Anglenook

Keither Fulsher -- Thunder Creek Flies

2011-09-11T16:36:00.001-04:00

Thunder Creek Flies: Tying and Fishing the Classic Baitfish Imitations by Keith Fulsher

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I'm probably overrating this book at 4 stars, but there's solid writing, great pictures, and clear tying descriptions. I would have enjoyed seeing more photos of the baitfish the patterns match, and I thought some of the non-recipe sections could have been a little more detailed, but I'll admit they're sort of tangential to the point of the book.

I haven't tied or fished any of the patterns yet, but I'm looking forward to doing so.

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Christopher Camuto -- A Fly Fisher's Blue Ridge

2011-05-12T14:42:00.000-04:00

A Fly Fisherman's Blue Ridge by Christopher Camuto

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It's a very pleasing read, and not only because much of the book takes place on what I'm starting to think of as my home trout water. Camuto does a great job of mixing the scientific research with wilderness and historical narrative. Some of the research specifics might seem a little dated, given its focus on acid rain, but it's still a relevant topic and message (though I use that word a little hesitantly, as there's little of the polemic here).

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Harry Murray -- Virginia Blue-Ribbon Streams

2011-04-03T20:51:00.000-04:00

Virginia Blue-Ribbon Streams: A Fly-Fishing Guide by Harry Murray

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is good for one it is, a relatively detailed overview of some of the major streams in Virginia. It's got useful details and good artwork, but the problem is simply that there are several of these sorts of books, and at least one that's far more comprehensive. If you can pick this one up cheaply, it's probably worth it to fill out your research, but it's probably inessential.

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Kevin C Kelleher, Misako Ishimura -- Tenkara

2011-03-23T21:43:00.000-04:00

Tenkara: Radically Simple, Ultralight Fly Fishing by Kevin C Kelleher

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It does its job perfectly, introducing tenkara fishing in a way that's as simple as the sport warrants, yet still relatively comprehensive. Experienced anglers won't be bored, and new anglers won't be overwhelmed.

You could probably just about go from knowing nothing to catching a fish simply by using the book. That said, it works best in the context of other fishing instruction/literature (and, of course, nothing teaches like time on the water, ideally with an experienced person). There's plenty of more room for talk about reading the water, etc. My only other wish is that the knot illustrations had been clearer (or shown more steps).

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Roderick Haig-Brown -- A River Never Sleeps

2011-03-15T20:00:00.002-04:00

A River Never Sleeps by Roderick L. Haig-Brown

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It's pretty easy to see why this one's so highly regarded. Haig-Brown comes closer to over-writing at times, but doesn't, and everything's pretty straightforward in a rewarding way. There are more than just fishing exploits, but he writes those extremely well. His successes are rarely cause for self-congratulation, and his failures are never cause for misery. He seems to be perpetually exploring and learning, and it's engaging. By the mid-point of the book, I was pretty sure that I would have enjoyed fishing with Haig-Brown, and by the end of the book I was convinced I was born a half century too late, even if (especially if?) it would have meant roughing it for a living.

I think this one works best when it's read slowly and over a period of time, properly absorbed. There are a few spots that drag, but otherwise you'll want to both keep reading and keep slowing down.

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Rise Forms -- new fly fishing magazine

2010-12-02T09:37:00.004-05:00

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.

How to Salvage a Trip

2010-06-10T18:16:00.000-04:00

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.

Few Fish, Much Fun

2010-05-17T18:08:00.001-04:00

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.

Rise Forms

2010-05-15T13:21:00.003-04:00

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

Rough Day

2010-05-09T21:38:00.001-04:00

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.

The Early Season

2010-03-20T16:49:00.003-04:00

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.

Doug Stange, et al - Channel Catfish Fever

2010-02-15T16:57:00.000-05:00

Channel Catfish Fever by Doug Stange

My 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.

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C. Boyd Pfeiffer -- Bug Making

2010-02-09T18:31:00.001-05:00

Bug Making by C. Boyd Pfeiffer

My 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.

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Ed Shenk -- Ed Shenk's Fly Rod Trouting

2009-12-06T21:31:00.001-05:00

Wow, two months? Really? I'll try to get back to more blogging...

Ed Shenk's Fly Rod Trouting by Elisabeth Sheldon

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This one comes close. Shenk is clearly a talented angler and writer, and I'm sure anyone who's spent a day on the water with him had an enjoyable time. Unfortunately, the book's just boiled down too much. The early stories are almost journalistic in their I-used-a-hopper-and-caught-18-fish approach. The techniques are useful, and his writing on his love for the shorter rods is enlightening.

The real highlight here, and what makes the book worth the shelfspace, is the epic chase after Old George, easily one of the best fishing stories I've ever heard.

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Of all days to forget the camera...

2009-10-10T17:05:00.003-04:00

You can probably tell by the big gaps in post that I haven't any outings ridiculously good, ridiculously bad, or just ridiculous lately (though I do have a few more reports to get up this year). Today, though, was a very strange one, and of course I managed to forget my camera when I could have used it a few times.

They stocked the "lakes" (and I use this term rather than "ponds" because that's technically the name) in an area park this week. I'd rather be somewhere more exciting, but you take what you can get, so I figured I'd head out for a couple hours in the rain this morning, and just throw some nightcrawlers to see if I can get into bass, panfish, or catfish, if the trout weren't biting.

I walked past the three people already fishing who probably had the energy to set their alarms last night (presumably not Red Sox or Angels fans). No luck, so I took the trail around the lake through a bit of woods. I came to a snake on the trail, who seemed to have no interest in moving for me. I thought at first that it was a black snake, but it had these bands around it, and a troublingly triangular head. Still, it was in my way, so I did what any thinking person would do: I poked it with my rod.

It didn't flinch. Was it dead. I tried to roll it over, at which point it raised its head and gave me a really dirty look. Given the slitty eyes and the white underbelly, this thing was looking like a cottonmouth, and despite all scientific evidence that they don't live in Albemarle County, it looked like one, so I left.* With no photo.

On my way back around the lake, I saw something stirring on the surface of the lake. I got closer and saw it was a turtle taking bites out of a chunk of fishing floating there. No camera (though I'm not sure I needed that shot).

