On Finding Noses and Growing Older

Ben and I recently spent a day floating the river in hopes of finding a snout or two looking skyward. We weren't disappointed, but we were a little rusty. Of a half dozen opportunities, we converted on two. Such is fishing, and as you almost certainly know - the fish we miss are the ones that keep us coming back.

The two fish we brought to hand were not, however, the most notable part of the trip. Somewhere along those first few river miles, in between the boat launch and the first trout willing to take a swipe at my hendrickson, I had a thought - not a wholly unusual experience in and of itself, but strange given its context.

I wanted to hook a trout. I wanted the thrill of out-sized noses, tight to the bank or in a foamy seam, to materialize from the ether and swallow our poorly tied bugs. I wanted long casts and tight lines. I wanted some affirmation that after a combined four decades of near continual practice, Ben and I were competent bug chuckers, able to get the job done.

With as much in mind, we loaded the cars with one cooler, two boats, four oars, five rods, twelve beers, somewhere in the vicinity of 1500 flies (we fished five or six all day), and at least 6000 calories worth of roast beef and egg salad sandwiches. We actually took the time to wash thermal underwear and patch our leaking waders. We drove one hour to the take-out and another 15 minutes to the launch. We left business unattended and cashed in collateral with our wives. All that, and somewhere after we launched but before that first fish, I was struck by the notion that it wasn't the fish we were really after.

Read any book that touches on fly fishing, at least any older book that touches on fly fishing (which means no Kindle editions are likely available), and you're sure to see a similar thread woven into the fabric of the text. Fly fishing is so much more than hooking, playing, and landing a trout. As corny and hackneyed as it may sound, fly fishing is about the experience of a day spent riverside.

I remember once attending a lecture and slide show - on nymphing techniques, I think - given by Joe Humphreys. I was eager to hear what so talented and recognized an angler might have to say, but truth be told, so many years have passed between then and now that I remember nothing the noted bug chucker had to say about fishing a nymph. There is, however, one nugget that for whatever reason left an indelible impression. Humphreys implored his audience to "look up."

At the time, I either had no idea what Humphreys was talking about or I dismissed it as so much romantic nonsense, but nearly twenty years after the fact I am struck by his words. "Look up," he said. Look away from the water, and look to the trees. Look to the sky, to the birds, to the sunset or the sunrise. Look to the world around you, all those things that have become cliche in the sport's literature, and above all else - look to your friends and fishing partners. Take it in. Take it all in.

We were floating a beautiful piece of water on a genuinely beautiful spring day. If only for a moment, we were free of the stress and worry life often heaps on us in abundance. We were concerned, or rather unconcerned, with something that in the grand scheme is nothing but a trifle: finding a rising trout and coaxing it into taking one of our flies.

I don't know why, maybe it's a consequence of having caught my share of fish or the result of growing older and realizing I've more years behind me than are likely ahead, but somewhere after the boat launch and well before I hooked that first trout, I looked up from the water and realized my being there was enough. Sharing a river with my friend was enough. Sharing hope was enough.

Staying True to My Word

Earlier this year, I made myself a number of promises. One of those promises was to reacquaint myself with my home river - my favorite river. Several years ago, she was savaged by a 500 year flood, and that flood left her changed. Her trout - large, dumb, and willing to take a fly - all but disappeared when the flood waters abated. Probing with nymphs or streamers, we would still find the occasional corker, but those out-sized fish became proverbial needles in the haystack. Every time I waded her runs and pools, I was reminded of what she had been, and I left feeling sad that her best days were behind her. And then, during the season of 2015, there was a faint ray of hope.

On each of several long floats, we found noses - snouts sucking down hendrickson duns and sulphur spinners. They weren't all in the usual places because many of the usual places had been wracked by flood, but they were there nonetheless. By the end of 2015's season, I came to understand that while the river had changed, I had not. I also came to the realization that such a fragile fishery needs more friends, not fewer.

