Its that time of year again. Due to increased energy demands, the local tailwaters are running at full capacity which means that the fish are deep and the water for the most part is just to deep and fast to attempt to wade.
Mid June starts my trips to the Great Smoky Mountains to fish for wild trout. This creates the need for two distinct types of fly fishing that, in my opinion, are the hardest to master. Monkey fishing and ninja fishing. Let me explain…
First lets look at monkey fishing. Monkey fishing involves casting with either hand while you hang precariously from ledges, trees, the bank. You are literally dangling in some rather precarious positions just to get the fly in the water. This type of fishing can be problematic for several reasons. You can, as I have in the past, grab hold of a limb or root that has been dead since the Truman administration. This entails the reach, the tight grip, the cast, and then that moment where, much like Wile E. Coyote, you are suspended in midair for a moment before you realize that the law of gravity has exercised its rights upon you and you plummet into whatever may lie below.
Ninja fishing is the stealthy approach to wary trout, who are ninja masters themselves. You crouch and creep from rock to rock, dangling the fly and hair thin tippet into washtub size pockets of water in the hope that you have been undetected and the fly looks real. This all works well until the aforementioned ninja fisherman securely wedges his foot between to rocks that grip as tight as a vice grip and your next attempt at stealth sends you face first into the water with such a splash that fish somewhere along the Gulf Coast are on the lookout. This event also includes the quick yet casual glance around to see if any of the other Ninjas have witnessed your Jerry Lewis like attempt at grace.
Occasionally the Monkey fisherman or the Ninja Fisherman will encounter the occasional Slingblade trout. The Slingblade Trout is one that is simple minded enough to mistake your fall as a thunderstorm and your fly as a French fried tater. In such situations, it is possible to miss seven out of ten strikes before you bring one to hand. At which time you become well aware that sometimes luck shines down and a buffoon can have a productive day.
Ahh….Summer fishing….I love it.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Two to remember
The latter part of May was quite eventful around the ol’ House of Payne. Getting ready for baby, home construction, etc. But two events in particular, both of the angling variety made some lasting memories.
In celebration of our wedding anniversary, my bride booked us a couple of nights at a little place in Dillsboro N.C. right on the Tuck. “This woman must really love me to place me right on top of a river during our anniversary, either that or she wanted to see how often I would be lost in that nondescript gaze that anglers sometimes get beside good water. You can talk to them, and they won’t hear. Their thoughts are with the drift, the fly, and the mystery of what is under the surface.
The section that we stayed in was right at the end of the DH water. More Smallie than anything, but just upstream were trout, big ones. I didn’t actually know that there were big ones, but it was DH water so I felt justified in my grand assumptions. It is peculiar how optimistic an angler becomes before he actually steps into the water, and how after switching flies a thousand times with no real success, he determines that there is not a trout within a hundred miles of where he stands, and those distant trout are probably not feeding anyway. Such is the way of sport I suppose.
But I digress….
After checking in and having a spectacular meal, we settled in for the evening. The day had reached the point in its pursuit of evening when those who have been fishing are packing up. It was then that Jill said “why don’t you fish a while and let me take some pictures.” My God!!!! This woman does love me!!!
The only other angler (loosely interpreted), was a fella of maybe 24 years who was fishing with a cup of crawlers, and using a Mitchell 300 on a broken rod. The graphite had seen better days, at least 5 inches broken off the tip, duct tape liberally distributed throughout. An absolute mess. I had been in the water for enough time to have a long distance argument with my wife over her insistence upon getting the “A River Runs Through It” shot while I am trying to fish.
The good ol boy gives a yell and I see his rod quiver as it is pulled down to the surface of the water. “Big ol Trout!” he yells. “My God that’s the biggest trout I’ve ever seen!”
It wasn’t so much his tirade that pissed me off, it was the fact that my wife’s camera lens had now been diverted from her formerly svelte husband of lo these many years and the father of her children, to this…this…bait chunking ridge runner who was about to set the state record trout on a broken spinning rod!
He brought the fish near the surface in front of me. The downturned lips and scales that looked to be the size of guitar picks were all I needed to see. It wasn’t long before the fellas line broke and he walked away thinking that he had just lost the biggest trout of his life. I told him no different. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, and he was immersed in blissful elation.