I took a little bluegill and was trying to figure out what to do about the bum fishing, when it suddenly turned on. I took 4 bass up to about 11 inches and one decent 'gill over the next 30-40 minutes, and I lost a monster bluegill near the bank. Suddenly it stopped.

I don't think it was related, but a group of six, mostly kids, had showed up and marked their spots all along the bank. One did catch a bluegill, which they called a "perch".** It was a nice group, but I needed some space. I was ready for new tactics, so I tied on my floating minnow and headed for the lower lake.

Shortly after, I heard a big commotion in the woods behind me. I turned and saw a huge buck running between the trees. I couldn't count, but I'm sure he had at least 8 points, and I'd believe 10 or 12, on a wonderfully symmetrical rack. No camera.

Then back to the upper lake, where I quickly snagged someone's fishing line. I could feel a light throb as I reeled in, so once I got my lure to the bank, I grabbed the other line by hand and pulled it -- and the 13-inch rainbow trout attached -- to shore. The fish had been hooked deep with a bait hook and was bleeding, and he had apparently broken off an angler's line, but not at the hook or the swivel -- the line must have somehow broken near the reel, because there was a long distance out. I gave the trout to the family, and after a few casts with my Pcola spoon went home.

So it was an odd day, with lots to report on considering I only caught six of my own fish. Despite the fun, I remembered why that's not my preferred fishing. I listened to other people talk about where the stocking truck had dumped the fish (coincidentally right next to where nearly all the trout I saw had been caught), about following the trucks around and then catching a limit, about snagging carp with big lures. Not really my scene.

Still, I wish I'd had my camera.

*If anyone can convince me that this was something else, I'd love to hear it. I hate to be someone wildly reporting a dangerous animal where it's not supposed to live, but I really can't find anything else that had that combination of viper head and eyes, black-on-black banding, and white belly.

**This is apparently a regional thing, as it's not the first time I've encountered it. Before I realized this usage, I was looked at like I was an idiot when I once expressed surprise that there were "perch" in a pond.

New Looks at an Old Site

2009-09-01T22:36:00.000-04:00

There's a park in town I've fished a few times, and I haven't made up my mind what I think of it. I've never been skunked, and I did have one of the best outings of my life there last summer. Other than that day, though, I've never really done great. I usually manage a handful of fish, none too big.

But I go there because it's accessible and fits my schedule, and because I know that great outings are possible. The only downside is that the hike on the trail is like walking on the beach, which is a little annoying.

I was there a few weeks ago with pretty good luck, catching a few bass, losing a decent one, and getting into some big 'gills. The highlight of the trip was seeing a bald eagle, something I've only done once or twice before. The big bird even landed on a tree branch for a few seconds so I could get a good look.

More recently, I headed back when I had a short window. I took a chub and a little smallie on 2 of my first 5 casts with a floating minnow lure, so I thought the day would be a busy one. Then it cooled. I watched a 2-foot longnose gar twice look at and refuse my bait, and then I spooked a largemouth.

Heading out of the water was the key, though. I decided to try to find a way through the woods to a paved trail, which would save me plenty of time fishing this spot. I saw some people who'd been picking plants heading through the trees, so I chased after them, and discovered they were using a trail. I went up the trail and discovered...a cricket game? I've seen some strange things in the wild, but people playing cricket might be the oddest.

I backtracked, followed an alternate path, and came out at a parking lot. Even better than just coming out at the trail. I took the paved road back to where I'd parked and decided to try downstream. To my great joy, there was a path I'd never seen (more like a clearing, really) that led to a nice pool downstream. I fished that pool, and the calm water just downstream from it and took maybe a dozen or so fish, including largemouths, bluegill, and even a crappie. I didn't have time to explore further downstream, but it looks like there's some good water that way, too.

There was even one moment of excitement in there, when something huge struck my minnow. I never got a good hookset, but I saw a flash of fish, seemingly too long to be smallie, but to thick to be a musky or a gar. With the visible vertical markings, I suspect it was an unusually big smallmouth. Which means I'll be back.

Sometimes fishing is about getting away from it, but sometimes you just don't have time for that, and I'm happy to find a place that's manageable with only a couple hours free.

A Bully Saves the Day

2009-08-27T19:20:00.000-04:00

I've been slacking with the posts lately, but I should have some more writing time freed up, so let's get back to it.

About a month or so ago, I took the fly rod out after some bass. Working my way far downstream, I passed four other anglers. None of them admitted to catching a fish, which was a little troubling, and my day started off slowly. I was looking for a big bass and was sticking mostly to the bottom. I didn't have a single hit.

Finally, I figured it was time to just catch some 'gills, and hope the bass might show up. I tied on a small popper with a new fly I'd been meaning to try out, Bully's Bluegill Spider. I don't know if if was the fly switch of the sun suddenly coming out, but the hits started. I took a number of fair-sized panfish, mostly on the spider.

Finally, a bass hit. He wasn't a monster, but he was 12 or 13 inches. I hung on through three jumps, and then he burrowed deep. I saw him angle for a boulder and I tried to lead him past it. No luck. I felt the line stick, but could feel a slight throb. The line was snagged on the boulder, but the fish was still on. I've caught fish like this before. I plucked the line, and when that didn't work, I waded out to him. I saw him come loose just before I reached him.

That was my only bass encounter of the day, but I did see a pretty large smallie take a swipe at bluegill I was bringing in. That happened at least once last summer, only a hundred yards or so from this spot. I've got to start throwing some of those bluegill patterns...

Anyway, I couldn't complain. The fishing died completely after maybe an hour, but I had kept plenty busy on a day when no one else seemed to be doing anything. I was optimistic about tying into some bass over 15 inches on that outing, but changing expectations and plans made for a fun day even without the big ones.

If you're interested in the Bully's Bluegill Spider pattern, I recommend (again) Bluegill Fly Fishing and Flies by the Wilsons. You'll get a good pattern, pics, and the story behind the fly, as well as tons of great info on bluegill fly fishing in general.

