Streamside on Line
Volume 6 |
The
Quarterly On Line Newsletter |
Winter |
In this issue:
| What The
Trout Taught (Beth Wilson) Notes From The Tying Bench (Bob Molzahn) Trout Fishing Adventures (Larry Shahhen) New Members Here's To My Old Man (Todd Palmer) Fisherman's Prose (Jack Kane) Black Earth Creek (Lance Morien) Wading Deep (Craig Riendeau) The Humor In Fly Fishing (Don Van Buren) Book Excerpt (Christopher Camuto) |
Articles, news and fly tying tips are gratefully accepted. Please e-mail them to us using the Feedback section shown on the left.
| What The Trout Taught by Beth Wilson |
I am forty now, and I must admit that I am having a whole lot more fun learning now than I did when I was twenty. In fact, I wouldn't go back there for anything. I work with young girls that age, and listen to the angst in their voices as they discuss the things that are important to them. I realize that I haven't felt that kind of distress in a very long time, especially not in reference to a few pounds gained or a man slipping away.
The years have put a different view on things, and changed the perspective on what is important enough to rack up blood pressure points over, and what should be approached, not with fatalistic resignation, but a certain clear-eyed acceptance of the rightness of what is. When you begin to learn that reality is your friend, and the fact that things are the way they are because that's really the best way for them to be, life and its appended learning becomes more of an interesting puzzle to play with than a booby trap waiting to go off in your unsuspecting face.
This is one of the things that I have learned from trout.
There is probably nothing in the world so unbelievably beautiful, so completely desirable to an angler than a spectacular, feisty trout on the other end of the line. To hold on to that lovely creature, to try to bring him to your hand while knowing that he, at any moment, could snap the hair-like leader with a toss of his sleek head and dart away into the depths of his alien world is a thrill beyond description. Part of the wonder of this is knowing that it is all so chancy: you're dancing with a wild thing, a free thing that you have tethered for a moment, but with a chain that is so fragile and so thin that you can't entirely believe that it will really bind the bursting heart of that creature on the other end. You know, after all, that it is truly the heart of the thing that tugs so furiously in your hands: you know it because you can feel it beating and singing and loving right up your line and down the twanging length of your rod. You fall instantly and completely in love with that dangerous heart, and risk the loss because, although you can only hold onto it for a moment, it is a heart the memory of which will touch yours for the rest of your life, and that is well worth the letting go when the moment of release inevitably comes.
When we think of each other, and the loves that we share, are we really reasonable when we believe that any love is any more secure than that? Don't we learn that love, like catching the trout, requires patience and tenacity and respect and care? Don't we always feel the strongest passion for the one least likely to be tamed? Don't we learn, as time goes by, the needful joy of letting go? Don't we always remember, in the midst of our thankfulness for the one who stayed, the one that got away?
There is a lesson in that.
The trout teaches us to blend in, and to do that we have to consider where we are, and to wake up to it. Looking around, we will see things that we never saw before just so we can learn to look like we belong. Is it so bad to know our environment so well, to notice the nooks and crannies of our existence that we can fit in if we want to? None of us like to think of ourselves as conformist, I suppose, but there are worse things than knowing our surroundings and ourselves well enough to know how to look natural.
Is it conformity or camouflage?
My friend, a very good fishing guide and fly tying expert, says that when you fish where he guides, the water is so clear and the cover so sparse that you'd best go out there and look like a tree. This is interesting, because he is not exactly what you would call a conformist by any stretch, but he is successful because he can blend in when it counts. He catches fish because he has spent so much time thinking about being a tree that you look at him and see a tree. He is tall and lanky, leaning slightly to one side as if he grew on the bank of a stream, and he moves like the wind is blowing him.
The lines of his face are like the lines on the face of an oak. His hair curls around his head as if waiting for some nesting songbird to make it home. Most of his clothing is the color of the wood: greens, browns, shadowy blue-blacks and sunny bits of gold. He has become a tree, and it gives him a comforting quality that makes you just love him right off. He and his trout teach that conformity can be a nice thing, it seems, though, that the secret is to always find yourself having to blend into an environment that is beautiful. Never be anyplace where you would be ashamed to fit in.
