I'm excited to announce that Rise Forms has launched at:
http://riseforms.com
This is a journal I helped start that features literary fly fishing writing as well as a great collection of art. Please take a minute to visit, and if you have any feedback, I'd be glad to hear it.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
How to Salvage a Trip
We were about an hour outside Charlottesville when I realized I'd forgotten all my fishing equipment except for my wading pants and an old t-shirt. I had been anticipating this outing quite a bit. Pennsylvania's fish-for-free day was falling on my birthday, and we happened to be heading home that weekend anyway. I planned to fly fish my home river for a reasonably lengthy stretch, something I hadn't done in close to a decade.
I was utterly dismayed. The river was never a great stretch, but it held fish and I was more interested in feeling nostalgic and in examining the changes to the waters I used to know inside and out. I tried to come up with an alternate plan, knowing I still had odds and ends of gear at my mom's house, and thinking I could buy cheap versions of the rest from Wal-Mart or borrow from my dad.
That plan fell apart quickly. I uncovered the reels with 15-year-old fly line and dug up the spools of monofilament I could use for a leader (the bass and bluegills wouldn't be shy). The problem was with the rods. I had three there (instead of the two I was expecting). One was cracked and taped together as I remembered. The second was worse. The third one -- my dad's original fly rod with non-functioning automatic reel still attached -- was the one I hoped to use. It was cracking at a joint, too, and I wasn't willing to risk either the rod or the outing on its durability.
So I had to drop the fly fishing idea, but I could spinning gear from my dad, and a nearby vending machine could sell me bait regardless of the hour I got around. Now I was set.
Except I got up that morning and immediately learned that we were under a tornado watch. I considered my options, really hoping not to miss out on fishing (and we had plans for the afternoon and evening, so there was no chance of trying to wait out the watch). The mile-long wade/hike was out, but I could park near the river and keep within running distance. It would have to do.
I wasn't that optimistic, and when I realized I'd forgotten to grab split shot and had only my dad's oversized equipment, I realized I just had to adapt. The grey sky mildly worrying, I snagged bottom my second cast, freed it and kept moving.
But the day would change. On cast number six or so, I hooked something with some bulk, and when it flashed silver, I was stunned. Moments later I landed a fat, foot-long rainbow trout. I'd just been thinking that the second biggest trout I'd ever caught had come from that pool but that that pool was completely different. It still holds fish.
I worked my way as far downstream as I could and the sky turned black and I worked my way back toward the car. I was working a little slack spot I thought would produce some panfish. The line pulled tight and I brought in a brown a little smaller than his predecessor. I've caught trout in this river this late in the year, but not often. It must be my birthday.
I moved upstream to a spot that used to be good for rock bass (I've come to feel a special pleasure in this fish -- once regarded as forgettable "puners", they've taken on a sort homecoming significance since I rarely catch them in VA). Making miraculous casts between brances to exactly the spots I needed, I landed 2 or 3.
After that, I pushed through some brush to where I hoped I could catch a smallie. I did. He was only about 6 inches, but I wasn't greedy. I'd fished through the sporadic light rain, the storms had circled by us, and I'd had very pleasing grand slam for my birthday.
It was exactly what I would have asked for, but I'd have never had that day if I'd brought my fly gear. I planned on throwing bass and bluegill bugs, so the trout would have been extremely unlikely (unless I'd changed to something like a woolly bugger or soft-hackle by that point). I might have caught more fish or bigger bass in the stretch I didn't get to fish, but things wouldn't have been as interesting. And that's how to salvage a trip and have a happy birthday.
I was utterly dismayed. The river was never a great stretch, but it held fish and I was more interested in feeling nostalgic and in examining the changes to the waters I used to know inside and out. I tried to come up with an alternate plan, knowing I still had odds and ends of gear at my mom's house, and thinking I could buy cheap versions of the rest from Wal-Mart or borrow from my dad.
