Tag: Fly-Fishing (Page 1 of 4)

What’s this—a new post? Not really, but sort of

It’s been a while since any content has been published here, but today that changes thanks to Michael Agneta over at Troutrageous. If you were around 10-15 years ago when fly fishing blogs were plentiful and popular(?) you probably remember Troutrageous. It’s also likely that, if you’re old enough to remember this bygone era, you’re too old to remember much of anything.

Mike recently conceived of a project that is sure to spark some memories. He is taking on the task of tracking down old bloggers (some of whom still have their websites online) and playing a bit of catch-up to see where folks are today, what they’ve been up to in the past decade or so, and whether they still fish.

Mike found me propped up in a chair on the patio at the retirement home; hooked up to an oxygen tank and wrapped in a blanket to stave off the chill of a late May Day; a plaid Stormy Chromer (flaps down to cover my ears) warmed my balding dome. My gaze was focused on something in the distance, though through foggy, cataract-shrouded lenses I’m not sure what it was: probably just a common sparrow. Around my neck hung an old pair of Sears and Roebuck binoculars and a dog-eared copy of a guide book to North American birds rested on my lap. In one hand was clutched an old, worn copy of Fly Rod & Reel magazine (another bygone publication of yore). Mike introduced himself, gently shook my skeleton-like, liver-spotted hand and asked if I wouldn’t mind taking a few minutes to field some questions. I told him lunch was being served soon and that I didn’t want to miss the day’s split pea soup and grilled cheese. But I agreed to give him a few minutes.

The result of our brief time together is the following “interview”. Thanks to Mike for taking the time to dredge up old memories of a time when fly fishing bloggers were Kings and Queens just about anybody could be a fly fishing blogger if you paid for hosting fees.

As Mike departed for the airport where his private Troutrageous jet awaited to whisk him off to the next stop on his reunion tour, I raised the binoculars to my blurry eyes and took one last glance at the movement in the distance. To my delight there it was—what I’d been hoping to see for quite some time—a Yellow-Rumped Warbler. A single tear dripped from my eye. Must have been due to pollens.

Separated at Birth, 2?

 

A while back I was struck by a certain resemblance between pop music fad Justin Bieber and a much younger Brad Pitt. I posted about it in an entry titled, Separated at Birth. My thought was to turn the idea into a series, whereby I would discover uncanny resemblances between fly fishing personalities and their more famous Hollywood counterparts (you’ll have to give me a little leeway with the whole Brad Pitt thing—he’s not exactly a fly fishing personality, although he did star in A River Runs Through It).

Recently I was reading the latest “20 Questions” over at Eat More Brook Trout, in which Chris Hunt interviews Trout Underground founding father, Tom Chandler. Before I’d read further than:

“Tom Chandler is, if nothing else…”

It hit me, like a brick upside the head:

Tom Chandler is, if nothing else, Robin William’s much younger identical brother. And word has it they’re both fly fishermen.

One of these is Tom Chandler.

 

Dangerous Wading with The Bachelor

I don’t watch “The Bachelor” on TV so I would not have known about this if not for some impressive internet sleuthing on the part of Montana Fly Company’s Facebook page. Apparently Ben Flajnik (the guy who is The Bachelor) grew up in a fishing family so he took his harem to a lake near Park City, Utah for a group date and they did a bit of angling. You can read the riveting story here if so inclined.

I suppose there are worse places The Bachelor could have taken his gaggle of gals. But as much as I approve of fly fishing as a wholesome activity for anyone, there’s something wrong with this picture: Where are their wading belts?! Not only is it unsafe to be wading perilous waters without their belts, but wading belts offer a slimming effect.

And I believe PBR in cans would have been more appropriate than whatever they’re drinking out of their fancy glasses, not to mention that glass is to be discouraged when fishing. Glassware, that is- not glass fly rods. I don’t want to get in trouble with Cameron Mortenson over at the Fiberglass Manifesto.

 

Elk Hunting: Part I of II or maybe III

A few weeks back I ventured to the great state of Idaho seeking to harvest an elk to feed my family this winter (I talked about my pre-trip thoughts here in the event that you ignored missed it). My quest for meat began with a cross-state drive to Lewiston, Idaho where my buddy Jawn lives. From my home it’s a little more than 5 hours, which used to seem like a long drive. Several fishing trips to Montana will put things into perspective, and the drive to Lewiston is now considered child’s play.