There is a lesson in that.
There is so much in life that requires our attention, and there are so many of us asleep. The lessons become painful when that inattention gets the better of us, and when life's harsher side takes us by surprise.
The trout teaches us to pay attention, because it's rare that you catch him without thinking, and, if you should happen to, the chance is good that he will break away from you before you bring him to hand.
No one can teach lost opportunity like a trout.
Even more important than that is the lesson of the other hazards of inattention. The saddest part of not paying heed is that you miss so much sweetness, so many of the things that could make you happy. All of the anglers I know can tell you which way the wind is blowing at any given time. They not only saw the colors of the sunset last night, but also the ones in the sunrise this morning. They know what phase the moon is in. They know what is blooming, what is hatching, what birds are to be found in what spot and what their song is like. Because all of these things affect their ability to pursue their happiness, they have learned to become aware of all the little things that can add beauty and joy to a life. This perceptiveness bleeds over into other aspects of life as well. Most men who fish can remember the exact color of your eyes, the dimple in your cheek, the color of your favorite dress. Any woman will tell you, this ability is a very important thing to be taught, and any man who has that ability can tell you that it always pays off.
What the trout teaches is not always about trout, or about the pursuit of him. What the trout teaches is how to live, how to calm you and hunker down and get comfortable with life. More than anything, the trout has taught me how to feel at ease in the world, just as he does. He is a strange creature, whose world is full of hazards like herons and kingfishers and other, bigger fish and men with rods. But the trout pushes forward, not heedlessly, because inattention would mean his demise, but with the plain perspective that life must be lived fully, even in the midst of those things, which would take life away. He spooks, but he also rises, he keeps danger in the corner of his golden eye while looking life straight on.
We live in a sad and dangerous world, and not all of it wishes us well.
We are absolutely reasonable to feel spooked, but at the same time we must participate with our whole selves, or we are lost. We can view the more unpleasant aspects of life without taking them to heart, and we can learn from them with as little pain as the trout feels when the hook bites just the corner of his lip, no more than that. He glides away no worse for the wear, and a whole lot wiser.
So can we.
| Notes From The Tying Bench by Bob Molzahn |
Winter is here and I hope you have had a chance to fish the midge hatch on the Little Lehigh or Tulpehocken. Reports from a few members indicate that French Creek is also holding up well, with good numbers of summer holdover and fall stocked trout for the catching. If you think that fishing is over for the year think again, this is one of my favorite times of the year to fish because no one is on-stream, the fish are usually hungry and it is a short day so you don’t have to knock yourself out. Try it out.
I am pleased to report that the Mid-Atlantic Council of the Federation of Fly Fishers (MAC-FFF) Annual Banquet and fundraiser was fairly successful and raised needed funds for education and conservation projects. I was very pleased to receive two awards from the council, the 2000 Individual Award of Excellence and the Frank B. Smoot Conservation Award. As always, there is a story behind the story, and the story here is that I had a lot of energy and support from some very dedicated MAC-FFF and League members. If I tried to name all our members that has participated in MAC-FFF activities and supported me over the years I know I would miss a few. You know who you are. Therefore, I would just like to say thanks to all of you for being a part of it. In my mind, we all share these awards.
Todd Palmer and I were recently elected to the Board of Directors of the Green Valleys Association. An avid fly fisherman, Todd joined the League earlier this year during the slaughterhouse demolition fundraising campaign. He quickly got involved in a big way and is now the webmaster for the MAC-FFF. He and his marketing firm, Virtual Farm Creative, also produced a superb video for the MAC-FFF banquet on the Youth Fly Fishing Camp we held last June at the Whitetail Resort in Mercersburg. We plan to show the video at an upcoming League meeting. Todd’s experience in marketing and my background in environmental regulatory and fisheries issues will hopefully be an asset to GVA in fostering their mission.