I woke the next morning and looked out the window. The river was the color of chocolate milk and raging, I was fishless for sure on this day. I sighed, made a cup of coffee, slipped back into bed and turned the on the television. It was my anniversary, I wouldn’t be fishing, but that lovely lady sleeping beside me made it all okay.
A few days later I took Lt. Col. Morton to a newly discovered fishing spot that holds tons of quality trout. It is not unusual to say you caught better than double the limit with none measuring less than sixteen inches. I was excited for him. After one solid year of hell deep in the bowels of the Middle East, a hard fight with a big fish would be just what the doctor ordered. We had no sooner entered the water when two hatches of biblical proportions occurred. In most cases this is a cause for that adrenaline fueled elation that anglers look for with passion. The only problem was that these bugs were unbelievably small and we had nothing that would even come close in size. Couple that with the fact that the sheer numbers of bugs coming off the water were so many that it became almost like playing the lottery. Our flies were just one small object in an armada of the living.
Huge fish were eating with reckless abandon, some so close that you could reach out and twp them on the head. It was as if we weren’t even there. Then Morton tied on a small emerger and was walking over to me when something hit it. He hadn’t even really cast, just had it dangling in the water. After a very brief fight, he brought it to hand. A Bluegill. Yep. Here we are in trout heaven with bragging size fish all around us and he hooks a bluegill. I was fishing an old Granger, sweet rod. He turned to me and said, “Here I stand amidst all these trout with a 150.00 reel, a 700.00 rod, and all I get is a bluegill.” Funny as it was, it was one of the prettiest bluegills I have ever laid my eyes on.
We left the water at dark and went to this little drive in/ diner for a milkshake that is the best around, and talked about old times, massive hatches, and one lone bluegill that made the trip one to remember.
In celebration of our wedding anniversary, my bride booked us a couple of nights at a little place in Dillsboro N.C. right on the Tuck. “This woman must really love me to place me right on top of a river during our anniversary, either that or she wanted to see how often I would be lost in that nondescript gaze that anglers sometimes get beside good water. You can talk to them, and they won’t hear. Their thoughts are with the drift, the fly, and the mystery of what is under the surface.
The section that we stayed in was right at the end of the DH water. More Smallie than anything, but just upstream were trout, big ones. I didn’t actually know that there were big ones, but it was DH water so I felt justified in my grand assumptions. It is peculiar how optimistic an angler becomes before he actually steps into the water, and how after switching flies a thousand times with no real success, he determines that there is not a trout within a hundred miles of where he stands, and those distant trout are probably not feeding anyway. Such is the way of sport I suppose.
But I digress….
After checking in and having a spectacular meal, we settled in for the evening. The day had reached the point in its pursuit of evening when those who have been fishing are packing up. It was then that Jill said “why don’t you fish a while and let me take some pictures.” My God!!!! This woman does love me!!!
The only other angler (loosely interpreted), was a fella of maybe 24 years who was fishing with a cup of crawlers, and using a Mitchell 300 on a broken rod. The graphite had seen better days, at least 5 inches broken off the tip, duct tape liberally distributed throughout. An absolute mess. I had been in the water for enough time to have a long distance argument with my wife over her insistence upon getting the “A River Runs Through It” shot while I am trying to fish.
The good ol boy gives a yell and I see his rod quiver as it is pulled down to the surface of the water. “Big ol Trout!” he yells. “My God that’s the biggest trout I’ve ever seen!”
It wasn’t so much his tirade that pissed me off, it was the fact that my wife’s camera lens had now been diverted from her formerly svelte husband of lo these many years and the father of her children, to this…this…bait chunking ridge runner who was about to set the state record trout on a broken spinning rod!
He brought the fish near the surface in front of me. The downturned lips and scales that looked to be the size of guitar picks were all I needed to see. It wasn’t long before the fellas line broke and he walked away thinking that he had just lost the biggest trout of his life. I told him no different. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, and he was immersed in blissful elation.
I woke the next morning and looked out the window. The river was the color of chocolate milk and raging, I was fishless for sure on this day. I sighed, made a cup of coffee, slipped back into bed and turned the on the television. It was my anniversary, I wouldn’t be fishing, but that lovely lady sleeping beside me made it all okay.