That plan fell apart quickly. I uncovered the reels with 15-year-old fly line and dug up the spools of monofilament I could use for a leader (the bass and bluegills wouldn't be shy). The problem was with the rods. I had three there (instead of the two I was expecting). One was cracked and taped together as I remembered. The second was worse. The third one -- my dad's original fly rod with non-functioning automatic reel still attached -- was the one I hoped to use. It was cracking at a joint, too, and I wasn't willing to risk either the rod or the outing on its durability.
So I had to drop the fly fishing idea, but I could spinning gear from my dad, and a nearby vending machine could sell me bait regardless of the hour I got around. Now I was set.
Except I got up that morning and immediately learned that we were under a tornado watch. I considered my options, really hoping not to miss out on fishing (and we had plans for the afternoon and evening, so there was no chance of trying to wait out the watch). The mile-long wade/hike was out, but I could park near the river and keep within running distance. It would have to do.
I wasn't that optimistic, and when I realized I'd forgotten to grab split shot and had only my dad's oversized equipment, I realized I just had to adapt. The grey sky mildly worrying, I snagged bottom my second cast, freed it and kept moving.
But the day would change. On cast number six or so, I hooked something with some bulk, and when it flashed silver, I was stunned. Moments later I landed a fat, foot-long rainbow trout. I'd just been thinking that the second biggest trout I'd ever caught had come from that pool but that that pool was completely different. It still holds fish.
I worked my way as far downstream as I could and the sky turned black and I worked my way back toward the car. I was working a little slack spot I thought would produce some panfish. The line pulled tight and I brought in a brown a little smaller than his predecessor. I've caught trout in this river this late in the year, but not often. It must be my birthday.
I moved upstream to a spot that used to be good for rock bass (I've come to feel a special pleasure in this fish -- once regarded as forgettable "puners", they've taken on a sort homecoming significance since I rarely catch them in VA). Making miraculous casts between brances to exactly the spots I needed, I landed 2 or 3.
After that, I pushed through some brush to where I hoped I could catch a smallie. I did. He was only about 6 inches, but I wasn't greedy. I'd fished through the sporadic light rain, the storms had circled by us, and I'd had very pleasing grand slam for my birthday.
It was exactly what I would have asked for, but I'd have never had that day if I'd brought my fly gear. I planned on throwing bass and bluegill bugs, so the trout would have been extremely unlikely (unless I'd changed to something like a woolly bugger or soft-hackle by that point). I might have caught more fish or bigger bass in the stretch I didn't get to fish, but things wouldn't have been as interesting. And that's how to salvage a trip and have a happy birthday.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Few Fish, Much Fun
My good friend John and I had lost touch after high school in the typical way you do without any reason. A year or so ago, after two of our parents ran into each other, we discovered we're now only living about two hours apart. We emailed a few times and saw each other at a reunion, but it wasn't until John wrote to ask me if I fly fished that we managed to get some firm plans down.
He described his skill level as being that of the guy with the coffee can of worms in A River Runs Through It. I wasn't sure what to expect, and didn't really care (but, for the record, he acquitted himself admirably).
We elected to hit a trout stream I'm somewhat familiar with for our first outing (although I planned to get into a new stretch of it). We rigged up, and on my second cast, I had a hit. Just as I realized there were a number of stockers in the pool, a spinfisher came around the bend. We got to chatting, and as I missed a series of strikes, I offered to share the pool with him. He declined, instead offering a suggestion on my angle of approach.
A few casts later and he was netting a nice brown for me (and I was discovering my camera was next to the front door at home -- I'd wish for it later). We looked up as I released it and saw John releasing one of his own. I thanked the man and left the hole to him so John and I could keep moving. We probably spent more of the morning hiking and talking than we did fishing.
The fishing wasn't stellar -- the only other fish being a native brookie that I dropped back into the stream before being able to show off its bright orange -- but we kept finding interesting things around us.
We got an close look at a garter snake, saw two salamanders (one a subdued brown and the other that neon blue sort of color that you'd swear fishing manufacturers had made up if you hadn't ever seen these things), and took a break at a waterfall.