By the way, if you haven’t been past the corner of Pughtown Road and Hollow Road recently you will be in for a big shock. The Arena Slaughterhouse has been obliterated through the fine work of GVA. There is no longer any sign of it. Thanks to a work crew of GVA and League members, the site’s vegetation has been cleaned-up and the ground has been reseeded and planted with native shrubs and trees. A fisherman’s trail and a small parking area has been constructed. A sign memorializing the effort and recognizing the sponsors has also been installed. This coming year we are planning to construct a "jumpdown" access to French Creek in an effort to minimize erosion on the steep bank leading to one of my favorite fishing holes in the Delayed Harvest Area.
I would like to thank League members Beth Wilson, Larry Shaheen, Lance Morien, Jack Kane, and Todd Palmer for making this edition of STREAMSIDE one of the best ones ever. Their articles, poems, and stories are what makes this newsletter fun to edit and publish. This past year, members John Burgos, Joe King, Larry Heimes, Ed Nugent, Joe Flather, Gil Detweiler, Bruce Baker, Ted Danforth and Mel Walters also contributed articles to this newsletter. Thanks folks...and keep them coming!
Last but not least, after the last issue of STREAMSIDE is was pointed out to me that "Good riddens" is actually spelled "Good riddance". Realize that I depend on my computer’s spellchecker to catch these sorts of goofs and alert me to the proper spelling. For some reason, the latest, most advanced technology available failed me and I was left embarrassed, once again. Sorry Mr. Webster, I will try to do better next time.
Have a great holiday season. Tight lines to one and all, and to all a goodnight!
| Trout Fishing Adventures by Larry Shaheen |
When I was 16, some friends convinced me to go deer hunting, promising that it would be one of my most exciting adventures. I was a little concerned because I had never even shot a BB gun, but they gave me 10 minutes of instruction on how to use something called a 30/30, or was it an aught six? Anyway, we set out for Brush Mountain on a cold, bleak autumn day. The group included my older brother, and several of his friends. They took me to some secluded place on the mountain and said, "Stay here. We'll drive the deer to you and you can shoot one." With that they left for parts unknown. I'm not sure whether I was more frightened by being left alone in the mountain or by the thought of having to pull the trigger of this weapon I was holding. I waited for what seemed an eternity, hearing nary a sound nor seeing anything but brush and trees. I was cold alone and scared. I was convinced that this was Don's plan to get rid of me. I was the baby, Dad's favorite and he had had enough. We were not a religious family, but I prayed, "Dear Lord, please get me out of here and I promise that I will never do anything this stupid again." My prayers were answered. Don had a change of heart and decided he wouldn't be able to explain how he allowed me to freeze to death, so he came and got me.
I tried to keep my promise. I never went hunting again. I did however do many other stupid things in my life. On was to try up the "game" of golf. I read somewhere that the Scots once committed a grievous sin and God's punishment was to introduce them to the sport of golf. The Americans must have also sinned, because golf found its way to the good old US of A. I played at the Park Hills Course in Altoona. I had taken more strokes than I can begin to count, and I'm sure I hadn't counted all of them, when the manager of the course came to me and asked that I leave because I was doing too much damage to the course. Golf - an enormous waste of man's time and nature's land. Certain proof that Satan is among us.
My dreams of becoming a star for the Pittsburgh Pirates came crashing down during my senior year in high school. I was a very good player, but there was one pitcher in town, Bill Cochran, who struck me out every time I batted against him. His fast ball was faster than the speed of sound. There was no doubt that Bill would become one of baseball's greatest pitchers of all time. Branch Rickey, himself, signed Bill to a contract to pitch for the Pirates. A reality check came a few months later when Bill returned home. He had been told that his fast ball was not good enough for the Pittsburgh Pirates! Not good enough? In those days, Pittsburgh was eliminated from the pennant race by May 1! The message was clear. Study, go to college and get a job.