For more than two decades I barely even whispered the river's name. I fished with a select group of bug chuckers, each of whom had taken a vow of silence, and for nearly thirty years we kept secret our bounty. We caught fish - a lot of fish, big fish - but we did so to the exclusion of other anglers and to the detriment of potential friendships. This year, I've resolved to change all that.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't plan to publish any GPS coordinates. I won't sacrifice my relationship with the river to the gods of cyberspace, but I am broadening my circle. I've opened myself to new friendships. With a handshake and a promise to treat her well, I've introduced some fine anglers to the river I know and love, and I've learned every bit as much from them as I hope they might learn from me.

More to the point, I've enjoyed fishing more than I have in quite a while.

 

 

The Douglaston Salmon Run: An Unsolicited Review - Redux

As steelhead season creeps ever closer, I cannot help but think about the Salmon River and the water I hope soon to fish. Some of that water runs through the Douglaston Salmon Run, and in the coming weeks I'll likely end up fishing there once or twice. What follows is a review I wrote of the DSR some two years ago. I find my position hasn't changed so I thought I'd republish it for the sake of anyone who might be interested.

The Douglaston Salmon Run: An Unsolicited Review

Until recently, I found distasteful the notion of paying a fee to fish. I'm not entirely sure why, but I did. 

Perhaps it's my blue collar roots. I grew up in a household where my parents worked alternating shifts - often double shifts - and only rarely had more than a few dollars to show for their efforts. Paying to fish seems a waste when so much water - excellent water in fact - may be accessed for free.

Perhaps it's that uniquely American ideal that juxtaposes our love of free and open spaces with the honored tradition of the ownership and cultivation of private property. Certainly, these concepts are sometimes at odds.

Perhaps it is because this is the United States and not the United Kingdom. Our European bug-chucking brothers and sisters have for centuries been paying tuition and fees to fish. We yanks have never been comfortable with the idea.

Perhaps there is some small part of me that resents the opportunities of folks who have the financial means to enjoy the kind of fishing about which I'll only ever dream. I'll likely never climb the hills and mountains of New Zealand, or wade the flats off the coast of Belize. I'll never watch golden dorado herd bait through currents of a Bolivian river, and Costa Rican roosterfish will never chase my poorly tied flies. My jealousy is ugly and baseless, but I'd be something less-than-honest if I didn't admit to it just the same.

All this brings us to the Douglaston Salmon Run. For two reasons - at least to my way of thinking - the DSR has been a source of some controversy here in New York. Foremost, the resort limits access to its nearly two river miles of river frontage on what is arguably one of the best salmon and steelhead fisheries in the entire Great Lakes region, the Salmon River. The resort was also at the heart of a landmark legal case here in New York that - for all practical purposes - grants land owners rights of ownership (and therefore the ability to post and limit access) to the river that flows through their property. In other states, one can access rivers from any public access point (i.e. a bridge) and walk the bank along private land up to the river's normal high-water mark.

The Douglaston decision made possible the posting of land through which my home rivers flow, and as a consequence of my anger at having been refused access to water at home, I refused to pay to fish the DSR's private water when I visited the Salmon River. For all the aforementioned reasons, I was bitter about the DSR's posting of a piece of water that benefits from the public's tax dollars - in the form of a very successful hatchery program that stocks the river with both salmon and trout. For years, I abstained from some of the best and most interesting fishing on the river because I didn't want to pay for something that I thought should be free, and I was vocal in my opposition.

I don't know if I was necessarily right or wrong in any of my attitudes, but I can tell you that some of my preconceptions about the Douglaston were fundamentally flawed. Having spent the past three seasons wading with some frequency the DSR's water, I've come to realize a few things about the resort, its staff, clients, and its fishing.

First, the fishing on the DSR's property is arguably some of the best on the Salmon River. There are excellent angling opportunities throughout the fishery (my favorite runs are all on public water), but the DSR does have something that much of the rest of the river lacks.

Fresh fish.

Situated at the head of the Salmon River's estuary, the DSR's property is the first bit of river that many of Lake Ontario's salmon and trout will run as they make their way upstream to spawn. As a result, the fish in the low end of the watershed are often bright silver and energized to the point of being electrified. This is true for the river's king salmon as much as it is its steelhead. I find that fresh, silver fish simply fight harder than their river-darkened brothers and sisters, and bringing a bright fish to hand is just a little bit more gratifying than catching a fish that has seen the fishery's entire length.

