New Auction Site Geared Toward Fly Flingers

What follows is the text of an email I received from friend and well known realistic tyer Bob Mead. He and David Martin, also a tyer of realistic flies, are starting a new auction site that may be of interest to the few folks who read my blog. Check it out and give 'em a shot.

Hi Everyone,

David Martin and I are starting our own auction site for both buyers and sellers.

http://www.bobanddavesauctions.com/cgi-bin/auction/auction.pl

We decided that for $0.50 the seller can list any item at any price. This insertion fee includes the listing, up to 4 pictures, and a view counter. If you go to the site and make like you are listing an item the prices for additional auction helpers such as Bold print, Highlite, and featured item, all very low, will come up.

There will be NO final price percentage fee. David is trying to use the BANNER to let people know that there is no final price fee as he can't just go in on the fee schedule and put it there, he can only change charges and fees prices. It's just the way the program was written by the guy who created it. We'll figure it out. We were originally going to charge a constant 2 percent final price fee and give everyone a 20 dollar credit toward that final fee, but the guy who created the auction site would have to rewrite the program. He liked the idea and sometime in the future may incorporate it.

So basically, a seller can list any item for 50 cents and have no further charge for selling it. No charge for Buy it Now either. Google won't pick it up for a week or two. We have many venues to promote it plus all our personal collectors of our flies and other FF goodies, plus lure collectors have already been notified. This is going to be interesting. I'll be listing stuff myself.

I hope you will give us a try. Please register.

You can sell and buy. To sell, we have paypal to register accounts, so we can get our tiny fees, plus we will take m.o.'s from sellers so they can open an account if they don't use paypal.. We want to stay away from CC's although individual sellers can select any type of payment from buyers they want and are not limited to one type of payment. After that you must have sent in a m.o. $25 or more, or used your paypal to place a working balance in order to sell. You don't need a balance to buy.

Payment is between you and the seller who will list the type of payments he/she will accept.

Take Care and Thanks,

Bob

Pyrrhic Victory

A little history lesson courtesy of my student loan company, the G.I. Bill, and the first five or six entries to come up on a Google search (good thing I spent all that money) ...

In 280 B.C. and again in 279 (I refuse to use the politically correct "B.C.E.") King Pyrrhus of Epirus devastated his Roman opponents on the fields of Heraclea and Asculum respectively. Following the battle at Asculum the Greek historian Plutarch recorded Pyrhuss' reaction. The translation reads something like this, "One more such victory and I am lost."

Pyrhuss, it seems, sacrificed too many men to achieve a favorable end to the war. Although they were clearly defeated and suffered terrible losses, the Romans were better able to gather new recruits and resume the fight. Pyrrhus' own army was decimated, and he did not have the resources of his Roman counterparts. By winning the battles Pyrhuss lost the war. From this page of history we draw the term "Pyrrhic victory," which has come to suggest a victory that has been won at too dear a price.

The spring of this year witnessed the kind of fishing about which most of us dream. The hendricksons came in tremendous numbers, and it seemed as if every big fish in the river was regularly on the feed. Ben, Adam and I had more than just a few days when several twenty inch browns came to net. On one such day, Adam (the lucky SOB) took a twenty-four inch hen, and just a few moments later followed it up with a twenty-three inch kype-jawed male. Days like that are almost unheard of in this neck of the woods. Yes, the spring of 2009 was glorious.

Summer, by way of contrast, has been abysmal. Without consulting a local meteorologist, I would guess that since the end of June we've averaged two or three days of rain per week. The near continuous rainfall has had the effect of raising water levels in all the local ditches, and maintaining flows that just aren't conducive to fishing. Last year at this time I was averaging three or four days on the water per week (despite the triplets having just learned to walk). What am I averaging this year? Let's just say that I was never any good at fractions. It seems I spent all my mojo during the spring, and that I've nothing left with which to finish the season.