I did all of the above, married and had children - and I was actually happy. When my son was 5 years old he came to me and said, "Dad, please take me fishing." No Father would refuse such a request. I immediately went to the local department store and bought fishing equipment for myself, my 5-year-old son and my six-year-old daughter. Not wanting to admit that I was a pilgrim, I didn't ask for advice. I bought closed-bale-spinning rods, with line and hooks big enough to land a whale. For reasons I no longer remember we started fishing in a town call Monte Clare, near Phoenixville, where a canal fed into the Schuykill River. Using our spinning rods with worms as bait, we caught countless sunfish. We christened this spot as "The World's Greatest Fishing Place." Hmm, fishing isn't so boring after all. I don't remember how it happened but someone must have suggested that I try fishing for trout. I agreed and this was the beginning of many days and several frustrating, fruitless and fishless years. My children became discouraged and quit fishing. They found baseball and basketball more exciting. I however was determined. I continues to spend many hours on the trout stream with no success. Finally I met a fly fisherman who took me under his wing and gave me some fishing lessons. I had only modest success, but compared to no success, this was heaven. A pecking order exists among fishermen. Bait fishermen are at the bottom, spin fishermen only slightly higher, but fly fishermen were the elite of all fishermen, in fact, the premier sportsmen of the entire world! I, a mediocre fly fisherman at best, could look down my nose at bait and spin fishermen even though they caught ten trout for every one that I managed to catch. Not a problem, after all, I was a fly fisherman. Alas there is also a pecking order amongst fly fishermen. Dry fly fishermen look with disdain upon those who use wet flies and streamers, and barely tolerate nymph fishermen.
Years passed. I continued to fly fish with limited success. I have spent many enjoyable hours fly fishing and have convinced myself that the sport was more that simply catching the elusive, wily trout, It was the enjoyment of the great outdoors that really mattered. I became a "catch and release" fisherman, meaning I could claim to have caught and released countless fish without have to show proof. Life was good!
I now want to share with you a few of my most memorable moments in pursuit of the wily trout.
May 15, 1997
I have fished most of Pine Creek for the past 25 years. I have fished the uppermost stretches in Potter County, the beautiful section that passes through the Grand Canyon of PA. I have fished parts of the Pine Valley where the stream is lined with majestic Pine trees, beautiful Hemlocks and magnificent Mountain Laurel, down to the quaint villages of Cedar Run and Slate Run. I have fished near the lovely town of Waterville where the little Pine Creek flows into the Big Pine. All spectacular! My favorite section, however, is the section where the creek passes through the Village of Blackwell. No Pines or Hemlock, no Mountain Laurel, but the Blackwell Hotel is located across the road from Pine Creek and one can leave the creek and walk to the hotel for a burger and a beer without having to remove one's waders. What a great idea - putting a trout stream across the road from a taproom!
I just returned from my annual mid-May trek to Pine Creek. Last Wednesday, I left home at 3 AM and arrived at the creek in Blackwell at 6. Started to fish and in the first hour, I caught three trout, missed several, and had my tippet broken twice (I was using a large nymph with 6X tippet - won't waste your time explaining why). What a glorious start to my day! Soon the sun was shining and a while a Hendrickson hatch was on the water, no fish rose to the flies. I had no luck at all even though I used a variety of Hendrickson flies and other nymphs. A fisherman about 20 yards upstream from me was chumming with corn and catching a trout on almost every cast. Soon he had caught his limit and left. I went to that spot and fished for about an hour with no action at all. Noticed another fisherman coming down stream using corn so I stepped aside so he could fish in the same spot. Told him what had been happening and invited him to try corn. It took two casts for him to catch a trout in the same spot I had been fishing. It was his limit so he took it and went home. I spent another hour using every fly I had with no success. After a while I heard a voice," Is this section fly fishing only?" I told him, "No, it is open water." He asked," Why then is everyone here fly fishing?" I looked around and saw five other fishermen, all fly fishing. I told him, "All of the bait fishermen have caught their limit and have gone home." It was 1:30, I had been fishing hard, with no action since about 7 AM. Time for a burger and a beer. Waded across the stream, walked across the road to the Blackwell Hotel and to my dismay was greeted by a sign - Open weekends only until Memorial Day.
