tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47861684656636299552024-03-28T23:29:54.364-04:00DUDEWATERWhat are you fishing for?Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.comBlogger301125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-72893522526998790992023-02-08T15:40:00.004-05:002023-02-08T15:42:26.476-05:00Wild Wondering<p> <span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">For all the time being stolen from us these days, I still find myself with plenty of time to wonder.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">Once upon a time I obsessed myself with the semantics of my environment; Native vs. wild vs. invasive – words with simple definitions but complex meanings. I came to see the world before me as a poorly contrived concoction. The more I saw, the more I longed for what once had been – Nature left to its own devices for millennia. It seemed impossible to imagine. I could only wonder.<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">I drive and walk and fly and roll on paths and corridors unimaginable to generations before. Bridges and towers, standing tall in the heavy footprint of man, mark the waypoints of my physical and mental landscape. Now and then I remove myself to woods and waters, but even what we call “getting back to nature” surely would feel foreign in the context of native history. Trees and plants and fish and birds brought here as comforts of home for those far from it. Sadly, I could not tell you which plants and animals are native and which are not. Knowing might help me imagine, but it wouldn’t keep me from wondering.<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 0px; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /><u></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 0px; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-top: 0in; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">I learned just the other day that many common earthworms are non-native to our forests. Invasive, nutrient-sucking aliens denuding entire wooded landscapes. I wonder, what came before the worms? What fish would we have angled for in the absence of our preferred bait? Others have asked similar questions. In his work<span class="m_-8839536355843534605apple-converted-space"> </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.mqup.ca/once-and-future-great-lakes-country--the-products-9780773543881.php&source=gmail&ust=1675973685989000&usg=AOvVaw1MIIQmkF5U1s0L-rbq7Vpm" href="http://www.mqup.ca/once-and-future-great-lakes-country--the-products-9780773543881.php" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank"><em><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;">The Once and Future Great Lakes Country</span></em><span style="color: black;">, John L. Riley</span></a><span class="m_-8839536355843534605apple-converted-space"> </span>adds some context to the world we now see before us:<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">“What happens when you remove most (and in some cases all) of the dominant fauna – the passenger pigeon, turkey, Canada goose, trumpeter swan, spruce grouse, prairie chicken, bear, elk, moose, bison, lynx, cougar, raptors, snakes, whitefish, Atlantic salmon, lake trout, and ciscoes – from the greatest temperate freshwater landscape in the world over less than two centuries? And then simultaneously reduce to life-support levels the numbers of most other native vertebrates? What happens when you remove so many species in such numbers? The result is what we have around us today.”<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">Every answer unearths more questions.<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">I wonder deeply about the historical abundance described in Riley’s work. Walking into the woods, would I have been overwhelmed by life? What would my beloved rivers have looked like before they were dredged and channelized and diverted and dammed? What trees would’ve sheltered their water? What fish would’ve spawned in their currents? What predators would’ve wandered their banks? Fossil records and museums provide answers to these questions, but my curiosity is hardly satisfied. I long to witness this lost world and, perhaps foolishly I mourn for its loss.<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">I wonder if my college philosophy professor was right, that the earth doesn’t care about any of this, places no judgement on what should or could or would’ve been. That it will reclaim itself, for better or worse, in spite of our efforts. I am hardly consoled. I cannot stop the wondering.<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">In<span class="m_-8839536355843534605apple-converted-space"> </span><em>The Once and Future Great Lakes Country</em><span class="m_-8839536355843534605apple-converted-space"> </span>Riley assures us that, even in the advent of this reclamation a new chapter will be born:<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">“An unavoidable corollary of Natural Selection is that nature never repeats itself. Indeed, Nature cannot repeat itself. Some may find this unsettling but, given the near total change this place has witnessed, and will again, equally as many should find in it comfort, and a new respect and humility.”<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">I wonder about this. Is it possible, given the current state of the world, for one to truly know wild?<u></u><u></u></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="color: black; font-family: motor, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.4pt;">I wonder, if by calculated correction or irreverent indifference, we might know again.</span></p>Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-12435661647653600442015-02-01T15:28:00.000-05:002015-02-01T15:28:12.453-05:00A Moment Lost
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The dashboard thermometer ticks 30 as I pull into the
sparsely occupied lot. It’s mid January and the streaks of hazy golden light
filtering through a low cloud ceiling are the first signs of sun in recent
memory. I throw the shifter into park and soak up the illusory warmth the rays
provide, scanning the lot for signs of other anglers; 4WD vehicles, fishing
stickers, spare rods, or sunglasses hanging from rearview mirrors. Selfishly, I
want this river to myself today. If there’s one thing you can hope for and
reasonably expect to get out of winter steelheading, it’s a little peace and
quiet. Judging by the looks of the half dozen cars in the lot, I may get my
wish.</div>
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There are certain advantages afforded by fishing your home
water, particularly in winter. Moving a fish to the fly in 34-degree water
requires near perfect presentation and a certain degree of intimacy with one’s
surroundings. The precise coordinates of the bucket, the presence of a submerged
boulder, the length and angles of the shelf… this knowledge can all make the
difference. Unfortunately, this is not my home water. It is liquid, though, and
there are steelhead in it, and that’s about all I can ask for given current
circumstances.</div>
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I break some shelf ice loose to make room for an anchor, and begin working down the run. The pace of winter fishing with the swung fly allows one
plenty of time to contemplate their pursuit. As I take another step downstream,
the increasing pressure of waist-deep flow forces ice-cold H<span style="font-size: 8.0pt;">2</span>O through the pinhole leak in my waders and down my leg, & I think to myself, Why am I doing this? Yes, it’s
nice to be out and the snowflakes are awfully pretty and the peace and quiet is
more than welcome. But the truth is, I’m hunting for a moment; Win the
moment and satisfy a certain primal urge that could keep me sane for the next 6 weeks of winter. Miss an opportunity, and we're going home hungry.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1-i-j_QDzkw/VM6IDEMTpBI/AAAAAAAAGtc/igORn0ZcCgw/s1600/IMG_1361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1-i-j_QDzkw/VM6IDEMTpBI/AAAAAAAAGtc/igORn0ZcCgw/s1600/IMG_1361.JPG" height="240" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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As my fly turns the corner at the bottom of another long
tailout I’ve still nothing to show for my efforts. The afternoon light is just
beginning to fall. This could be a good thing or a bad thing. My time is
running out and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore that leak in my
waders. Even the dog looks cold. But the next run looks too good to turn back
now.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l4-n2D_Z7rQ/VM6J2E2OUyI/AAAAAAAAGtk/77vmqvvhmCY/s1600/IMG_1695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l4-n2D_Z7rQ/VM6J2E2OUyI/AAAAAAAAGtk/77vmqvvhmCY/s1600/IMG_1695.jpg" height="320" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
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After hours of practice my off-shoulder stoke is rhythmic
and fluid, the velocity of the cast helping to pull frozen fly line through
ice-choked guides. An upstream mend and a lift of the rod allow the heavy tip
to bury itself in the thick winter water. As I lower the rod into the swing the
fly comes under tension and begins to swim. In time it straightens below me, I
strip in and repeat the process until I achieve the perfect presentation. I
know it is the perfect presentation because the ensuing strike is savage,
jarring line off the water. But I am frozen in place, unable to process fast
enough to seize the moment. The line goes slack – I let it hang, hoping for a
second chance & trying to tease the fish into a game of cat and mouse.
Nothing. I take a few steps upstream and change flies in a frenzy. My cast is
sloppy now, the presentation anything but perfect. A dozen more casts go
untouched.</div>
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I take up loose line and turn my back on the run to look on
the dog. He hasn’t left his perch on the bank throughout the whole ordeal. He
gives me a look and turns from the river too, as if to acknowledge what I already know: we’re going
home hungry.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com274tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-63496324482911725932015-01-08T22:54:00.000-05:002015-01-08T22:54:17.955-05:00Where We've Been - Part I <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Part I: </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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It's cold outside - the mercury says single digits. It's hard to believe that one year ago today I was standing on the bow of a flats skiff. Thanks to a cell phone camera any of us are able to look back and see exactly where we were, and when. But, not surprisingly, the photos seldom tell the whole story. Below are some of the pictures of my past year on the water - the exotic destinations, breathtaking views, and, of course, the big fish. They're all great. Missing, in large part anyway, are shots of the broken rods, the flies stuck in trees, road burn and sunburn, mosquito bites, bad casts, mid-river snags, and the fishless days. I had them all in 2014 - and I think that's why it was such a great year. </div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>January 5th - January 13th</b></div>
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<b>South Andros, Bahamas</b></div>
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With a polar vortex looming, I boarded a plane for Nassau - heading south to the marls and bights of South Andros. Hours later, toes in the sand, I watched the sun rise over the calmest flat I've ever seen. Sparkling white sand flats, hidden mangrove creeks, remote cays - every piece of water seemed to hold bonefish. After just one week and more Kaliks than I care to count, I wasn't ready to leave. </div>
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<b>February 15th - February 17th</b><br />
<b>The mountains of eastern Tennessee</b></div>
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Fresh on the heels of a winter storm that brought snow as south as Louisiana, it was time to go. A case of post-Bahamas cabin fever and a warm spell in the forecast were all the inspiration we needed.</div>
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Truth be told, I'd never really considered the fact that the South had any trout fishing. I'd heard the whispers - even from a few close friends - but still couldn't get over the mental hurdle that Nascar country, the BBQ belt, and SEC land, actually had water that held trout. Bill Dance, rubber worms, john boats, and bucketmouth bass made a lot more sense. Turns out the forecast was wrong - snow fell, but fish rose every day as one of the best BWO hatches I've ever seen came on like clockwork each afternoon. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XEpigxJt8D8/U8MfuRclL-I/AAAAAAAAEc8/4LtyV10ifks/s1600/IMG_5717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XEpigxJt8D8/U8MfuRclL-I/AAAAAAAAEc8/4LtyV10ifks/s1600/IMG_5717.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>March 1st</b></div>
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<b>Somewhere in Appalachia</b></div>
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I got the last minute phone call late the night before. <br />
<br />
<i>"Hey man - there's an extra spot in the boat. You in?" </i><br />
<br />
An invitation to a mid-winter unicorn hunt is never an easy sell, but as the guy that dishes out the most shit when someone <i>chooses</i> not to go on a fishing trip - I had no choice but to say yes. The 4am alarm came early, but a few hours later I had the best seat in the house to watch a monster musky ravage a fly that henceforth shall be known as the "Roto Ruter."</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-thGUfzY1vfU/U8Mf1Cf_L4I/AAAAAAAAEdc/byTYDgrUO3Q/s1600/IMG_6014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-thGUfzY1vfU/U8Mf1Cf_L4I/AAAAAAAAEdc/byTYDgrUO3Q/s1600/IMG_6014.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>March 10th - March 18th</b></div>
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<b>Isla Holbox, Mexico. </b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Heading south to dodge the snow again, the annual Mexican tarpon tradition continued. The island and the fish have somehow withstood the test of the time - and upon arrival you're transplanted to another world far, far away from the one you left behind.<br />