For the past several seasons, the Douglaston Salmon Run has maintained a policy of no-kill on trout throughout the property's length. Much of the rest of the river has liberal daily limits on trout and salmon. As a consequence, fish are often killed well before they've a chance to spawn. My secret hope is that the DEC will institute no-kill regulations on wild fish that haven't a clipped adipose fin, but until legistlators and regulators demonstrate the courage to enact such a rule, the Douglaston's policy is a step in the right direction for the fishery and its anglers.

We should note that the DSR is in many ways a microcosm of the larger river system. The Douglaston's property contains any type of water one might hope to fish: classic runs and glides, green-black pools, heavy riffles and pocket water. Whether one nymphs or swings, there is a place on the DSR to do whatever it is one likes to do, and the quality of the fishing hints at what could be possible throughout the entire system if similar, enlightened regulations were adopted river wide.

Fishing aside, the DSR's staff does a fine job of maintaining its facilities and trails, which provide for easy access to any of the resort's 12 or 15 distinctly named runs and holes. While there is something to be said for having to bushwhack one's way to a stream, there is likewise something to be said for being able to take a leisurely stroll along the bank, and the older I get the more appreciate the stairway that leads from the Douglaston's main parking lot, down to the water. 

And what of the 800 pound gorilla in the room? What about the cost? Season passes (unlimited access to DSR property from opening in mid August to closing in mid May) run $450.00, and Steelhead Season passes (unlimited access to DSR property from mid November to closing in mid May) cost $300.00. Both season pass holders also receive free daily passes to be used by the pass holders' guests whenever they together visit the property (limited guests per pass).

Upwards of $300.00 too steep a price to pay? I have to say that with three kids at home and all that entails, the price of a season pass - even the less costly steelhead season pass - is a little too much for me. My wife would argue that I don't need to pay for fishing when there is so much public water - and good public water at that - to fish free of charge. She would be right to make that argument.

But to access the DSR's property, we need not pay hundreds of dollars for a season pass. Instead, we may opt to purchase a daily pass for which the Douglaston charges $45.00. Forty-five dollars? I know. I do. I found it as hard to swallow as you do, but then a friend who frequents the DSR - and has for several years - explained to me his way of thinking.

How much do we pay to go to a concert or to see a film? How much do we pay for a tank of gas or a meal at our favorite restaurant? What's a round of golf cost these days? How about a gallon of milk, a bottle of water, or a six pack of a small batch IPA? The point is that we spend our money in myriad ways, and never think twice about the real cost of things. When observed through the prism of value, I think the price of a daily pass on the DSR is more than reasonable.

      

Before you begin to wonder whether the DSR has put me on the payroll, please know that there are some ways in which I think the Douglaston Salmon Run could be improved. The first of these is the angler education and the enforcement of the legal and ethical rules of angling. As is the case throughout the river system, far too many anglers that frequent the DSR simply do not understand the difference between catching a salmon or trout fairly, and landing that fish after illegally snagging the animal in its body.
Make no mistake, snagging is every bit as prevalent on the DSR as it is on the upstream sections of the river. This is especially true during the height of salmon season. Consider the following video ...

As hard as it may be to believe, the gentlemen in this video recorded themselves fishing the DSR's water, and then posted their antics to YouTube. If you can bear to watch long enough, you'll eventually see that one of the Douglaston's river walkers approaches the group.

We can't be sure how much the DSR's employee saw that day. We can't be sure that he was ever in a position to curtail these men snagging fish. What we can be sure of is that the snagging continued after he walked on. This is unacceptable, and against both New York State law and the DSR's stated policy of enforcing that law.

I think I'll finish simply by saying that I've always enjoyed my time on the Douglaston's water. Some days have been better than others, but such is the nature of fishing. Critics might say that I'm a hypocrite, that I subsidize the people who would seek to make inaccessible the water I would fish. I don't know. Perhaps I am a hypocrite, but it seems to me that the DSR does not make inaccessible the water passing through through its property. Rather, the DSR simply limits access to that land. The fee to use this land is not extravagent, and the value of the experience is well worth the price. Would I prefer that the law reads as it does in so many other states, allowing anglers to access the water from any public site? Of course I would, but in the interim the DSR seems to have found a reasonable compromise, and I am grateful for that compromise.