A few days later I took Lt. Col. Morton to a newly discovered fishing spot that holds tons of quality trout. It is not unusual to say you caught better than double the limit with none measuring less than sixteen inches. I was excited for him. After one solid year of hell deep in the bowels of the Middle East, a hard fight with a big fish would be just what the doctor ordered. We had no sooner entered the water when two hatches of biblical proportions occurred. In most cases this is a cause for that adrenaline fueled elation that anglers look for with passion. The only problem was that these bugs were unbelievably small and we had nothing that would even come close in size. Couple that with the fact that the sheer numbers of bugs coming off the water were so many that it became almost like playing the lottery. Our flies were just one small object in an armada of the living.
Huge fish were eating with reckless abandon, some so close that you could reach out and twp them on the head. It was as if we weren’t even there. Then Morton tied on a small emerger and was walking over to me when something hit it. He hadn’t even really cast, just had it dangling in the water. After a very brief fight, he brought it to hand. A Bluegill. Yep. Here we are in trout heaven with bragging size fish all around us and he hooks a bluegill. I was fishing an old Granger, sweet rod. He turned to me and said, “Here I stand amidst all these trout with a 150.00 reel, a 700.00 rod, and all I get is a bluegill.” Funny as it was, it was one of the prettiest bluegills I have ever laid my eyes on.
We left the water at dark and went to this little drive in/ diner for a milkshake that is the best around, and talked about old times, massive hatches, and one lone bluegill that made the trip one to remember.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
I read in the news today about a local fly shop that is closing its doors after nearly a quarter century of doing business in my area. Admittedly, I did not frequent the place, but the fact remains that yet another small business owner is losing their piece of the pie. A piece of the pie that hits close to home because it catered to the fly-fishing crowd, of which I am a proud member.
The economics of fly-fishing is steak one week bologna the next. You might have a few customers who have a cash cow grazing out back, but for the most part, you are not going to have droves of people standing in line to buy $900.00 rods and $400.00 reels. Most of us are still trying to justify a purchase from four years ago that cost half that. Fly-fishing, if you become a gearaholic can be a very expensive venture and not one that most can maintain.
So what does it actually take to keep a business open and moderately successful? The obvious thought is to diversify, but a fly shop, just like a mechanic, or a bakery, has one thing they do. Diversification is proprietary to box retail, and box retail doesn’t really care in a personal and hands on way if they have the right sized Parachute Adams for Spring Fishing in the Smokies.
One local Fly Shop has found a niche on the World Wide Web. By shipping various products world wide, and offering a plethora of pertinent local angling information with one mouse click, they have effectively risen above any potential funeral pyre and though I am sure that they are not rolling in the dough, at the very least they are maintaining a very respectable business.
The business that is closing had, from a river perspective, a very poor location, and you would find no cheap stuff their either. However, place a good selection of equipment in a location that is either on the way to or on the way from the river, and you just might be able to squeeze through.
We have monster Box Retail of the fishing variety here as well. Though I often feel like a hypocrite for doing it, I work there a couple of days per month. Here is what I have noticed about this place…
They call it a “Fly Shop”, but it is really just a small fly fishing department much as a selection of pots and pans is house wares at Wal-Mart. Most of the clientele are not die-hard fly anglers. They are mostly spin fishermen who want to give it a try or someone on vacation who saw a real fly angler in the Smokies and decided to blow some of their expendable vacation income on a rod and reel so they could feel as though they have been in “the movie”.
I build my own rods, and now have started building them for others. Quality, hand made, bamboo fly rods. Good stuff. But, if I think for one minute that I can quit my day job and start building an empire on an esoteric portion of a very segregated sport, I may as well get in line with the shop that is closing and start looking for the unemployment office.
The economics of fly-fishing is steak one week bologna the next. You might have a few customers who have a cash cow grazing out back, but for the most part, you are not going to have droves of people standing in line to buy $900.00 rods and $400.00 reels. Most of us are still trying to justify a purchase from four years ago that cost half that. Fly-fishing, if you become a gearaholic can be a very expensive venture and not one that most can maintain.
So what does it actually take to keep a business open and moderately successful? The obvious thought is to diversify, but a fly shop, just like a mechanic, or a bakery, has one thing they do. Diversification is proprietary to box retail, and box retail doesn’t really care in a personal and hands on way if they have the right sized Parachute Adams for Spring Fishing in the Smokies.
