evening I walked into the house to find my girls sitting on the couch and singing, "I've got the moves like Jagger, I've got the moves like Jagger" over and over again. While the girls sang, my son - naked as the day he was born - was doing his best imitation of Mick Jagger, shaking his money maker across the expanse of the living room ... in front of an open window.

My children's frequent growth-spurts have forced my wife and I to adopt a semi-seasonal ritual. Most parents likely do the same. As summer turns to autumn, autumn to winter and winter to spring we rummage through closets, dresser drawers, and laundry baskets for the sake of removing from the daily rotation those items of clothing that are just too worn or too small to keep their places in the lineup. Denim jeans, dresses, tee shirts, hoodies, and even socks and underwear are sorted into piles for donation (to either family, friends, or The Salvation Army).

This year, we'll be donating the kids' winter coats. We somehow managed to get two years use out of them, but there's just no way we'll make three. The triplets have sprouted, and the coats that were once so roomy are now nearly too tight to zip. I suppose it's a good thing that the days have grown decidedly warmer; unless the weather gods fancy themselves comedians, we won't be needing parkas and mittens for a while.

And last night - as I folded the coats and put them into a box with other items slated for donation - I had something of an epiphany. I realized that we bug chuckers mark time by the seasons. As removed as we sometimes are from the natural world we cannot escape its cycles; the end of one cycle generally marks the beginning of another. For the next several months, I'll be counting time by hatching mayflies, but in that moment my mind drifted off to steelhead. Packing those coats away - one atop another - I realized that in many ways steelhead fishing is for me a kind of winter coat.

When my corner of the world wraps itself in a swaddling of snow and most anglers go into hibernation, I turn to Lake Ontario and its tributaries. The annual run of winter steelhead insulates me from what would otherwise be a bitter, fallow season. Sometimes I swing streamers or spey flies, but more often I'll dredge the bottom with ridiculously simple and ugly nymphs. Each method pleases me in its way, but ultimately the method does not matter as it is the fish themselves that sustain me.

And now it's time to fold that coat and put it away for the season. I had hoped for one more trip, but  hope is never enough to keep the days from turning. After a long and especially tenacious northeastern winter there is now warmth beneath the clods. Herds of deer and rafters of turkey have moved out of the thickets and into open ground. Trees are budding in pastel greens and yellows, and hendricksons hatch in earnest. Brown and rainbow trout are rising from the miasma to gorge on the first course served at Spring's table.

Still, it pains me to have to box up a season of chasing steelhead and place it on a shelf. I'm sad to see the winter go in much the same way I'm sentimental about my children growing out of their clothes - each box donated or stowed is full of moments we'll never again experience. Squeezed in between the folds of those moments, however, is also a hopeful anticipation of what's to come. As I shelve this most recent winter, I look forward to seasons still before me, and I take some solace in the fact that while I may have to set steelhead aside, I'll never outgrow them.

     

Is It Much Farther Papa Smurf?

It's funny how we carry moments from childhood and adolescence into our adult years. Tune the radio to a station that plays the songs we listened to as teenagers, and we'll likely know all the words verbatim even though we haven't heard those songs for years - perhaps decades. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I know this one ...



I was a headbanger. I wore faded denim and high-top Reebok sneakers with the tongues hanging out. My buddies wore band patches like military insignia. Metallica. Megadeth. Anthrax. Exodus. We smoked Camels, Winstons, and Marlboros. We drank Black Velvet from the bottle. We were bad ass, and yet there it is. I know the words - all the words - to Wang Chung's, "Dance Hall Days." And so long as I'm being honest, I know all the words to The-Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Prince's, "Batdance," "Raspberry Beret," and "Cream."

Prince was amazing. There, I said it. It's taken me nearly thirty years, but Prince was amazing.

And along with the music are a slew of images; bits and pieces of history and pop culture that have parked themselves in my temporal lobe, squatting in the space that would have been better occupied by calculus and fifth year French. Here's one that sticks with me ...