TRS End of the Year Fly Fishing Blog Cliche

My end of the year cliche ... errrr ... video. Warning ... this will steal eight minutes of your life - eight minutes you will not get back.

Best viewed by switching to HD 1080 and full screen (options appearing in the lower right hand corner).

The World Has Turned

After a long and particularly equatorial summer (read: hot and wet), the world has finally turned. I first noticed it the other night as the kids and I sat around the fire, and I watched as they practiced the nuances of properly roasting marshmallows. Their initial attempts back in July reminded me of that most famous of scenes in Apocalypse Now when napalm erupts along the tree line behind Robert Duvall's character, Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning," Kilgore remarks, "that gasoline smell ... it smelled like ... victory." When set ablaze, marshmallows are remarkably napalm-like; they burn every bit as hot, stick to everything they touch, and even smell faintly of a sort of seasonal victory.

As the weeks have progressed since those first forays into the realms of sugar and soot, I've been seeing fewer fire hazards outside the confines of the stone brazier but exponentially more golden-brown caramelized goodness. The kids are finally getting it. When blowing out the amber flame that caressed one particularly well roasted marshmallow - perhaps his best offering to date - my son turned to me and said, "Dad, summer's over ... isn't it?" He looked a little crestfallen, and I nodded.

Yes, indeed. The summer is over, and as I sit here at my keyboard I find myself revisiting all the hopes I had for the season; aspirations that for myriad reasons - usually family, unfishable river conditions or indecisiveness - went otherwise unfulfilled. Foremost among my grand plans was musky. Going into the summer, I was determined to boat at least one of those snaggle-toothed apex predators. I did my research, and discovered that New York was surprisingly rich in flourishing muskellunge fisheries. I charted each river's course, marking on maps the likely put-ins and portage sites. I gave the wiggle test to several 10 weights, and tied a slew of outsized flies. And then - in the most anti-climatic way possible - it just didn't happen. Work got in the way. Family got in the way. Weather got in the way. Life got in the way. Maybe next year (of course, it doesn't help my fragile angler ego any that near the end of August one of my friends managed his first musky ... on a trip I was invited to attend).

This was also going to be the summer that witnessed me catch over 100 carp in the months of July and August. Again, I failed, but I think my inability to catch so many fish owes more to the nature of carp fishing than it does to any distractions. It was nothing short of hubris to believe that in roughly sixty days I would sting so many. Even if I was on the water everyday and everyday the water was perfect for sight fishing - hindsight suggests that such a high figure is a little ridiculous. Carp are far too difficult to stalk, and honestly I just don't have that kind of mojo. I caught enough fish to keep me happy, but I've learned not to project my foolish expectations onto such an unpredictable and uncannily wary animal.

     

Of course, I was supposed to explore new water - places that for now will have to remain distant and aloof. The ghosts that swim the phantom currents of those rivers will remain safe from the sharpened reckoning of my fly boxes for at least another year.

And while I am sad to see another summer come and go, I have to say that I am genuinely looking forward to the change. I find I'm filled with the hopeful anticipation that only autumn can bring; my dreams are filled with oranges and reds, chromatic silvers and buttery yellows. Bass, carp, and even muskellunge have given way to kings and coho, brown trout and steelhead. Reports suggest that the salmon have begun their annual push, and the trout will shortly follow to gorge on eggs and flesh.

So if I've a lesson for my boy I suppose that it is this: do not mourn the summer. Instead son, be patient and remain hopeful. The summer has indeed passed, but there are still new places to explore. There are still fish to catch. At the change of the season there is always a silver dream to chase.

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?

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 ...

 

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.