Even the Stupid Days Are Fine

2009-07-13T18:57:00.000-04:00

I had a few hours to get out on Sunday, so I thought I'd take my newish 5wt to a local park (more on this place in a future post) and spend the time catching some bluegill. The park isn't very productive, but there are a few holes that are reliable for panfish, with the occasional smallmouth thrown in, too. The real benefit to the place is that it's a very short drive, and there's a paved trail that runs next to the river for over a mile.

I got into the spot that I expected to be most productive -- actually the only spot on the river I'm truly optimistic about. I make a few casts, and the sky darkens, the wind picks up, and I hear thunder. "It's trucks on the highway," I tell myself. I try to convince myself, but I'm not buying it. The problem is that I'm heading off on a wade that has little in the way of extrication options, and if a storm's coming, I don't want to get caught in waist-high water far from an access point.

I climb out, and check out the sky one last time to convince myself, it's really, truly, a storm coming. I start walking back to the car. After about half a mile. The sun comes out, the wind dies down, and the thunder stops.

At this point, I have to choose between re-tracing my steps or just jumping in the river at the next good spot. Given that I'm only out for a relaxing day, I don't bother re-tracing my steps. Which means, of course, that I only manage to catch one bluegill all day. And fall directly onto my knees on some rocks.

I also manage to somehow foul up my dropper rig, leading me just to nip off one fly and stick with Bully's Bluegill Spider (more on this in a later post, too). At one point, I can't lift my line off the water to cast. Puzzled, I discover I've hooked a long length of monofilament. In my effort to pull it in, I discovered one end is tied to a beer bottle. I leave it. I usually pack out other people's trash, but I'm not sure what I can do with 30 feet of mono and a beer bottle, and I'm also not entirely convinced it isn't some sort of bait trap or something (and I have no idea how far the line extends in the other direction.

I'm about to head to the car, and I decide to take a few casts right by the parking lot. It looks like a bit of a dud, but sometimes you catch fish that other people pass up because they're too obvious. Nothing at all.

The high point of the day: some swimmers just down from this final spot call to me and point out some deer crossing the river upstream from me. They're both big, and the one in front is a buck with an impressive rack, probably 8 or 10 points (it's just a little too far to count).

I head back to the car. I run into a guy with a canoe, and it turns out he's a fly angler, too, and I enjoy our conversation. He recommends a new spot for me to try (actually, parking for a spot I'd been meaning to try), and I figure I'll hit it soon.

So, all in all, a pretty stupid day, but I still had fun.

Gear Review: L.L. Bean Ultralight Combo

2009-07-01T18:37:00.000-04:00

It's been a slow few weeks as far as fishing is concerned, but I'll still get some new stories up soon (and eventually return to the original idea of this blog, which was to write up some of the old stories, rather than just provide outing reports).

Anyway, thanks to dumping a canoe, I've now managed to own two of L.L. Bean's Angler Spin Series Outfit, 5' Two-Piece Ultralight. The obvious review is that I re-bought it the day I sunk the first version, so it must be great. Well, yes and no.

I originally set out to simply replace my current ultralight reel, part of a combo I stole from my dad years ago. My biggest complaint was that it didn't have infinite anti-reverse.

It turns out that that's not as standard a feature as you would think on ultralight reels. Yet it's absolutely essential -- the first thing I look for in a reel (I'm not a gearhead by any means, so retriever ratio, ball bearing counts, etc. take me some more time to parse). Reels were getting more expensive than I thought, and I was beginning to see that a combo might be a smart way to go.

Then I found L.L. Bean's offering for about $35. Bean isn't known for underpricing, but they aren't known for making junk either. I ordered one. Not surprisingly, it was backordered for over a month. When I finally got it, I was pleased, but I need to offer a few caveats.

The rod is great -- no issues there at all. I've got fish ranging from half a foot to 23 inches and the rod's proven to be very sensitive and capable of protecting the line.

I was waiting to review the combo until the reel had a workout. The big catfish should have been that, but it never took line from the drag (even though I felt like I had it set light). I'm not sure what to make of that, so no news here on how smooth or loud the drag is.

The reel is truly infinite anti-reverse. So big plus there. Unfortunately, both reels I got came with too much line spooled on, and I wasn't a big fan of the curly line in general (I think it's Sufix, which should be a good choice). With both reels, I had a few snarls until I got down into it a ways. I'm not sure if this is from overspooling, improper spooling, line choice, or reel design, but my suspicion is it's some combination of the first three.

The other, more serious problem, involves the drag knob. Three times in one outing, I found the line catching on the drag knob, and winding on top of the reel instead of on the spool (leading to obvious problems). Even factoring in for user error as I was "guiding" and not fully attentive, it's still not an issue you should have to deal with. High-memory line, however, could contribute to the problem.

So, my conclusion: better than you might think. At $35, this combo is an absolute steal (unless the reel gives me further problems, which I doubt, considering I gave the first one a pretty good workout without this issue). It's an entry-level price for a better quality combo. If you're a hardcore ultralight enthusiast, it's probably not the combo for you. However, if, like me, you like an ultralight for occasional forays, or if you're a newcomer to the style looking for some inexpensive-but-quality equipment, it's a good place to go.

Drama! Excitement!

2009-06-08T18:44:00.000-04:00

About a week ago my wife and I had a day to get our canoe out on a local lake we'd never been on before. It's the first time we've had it out this year (and one of the few times we've ever had it out), and it would be the first time Nicole had ever fished from a canoe.

We were pretty excited, and got it launched without too much trouble. The reservoir had some other people out, but not too much pressure, and we headed for a secluded cove. We hadn't been fishing long when something big took my bait. I was using the ultralight, and I knew immediately that I was in for a real battle.

I slowly gained ground on the fish, and when I saw it flash, the sight confirmed it was bigger than anything I've caught in years. Nicole was cheering me on, and when I got it near the canoe, I was sure I was going to lose it when it surged under the boat. My rod tip was yanked under, but the line held.

I pulled the fish to the surface, and with only a little difficult, netted the beast. It turned out to be a 23-inch channel catfish, the biggest cat I've ever caught, and probably the second heaviest fish of any species I've ever taken, all on an ultralight rod in a canoe. When I brought him into the boat, he twisted his head and the knot gave way. Incredible.