March 12, 1998
It was a typical early April day in Pennsylvania, cold and damp. In fact, it was raining. No matter, I had cabin fever and was going fishing. I had not fished the fly-fishing, catch and release stretch of the Pickering Creek, near Phoenixville, but had heard that it was an excellent trout stream. I parked my car and walked down to the stream. Narrow, but interesting. I rigged my fly rod and put on my favorite early season fly, the Bitch Creek nymph. Success! I caught a trout on the first cast! Since the stream was new to me, I decided to wade down stream to learn more about the stream. Whilst wading down stream, I passed two geese on their way upstream. Nature at its finest. A beautiful sight that almost made me forget that it was 35o F. and raining. Seeing nothing of interest downstream, I returned to my original spot and started to fish. My first cast was into the bushes across the stream, resulting in a tangled leader. I was standing in the middle of the stream untangling my line when I heard a faint sound. I looked up to see a goose; wings tucked in heading straight for my head. In the few seconds that followed, I learned two things about myself. One, my reflexes were still pretty good and two, I screamed as a soprano. I dove into the water just in time as the goose flew past me. I struggled back to the bank, soaked, hat askew, glasses dripping water and tried to compose myself. After some time I untangled my line, dried my glasses and looked to be sure that no one had witnessed this spectacle. I was in luck. No one else had come to the stream on such a miserable day. I looked down at the stream to see the two geese swimming by. All was tranquil, all was right. Chilled and soaked, I got into my car and headed home. When I entered the house, my wife Louise asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?" I said, " Not until I've had a hot shower!"
May 18, 1999
Today was a warm, lazy day. A good day to go to French Creek to fish for a while. Couldn't stay too long because, it is Tuesday, the day that I demonstrate that I can't play tennis very well.
Drove to the creek, about 1/2 hour away and saw that there were four other fishermen nearby, but none on the stretch where I wanted to fish. Parked, put on my waders and headed for the stream. Was standing aside the creek tying on a Hendrickson wet fly when I saw a fox approaching. I have fished this creek for 35 years and have never before seen a fox along the creek. This guy looked like he hadn't had a meal in weeks. Had a big bushy tail, but the rest of him looked wasted. I smiled and said, "Hello Mister Fox, I haven't been doing that well either." He bared his teeth and started walking toward me, making it very clear that he didn't like me. I immediately got into the stream to get away from him and he came right in after me. It was soon apparent that he could swim faster than I could wade backwards, so I turned and waded faster - he was still gaining. Another fisherman about 20 yards upstream was watching but offered no help. I hastened back to land with the fox in pursuit. He came out of the water and walked slowly toward me, teeth bared. I was panicky! Thoughts of rabies and other bad things were going through my mind. Finally I took my fly rod and made like Zorro with it. It worked! The fox walked slowly back into the woods. Wow!
I fished for about 15 minutes, but it's hard to fish whilst looking back over your shoulder so I got out and headed for my car. By this time the other fisherman had worked his way down stream. His only comment, "I saw it but I still don't believe it."
Because I started fishing rather late in life, I was not all that knowledgeable in the habits of wildlife. These episodes provided an accelerated education about life in the great outdoors. I probably should have spent more time learning to hit Bill Cochran's fast ball.
| New Members |
new members!
Chris Kovach & Family
Chris O’Brien
Dwayne Fetterman
Jeff Bonis
John McCann
Josh Hanna
Richard Schaeffer
Tom Hartman
| Here's To My Old Man by Todd Palmer |
Book Review: Wishing My Father Well by William Plummer
The times that my father took me fishing were rare. I really can’t blame him because, looking back, I didn’t appreciate those excursions with the intensity they deserved. Not until my own son came of fishing age did I remember the moments my father spent streamside with me with a new respect. And that was only recently.