What then should a fisherman do who appears to have angered both the river and weather gods, and has virtually no hope of catching a fish? If you're reading this then you likely know the answer. When one is tormented by high water, horrible weather, and a gnawing desire to wet a line then one follows Pyrrhus' example and fishes regardless of normal considerations. That's what we did yesterday at any rate, and that's what we'll do tomorrow. Yesterday, we caught fish; a surprising number of fish. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe we'll find just a drop or two more ju-ju, and continue to fight the good fight.

2500 Miles Later

One Dodge Grand Caravan. Two delusional, under medicated, overly enthusiastic parents. Three, two and a half year-old maniacs.

Zero fish.

Nada. Nothing. Zip.

Why?

Would you believe Big Daddy forgot to pack his gear? Yup. I left it all sitting on the porch, and there it remained until I returned. I had a free pass from the boss, and had even looked into booking a guide on the rat's lake. I was actually a little disappointed. There's a certain novelty to fishing in the foreground of Cinderella's castle.

My wife says not to worry as I'll have a chance to fish the lake next year, when we take our next trip.

Are you kidding me? Freakin' rat.

Mouse-ke-misery

I'll be signing off for a week or so, as the triplets, the wife and I are making the drive to Florida. The kids are excited about the prospect of seeing Mickey's Castle. My wife is excited that the kids are excited, and I am dreading the whole ordeal.

Why? For starters it's freaking August. I weigh nearly three bills on a good day, and over three bills every other day. I'll be sweating more than a stray dog in a North Korean prison camp. Then there's the fact that my children are all of two and a half years old. Take a moment to consider all that implies. Two girls and one boy, each of whom has recently begun potty-training and taken a special interest in the others' genitalia, strapped in adjoining car seats for over twenty hours (one way). Sound like a good time? Johnny, you bet it does.

There had better be some willing bass in that freaking rat's lake.

You Must Really Like To Fish

About two months ago I visited my doctor about some pain I'd been experiencing in my abdomen. After a short examination he declared that I had a hernia, and he scheduled an appointment for me to visit a surgeon. One week later I found myself in that surgeon's office explaining that I needed to postpone the operation until mid winter. Naturally, he recommended I have the procedure done immediately. "You'd be up and about in only a few days. Why wait so long?"

Clearly, he wasn't a flyfisherman. He knew nothing of the hendricksons that were, at the time, coming off the water in tremendous numbers. He knew nothing of the sulphurs, which would follow the hendricksons. He knew nothing of brown trout, rainbow trout, brookies, largemouth and smallmouth. He had never double hauled an entire fly line, or lusted after another bamboo rod. The point is that at the time, I had months left in an already far too short fishing season, and I wasn't going to miss even a single day. My wife thought my decision was foolish. Adam disagreed.

Adam is one of the most focused fishermen I know. Strike that. Adam is, without a doubt, the single most intense angler I know. He is keenly perceptive, and purely analytical. If the Battenkill were a place where no man had gone before (sadly ... it is not), Adam would be a Vulcan and his flyrod a tricorder (yes Virginia, I am a geek). The man doesn't just go fishing. He weighs all the variables: air temperature, water temperature, cubic feet of water per second, weather forecast, historical climatic trends, prevalent hatches, and moon phase (by this I mean the moons of Jupiter). He knows when fish are going to be active, and he makes sure to be on the water when they are.

Which brings us to May 31st, 1998. Adam thought it would be a perfect day to fish, and I suppose that when one looks at the variables he was absolutely right. The river was running at roughly 150 cfs, which is perfect for drifting a pair of nymphs. The fish had been active during the previous week, having the tail end of the hendrickson hatch to enjoy. A cold front was threatening, but had not yet moved into the area. If I hadn't been committed to a backyard barbeque with my fiance's family, I probably would have joined him. Everything was looking good.

Yep. Everything was wonderful until the tornado touched down. The worst damage was had by the city of Mechanicville, where 215 mph winds were recorded. Dozens of homes were destroyed, any number of injuries were reported, and five people lost their lives. The storm tracked for miles, slowly losing intensity. By the time it reached the river, homes and barns were spared, but trees along hundreds of yards of shoreline were either uprooted or snapped like so much kindling. Where was Adam through all of this?