Earning Secrets

Contour lines moved ever closer; blue lines faded to dotted blue lines and then disappeared altogether. We were off the map. In a strictly technical sense, we could have used a compass to shoot an azimuth, estimate our distance to two nearby hilltops, and then pinpointed our location on the grid, but insofar as bug chucking goes we were most definitely in the land of the lost. According to our map - a USGS topographical survey circa 1984 - the stream we were fishing disappeared into the bedrock at least three quarters of a mile farther downstream, yet there we were - knee deep in a spring fed bog that reeked of decomposition and sulphur, a swamp from which a small brook emerged that we erroneously thought might hold a brookie or two. We finished the day exhausted, with nothing more than mud splattered clothing and a torn pair of waders to show for our substantial effort.

Of course, in several decades of fishing together Adam and I have managed any number of trips that were every bit as successful as the aforementioned was disappointing.

"What do you think? Have we a plan?"

"One upstream, one down?"

"Sounds good. I'll go up, you go down. If you sting one, come up and let me know."

"Will do. Luck."

I worked slowly and methodically downstream through riffles and pocket water, both to be thorough and to avoid the dunking that had become almost standard on our exploratory missions. I remember that my first impression of the stream was that it was barren, probably ravaged by acid rain, and likely devoid of any fish worth chasing. In less than twenty minutes, however, Adam came bounding downstream - sprinting through the water and leaping from rock to rock like that gnu featured in the opening theme of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.



Only twenty minutes since we had parted ways, and already he appeared disheveled. His breathing was raspy and came in labored gasps. Rod and vest were missing, presumably left streamside; carried gingerly in both hands was his net - as a Greek priestess might have presented an offering to her goddess.

"There's ... up ... up there ... there's a ... a waterfall ... first cast."

If Adam said much else then I didn't hear him. I was staring - wide eyed, stunned, almost certainly with my mouth agape - into his net. Struggling against the moist cotton mesh was an outsized brown trout that seemed much too big for such an inconsequential little brook. Shocked as I was, all the usual superlatives and vernacular abandoned me.

"Jeez ... wow ... that's one ... er ... a ... whoa!"

Adam beamed and enjoyed the moment. The fish was impressive in all the ways that mattered: thick and heavy, unmarred and unblemished, beautifully spotted and caught in a pool that likely hadn't seen another angler in decades if at all. Adam and I first found that stream (as we did most good things in those days) on a map, and in the twenty odd years since that first trip to its banks we've only ever shared its location with our most trusted friends and family.

As I reflect, I realize that my angling life has delivered many such moments of discovery: mud flats loaded with carp, gentle glides that are blanketed with hendricksons each spring, bass and bream by the bushel, even a nameless Montana spring creek that only locals fish and then only rarely. I've been very fortunate, but fortune only takes a bug chucker just so far. We cannot count on our good luck to see us through those too few seasons that we're given. Instead, we must be diligent experimenters and explorers who demonstrate a willingness to go off the beaten path, to travel outside the confines of our little piscatorial box. We need to take risks because it is risk that gives us the right to keep or to divulge the secrets we've learned.

I must admit that I've become complacent. I've been satisfied, sated, and perfectly happy to rest on my laurels. I've stopped experimenting at the vise, and my maps - all of them so well worn and creased - have either been discarded or forgotten on a shelf. As I look forward to the remainder of the year and the opportunities it will bring I make myself a promise. I'm going to travel outside of my comfort zone. I'm going to visit new water, and try to see old water with fresh eyes. For every dozen, proven flies I tie - I am going to tie one experiment, one Franken-Fly, and I will fish that fly at the first opportunity. I will find my way out of the bug chucking rut in which I seem to be mired. I will learn something new, and once again - I will earn my secrets.

2012: A Narcissistic, Porntastic, Photographic, Piscatorial Review ... and Primus Sucks

We have one more trip planned before 2012 fades into the sunset, but the river nymphs and weather gods may conspire to keep us off the water. It's time for a quick look back ... and Primus ... because Primus sucks.

Dear River, WTF?

Dear River,

We've been together for a long time now; this past spring marked twenty years. The day we met, I was eager and full of energy, and you were the undiscovered country - an unknown whisper of a trout stream in an otherwise forgotten corner of my world. Twenty years. Nearly a quarter of a century, and I'm still wading your runs. 