A man of many capabilities, my father didn’t solicit his wisdom. He had to be approached to extract his knowledge; asked to exploit his direction. Fishing with him was like business, you set your goals and reached them or, failing that, beat yourself down trying to reach them. I was far less goal-oriented on those infrequent expeditions, often willing to abandon my rod in pursuit of crayfish, salamanders and rope swings.
Not until my father passed away last Fourth of July did I realize that I had lost a valuable resource. Not only had an unparalleled father been extracted from my life, but a close friend who was constantly researching and gaining knowledge to share for the asking was gone. I had lost a living flyfishing reference.
A few days ago I turned to the last page of the definitive book on fathers and sons and flyfishing. Wishing My Father Well by William Plummer (Overlook Press, 2000) is a short read that echoes the relationship between my father and myself in some ways while offering solid distinctions that made me appreciate our unique relationship more than I had.
Penned by an editor of People magazine, Wishing is often Hemingwayesque in its brevity. Plummer stylishly packs each sentence with emotions ranging from measures of regret toward his departed father to hopeful moments concerning his own dysfunctional family.
Flyfishing was the common bond between Plummer and his father, although the author didn’t come to the sport until he discovered his father’s fishing journal not long after his father’s funeral.
Wishing My Father Well follows Plummer’s chronological exploration of the diary, which becomes a sort of sacred map into his father’s life. A life that Plummer had not scratched the surface of while his father lived it. The diary provides the middle-aged son with glimpses into his old man’s boyhood, strengths, fallibles, fatherhood and fishing secrets. Along the journey, Plummer not only learns to flyfish and love it, but he extracts other crucial truths from his father’s clipped longhand that help him begin to repair a fractured relationship with his own son.
Not long after closing the cover on Wishing My Father Well I began keeping a fishing diary. I usually steer well clear of the sentimental side of flyfishing, avoiding old clocks embedded in old reels and such, but the results Plummer achieved after discovering his Dad’s journal couldn’t help but make me recall my father and his goals.
My father didn’t just fish toward a goal but his life’s goals were periodically summed up on sheets of yellow legal paper and he often attempted to get me to do the same. I rarely did and don’t now. Even today, when I go fishing, my goal is more about relaxing than tricking a trout. Most of my life goals now concern my children who will, hopefully in the distant future, find a small book in the spare reel pocket of a tattered old vest and learn something about their old man that will help them.
Wishing My Father Well is a moving story littered with memorable musings ("The absence of pain is like the color white, which is not a color at all, but which, after a steady diet of black, can seem like a color. At least it can for a while.") and happily cluttered with measured moments ("Mistakes are fees for learning."). There are pools of dramatic, triumphant and witty moments in this short book that are worth discovering for yourself. And, like a good trout pool, if you don’t find them productive you’ll at least find them endearing.
| Fisherman's Prose by Jack Kane |
I approach the stream with stealth and cunning
And look for signs of hungry trout
But when I see one, my heart starts running
And I tie on a fly, like a hurried scout
I make ready to cast, all things in order
The line unfurls, there's an awful splash
My twisted face, shows my brain disorder
But lucky for me, the fish didn't dash
Its an ugly drift, with a knotted leader
But I've seen this before, and stick to my guns
He rises and takes it, he's a hungry feeder
When he's in the net, I give thanks for dumb ones
Store Fishing
When you go out to the FFO
You might find people who just for show
Are all decked out from head to toe
But they were hooked in the fishing store
And are loaded down with gadgets galore
So much so that they sit on shore
If catching something is what they wish
It might be easier to fill their dish
If they'd wet the hook and snag a fish
But its more likely they'll retire early
To the pub on the corner and waitress Shirley
To order fish and french fries curly
| Black Earth Creek, Black Earth, Wisconsin by Lance Morien |
May 21-23, 1995 and May 21-23, 2000
When planning a business trip to Madison, Wisconsin in May 1995, I remembered reading about a local Wisconsin TU Chapter receiving accolades for a trout stream improvement project. I found the article in the TU magazine and learned that the stream was not far from Madison. This meant I had to include packing my fly fishing equipment for this trip. I contacted the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources and obtained a fishing license via US mail. I flew out on Sunday and was able to reach the stream by 3 PM on a sunny, windy 75 degree F day. I started out with a reliable bead-head hare's ear nymph and it came through in short order producing a small rainbow. Similar all-purpose #16 gray nymphs worked well that day, and I landed 17 rainbows from 6-12" and missed several others. Not much in the way of hatches except for a few caddis and crane flies.