Nicole was right in describing him as both "beautiful" an "majestic". I quickly slid him back into the water.

Nicole was getting bites, but no fish, and I took one more bluegill. We paddled to a new location (just out of curiosity). We had some issues with snags here, including me launching a cast two feet too far into a fallen tree. We finally got squared away, and the canoe sloooowly starting tilting to the left. And it kept tipping.

When we hit the water, I pushed back on the canoe to keep it from turning over, and I grabbed a rod. We were dunked, but we saved everything except my ultralight combo and one pack of hooks (notable only in showing how little we lost and how blessed we were). We dragged everything to shore and turned the canoe upside down.

A couple guys in a bass boat came by and held the canoe steady while we got back in. An older couple paddled by in their canoe and gave us snotty looks. Yes, I was properly embarrassed -- you don't need to remind me.

We fished a little longer, but some of the fun of it (for me at least) was gone. So we loaded up and went home. Content with having had a proper adventure.

Sidenote: in the continuing circle hook study, I took both fish on circle hooks. The cat was hooked securely in the upper lip, but the 'gill was gut-hooked, and, I suspect, didn't make it. Nicole didn't get any hook-ups on baitholder hooks with fluorocarbon leaders, but this may have more to do with hook-setting technique than with hook choice.

...Except When It Isn't (pt 2)

2009-06-02T21:32:00.001-04:00

A few weeks after the outing described in my last post, I headed back to the same stream. I had had a very hard hit in a pool the farthest upstream I had ever traveled. My plan was to hike up to that pool, start there and work upstream, covering entirely new water.

I couldn't resist a quick stop at the place where I had missed the two stockers on the previous outing. Almost immediately I saw my line hesitate, so I set the hook and landed a...rosyside dace. Well, at least the skunk was off.

I headed up to the pool I wanted to start at, holding myself to only a few casts here and there. I couldn't get anything to hit in that pool, although it looks good. I worked my way up to the next spot, and still nothing. I couldn't see anything that looked good, so I made my way back to the trail to make an easier way.

I hadn't gone 50 yards when I came to an SNP trail marker, letting me know that there were falls just ahead. I was unsure which way the main trail went, but I took a few steps and saw some pretty magnificent falls.

There's not point sidestepping something like that, so I took the little footpath and crawled my way up toward the top of the falls (and here's how you can tell I've matured -- I actually planned my exit strategy on the way in, which wasn't easy with a rod in hand; in the old days that would have been a potential disaster). About halfway up I stopped, ate a protein bar and drank some water, and admired the view.

I made it to the top, more or less, and got over to the water. It was a beautiful sight, but I did want to get back to fishing. I slid my way back to the main trail, crossed the stream and continued on. I didn't see any obvious fishing, figured I'd probably used up about as much time as I wanted to, and turned around.

On my way out, I ran into a pair of anglers on their way in, who asked if I'd fished upstream from the falls, explaining that it was much better than downstream, which is the only water I'd fished (and which I had already decided not to hit again too often because I was suspicious of its quality, despite taking three native brookies my first time through there).

I was feeling a little silly about things, but I was pleased to have learned a little about the water. I went down to the parking lot and headed for a nearby pool. Some hikers were going by, which meant the odds of me hooking my own ear or something were doubled. Instead, I saw the end of the fly line move a little oddly downsream and I set the hook, eventually bringing a nice stocker of about 9 inches to hand.

I worked my way on down. I snagged my nymph, retrieved it and then came the closest I've ever come to stepping on a snake, which was making its way downstream barely visible just in the water. I yelled, splashed, and did a general snake-avoidance dance before getting out of its way. I was so surprised that it had neither spooked nor bit me over all this that I went back to make sure it wasn't a stick. It was a snake, just going about its business.

Needless to say, that pool wasn't so fishable anymore.

I went home, and it wasn't until the next day that I realized how stupidly I had failed to execute my plan, which, I had learned, would have put me into better fishing water. I was frustrated for a second, and then realized I didn't care. I'd had a great day: a wonderful hike to a cool waterfall, learned something about a river, had a funny snake experience, and, incidentally, caught a trout.

So while I haven't reached that point (and kinda hope I never do) where catching fish never matters, there are definitely great ways to enjoy fishing without fish. Hopefully I'll get around soon to some further explanation on why I think this is.

It's All About the Fish... (pt 1)

2009-05-30T19:06:00.001-04:00

It's taken me a while to get to this post because I've been trying to figure out how to get the pics up from an old camera. Anyway:

A month or so ago, I headed out to an SNP stream that's stocked below and has native brookies up above. I planned to fish both sections, and of course was more optimistic than was reasonable.

Just a few casts into my outing, I hooked into a trout. I thought it was a small one, and even though I got it on the reel, I worked it in like it was a minnow. When I got him to my feet, I was shocked at how big he was (not huge, maybe 9 inches) and he was shocked that some human was reaching his hand in the water to pick him up. I'd left my net at home -- not a necessity in this area -- and it possibly cost me a fish, because once he saw he was in real danger, he took off downstream, over a little piece of rapids (if you can call it that) and the hook popped free.

I fished hard the rest of the day, with only a little luck, a tiny native brookie that I dropped before I could get a pic (and I have a friend who would say the camera was my whole problem -- I was certainly thinking about snapping on of that first fish while I was bringing him in).

I also fished this pool pretty thoroughly (and if you know the stream, you know where this is):

It's tricky to fish, because it's on a stream crossing, and unless you're the first person there, it's likely someone's fished it, splashed in it, or is currently swimming in it. I'm sure there are fish there, so I always take a few casts. This morning, like others, nothing happened. Then I had a perfect drift on my final cast and started bringing in my line. Suddenly a monster brookie rose up and hit a ... stick.

Really? My perfect cast and drift and proper fly and nothing. But a stick?

Eventually I went back to the stocked section where I had hooked the first trout, and this guy was in my way:

Even though it's just a garter snake (I'm relatively sure), I gave him some room and fished downstream a little. I quickly had a hit, set the hook and turned the fish, a typical-sized brookie. I got a look at him, but he immediately came loose. I was amazed at how this fish just materialized.