I stopped at the edge of the Palouse, which happens to be at the top of the Lewiston grade, to take in the views. From this vantage point one can see the entire Lewiston/Clarkston valley  2,000 feet below, and the great confluence of the Clearwater and Snake Rivers and beyond. The two rivers are more like lakes than the free-flowing rivers that Lewis and Clark would have encountered when they passed through the area in 1805. Dams and two hundred years of development will do that to a place, I reckon. Still, it’s a beautiful area, though it could be made even more beautiful if a few dams were torn down.

I was careful not to get too close to the edge of the decaying scenic overlook that the state of Idaho doesn’t seem to be overly concerned with. As it turns out, Idahoans believe that if you’re not smart enough to stay away from the edge then you probably deserve to fall off. Culling the herd, as it were. We need more common sense policies like that. Idaho for President in 2012!

Anyhoo, back to the matter of hunting elk. Jawn has birthright access to private land in the hills of Idaho, the closest town being Kendrick (population: not very big). He’d been out scouting previously and had seen animals. Elk, even, which is always a good thing when going elk hunting. The property we were hunting has the stuff on which elk require to thrive (and disappear): forested land. And plenty of it, like a coupla thousand acres. There’s access to plenty of water thanks to a particular river, so it’s no surprise that elk should do well here. We’d be hunting in a GMU with a special season where any elk could be harvested. Slam dunk, right? Meat in the bank, as it were.

I had hunted on this ranch long enough ago that I didn’t remember the lay of the land. That was back before there was an internet, but of course now there is an internet so the night before our hunt Jawn pulled up Google Earth and showed us what our game plan would be. The ranch has open land where cattle graze, steep brush-choked draws, rolling slopes and yes, a river runs through it. The Potlach River. As Jawn pointed out the names of various draws we’d be hunting over the next two days, my mind kept coming back to the river. “Ever fish it?” I asked. He had, but not much. “Any Westslope Cutthroat in there?” He said there were rainbows. And steelhead spawn in the river as well. “Steelhead?!” I said out loud, or perhaps I thought I said it out loud. Could be the rainbow are actually steelhead smolts. Maybe not. Jawn hadn’t given it much attention from a fishing standpoint. It’s not a big river, but via Google Earth it looked worthy of my time. Perhaps another time. I was here to hunt elk, not cast flies. Not even elk hair flies. Had to get fishing out of my head. A good night’s rest would help with that.

I rarely get a good sleep the night before a hunting or fishing trip, but this first night was particularly lacking in ample hours of quality rest. It’s not that we stayed up particularly late–we didn’t. But on Saturday morning we awoke at an ungodly hour thanks to the fact that my other buddy, Micro, forgot to adjust his watch to reflect the fact that he was no longer in the Mountain Time Zone. I heard him get up and start rustling around in the dark, a fuzzy-eyed glance at my clock revealed that it was 2:15 am. I let him get halfway dressed before pointing out that we had another hour to sleep (needless to say that next hour went by rather quickly). After a breakfast that was eaten more out of acknowledged necessity than gnawing hunger, we piled into the truck. At 4:30 we rendezvoused with Jawn’s dad at a local truck stop, and under the cloak of rain-soaked darkness we headed into the hills. Did I mention it was raining?

In less than an hour we dropped Micro and Jawn’s dad off at one location on the ranch before Jawn and I proceeded up the road a few clicks. The plan was for them to hike in and take up a vantage point along the edge of a wheat field, while Jawn and I pushed in from the top. As we slogged through a field of waist-high seed grass toward the top of the hill, I couldn’t help but think that this must be what it’s like to walk through an automatic, brush-free car wash. By the time we reached the top of the rise our pants were soaked through, and I felt my feet beginning to get damp as well. Apparently my 10 year old waterproof boots which had never failed me before were telling me it was time for new boots. I had rain pants, but they were, of course, in my pack. Putting them on now seemed a silly thing to do, but something I did nonetheless. At least it wasn’t cold (unless you were wet). I believe I mentioned earlier that it was raining. Well, it still was.

Accompanying the rain was a blanket of thick fog that reduced our ability to see.  For those not of a hunting persuasion, think of fog being as the equivalent of wind to the fly angling person. We had a vantage point high on a ridge overlooking what was allegedly a thick stand of forest, below which was supposedly the wheat field where the others had by now taken up position. We could hear scores of turkeys gobbling and yelping, and several cattle mooing as they’re known to do, but we didn’t hear any bull elk bugling or cow elk calling. And we couldn’t see anything beyond a distance of about 40 yards. Not ideal for spotting elk in the thick brush 200 yards below us.

F#g.

