The Secret Sharer Redux

For the past several months, I've been in something of a story telling funk. The words haven't come easily, and as a consequence my keyboard has gone practically untouched. This isn't to say that I haven't anything about which to write; anyone who spends a life fishing is going to have stories to tell, but the way in which to tell those stories remains elusive.

Fortunately, I've several years of material to draw from. For the next few days - or weeks, or months - I'll be republishing some of this blog's older posts. I start with The Secret Sharer not because it is especially well written, but because it expresses a notion that seems at odds with the act of blogging about fly fishing: keeping secret our best fishing spots.

The Secret Sharer 

Robin Hill (of Spey Nation fame) and I recently spent the better part of a day cruising a local lake, looking for any small sign of the outsized carp that we both believe swim its windblown currents. At one point late in the day, Robin looked over at me and remarked, "It's because of this ... because of days like this. People write us [Robin and Spey Nation co-founder Geoff Shaake] all the time asking why we don't discuss the places we fish. This is why."

He was absolutely right. Days like the one we experienced are the reason so few bug chuckers divulge the whereabouts of their piscatorial stomping grounds. We were methodically exploring every back back bay on the southern end of the lake. We had miles of water under the hull and under our lines, and at the end of the day we parted ways knowing that neither of us would ever tell people what we discovered or where we had fished.

As juvenile as it must seem to someone who doesn't fish, the simple truth is that secrecy is the rule. What's the first rule of Fight Club? And the second?  "You do not talk about Fight Club."



So too with fishing, but the question remains. Why?

Robin nailed it. We - the too few members of the faithful fraternity of fly flingers - do not talk about the places in which we wet our lines simply because of the work we've put into getting to know those places. Robin and I explored every back bay on the southern end of the lake. We put miles under the hull and under our lines. We stared into the shallows until our vision was blurred by the glare of the sun. We changed flies, lost flies, tweaked the design of new flies, but we did not catch a fish. Not one. We were skunked, busted, blanked. By any metric, we had a very tough day on the water.

Sometimes I'd swear that they really are ghosts

And again ... we will never tell anyone but our closest compadres where we fished.

Given the stench of skunk, I think it obvious that our secrecy doesn't result from having discovered angling gems that we want to hoard and keep to ourselves. We all know of places where the fishing can be exceptional, but exceptional fishing is not the reason we speak in code if we speak at all. Rather, we are oftentimes tight-lipped to the point of being antisocial because we've worked hard for what we have. We're reluctant to share with the world because the world does not share our experience.

So ... I've some advice for anyone who hopes for the key to the inner sanctum.

Do the work yourself.

Buy a map. Walk the bank. Float a section of the river or the edges of a bay. Take the time to learn the water, and you'll likely be surprised by how prolific the fishing may be. Then take what you learn, and lock it away. Keep it safe. Don't tell anyone, least of all me. In doing so you'll learn the greatest secret of all.

The best fishing is never about the river or the lake. It's not about a particular run or pool. The best days on the water are never about the spot. The best days we have will invariably come as a result of having worked to achieve them, and as a result of having failed along the way. It's all about the effort. It's all about the work.

Demonstrate the effort, and you'll find the right spots. Do the work, and you'll have your own secrets to share.

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.

When Choosing Friends ...

When choosing friends, consider all the variables that matter in the context of successful relationships. Start with this question: "Does my potential friend own a drift boat?" If the answer is "no" then proceed to carefully analyze all other variables (i.e. trustworthiness, sense of humor, oral hygiene) before committing to the obligations of friendship. If the answer is "yes" then bribe your way onto potential friend's boat with a cooler full of expensive beer and cheap "pink-slime" sausages. After the float, propose marriage if you live in a state that will sanction the union.

What the hell is wrong with the anchor ... Ahhhh ... Frozen ball o' anchor rope, gets ya' every time.

This fish was only 13" long ... Shawn held it really close to the camera

Not sure if Shawn Photoshopped himself into a photo of my fish or if my fish is Photoshopped into a picture of Shawn ... result is the same I guess.

The only decent fisherman on the river ...

Would you believe this fish was actually 32" long ... Shawn has HUGE hands.

Yes, I have an adipose fetish ... I am so ashamed.

Not only did I talk him into rowing all day ...

All the cool kids sold their Clacks and bought Hydes ... @#$% the cool kids.