Travelin' To The North Country - Photo Essay, Part 2

Shades of Gray

You're on the way to the river.  Late, and still feeling the after effects of an unmentionable amount of microbews and bourbon from the night before.  It's comfortably cool - a still, overcast, mid-40 degree day.  If the sun pokes out through the clouds then the stoneflies and midges you seek will make their afternoon appearance.  Your headache subsides at the thought.

After a quick stop at the fly shop for some 6x (that you know you have a half dozen spools of somewhere, but naturally you can't find them today), you're on the final approach to the river.  In the shop when you stated your intentions, eyebrows went a little higher than normal.  Asking the question that the boys wanted to ask themselves, but were too polite too: "you're headed out today?"  Perhaps out of pity the guys at the shop have thrown you a subtle tip, they mentioned that they have been fishing a different section of stream, farther downstream than you've ever been.  As you get back into your truck, you chart a new course to this unknown destination.  You drive over the stream - but the quick glance down is a tease.  You were hoping for some unexplainable surge of hope, a shot of adrenaline.  It looks nondescript, sterile, and desolate, leaving you wanting.  As you pull into the dirt lot, you notice that the temperature has dropped, and you remember that the boys in the fly shop had mentioned snow.  As you sit down on your tailgate to slide your waders on you notice dark specks on the dirt, apparently appearing out of nowhere.  Thickening overcast and cold drizzle - kiss the hatches you'd hoped for goodbye.

As you walk the path, the woods are barren.  Nothing moves, not the rocks, the trees, or even a squirrel or a bird.  Earth tones of grey, brown, tan show no signs of life.  The drizzle is steadier now, not yet a rain, but each drop stings as hits your bare hands.  You realize that your chances of success are slim, and as the drizzle continues and the temperature falls, they only get slimmer.  As you step in the water, a glance upstream and downstream yields you no new information.  The water looks good, but lifeless.

You've fished for a couple hours now with nothing to show, but for one half-hearted, reluctant follow by an ultimately non-committal fish.  The drizzle has mixed with snow now, and all of your exposed skin is screaming with each wind gust reminding you that no one should be outside on a day like today.  The dampness has seeped through layers of goretex and fleece and is now gnawing at your body.  Conditons haven't gotten any better, and you begin to lose faith, mentally preparing yourself for the blow to your confidence that will ultimately come with a good, old fashioned skunking.  You grit your teeth and do your best anyway - to simultaneously be relentless, yet patient.  The river isn't going to give anything away today; success, if there is to be any, must be earned.

You've made it down to a good looking run, telling yourself that there has to be a hungry fish in there.  You ignore the fact that this is the eighth or ninth time you've comforted yourself with that thought.  You tie on a different midge with as much confidence that you can muster at this point.  You've made a handful of drifts, but this one is different.  Your indicator twitches, then slows inconclusively.  You sweep your rod downstream, but your sluggishness betrays your belief that this is probably just a boulder.  Your line is tight now - a wiggle, there is life on the other end.

You're fishing with renewed energy now, even though wind and cold are making their presence known.  Casting better, mending more precisely, and striking on any "bobber anomalies" with more crispness and fervor.  Where lush grass stood months ago, now snow accumulates on top of the mud.  

Another drift along the deep inside of this good looking run.  Your bobber drops, your rod strikes, and a flash reveals the trout that ate your fly.

 Another fish on the same midge pattern.  You're can't help but feel like you're on to something - that the vault that has been sealed shut all day has finally opened a crack.  You watch the trout swim away, but this time you reach for a different tool lying on the bank.  

It's late afternoon now, the temperature has plummeted.  The sky is filled with big flakes, but one travels horizontally.  You cast towards the far bank, landing your gaudy fly next to every boulder, limb, or pit in the stream bed.  The action is fast and furious, trout after trout streaks out of it's lie to give chase.  Each fish is a puzzle, and triggering a strike requires the pieces to be arranged correctly.  Some eat, others don't.

The darkness from the cloudy sky and snow is replaced by failing light.  You make one last, long cast and start to reel your line in but a shape follows it.  You strip faster and the shape keeps pace.  It's close now, and you see that its a big brown.  You've run out of line to strip, so you jig the rod tip, fluttering your streamer in the current.  The trout is still there, but you know the window of opportunity to get him to eat is down to seconds.  In a last ditch effort, you give the fly slack.  As it dives down behind him, he is filled with rage, and strikes with reckless abandon.  You strike back, and after a brief but furious fight, he's yours.

It's dark now, and your day is over.  You're out of your waders, and the cold stinging of your face and hands is replaced by the tingling of feeling returning.  With the heat on high, you're on the way home after experiencing unlikely success.  The snow comes down harder.

"Have you ever shot one of these things before?"

Couldn't resist an opportunity to reference the great Vince Vaughn. We like to keep things interesting around here and as far as I'm concerned, bear hunting is about as interesting as it gets. Here's a little anecdote from our buddy Jeff detailing his latest conquest. Well done mate!