All in all, not a wasted day: I'd hooked three trout and landed one, and I'd seen a snake, and, at the very least, I'd spent a nice day outdoors, doing something I love in place that looks like this:

So why was I so bummed?

Well, sometimes it's all about the fish. I'd wanted to catch something that day, and felt like I hadn't. Any fishing writer worth his salt talks about how it isn't really about catching fish, but, for me, some days it is. Not all days, but sometimes the other stuff just isn't completely fulfilling.

Of course, in my defense, the other days can be pretty nice to... (to be continued)

"Cane" Pole Fishing

2009-05-29T20:08:00.000-04:00

I decided this spring to try something a little different. I regularly fish from the bank of a local lake in which lilypads quickly take over the first few feet of water. I've seen some decent bass in these area, and while I've been able to coax hits on floating worms cast past the pads and brought back over them, I've never been able to hook up. I'd also be glad to have an extra method to pull out bream and crappie from such areas.

My solution? A cane pole. And by "cane," I mean a 13-foot piece of telescoping graphite. But it's still the basic rig. I've never tried to do this before (though I wanted to years ago at The Pond), so I read up on it online and figured that was enough. I tied a 13-foot piece of 10-pond monofilament to the end, grabbed a couple bobbers and some worms and headed off.

It's a little late in the year for my purposes (and let's blame this on the backordering and shipping practices of a certain large retailer). The fish here have been starting to move deeper and the spawn, at least for most species, has happened and the fish are out a little more. Still, I figured I could have some fun.

Well, yes and no. It's hard than I thought it would be. I hadn't considered the amount of overheard clearance I'd need to "cast" in some situations, nor how heavy the pole would be after a few hours. I also thought I'd be able to get my bait and bobber into the water both more precisely and more quietly (although I think I can improve on both counts with practice).

In the end, I caught six very small 'gills, but not that I couldn't have caught with conventional tackle and a bobber. I think the real experiment will have to wait for next spring.

Interestingly, though, I tried circle hooks again. My hook-up ratio was far worse than on previous outings, but I blame this on the minuscule fish involved, apparently just pecking at the crawler pieces without inhaling the hook. On the upside, I didn't have any bad hooks, any difficult unhookings, or any blood.

One last thing: this sort of fishing, I suspect, won't match conventional or fly options for excitement, but there is something adrenaline-inducing when you realize you're swinging a spiny fish, with biggish hook directly at your face from 15 feet away. So at least there's that drama.

Howell Raines -- Fly Fishing Through the Midlife Crisis

2009-05-27T18:44:00.000-04:00

Fly Fishing Through The Midlife Crisis by Howell Raines

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

This turned out much better than I expected. Raines knows, importantly, what not to talk about, and he avoids heavy musings on the sorts of questions you associate with midlife crises, yet he's revealing at the same time.

In what I expected to be clunky insertions, he includes sections on famous anglers he's spent time with (such as Ray Scott and Bob Clouser) and presidents who fished. These chapters serve to further explorations about some of his key themes, and rather than being simple biographical snapshots, they're fascinating looks into the psyches, fishing habits, and the relationships between the two.

This is a fine read, worth it for fishing stories and historical overviews, but also for the autobiographical slant.

View all my reviews.

Big Day

2009-05-26T20:41:00.000-04:00

Saturday was Jasper's birthday, so we headed out for what a friend accurately described as an "epic" day. The day involved a picnic; feeding ducks, geese, and koi; a very exciting train ride; and, of course, fishing.

We were using nightcrawlers on circle hooks. My dad was helping Ava, and they were fishing theirs under a bobber. I initially was throwing mine with split shot and getting it on the bottom. I got heavily outfished, so I switched to the bobber and got my only hit of the day.

Ava dominated the day, landing 2 bluegill, which would have been fun enough. The first treasure was that fish number one was a catfish. She said weeks ago she really wanted to catch a catfish, so I was thrilled when I saw the silvery form coming in. It was maybe 10 inches or so, hefty for a 2-foot-long Dora rod, and Ava was thrilled to touch its whiskers (and she's now caught the same number of channel catfish in her life as I have). Unfortunately, the camera was busy taking Jasper and his mom for a walk that day.

Ava's other fish was a legitimate trophy, all things considered, a largemouth bass that, measured against my rod, went between 12 and 12.5 inches. It was all Ava and Pappy could do to reel it in. Here's the monster fish:

And here's Ava, unprompted, doing her best Jimmy Houston impression:

All in all, a pretty amazing day. And it may be that the kid is outfishing me already...

The Circle Hook Experiment

2009-05-25T13:44:00.001-04:00

The last two outings that we've taken the kids on (more on the second in a later post), I've experimented with circle hooks. I've had two issues with kid fishing (and with my own, for that matter) that I thought circle hooks might resolve:

1) Ava, at less than 4, isn't really able to set the hook. Not only is her age a factor, but using a 2-foot rod with curly, cheap line isn't ideal.

2) Setting the hook when using a bobber is hard. This sounds stupid, but for those of us who have spent years learning to feel the line with a sinker or with a lure, it's hard to tell when to set the hook when the bobber's dipping, and how to keep the slack out of it.

The circle hook, I reasoned, would resolve this issues by eliminating the need to set the hook. I used the slightly different Gamakatsu octupus circle hooks, in either size 4 or 6. So here are the results of my experiments:

On my own rod, I had a total of 7 bites over about 90 minutes (all but one while not using a bobber). Without ever setting the hook myself, I hooked and landed 4 fish (I think 1 bass and 4 bluegill). I missed two (which I chalk up to little 'gills nibbling at the tips of worms), and it one instance I lost the whole hook. I'd blame it on a bad knot, except I'd already landed 3 fish on it. I'm not sure what happened. All four of my fish were hooked perfectly in the corner of the jaw.

Ava, with the assistance of first my stepdad and then her dad, caught 5 fish. There were a few bites that resulted in hook-set attempts, all of which failed. I'll save some of the details on the fish for my next post, but you've already seen the trout Ava caught. Unfortunately, this one was hooked in the bottom of the mouth. After the bobber started running, my stepdad gave a little hookset here, so I don't know if that's too blame. The fish bled a little, and its revival was questionable.