Would you believe he fished through the storm? Think about that the next time you find yourself casting a four weight and cursing the wind.

Not too long ago, I was recounting these stories to a colleague. Her response?

"So. You must really like to fish."

Yeah. You could say that.

Morton Salt

When one is having a bad day at what point should one simply call it quits, and try again the following day? I ask because no matter how bad my day may be I always seem to find a way to make it worse. This past Sunday was an average day that took a turn for the worse, and in doing so became a fine example of just how oblivious I am to those small omens and portents that tell more sensitive types to turn around, go home and crawl under the covers.

Before I continue ... a bit of a disclaimer. Generally, I try to avoid vulgar language when writing, which is odd because I've never hesitated to curse vigorously when I speak (one of a myriad of skills honed by my time as an infantry soldier). Sometimes though, swearing is necessary given a particular context. At those times, few other words will do. Here goes.

"Do it bitch! I fucking dare ya'. What's the matter bitch? Haven't got the balls?"

He was challenging me, that much was clear. That one beady, little duck eye said it all.

"Go ahead. Run me down in that P.O.S. family truckster. Maybe it'll make you feel more like a man."

He might have been suicidal. More likely he didn't even realize he was a duck. Either way, he was waddling his preen soaked derrier down the middle of the street, and taking his own sweet time about it. Frustrating? Yes it was, and especially so given that I hadn't been trout fishing in two weeks. I was desperate to be stripping a streamer or swinging a pair of nymphs. I needed to be knee deep in my favorite riffle, and that freaking duck was costing me time on the river. Normally, I wouldn't have been so worked up, but only moments earlier a baby fox had done the same. Moments before the fox it had been a goat. Yep. A goat. Clearly, nature was conspiring against me.

By the time the duck had moved aside I was in a flurry. I cursed continuously. Ben laughed nonstop, and seemed to enjoy my sputtering. My tirade lasted a full forty-five minutes, until we arrived on the banks of my favorite brook trout stream. Our plan was to fish for brookies during the heat of the day, and to quickly drive to the main river at dusk to see if there were any snouts breaking the surface.

The next two hours or so went well enough. We hopped from rock to rock (Ben hopped ... I kind of slid and shifted my girth between boulders), and caught a slew of fish on hoppers and stimulators. It was fun fishing for sure, and would have made for a perfect day if the sun hadn't been so hot and the water a touch lower. The day was looking up until we hiked back to the car.

Here again, a bit of a disclaimer. Politically, I'm an old school libertarian (get your hands off my wallet and your nose out of my business), but I'm a little more progressive when it comes to social issues. So, when I rounded a bend in the stream and saw two lesbians kissing and groping each other near one of my favorite pools, it wasn't my political sensibility that was offended. As the old adage goes, "To each his (or her) own." I was in Vermont after all.

The problem I had with the scene that appeared before me wasn't political nor was it philosophical. The issue I had was purely aesthetic. The women tonguing each other stream side were two of the most hideous creatures my eyes have ever beheld. One reminded me of Howard Stern, the other was a ringer for Dom Deluise, and they were locked in a passionate embrace that likely would have been consummated had I not stumbled through the creek bed. I pretended not to see them as they hastily arranged their clothing, and disappeared along the trailhead. The damage to my vision and my psyche, however, had already been done.

At this point I'm inclined to conclude my rant. Suffice to say the day did not improve. Ben served himself up as a feast for a hungry spider that had found its way inside his waders. My glasses were broken beyond repair. My waders were punctured, and my car developed an oil leak. I can't help but think it all has something to do with my childhood crush on the Morton Salt girl. "When it rains it pours."

Bitch.

Josie

I'll get to the piscatorial point in a minute. For now, please just bear with me.