In many ways, you're much the same as you were the day we met: beautiful if perhaps a bit temperamental, and able to make me smile as no one else can. For years you were constant as the north star, a friend whenever I have needed a friend, a confidant who helped to wash away my worry and regret. But something is different. Something small but significant has changed, and I know you've felt it too.

You don't embrace me the way you once did.  There was a time when I knew - with absolute certainty - that the third week of April meant the start of a tremendous hendrickson hatch. Fish would rise - big fish - with the carelessness born of a long winter, and I would leave the river every evening having been reminded that I am a man. After the hendicksons were sulphurs, and then drakes, and eventually white flies. Every hatch - every fish - was an assurance that you loved me the way that I loved you.

And as much as it pains me to say, it's over, isn't it? Seems I just don't know anything anymore. This year the hendricksons came in March. March? Really? Why? How could you so easily discard my favorite hatch, and throw it away in the weeks before the season began? You must know that the first hatch of the year is always the best hatch of the year. Was it deliberate? Did you want it to cut? Did you want it to hurt? It did. Still does. March? Really?

And now that spring has turned to summer and the time for trout has passed, I have to ask, "Where have the bass gone? What of the carp and pike?" Your lower water - the nether region - was special in a way warm water too often is not. Fish swam everywhere - in every run, riffle, pool and pocket, and fishermen were largely absent. Your water has always been gloriously absent of anglers; I've never had to share you with anyone else. But not now, not anymore, and I think you enjoy all the attention. I'm sad to say that wading your lower water just isn't quite the adventure it once was.

And why do you insist on embarrassing me? Why? Used to be that whenever I would introduce you to a friend or acquaintance - you would do the right thing. You would try to accommodate my friends because you wanted to me to be happy, and yes ... you wanted me to play the part of hero. That's not the case anymore. Is it? Now, whenever I bring a friend by - be it for trout, bass, carp, or whatever - you take advantage of the situation. You emasculate me. The water and the fish never behave as I predict; I'm left to shake my head and think I must not know much of anything anymore. I've never been so full of doubt.

So that is why - as much as anything else - I've decided that we need a break from each other. You need time to become whomever it is you're becoming, and I need a chance to explore other corners of the world. Please don't misunderstand. I love you. I will always love you, but I am afraid that I cannot go on loving you if things continue as they are. Maybe after we've spent some time apart we'll discover that what we really need is each other. I hope so. I do.

Fondly,

Rusty

New World Record Brown Trout

Brown trout caught in Milwaukee harbor recognized as world record

By Paul A. Smith of the Journal Sentinel

June 25, 2012

A 38-inch brown trout caught by Eric Haataja in the Milwaukee harbor has been certified as a world record in the all tackle length division by the International Game Fish Association.

Jack Vitek, IGFA record coordinator, said Haataja’s application had been approved and would be posted to the organization’s website Tuesday.

Haataja, a fishing guide from West Allis, caught the fish Dec. 16, 2011.

After measuring and photographing the fish, Haataja released it. The records are officially entered in metric units – Haataja’s catch measured 97 centimeters.

The all tackle length division was created two years ago by the IGFA as a catch-and-release category. Anglers are required to photograph the fish on top of an IGFA tape measure.

*** The remainder of the article and a photograph of the beast may be found here ***

A Belated Happy Father's Day

Sorry it's late, but I was too busy enjoying the weekend to bother with the blog. I hope all the dads out there - especially those who wade my small part of the piscatorial cyber funk - enjoyed the day as I did. Happy Father's Day all ...

The girls had a two day dance recital to attend (I was there for day one). I took my boy fishing on day two.

Notice the tip of my boy's rod dragging along the rocks ... this is why we buy Ugly Stiks for five year-olds

His first smallmouth ... he was so proud to be holding it properly.

This is why I love my wife ... she encourages me go fish the evening spinner fall (after having fished all day with my boy), and to bring some good beer with me to drink riverside.

What's old is new. Both the rod (a Fenwick FF86) and the reel (J.W. Young Beaudex) are older than I am. This was their first trip to the river since we were introduced.

I managed a pair of respectable rainbows as darkness fell, but my partner in salmonic crime managed this nice 19-inch brownie just as the lights went out.

I like watching them swim away almost as much as I like watching them come in.