Jumping ahead a couple of hours, we met up with Micro and Jawn’s dad and told them what we’d seen earlier in the morning, which amounted to nothing at all. They’d not seen any elk either, which was not surprising because the idea had been for Jawn and I to spot elk, take a well-placed shot and harvest an animal, while at the same time pushing the rest of the herd out below, where Micro and Jawn’s dad would hopefully get a shot. In a perfect world we’d have two animals down and the rest of the day would be spent packing meat and beating our chests in celebration. Since that wasn’t quite how it turned out, we devised another plan of attack as the rain lightened. The next few hours would see an improvement in the weather, and the hunting.

Part II

Part III

 

Rugged Eddie Bauer Man

As I pack the last of the things for my trip to Montana and Idaho, hoping that I remember the critical items before getting there, I wanted to leave my 8 loyal followers with one last, worthless post.  If for some reason I don’t return, I want to be remembered for having left you all with a blog entry that is so unworthy of your time that it’s not even deserving of a “Weekly Drivel®” designation (and thus is appropriately filed away under the category of “Pointless Wastes of Your Time”). I should probably have deleted this before ever publishing it, but hey–a guy needs traffic for his Google Analytics, right? That, and I like to keep the SPAMMERS employed.

Eddie Bauer, the rugged man

Eddie Bauer wasn’t always just a clothing retailer. Seriously. My first fly rod was made by Eddie Bauer, back in the days when you could actually buy outdoor recreation gear at the one Eddie Bauer store in Seattle. Back in the mid 70’s I had a backpacking tent made by Eddie Bauer, and down jackets and sleeping bags filled with Premium Eddie Bauer Goose Down were the shit–the seriously good stuff (which I never had because I was allergic to down). You see, Eddie Bauer (the man) was an avid outdoorsman, and the company reflected that passion. I won’t go into detail about him here because I don’t know much about him other than what is provided on several websites. Suffice it to say Eddie Bauer was serious about his love of the outdoors: he was an avid hunter and fisherman and it would appear that he was a fly fisherman as well because he sold trout flies and made fly rods. He also sold tennis racquets and badminton shuttlecocks. Hey, he wasn’t perfect – nobody is. At least he didn’t sell golf equipment. While an article int he latest Angling Trade talks about the similarities between golf and fly fishing that provide potential new ventures for the fly fishing industry, I prefer not to recommend hybridization. But I digress.

In the many decades that have passed since Eddie Bauer (the man) sold his company, Eddie Bauer (the company) has wandered farther from its roots and has become synonymous with clothing. While a far cry from the outdoor industry that gave rise to the success of the brand, the company is holding onto the proud, rugged history of Eddie Bauer as evidenced by its summer catalog Summer Resource Book. Gracing the pages inside you’ll find Rugged Eddie Bauer Man. And he is just that: rugged.

Here he can be seen climbing the mast of a sailing vessel, holding on with one hand while he looks down with contempt toward his undisciplined crew. Clearly he is a man of few words, and even less humor.

And why shouldn’t he be? Afterall, there is nothing funny about carrying a large cargo net and a gasoline can, and getting your new shirt covered with grease and grime. It’s serious work. It calls for a serious man. A rugged man.

Here, Rugged Eddie Bauer Man can be seen looking at a thick rope. He appears lost in thought, as if deeply troubled. If he were to speak, one could imagine the few words, “Who the hell tied this knot?”

But lest one should think that Rugged Eddie Bauer Man is all work and no play, we see him here–embarking on a recreational endeavor. His face still wears the stern expresson of a humorless man, but he does seem a bit more relaxed.

But no matter what he’s doing, Rugged Eddie Bauer Man does it with serious conviction. Maybe serious is the only way he can be. And we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?

We can only assume that like Eddie Bauer, Rugged Eddie Bauer Man is also a fly fisherman. And a seriously good golfer, too.

The rugged Eddie Bauer Man

 

You have my apologies for this blog entry.

The Photographer’s job is not to catch fish.

It’s a little unnerving to have a professional photographer constantly lurking about, snapping photos from all and strange angles. Knowing that one may be under the constant scrutiny of a camera’s lens makes stealing a quiet moment to pick one’s nose a delicate proposition (not that it happened–I’m just illustrating a point). But a photographer’s job is to tell the story that otherwise may not be told. It has been said that a picture paints a thousand words, and it’s true: photos tell a story in ways that words simply cannot, even if you’re a gifted writer, which I am not (and that is exactly why I always carry a camera). But I am not a real photographer–I simply carry a point-and-shoot to capture some images from the day which also help me recall moments worth writing about. And frankly, people like to look at pictures much more than they like reading words. Pictures are always more interesting, and I have no doubt you will look at the photos posted here. That being said I shall throw out some words for you to read if you wish.