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From my Dad's first tarpon on the fly, to stunning sunsets that would impress even <i>Captain</i> Jack Sparrow, or heading out with Sandflea to discover new hidden mangrove lakes with never-been-fished-to 'poon, the 2014 Holbox installment was one I won't soon forget. </div>
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<b>April 12th and 13th</b></div>
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<b>The mountains of western Maryland</b></div>
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As trees started to bud, JD and I took notice. With a few "warmer" nights in the forecast we packed the truck and headed to the woods. The morning chill and bare hillsides suggested that we were early - that perhaps our enthusiasm had gotten the best of us. In a sport where timing is so crucial, it looked like ours was off just enough for it to matter.<br />
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But when the first fish slowly rose to a big foam dry fly, it was clear to both JD and I that spring had finally arrived, and the longest winter we could remember was finally over. After months of dragging split shot and slinging heavy streamers, I was looking forward to being, as John Geirach would say, a seasonal purist. </div>
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<b>April 25th, 26th, and 27th </b></div>
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<b>Penn's Creek, Pennsylvania.</b></div>
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After a long hike in with all our gear, we stumbled upon camp buried under years of leaves. Throughout my high school and college years a trip to Penn's had been an annual ordeal, but with jobs, families, and life growing bigger every year, our ragged band hadn't made a trip in half a decade. Nonetheless, JD and I found exactly what we'd hoped for - the creek still ran cold and clean, mayflies were hatching, and the trout were happy. We drank too much whiskey in camp, and although the next morning's after effects were worse than they were when I was younger, the takeaway from the weekend was simple: thankfully, some things never change.</div>
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<b>June 29th and 30th</b></div>
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<b>The mountains of western Maryland.</b></div>
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June came and it was time for the boys weekend. Along with the weather, the fishing was really coming along - but Jimmy had just become a father, JD was overseas, and Alex suffered a blowout on his way down in the Big O. Despite being shorthanded, Jeff, Stu, and I pressed on - with the whoop factor (enthusiasm for drinking) climbing as we raced towards the mountains. The rest is a little hazy - but I don't remember anyone saying they wanted to party small time. I can't wait for this weekend again this year - and my fingers are crossed for the full squad. </div>
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<b>August 7th - 10th</b></div>
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<b>West Branch of the Delaware - Hancock, New York.</b></div>
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August rolled around, and with the temperature seemingly reaching a local maxima, Ben and I decided to get out of town. I reached out to a few friends about the fishing on a few of our east coast favorites; amidst the "so-so's", and "it's alright" one text stood out: "Dude, get here." We hit the road the next morning.</div>
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With the late spring in the Catskills, every hatch was behind schedule. Mid-August, a time when the river's surface should be barren, turned out to have some of the best Sulphur hatches of the year. Each night as the sun went down, every fish in the river was looking up. They were snotty and unforgiving, but we managed to get a few.</div>
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<b>September</b></div>
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<b>Wyoming.</b></div>
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I think the first call came in March; Clark left a voicemail. </div>
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<i>"Hey BAM - it's...Clark. Hope-yer-doin-well-buddy. So it looks like I've got a group of 16 guys coming in for a week in September, and I'm going to need some help..."</i></div>
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<i> </i>I never thought it would happen - but six months later, on a Monday morning I was hurtling westbound in a Boeing 727 destined for the Rockies. The timing couldn't have been better - I'd left my job the Friday before, and with my start date for my next career move not until the end of the month, I had three weeks of freedom ahead. Nothing to do but guide my old stomping grounds, and of course, fish.<br />
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As I pulled out of the Billings airport and glanced at the weather I saw snow, wind, rain, and sun. It was fall in Wyoming - and the forecast couldn't have been more fitting. Homecoming was on...</div>
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I read somewhere that fall isn't a season - it's just the time of year when seasons change. After spending three weeks with family, friends, gorgeous ranches, and trout - I had five-ish hours in the air and one couple hour layover to change myself. The reality was that I was heading back; it was alright, though. I'd hit Wyoming at it's peak - for the precious few weeks of fall. Thanks to air travel, a few thousand miles of distance, and a drop closer to sea level I was looking forward to a shot at hitting my favorite season again back home. </div>
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Part II - coming soon. </div>
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Follow the dudes on Instagram - @bambam3229 @jlampros2</div>
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Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-56787746501352481332015-01-06T22:59:00.000-05:002015-01-07T20:06:53.214-05:00Uplift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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A look back at 2014</div>
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Part II</div>
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I probably could've chosen a better time to change careers but, after almost five years behind the counter I was ready, desperate even, for something new. By late May I'd sold my last fly rod, walked away from a full-time career in the fly fishing industry and shifted gears. Or maybe more accurately, changed vehicles altogether. In hindsight, it was the right move given my priorities, but that didn't make the move any less dramatic at the time. Becky was eight months pregnant, due in late June. It seemed like I'd just barely gotten my feet under me when the doctors started talking about an induction. Honestly, I'd hoped the kid would've given me a little more time, but I didn't really have a say in the matter.</div>
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To his credit, in true Lampros fashion he was in no hurry. The induction was scheduled for the week after our due date, and even 36 hours post induction, he still wasn't ready and it was on to the operating room. The scariest moments of my life eventually became the happiest, and although I was physically unable to speak from the shock when I finally laid eyes on him, the nurses graciously handed me the forceps and let me pull the hook. </div>
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Henry James Lampros entered the world as a bonafide Fish Ohio, checking in at 8 pounds even, 21" long and immediately flipping my world on it's head. The plates had finally collided, old priorities displaced by new, a landscape changed forever. As the adrenaline wore off towards the end of that mostly sleepless first week things began to reach a stasis. Becky was coping remarkably well for having just had major surgery, and my swaddling game was dialed. Somewhere along the line it dawned on me that this had been, undoubtedly, the longest I had ever gone without thinking about fishing (had he been born during steelhead season I can't say for sure that that would've been the case). I finally looked at my wife, gulped hard and mustered up the courage to pop the question. It must have been the pain meds, because she said yes.</div>
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Oddly enough, that first fish following the birth of my son reamins one of my most memorable. The moment was surrounded by an inexplicable sense of serentiy for an experience I'd had so many times before. Part of it, no doubt, was the relief of being able to rest my mind after five exhausting days. But more than anything it was the simple joy of delivering a cast to a likely spot and watching that perfectly predictable fish gulp it down. There were no attachments, no angst, no expectations. As much as it clearly meant to my life, fishing was no longer life or death.</div>
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Meanwhile my relationship with muskie continued to progress towards hot and heavy. There'd been a lot of flirting throughout the early summer and even a few memorable backseat encounters. On a late August afternoon, when a perfectly proportioned St. Clair hottie T-boned my fly like a friggin' rocket ship, I was ready to elope.</div>
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With a newborn in the house it became imperative to utilize every possible window of opportunity to get on the water. When that window happened to offer a view of sunrise over the city and a couple twothree white bass, it was hard to find anything to complain about. </div>
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Hammerin' Hank was growing like a weed, and Mid September seemed about the right time to start showing him the proper steelhead hold.</div>
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With the fall run still on the horizon, I took advantage of a long overdue opportunity to share the boat with <i>my </i>old man. The fishing was just a nice bonus. </div>
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Fall brought on the leaves and the first chromer of the year, better late than never. </div>
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Fall also seemed the right time for that romantic muskie get-away I'd been planning. I felt like we were really starting to get to know each other, and I'd put together the epic northwoods road trip. All the elements were in place - five days of nothing but slinging and strippin'. I was gonna get my 50 on the fly.</div>
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I don't care what you hear from the permit freaks: no fish says "<i>Fuck you</i>" with more sass than a muskie. They possess a truly remarkable ability to shatter an anglers spirit and leave him questioning everything. I suppose in that sense, the analogy to the human female holds up pretty well. If nothing else, the scenery on the empty-handed drive home made the medicine just a little easier to swallow. </div>
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Thankfully, we're blessed to have a pretty remarkable fishery so close to home. The kind of fishery that, if you hit it just right, can provide a day on the water that makes it feel like you're a long way <i>from home. </i>I needed that day and thankfully, I got it. </div>
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Whether guiding or fishing, I also had plenty of the more typical days when a single fish felt like a major accomplishment.</div>
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Uplift is a visible phenomenon, permanent in as much as anything of the earth can be. Layers shift, old overtakes new and remains there until some other force comes in and rearranges things again. We can look up at the layers and wonder what may have happened; We can't go back and change it.<br />
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I've never been more excited to write next year's review.</div>
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Previous years in review:</div>
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<a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2014/01/dead-metaphors-look-ahead-to-2014.html" target="_blank">2013</a></div>
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<a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2013/01/for-grace-or-glory-anglers-review-of.html" target="_blank">2012</a></div>
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<a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2011/12/it-was-season-of-light-it-was-season-of.html" target="_blank">2011</a></div>
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<a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2011/01/out-with-old.html" target="_blank">2010</a></div>
Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-85642014460752357782015-01-06T07:59:00.001-05:002015-01-06T08:07:47.553-05:00Deep Time <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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A look back at 2014</div>
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Part I</div>
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Every great fishery has a signature backdrop. These are the
arenas and the stadiums, the sets before which the drama of our sport unfolds. On
Wyoming’s Snake it is the towering Tetons. The Deschutes scours the Oregon high
desert, the Pere Marquette sneaks through Michigan’s northwoods, the steelhead
rivers of the PNW gush below the auspices of coastal rainforest. My home water,
while perhaps not of the same caliber as the aforementioned, has a backdrop
too. Shale walls, formed over millions of years by compacted sediment,
decorated by gravity-defying hemlocks, provide a privacy curtain from the
bustling urban world on the other side.</div>
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The walls tell the story of Deep Time, a concept of geologic
history so awesome in magnitude that humans can only relate to it in theory.