The next day I did not fare as well. The weather was threatening rain. I fished the two hours before dusk and managed to catch two and lose two. It rained lightly all day on Tuesday but the stream was fishable. At the first hole, I caught 1 rainbow and missed another. At the next hole, a nice, narrow, deep run with good flow, I missed another then caught the fish of the trip, a beautifully colored 14-15" brown that took a sulphur emerger. I drove to another access where I fished into darkness with streamers. I managed to land a few more fish and finished the night and the trip at 9 PM with a 12" brown caught on a purple streamer (more on the purple streamer at another time).
Black Earth Creek (BEC) is located about ½ hour west of Madison in an area known as the driftless area of southwest Wisconsin. The spring creeks in this unglaciated area are limestone streams because of the calcium and magnesium in the ground water. BEC is a small stream with good public access. The stream varies a lot: not too many riffles, some shallow stretches, some deep "earthy" looking holes, no trees in some spots with corn fields plowed within feet of the stream, and some very brushy difficult-to-get-at areas. There are sections with special regulations where I did most of my fishing. The TU chapter worked with local dairy farmers to limit where the cows have access to the stream thus minimizing damage to the banks. They also placed a lot of stone to direct the stream flow better and to prevent erosion.
Exactly 5 years later, I had the opportunity to return to Madison for "business", so the Winston, Tom Morgan's favorite 4-weight, was going on another trip.
Again, I arrived mid afternoon on Sunday. It was warm and sunny but the area had received enough rain prior to my trip to make the stream a bit high and off-color. On a positive note, I did chat with a fly fisherman just before I was going to start, and he did manage to catch a few. It was tough but I did catch two small browns. On Monday, the water was still off-color but better than the day before. Nothing hatching. I fished with various nymphs from about 5-8pm and got skunked. Tuesday turned out better. I fished from 5 till dark and caught 7 rainbows using a sulphur nymph and sulphur emerger combination. There was large gathering of sulphurs over the water, so I stayed late, but there was no spinner fall.
Frequent business travel gets old quick, but if you are able to locate a nearby fishery, be it coldwater or warm, it takes the edge off and gives you the opportunity to fish a new area of the country. Does anybody know about flyfishing in McPhearson, Kansas? I will be headed that way!
If you are interested in reading more about the spring creek fishing in Wisconsin, try:
Fly Fishing Midwestern Spring Creeks-Angler's Guide to
Trouting the Driftless Area,
Ross A. Mueller, 1999, R. Mueller Publications,
400 South Court, Appleton, WI 54911, ($15.95).
| Wading Deep by Craig Riendeau |
FFF ClubWire Exclusive
Recently I missed the last weekend of the trout season. The rivers were on the rise and I'm certain the fresh kings moved in. The cooler conditions should have sparked the river smallmouth to their fall feeding binge.
I didn't go fishing. In fact, I volunteered to sit all day in a cool, damp tent and teach fly tying to kids. Know what? As much as I love my fishing, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Maybe it's part of getting older, or of a been-there-done-that attitude. Probably more of the, "is this all there is?"quandary that usually brings us to fly fishing in the first place. It's just time to give back to the thing that brings us so much happiness.
Little else brings me to the level of euphoria as standing in a river with flyrod in hand, surveying holding lies up and down the stream, picking out the prime one and saying to myself, "he's there." Then as if on command, a fish rises in that exact place. Places where you can do that are worth fighting for.