It was a day that was all about photos. It was a day intended to be an opportunity for Jason “Orad” Small to photographically document a trip to be used as part of a presentation to be given by 2011 Orvis Endorsed Guide of the Year, Derek Young (Emerging Rivers Guide Services) the following day. Everyone’s role for the day was clearly defined except mine. I’m still not sure why I was brought along for the trip, except to take photos of the photographer taking photos and catching fish.

The water was hovering around the 45 degree mark as we mixed some tasty Bloody Marys on the tailgate. Pickled asparagus purchased that morning at Owen’s Meats in Cle Elum were nothing shy of awesome. If you’ve never been to Owen’s Meats, you really owe it to yourself to stop in for some of their products. Seriously. We did not have a particularly long float ahead of us so we were in no great hurry.

Photo by Jason Small Photography

Photo of the Photographer taking photos of bloody marys

 

We hit the water around noon and  started out the day nymphing the typical setup: a Pat’s Stones with a Copper John or Pheasant Tail dropper. Pink Thingamabobbers all around.  The hope was that around 1:17 in the afternoon, the March Browns would start coming off and we’d switch to dries.

As the Photographer, Orad wasted no time in getting the skunk off the boat by landing a nice, thick, post-spawn rainbow that looked as healthy as a fish can get. Likely an 18 inch fish, she was what they call a “Yakima Twenty” (always round up). This fish put a taco bend in the Orad rod as she ran upstream, downstream, under the boat and every which way but loose. A short while later Orad caught another rainbow in the 12 inch range. Apparently he forgot that he was fishing out of the back of the boat (second seat) and was supposed to be the designated photographer and not the the primary catcher of trouts.

Photo of the Photographer catching the first fish.

Photo of The Photographer and The Guide.

Photo of The Photographer's first, fine fish of the day.

Later, Derek landed one of the more spotted trouts I’ve ever seen on any water. Seriously, this thing looked like a Leopard variety rainbow from Alaska.

Photo by Jason Small Photography

Photo of the Photographer taking photos of The Guide's fish.

 

Photo of Mr. Spotty, The Guide's fish.

Shortly thereafter I set the hook on a fish that I’m pretty sure was a Yakima River steelhead, although Derek maintains it was a cutthroat, but I’ll never know. Let’s just say that Orad is better with a camera than he is with a net.

The Guide's Photo of the Photographer and his net.

 

That was the last fish touched on the day. Yet we did not see any fish rising, nor did I see any bugs popping. This provided ample opportunity for Orad to capture the other side of fly fishing: the side of fly fishing that doesn’t involve catching fish. You know- behind the scenes sort of drama that looks cooler than it really was because of good photography.

For example, this photo makes me look like I’m a decent caster…

Photo by Jason Small Photography

 

And this photo makes Derek’s hair look shorter than it really is…

Photo by Jason Small Photography

 

And this photo makes the act of pinching a barb look  interesting…

Photo by Jason Small Photography

 

And this photo has a certain action feel to it, when in reality there was nothing going on…

Photo by Jason Small Photography

 

And in this photo the Lucky Fishing Hat was not flattered by Orad’s wide angle lens, and I am left questioning whether to ever wear it again.

Photo by Jason Small Photography

 

At the end of great day on the water we paid a visit to The Brick in Roslyn for some excellent food. I can honestly say that the French Dip Sandwich was the best I’ve ever had, and would have been better only if I’d have been able to get a Budweiser to wash it down.

Photo of my food.

 

The next day I was late for Derek’s presentation at Orvis. Apparently it started at 1PM and not 1:30 as I was told. But all was not lost because while I was at the shop I picked up a few Pat’s Rubberlegs to replace the ones I’d sacrificed the day before. I’ll be needing them in a week, and if they don’t produce I’ll simply take them back to Orvis. Leland Miyawaki, the fly fishing manager, is very good at handling returns.

I hope you enjoyed the photos more than the words. I know I did. Enjoy more of Orad’s work at Jason Small Photography.

Rocky Ford Frustrouting: then…and now?

Two weeks ago I went steelhead fishing to the Olympic Peninsula with the boy, Schpanky.  I talked in that two part series about how I desperately needed to get the boy on a fish because he had suffered many Frustrating Trout Outings (Frustroutings) with me over the years. I explained how he needed to catch something that would kick his arse and rekindle his faith in fly fishing with the old man. Well, we succeeded in that. Now steelhead fishing is behind us for a while, and we look forward to trout fishing. Or at least I do.