Of the other 4 fish, 3 were hooked in the corner of the jaw, but one little gill was hooked through the top of the mouth, coming out between its eyes. The good news is that nearly all the hooks were exactly where they should be. The bad news is that the hooks are very thick, which led to a couple bleeding fish, and noticeable wounds. The other bad news is that with the thick wire and big barbs, hook removal was a little difficult, esp. on one fish where the hook had gone through the lip and re-entered the lip from the outside. Fortunately, all the fish except the trout were released with no noticeable trauma and swam off quickly.

One other note: I had a terrible time keeping vienna sausages on the hook, largely, I think, because the hook was too thick (even trying to use enough weight to cast with just a gentle lob).

My conclusions (obv. drawn after not a whole lot of research):

1) This is definitely an aid for helping kids catch fish. Ava landed all her fish without once needing a hookset (the trout being a strange case).

2) This is an aid for catching fish on a bobber. There's no question when the fish is on. When the bobber seems to be moving on its own, gently reel tight and the fish, if it's mouthed the hook, will be there.

3) The hooks are too thick for small freshwater purposes. I'd like a lighter wire hook for our target species, although that might change the effectiveness. I won't be using these hooks for my general fishing for that reason, although I might use them for catfish.

4) I'm not sure how to get around the thick-hook-fragile-bait issue, and am not sure how something like chicken livers would hold up. It may be that there are lighter wire circle hooks available.

As always, I'd be interested to hear other people's thoughts.

First Trout!

2009-05-20T18:10:00.000-04:00

About a week and a half ago, we got the kids back out fishing, this time with my mom and stepdad. I brought along some circle hooks (more on that in my next post), as much for an experiment as for anything else. In the length of time it took Ava to get to the potty and back, I was convinced they'd help her catch fish, so I tied one on for her (the idea being that she wouldn't have to set the hook).

A short time later, she's reeling frantically, and I catch just a flash of silver, enough to tell that it's something elongated. She reels it in, and it's this:

Ava's first trout! And a brookie no, less (significant only for being my favorite kind). A fish is a fish to Ava, of course, but I'm pretty excited by it. The whole event was overshadowed by worms and a picnic and some playground activity, but that's probably as it should be.

Pay Attention

2009-05-13T19:43:00.000-04:00

Just a quick one tonight, but more Anglenook coming soon (with pictures! with first trout! with circle hook experiments!):

About a month or so I went out to the nearest lake and took 8 or 9 fish, including some nice crappie. For once, I convinced myself to do something I'd read about but never tried, which is to switch tactics when you're catching fish (as opposed to when you're not). The idea is that you might be on to something good, but that could be causing you to miss out on the best (yes, there are some theological implications here -- I'll save that for another forum).

So I was catching them on topwater. I knew that at that time of year, under those conditions, I could do that. I had done it last year, and I was doing it right then. So I started switching, trying different lures and different retrieves. I had a variety of results, but I also gathered some information for future use.

The following weekend I had just a couple hours, but I zipped out to a pond about 25 minutes away. Here's where I should have paid attention. When the Fish Commission notes that there's a "Kids Fishing Day" coming up, remember what day it is, and don't go to any of those locations. [That's "Pay Attention" #1.]

Having wasted about 50 minutes in a car, I finally got to somewhere I could fish. I stepped out of the car, and half the sole on one of my shoes peeled off. I'm not especially hard on clothes, gear, etc., but this is the third pair of shoes I've ruined while fishing in less than 12 months. Since I was stuck with clopping around the lake, of course it was crowded.

And of course, the fishing was slow. I tried to duplicate the previous week's action but only caught a few. It doesn't meant the day was a waste. I always talk to other anglers I see, partly because I'm friendly (usually) and partly because I'm curious. While there's a stereotype of the tight-lipped fisher hiding his holes and tactics, that's rarely the reality. Most people are more than willing to share their tricks, maybe because they're kind or maybe because they like to show off, or maybe it's just neighborly.

[Note: I'm a little bit tight-lipped.]

I talked briefly with a guy on my way in, and we crossed paths later, so he squatted down next to me and went over some of his gear. He's been catching some big bass, and he let me in on some access points to the local river that he's had good action at. Totally unnecessary to share, but very much appreciated. That info + Google Maps = more fish. [There's "Pay Attention" #2 for you.]

Of course, maybe it's just me. I've been told that there's something about my face that encourages people to open up to me, so maybe I should be a teacher or a preacher or a counselor. I suspect it's more that when I'm on the water, I sometimes carry a vague expression of incompetence. Throw in a funny-looking hat and a half-broken pair of shoes and I'm practically a charity case. When the guy using the surf rod for 5-lb bass looks at my little ultralight*, how can there not be a lesson to follow.

*It's a new one; a review of L.L. Bean's hot new combo coming soon, too.

Help a Vet

2009-05-07T16:13:00.000-04:00

Through the joys of Freecycle, I met an interesting guy recently. "Big John" Miska, as it turns out, seems to be generally up to some interesting stuff, as a quick Google will show you.

What's relevant here is that John is gathering up fly fishing donations to use to take wounded veterans out on outings. John is affiliated with Project Healing Waters, but this project isn't (though it's not dissimilar in theory). Basically, he wants to start doing a little more for some of the vets in the area, and needs some gear to make it happen (and maybe eventually start a PHW group closer to this area).

In particular, he's interested in old bamboo fly rods, as he knows a guy who can fix them up at a reasonable price.

If you're interested in learning more about the project or in donating, you can reach John at bigjohn@cstone.net.

Lefty Kreh's Longer Fly Casting

2009-05-03T14:37:00.001-04:00

Lefty Kreh's Longer Fly Casting, New and Revised: The Compact, Practical Handbook That Will Add Ten Feet--Or More--To Your Cast by Lefty Kreh

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars

This one's fine. It's a not-too-detailed look at how to improve your fly casting. It's mostly straightforward, but it's very brief, with drawings that are usually clear and useful. If you wanted to learn to (or improve) your fly casting, you'd want to go somewhere else.