Like other earthen formations, they capture moments - tectonic and
atmospheric events that shaped the world as we know it today. Caves, crevasses, tilts and twists add punctation to the tales. Bound by the
fleeting timeline of a human lifecycle, we view them as snapshots, or rather a
series of snapshots. On a slow day of fishing one might pause to look up, study the layers, and wonder about a world so different from the one we
know that we can’t even begin to place ourselves in it. Individual layers are,
at every moment, in the process of being added and deleted. Only after millions
of years do the stories begin to flow together.</div>
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The breakneck speed of the modern world seems to shatter any
notion of Deep Time. It is near impossible to remove ourselves from the moment
long enough to observe the primary storylines unfolding around us. Even so, around
this time each year I make an effort to look up at the walls and read the stories, a look at my own personal construct of Deep Time.</div>
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One of the great phenomenon of air travel is the ability to fast forward half a calendar year in climate, hopscotching hemispheres in a half-days flight. The shock of breathing hot, heavy air with those first steps onto the runway always rattles me. Saddling up to a sea-side watering hole has proven a good first step for dealing with this shock. Taking the bow of a flats boat is the real remedy, though. In late January I got my fill of both for the better part of a week in Belize, <a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2014/02/como-la-muerte.html" target="_blank">extending my stay as long as possible</a> before making a reluctant return.</div>
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I didn't even log a full nights sleep in my own bed before I was on the road again with rods in tow. Even at the time, it seemed maniacal: A mid-winter Esox hunt with minimal advance recon. But then if there's one thing I've learned about pursuing muskellunge on the fly, it's that a certain degree of lunacy is a pre-requisite for success. Like all memorable fishing trips <a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2014/02/teetering-on-delirium.html" target="_blank">this one was punctuated by highs and lows</a>, and looking back on it, a couple of 40-inchers make the whole thing seem only slightly less absurd.<br />
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I don't know if such a thing as "early spring" still exists in our part of the world. The prevailing seasonal sequence anymore seems to be a sudden shift from late winter to late spring. This only added to the urgency with which I fished during the months of March and April. With the birth of our first child looming I soaked up all the water I could before trees turned green.</div>
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May and early June came on in earnest and delivered on some of the anglers great expectations for the season: <a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-formula-trip-report.html" target="_blank">rising trout </a>and <a href="http://dudewater.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-pike-curse.html" target="_blank">hungry smallmouths</a>. I visited some of my favorite waters in search of both before fully embracing the warm water season. </div>
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The days grew longer and my love-hate relationship with toothy swimmers ebbed, temporarily, towards love.</div>
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As I made the turn on 2014, on an otherwise ordinary outing at an ordinary summer haunt, I released an ordinary bass. I reeled up and headed back to the car, leaving what theretofore had been my ordinary life behind and capping the stratum of my pre-paternal angling career. For the first time in a long time, fishing was about to take a back seat.</div>
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Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-27902120106878306572014-10-14T16:00:00.001-04:002014-10-14T16:00:46.058-04:00Sunday Morning<div style="text-align: center;">
The sting of the cold water seeping into my boot momentarily distracts me from my splitting headache - courtesy of a Saturday Oktoberfest. There's frost on the ground and my breath hits the cold air and creates a cloud that floats downriver. I probably should have worn waders, but it's too late now. It's early, and the sun is just starting to hit the water. The rays aren't as warm as they were months ago, but still bring welcome relief from the bite of the Sunday October morning.</div>
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The river is low, a far cry from the bank-to-bank flow I've fished most of the year. Rocks, logs, stumps and snags typically hidden underneath the surface are now visible - like old scars that are hardly ever seen. Fast runs and pools are now glass - and every disturbance is magnified tenfold, like the water itself is fragile. With its hair down the stream looks tired and vulnerable, ready for a winter's rest - but at the same time in its bear-it-all simplicity the river is the prettiest its been all year. </div>
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After the air warms things finally start to happen. With a slight bump in the water temperature hunger overwhelms caution and the fish begin to feed. Each rise is subtle, yet deliberate, as the fish delicately pluck something invisible off water's surface. Whatever they're eating, I can't see it. After rummaging through my pack I end up tying on the same beetle pattern I've fished since June - a couple sizes smaller - hoping to luck into one last day of terrestrial fishing even though the season has long passed by. </div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Their colors are brilliant - the reds, yellows, and oranges mirror the hues on the hillsides of the river valley. In many ways the trout is a model of inefficiency; somehow, in its dull environment the fish manages to produce the most vivid colors anywhere along or in the river. A biologist will tell you that these colors exist to create a natural camouflage or attract better, fitter, more capable mates - but as an angler I can't help but think they're there for some other higher purpose. </span></div>
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The sun has dropped behind the trees, and the rises are more sporadic now. Shadow covers the river, but the light still left has a yellow, golden tinge to it - a strong sign of the season. With each passing minute the shadows grow longer, and a glance into the woods shows that daylight is waning. It'll be dark soon, but it's just perfect right now.</div>
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Follow the dudes on Instagram - @bambam3229 @jlampros2</div>
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Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-38006452654361742262014-09-24T21:02:00.001-04:002014-09-24T21:02:48.747-04:00Seasonable Weather<div style="text-align: center;">
Yesterday's drizzle turned to snow overnight. The landscape grows whiter by the minute, but the sticky mud on the trail is the color of tar and as slippery as ice. The dark outline of the path snakes its way up the ridge and into the clouds before it disappears out of view. I shoulder my pack and start across the field, taking a minute to look up at the walk ahead and the weather I'm headed towards. Winter typically comes early in this country, and this year is no exception. </div>
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A slight dip in the path and the old weathered sign signal the boundary of the national forest. It's a mile from the trailhead, but with the wind and rough trail the distance seems much longer - and I'm not even a fifth of the way there. The scarred and worn wood post marks familiar territory, though. The trail leads to a place that I've hiked, or been carried, since before I can remember - leading to a small gravel bar alongside the stream where the basalt valley momentarily widens before it pushes into the Yellowstone backcountry. Memories of family and sun playing through my mind seem more distant as I'm pushing through the mud and snow, but bring a tangible warmth nonetheless. </div>
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With a strong gust the ceiling drops and the snow intensifies. The pines, spruce, willows, aspens, and rock cliffs cause the wind to funnel and swirl, and each flake flutters and dives wildly as they fall from the sky. The snow that hits my face stings, but melts instantly as if it was never there. As the snow continues it accumulates on my shoulders, the top of my head, and on my pack - I'm damp and cold, but swift pace uphill is keeping me warm. The trail emerges from the tunnel of the woods onto a volcanic plateau; for a brief moment there's a view. It's indescribably beautiful - and I stop for a moment to take it in. But as the wind rips across the exposed causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up and my body to shudder, I decide not to linger for long. </div>
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Each step brings me higher in altitude, deeper into the mountains, and into colder, heavier air - but ever closer to where I'm going. Before long the trail bends to the left and dives down a scree slope where the stream draws close and I'm there. My pants are wet and caked with mud from the trail, but I slide on my waders anyway - lacing my boots and stringing my rod with a sense of urgency. Days are short this time of year in the mountains, and the clouds and snow are an ominous warning that there's even less time until night falls on this day. It's a long hike back to the car, and there's no time to waste. </div>
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Even with the water temperature plummeting, I tie on the tried and true, hoping to persuade a trout to come to the surface despite the blizzard. On the first cast a fish rises off the bottom; with a swift tail kick the trout accelerates - mouth open - and engulfs the fly in a display of naive wildness that can only happen in places like this. It's September in Wyoming, and the best things haven't changed. </div>
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Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-34798856330185644482014-06-09T22:35:00.000-04:002014-06-09T22:35:42.479-04:00The Pike Curse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
For almost five generations now, my mother's side of the family has had a cottage on the middle basin of Lake James, Indiana. My great grandfather was one of the first to build on the lake. Like most retreats in those days it was a quiet, wild, natural place. The shores were lined with hardwoods in all directions, dotted here and there by quaint cottages. Some of those cottages still stand today, and ours is one of them. </div>
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There were no speed boats or tubers or jet ski's or yachts in those days. But if the sun-bleached portraits that hung from the walls in our cottage during my youth were any indication, there were pike.... a lot of them. One photo in particular depicted my great grandfather and a fishing buddy hoisting a pair of three-footers in the side yard. The image is permanently burned into my memory. But each summer, no matter what I tried, where I looked or who I talked to, I couldn't catch a pike for the life of me. In fact, I was in my 20's before I even laid eyes on one. It was dead and floating. </div>
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Pike are supposed to be easy to catch. They're aggressive to their own detriment. Despite (or because of) their commitment to destroying anything that moves, in many freshwater fisheries they're considered more of a nuisance than a sport fish. Three-footers are not uncommon throughout most of their range, and four-footers are a real possibility in certain fisheries. For all this, and despite all my angling travels, I'd yet to encounter one.</div>
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I've continued to put in the time and effort to break the curse in recent years. A firm believer in the concept of fishing karma, I've tied the flies, done the exploring, and logged hundreds of cold, wind-torn, fishless March and April hours trying to find these water wolves. I've had not so much as a swirl to show for it.</div>
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Over Memorial Day weekend my pregnant bride and I made a trip up to the lake. Victor and I launched the kayak for the ritualistic early morning session. We took some nice greenies on poppers but saw no signs of <i>Esox Lucius</i>. </div>
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I had time off the following week to ply some big water a little closer to home. My buddy Mark and I had a great day, fishing in and out of a rolling fog that added a little edge to the morning. Despite it being one of the better mixed bag days that I've had (including perch, rock bass, carp on the flats, shots at bowfin, and of course the beloved bronzeback) the pike curse continued; a surprise two-footer came all the way to the net before biting me off.</div>
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The following weekend, however, brought about the long awaited opportunity to really hone in and target some teeth. Our buddy Nate had offered to give us the tour of some big water - Big, clear water with hungry post-spawn pike. As promised, he found them and the fish lived up to their reputation; When presented with a fly they quickly went into seek and destroy mode. The follows were exhilarating, the eats were savage, and I've got to say... it felt <i>really </i>good to break the pike curse. </div>
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I can only hope that the future of this story will play out something like the fortunes of the Red Sox after they put to rest the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curse_of_the_Bambino" target="_blank">curse of the bambino</a>. For now though I'm happy to have that monkey off my back and jonesing for that next <i>Esox</i> eat...Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-69590060336804387182014-06-04T00:18:00.000-04:002014-06-04T00:18:53.640-04:00The Formula - A Trip Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It was May. I was a soon-to-be high school graduate, and the smell of dew on the hemlocks was intoxicating. Or, was it the beer? Hard to say. It's the smell that I remember, though.</div>
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The hatch. The rise. The spinner fall. I'd never experienced any of it - only heard the lore, and the lore was glorious. For weeks the visions danced in my head: mayflies (3 tails, I'd been told) thick as fog, trout exploding from the depths to pluck them. Then a lull, during which one would spend time tending to camp, nymphing the pocket water or collecting thoughts on the bank. And finally as dusk settled the spinners would return, to be be greeted by sipping trout. This event would produce an evening rise that would outlast the fading light. Such was the formula for trout fishing.</div>
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When I got the chance to test this theory for the first time, it was one of the rare instances in my life when the play actually lived up to the review. After a campfire breakfast I stood awestruck on the banks of Penn's Creek as the sulphurs came to life, right on schedule, the trout responding in accordance. It was a beautiful thing - so beautiful that my friend had to restrain me from charging into the river to begin casting at said trout. It was just as I'd imagined.</div>
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Since that axis-altering episode, only a select few of my countless trout fishing forays have played to script. I've learned that predictability is the exception to the rule; There is the way it's <i>supposed to happen</i>, and the way it actually happens. Rarely do they overlap.</div>