As unlikely as it may seem, I found myself thinking of the smurfs this past weekend while I sat in the bow of a friend's drift boat. We were eight hours into what would eventually be a 12 hour float. We had hooked some good fish, but fishing was generally slow - as fishing sometimes is this time of year. The last of the beer disappeared a mile upstream, we were two hours overdue for lunch, and we had just passed the section of low riverbank that is our normal take-out. We were dehydrated, sun burnt, and our eyes ached from squinting into the sun. We were done.

At one point, I said out loud and to no one in particular, "Is it much farther Papa Smurf?"

From the back of the boat came the reply - spoken in stereo and like the answer to a sentry's challenge, "Not much farther my little smurfs." I guess we were all thinking the same thing.

But here's the thing. As difficult as were those last few miles, I wouldn't take them back. However long, however arduous was that trip - we were still floating down a beautiful river on a gorgeous day, casting ugly flies to hungry fish. Given all the alternatives, I'd have to say that there are far worse ways to spend an afternoon.

What bug chucker doesn't appreciate a good piece of tail?

Kegs and eggs ... breakfast of champions.

This fish is living proof that trout are stupid, and will eat half a rabbit skin if we throw it at them.

A hell of a boat, with a hell of a skipper.

Whatcha' lookin' at Pee-Wee?

Nothing is so Beautiful

The world - it seems - has finally turned. Snow storms have given way to rain clouds; the cabin fever that so often plagues snow weary bug chuckers (even those of us who chase winter steelhead) has at last begun to subside. There are finally signs of a reprieve. There is light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. There's hope.

"Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –"           

We've been fortunate to hook into more than our share of these guys ... a few we've even brought to hand.

Bacon and eggs just taste better when made in a pan that was made before Germany invaded Poland.

We've seen the start of another season on a river we genuinely love.

Thank you.

And we haven't neglected the small stuff.

Orvis Fly Rods

I have to admit to being something of an Orvis guy. Most days I look like I stepped right out of the catalog. Granted, I once worked for Orvis in Vermont so it could be I've an excuse - not that I necessarily need one. I've still many friends who are employees of the company, some of whom are featured in the video I've attached to this string. Whatever your feelings about Orvis may be - and I realize that the company suffers no shortage of detractors - I have to say that some of the people who work there are among the finest folks I know. They're dedicated to producing a quality product that any bug chucker would be proud to own.

And if you are one of those nay-sayers then I've something of a challenge for you. Fish one of the new Orvis sticks - an H2, Access, or perhaps even the new Clearwater - just for a day. I'll even let you borrow one of mine. I can almost certainly guarantee that you'll be pleasantly surprised - even if you can't bring yourself to admit it.


And in reading this, please keep in mind that I haven't a history of propping up any company. In five years of maintaining this blog I've never done a product review. I don't receive compensation for any of my efforts (regardless of how much I might like to be compensated) - not from Orvis or from the representatives of any other company.  If I give my opinion then you can be sure it is my honest opinion.

Now ... please go try a rod. 

Bacon

While in his early twenties, Shawn Brillon (the current Orvis fly and fly tying product developer)  was a collegiate wrestler and power lifter. He wasn't nationally ranked, but neither was he unsuccessful; I've seen proof in the form of trophies and VHS video (imagine Sloth from the Goonies in a unitard). Now over forty, Shawn is still one of the strongest men I know, but every bit a gentle giant (in a stocky, Gimli the dwarf kind of way). I wouldn't want to go three rounds with him anymore than I'd want to bathe in brisket drippings and tangle with Lily - Shawn's outsized bull mastiff.

"I won't have no pointy eared elf out-fishing me!"

I mention all this not to inflate my friend's already substantial, mastiff sized ego, but in the hopes of impressing upon you just how drastic was the weather's change.

We were anchored near the head of one of the river's largest pools. The riffle to our front wore the swollen, grey-green raiment of the previous evening's rain; we almost certainly should have been fishing some skinnier water, but at the moment the sun was shining and the boat was safely anchored in an eddy that formed along the near bank. For lack of any active fish, each of us enjoyed the rhythm of casting (as much as heavy sinking lines attached to tungsten laced streamers can be rhythmic) and the moronic, testosterone-laced banter that usually accompanies a day in a drift boat.
 