One local Fly Shop has found a niche on the World Wide Web. By shipping various products world wide, and offering a plethora of pertinent local angling information with one mouse click, they have effectively risen above any potential funeral pyre and though I am sure that they are not rolling in the dough, at the very least they are maintaining a very respectable business.
The business that is closing had, from a river perspective, a very poor location, and you would find no cheap stuff their either. However, place a good selection of equipment in a location that is either on the way to or on the way from the river, and you just might be able to squeeze through.
We have monster Box Retail of the fishing variety here as well. Though I often feel like a hypocrite for doing it, I work there a couple of days per month. Here is what I have noticed about this place…
They call it a “Fly Shop”, but it is really just a small fly fishing department much as a selection of pots and pans is house wares at Wal-Mart. Most of the clientele are not die-hard fly anglers. They are mostly spin fishermen who want to give it a try or someone on vacation who saw a real fly angler in the Smokies and decided to blow some of their expendable vacation income on a rod and reel so they could feel as though they have been in “the movie”.
I build my own rods, and now have started building them for others. Quality, hand made, bamboo fly rods. Good stuff. But, if I think for one minute that I can quit my day job and start building an empire on an esoteric portion of a very segregated sport, I may as well get in line with the shop that is closing and start looking for the unemployment office.
Friday, February 22, 2008
There are weekends on the water when everything works, and then there are those that leave you scratching you head. Those perplexing times on the river or stream when you see the fish, you know they are there, you can sit and watch them feed for hours, but as soon as you cast a fly on the water, they sink into the shadows. Life in general, it seems, holds the same deck of cards.
Expecting life to be a serendipitous menagerie of highflying success is to set ones self up for complete and total failure. However, interspersed amongst the downward spiral are moments that at best offer you success, and at the very worst, offer hope, which is sometimes all we need.
The annual gathering of fellowship was this past weekend and though I enjoyed myself, I found it difficult to “get into the swing”. It was great to see old friends and have a good laugh. Nevertheless, all the while, I found myself lost in a cascade of thoughts that circled around a solitary period of time on the river.
The weekend started with the potential for a true donnybrook with a fellow who was old enough to be my Grandfather, and after being chided by him for ruining his “wilderness experience”, I allowed myself to wallow in anger. That of course led to hanging in trees, ripping my waders, missing at least one “Holy Crap”, and just a heavy dose of negative Karma that no doubt made the fishing all the more difficult for me.
Night one was exceptional and it was a true joy to see a bunch of scraggly coots that have effectively imbedded themselves into my life. Still, as I sat, pickin or shootin the breeze, I was clearly a couple of bubbles off plumb.
Day two, I awoke with a renewed feeling of hope. With a boo in hand, and a little fire under my feet, I set out with Jermz, my outstanding traveling companion. First cast of the day…bam!...fish on. And the day made steady improvement. This day also included one brief but thrilling tussle with a lower Nan fish that no doubt was a true Holy Crap. It even offered me the gift of an amazing airborne body roll with its entire length dancing through the air sending water…and my fly sailing everywhere. After I regained my composure and had a brief moment of repose…back to fishing. I could feel myself settling down, shaking the bad Karma, and getting into that old familiar groove.
Day three, I found myself further up on the Nan than I had traveled before, and my motions were so fluid that I felt like I was fishing through a dream. These are the moments that I live for. Fish or no fish, I was in my zone, I had caught my groove, and there were compliant fish. Then came the rain. For some this is a bad thing, for me it is like manna from Heaven. I love those gray rainy days when you are invisible, quiet, and lurking.
By the time we left for home, I felt like I wished that I had felt on Friday. Took me three days to get there…but I got there, and that is what made the trip for me.
A man reaching middle age faster that he cares to admit, with three little ones and another on the way can easily be swallowed up by the worries of the world. I didn’t realize just how “swallowed up” I had been. I really needed this trip.
To all who were there…thanks.
Expecting life to be a serendipitous menagerie of highflying success is to set ones self up for complete and total failure. However, interspersed amongst the downward spiral are moments that at best offer you success, and at the very worst, offer hope, which is sometimes all we need.
The annual gathering of fellowship was this past weekend and though I enjoyed myself, I found it difficult to “get into the swing”. It was great to see old friends and have a good laugh. Nevertheless, all the while, I found myself lost in a cascade of thoughts that circled around a solitary period of time on the river.