On the way out, though was the real treat. John stopped me, and as I was just thinking how it sounded like cicadas, we saw the rattler moving from his sunny spot on the trail up into the brush. He didn't go far, and we had to cautiously make our way out around him. It was the first rattlesnake either of us had encountered, and later we laughed at how we made sure to bring it up in almost every conversation we had.
After that we had to get home. We didn't catch many fish, but I'll trade a high-fish day for the sort of day we did have.
He described his skill level as being that of the guy with the coffee can of worms in A River Runs Through It. I wasn't sure what to expect, and didn't really care (but, for the record, he acquitted himself admirably).
We elected to hit a trout stream I'm somewhat familiar with for our first outing (although I planned to get into a new stretch of it). We rigged up, and on my second cast, I had a hit. Just as I realized there were a number of stockers in the pool, a spinfisher came around the bend. We got to chatting, and as I missed a series of strikes, I offered to share the pool with him. He declined, instead offering a suggestion on my angle of approach.
A few casts later and he was netting a nice brown for me (and I was discovering my camera was next to the front door at home -- I'd wish for it later). We looked up as I released it and saw John releasing one of his own. I thanked the man and left the hole to him so John and I could keep moving. We probably spent more of the morning hiking and talking than we did fishing.
The fishing wasn't stellar -- the only other fish being a native brookie that I dropped back into the stream before being able to show off its bright orange -- but we kept finding interesting things around us.
We got an close look at a garter snake, saw two salamanders (one a subdued brown and the other that neon blue sort of color that you'd swear fishing manufacturers had made up if you hadn't ever seen these things), and took a break at a waterfall.
On the way out, though was the real treat. John stopped me, and as I was just thinking how it sounded like cicadas, we saw the rattler moving from his sunny spot on the trail up into the brush. He didn't go far, and we had to cautiously make our way out around him. It was the first rattlesnake either of us had encountered, and later we laughed at how we made sure to bring it up in almost every conversation we had.
After that we had to get home. We didn't catch many fish, but I'll trade a high-fish day for the sort of day we did have.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Rise Forms
I've got some exciting news today. I'm one of the peole launching a new literary fly fishing magazine. Read some more details below and then check out the site. I'd love to get some early feedback.
Launching a new digital fly fishing magazine these days is nothing new—it seems every couple of months one goes online. Many cover the “how to,” “where to” or “what to buy” of the sport. Others are for the eyes: slick images of fantastical locations and gorgeous fish.
While some magazines are for the angling libido, we are pleased to announce a magazine that stimulates the heart and mind of the angler. Rise Forms: Fly fishing’s literary voice, seeks to publish work that conveys both the passion and contemplative nature of fly fishing through high quality, literary articles.
Our website is under development but you can get a flavor of it from the About Us page (http://riseforms.com/about/) and learn about the editorial board and more on both the general philosophy of the magazine as well as the specific topics we hope to cover.
We are in the process of soliciting articles from a wide range of authors covering an array of topics. If you would like to be considered for publication, please read the Submission Guidelines (http://riseforms.com/guidelines/).
If you have any questions or comments about Rise Forms, please use the contact page (http://riseforms.com/contact).
We anticipate launching in the fall of 2010. We look forward to reading your submissions.
Justin cober-Lake
on behalf of the Editorial Board
Rise Forms: Fly fishing's literary voice
Launching a new digital fly fishing magazine these days is nothing new—it seems every couple of months one goes online. Many cover the “how to,” “where to” or “what to buy” of the sport. Others are for the eyes: slick images of fantastical locations and gorgeous fish.
While some magazines are for the angling libido, we are pleased to announce a magazine that stimulates the heart and mind of the angler. Rise Forms: Fly fishing’s literary voice, seeks to publish work that conveys both the passion and contemplative nature of fly fishing through high quality, literary articles.
Our website is under development but you can get a flavor of it from the About Us page (http://riseforms.com/about/) and learn about the editorial board and more on both the general philosophy of the magazine as well as the specific topics we hope to cover.