Clackacraft ... it's what all the cool kids are doing.

I don't know that any of us paid much attention when the first dark clouds rolled over the peak of the mountain. We knew that the weather was likely to change; sunshine never lasts on the first of April, and rain had been part of even the most hopeful forecast. When the sun disappeared altogether, however, we couldn't help but take notice. We tried to laugh off the sudden darkness as we pulled our rain gear out of the boat's dry-boxes, but each of us realized that we were still very early on in the float. Nasty weather - if at all prolonged - was going to make for a very long day.

No sooner had we donned our semi-breathable, occasionally water repellent shells and tightened the belts around our waders then the first drops descended on the boat. Before long the river gods let loose their full fury, and we were assaulted by phalanxes of rain attacking from all sides. Sitting in the bow - slightly miserable and doing my best to disguise my shivering - I found myself wishing I had done the right thing and kept my appointment with Dr. White, my proctologist.



But wishing didn't get us off that river. In fact, my wish seemed to have quite the opposite effect. Instead of being magically transported to the take-out where a scantily clad Kate Upton eagerly offered to teach us the Cat Daddy and then crank the boat up onto the trailer - we were instead blasted with winds that rather ironically took our breath away. The gusts were so strong - in fact - that Shawn's low profile Clackacraft eventually pulled its 35 pound anchor free of its cobblestone mooring. Like a zephyr we slid upstream and across the riffle straight into the jagged rocks that lined the far bank. Generally speaking, if one owns a fiberglass drift boat then it is a good idea to keep that splendid fishing platform as far away from knife-edged rocks and outsized, boat-eating boulders as one possibly can. And so we come full circle.   

Keeping the Clack away from the rocks required all of Shawn's considerable strength. He cut into the water as deeply as the Cataract oars and his power-lifter's frame would allow. The boat slowed to a stop only inches from the rocks, and with a pit bull's tenacity Shawn pulled her back to the relative safety of slack water.

"She's a hell of a boat," he said slightly winded as the anchor once again found its bite.

"With a hell of a skipper," I replied.

And so went the remainder of the opening day of the 2013 trout season. Rain came and went; the torrents grew worse with each renewed assault. On a vision quest of sorts, Shawn refused to relinquish the oars; whatever demons he may have had were certainly exorcised (or perhaps exercised) by the effort. By the time we reached the take-out (the otherwise Uptonless take-out) we were soundly beaten. Eight hours on the water had brought a single strike and no fish to hand. We were relatively dry, but the damp air was relentless; our faces and our hands were numb. Every fifth or sixth breath would bring chills and shivers from our cores. All of our fly boxes were lighter when we finished the day than when we began; at least one spool of tippet had been emptied. 

But still ... we had a great day.

"How?" you ask. How did we manage to enjoy ourselves in spite of the river gods' bad intentions? One word ...

Bacon.

Near the start of the float we stopped for breakfast. A sixty year-old Griswold #7 fry pan and the dual burner Coleman made quick work of a dozen eggs and a pound of slab bacon. That bacon stayed with us for the remainder of the day - rain and wind be damned. The pungent aroma permeated our clothing; the greasy sweetness coated our tongues. Every breath - stained with the slightly acrid taste of salt and pork fat - was a mental middle finger to the river gods and their bad intentions. And therein lies the moral of an otherwise anti-climatic trip report.

There is no such thing as a bad fishing trip. Regardless of the gods' malice and our own ineptitude, there is always a worse way to spend the day. Every trip - every last one - brings us some twist, a new rub that makes us stand up and take notice. I would trade any day spent away from the river for even the worst of days when I'm wading her currents because no matter how bad it is there is always going to be that one little something.

No matter how bad the day might be, we'll always have that bacon. 

Bacon ... kicking Sizzlean's nasty @$$ for 40 years and counting.