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Now and again, though. Now, and again.</div>
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As anglers we live and dream for these moments. Fleeting proof of concept provides a unique pulse of adrenaline. Idealism and reality do overlap, stretching the imagination. The bugs come off on schedule, the trout take notice, fly selection is cut and dry and good drifts get eaten. When it comes to trout fishing, this is the promised land. When you chase this dream over and over again for many years, inevitably the accumulated success stories begin to outweigh the flops. In time, this formula becomes the way we think about trout fishing. It's a necessary coping mechanism to help us look past those fishless outings and look ahead to the next one. When we pass the torch to the next angler, we can't help but refer to the formula... and the wheel keeps on turning. </div>
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For the second straight season I organized a group of anglers to join me on the Delaware River via The West Branch Angler resort. We booked our week nearly a year in advance and kept our fingers crossed for some proof of concept. Having experienced the highs and lows of this fishery, I cautioned my anglers and tempered their expectations, emphasizing the word "opportunity" repeatedly. </div>
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The rains came just ahead of our scheduled departure, flashing the river to near flood stage. I assured my constituents that it was nothing to worry about and that, as promised, we would have our opportunities. For day one of our trip that meant pitching streamers on sinking lines. I tried to stress that on a river that hosts some of the biggest wild brown trout east of the Mississippi, this isn't necessarily a bad thing.</div>
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On the morning of day two with water levels receding, hope was in the air. Unfortunately for us, the bugs were not - at least not in numbers of consequence.</div>
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By Wednesday, the conditions had lined up in our favor. Overcast skies hung low over the Catskills, and water levels were approaching ideal. From the porch of our cabin the morning felt crisp, promising. The French pressed coffee was a particularly endorphin-rich blend, heightening the anticipation. Looking out at the pond in front of our cabin, a cloud of dark-bodied, three-tailed flies glistened over the water. As the cloud slowly began to dissipate, we watched the pond come to life. I'd never fished a spinner fall for bluegill before, but though we were mere steps away from the trout stream we'd driven six hours to fish, it was too much to resist. We spent more time than we should have picking off kamikaze panfish one by one before finally heading off to see if a similar scene was about to play out on the river.</div>
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For once, it happened like it was supposed to. A few leftover spinners produced a few heads, and a few well placed casts produced a few nice fish in the net. The bugs would really start to pop around 3, they'd told us, and for once they were right. The hatch and subsequent spinner fall brought the river to a boil and produced some of the most exciting dry fly fishing I've experienced in a long time.</div>
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At dinner that evening we learned that the rest of my party had shared a similar experience, and everyone was on cloud nine. Alex and I decided that it had been good enough to warrant testing our good fortune to squeeze in a short morning float on Thursday before making the long drive home. We were glad that we did.</div>
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It might be a while before I get to go trout fishing again. During the interim though, it won't be the thousands of fishless casts, or hucking heavy streamers on sinking lines, or watching a bobber in the drift that will keep my imagination busy. It will be the reflection of falling light glistening on a mayfly's wings. The sighted trout holding true to his line. The clockwork rhythm of a dimple on the far bank. The unfurling of the leader and the perfect presentation of the fly. The innocence of the rise, the betrayal of the set, the weight of life on the line... and the foolish sense of satisfaction that will bring me back again, and again.</div>
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<br />Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-19068777315303551622014-05-15T10:39:00.000-04:002014-05-15T10:39:51.880-04:00Long Time Comin'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I know I know - long overdue. For that matter, so was spring. It finally arrived, and so did the steelhead. At least, a few of them...</div>
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Those who've followed for a while know that I'm all about lessons learned from time on the water. In my ongoing ZenQuest, one aspect of being on the water I've come to appreciate more is fully accepting the cards your dealt, setting aside a longing for "more" or "better." I began adopting this approach to the change in seasons years ago, but have struggled with it during individual fishing episodes. I'd pace around at work all day watching my phone, waiting and wishing for perfect flows and perfect timing on the perfect river. Fretting over rain or a lack of it, calculating drive times and wake up calls and sunrise times to be in the perfect run at the perfect moment. And when it didn't work out <i>perfectly</i>, as it rarely does, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment.</div>
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As cliche as it sounds, this long-awaited spring has helped me appreciate the nuances of river life that are easily overlooked when cruising at speed down I-90 in the dark, searching for the perfect conditions. Setting aside last year's notes and preconceptions seems to add a little surprise to the otherwise average outing. Like all other facets of life, applying this ideology is a work in progress, but it's helped me better appreciate my days on the water this spring.</div>
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A couple weeks ago I had the opportunity to spend a long weekend in South Florida for a family wedding. Naturally I managed to mix in a day on the water and, as if to test my "Que sera, sera" theory, the wind blew 20 MPH for 8 hours and the tarpon were nowhere to be found. Chock it up to karma - it didn't damper an otherwise great weekend and our last get-away before the anticipated arrival of our little one, which also seems a long time comin' (especially if you ask my wife).</div>
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I'll be spending next week up on the West Branch of the Delaware for which I am currently tempering my excitement. In the meantime, the Lampros garage received the annual overhaul this week - steelhead rods were tubed, reels cleaned. New Warm-water sticks have been acquired, and old ones are rigged and racked. The menagerie of fly boxes, extra layers and empty beer cans that had filled my pack to capacity over the last few months have been cleaned and stored. Waders are hung, wading sandals pulled from the closet. Boat is cleaned, axles are greased. Flies are tied. Plans are being made, floats are being hashed out. We're sticking with a theme of "change" this year - it's been a long time comin'.</div>
<br />Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-22907751126402199592014-02-20T00:22:00.000-05:002015-01-05T22:43:18.670-05:00Delirium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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“We’ll plan to be at your house around three.”</div>
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My internal computer is running on reserve battery. The
statement doesn’t fully register.</div>
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“… A.M.?”</div>
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“Uhh, yea.”</div>
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On the heels of my last fishing adventure, I know I’m in no
position to ask for sympathy. Plus, my buddies have done all the legwork – the
meal plans, lodging arrangements, car packing. All I have to do is show up. The
last thing I’m going to do is argue. </div>
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“I’ll see you at three then.”</div>
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I press ‘End,’ pocket my phone and start to do the math. I left
the comforts of my Belizean lodge room roughly 33 hours ago. I slept in shorts
and sandals on the C concourse floor at Hartsfield-Jackson last night,
snuggling alongside hundreds of other stranded travelers. It has taken me only
24 hours to develop a life-long disdain for the soft, snow-fearing Atlantans
who are to blame for this mess. I’ve missed two days of work that I can’t
afford to miss. <u>If</u> my flight arrives in Cleveland when they say it will
(it won’t), I’ll see my pregnant wife for about an hour, unpack, repack, sleep
for three, and start driving south.</div>
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At this point in my angling career, there’s only one fish
that could justify this insanity. </div>
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The next 12 hours are a total blur and I’m in and out of daydream through all of it. When we finally hit the water the madness is just beginning to bloom. We’ve arrived to Dixie in the throes of winter with hopes of
taking a thousand-cast fish on a fly, against all odds. The internal juggling
of real vs. surreal, sound vs. unsound, dream vs. memory are struggles that will ultimately come to define
the trip. In the meantime though, there are angling objectives to achieve.<br />
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The water is a deep wintergreen and casts a glow around our
flies as we retrieve them in steady, anxious pulls. The lines are heavy - 300 and 350
grain sinking varieties, and the rods are built to handle the load. I realize
right away that if I want to survive this trip with any cartilage left in my
critical joints, I had better cast efficiently. We play with different retrieve
speeds and casting angles and cover all parts of the water column. We’ve
accepted that we won’t catch a fish, but expect one on every cast. I don’t need
to have caught a musky to know that this is how you <i>must</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> fish for them.</span></div>
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We give each other feedback, checking our depth,
coordinating fly selection, trying to eliminate as many variables as possible.
The focus demanded by this type of fishing is a natural stimulant and the <i>Seinfeld</i> episode that was the last 36 hours of my life quickly becomes a distant
memory. I’m fully engaged with my fly as it dives, kicks and darts, completing
every retrieve with a figure-eight at the boat. In this water and on this river
I’m not really sure what I’m looking for behind my fly, but I’ll know it when I
see it.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When I see it, I wonder why I’d wondered: it looks like a
musky and it looks like it wants to eat my fly. I employ the figure-eight off the
right side of the bow and the fish is on it, hovering two feet behind the fly.
Twice he slashes at the fly and misses. I cover both sides of the boat,
plunge the rod tip deep and keep the fly moving long after the fish has disappeared. My heart, I’m certain, has gone minutes without beating. I
need to sit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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John suggests a bigger fly – bigger than the 10” baby clown I have
on. Thankfully the boys have come prepared with heavy artillery. We settle
on a trophy-trout sized morsel from Alex’s box. We row upstream 100 yards,
administer a couple of Budweisers for peace of mind, and approach the target
again.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<o:p></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The menu is muskie five star this time. The fish savages the fly on the second strip, and I retaliate with a violent strip set. Delirium spills over in the form of elation when the fish finally slides into the cradle. My sanity has been salvaged.</span></div>
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I’m banished to the oars for the rest of the day and I’ve
never been happier about it. Not a quarter mile down the bank John raises an even
bigger fish but can’t get him to eat. A few casts later the fish shows for a second time but still, no committal.<br />
<br />
Two fish in twenty minutes has us
feeling pretty giddy: The red and white can hatch is on. With a couple miles left to float, the wheels stay on long
enough for John to put a second fish in the cradle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Back at the Executive Motel the boys sit down for some tinkering at the vises. There's a working blueprint now, but the pattern needs revision. Two shanks, or three? More flash, or less? We all agree that the most important variable is being in the right place at the right time, but a good confidence fly can only help the cause.</div>
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The second day is much slower, maybe to bring us back down
to earth. Only one fish moves to a fly, and before we know it dusk sneaks up on us. Tomorrow we'll meet up with <a href="http://www.mattmilesflyfishing.com/" target="_blank">Matt Miles</a> to run a different stretch of river. Feeling confident about our chances we trailer the boat, stow the rods and head to the local college bar. We quickly make a roomful of friends by queuing a long list of Allman Brothers tunes on the jukebox. A few whiskey & ginger's later, when somebody else's playlist kicks in, we take it as a cue, close our tab, and start walking back to the truck.<br />
<br />
Except there is no truck. There is, in its absence, a sign that even the three of us can read.<br />
<br />
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6:00 A.M. comes calling a wicked cry, but there are angling objectives to achieve.</div>
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<br />
It's a rough morning and gravel roads aren't helping. Lurching into an 11-weight cast after cast without a fish to show for it doesn't help either. By late morning we all need a control variable. An early lunch seems like a good idea. Musky lesson #37: always control the control variables.<br />
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<br />
Moonshine: Also a control variable.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I spend the morning with Matt, picking his brain and casting
to his waypoints. By mid afternoon I’ve had 3 fish move to the fly, including
a croc-mouthed behemoth that will haunt me for months. We shuffle boat
arrangements, talk a little strategy, and keep sliding downriver. It’s not
five minutes later when Alex and I notice the commotion in the boat ahead of
us.</div>
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River blessings always come at a price. Before we jump the all night train home, there's some vehicle maintenance to take care of. </div>
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The next day it's back to teetering on delirium. Musky is a powerful drug.</div>
Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-42031785332452707352014-02-14T11:59:00.000-05:002014-02-18T18:45:36.305-05:0018 Miles Southwest<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The car practically drove itself. West out of town past the
community park and over the cow pasture crick rumored to hold smallmouth of
disproportionate size. Past the 55 MPH sign and up the rise that caused my
stomach to flutter as it had as a child on the rear-facing bench seat of my
parents’ station wagon. At the top of the rise the centerline disappeared, the
road narrowed, and I left my formal education behind in search of a much more
practical degree. Ten minutes to the state line, five more to the water tower.