We are in the process of soliciting articles from a wide range of authors covering an array of topics. If you would like to be considered for publication, please read the Submission Guidelines (http://riseforms.com/guidelines/).
If you have any questions or comments about Rise Forms, please use the contact page (http://riseforms.com/contact).
We anticipate launching in the fall of 2010. We look forward to reading your submissions.
Justin cober-Lake
on behalf of the Editorial Board
Rise Forms: Fly fishing's literary voice
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Rough Day
I’ve rarely been in the outdoors and just felt ready to come home. There must be times I no longer remember, when I was frozen or wet or just worn down. There’s one hike gone bad, and there’s the time I dropped my rifle in the snow. That’s about it.
But yesterday was a rough one. When I saw the forecast for high winds and a cold front moving in, I probably should have stayed home (especially considering it had been a night of rocky, newborn-era sleep), but I was anxious to see if the smallmouth were active yet, and to test out the new bass taper fly line I’d just gotten. So as soon as I had the baby back to sleep, I grabbed my gear and was off.
The first problem became obvious quickly. The trail had suffered from the harsh winter, and what had once been an annoyingly brushy hike had now become one full of fallen trees, lost paths, and the like. Upon reaching the river, I discovered the second problem: the river was higher than I had anticipated (so much my ability to read USGS reports), just enough so that some of my wading routes would be cut off. It’s a tricky wade even in August, and as it would turn out, it would be especially problematic now.
The first stretch I wanted to fish requires a reasonably deep wade out to a sandbar. The bass hangout in the deeper area just beyond that. Yesterday I had to go in nearly to my sternum to get there. I had promised myself a wading staff this year, but haven’t gotten around to it. Once on the bar, I was alright, but then the wind picked up.
Mostly it was the kind of wind where you just direct your false cast a little offline, keep the flies away from your head, and work with it. At times, though, it was bad enough I had to just stand and wait for a gap to cast between. I did manage a couple bluegills (one being the first fish proudly caught on a self-tied popper) before deciding to head downstream.
I just couldn’t wade it. Unwilling to give up, I climbed the bank and started on what might have been a trail. At points it turned into a game trail, then disappeared. Through wood and then through water, I got to where I was going. And found a creepy gray spider in my hair. Shortly after the wind would blow enough that my hat wouldn’t stay on, so it went into my pocket, got drenched, and made the return trip that much more itch-inducing.
I did land my first smallie of the year, a feisty little guy who gave me one good jump and a couple short runs. I took a few more bream. On my way out, I encounted a four-foot watersnake (dark enough I briefly thought, “Cottonmouth?”) and watched a channel cat eat a carp that had died and bloated.
By now I was tired from fighting brush, wind, current and sleeplessness. I was daunted by the prospect of my return journey. The going back was no easier, as I had to work to find ways up and down the bank, and at one pointed wondered if I should hold rod and chest pack aloft and sidestroke for it (I didn’t dwell on the idea). Eventually I reached the sandbar. And couldn’t quite leave without catching one more ‘gill.
Walking out, I noticed some fish near shore, inaccessible to a fly cast without more work than I had left in me. I directed a father-and-son combo to head that way. Finally nearing my car, someone asked me where I’d been and how I’d done. Then he explained that they’re building a trail on the far side of the river that can get you most of the way to where I was going.
Now I know for next time.
But yesterday was a rough one. When I saw the forecast for high winds and a cold front moving in, I probably should have stayed home (especially considering it had been a night of rocky, newborn-era sleep), but I was anxious to see if the smallmouth were active yet, and to test out the new bass taper fly line I’d just gotten. So as soon as I had the baby back to sleep, I grabbed my gear and was off.
The first problem became obvious quickly. The trail had suffered from the harsh winter, and what had once been an annoyingly brushy hike had now become one full of fallen trees, lost paths, and the like. Upon reaching the river, I discovered the second problem: the river was higher than I had anticipated (so much my ability to read USGS reports), just enough so that some of my wading routes would be cut off. It’s a tricky wade even in August, and as it would turn out, it would be especially problematic now.