Off to a Good Start

We're only a few days into the 2013 trout season, but we've seen a few hopeful signs. The rivers and their tributaries look healthy. There is still some snow pack left in the mountains. We're yet to see an angler carrying a creel, and the fish have been in all the places we might hope to find them.

Here's to hoping the trend continues ...

 

Metaphor

There was a time when outdoor writers wrote about much more than the outdoors. Hunting was more than hunting; fishing was more than fishing, and the campfire was the hub about which the wheels of the world turned. For whatever reason, we've moved away from that. More often than not, today's outdoor writers are technical writers. Fly fishing publications - both books and periodicals - oftentimes read like DIY home repair guides; they're more about method than they are about meaning. We've too much data. We need stories. We need metaphor.

With that thought in mind, I found this sonnet while browsing poems with my students.  As I'm a father of two precocious little girls and one very rambunctious little boy I was taken by the poem's imagery and the ambiguity of the last two lines.

Thought some of you folks might appreciate "Fishing" as I do ... 

"Fishing"

The two of them stood in the middle water,

The current slipping away, quick and cold,

The sun slow at his zenith, sweating gold,

Once, in some sullen summer of father and daughter.

Maybe he regretted he had brought her—

She'd rather have been elsewhere, her look told—

Perhaps a year ago, but now too old.

Still, she remembered lessons he had taught her:

To cast towards shadows, where the sunlight fails

And fishes shelter in the undergrowth.

And when the unseen strikes, how all else pales

Beside the bright-dark struggle, the rainbow wroth,

Life and death weighed in the shining scales,

The invisible line pulled taut that links them both.

 
      - A.E. Stallings

 

Sensations

Let's get right to it ...

The four most under-appreciated sensations in fly fishing ... so sayeth The Rusty Spinner.

#4. The distinctive "Thunk, Thunk, Thunk" of a newbie's knuckles beating against the handle of his reel's backward spinning spool - while the steelhead he's inadvertently hooked does its best to run back to the mouth of the river.

A steelhead is a special animal: streamlined, strong, fast, ridiculously fast in fact, and almost wholly unpredictable. I've been led to believe that the only other fly rod quarry that comes close to eclipsing the steelhead's athleticism are albies and tarpon, but I haven't chased either so I'm left to wade my little freshwater corner of the world relatively certain that steelhead are the most dynamic fish that bug chuckers like myself are ever likely to chase.

 Photo: Benjamin Jose

And because few fish compare to the steelhead for its strength and tenacity, little can be done to prepare the uninitiated for his or her first hookup with a chromer. Mine came nearly 15 years ago on the Salmon River in New York. My friend and guide for the day, Shawn Brillon, had taken me to one of the spots on the river notorious for being a petting zoo. I was assured that the fish would be stacked one atop another like strippers on a banker's lap. If a newb (stealing the term from my video game playing students) was going to hook a fish anywhere in the river then that spot was as good a bet as any and a better bet than most.

Five or six hours after having first stepped into the water my arm was growing sore from the repetition of casting, and my mind was drifting off to warmer and more prolific fishing trips. Naturally, it was in that moment - a moment in which my cold addled brain had finally shuffled off its mortal coil and began to travel the astral plane - when the first steelhead I had ever hooked (and the largest I've hooked in the fifteen years since) decided to swallow my ridiculously gaudy fly. Everything happened so quickly that my synapses were overloaded and simply ceased to function. In that moment, I wasn't an angler; I was a spectator witnessing an angler's demise. I had as much hope of setting the hook, adjusting my drag, and fighting that fish as I did of being named Playmate of the Year. As a consequence, I was left with little more than broken images of a tail as wide as both my hands when splayed side by side, a short and frayed length of tippet, and three sore knuckles on my left hand.

Such is the case with most bug chuckers who opt to chase winter chrome. They read about steelhead for years before finally stepping into the river. They tie dozens of flies, and invest thousands of dollars in gear. They almost always go sleepless the night before that first trip (sometimes that insomnia follows them throughout their steelheading lifetimes), and when the day finally arrives they usually finish out with little more than tired eyes and raw knuckles.