The weekend started with the potential for a true donnybrook with a fellow who was old enough to be my Grandfather, and after being chided by him for ruining his “wilderness experience”, I allowed myself to wallow in anger. That of course led to hanging in trees, ripping my waders, missing at least one “Holy Crap”, and just a heavy dose of negative Karma that no doubt made the fishing all the more difficult for me.
Night one was exceptional and it was a true joy to see a bunch of scraggly coots that have effectively imbedded themselves into my life. Still, as I sat, pickin or shootin the breeze, I was clearly a couple of bubbles off plumb.
Day two, I awoke with a renewed feeling of hope. With a boo in hand, and a little fire under my feet, I set out with Jermz, my outstanding traveling companion. First cast of the day…bam!...fish on. And the day made steady improvement. This day also included one brief but thrilling tussle with a lower Nan fish that no doubt was a true Holy Crap. It even offered me the gift of an amazing airborne body roll with its entire length dancing through the air sending water…and my fly sailing everywhere. After I regained my composure and had a brief moment of repose…back to fishing. I could feel myself settling down, shaking the bad Karma, and getting into that old familiar groove.
Day three, I found myself further up on the Nan than I had traveled before, and my motions were so fluid that I felt like I was fishing through a dream. These are the moments that I live for. Fish or no fish, I was in my zone, I had caught my groove, and there were compliant fish. Then came the rain. For some this is a bad thing, for me it is like manna from Heaven. I love those gray rainy days when you are invisible, quiet, and lurking.
By the time we left for home, I felt like I wished that I had felt on Friday. Took me three days to get there…but I got there, and that is what made the trip for me.
A man reaching middle age faster that he cares to admit, with three little ones and another on the way can easily be swallowed up by the worries of the world. I didn’t realize just how “swallowed up” I had been. I really needed this trip.
To all who were there…thanks.
Friday, January 25, 2008
One rainy November evening a few years back, I drove from my office to Reliance Tennessee. Set off by itself in the cleft of a steep wooded hillside sat a small cabin full of people I had met on the internet, but in truth, they were strangers. Nervously I unloaded my modest assemblage of fishing gear and walked through the front door. Little did I know that I had stepped into my own future, and a litany of friendship.
Large congregations of folks can sometimes be a disjointed mess. So many different personalities and diverse walks of life mingled together always have an element of discord…or so I thought.
Walking through that door I stepped into a very unique brotherhood. I dare say that my growth as an angler would have been a slow laborious process had it not been for these men. I was still “green as a gourd”, but it mattered not to them. I was there, and by my appearance, I became one of them.
Large congregations of folks can sometimes be a disjointed mess. So many different personalities and diverse walks of life mingled together always have an element of discord…or so I thought.
Walking through that door I stepped into a very unique brotherhood. I dare say that my growth as an angler would have been a slow laborious process had it not been for these men. I was still “green as a gourd”, but it mattered not to them. I was there, and by my appearance, I became one of them.
Many months have passed since that day, and the friendship, fellowship, and brotherhood has only grown. We have met on many different waters, and our adventures in that span of time have been the source of connection, both to one another and to our sport.
Soon the icy chill of the mid winter will call us together. From all across the region we will load up our gear and converge on a river that for me is a magic place. Miles from Reliance, but that same feeling will be there.
God has blessed me with more friends than I deserve within this group of men. I know of hardships, victories, life changes, and struggles as they are discussed amid the gurgle of the stream. My life, both in and out of the river is made fuller by having known them.
For every soul there is a river…and for me…every river resonates with the power of our unique brotherhood.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Ice is the greatest of all of natures liars. It looks smooth, wet, accommodating. Snow, though beautiful, is dangerous without concealing the hazardous potential it controls. Ice hides, giving itself names that denote the potential for betrayal. Black Ice, the greatest of all the winter liars. Today, the black Ice converged upon my little corner of the world, turning normal roads into demolition courses, and sending untold numbers of people to either the hospital or the morgue. Black Ice is a killer, of that you can be sure.
I waited until the majority of the carnage had been exacted before venturing out. My path to the office riddled with broken vehicles that were fooled by the Ice into a false idea of ease before it reached up out of the darkness and took tons of metal and with one little swish, turned it from a vehicle, to a carcass. Broken bits of fenders and bumpers jutted up from the sides of the road as if they were reaching out form benevolence. Benevolence is something to which Black Ice holds no claim.