The first stretch I wanted to fish requires a reasonably deep wade out to a sandbar. The bass hangout in the deeper area just beyond that. Yesterday I had to go in nearly to my sternum to get there. I had promised myself a wading staff this year, but haven’t gotten around to it. Once on the bar, I was alright, but then the wind picked up.
Mostly it was the kind of wind where you just direct your false cast a little offline, keep the flies away from your head, and work with it. At times, though, it was bad enough I had to just stand and wait for a gap to cast between. I did manage a couple bluegills (one being the first fish proudly caught on a self-tied popper) before deciding to head downstream.
I just couldn’t wade it. Unwilling to give up, I climbed the bank and started on what might have been a trail. At points it turned into a game trail, then disappeared. Through wood and then through water, I got to where I was going. And found a creepy gray spider in my hair. Shortly after the wind would blow enough that my hat wouldn’t stay on, so it went into my pocket, got drenched, and made the return trip that much more itch-inducing.
I did land my first smallie of the year, a feisty little guy who gave me one good jump and a couple short runs. I took a few more bream. On my way out, I encounted a four-foot watersnake (dark enough I briefly thought, “Cottonmouth?”) and watched a channel cat eat a carp that had died and bloated.
By now I was tired from fighting brush, wind, current and sleeplessness. I was daunted by the prospect of my return journey. The going back was no easier, as I had to work to find ways up and down the bank, and at one pointed wondered if I should hold rod and chest pack aloft and sidestroke for it (I didn’t dwell on the idea). Eventually I reached the sandbar. And couldn’t quite leave without catching one more ‘gill.
Walking out, I noticed some fish near shore, inaccessible to a fly cast without more work than I had left in me. I directed a father-and-son combo to head that way. Finally nearing my car, someone asked me where I’d been and how I’d done. Then he explained that they’re building a trail on the far side of the river that can get you most of the way to where I was going.
Now I know for next time.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Early Season
It's a 70-degree day on mid-March, and I'm frustrated. It couldn't be nicer outside, but I'm too sick to go fishing, so I might as well use that as an excuse to catch up on this year so far.
Which hasn't been much. I've been out four times and managed just one fish. I'll give myself credit for some tough conditions, particularly since this winter has been extremely snowy (making much of the water around here either inaccessible or blown out). The first time I hit a local lake with fly rod looking for some early season 'gills. The lake was still partially iced over, and I wasn't expecting much -- I just wanted to get out on a nice day.
A week or so later I hit the George Washington Forest for some brookie action. It was sub-freezing when I started. I was missing one glove and discovered a leak in my waders. It was cold enough that when I climbed out of the river and walked to a new spot, the line on my reel froze up, locking up everything. I pushed through, rewarded with one native brookie four or five inches long. That was an "eh" day. I didn't know whether to expect anything at all.
I hit a nearby DH a few weeks ago. Thinking it had been stocked, I got there early (and was wise to do so -- when I left around lunchtime, there were 4 anglers fishing a 100-yard stretch of water) and dealt with the cold, the iced-up guides, etc. Nothing. The upstream portion had changed enough that I wasn't even able to find the weird fish I've only ever caught in this stream. I later found out an entirely different stretched had been stocked, which meant I'd spent the day fishing high, cold, heavily poached water. I'm not too disconcerted.
Last weekend was bad, but I couldn't resist going out to the lake. I was hoping crappie might be in a little, but it was cold and raining, and the water was considerably off-color. I would like to have been in a boat -- retreiving into deeper water and away from the already problematic vegetation -- but I made do. No strikes at all, aside from one little chub in the outflow.
I found a protected cove and kept twitching a minnow lure over the grass. Finally I had a big bass hit. And come off within seconds. A few casts later, something big swirled at it and missed. That was the only excitement of the day (unless you count losing a lure in the brush).