#3. The penetrating stench of thousands of putrefying salmon carcasses.

How do I describe the aroma that descends on a king salmon river in the weeks after the annual spawning run has begun?  Hmmm ...

 

Imagine a piece of road kill; a piece of day-old road kill. Perhaps it's a raccoon or an o'possum. Perhaps the dearly departed is a porcupine or your neighbor's cat. Whatever your choice, put the image foremost in your mind. Now imagine you've discovered the animal as it stews and boils in the blistering August sun. The coon - or perhaps the cat - is bloated near bursting. Maggots crawl from all of its orifices - ALL of its orifices, and fat green-bodied flies swarm about its head.

Now consider that immediately prior to its death, the animal crawled out of a fetid bog. The fen and our festering friend both stink of mud and decay. There's a damp sourness that hangs in the air. You feel soiled, as if you're somehow infected by the bitterness.

And we would be remiss if we forgot the Amish. Yes, the Amish. As it happens our friend has died in Amish country. The devout frequently ride this particular stretch of highway in their small black buggies, beards and bonnets blowing in the wind. Their horses - straining against the leather rigging - have made the trip from farmstead to farmstead so many times that the animals run on instinct. They hardly notice the trail of dung that marks their route. As it happens, our friend's slowly disintegrating body has come to rest upon an especially generous pile of Mennonite manure.

Such is the penetrating aroma of a salmon river during the height of the run. The stink lingers for weeks, but that stench ... that gloriously putrid stench ... is certainly a harbinger of better things to come. Steelhead.

As long as there's death on the wind we know there's steelhead on the way.

#2. The don't-so-much-as-breathe anticipation you feel when a carp considers your fly. 

You're seventeen years old. You and your girl are sitting on the bench seat of your father's brand new, 1990 Nissan hard body pickup. It's late, very late; on any other night you could expect an earful from the old man as soon as you walked through the door.

"You have any idea what time it is? ... not a word ... shut it. Not ... a ... word. Say good night to your mother. She's been worried sick. You and I will speak tomorrow. I would cancel any plans you might have, and there'd better not be so much as a scratch on that truck."

But tonight isn't just any night. Tonight is prom night. You've a pass from your mother and your father's reluctant blessing. Pop let you take his truck because he'd be damned if he was going to pay for a limo, and you've discovered that the truck works just fine. More than anything else, it is the truck that allows you this moment.

The festivities have been over for an hour or so. You, your bevy of friends, and their respective dates had been dancing vigorously and awkwardly for four hours. All the while your girl took your breath away. Never in your wildest pubescent imaginings had you seen such a beautiful creature. She was an angel on Earth, and she was there with you.

And then the two of you were alone in Dad's pickup; parked on some nameless, unpaved, backroad - music playing quietly on the radio. Your lips were close enough to share a breath, and her eyes - oh, the look in her eyes. Your hand slid slowly up her stockinged thigh, and she did not protest. Instead, she moved still closer ...

To this day you vividly remember your hand shaking. You remember the bead of sweat on your brow, and you remember thinking, "Is this really happening? Is this REALLY happening?"

Such is carp fishing. Every time a carp inspects a fly, the bug chucker connected to that fly holds his breath. He wonders if this will be the one. Will the fish eat? Usually, the answer is a resounding "No!" but every so often the answer is, "Yes!" Our hands shake, and maybe we even sweat a little. That's the joy of carp fishing. Nothing is certain, and every time is like the first time.

Yes, I just compared carp fishing to sex ... don't knock it until you've tried it (both carp fishing and sex).

#1. The gut wrenching agony we experience after losing what may have been the best fish of the year.

You can fast forward the video to about the 48 second mark, and then watch the hysterics ensue. My reaction kind of says it all.

That's the funny thing about disappointment though; it is disappointment - and perhaps an equal dose of hopeful anticipation - that keeps us coming back to the river. All of us know loss, but regardless of that loss we're always back on the water at the first opportunity. Losing fuels us. Losing shapes our memories. Losing drives us to pursue the ephemeral and chase the intangible. In many ways, losing may be the best part of the game.