"I got the chance to skip out of the jungle for the second straight year for the opening of the Pennsylvania bear season. My dad, uncle and I made the trek to north central PA, Ralston to be exact, to a hunting cabin out of cell range and arguably back in time. Bear season started at sun up Saturday November 19^th. There were favorable reports of bears frequenting a corn field in the

valley between route 14 and a creek. I was fortunate to be a “watcher” as opposed to being a driver. My dad was also watcher, while my uncle and now myself will forever be drivers. My uncle got his first bear out of this same cornfield 4 years back and we all knew this was our best chance at seeing and harvesting a bear.

We had 25 guys in our hunting party and we left the cabin around 6:15 to head down to the corn field. We divided up the drivers and walkers and ventured out to our positions. We were all in agreement that the closer you are to the corner of the field the better opportunity you will have. My dad stopped at a spot that was a bit off the cornfield edge but if a bear happened to get through it surly would have been his. I stopped next and looked around for the best view of edge of the field. I saw a berm that backed up to the creek. I figured I would have a better angle shot and might be able to see more from that position despite being about 50 or 60 yards from the corn.

The drive started and I could see off in the distance the bright orange vests marching into the corn. They were still 2000 yards away. There was a guy positioned on the corner of the cornfield to my right, my position and his were probably the best for this particular drive. I saw him kneeling down at the start of the drive and kept an eye on him because I couldn’t hear anything with the creek behind me. I was using him as my ears because he would hear anything coming through the corn and probably stand up to get ready. As it were about five minutes into the drive I saw Louis stand up and get ready. My heart started pounding and the adrenaline kicked in. Not two minutes after Louis stood up I saw a doe at a full sprit out of the corn coming in my direction. The drop off behind me was about 20-25 feet down to the creek and the doe didn’t seem to care as she ran within 5 yards of my and jumped into the creek. I actually wanted to see if she had committed suicide but knew that the next few moments the corn could light up with bears.

I started to see the orange vest about 300 yards into the corn and seconds after that I saw what initially looked like a giant black rabbit angling from my right to left out of the corn. My gun was up and off safe but I didn’t have a clear shot at the bear. I was trying to follow through the scope to an open area. Almost simultaneously Louis and I shot and the bear went right down. Now my heart was pounding even more. I kept the scope on the bear and waited. I suppose I learned my lesson with my first deer. With that a second bear appeared in my scope running out of the corn angling from my left to right. I so wanted to follow that bear with the scope and take a shot but stayed on the original bear. Louis took a shot at the second bear and it went right down. With his shot, the original bear jumped up and paused obviously confused. Thankfully I was still right on him with the crosshairs and shot. After the shot he doubled back and ran into the corn the same way he had come out. My dad yells out, “hey get ready there are bears around.” To which I responded, “I know, I’m shooting at them.” I was mildly rattled because I thought I was right on with my second shot. It began to sound like the 4th of July after my dad yelled over and there must have been 15 to 20 shots fired in a two minute period.

Once the shooting stopped I popped two more shells into the chamber and starting down off the berm toward the direction that I had shot. I got to the opening where the bear was standing and there was a considerable amount of blood. I knew I had hit him at that point. Louis was next to his bear so I walked over to congratulate him. As the drivers finished a guy came out of the corn and said, “who ever hit a bear out here I finished it off in the corn about 50 yards in.” I knew that had to be mine. I waited for my dad and Uncle Jim to walk over to my bear. He had gone about 75 yards into the corn and was laying there. I remember seeing the jet black coat of the bear and thinking, “holy shit, that’s mine.”

After some pictures my uncle Jim and I dragged the bear to the edge of the cornfield. Put it this way, I can’t only imagine dragging a 400 lb bear anymore than 5 yards. My bear was 180 pound bruin and we battled to get him to the edge of the corn 40 yards away. We dressed it and then had to wait for Robbie to pull around with his truck. In the meantime I ran back to the berm to count out the yardage of the shot and to find a spent shell. I was successful on both fronts. The shot was roughly 70 yards and I found one of the two shells. The group got four bears including one that was 460 lbs. It was incredible to see how fast the hunt took, 25 minutes, 20 shots and 4 bruins.

We hunted out the rest of the day and saw one other bear. We had Sunday off and went back to the cornfield for a second round on Monday which produced another bruin. Five bruins in all over the 2 days we hunted. The bear was hit three times, once in the back left which was probably the first shot that just put the bear down, then in the left shoulder when I was aiming and then where the guy finished him off. I’m glad I was patient with the bear and stuck with the original one. I decided to get a bear rug made along with the skull. I’m hoping to get the goods back by next bear season."

Travelin' To The North Country - Photo Essay, Part 1

Fly Vines

Against my better judgement I clicked through on a Facebook ad the other night, but was pleasantly surprised at what I found. Flyvines is a company out of Missoula, MT that is recycling old fly lines and turning them into functional accessories for fly fishers - bracelets, lanyards, and croakie-style sunglass retainers. I think it's a great idea and ordered a few for myself. Check them out here and support your fellow fly anglers!