Favorite Flies Volume 2: J.A.Z. (Just Another Zonker)

Zonkers are terrific streamers. They're relatively easy to tie, and they produce like few other streamers do. I'm sure that there are hundreds of variations in thousands of fly boxes. The pattern that follows is the one you would find in my box. It is hardly anything groundbreaking, but it is crazy effective. I tie this fly in several colors, but olive/white is my standard.

Hook: TMC 8089 Bass Hook Size #10
Eyes: Dumbell style with a yellow iris tied in 1/4 the length of the shank behind the hook eye
Thread: UNI 6/0 white
Tail: A tuft of orange rabbit pulled from a dyed hide
Wing: A short section of olive/white bar-dyed zonker strip, tied in directly above the tail
Body: White crosscut rabbit wound up the shank, ending behind the eyes
Head: Olive Senyo's Laser Dub tied in a dubbing loop and x-wrapped through the eyes

Don't be skeptical of a bass hook on a trout fly. I had been searching for a hook with a wide enough gape that the zonker strip wouldn't foul, while at the same time maintaining excellent hooking and holding properties. The TMC 8089 fits the bill perfectly. Also, don't make the mistake of thinking that a #10 makes for a small fly. This hook's gape in a #10 is about the equivalent of a #4 or #2 streamer hook.

There was a time ...

There was a time when nothing - absolutely nothing - would stop me from getting to the river. I remember being an undergraduate student, and working the night shift at a local convenient store. My schedule was set. Classes from three or four in the afternoon until nine or so at night. Grab a quick bite somewhere, and then off to work for eleven. My relief came by seven a.m., and by eight I was on the river. Six or eight hours on the water, nearly everyday. The weekends meant fourteen hour fishing days, and evening spinner falls.

I remember once being so sleep deprived and out of sorts that I asked my buddy to pull the car to the shoulder, and I promptly vomited all over route 313. Three days worth of Green Mountain Home Blend coffee and gas station chimichangas formed a Jackson Pollackesque smear on the shoulder of the road. Afterward, I simply shrugged it off, and continued on to Arlington to fish the hendrickson hatch on the Battenkill. Caught some good fish too.

How many times have you swatted at your alarm clock as the buzzer rang, and the LCD flashed 3:00? I've done it on the first of every April since I was sixteen. Every April since I was sixteen I've been the first person to the river. Nearly every April since I was sixteen I've caught fish on opening day, but I just don't know that it's going to happen this year. I'm getting older. I'm getting tired. I have other stuff on my plate. Let's face it, even though I've plenty of natural insulation, I just don't deal as well with the cold as I once did.

Is it possible that fishing just isn't my first priority anymore? Yes, I suppose it's possible. After all, I am a husband and father. Three children have a way of making one reorganize the essential elements of one's life. My wife isn't exactly high maintenance - in fact, she's about as laid back a woman as any man could want - but she needs some attention too. Then there's my career. Contrary to popular belief, teaching takes a lot energy. Teaching well does, anyway. All that aside, however, I am in no way suggesting that fishing isn't essential.

I simply couldn't imagine my life without fly rods, waders, and bits of fur and feather wrapped around strands of wire. Few things bring me as much joy as a well tied fly, a well executed cast, or a solid fish pulled from a difficult holding lie. As I look through the kaleidescope of my history, most of the images I see involve running water and fleeting flashes of silver and gold. Increasingly, however, these moments - precious as they are - run in the background.

Now, images of family occupy most of my thoughts. As I sit here at this keyboard I find myself thinking that it will be a special day indeed, when memories of family and of fishing begin to meld into one. Until then, I'll try to be content with looking forward to the day when my boy and my girls ask to fish one of my bamboo rods or to teach them to tie a woolly-bugger. And while this might be the first year in two decades that I miss fishing on the first of April, you can be damn sure I'll probably be fishing on the second.

Snowbound Videographic Masochism

Here's an outstanding video from a group of German bug chuckers. Beautifully shot and professionally edited, it is well worth your time, and likely to leave you wishing for spring to arrive.


FLY-FOCUS Trailer from Marcus Sies on Vimeo.

Pagophobia

When I was a boy I was terrified of the ice. Dad would take me to the pond, hockey skates in hand, and try as I might I just couldn't make that first step off the firmament. The old man would throw rocks - veritable boulders in a child's eyes - onto the ice to prove its solidity. He'd jump up and down like a Zumba dancer at Carnivale, stomp like Gargamel rampaging across the rooftops of Smurf village, and still I wouldn't budge. My memory is a little fuzzy, but I think he may have given up after a single winter. That paralyzing fear persisted into adolescence and continues even today.