Left, right, left, RPM and BPM rising, Allman Brothers blaring, eyes peeled
for state troopers tucked into their usual ambush points. Down one slope, up
the next, cresting the top of the valley and coasting to the finish line. 23
minutes on a good day; 30 if I got stuck behind a combine.</div>
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It was my first internship, a proving ground for borrowed
ideas and vise inventions that absorbed every ounce of my spare time at the
other end of those 18 miles. In between courtship and calculus and fledgling
alcoholism, there was a surprising amount of spare time left to experiment
with.</div>
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Like all of my favorite drives, this one told the story of
the changing seasons. Rays of light striking the windshield at varying angles
forecast the days fishing. The windswept, snow-dusted panoramas of winter
promised epic streamer fishing and the likelihood of an entire river reserved
just for me. The 18-mile return trip, even in the dusk hours of December,
always seemed a bit brighter after a good streamer bite. In time, sharper
angles of light turned the drive from gray white to yellow green and suggested
possibility: could the bugs begin today? Fair weather brought fair weather
anglers, smarter fish and smaller flies. I thought I was the coolest cat on the
river, taking thick browns on #26’s, until I discovered that somebody else was
doing it with #32’s.</div>
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After spring breaks and summer vacations I found myself
making the 260-mile trek back to school early, only to drive 18 more so I could
clear my head before digging into the books again. After one extended absence I
arrived to a favorite stretch of river as the sun was slipping behind the hills
and caught the last of a late summer caddis hatch. I threw a sleeping bag in the
grass, slept streamside for a few anxious hours, rose before sunrise to cast
tricos at rising fish, and made it to my 9:00 AM class with time to spare. </div>
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It’s been too long since I’ve been back. Outside my front
window this morning, big flakes are flying and a foot of snow covers the
ground. A bitter wind rattles the door on the foyer coat closet. I bet the
streamer fishing is going to be epic. </div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-24104601731717346672014-02-11T23:12:00.000-05:002014-02-11T23:42:49.383-05:00Como La Muerte<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My friends and I spend a lot of time talking about fishing juju. The terminology may vary – “mojo,” “karma,” “funk,” – but the root is always <i>luck</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. We joke about our bad luck streaks being directly correlated to our transgressions in the eyes of the Fishing Gods and razz whomever has the hot hand for having stuffed their wader pockets with rabbits’ feet. We joke, but for some of us, it’s only half joking; we know that, try as we may to refine our skills and perfect our craft, the element of chance is constant. Even the most polished anglers need a little grace to befall them now and then, and most will be quick to tell you that. Perhaps accepting chance rather than fighting it is the key to realizing one’s angling potential. </span></div>
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In order for fishing luck to manifest though, one has to actually <i>go</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> fishing, something I haven’t done in far too long. So as I board a southbound jet sporting flip flops and a t-shirt, I’m feeling like good energy is already on my side. A few hours later my fishing partner for the week and I exchange high-five’s and clink glasses in the Belize City airport, toasting to the fact that regardless of how our luck plays out, we’re getting off easy. Our friends at home are about to get belted by a second “Polar Vortex” in less than a month. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: normal;">The island of Ambergris Caye welcomes us with a sticky ocean breeze, gray clouds and spitting rain, but the wet weather won't dampen our mood. We unload bags and kick off our shoes just as the lodge bar is opening for business.</span></div>
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5:00 AM knocks softly close to the equator. In Belize, you can almost get away without an alarm clock, the ratio of Belikin Beers to One Barrel Rum drinks consumed the night before being the deciding factor. Thankfully, we have three alarms set between the two of us. On our first morning, Dan and I rig a somewhat absurd quiver of rods, having previously agreed to pursue <i>megalops</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> but reserving the right to cast at anything that swims across the flat. With time to spare before our scheduled departure from the dock, we grab a couple of eight-weights and take a stroll down the beach, searching for bonefish tails carving the early morning glare. We find a few, promptly send them scattering for deeper water, and head back for breakfast.</span></div>
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Shortly before 7:00 AM our guide, Emir, greets us. Dan and I show him our arsenal of rods and flies and explain that we're on a tarpon quest. On the dock Emir introduces us to his son, Gordy, a guide in training who will join us for the day. Gordy helps us load the Panga and I check the cooler to make sure it contains an ample supply of Belikin. Fully loaded, we push away and tear off toward San Pedro Town. </div>
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A breeze leftover from yesterday’s cold front is stirring the water and as the motor cuts out in the mouth of a deep channel, we stare down at turbid water beneath us. Emir climbs to the front of the boat and points to a rolling deep-water flat at our 3:00.</div>
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“We’ve been seeing the tarpons on this flat,” Emir says. “If they’re moving through the channel, we’ll find them.”</div>
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His angle, I suppose, is to see what he’s working with before he plops us in front of moving targets, and to buy some time for the skies to clear and the weather to calm. Dan is an accomplished casting instructor and striper fisherman, and if nothing else at least this won’t be my first time casting for big rods for big fish. In fact, I’m feeling particularly confident about this go of it. But anxious as we are to begin hunting the flats, neither of us is prepared to argue with our captain. Besides, a little free throw practice before taking shots that count can only help. Dan takes the bow first and begins stripping line onto the deck. A couple of hauls get the heavy intermediate line moving, and when the rod tip finally comes to a halt, a narrow loop goes sailing out over the channel. He begins a slow, steady strip. When the fly begins to rise from the bottom of the channel and comes into view, he repeats the process. He does this again and again, and my mind begins to wander until the monotony is finally broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“Got him, <i>got him</i>,” Dan says cautiously, knowing he could be un-gotten in an instant. </div>
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I finger the shutter button on my camera, waiting for the impending aerial display, but it doesn’t come. Emir is on the deck, hackles up, coaching the fish as much as he’s coaching Dan and barking orders in a voice that reminds me of Tony Montana's:</div>
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“Jump, you fohker!”</div>
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After 30 seconds of bulldogging, Emir mumbles something in Spanish. He’s convinced it’s a Jack and a boat-side flash confirms his suspicion. Dan muscles the fish in. It’s a good one, bigger than any Jack I’ve caught, and we agree that we’re off to a good start. But it’s not a tarpon, and we <i>are</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> on a tarpon quest after all. So I take the bow and Emir runs the boat over to the big flat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">I work on making long, clean casts, shooting and retrieving in methodical arcs. Emir stands next to me on the bow, our backs to the sun, as I cast toward the beach. We seem to recognize simultaneously the sensation of heat on our shoulders as the morning cloud cover burns off. Emir looks to the sky, left, right, and finally behind us in the direction of a faint green line on the edge of the horizon. Wide-rimmed sunglasses, a ball cap and buff hide his face completely, leaving his expression to imagination. I’ve only seen his face for a couple of minutes this morning and, in this moment, I can’t quite picture it. He taps his bare foot on the deck and whispers to the sky.</span></div>
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“El <i>suerrrteee..</i>.”</div>
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“Bring it in,” he says. “We’re going to Savannah.”</div>
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I look down at the line piled at my feet and begin to reel in when the sound of 75 horses catches me off guard. I manage to land less than gracefully on the bench seat next to Dan as the bow lifts up and the panga blasts off in the direction of the Savannah flats.</div>
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It’s hard not to associate the ocean with noises. Crashing waves. Howling wind. Squawking gulls and splashing frigates. Hissing sand resisting tidal magnetism. When you find yourself surrounded by water on all sides, drowned in the complete <i>absence</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> of sound, eerie doesn’t quite describe it. Our vessel bobs above glowing green water now, surrounded by soundlessness. The only clouds to be seen are miles away and a haze hangs over the horizon. When you picture hunting tarpon on the flats, you picture this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I try to ignore time on fishing trips. Any trip is inherently time bound, and this can create stressful undertones if there are angling objectives to achieve. And let's be clear: there are always angling objectives to achieve. The moments in an angler’s life that seem to last for eternity, though, are isolated from before and after. They occur during a meditative type of fishing often pursued and rarely realized. Soundlessness is commonly associated with these moments. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, when it happens it happens timelessly. Only afterward will I recognize the opportunity as fleeting. There are three tarpon. They come from nowhere, cloaked in silence but very, very visible. There are three of them and they are coming for me. They are challenging me. They are, as far as I can tell, hunting <i>me</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. There are three tarpon and then there is my fly and then there are three tarpon hunting my fly. And then my fly is gone, blacked out by a cavernous mouth and gaping jaws.</span></div>
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Sometimes you can be too lost in the moment. Seconds later I watch as three tarpon swim away and fade to glowing green, my fly lying limp in their wake, soundlessness shattered by the coarse-chorded ire of my guide. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Jeem!! Streep-set!! Don’ move your rod!!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I laugh, knowing better than to argue and trying to make light of my folly. Emir does not laugh. I take the gesture to heart.</span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
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The next day begins at the mouth of the same channel, but the wind is quieter and the clouds burn off early. We spot some fish rolling on the deep water flat and set our radar to high alert. Dan is on the bow when we spot some fish working in a daisy chain, rolling in sequence on a defined current break. With direction from trained eyes he makes a calculated cast, landing a 3/0 “purple death” in the heart of the bull’s eye and stripping in quick 8-inch pulls. After only a few strips a big tarpon does a head-and-tail roll on the fly, mouth agape. The fly disappears and Dan strips in cadence, but meets no resistance. </div>
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There are more shots throughout the day, but luck is not with us. Late in the afternoon Emir suggests that we go investigate a bonefish flat that he’s sure will be hosting tailing fish. Egos aside, with one fish to hand in two days we’re eager to sign on, and he delivers. Upon arrival the flat is smooth as glass, save for the countless forked tails that dance across the surface. Wading in bare feet, we hook fish after fish, spooking only a few, and head back to the lodge feeling sufficiently smug. Tomorrow will be our last shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We make the same rounds on the final day. The conditions are perfect - there will be no excuses today. Active schools of tarpon and permit cruise the flat, but seeing them with time to get a shot off is a challenge in the morning glare, and for the third straight day luck evades us. When the angler on deck picks up the tarpon rod, a school of permit comes into easy casting range. When we commit to chasing permit, tarpon seem to roll in all directions. When the right fly finally crosses the right fish – a crab fly in front of a big, hungry permit – he eats, and promptly breaks 16-pound flurocarbon leader. Several more tarpon eats fail to yield a hookup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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El suerte es como la muerte.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Emir and Gordy explore every avenue, call out every possible shot, check every last flat. I’m fighting the urge to glance at my watch the whole time, counting the minutes, finally accepting that our tarpon quest will go unfulfilled. I do everything I can to dodge disappointment, mainly by digging through the Yeti for another Belikin. We’ve had a great time and I’ve learned a lot about capitalizing on the opportunities you're given. Not to mention that I’ll be returning home to Cleveland in January with a wicked tan. Tarpon or no tarpon, life is good.</div>