There are certain landmarks with which we are all familiar. Even if we haven't visited a particular monument, we can sometimes see it in the mind's eye. The Statue of Liberty, The Gateway Arch in Saint Louis, Mount Rushmore, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Washington Monument have all become part of the American lexicon. The landmarks with which we are most familiar, however, are usually a little more mundane. Oftentimes, these landmarks spell h-o-m-e.

Drive for twenty minutes in any direction from my house, and at some point you'll pass a Stewart's convenience store. You're likely to drive by several, and you're almost certain to stop by one at least. In much of upstate New York and southern Vermont, Stewart's shops are community gathering places and town centers. In my neck of the woods, Stewart's means home.

At least once in any given day, most folks will run down to Stewart's (even when driving uphill or otherwise moving laterally people will insist they're going down to Stewart's). While there they'll pick up a gallon of milk, look over a newspaper (while subtly glancing at the cover of Penthouse), pour a cup of coffee, and purchase a lottery ticket. Before walking out the door they might give the cork board a once-over. There they'll find all manner of memos and flyers: advertisements for garage sales, information on book clubs, sewing circles and pancake breakfasts, a flyer for a firehouse fundraiser, and the ever-present notice of a missing pet.

On one such cork-board, in one particular Stewart's shop, hangs a rather unusual notice. Someone's pet is missing; an animal that answers to the name Josie. No, a missing pet is not a big deal nor is Josie is an unusual name. What is unusual is that Josie is a cockatiel, and she also answers to the names Lulu, Sweet Bologna Puss, and Foreshadowing Disaster. Yes, the bird answers to Bologna Puss and Foreshadowing Disaster. Read a little farther down the page, and one discovers that Josie enjoys Beyonce's Single Ladies, Guns -n- Roses' Sweet Child of Mine, and Bing Crosby's rendition of You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby. I've been pondering the connection, and whether lyrical, thematic or rythymic I just don't know. Perhaps the bird has eclectic tastes. Perhaps she simply enjoys singing along, but neither possibility much matters.

What is significant is that only one half mile (as the cockatiel flies) from Josie's wanted poster is the home of one heck of a largemouth bass. Josie is the landmark. Find Josie and you'll find the bass.

Ben thought the fish may have topped six pounds, but I'm guessing it was much larger (when an angler fails to catch a particular fish, he or she forever has the right to claim said fish was enormous and of uncanny intelligence). We were paddling along shore and casting to the edge of the weeds, which marked the drop off to much deeper water. Fishing was slow. Those few fish that showed themselves were either too small to inhale my 2/0 hook, or too smart to fall for a few strands of bucktail lashed to a chunck of airbrushed foam (which was in turn lashed to an over-eager bassing neophyte). As luck would have it, or rather as luck always seems to have it, I flubbed my double haul when it most mattered. When the water caved in around my popper I did all that I could do, which was to strike hard on fifty feet of slack line. Nobody home. Ben glanced back over his shoulder.

"Definitely five ... maybe six pounds. That was the fish we were looking for."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks."

"Too much slack."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks."

"Try to keep your line tight."

"Again, thanks."

Ben's barbs hurt, but he was right. I made a rookie mistake. I couldn't blame the wind or weather. I couldn't blame the river gods. I couldn't blame my guide. My inattention and poor form cost me the thickest largemouth I've ever encountered.

Foreshadowing Disaster indeed.

Gear Swap

I think I'll just put it right out there, and hope my wife doesn't read my blog. I've way too much shiznat. Way ... way too much. Three 905s, two 904s, two 906s. I fish one of each. Reels ... extra there too. Nets. Waders. Boots. Lines. So much stuff.

So here's the deal. I'll list some of the gear with which I'm willing to part. If any of you see anything you like then write with trade suggestions. I'm not necessarily looking to sell anything (I suppose I would if prompted), but I'm always looking for new toys.

What specifically am I looking for? A canoe would be nice. Switch rod or a spey rod maybe. Orvis CFOs. Maybe a little 6' or 6'6" two weight. Firearms. Just about anything will be considered. Don't be bashful, and don't be afraid to simply list your items as I have. I may not be interested, but someone else might.