The Hatch is On!

Oregon resident Chris Santella must have quite the bucket list. He is the author of several enormously popular travel and adventure books: Fifty Places to Fly Fish Before You Die, Fifty Places to Dive Before You Die, Fifty Places to Hike Before You Die, and Fifty More Places to Fly Fish Before You Die amongst others. Santella's books span such an eclectic mix of topics and locations that I'm not sure anyone - regardless of time or resources - could possibly hope to visit even a small fraction of the places his titles feature. For my part, I'll likely only visit any of those places when I dream, and when I dream - I dream of golden dorado in Bolivia and rainbow trout in Kamchatka (both covered in Fifty Places). I will have lived a full life if I live to see either place. 

Santella's latest book is slated for release on April 2nd of this year. The Hatch Is On! has a very interesting premise insofar as it deviates slightly from Santella's previous work. This book is not necessarily about locations - although the places mentioned in the book feature prominently. Rather, The Hatch Is On! is about the one thing that - more than any other - makes fly fishing distinct and different from other forms of angling. The Hatch Is On! is about annual rites of nature that draw fish and fishermen alike: green drakes and salmonflies, golden stones and hendricksons, olives and sulphurs. The Hatch Is On! is all about the hatch. As it happens, one of the hatches detailed in Santella's book is one that I know well. 

Tricos usually begin to appear on the Battenkill (to say Battenkill River is redundant as kill means river) in mid July. By the time the morning spinner falls reach their peak, the fish have keyed in on the diminutive bugs, and the fishing can be simultaneously very rewarding and excruciatingly frustrating. There's something about watching an eight inch wild brook trout follow a fly for 10 or 12 feet before refusing the offering that can get into a bug chucker's blood. I'd be lying if I said I have the hatch figured; to the contrary, the hatch mystifies me as much now as it did when I first chased the bugs from riffle to riffle. I am fortunate, however, to know someone who does have his finger on the pulse of the Battenkill trico. As it happens, this man is a close friend, and I wasn't the least bit surprised when I was told that Santella had approached him about penning a chapter for the book.     

Shawn Brillon is a curmudgeon. It is ironic that for most of his adult life he has worked in industries that require him to associate with people because as a rule - Shawn is not a people person. I've known the man for nearly two decades, and some days I'm convinced he only tolerates me because I'll drive to the river and I've exceedingly good taste in beer. What Shawn lacks in people skills, however, he more than makes up for with an uncanny ability to commune with all things piscatorial. Every aspect of my game - tying, casting, reading water - has improved directly as a result of my having known Shawn. He is exceedingly talented, and when one finally surmounts the brusque exterior, he can be among the best of friends and teachers. More to the point, Shawn is a bona fide trico-whisperer.

Anything else I might write at this point would likely seem disingenuous. What I'd like to do instead of continuing to sing my friend's praises, is to leave you with a small excerpt from Shawn's contribution to The Hatch Is On! - including the recipe for one of his favorite trico patterns (both reproduced here with permission from Chris Santella). Again, Santella's latest offering will be available from Amazon.com and other retailers come April 2nd, but the book is available for pre-order even now. You'll find the details here ...

Shawn's "Get-It-Dun" Trico as appearing in The Hatch Is On! (photo: Shawn Brillon)

Hook: Orvis Big Eye dry fly, 22 to 24

Thread: Black 8/0

Tail: Cream hackle fibers or Cream Mayfly tails (aka Micro Fibetts)

Abdomen: (Male) stripped peacock eye or Black 8/0 thread ribbed with white 8/0 thread (Female)  bleached stripped peacock eye - use as is or tint quill with olive green marking pen, or 8/0 White thread.

Thorax: Black Dry fly dubbing sparsely dressed.

Wing: CDC wing post white, or white turkey flat.

Hackle: Grizzly dry fly tied sparsely. 