I may be going fishing for trouts this week, although with nearly all rivers out of shape on both sides of the mountains, my destination is yet to be determined.  The one remaining possibly is Rocky Ford Creek, the infamous Central Washington spring creek that is known for scuds, giant hatchery rainbows that have seen every fly pattern imaginable, scores of other angling folks and some of the finest natural scenery the eye has ever had the pleasure to behold a healthy supply of ticks.

I’ve been to Rocky Ford only once before. That was almost exactly 5 years ago and it will be remembered as perhaps the frontrunner of many great Frustroutings I’ve shared with the boy. Schpanky was in 6th grade at the time, I think. He’d only been fly fishing with me a couple times prior, but he liked to fish, showed impressive patience as an angler in general and was already fairly competent with a fly rod.  I had planned to take Schpanky to fish the Yakima River during his Spring Break, but weather was unfavorable that year so we took our camper a bit further east and introduced ourselves to Rocky Ford.

The first mistake we made was not stopping in Ephrata at the Desert Fly Angler to find out exactly what color scuds the fish were eating that day. I’ve since learned that yes, they can be that picky, and pity the fool who offers them a pink scud on a day when they fancy the olive variety: you may as well jump in the stream and try to grab the fish by their tails.  But don’t do that, because wading is not allowed in Rocky Ford Creek. Still, I recommend wearing hip boots, if not full-on waders.

So east we headed, the 12 year-old Schpanky and me, in our camper, destined for Grant County.  No stranger to this general part of the state, I’d duck hunted nearby on countless occasions so I had no trouble finding the place.  Like so many other destinations in the Central Basin, it’s out in the middle of nothing. We went out of our way to stop in Moses Lake for a visit to the Dairy Queen, which is owned by my wife’s sister and husband (not my wife’s husband, to be sure–but her sister’s husband).  I love visits at the Moses Lake Dairy Queen because it’s the one place I can get away with dining and dashing.

We pulled the F350 dually and Bigfoot Camper into the vast gravel parking area overlooking Rocky Ford and claimed our spot.  There were other rigs present, but we had plenty of elbow room and our own private fire pit. We both looked forward to a good campfire that night, sitting beneath the clear skies (it very seldom rains in Central Washington) and staring into the flames as we contemplated our origins and how hot we could get the soles of our boots before they actually started to burn. Men are, by nature, pyromaniacs, and that fascination with open flame had been passed down to my son. But before we could preoccupy ourselves with fire, we had fish to catch.

Armed with 5 and 6 weight rods, we hoofed through the cattails that line the banks of Rocky Ford, careful not to step in deep holes carved under the mud by muskrats (thus the recommendation for hip boots).  The day was overcast with, amazingly, no wind (a rare thing in Central Washington this time of year). It was very comfortable weather for fishing and it felt good to be there– father and son. A man’s outing. And a campfire that night.

The first thing we both noticed were the huge trout, cruising slowly within just a couple of the bank in shallow water as they slurped a multitude of tiny fresh water crustaceans from the weeds.  These were big fish- 25 inch hog rainbows and bigger. It was the kind of stuff that gets a Rocky Ford first-timer’s blood boiling instantly, and both the boy and I frantically tried to toss a scud in front of the noses of these fish, expecting an easy hookup.  The fish responded by simply moving out of the path of the fly and giving us a sideways glance as if to say, “Wrong color, dumbsh_t.” We were not discouraged. So we’d have to work it a little harder. No big deal—we had all afternoon and the entire next day to catch a few of these slabs.

We spread out along the bank, Schpanky taking up casting position on a point of mud that afforded maximum clearance behind him. At Rocky Ford, clearance for backcasts is not to be taken lightly, as a wall of cattails can will sneak up on you while you lose yourself in your casting. Lest you remain vigilant, that wall of cattails will grab your fly and not let go. I seem to recall telling the boy to shorten his casting stroke, stopping high so as not to offer any more flies to the cattails than absolutely necessary. Apparently it was necessary to sacrifice plenty of flies to the cattails before the abbreviated casting stroke became committed to memory, and frustration began to set in–mostly on the part of the parental angler whose responsibility it was to wage battle with the cattails, untangle and cut away the leader and tie on a new fly every few minutes.

An unlucky, stupid fishing hat.

As the afternoon wore on and the big cruisers continued to swim slowly under our noses and refuse our offerings, we tried a variety of different techniques: Casting farther out and stripping woolly buggers, tossing and twitching small dry flies…nothing seemed to work.  We saw trout rising, just not to anything we offered them. We covered some ground, moving up and down the creek in hopes of improving our luck. To his credit, Schpanky was a patient angler and seemed to be enjoying himself even though not a single fish touched his fly all day.