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Back at the dock we convince Emir and Gordy to join us for a drink. Mariano behind the bar, perhaps sensing my disappointment, pours me a kick-ass Painkiller. In short order we’re swapping stories and laughing it up and I’ve almost forgotten about those angling objectives. Against my better judgment I dig my cell phone out to see if I’ve missed any important emails. I scroll through quickly and the only thing that catches my eye is a message from Delta. I’m tempted to ignore it until I catch the word “urgent.” I’m scheduled to fly out tomorrow morning, but the message tells me that my plans will have to change. My flight has been cancelled, and the next available flight isn’t until the following day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There are a few tense moments as I juggle arrangements at home and with the lodge. All flights to Cleveland have been cancelled. As it turns out, Dan is flying out late tomorrow and has the morning free. The lodge has generously offered to host me for another night, and one of the guides has had a cancellation for tomorrow, so we’ve been offered a bonus half day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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El suerte es como la muerte.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dan and I meet captain Cesar early the next morning, leaving the dock at 6:00 AM. As we run to the first flat I promise myself again not worry about time. This is a bonus day as it is, and if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. As Cesar kills the motor and climbs atop the poling tower, I notice for the first time the heat promised by a new morning sun. There is almost no wind and I’m already sweating. We start noticing fish rolling almost immediately, and Dan makes some well-placed shots with nothing to show for it. When my number is called we switch, and it’s my turn for one last hunt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cesar’s directions are calculated and concise, and that gives me confidence. When he tells me to put a shot at 10 o’clock and 60 feet, I put it there. There is excitement in his voice as he calls out a cadence for the retrieve, and though I can’t see the fish I’m ready when it tries to eat my fly. It’s a different kind of eternal moment – not the type that seems timeless or fleeting, but the kind that seems to last way, way too long. Finally the hook finds a home, the line clears the deck and a tarpon goes airborne, throwing light in every direction. When the fish comes boat side, Cesar leaders it and grabs it by the jaw. As he does, the fly falls from the tarpons mouth - the hook has broken. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I take the fish by the tail and move it into the light. Huge, perfectly patterned scales shimmer a thousand colors beneath the water's surface. I rock the fish back and forth, hoping to catch a glimpse of all of them at once. </div>
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The soundlessness is deafening. </div>
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Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-46961845361027767172014-01-12T08:59:00.000-05:002014-01-12T09:05:26.600-05:00Snapshots of 2013 - Part 3<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>October 6th</b><br />
<b>Western Maryland</b><br />
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We dodged a near disaster getting there. While gunning it up a mountain on the way to our destination, I looked in the mirror to find my Jeep Commander leaving a trail of thick, ominous, white smoke. After stopping at the most podunk garage I've ever seen and getting a shockingly clean bill of vehicular health, we headed to the nearest truck stop and brought enough oil and transmission fluid to drive cross-country five times over. <br />
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Karma came through for us in the end. Brookies were colored up as they prepared for their spawn, and the rainbows and browns of this rugged mountain tailwater were hungry and waiting. We were happy to oblige.<br />
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<b>October 12th</b></div>
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<b>Western New York.</b></div>
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A good friend told me that the Cattaraugus is like a beautiful woman - she only let's you play with her when she wants to. This year was no exception to that rule. Bluebird skies, low water, and a beautiful day in October was the only day I had on what has undoubtedly become my favorite piece of water in the Great Lakes.</div>
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We fished from dawn to dusk. Every fish we hooked kicked our ass.</div>
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<b>October 26th</b></div>
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<b>Girard, PA.</b></div>
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We'd timed things well enough. High water on Elk brought silver fish along with it. Late October - one of my favorite times of the year to be fishing - brought peak fall colors dotting almost every tree. The fishing was good, but the company was even better. </div>
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Every year I'm reminded that my best days on the water are those where I'm fishing with good friends. 2013 was no exception.</div>
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<b>November and December</b></div>
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<b>Steelhead Alley - Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York.</b></div>
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After a few strong blows, and some significant rain, most color left the woods. Weather varied between seventy degrees, and Canadian cold fronts that brought frigid lake effect snow. Another season of guiding carried on strong, and despite challenging conditions, we did pretty damn well.</div>
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At the end, the rivers were beautiful wintergreen, fish were in the creeks, and a few times it snowed so hard I could barely see.</div>
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<b>December 28th</b></div>
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<b>Conneaut, Ohio.</b></div>
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It wasn't all that long ago when I had to beg my parents to take me fishing - or at least to drive me down to the river for a day. A decade and change later, roles have reversed. At the end of my guide day, he met me at an exit not far from one of the most productive runs on the creek. On his first pass through the run, his line jumped twice, and then the fish came back for the kill with an arm-wrenching grab.</div>
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After one of the best fights I've seen from a fish all year, he landed a beast - and his first steelhead swinging a fly. I don't know who it meant more to.</div>
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Even now, a couple weeks later, that moment remains fresh in my mind - a brief snapshot that was representative of the larger body of time and fishing that made up my year. I wish I could say that these are the result of finely-tuned skill, or hard-earned only after exhaustive effort - but both couldn't be farther from the truth. Sure the fish will always be there (to a point), but I can't say the same about the time and the company. It's just luck - and let's hope there's even more of it this year. </div>
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-Brett</div>
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Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-55661470334278803292014-01-06T21:23:00.001-05:002014-01-06T21:23:35.252-05:00Snapshots of 2013 - Part 2<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>September 9th </b></div>
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<b>Land of the giants, central Wyoming. </b></div>
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The
sun is starting to slip behind the canyon wall, and the shadows grow
with every minute that passes. I'm walking up the bank, and Ben is
walking the railroad tracks above. He calls down from the tracks -
"there's a ****ing huge one about two feet off that square-looking
rock." First cast? Almost lined her. Second cast? On the money.</div>
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<b>September 10th</b></div>
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<b>"No-name crick," - middle-of-nowhere, Wyoming. </b></div>
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We
set up camp right next to the river. The area is a holy ground -
frequented hundreds of years ago by Indian tribes that are now long
gone. The cliff wall we're sleeping next to remains a reminder, though -
decorated with petroglyphs and pictographs commemorating the Indian's own
adventures centuries ago. As we prepared ourselves for another night of sleeping in
the dirt, I couldn't help but think that in some small way I knew
exactly how they felt.</div>
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Our
steaks are marinating, so we decide to hike up the creek as the light
fades and fish. In this tiny little finger of water that winds through one
of the most beautiful landscapes I've ever laid eyes on, I found what
probably was my favorite hour of the year. </div>
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<b>September 11th-September 13th: not as long as we would have liked. </b></div>
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<b>Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming. </b></div>
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A
long winding gravel road shows the way to the place where I spent five summers of my life. A special homecoming to an even more special
place - old friends, some new faces, but still the same incredible
time. </div>
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From
there on, it was largely a blur - but after a careful reconstruction of
events, it seems like we managed to catch more than just a buzz. </div>
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<b>September 22nd</b></div>
<b>Girard, PA.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The skies opened and dumped a long, cold, soaking rain. Rivers peaked, but by Sunday they were still up, but starting to approach fishable levels - bringing the potential and promise of the first decent steelhead fishing opportunity of the year. <br />
<br />
To be sure - there were expectations. But for all present, the fast, furious fishing exceeded our highest hopes and wildest imaginations. At the end of the day, I opened my recently filled box, only to find it half-empty - I'd never been owned by so many steelhead in one day on the river.<br />
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<br />
Part 3 - coming soon.<br />
<br />
-Brett<br />
<br /></div>
Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-64814886706621261652014-01-03T07:00:00.000-05:002014-01-03T11:09:33.208-05:00Dead Metaphors: A Look Ahead To 2014<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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For some time now, I’ve thought about writing a book. During
my high school years, when the extent of my writing portfolio consisted of a
collection of English essays, I didn’t care what the book would be about. I
knew that I wanted to write one, though. Articulating ideas on paper
was a task that cost me little effort. There were times that I actually enjoyed
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to test the water by
joining my high school newspaper staff, served as Editor in Chief and even did
a brief internship of sorts with <i>The</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Cleveland</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Plain Dealer</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. What I discovered was that, at a time when fewer and fewer of my
peers were reading anything, much less their high school newspaper, many of
them seemed to enjoy my writing. Some even claimed to look forward to my columns. So I was
decided: I would go to college and become a journalist.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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But that didn’t happen.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I never forgot about the book though, and I kept writing.
During my brief stint in Idaho I got the opportunity to author a short-lived
column/fishing report fort<i> The</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Teton
Valley Citizen</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, which I dubbed, </span><i>Fish
Fodder</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I don’t know what that paper’s
circulation was, but it made its way around a small community where people
actually seemed to care about the local fishing report. Every once in a while
someone would bump into me around town and reference something I’d written. I
didn’t get paid for the column, but I never thought about that when I was
writing it. The fact that someone else was printing my words for others to read
was validation. At 22, fresh out of college and without a career “path,” I
didn’t necessarily need validation, but it didn’t hurt either. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When 2013 began, I was 26 years old, and I’d added a few new
chapters to the would-be narrative. Cancer, marriage, and home-ownership had
thickened the plot. <i>This</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was the year</span><i>,
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">my bride and I agreed, that we would
restore some normalcy to our lives. Maybe ease off the gas a little bit with
the whole coming of age process…“take a deep breath,” as they say. I’m not
entirely convinced that 'normalcy' has any real meaning any more – if it ever
did. But, the steelhead streams of my native northeast Ohio seemed a good place
to start looking for it.</span></div>
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It could be a personality flaw, a comment on my generation,
or a more pervasive human characteristic: Inevitably, when I stumble onto
something good, I soon after start the search for something better. Right about
the time I started developing a certain knack for watching a bobber tethered to
a spinning rod, I decided that it would be unequivocally more awesome<span style="font-style: normal;"> to watch that bobber if it were tethered to a fly
rod. And when that bobber started going under fairly consistently, it was
brought to my attention that doing away with the bobber altogether would
produce infinitely more rewarding results. And when my swung fly began
intercepting steelhead with some regularity, I couldn’t help but fill my head
with visions of 12-pounders boiling behind skated dry flies (no such luck in
this department to date). So it stands to reason, I suppose, that as one season
is reaching its zenith, my natural tendency is to look the horizon. With the
spring run peaking, I’d already begun the search for suitable quarry in places
both near…</span></div>
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And far. </div>
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After consecutive summers of cross-country road-trips
covering thousands of miles and multiple mountain ranges, in the back of my
head a quiet but persistent notion was developing. Perhaps I was missing some
opportunities closer to home. Perhaps, if we broadened our horizons and took
the trout goggles off we could find fish, landscapes, & experiences to whet
our appetites without the 3,000 mile round-trip ticket. But first, I got an
unexpected invitation back to Montana to catch a few fish and take some
pictures.</div>
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When I got back to Cleveland, Alex more or less had the Big
Orange saddled up and ready to go. I punched the clock at work a couple times,
threw some bags together and by 6:00 AM that Sunday we were barreling north.</div>
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I’m an Ohio boy through and through, but I’ve got a
not-so-secret crush on the state up north. Simply put, Michigan is an angler’s
paradise. Our visit left me with such an impression that I couldn’t wait until
I got back to start telling the story; I began punching keys right then and
there in the back of the Big O as a constant wave of asphalt-warmed air poured
over me. As it turns out, that story should be hitting the shelves any day
now in <a href="http://www.theflyfishjournal.com/issue/5.2/feature/BIG-ORANGE-CRUSADE" target="_blank">volume 5.2 of The Fly Fish Journal</a>. </div>
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In July I got my ego checked by some big wild browns on the
West Branch, followed by a cannonball run to Maryland to tune-up for the
Southern Comfort Tour. Arriving to the Volunteer State without much of an itinerary, we dabbled: Trout,
stripers, carp, life-changing barbecue and a whole lot of whiskey. We also
crossed paths with some pretty awesome people and had one helluva good time
before we had to head back to Cleveland, where wander withdrawals and the end-of-summer doldrums awaited. </div>
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Having exhausted my PTO reserves, I needed