I drove with my hands at ten and two, kept the radio volume down low, and looked far ahead along my chosen pathway. I did this not because I do not trust my own driving skills, but because the killer was obviously out and about and would strike without any warning. When dealing with the uncontrollable, it is best to set your sights and move forward knowing that the potential for mishap is always looming round the next bend.
Tonight, as the darkness of night settles along Riverdale, the Black Ice will dance; running its cold touch along places reclaimed by water and salt during the day. Tomorrow the light will once again try to penetrate the clouds, and in the darker places the killer will be lurking, waiting for the bravado of those who fail to recognize that when paired against the harsh reality of creation itself, nature will always be there waiting for the one foolish mistake in which it pronounces its ownership over the world.
I waited until the majority of the carnage had been exacted before venturing out. My path to the office riddled with broken vehicles that were fooled by the Ice into a false idea of ease before it reached up out of the darkness and took tons of metal and with one little swish, turned it from a vehicle, to a carcass. Broken bits of fenders and bumpers jutted up from the sides of the road as if they were reaching out form benevolence. Benevolence is something to which Black Ice holds no claim.
I drove with my hands at ten and two, kept the radio volume down low, and looked far ahead along my chosen pathway. I did this not because I do not trust my own driving skills, but because the killer was obviously out and about and would strike without any warning. When dealing with the uncontrollable, it is best to set your sights and move forward knowing that the potential for mishap is always looming round the next bend.
Tonight, as the darkness of night settles along Riverdale, the Black Ice will dance; running its cold touch along places reclaimed by water and salt during the day. Tomorrow the light will once again try to penetrate the clouds, and in the darker places the killer will be lurking, waiting for the bravado of those who fail to recognize that when paired against the harsh reality of creation itself, nature will always be there waiting for the one foolish mistake in which it pronounces its ownership over the world.
Friday, January 11, 2008
A good friend of mine ran into some trouble the other day while fishing one of our mountain streams. One minute he was standing shin deep in gin clear water, and the next, he was struggling to get to shore as a flash flood roared out of the high country. Thankfully he made it to safety, but his experience got me thinking.
In our part of the country, very few things in nature can kill you. Sure we have bears, copperheads, rattlers, and the occasional black widow or brown recluse, but in the big picture encounters with those dangers are rare.
We have no deadly fish. No flesh eating reptiles or North American kin of the piranha, but we do have one thing that can be as dangerous as a loaded gun to the head…the river itself.
Knowing just how life threatening swift moving water can be, why do we willingly go stand mid stream? Quite simply…that is where the fish are.
My Father sides with caution in all things. For him throwing caution to the wind is not even in his vocabulary, and from him, I have learned. Each time I step into the water, it is as if I can hear his voice in my head telling me to be careful. I am a grown man, and being careful is a given, but I still hear him, and to a great extent I heed his love filled warnings.
One of the Fly Fishing greats, A.K. Best, who has been a sidekick to John Gierach on more than one misadventure, has a great rule of thumb that I have adhered to my own philosophy. To paraphrase, he said that he sets a boundary on just how deep he will fish, and I have done the same. I will not wade through water that is above my waist. I also will not traverse swift water just to reach an inviting spot on the other side. It just isn’t worth it. I say that I agree with him, but… present me with the opportunity to cast at a 26” Brown who is actively feeding on the other side…
I guess even the Enlightened have their weaknesses……
In our part of the country, very few things in nature can kill you. Sure we have bears, copperheads, rattlers, and the occasional black widow or brown recluse, but in the big picture encounters with those dangers are rare.
We have no deadly fish. No flesh eating reptiles or North American kin of the piranha, but we do have one thing that can be as dangerous as a loaded gun to the head…the river itself.
Knowing just how life threatening swift moving water can be, why do we willingly go stand mid stream? Quite simply…that is where the fish are.
My Father sides with caution in all things. For him throwing caution to the wind is not even in his vocabulary, and from him, I have learned. Each time I step into the water, it is as if I can hear his voice in my head telling me to be careful. I am a grown man, and being careful is a given, but I still hear him, and to a great extent I heed his love filled warnings.
