Dead Metaphors: A Look Ahead To 2014

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.  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 The Cleveland Plain Dealer. 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.

But that didn’t happen.

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 The Teton Valley Citizen, which I dubbed, Fish Fodder. 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.

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. This was the year, 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.

 

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 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…

And far.

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.

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.

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 volume 5.2 of The Fly Fish Journal.

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. 

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.

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.  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.

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.

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.  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.

And then my wife handed me this:

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.

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:

“Understanding a phenomenon involves perceiving that phenomenon as a part of a pattern with which we are familiar.”

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:

“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.”

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.

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.

Snapshots of 2013 - Part 1

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.

March 22nd

The Chagrin River - Willoughby, Ohio.

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.

May 22nd

A seldom fished flat off the northern coast of the Yucatan.  

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.

August 30th

West Brand of the Delaware, Hancock NY

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.

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.

September 7th

"Lost Creek," - somewhere in the southern Absarokas, Wyoming.

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.

Wind Chill

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.

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.

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.

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.

Daylight wanes, the snow falls harder, and winter wins.  It's time to go home. 

Have Yourself A Carpy Little Christmas

And 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,  steelhead season...

What are you fishing for? Drumroll please;

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...

1st Runner up and a sweet carp fly selection goes to Jordan C. for a bonefish I wish I'd caught...

And for staying central to the theme, The CARP motherload goes to Todd V

Fellas, if you're out there, shoot me your mailing address so I can get your CARP booty in the mail ASAP.

Dreading that leather-wrapped trash can 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. 

Greener Grass

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/pack/pliers and nippers at home. Just don't forget the shades and the sunscreen. Or the cervezas.

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.

I got the opportunity for an early look at the newest release from The Stonefly Press, The 50 Best Tailwaters To Fly Fish, 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?"

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.

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 one 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. 

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....

Get the skinny here or call your local fly shop to get your mitts on this one in time for the Christmas holiday.

Just Passin' Through

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.

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.

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.  

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. 

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.

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.