We all have different agendas in life and the rights to pursue them. Somewhere in our constitution it says we have the right to the pursuit of happiness. Our lakes, rivers, streams and forests are my happiness. This is one reason I joined an FFF club in the first place. We have the same agenda -- to do what we can to protect that what makes us happy. It takes a lot of voices to be heard, and many hands to complete a project.
But where do all these voices and hands come from? Is it the moral and ethical upbringing from our parents? Is it the Christian belief that you only reap what you sow? Or is it possibly the words from the great, late Lee Wulff that a fish is too valuable a resource to be caught only once. Or is it the simple act of a complete stranger, taking us by the hand and teaching us how to fly cast or to tie a fly as a child that leaves an indelible impression. One that sets us on our way to a future consciousness in conservation, to protecting our valuable resources and our happiness.
Just as Johnny Appleseed went around planting apple seeds to share this fruit with everyone, so are we Johnny Consciousness. We go around to different outdoor shows and plant the seeds of consciousness by teaching youngsters how to fly fish and fly tie. Sharing our love of the sport and of the outdoors, hopefully germinating an interest in their hearts for it.
For we are only so many and can do only so much. If we plant these seeds early, and keep cultivating them, hopefully years down the road we'll see new fly fishermen and new conservationists. We provide new hands and voices to our joint causes. More importantly, someone to carry on for us what we hold dear now and want to preserve for our children and our children's children.
Sitting at the fishing show, having just finished helping about my fifteenth child tie a woolly bugger and again stating that it was the best fly tied all day, I watched his eyes light up and a smile beam across his face.
I looked deep in his eyes and I was standing in a river with a fly rod in hand.
(by Craig Riendeau of the Dupage River Fly Tyers of Glenn Ellyn, Illinois)
| The Humor In Fly Fishing by Don Van Buren |
The setting is a warm late spring day on a Pennsylvania trout stream, fishing with a fellow fly fisherman. I was standing on a rock outcropping drifting a nymph through a nice run, when I accomplished a first, for me, in my many years of fly fishing for trout.
Suddenly my knee crumpled, the object of my recent surgery, and my world changed. Everything happened in slow motion, mentally for me. As I started to fall my choices became, fall straight down among the rocks, risking injury and possibly damage to my rod, etc., or diving for the open water. I chose the latter. When I hit the water I was in the face down, arms outstretched position. I can only imagine what my fishing buddy thought as he first heard this huge splash and then saw the large wake I created.
It is amazing how lucid and calm a person can be in a moment of calamity. I remember thinking, I'm not hurt, I still have hold of my rod, and I need to get to the surface for air, etc. I calmly righted myself and was able to stand upright in water high up my chest and hideously filling my waders. The first thing I could think of to say to my buddy who was setting speed records crossing the stream and bank between us, was how did you score my dive? He responded with a resounding 10!
Once my friend determined the only thing damaged was my pride, the typical comments started and never let up and continued when I arrived home and my wife was informed of the incident. A few days later we had our monthly club meeting and it’s amazing how many people were aware of my misadventure, even though it happened on an isolated stream with only one witness.
There is a lesson to the story. Accidents on the stream can and do happen and the lesson I learn was to always carry a complete change of clothes no matter how warm the weather is. I can attest that wearing a spare set of waders over wet underwear is not an experience I care to repeat. I have since packed a small duffel bag with spare clothes, towel, etc. Just in case!
Remember fly fishing is meant to be entertaining and enjoyable, even if you are the one supplying the entertainment. (by Don Van Buren, Vice President of the North Coast Fly Fishers for the FFF ClubWire Email Newswire)
| Book Excerpts by Christopher Camuto |
You do not feel time in the river every time you fish, but sooner or later you will feel it. Some day you will reel in and turn your back on a river to wade toward shore, and you will see, or hear, or smell something and a sharp sense of time passing will come on you like joy, or fatigue. It will send a little shiver up your spine, and you will feel grateful and afraid. Then you will busy yourself with some practical task, and the fear and the gratefulness will subside.
Christopher Camuto, A Fly Fisherman's Blue Ridge, Holt, 1990. From FFF ClubWire, November 2000