something on the home front to keep my motor running until the steelhead circus made
it back to town. I started tying really big flies, conjured as much blind faith
as I was capable of and took to casting until my shoulder hurt. Finally seeing
that first snaky set of teeth and fins behind one of those flies was reward
enough, and it changed the angler in me in a way that I doubt he’ll ever
recover from.</div>
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So often in life, in an effort to encapsulate our
experiences into easily digested doses, we turn to metaphor. We do this quietly
and privately in our own minds, publicly in conversation, or in the case of the
writer, on paper for others to absorb as it suits them. Metaphor offers a means
of distilling a world so vast, so complex, so utterly mystifying, into
perspectives that add direction to directionless lives. The circle of life, The
river that runs through it, the birds and the bees, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a day-to-day basis, metaphors allow
us to explain ideas or experiences we don’t understand by relating them to
those that we do. </div>
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In order to have the proper effect though, metaphors must be
used in the appropriate context. As cultural contexts shift over time, many
commonly used metaphors separate from their original meanings. Literary
scholars refer to these figures of speech as “dead metaphors.” We go on using
them in everyday conversation, oblivious to their origins or intended meanings.</div>
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By October of this year, after another summer punctuated by
memorable fishing trips, I was feeling pretty good about the way my narrative
was taking shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw my life as
a metaphor for something bigger - not that I necessarily knew what that
something was, but that I could find it if I looked hard enough. I even thought
about that book from time to time. <o:p></o:p><br />
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And then my wife handed me this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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My brain surged with electricity as a tidal wave of emotion
crippled my logic machine. After a frozen moment I began to comprehend. I
exclaimed my elation, gave her the biggest hug I could muster, and politely
requested that she head upstairs and take another test: it was positive, as was
the third. A quiet chaos began brewing inside of me, born of a rare concoction
of joy and fear that few life events are capable of inspiring. The insular
worldview I’d built my life around to this point had just fallen victim
to a car bomb: Whatever metaphor I’d planned on using to tell my
story was now dead, its context shattered into cavernous oblivion by a seismic
shift. I’d need a whole new set of analogies to distill any sort of perspective
from the maze of questions that now entrapped me. I found myself confronting my
own mortality, even as I was about to bring new life to the world.</div>
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I’ve spent the last few months preparing my psyche for the
sea change that lies ahead and revisiting my college-aged quest for
enlightenment. I even dug out a few of my old notebooks. Just the other
day, I came across some notes from my Philosophy 201 class relating to the
science of understanding. I could even read my own handwriting:</div>
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“Understanding a phenomenon involves perceiving that
phenomenon as a part of a pattern with which we are familiar.”</div>
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My notes tell of the different causal patterns through which
we might come to understand various phenomena. I had to re-read one
description in particular:</div>
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“Final Cause: An object or event is understood if we know
what its ultimate “end” or “telos” is: that is, to what fully developed form it
is heading, or how it is part of a larger whole which is heading toward the
same end. (Note: the “end” may just be stability in its current form). This
kind of understanding is based on a worldview in which everything has a purpose
or end.” </div>
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The death of a metaphor is not a sad story. It begets new
metaphors with new meanings, even as we struggle to define them. I once fished
worms for panfish and now swing flies for steelhead. I’m not sure what the
fully developed form of either endeavor is. Perhaps, the end is just stability
in it’s current form.</div>
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The book will have to wait. Baby Lampros is expected to
arrive on June 21, 2014 – the longest day of the year. I’m not sure what that
means, but I’m sure it’s a metaphor for something.<br />
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<!--EndFragment-->Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-13507987483113017162014-01-01T21:46:00.001-05:002014-01-01T21:49:01.294-05:00Snapshots of 2013 - Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's hard to look back at this the past year and remember all the things that I want to write about. All the singular moments that made my 2013 have already started to blend together. This is my feeble attempt to piece apart a few days on the water that seemed to stand out above the others, the ones that meant something different than the norm, and that I'll keep with me for a long time.</div>
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<b>March 22nd</b></div>
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<b>The Chagrin River - Willoughby, Ohio. </b></div>
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Made the last minute call to drop the drift boat in on the first day of spring. It wasn't the most productive day I've ever had - but rowing the boat down my home water on a beat rarely fished was a special experience that I won't forget for a while. At least the old man got a big one. </div>
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<b>May 22nd </b></div>
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<b>A seldom fished flat off the northern coast of the Yucatan. </b></div>
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Despite a diagnosis of a broken foot the day before I was supposed to leave, and the humiliating experience of being driven around the airport on a handicapped cart next to geriatrics, I made my flight. The next day, I'm racing through the shallow lagoon created by an archipelago that shoots out into the Gulf of Mexico. After an hour long rough ride into the wind, Sandflea found 'em, and they cooperated. My first grand slam. </div>
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<b>August 30th</b></div>
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<b>West Brand of the Delaware, Hancock NY</b></div>
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Thunderstorms and some of the heaviest rain I've ever seen or fished in - river blew out. Buddy's girlfriend's pitbull in the boat? Fail. Match the hatch? Fail. Eat every meal from a gas station? Success. </div>
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Tied some flies, drank all night, caught a few dinks, and lost a two-footer. Drank more in the boat after that. An awesome trip. </div>
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<b>September 7th </b></div>
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<b>"Lost Creek," - somewhere in the southern Absarokas, Wyoming. </b></div>
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Snow, rain, wind - that's mountain weather. After a night of sixty mile an hour winds, and freezing temperatures, day broke and we headed up the canyon scarred by a fire only a few years ago. The creek was off-color, but that didn't bother the Yellowstone Cutthroats. It was a beautiful day, and as the best BWO hatch I've ever seen peaked, we backtracked to fish a pretty good hole full of rising cutties. Turns out we'd been followed. </div>
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<b></b>Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-85631083406548360662013-12-30T13:04:00.000-05:002013-12-30T13:06:05.422-05:00Wind Chill<div style="text-align: center;">
A gust rips up the glacial valley, streaking the emerald green water, and somehow wedges itself between layers of Gore-Tex, PrimaLoft, and fleece. The weather window that looked so promising hours prior is now closing fast - dark clouds billow up from the lake and race ominously across the sky. It's one in the afternoon, but the fading light and polarized sunglasses create the impression of dusk. But there's still time - the lack of feeling in my feet temporarily abates as I trudge along the bank to the next likely run.</div>
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I'm standing in uncharted territory - miles upstream from an old bridge - rarely used, largely forgotten. I've long passed the steelhead version of Hadrian's wall in second century Great Britain - entering a section of river that few venture to. Tucked away in the rolling hills of northeast Ohio, hidden in a gorge within a valley, lies this de facto steelhead sanctuary.</div>
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Snow falls and numbs the noises of the river and woods, broken only by the sharp crack of my line ripping off the water. A swift set drives the hook home into something beneath the wintergreen stained water - I'm unclear, and uncaring if it's slate or steel. For a fleeting moment nothing moves, but just as hope fades, the line throbs violently back and forth, as a lethargic steelhead gives its first headshake. After a spirited - but brief - fight, the fish succumbs to the cold and slides gently across the surface of the river and into the net. Its crimson cheeks gasp for breath, and with each convulsion the fish's powerful body flashes chrome.</div>
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With one swift kick of its large tail, the fish shoots back into the depth of the run in the fading light. Evening is coming - and with it the decision for any fisherman at the conclusion of a good day, at a time of year when good days are tough to come by. As winter's grip clenches tighter, the reality is that days like this one are even less likely in the coming months. Caught between fading daylight measured against green water and willing fish - the angler faces a gut-wrenching, but inevitable reality.</div>
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Daylight wanes, the snow falls harder, and winter wins. It's time to go home. </div>
Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-59836069717425477492013-12-19T22:11:00.000-05:002013-12-19T22:11:08.053-05:00Have Yourself A Carpy Little ChristmasAnd you guys thought I forgot about those photo contest prizes, psshhtt. As they say, timing is everything in this life, and who doesn't need a couple extra presents under the tree? Just in time for, uh, <i>steelhead </i>season...<br />
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<i>What are you fishing for?</i> Drumroll please;<br />
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2nd Runner up, a sweet H2 trucker lid and carp sticker pack goes to E.L.S. for this shot of a guide in action...<br />
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1st Runner up and a sweet carp fly selection goes to Jordan C. for a bonefish I wish I'd caught...</div>
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And for staying central to the theme, The CARP motherload goes to Todd V</div>
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Fellas, if you're out there, shoot me your mailing address so I can get your CARP booty in the mail ASAP.</div>
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Dreading that <a href="http://www.orvis.com/store/product.aspx?pf_id=7T0A" target="_blank">leather-wrapped trash can</a> your mother-in-law picked out for you? Don't forget to purchase your own DW stocking stuffers. Still have CARP lids AND "What are you fishing for?" Koozies available. $20 cash or check will land one of each at your front door! Contact me on Facebook, or shoot me an email JLampros2@gmail.com if you're interested. </div>
Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-13141011211140144892013-12-13T19:05:00.000-05:002013-12-17T19:31:47.395-05:00Greener Grass<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It's a little chilly in the Midwest right now. At least, that's what I'm hearing from the folks back home. I decided to follow the ducks south - Way south, to a place where the beer flows like wine, and beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. Down here, the forecast du jour is 80 and sunny, and the chromers prefer the slow strip over the steady swing. You can leave the waders, and the boots, and the hat/gloves/jacket/shirt/shoes/</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><wbr></wbr></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">pack/pliers and nippers at home. Just don't forget the shades and the sunscreen. Or the cervezas.</span><br />
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But as the reality of a long, cold winter draws ominously near, my mind can't help but wander to the fleeting opportunities for winter fishing that will see me through to spring. The best of those opportunities will no doubt require some travel, and given my current circumstance, this week seemed a fine time to do some preliminary research.<br />
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I got the opportunity for an early look at the newest release from The Stonefly Press, <u>The 50 Best Tailwaters To Fly Fish,</u> by Terry and Wendy Gunn. Like most anglers, I've thumbed through countless fly fishers guides and "Umpteen Best" books in my day - they're always useful additions to the home library and great trip planning resources but they can be a little dry, to say the least. I can never help but wonder how intimate one author's knowledge of 500 different rivers, creeks and lakes could be. Those that are done well, though, are not only informative but enjoyable reads as well. Greg Thomas' collections of this ilk were always some of my favorites; his prose is colorful and steeped with insight that any hardcore angler would seek, focusing primarily on two critical questions - "Is this place worth my time," and "how's the local nightlife?"<br />
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Thankfully, Terry and Wendy didn't just set out to boost their egos or pad their travel resumes with this one. Instead, they sought out the people with the most intimate knowledge of and unique perspectives on these amazing fisheries and had them write the entries. Among these personalities are a number of my friends, mentors and acquaintances from the industry describing rivers that hold some of my most cherished fishing memories. In the end, it makes for a much more dynamic, personal and entertaining literary resource. Most of these folks owe their livelihoods to the rivers they write about, and their passionate perspectives serve more than to educate - they inspire anglers to experience these places for themselves with honest expectations, which is exactly what a good "Guide to"should do.</div>
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The book is organized by region, rather than arbitrary rankings, which makes sense to me; if you're going to plan a trip to one of these rivers, you might as well cross more than <i>one</i> of them off the list. Anyone who's ever floated a tailwater before can appreciate the importance of knowing release schedules and how they effect different sections of river (particularly on the TVA tailwaters of the Southeast), and most of the authors do a fine job of advising the reader which flows to look for depending on their angling preferences and watercraft options. </div>
