Listings on Ebay

Looking to purchase some new toys so I am listing a couple of items on Ebay. Anyone looking for an excellent Great Lakes steelhead rig may want to take a look.

One rod ... an Orvis Helios 10' 7# ...Click here for the auction.

And one reel ... an Orvis Battenkill Mid Arbor IV loaded with an Orvis Salmon/Steelhead 7# Wonderline ... Click here for the auction.

If Fly Rods Could Talk ...

If fly rods could talk what might they say?

Would they chastise us for casting as poorly as we do, for failing to bring out their potential? Would the consensus be that we - intrepid members of the faithful fraternity of fly flingers - frequently underpower our backcasts, and often overpower the forward stroke? Would our double-hauls earn any compliments, or would our rods suggest that our timing is off - that we might consider an investment in lessons? Would our rods secretly wish to be swept off their feet by the Rajeffs?

What of our bamboo sticks? They might stretch and breathe a collective sigh of relief when they're first pulled from their tubes. No doubt they would scold us for using them so infrequently. They might speak - in rambling tones - of their histories, and suggest that such tales demand the respect of use. "We were throwing loops over rising fish before you were a blush on your Mama's cheek."

I can imagine my impregnated Orvis, who has always been something of a curmudgeon, reminiscing about the good old days when Wes ran the shop, in the stretch before that crook Nixon took office. He would speak wistfully of the Perfects and Lightweights he's known, and frown disapprovingly when we mention that some Hardys are being made in Asia ... as is most everything. "What's wrong with the world?" he'd ask.


Made in England? Not anymore ...

In fly fishing, the new kid on the block always gets the most attention. Would that attention make for hard feelings? Would last year's sticks be jealous of this year's sticks? Would my Orvis Helioses - soon to be supplanted in the catalog and complaining of depression and frequent migraines - need Lexopro for mood and Vicodin for pain? At night, would my Winstons and Thomas and Thomas cry themselves to sleep? Would my Superfines, Conolons, and Fennies - who were "replaced" decades ago - smile knowingly, and remind all those other rods of what is meant by the word "classic."

Would they see the writing on the wall when they click "play" ...



... or would they dismiss it in the hopes it might all just go away?

No doubt, the rods we've broken would beg that we stop chucking tungsten beads and outsized split shot. They'd point to the nicks and scratches in their blanks, and speak - in frail and frustrated voices - of impending disaster if we don't stop behaving like barbarians. The message will be lost on us. We won't hear a word. We'll go on hucking the heavy stuff, right up to the moment when our favorite rods explode dramatically. Surely a manufacturer's defect we'll say, but the rods will know better.

Would those rods that survive history, seasonal shopping, and our ineptitude thank us for our constant companionship? Would they understand just how important they are to us, that - despite our lack of ability and the draw of new gear - the rods in our closet are like the air in our lungs? That they fill us up. That they sustain us.

Would they understand that without them, we're simply less alive?

The Flat

There's a nondescript span of river that has been something of a fish factory for as long as we've waded its currents. It's a genuinely special run that rarely sees a bug chucker; in all the years I've fished the Flat (yes ... capitalized, proper noun ... she's special enough to be given a name) I've only ever met one other angler there, and he was using spinning gear and moving too quickly to be particularly effective. The Flat is like the very ordinary friend of the most attractive woman at the party in that she's often ignored in favor of water that appears more promising. Like that plain looking woman, however, the Flat will pay off in droves if you just give her a little of the attention she so deserves.

The Flat is about as long as a soccer field, which - for those uninitiated heathens amongst us - stretches roughly 20 yards farther than an American football field. At the head is a short but powerful riffle; above that riffle is a very deep pool. Below the flat is another large pool, this one shallower and longer than its big brother at the head. We've caught fish - big fish - in both of these pools, but our efforts have always focused on the the flat water in between the two.

Imprinted on the parchment of my memory is the indelible impression of the first trout I ever saw rise on the Flat: a brown of some twenty-two inches. The fish first appeared in the pool below the run, but with relative quickness he worked his way to the tail end of the Flat, slurping hendrickson spinners as he went. Perched on a bank high above the water, I watched until I could no longer play the part of spectator. The fish swallowed my spent wing pattern on the first cast, and fifteen years later I still frequent the run looking for rising fish.

And even though the Flat's fish will crush stripped streamers - and I don't use the word "crush" euphemistically, the strikes are decidedly vicious - it is the dry fly fishing that brings us back. The best of the Flat's fish rise like they do nowhere else on the river, which means the Flat may be the river's best dry fly water.

Nose, back, tail ... Nose, back, tail ... Nose, back, tail.

The dance begins with the emergence of the season's first hendricksons, and generally continues unabated until the sulphurs begin to thin. I spend the better part of the winter chasing steelhead if only to help me get through to the spring and rising fish on the Flat. It is amazing - simply amazing - to think that I can be completely isolated from the world, and casting parachute emergers to large, wild brown trout, less than one hour from the capitol city of New York State.  

That's the thing about the river, and perhaps it's the same for any river. Each run is a galaxy, vast in its way but still only a very small part of the much greater universe. The Flat, the Falls, Converse, the Bends, Betsy's Run, Confluence, the Bridge, the Pullout, and Ballpark ... each run and pool, each riffle and each flat, has its own particular charm. We fish them all in their respective seasons because we've spent a lifetime learning those seasons.

And as the Flat's season reaches its height and hendricksons give way to sulphurs, I find myself thinking that there are much worse ways to spend a lifetime than by wrapping bits of fur onto bits of wire, standing waist deep in icy water flowing through a river bed that was carved by the last ice age, and watching fish rise out of their element and enter ours, to feast - however briefly - on the bounty provided by a river that so nourishes us both.

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.