I did land a small trout of about 13 inches on a mayfly emerger, but a 14 inch trout in these waters was almost worse than a skunk, and the fact that I caught a fish and the boy did not served as a bit of salt in the wound as far as he was concerned. But it got worse. At one point another fly fisherman set up on the same bank about 50 yards from us.  On his first cast he hooked up with a very nice fish which Schpanky and I both watched him land. On his next couple of casts he hooked nothing, but over the course of the next hour he must have landed no fewer than 10 fish. Big fish. Looking to his father for sage words, Schpanky asked what this other guy was doing differently than us, to which I may have responded, “Probably using bait.” Anything but fly fishing is of course illegal on Rocky Ford, but I had no better answer than to lash out critically. “I bet I could beat him up,” I added.

As evening approached and the boy’s blood sugar plummeted, we decided to call it quits for the time being and grab some dinner. After refueling and rekindling our outlook fishing and life in general, we decided to ply the waters for one last hour before dark.  Not surprisingly, the evening hatch yielded nothing and it started to rain hard as we retreated to the camper. We could live with a slow day of catching, but we’d looked forward with great anticipation to our campfire. That was not to be as the rain increased and pelted the roof of the camper.  Still, we managed to enjoy the evening by each drinking several beers before hitting the sack. We needed a good night’s sleep because tomorrow there were fish to catch.

When we awoke early the next morning the first thing I noticed was the sound of the all-too-familiar Central Washington wind, which had replaced the Central Washington rain that had fallen most of the night.  After breakfast we geared up and headed back to the creek. The air temperature was no longer quite so comfortable and the wind made casting considerably more difficult. None of this would have mattered had the boy been catching fish, but that was not the case for the first two hours of the day. At one point I glanced toward his location only to find him seated on a rock, his fly rod laying the ground next to him and a blank expression on his face.  He had hit a wall. Stuck a fork in himself. He was done. The logical thing to do would have been to send him back to the camper for some juice and cookies while I continued to fish, but frankly I was kinda done myself.  As I reeled in my line one final time, a 30 inch trout cruised by within 3 feet of where I stood and gestured with it’s pectoral fin as if to say, “So long, sucker…” As it slowly swam off I could swear I hear the muffled sound of underwater laughter.

I haven’t been back to Rocky Ford since.

I may be going back, and in fact may be there by the time you read this.  But I’m not taking the boy.  After his successful steelhead outing on the Hoh River two weeks ago, I’m not sure he’s ready for Rocky Ford just yet.  I’ll give him a few months to savor the memories of his last fishing trip before I take him on a yet another Frustrouting.

The Corregated Angler

Do you ever have those days when you go fishing and it seems as though nothing you do makes any difference in the outcome—that no amount of effort put forth is going to change the fact that on this particular day you are simply not going to catch a fish? Days like this can make you feel so ineffective that you may as well be nothing more than a cardboard standup: a single dimensional likeness of yourself that lacks any ability to do more than just be present. I recently had such a trip that made me feel like this. Truth be told I felt like dead weight being carted around all day.

It all started on a recent journey to chase some steelhead on the South Fork of the Clearwater River in Idaho. You may recall that a couple of months earlier I fished the main stem of the Clearwater with a group of old college buddies. On that day, we used spinning gear and either synthetic or real eggs or some combination of the two. That felt fairly dynamic to me as I branched out beyond the fly fishing barriers I had erected over time. But this most recent trip was a fly fishing trip, and on this trip I felt like anything but a dynamic angler.

How I got there is a curious and somewhat hazy recollection. Normally I would drive south and east across the state of Washington, entering into Idaho just before the town of Lewiston, then proceeding up the Clearwater from there. However, such was not quite the case this time. I really have no vivid memory of the drive itself, other than being crammed face down onto the dashboard of a pickup truck under the cloak of darkness in the wee hours of the morning, emerging only when we had arrived at our destination.

When it was light enough to make out the faces of my compadres, I didn’t recognize a single one of them. They consisted of a couple ladies and one guy, none of whom I’d met before in person though I had shared some correspondence via the internet with the two female anglers: Rebecca, of the Outdooress blog and Co-Dictator of the Outdoor Blogger Network; and Emily, of the River Damsel blog. I didn’t then and still don’t know who the dude was.  All I know is that he had a video camera in front of his face for a good part of the day and I was never able to get a good enough look at him to even tell you what he looked like. It didn’t really matter who my fishing companions were. I was “Just Happy to be Here,” or so I was told.