"The wild browns of the Battenkill are the kind of selective trout that can make a difficult hatch even more maddening to negotiate.  The river is slow moving, the upper half (where the best Trico emergences occur) has a silt bottom, making wading ill-advised; and the fish hug the banks.  Nor is there much structure.  “A spot where a tree branch hits the water passes for a riffle,” Shawn added.  “It might be the only break in the water for 200 yards.  Even the native brookies are skittish.  The Battenkill is the only river I have ever fished where brook trout will turn your fly patterns down after following them for 20 feet and not come back to take a second look.  You have to make a downstream presentation on the Battenkill, and you have to control your expectations; a good day is three or four fish.  The fish are tough, and you should feel happy if you find a few.

“In the early days, I ran through the gamut of questions as to why I couldn’t consistently hook up during prolific Trico hatches.  I examined my presentation techniques; they seemed correct.  I looked at my fly selection—it seemed spot on.  So I began a closer evaluation of the flies themselves.  I returned to the river and started collecting naturals and comparing them to all the commercial patterns I’d used.  I figured it was time to take what I had observed in the field and apply it to some of the patterns I had had some success with. I concluded they were over dressed, the tails too short, the bodies too fat and bulky, the wings too large.  Also, there was little consideration of the color difference between the males and females.  Not all tricos are jet black in color; the males (which hatch before dawn or late the night before) are black, but what came off the water in the early morning were olive to cream in color and a little larger than the males.  To complicate matters even more, the spinners were a mix of smaller black-bodied bugs and larger white-bodied bugs ...

... This particular day I sat down and watched this angler have his way with several of the nice fish that I had seen sipping spinners over the past several weeks.  Being a guy who goes to the river to relax and get away from the reality of life, I always respect the silence and don’t tend to talk to anyone who’s fishing.  But this time I just had to figure out what this angler was doing or what fly he was using that granted him such great success.   I purposely hung out until the angler started to walk in my direction. We introduced our selves, and he said he knew who I was, ‘The Orvis guy who worked in the retail store.’  To this day I cannot recall his name, though when I mentioned him to other Battenkill regulars, they called him ‘The Heron.’  As we chatted, I learned that we had lots in common:  We both fished bamboo rods, had CFO reels and knew the river in and out.  The difference was that on this day, he was catching fish.  Eventually, I just had to ask, ‘What are you using to hook so many nice fish?’  I about passed out when he passed his rod to me so I could examine a size 10, heavily chewed-up Royal Coachman dry. That’s right, a huge Royal Coachman.  As I laughed, he explained that he gave up trying to figure out the Trico hatch 20 years before and went back to the confidence fly of his youth."

- italicized text excerpted from The Hatch is On!, Chris Santella (2013)

Orvis Fly Tying Sale

Not sure why I've taken 21 days to post this, but if you're looking for tying material this is about as good a sale as you're likely to find. Orvis is offering twenty percent off all tying materials and tools -  excluding those from Renzetti and Whiting - for the entire month of February. Bobbins, hooks, feathers and fur ... you'll buy it eventually ... may as well save yourself some scratch. Now might even be a good time to get that Regal or HMH vise you've been lusting after. The link below will take you directly to the tying section of Orvis' online store. I receive no compensation from the company (unfortunately); I just thought some of you might like to save a few dollars. The hooks - most of which are rebranded Daiichi or Gamakatsu - are an especially good deal.

http://www.orvis.com/store/shop.aspx?dir_id=1273&shop_id=1448

Why?

Since the inception of The Rusty Spinner, I've been asked many times over why I go through the trouble of maintaining a blog. Why do I burden myself with all the links and videos, with photographs and with writing? Is it vanity or exhibitionism? Do I feed on the little bit of praise I occasionally receive? Am I a collector of followers? Am I self important? Do I hope the blog will somehow magically morph into magazine articles or a book?

The truth is that The Rusty Spinner has been around in this form and others for over a decade - the blog began as a website devoted to the history and chronology of the Orvis CFO series of reels - and in that time I haven't received even one nickel for my efforts. Any reward I've received has been intrinsic and intangible to anyone but myself. Why do it then? When I think about it, the answer to that question almost certainly stems from the years I spent working in a fly shop.