Kreh teaches a different style of casting than I've seen elsewhere. I saw him demonstrate it at an outdoor show in Denver (where I couldn't hear him that well), so the sections on basic casting in this book made sense to me. However, I'm not sure how clear they'd be to someone who hadn't seen it in practice, especially since it goes against much of what we're typically taught.

There's not enough "why" in this book -- even if you learn the technique, I think it's always good to have a fuller understanding of why something works.

View all my reviews.

Bob Clouser -- Clouser's Flies

2009-05-02T19:49:00.000-04:00

Clouser's Flies: Tying And Fishing the Fly Patterns of Bob Clouser by Bob Clouser

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars

I was going to wait to review this one until I had tied and fished more of the patterns in the book, but it's not necessary.

The book's strengths are obvious: clear descriptions, and big, colorful pictures. I've been tying Clousers for years, but one night with the book immediately improved them. Clouser gives detailed instructions even down to the level of how to properly anchor your eyes, how to epoxy, etc.

This one does have advice on how to fish the patterns. While it's certainly enough to get you started, I think it works best as a partner to his Fly-Fishing for Smallmouth Bass book, which goes into far more detail.

So, yeah, if you're tying for smallies, this one's probably essential.

View all my reviews.

First Fish

2009-04-26T22:25:00.000-04:00

A week ago we took the kids out for their first real fishing trip ever. Last year we went out briefly, caught a bluegill and then looked for frogs while keeping Jasper from cannonballing into the lake.

This time around, Ava was excited to be fishing, so I took her to the place I mentioned a while back that I hoped would work out for them. We had a Dora rod, a little tackle box, a bobber, and some nightcrawlers -- a perfect set-up for a three and a half year old. I had to do the casting (and provide varying degrees of hooksetting help), but it didn't take long until we brought the first fish (ever!) to hand:

The kids, happily, were thrilled. I didn't know how they'd respond, but they were both fascinated. Of course, some of us were equally interested in the bait as we were in the fish, but that's fine.

The kids took a break to go to the playground (and look at the mating frogs -- without explanation -- on the way), and after looking at some turtles, I started fishing. I had seen a huge bass earlier and was optimistic. The crappies were spawning, so I didn't go after them, but was hoping there were some post-spawners about.

I quickly took a decent bluegill and bass in the little cove. I moved back to the open area and switched to a topwater plug just to see what would happened. I had a strike from a huge crappie (hooked just enough to turn him and see the size) and then took a crappie and big 'gill.

Nicole and the kids came back, so I grabbed the Dora rod and went back to kid mode (mostly). Ava soon caught a blugill and a hefty 8-inch crappie, which put up quite a fight on the little rod. Unfortunately I didn't bring the camera to this part of the outing (although if I had I could also have photographed the northern watersnake the grown-ups saw). Then we hooked and lost a few. According to Ava, these fish wanted to eat the worm without trying to come up to say hi. Jasper started to get bored, and it seemed like a good idea to stop before Ava did, too. So even though she was still fishing intently. We stopped for ice cream on the way home, which was a perfect way to end a perfect day.

Mel Krieger -- The Essence of Flycasting

2009-04-22T17:56:00.000-04:00

The Essence of Flycasting by Mel Krieger

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

I'm reading one of Lefty Kreh's books on casting now, so it'll be interesting to compare. What I like so much about Krieger's is that he doesn't focus on precise mechanics (I feel like it's out of style now, but you still see writing that gets into the precise measurements, specific arm angles, etc.), but covers the "essence" (hence the title) of how a flycast works, primarily how the rod loads, what your loops need to do, etc.

The pictures are pretty useful here, b&w but very clear depictions of what Krieger's talking about.

There's a very small section on specialty casts. Nothing tricky here -- just stuff you'll actually need on the water (like the wiggle cast, etc.). This section's useful, but so brief that it feels a little tacked on. I'm not sure how I'd expand it, though, without getting into other entire areas.

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Dick Sternberg -- Fishing With Live Bait

2009-04-20T19:38:00.000-04:00

Fishing With Live Bait by Dick Sternberg

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars

I'm looking at this more for a side project of mine than because I'm actually planning on using the techniques, so I'm not sure how useful it was ever going to be to me. It's an interesting compendium, and -- as is usually the case with these books -- there are some great photos. I approve of the idea of starting with the bait rather than a target species and building a book around that

Its broadness is a weakness, though. You'll pick up a few tactics here and there for whatever you're doing, but I don't know that it will substantially improve your catch rates (though I will say it helped me get my daughter on to some panfish recently).

As a non-qualitative aside, there's some pretty gross stuff in here. Take that for what it's worth.

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Fishin' in the Wind

2009-04-19T17:30:00.001-04:00

A week or so ago I headed out to a local park with a couple ponds. I'd heard there were trout, bass, bluegill, and catfish in it, and I later learned that there are crappie as well (and possibly perch, although that term can mean different things to different people, and I've seen no signs of actual yellow perch).

Partly I wanted to catch fish, and partly I wanted to scope it out as a place to bring the kids (more on that in another post), so I just took my light spinning rod and a box of nightcrawlers. The day was rough, cold from the start, and I got hit by a slight shower.

I took an 11-inch bass and a reasonable sunfish pretty quickly. Both of these followed a slight disappointment. I already had my floating minnow tied on in the morning, so I started with that. I saw a silver flash come at it twice. I cast again, saw the same flash and paused the lure (sometimes a fish will come back to see why its prey stopped). A decent rainbow trout nosed up to lure and swam away quickly. It was the last sign I'd have of a trout all day.

The rain started and the fishing stopped, after such an optimistic start. After the rain, the wind picked up, probably the hardest I've ever fished in, and I knew I'd have to earn fish that day. I ended up with about 8 bluegill and 2 largemouths, not bad for just a few hours, considering the conditions.

The bluegill were of much bigger average size than I've seen around here, and the biggest was about 8 inches and fat. I caught him in a little cove, out of the wind, but on the side of the pond it was blowing into (the second bass came out of the same spot).

I checked the other pond in the park, which seemed to have fewer noticeable features, less accessibility, and more algae. However, I've sinced noticed that more people seem to fish that one. I'm not sure why.