"Hi. I'm Mike, and I'm a pagophobic."

There's no need to say it. I know what you're thinking. Six feet three inches tall. Two hundred ninety pounds. Former infantry soldier.

"Pussy."

It's O.K. No hard feelings. I agree. My fear is unfounded, some might say unreasonable. Unfounded and unreasonable as it is, however, it is still very real. Pagophobia is also probably why - regardless of my enthusiasm during the normal fishing season - winter fly fishing has never much appealed to me. Sure, I've made the occasional steelhead trip. I've walked the banks of the Battenkill on New Year's Day. Honestly though, winter fishing is cold, it's uncomfortable, and occasionally winter fishing can be very nearly deadly.

I'm reminded of one particular winter - twenty years ago I suppose it must have been - when Adam and I spent quite a bit of time fishing the Kill. The trophy section (something of a misnomer) was open year round, and as young men we had few responsibilities and little else to do but fish. I remember it was February, the brilliant glare of sun shone on ice hardened snow. I remember seeing dark shapes that were fish in the run immediately above the inlet of Camden Creek. I remember spotting more fish in the Spring Hole, and Adam stinging one there.

I also remember walking the bank just upstream of the Battenville Covered Bridge, and the knot in the pit of my stomach as that bank gave way beneath me. I remember the rush of February water over the top my Redball waders, and the pain of a cold so total and complete, I thought I might have been stabbed by an errant piece of rebar hidden beneath the inky surface. I remember my desperate, ragged breath. I remember clawing - very slowly, clawing - my way up a slick, frozen stream bank. I remember the weight of the water, and the weight of my fear. I remember my gratitude for the blast of a car heater on naked - frozen flesh, and cursing my stupidity for not having brought a change of clothes.

I remember all this, and still I find my mind is off on the Salmon River and the trophy section of the Battenkill. Who knows? Maybe sometime in the coming weeks I'll make the trip to Massachusetts, and fish where there is generally no designated season or prohibition against taking one's life in one's hands for the sake of a January trout. Maybe I'll forgo the long rod altogether, and accept Ben's invitation to fish Champlain through the ice. I just don't know.

What I do know is that I need a break, some alone time, a few hours on the water. Ultimately, I suppose it doesn't matter if that water is frozen or not.

A year in pictures ...

The season started with an ominous and poorly spelled warning ...



At the falls I tested both my luck and the new camera ...



Avoided the shrooms ...



Fished an old rod ...



Fished a new rod ...



Ben caught a decent fish ...



Adam caught a decent fish ...



Ben caught the same fish again ...



The rainbows were cooperative ...



Very cooperative ...



As were the browns ...



Floated the tailwater ...



Where we caught some real bruisers ...



Fished with Shawn ...



Fished with Timmy ...



And tried to get everything else in order ...

Favorite Flies Volume #1: The Bou Bou

I did something a few moments ago, that I haven't done since this blog's inception. I reread a few of my past posts, and having done so, I realize that my long diatribes offer little in the way of useful information. Nearly all my posts are particularly personal and some are entirely anecdotal. More than a few are verbose to the point where I imagine readers, lonely bug-chuckers all, falling asleep at their keyboards with puddles of drool spreading out across their chests. Even though I began this blog strictly for my own sake, I would like those few readers who occasionally visit to take something away they might genuinely use. As such, I've decided to run a weekly (bi-weekly, tri-weekly, whenever) fly tying column, which I've ostensibly titled, Favorite Flies. I realize that neither the idea nor the title is particularly original, but Favorite Flies does get to the point.

Once every so often I'll post the recipe and instructions for one of my favorite flies. If I can get a grip on the photography, I'll post photos as well (I'm new to macro-photography, and I must admit that I am struggling). The flies I'll showcase won't likely be anything particularly innovative, but you won't usually find replicates in an Umpqua or Montana Fly catalog.

To the fly ...

I first saw this week's submission in the streamer box of Shawn Brillon, a good friend and the fly-tying product developer for Orvis. As best I can tell, the pattern draws on the work of Jack Gartside, the Heron series frequently found on the streams of New England, and various Pacific Northwest steelhead patterns. It is relatively easy to tie, but can be a little tricky to tie well (don't crowd the head). In white and barred-white, it is one of my top two streamers. When fishing this fly, remember that it is meant to be stripped ... like freakin' crazy. Of all the streamers I fish, this one provides the most visual experience in that it runs fairly shallow, and often draws charges from some very large fish.