Make no mistake, being a fly shop flunkie is hardly a glorious vocation. First and foremost, fly shop work is retail work, and sometimes no better than making minimum wage in a second hand clothing store that caters to tweens and hipsters. Stop for a moment, and imagine that special hell.

"Where can I find your free range, organic, "Like a Boss" belts?"

"I was wondering ... do you stock Hello Kitty socks in a men's large?"

"I don't believe this, Margot! They're out of henna hair dye."

"Why isn't there a bike rack out front? I ride my little fixie everywhere, and I have to say ... it feels so good to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Excuse me ... you seem to be out of "I Heart David Sedaris" graphic tees, when will you be getting more?"

What must it be like to be subjected to that kind of inane patter all day, every day, for less than $10.00 an hour? Just thinking of it makes my ears bleed, and as difficult as it may be to believe there are those days when working in a fly shop - a shop packed with all the latest and greatest rods, reels, flies, and fly tying material - is only marginally better than eight hours of selling black rimmed, lensless glasses to people with 20/20 vision.

"Do these waders come in an antique ivory taupe?"

"Will this line make me cast farther?"

"What do you mean you don't sell nightcrawlers? I thought this was a fishing store."

"Where do you fish?"

"My rod broke ... spontaneously and through no fault of my own."

The single saving grace is that this type of chatter was the exception, not the rule. Most folks - men, women, and children - were relatively well informed and comported themselves with a modicum of sense.

"These waders only come in olive? Perfect. One less thing to think about."

"I wish they'd make a line that casts itself because I just can't double haul with a flask in my line hand."

"I know this is a fly shop - and when I'm alone I'll definitely be back - but right now there are four kids in my car - four kids who want to go fishing. Any idea where I could get a tub of nightcrawlers?"

"If you had only two days to wet a line before you left for home, where would you fish?"

"I broke my rod. Like a chucklehead, I left the freaking thing laying across the truck of the car. Smashed her good. I may have had one too many IPAs ..."

And this is what I most enjoyed about working in the shop. Most of my day - each and every day - was spent talkin' fishin'. My customers and I talked bass and steelhead, trout and pike. We talked tarpon in Florida and kings in Alaska. We talked line and tippet, knots and rigging, double hauls and single speys. We talked about the Spring Hole, the Bat Hole, and a river whose name we never used. Working in a fly shop was my opportunity to be immersed in a lifestyle that I thoroughly enjoyed. When life led me from the shop into a teaching career, the one thing I genuinely missed was the opportunity to chat with like minded folks. Hence ... The Rusty Spinner.

The Rusty Spinner is my opportunity to continue the conversation. This blog isn't about marketing. It isn't about making money or getting free swag for ridiculously contrived and complimentary reviews. The Rusty Spinner is my way of throwing my thoughts out into the ether in the hopes someone might shout back. In that regard, my time spent at the keyboard has been time well spent. I've met folks from all over the world through this blog, including a few who live nearby and have become friends, confidants, and fishing partners.

The Rusty Spinner is my way of remaining on the periphery of a world that I've long since left. Writing about fly fishing is likely as close as I may ever again come to my time in the shop and the conversations I had there. As time passes and technology changes, I suppose I am likely to lose this outlet and my connection to that world. Still, I can't help but think that the time I spend here at this keyboard - uncompensated as it may be - is time well spent. Next to the riffles and pools of one very special river that shall forever remain unnamed, there are few places I would rather be than sitting here ... talking to you.

Mot Juste: Redux

Three weeks. I've gone three weeks without wetting a line, and this morning my piscatorial withdrawl is hitting me especially hard. I'm forced to dive into my day dreams, imagine trips yet to come and remember those that have already happened. What follows is a post that first appeared January 9th of 2012. It is the chronicle (or perhaps non-chronicle) of what might have been the most exciting day on the water I have ever witnessed. The river gods were generous in a way they haven't been since and may never be again. Ahhh memories ...  

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 a season 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.