Rods

Winston WT 904-3, used twice
Orvis T3 905-2 mid-flex, "Rodkilla" (my nickname when I worked at the shop) penned on the shaft
Orvis Zero Gravity 906-4 mid-flex

Reels

Redington ML 9/10 (perfect 8# reel) loaded with an older but hardly used 8# Orvis Wonderline

Lines

Orvis, Rio, Cortland ... Some brand new. Some used once or twice. Floating and sinking. Don't be afraid to ask as I very well may have the line for which you're looking.

Nets

Brodin Catch and Release style (I think it was called the Madison or Gallatin model) used extensively but solid and perfectly functional.

More to come ... I need to actually look in the closets. If you would like to contact me I may be reached at mdaley73@yahoo.com.

Here Comes the Rain Again ...

Notice that 80% of this radar image is clear. The heaviest weather is passing over my neck of the woods, and the USGS has the river well on its way to being blown out ... again. I'm beginning to think this is never going to end. Guess who won't be fishing the evening hatch tonight?

To Do

First thing's first. I need to figure out a way to get out from underneath all this freaking rain. Every time the river drops to a reasonable level, another storm front moves in, unloads a biblical flood on all the local drainages, and effectively screws the pooch for a few more days. It may as well be March for all the waiting and anticipation, and I am tired of waiting and anticipation. Granted that the rain is just what the local trout streams need to better endure the summer. Granted I've always had my best seasons when we've a wet June and July, but enough is enough already. The clouds need to part. The water needs to drop. The river gods need to conference with the weather gods, and get their respective shiznat together. If a sacrifice is required then there are in my neighborhood any number of wandering cats that I think might suffice. Anyone feel like barbecue? (I'm an unapologetic dog guy).

Second, I absolutely must make more time at the tying bench. More to the point, I need to make better use of what time I'm allotted by management. I made the mistake of hooking up a small television just to the side of my vise, and my productivity has dropped substantially as a result. No, I don't have A.D.D. What I have is a serious crush on Fox News personalities Megan Kelly, Alisyn Camerota , Julie Banderas, Andrea Tantaros and Shepard Smith. I love each of them to the point of distraction, but I love Shepard most of all. Not in a man-love kind of way mind you, but perhaps in a prison way. You know ... I'll hop in the top bunk and call ya' Ginger ... that kind of way (at this point it should be abundantly clear that the continuous precipitation is pushing my mind past the limits of normal human endurance).

Third, I need to spend a little more time getting to know that downstate tailwater. Everybody says it's the best trout stream on the east coast so I'm certain it must be. Why such crowds if it isn't all it's said to be? And as much as I hate the drive, maybe I'll hate it less once I better know what to expect once I make it to the river ... aside from New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Connecticut plates at every other access point.

Fourth, I need to return to Montana. I miss the Yellowstone, Slough Creek, Duck Creek, Hebgen Lake, and the Madison. I miss cutthroat trout, pale morning duns and the Grizzly Bar. I miss seeing all those stars at night; stars we never glimpse here in New York. Sadly, my wife says that at two years-old the triplets are far too young to make the trip. I think she is convinced that once we cross the border from Wyoming to Montana, each of our children is likely to be stalked and devoured in turn by a rabid she-wolf. She forgets that normal, healthy children are everyday born to Montanan parents, and that most of these children thrive and reach old age. In an only slightly better scenario our children grow to love Big Sky Country as much as I do, and want to return every year. For my wife, such a possibility is worse than the inferno.

Finally, I need to start killing my own fly tying material. Grouse, partridge, turkey, rabbit, and squirrel are all here for the taking. I've a mind to start with the rabbit that ate my wife's flowers, although I probably shouldn't use the shotgun to perform the execution. I'm pretty sure firing a 12 gauge in my little corner of suburbia is verboten. No, the shotgun is out. I think I need to hit Wally World and purchase one of those Daisy, CO2 pellet rifles. Better yet, maybe I can pick up an "official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock." How cool would that be?

Who am I kidding? I'd probably put my eye out.