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The foreword, penned by the ubiquitous Lefty Kreh, makes some foreboding predictions about the future of tailwaters in this country and the world over, encouraging us to embrace them for better or worse as "the salvation of fly fishing for trout." Frankly, I'm not sure I completely agree with that perspective, but there's no arguing that tailwaters provide exceptional fly fishing in some of the places you would least expect them. Detailed maps, notes, and pictures conspire to tempt the imagination. Even as I look out at the beach before me, the thought of dry-fly caught steelhead on the Deschutes, sippers on the Mo', or big run-up browns on the Madison has me thinking about greener grass on the other side of the fence and hashing out plans for summer 2014....<br />
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Get the skinny <a href="http://stoneflypress.com/50-best-tailwaters-to-fly-fish" target="_blank">here</a> or call your local fly shop to get your mitts on this one in time for the Christmas holiday.<br />
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Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-16559024184235241482013-11-12T12:19:00.001-05:002013-11-12T12:19:22.968-05:00Just Passin' Through<div style="text-align: center;">
A strong pull with my left hand torques the rod and fills my Skagit head with mechanical energy and fires it towards the far bank. The pale orange rocket lifts off and carries my hope - in the form of fur, feathers, and flash. The payload is a pattern refined and improved over-and-over by a tightly-knit group of fishing friends, and now a stand-by taking up a significant amount of real estate in "my" swinging box. </div>
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As the engine's momentum flames out, the head unfurls and delivers the fly on target, impacting the water with a dull-thud which carries over the sound of rushing water and wind blowing through the half-full trees. A short pull-back mend positions the line, and the fly slowly descends, aimed at an boulder-filled shale slot beneath the walking speed, waist-deep water.</div>
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Despite the tea stain, the copper flash pulses like a homing beacon to it's living metallic counterpart. As the fly swims though the dark water, the line slowly tightens, but then releases. A pull? My fingers white-knuckle the cork, waiting for the fish to come back around to finish the job. Nothing. I look down at the water and watch a yellow, red, and green mass tumble by. Probably a fucking leaf. </div>
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Step, cast, swing. The repetitive motion is mind-numbing. Every step
brings the riffle below nearer - a foot closer to failure, one fruitless piece of river bottom at a
time. Every swing presents the fly in an unsuccessful bid to entice a
grab - if the fish are even there. </div>
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Another snap-T launches the line and tip into a backwater at the far end of the tailout. A quick life of the rod puts a downstream belly in the line, and the fly begins this next pass across the boulder-filled shale trench. Zoned out, the first sharp pull catches me by surprise. It's gone as quickly as it came. But within seconds, the fish strikes again. This time, it's a deep pull as the steelhead aims to finish the job it started seconds before. </div>
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After a spirited fight, carefully crafted graphite and machined aluminum win the day. After I place her back in the water, the fish kicks her powerful tail, soaking me with water and leaving me sputtering as she shoots back into the run. Round one goes to the angler - but the fight is far from over.</div>
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Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-3300735530670232812013-10-20T12:12:00.000-04:002013-10-20T12:12:03.263-04:00Changing Colors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The consummate fly writing writer, John Gierach, nailed it - "fisherman know that autumn isn't really a season at all, just a time of year when the seasons change." After the dog days of August, September marks the transition, and October brings this atmospheric metamorphosis to completion. </div>
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Now, as our hemisphere tilts twenty-three-and-one-half degrees away from the sun, the heat produced by countless photons fades. Enter fall - the beginning of the end. But even among this certainty there is no rulebook or set quota of days that qualify as autumn. Instead, we're given Indian summers, or September snow. Still, darkness comes earlier as daylight inevitably dwindles, and peak colors in the trees drop to the ground and give way to a grey winter's sky.</div>
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Despite the inescapable slide, all is not lost. Under the water a different transformation gains steam - the fish that commandeer my thoughts to the point of obsession are on the way, chasing the promise of procreation from the inland oceans and into the arteries that feed them. For today, the sun and warmth remain; the leaves - just beginning to change to brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red - hold tight to the trees. </div>
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Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06368983975138227342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-65916600364150754082013-10-15T16:08:00.000-04:002013-10-16T22:03:53.679-04:00No Love In The Heart of The CityThe irony of my pursuit is not lost on me. You might even say that it enhances the experience. I fish for a fish that does not belong here. A non-native, one might even go as far as to call it an invasive. A piscine populous whose inhabitance of this waterway can be attributed entirely to the whimsy of man. I fancy myself as a whimsical character, though, and despite my principles - "<i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFsouvVdoJQ" target="_blank">believies</a></i>" as the great Louis CK might describe them - I am happy to share the water column with them. My K-9 companion, unencumbered by <i>believies</i>, passes no judgement on the lifeforms that swim beneath my fly line.<br />
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The backwardness of the situation is multi-dimensional, extending beyond the idealistic to the cosmetic. Here I stand waist deep in a watershed boasting both a consumption advisory and a "wild and scenic" designation. A mere stones throw away, sheltered by a noisy highway bridge, last night's fire smolders. Alongside the smoke there is a torn and tattered box spring, a set of ruffled blankets and a pile of soiled laundry - the home of the homeless, presumably vacated in the early morning quest for sustenance. The water, stained and brown, masks the poetry of what lies beneath: A quest for sex damned by pollution, siltation, and the perfect presentation of my fly. And the colors... purples and reds, blues and greens, spots and stripes. And silvers.<br />
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I fold all of this into the corner of my mind and focus on the currents before me while I wade into position. The low flows of summer have stolen my wading legs, my hip flexors and quadriceps quivering as I make my way to the perfect casting platform. Feet firmly planted, the cast unfolds and the swing develops.<br />
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I picture every pulse of the fly as it courses through the seam, my chest and shoulders heavy with anticipation. Another step, another cast, the rhythm sifting the anticipation through bones and nerves until it settles in my right forearm. The sun squirms through the oranges and yellows and reds that remain of the hardwoods, conspiring against me as it finds it's way to the water. Another step, another cast, and I begin to grasp the reality of the circumstance. I'm early to the party. Guess I'd better make a drink.Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-67997880780817189002013-09-02T11:58:00.001-04:002013-09-02T12:00:07.692-04:00Shelter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Even in the mountains we couldn't hide from the deluge. Heavy rains foiled our plans to explore an unnamed blue line rumored to hold trout up to 20 inches, instead pushing us further down the road on a search for dry ground in a temperate rainforest. Mother nature did give us a few windows, brief as they were, to do some roadside exploring.</div>
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By now though our base camp was getting a little soggy. A pervasive odor of wet dog permeated all of our possessions, and with a forecast calling for humidity levels upwards of 90% we knew our state of mustiness was unlikely to change in the mountains. At the doorstep of the Smokies we decided to grab a motel room and air things out for a night. I've learned that on these extended road trips, despite well-intentioned efforts to maintain a sense of order inside the vehicle, you will inevitably reach a point at which the entire interior will have to be gutted and repacked from scratch. This is as much a matter of personal hygiene as it is an attempt to maintain a certain level of sanity.</div>
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The next morning we rose to a late summer sun fighting through thick haze - the proverbial "smoke" on the smokies. Rechardged and repacked, we headed into the park. We weren't the only ones looking forward to getting back on the water.</div>
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Before we could wet a line, we'd have to wade through a cesspool of Made-in-China Americana in the gateway tourist trap of Gatlinburg. Thankfully, once we found ourselves between the stream banks, that scene quickly faded to memory.</div>
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As is almost always the case, the further we got from the road, the better the fishing. With dusk settling in and a fish ready to eat behind every boulder, I wondered if perhaps we should return the next morning to test the theory further down the trail. But at the bottom of the mountain there was more exploring to do, and the luxury of returning to the drift boat was too much to resist.</div>
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<br />Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786168465663629955.post-81721021473310522352013-08-30T10:27:00.000-04:002013-08-30T11:33:43.968-04:00Linesides<div style="text-align: center;">
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We left early enough that even with an 8 hour drive, catching the evening hatch was still a possibility. The only problem was that we didn't know what<i> </i>the evening hatch was, or where it was happening for the matter. We also didn't know where we were going to be staying, err, <i>parking</i>. Rather than do anything rash, we figured we'd better get the lay of the land from the guys who knew it best. It began with standard shop talk and a request for some information. In fairness, we didn't really give the guys much direction...<br />
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"Where were y'all wantin' to fish?"</div>
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Mmm, we're not really sure... we have a boat though!</div>
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"Well, what were y'all wantin' to fish <i>for?</i>"</div>
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Well, we came down here to catch carp, but we hear the trout fishin' is pretty good. And you guys have good smallmouth fishin' too, right? We love smallmouth fishin'.</div>
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We danced in circles for a bit before deciding that trout fishing was a good place to start. And then somebody mentioned something about some 30 pound streamer-crushing battleships that were hanging out in the lower river, which got us all screwed up in the head. Not surprisingly we fished with a severe case of ADD on the first day, torn between casting giant streamers or trying to feed dry flies to the oodles of trout that were set up on the surface, gorging on sulphurs. At day's end the results were proof of our lack of direction.</div>
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On day two though, with a little help from our friends at the fly shop, we set out with a solid plan: Big flies on sinking lines for big fish. I'd never caught a striper, or even seen one in the water. I had caught their white bass cousins though, and I figured if the aggression/power/size ratio translated.... I shuttered at the mere prospect of such a fish. We angled with focus and patience, re-rowing sections in order to cover both banks, casting to all the likely holding water, working the flies slow and deep and moving a few nice trout. As evening came on though, we'd yet to find any linesiders and with a thunderhead moving in we decided to take a break for dinner and let the storm pass. We hoped that the dusk hour would change our fortune.</div>
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The rain came in buckets. We tried to take shelter under an old railroad trestle, which did little to keep us dry. The dogs shot me looks of resentment as the rain spattered against them relentlessly, as if this was <i>my</i> doing. I wanted to tell them that, save for the cold Budweiser in my hand, I wasn't faring much better, but I don't think it would have changed their minds. After 20 minutes or so the heavy stuff had passed, and fishing seemed like a feasible option. We bailed a couple inches of water from the boat and Alex went back to casting as a dense fog settled on the water.</div>
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The river was losing it's current as it was swallowed up by the reservoir downstream, and we crawled along at a snails pace. The fog seemed to muffle all the outside noise, and as the day light continued to fade, it captured and reflected the oranges and yellows of the parking lot street lamps that marked the end of our float. It all had an eerie feel to it. I looked left while Alex cast right, looking for some sign of fish but seeing nothing. We weren't waiving the flag yet though. Everyone we'd talked to said if it was going to happen anywhere, it was going to hap-</div>
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I snapped my head back to the right just in time to see a massive swirl of silver and iridescent purple all twisted up and thrashing on the surface, the 8-weight rod jolting toward the water. Victor, who'd been sleeping quietly in the back of the boat most of the day, vaulted the rowers bench to get a better view of the action. He knew - we all knew - that this was a big fish. </div>
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When it finally came boat-side, I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The twilight seemed to make the faint purples and blues and greens glow against its mirrored silver sides. I broke my daze long enough to net the half of the fish that would fit, and corralled it into the boat. </div>
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It was just one fish, but after a summer of hearing "you should have been here yesterday," it would feel pretty good to feed somebody else that line the next day; The heavy rains persisted throughout the night and into the following morning, and a hundred miles down the road we learned from our new friends that the rivers we'd left behind were running red with Tennessee mud. Heading for high ground seemed like the best thing to do...</div>
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Jimmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04159095647092692201noreply@blogger.com3