One of the Fly Fishing greats, A.K. Best, who has been a sidekick to John Gierach on more than one misadventure, has a great rule of thumb that I have adhered to my own philosophy. To paraphrase, he said that he sets a boundary on just how deep he will fish, and I have done the same. I will not wade through water that is above my waist. I also will not traverse swift water just to reach an inviting spot on the other side. It just isn’t worth it. I say that I agree with him, but… present me with the opportunity to cast at a 26” Brown who is actively feeding on the other side…
I guess even the Enlightened have their weaknesses……
Monday, January 7, 2008
New life. Just saying it aloud sounds encouraging, ringing with hope, full of endless possibilities. New life is coming to our Family. Sometime before the leaves that have yet to bud begin changing to shades of yellow, red, and orange, I will be blessed with another fishing buddy.
I can honestly say that my two daughters, the oldest of the siblings, have done something that very few people, let alone kids, have ever done. This past summer they each caught their first fish, two beautiful wild rainbow trout, on a 5’ 4wt. bamboo rod that their Daddy made just for them. The joy on their faces was only equaled by the joy in “the old man’s” heart. These little princesses standing up to their waists, bare legged, in a cold Smoky Mountain stream. Let me tell ya, Dollywood has nothing on the Adventure based theme park that God created with his own hands.
To teach our kids that the joy, excitement, and wonder of creation is far more thrilling than anything man can contrive is so important. To see the wonder and amazement on the face of a kid as they are engulfed in the magnificence of the world. So much of life now is electronic, sterile, emotionless fodder. And now, with Gods Grace and Blessing, I will be given yet another opportunity to instill in the future generations of my own lineage the love of the world as it is unhindered by man. To know that my children love God, and love the bounty of His creativity and power, is an accomplishment that is paramount to seeing myself as a successful parent.
I can honestly say that my two daughters, the oldest of the siblings, have done something that very few people, let alone kids, have ever done. This past summer they each caught their first fish, two beautiful wild rainbow trout, on a 5’ 4wt. bamboo rod that their Daddy made just for them. The joy on their faces was only equaled by the joy in “the old man’s” heart. These little princesses standing up to their waists, bare legged, in a cold Smoky Mountain stream. Let me tell ya, Dollywood has nothing on the Adventure based theme park that God created with his own hands.
To teach our kids that the joy, excitement, and wonder of creation is far more thrilling than anything man can contrive is so important. To see the wonder and amazement on the face of a kid as they are engulfed in the magnificence of the world. So much of life now is electronic, sterile, emotionless fodder. And now, with Gods Grace and Blessing, I will be given yet another opportunity to instill in the future generations of my own lineage the love of the world as it is unhindered by man. To know that my children love God, and love the bounty of His creativity and power, is an accomplishment that is paramount to seeing myself as a successful parent.
Friday, January 4, 2008
New Year’s resolutions have always seemed so odd to me. Usually what you are resolving to change should have been done long ago and do not require a first of the year start off date to employ, yet year after year, millions will say that they are going to do something…yet few will actually accomplish their goals. Why? Quite frankly, they didn’t want to do it in the first place even though they know that it needs to be done. My Father smoked for thirty years or more before finally laying them down. How many times did he try and fail? The bottom line was not the failure, it was that he kept trying until he reached the point where his desire to lay them down and his ability to enact that change were on the same page.
Sure, there are tons of things I would like to change in 2008, but instead of resolutions, I like to set goals to have completed by years end. So…here are my goals for 2008.
1) To fish a new river.
2) To fish for Largemouth Bass with a fly rod.
3) To get closer to my goal of building my own boo rod.
4) To loose enough weight to feel good about how I look again.
5) To start on a new novel.
Ambiguous goals no doubt, but all are achievable if I don’t set a static time table, just write them down and keep them in mind as I fumble my way through the year.
Here’s to 2008. May your resolutions become goals, and your goals become reality.
Marc
Sure, there are tons of things I would like to change in 2008, but instead of resolutions, I like to set goals to have completed by years end. So…here are my goals for 2008.
1) To fish a new river.
2) To fish for Largemouth Bass with a fly rod.
3) To get closer to my goal of building my own boo rod.
4) To loose enough weight to feel good about how I look again.
5) To start on a new novel.
Ambiguous goals no doubt, but all are achievable if I don’t set a static time table, just write them down and keep them in mind as I fumble my way through the year.
Here’s to 2008. May your resolutions become goals, and your goals become reality.
Marc
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