We fished the South Fork of the Clearwater near Grangeville for a few hours, but it was running a bit high which made fly presentation somewhat challenging. I felt particularly inept on this day. Rebecca, who is known for her affinity for all things whitefish, did not disappoint in that regard. I must have said something to piss her off because she literally grabbed that little Rocky Mountain Bonefish and rubbed it in my face.  There wasn’t anything I could do about it – I felt rather helpless, and for the remainder of the day I smelled like whitefish (which may smell worse than a skunk). After this demoralizing escapade we cut our losses and sought out some skinnier water on the Little Salmon.  This diminutive river was more my size, and although I still couldn’t muster a cast to save my life, before too long Rebecca hooked up with a respectable steelhead. When she set the hook it was as if I became a second class citizen. I was literally cast aside and knocked to the ground where I lay amongst the cold, wet rocks on the river bank. From there I managed to witness her land what turned out to be a decent fish. A little dark, and it wasn’t as big as the steelhead I like to catch, but at least it was a steelhead. Not bad for a girl, I suppose.

At the end of the day I felt bent, bruised, tattered and a little soggy.  I hadn’t managed to catch a fish, and quite frankly I felt like I’d done little more than be dragged around by my fishing companions like some sort of inanimate object. But I was “Just Happy to be Here” so I didn’t worry too much about my feelings of inadequacy or lack of dynamic presence. Back at the truck I was once again tossed onto the dash like a piece of cardboard for the ride home (at least the defroster dried me out and warmed me up). I must have nodded off because the drive home was a blur, and when I awoke the next morning it was as if I’d spent a fitful night dreaming strange dreams. I felt not unlike Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz (or at least a cardboard version of her): I’d been on a very strange journey, or in this case, a very strange fishing trip.

 

 

Not quite ready for the AARP

Well, that didn’t last long. Retirement, that is.

During 2 weeks of liberating freedom that included a steelhead trip to Idaho’s Clearwater River with a group of college buddies, I had a chance to clear my head and do a bit of soul searching. What I found was that I need this blog (more than this blog needs me). Before the inception of the Unaccomplished Angler I used to just go fishing, and in doing so have some laughs, maybe take a few snapshots, etc. But after I went public with my blog every trip became something to enjoy just a bit more (for me anyway). I began looking for a story when a story didn’t seem obvious, and therein lie the essence of fishing: it became about much more than catching fish (overused cliche). Yeah, my fishing buddies began looking over their backs, worried that their every move was being closely monitored (true). But luckily for them it is nearly always my own unaccomplished angling antics that keeps them safe from public ridicule. This realization, or re-awakening, may have been a key factor in my decision to unretire. Some people suggested that perhaps it was just a clever ploy, and that maybe I was just trying to shake off the doldrums of a long winter with some sort of shameless publicity stunt.

Another factor in my decision to renounce my retirement might be blamed on the Association for the Advancement of Retired People. Just this week Mrs. UA received a snail mail membership solicitation with her card included. Hell hath no fury like the premature recipient of a membership offer from the AARP, and I have never seen a piece of mail get torn up and tossed into the recycle bin so fast. I thought folks didn’t start getting harassed by the AARP until they were 50? She’s got another year before they’re supposed to come a-callin’ and I’m even younger, so the AARP can bite me. Besides, my IRA isn’t worth squat any more.

There was also a modest outpouring of well wishes and even a couple pathetic requests for me not to cash in my chips just yet. I feel bad for those people, but who am I to judge? (Surely, I jest—your support is not taken lightly). I want to personally thank Sipping Emergers for the public vote of confidence. An email from a stalker “Greg” in Belgrade, Montana also gave me cause to reconsider my retirement. Greg recently discovered the UA and alleges to have actually spent a couple of days reading it (winters are long in Montana). Greg had some nice things to say about my Weekly Drivel, and we have some things in common (including best friends with drift boats). He even invited me and my band of hooligans to hook up with his group sometime.  Thanks for the generous offer and good words, Greg, and congrats on having the “Greg Sucks Hole” named in your honor. Maybe we’ll meet up in Yellowstone this year.

Then there was the weighty matter of a bounty having been placed on my head–well, sort of. Over at the Outdoor Blogger Network, “missing posters” were distributed and there was a $50 Cabela’s Gift Card issued for the person who guessed where I was and what I was up to.

One bounty hunter in particular posted a rather engaging bit of speculation as to my whereabouts and what-upness.  Jump on over to The Naturalist’s Angle and take a look around (Jay, thanks for taking the time to poke around on my Olive the woolly bugger website).