Enjoy the tying. Good luck with the fishing.

The Bou Bou (aka: Das Big Bou, DatsalottaBou, Mayor McBou)

Hook: #6-#2 Tiemco 9395 (a vicious streamer hook)
Weight: Lead or lead-free wire covering the rear 2/3 of the hook shank
Thread: 8/0 color to match body (fine thread helps reduce bulk and make a neat head)
Tail: SLF Hank color to match wing and cut to the length of the hook shank
Body: SLF Hank dubbed or wrapped 2/3 the length of the shank
Wing: Two or three marabou blood quills, tied in tip first and wrapped forward like hackle with the natural curve to the rear
Veil: Gadwall flank, either folded or stripped on one side and flared back over the marabou
Eyes: Jungle Cock (optional, but boy do they ever look good)

The key to forming a nice small head on this fly is to leave plenty of space for the gadwall, and to wrap only the thinnest stems near the eye of the hook. The fine thread is a real help. I also strip the fibers from one side of the gadwall, both to reduce bulk on the head and give the fly a slightly sparser appearance.

Dyslexic Steelheading

A great video not only for its steelhead footage, but also for the ... uhhh ... riveting commentary. Everything you'll see was recorded the week before Thanksgiving on New York's, Salmon River. Enjoy!

Lake Fish

My friends and I spent our formative years on the banks of the Hudson River. For the better part of our collective childhood and early adolescence, we explored the rivers' coves, eddies, runs and pools (late adolescence was spent exploring girls). In time, we came to understand the river, and to know its fish (we still haven't a clue about women). As bicycles gave way to Chevettes, Horizons and Firenzas, we were able to apply that understanding to the Battenkill, its tributaries, and its trout. Stillwater, by way of contrast, was always something of a mystery.

Lakes and ponds lacked the character of rivers, they lacked motion, and - perhaps most importantly when we were very young - all the area's lakes were just outside the reach of a reasonable bike ride. I suppose it was this matter of accessibility that jaded us to lakes and ponds, and is probably the source of a bias that exists to this day. We generally avoid stagnant puddles, and favor flowing ditches.

Now that we're older, each of us is a dedicated fly rodder, and as is the case with most bug chuckers we are fascinated by running water. We've bounced all over the country looking for Salmo Trutta, Oncorhynchus Mykiss, and Salvelinus Fontinalis. Like so many kindred spirits we've an especial appreciation of big trout and as I'm sure you're aware, the biggest trout are generally found in lakes. Herein lies the rub.

A lake fish has advantages a river fish simply does not. Foremost, they haven't continuous current with which they must contend. As a result, they don't expend as much energy as their river dwelling cousins. This excess energy is instead channeled into growth. This growth is fueled by an abundance of forage, which is generally lacking in rivers. Quite simply, lake fish have more to eat and work less to earn a meal. They grow more quickly, and to larger proportions.

For river-loving fly rodders, the implication is that trophy river fish are not to be measured on the same scale as trophy lake fish. A ten or twelve pound brown trout is likely one of the largest - if not the largest - of its species in the Battenkill. In a ditch like the Salmon River, a tributary to Lake Ontario, ten or twelve pound browns are respectable but hardly kings of all they survey. Owing to the aforementioned biases, I viewed such enormous lake bred fish with a little bit of disdain.

Until Ben caught this beast ...

Unlike so many of its Salmon River cousins, Ben's fish didn't have a mark on it: not a single lamprey scar, no obvious hook marks, nothing (see below).

This is exceptional because the fish was caught in the river's upper-fly zone. He swam through miles of heavy flow, past fly-rodders and bait dunkers, meat fishermen and catch and release anglers, newbies and river veterans alike. He managed all that in a river that sees more fishing traffic than most any other body of water within 300 miles. You might say these lake-run fish contend with challenges that river bred fish simply do not face.

What a fish. Much respect.

The Fall Classic

One week ago today, I was knee deep in the Salmon River, thinking about baseball.

Yes, baseball.