I'm pretty sure that's more skunkings already this year than I had all last year (and maybe as many as the last two years combined). Normally I wouldn't mind too much -- conditions have been bad and everyone can have a bad streak -- but I know it's unlikely I'll get out anytime in the next few weeks. So for now, it's blogging, shopping for equipment online, and -- if the Vitamin C kicks in -- learning to tie my own poppers.
Wish me sanity.
Which hasn't been much. I've been out four times and managed just one fish. I'll give myself credit for some tough conditions, particularly since this winter has been extremely snowy (making much of the water around here either inaccessible or blown out). The first time I hit a local lake with fly rod looking for some early season 'gills. The lake was still partially iced over, and I wasn't expecting much -- I just wanted to get out on a nice day.
A week or so later I hit the George Washington Forest for some brookie action. It was sub-freezing when I started. I was missing one glove and discovered a leak in my waders. It was cold enough that when I climbed out of the river and walked to a new spot, the line on my reel froze up, locking up everything. I pushed through, rewarded with one native brookie four or five inches long. That was an "eh" day. I didn't know whether to expect anything at all.
I hit a nearby DH a few weeks ago. Thinking it had been stocked, I got there early (and was wise to do so -- when I left around lunchtime, there were 4 anglers fishing a 100-yard stretch of water) and dealt with the cold, the iced-up guides, etc. Nothing. The upstream portion had changed enough that I wasn't even able to find the weird fish I've only ever caught in this stream. I later found out an entirely different stretched had been stocked, which meant I'd spent the day fishing high, cold, heavily poached water. I'm not too disconcerted.
Last weekend was bad, but I couldn't resist going out to the lake. I was hoping crappie might be in a little, but it was cold and raining, and the water was considerably off-color. I would like to have been in a boat -- retreiving into deeper water and away from the already problematic vegetation -- but I made do. No strikes at all, aside from one little chub in the outflow.
I found a protected cove and kept twitching a minnow lure over the grass. Finally I had a big bass hit. And come off within seconds. A few casts later, something big swirled at it and missed. That was the only excitement of the day (unless you count losing a lure in the brush).
I'm pretty sure that's more skunkings already this year than I had all last year (and maybe as many as the last two years combined). Normally I wouldn't mind too much -- conditions have been bad and everyone can have a bad streak -- but I know it's unlikely I'll get out anytime in the next few weeks. So for now, it's blogging, shopping for equipment online, and -- if the Vitamin C kicks in -- learning to tie my own poppers.
Wish me sanity.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Doug Stange, et al - Channel Catfish Fever
Channel Catfish Fever by Doug StangeMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
There's some pretty great stuff here, but some of it needs to be updated and some of it gets repetitive. The authors should have worked more anecdotes into how-to sections of the book.
The system here is pretty basic, and easily grasped. There are some interesting rigs explained, and the discussion about the longer European rods is particularly intriguing. I prefer longer fly rods (particularly for nymphing), but usually use relatively short spinning and casting rods, which I might want to re-think for certain situations.
Anyway, it's a quick read, and useful for novice cat-anglers. I've got no sense of the literature on the subject, but this seems like a reasonable place to start.
View all my reviews >>
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
C. Boyd Pfeiffer -- Bug Making
Bug Making by C. Boyd PfeifferMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
It's a pretty great intro to the field (as far as a novice can tell). It's nearly encyclopedic in scope (covering foam, cork, balsa, injection foam, etc. for freshwater, saltwater, trout, bass, billfish, panfish, etc.), but at the same time it's succinct. Pfeiffer's description are clear and easy to follow, which is the main thing you want in a book like this one.
There are plenty of b&w pictures here, and they're useful, but it would be nice to have color plates to go with it. Not so much to see the colors of the bugs (you should know what color to use for your bee pattern), but to make everything a little sharper and more distinct for the trickier techniques.
Some of the info must be a little outdated (the list of suppliers/distributors, for example, and the bibliography), and I'm not sure what advances might have been made in materials since the book was written. Even so, the basic principles are clearly laid-out and very accessible, and the main points probably haven't changed too much.
View all my reviews >>
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