Another seeking fortune was Pat Konoske. With a  penchant for Photoshoppery he likened me to the Terminator, as evidenced over at his Fishing For Words site.

Then there was the matter of the fine gentleman Jason, keeper of the Fontinalis Rising blog, who went so far as to suggest that I am tucked away in a remote valley writing Judy Blume-esque novels for adolescents. If that accusation isn’t enough to make a man crawl out of his cave to defend his honor, I don’t know what is.

Next we have a very forthright man named Fred man who admitted publicly that my absence was “good riddance” and that he actually needs $50 to justify his blogging over at Mystic Waters Alaska Fly Fishing. Cajones, sir. You must be an Alaskan fishing guide. 

Actually nobody guessed correctly, which is not to say that anyone was right or wrong—it was a random drawing. And the winner was Jay, over at The Naturalist’s Angle. Kinda pitiful that I was only worth fifty bucks, but whatcha gonna do? If you have an issue with the drawing, please take it up with Rebecca over at the Outdoor Blogger Network (she loves hearing from irate readers of this blog).

To Josh Mills over at Chucking Line and Chasing Tail, thanks  for your inspiration. Some day I want to be as tall as you.

The George Foreman Grill

There’s a chance that my decision to come out of retirement was also influenced by the dream of having a small kitchen appliance named in my honor. George Foreman came out of a retirement after 20 years and surprised everyone by becoming, at age 45, the oldest boxer in history to win a championship belt. After that he got a grill named after him. I’m thinking “The Werner Burner” has a nice ring to it (thanks to Elizabeth Walker for the idea).

And lastly, my return to the ring may be due to the fact that, like Sly Stallone’s character in Rocky Balboa said, “I still got some junk in the basement.” (For clarification, that is not the same thing as junk in the trunk).

So it’s back to the grind for the Unaccomplished Angler.  I may have a lot of quit in me–just not quite enough. Yet.

Stay tuned, and thanks for the support, I think.

P.S.- Mr. Eastwood, since I’m not done, I expect the same from you. Give us that one last great Dirty Harry fly fishing movie before you retire. Please.

New Year’s Survival Tip: Wipe the slate clean

Ah, January first. This is the one time of year we can flush away regrets of the past and begin anew. As 2010 becomes a thing of the past and we look ahead to a New Year, many of us resolve to make changes for the betterment of our lives. I don’t usually write down actual New Year’s Resolutions because the formality of doing so just leads to measurable disappointment when I fail to make good on those promises to myself. That, and I hate lists (much to the dismay of Mrs UA). Instead, I may just think of things I can do to improve the quality of my being, and if I don’t make good on those things it’s no big deal because it was just a passing thought. Having said that, I think one thing we can all do is be better prepared for emergencies.

Anyone who spends any amount of time in the outdoors knows how critical a basic survival kit can be, and an essential part of any angler’s survival kit is, of course, Toilet Paper.  Outdoor adventurers understand that when nature calls there’s nothing that can be done to ward off the need to lighten one’s load. And while it may be perhaps an inconvenience, laying cable in the woods is not the end of the world, though it may seem so should one run short on TP while engaged in the act. Therefore it’s always sound practice to ration the supply. However, one need not despair should they find themselves running low.

This critical information won’t be found in any Boy Scout handbook, nor will it help if you find yourself up Shit Creek without a paddle, but thanks to an old family tip passed along to me by my grandfather there’s no need to panic when you find yourself with nothing left butt a single piece of TP. That’s right: a single square can save the day if you simply follow these easy step-by-step instructions:

Step #1

1. Square One: your last piece of TP.

Step #2

2. Fold the square in half.

Step #3

3. Fold once more in half. Be careful to note the center corner of the folded edges.

Step #4

4. Having carefully noted the center of the folded edges, tear off a very small piece of the TP. Do not tear off too much!

Step #5

5. Unfold the TP. Set aside the small piece you just tore off. Do not discard the small piece.

Step #6

6. Select the hand with the best dexterity. Insert middle finger gently through the hole in TP. Use only the middle finger.

Step #7

7. Insert finger. Wipe.

Step #8

8. Carefully slide TP upwards (use your other hand for good measure), pinching the TP tightly to middle finger so it cleans as it is lifted. Take your time – be very thorough. Properly disgard of the TP according to backcountry rules for personal waste.

Step #9

9. Use the little piece you tore off earlier (and hopefully saved) to clean under the fingernail on the middle finger. Again, discard of properly.

Step #10

10. Resume fishing.

Happy New Year!

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