Standing in the icy water, my mind went back to October 31st, Halloween. Amy and I had already taken the triplets from house to house, fed them each a few diminutive bites of chocolate, and tucked them into their beds (it didn't go quite so smoothly, but I'll spare you the details). The rain came intermittently, the trick-or-treaters stopped ringing the doorbell, and we were anxiously settling in to watch our beloved Yankees in game three of the fall classic.

You have to love October baseball: the history of the game, the anticipation of each at bat, the drama of a game changing error or double play. That isn't to say that baseball takes on some sort of mythical ethos in October; rather, the game is much the same as spring and summer ball. In October, however, the mood changes. The tempo changes. Everything surrounding the game is just a little more intense. When the playoffs, pennant, and World Series arrive - decked out in all their autumnal splendor - much of America stands up and takes notice. Such was certainly the case with game three of this year's series.

Here's a quick synopsis ...

The Yankees were down by three runs after the second inning, and tied 1 -1 in the series. After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, my wife squealed as Alex Rodriguez found his post-season mojo, and knocked a disputed home run off a camera mounted on the right field wall. Johnny Damon later had an amazing at bat, resulting in a two-run double that put the Yankees ahead. True to their form throughout much of the season, the boys in pinstripes came from behind to win in the clutch. It was almost too much to take, and I nearly had an embolism. The Yankees took the series after six games.

So there I was, knee deep in the Salmon River, and I couldn't stop myself from thinking about that particular game. The correlation should be obvious to anyone familiar with what might arguably be the most renowned of the Great Lakes' tributaries. Would the river gods - who had denied me any success all day - allow me a glimpse of grace? Would I have my moment, my ninth inning glory, my come from behind victory?

Yes. Before that moment came, however, I had to pay a price. The gods demanded a sacrifice on the altar of chrome, a virgin sacrifice.

Prior to this trip, I committed to purchasing a new steelhead stick. She arrived precisely one week before Ben, Shawn, Tim (pictured above) and I were to meet at Brenda's Motel and Campground (a stay at Brenda's is an experience unto itself). She was a glorious, bright blue with gorgeous appointments, and from the moment when I first opened her tube - wrapping my hand around her velvety smooth and meticulously shaped cork - I knew we were destined for a loving and intimate relationship. She was glorious, and she exploded immediately below the mid ferrule only two hours after we began fishing.

She may have arrived on the river's shore a virgin, but she left - carelessly discarded behind the passenger seat of Shawn's truck - a vile, soulless whore. When Blue finally returns, she'll have some explaining to do.

Fortunately, Ben had the good sense to bring an extra rod, a reliable friend that he was more than happy to share with me. It was that rod that I cast the better part of the day, and it was on that rod that I finally hooked some steel. The fish hit just before the end of the day, took me 100 or so feet downstream in a series of hot runs, and finally came to net with a sour look on its face.

One might ask if the cost in time and treasure is worth a single fish. If you find yourself asking that question then you've clearly never hooked up with Papa Chrome. If I could make the trip every week, and had to swallow both my pride and a broken rod each and every time, then I'd be seeing you on the river.

For now at least, it's Rusty Spinner (1) - Salmon River (0).

But You Only Work Nine Months a Year ...

The really hard thing about being a dedicated bug chucker, father of triplets, and high school teacher is the timing. From November through January, the stars align to keep me off the water.

First and foremost, there are the paternal obligations of being a father during the holidays. Turkies need to be carved, trees cut, lights strung, gifts purchased. Of course, those gifts will only find their way under the tree if Daddy puts in some overtime.

For a teacher, overtime usually means coaching, chaperoning, or mentoring. Dances, basketball games, wrestling matches. During the winter, I'm there for all of it. Don't misunderstand me. It isn't that I don't enjoy the time I spend with my students. I generally do, and I haven't forgotten how haggard my father looked after doing a double shift at the factory. I know when to count my blessings. I do, but ...

A few days ago, my friend Shawn Brillon sent me the photos attached to this post. Shawn is the fly and fly-tying product developer for the Orvis company, and in one of the pictures he is hard at work "field-testing" Orvis' new line of Helios switch rods. He reports having had his best day ever in twenty years of fishing Lake Ontario tributaries. Thirty hook-ups with twelve fish landed.

Are you kidding me? You have got to be freakin' kidding me! He's off hooking steelies on the company's dime, and I'm watching prepubescent boys miss lay-ups.

I know what you're going to say ... "But you only work nine months a year." I suppose that's true, and I suppose we all have our respective crosses to bear.

My cross is made out of chrome.