Eventually I got out of the wooded area for fear of trees blowing down on me, but in the open it was hard. Without being able to simply pitch to structure, I had trouble casting, sometimes even letting the wind shoot my bait downwind, while I walked after it to take up the slack. Before long, it was too much work for too little expected reward (especially given that I was already pleased with the outing).

I was primarily happy for finding a place to take the kids, esp. my daughter, who's just becoming old enough to fish. There's lots of fishable water and plenty of panfish (with the chance of other species), so I think she can have some fun here. Today I proved myself right, but that's a post for another time...

Dave Hughes -- Essential Trout Flies

2009-04-18T09:53:00.000-04:00

Essential Trout Flies by Dave Hughes

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

What I had seen on the book before I picked it up was a little misleading (or at least I misunderstood it). Hughes doesn't present 31 patterns; instead, he presents 31 types or styles of flies, such as traditional dries, Wulffs, flymphs, etc. For each of these styles, he provides 6 or 7 varieties, so you actually end up with 200 or so clearly presented patterns, primarily targeted for trout. For each grouping, he provides precise instructions with good pictures of each step.

He also provides some very brief tips (a sentence or less) on how to fish each variety, so at least you have some sense of what to do with what you're looking at if it's something new to you. The overview of tools and materials is decent, too.

The book's primarily targeted just-past-beginner tyers. You probably wouldn't want this as a sole introduction (and I'd recommend a DVD or a class for that), but it's a good early book. Even so, I think intermediate tyers would benefit from a clear and handy guide to this number of patterns.

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Iced

2009-04-15T19:31:00.000-04:00

The morning started in a bad way (as future stories usually do). I had to scrape the ice of my car in the dark in order to drive to the river. I'd never done that before. I should have known.

But the night before was when I might have taken events as signs. I was just clumsy all night, from tying ugly flies to having a hard time tying the knots for my dropper rigs. I capped it all off my dropping my once-used Super Days Worth fly box on the cement basement floor and breaking part of it.

But I was off.

My fingers were in pain before I had finished rigging up, even with the neoprene gloves on. After getting set up, I had to take a break and put my hands inside my waders. I wasn't sure how I was going to fish.

As soon as my hands were marginally okay, I started casting. After only 6 casts or so, I saw the indicator pause and set the hook. A flash of silver told me I had a decent rainbow on and, after steering him clear of some brush, I landed an 11-incher. So already I had broken the two-outing skunk streak, and I was in a good mood.

I quickly moved into some riffles and started catching chubs. I worked my way upstream, and continued to catch fish almost constantly, but no trout. Instead, I got into tons of a fish I'd never seen before, and neither friends, family, nor members of two fly fishing forums could identify it from my description (this is when a camera would be really nice).

It was a little fish, typically about 5 inches or so. It was silver, with three dark vertical markings on its side. The tips of the tail and fins were all bright red. Someone suggested it might be a river redhorse, but it didn't have that kind of mouth. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know. I suggest it's a regional variant of something.

The big challenge of the day was keeping my guides ice-free. I'd never encountered this problem, and the first time I tried to cast and shot the line out the middle of the line was a strange experience. By lunchtime, the air had warmed up enough that the freezing water in my guides wasn't a problem, but it was an odd way to spend a Virginia morning.

Anyhow, I caught quite a few fish that day (beyond counting, which always equals good, regardless of species). I hiked back to where I started and talked to some other anglers, at which point at felt foolish. They told me the Delayed Harvest area extends downstream from where I started, but I'd been fishing upstream. I suspect they're right, as the water is certainly better that direction (which I proved by fishing for a while without a bite), but I've checked several guidebooks, all of which list it upstream.

Oh, well, I had a good day, took fish in some painful conditions, and don't really care if I fished the "right" stretch or not.

Bruce Ingram -- The James River Guide

2009-04-10T15:11:00.000-04:00

The James River Guide: Floating and Fishing on Virginia's Finest by Bruce Ingram

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

Much better than I expected. I thought it would be a pretty basic overview of the various floats on the river, but Ingram goes into some wildlife, history, etc. He dedicates some time to specific fishing locations and even lure suggestions (focusing on smallmouths). It's a quick read, but seemingly essential before tackling the James.

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Dave Hughes -- Trout Rigs and Methods

2009-04-08T23:15:00.000-04:00

Trout Rigs & Methods: What You Need to Know to Construct Rigs that Work for All Types of Trout Flies & the Most Effective Fishing Methods for Catching More & Larger Trout by Dave Hughes

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars

It's not exactly the kind of book you read straight through (though I did), but it's an amazing resource. Hughes provides tactics to cover pretty much every trout fishing situation you could come across, and explains it from rig to presentation.

Throw in the quick overviews on knots, gear, casting, etc., and you could just about use this book to guide your entire fishing. It's the kind of book that makes me wish I had this much knowledge about anything. I'm sure I'll be referencing it repeatedly.

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The Double Skunk

2009-03-20T10:04:00.000-04:00

I did something two weeks ago that I haven't done in years, if ever. I got skunked on two consecutive days.

The first day I worked hard. I was trying out a new stream in the SNP, heading into Whiteoak Canyon. I tried various flies and tactics, all with no luck. I might have had two hits all day, and didn't spot any fish. The stream was pretty low and it was still early in the year so I'm not taking too much offense.

The end of the hike was worth it, though. I knew there were a couple falls, but I was unprepared for just how magnificent they were. I hiked up about even with the top of the upper falls, finally shedding the clothes that the 40-degree start the morning necessitated. I sat up top for a while, decided that was a good cap to the day and that I'd hike out without stopping to fish.

I didn't make it, of course. I had to stop at this one pool that looks so perfect. One little bump on a nymph (maybe). Then someone's dogs waded into my pool. It had still been a splendid day.

The next day was less intense. It was 80 degrees and I had an hour or two free so I zipped out to the lake hoping to find some pre-spawn crappie, or maybe some gill. Nothing at all. The boat launch area was absolutely covered in bank fisherman, so I drove around to the other side, to where I'd caught fish pretty much all season long.

Not so much as a hit today. I'd have liked to have fished some bait this time of year, preferably hung under a bobber, but I didn't have time to go get any and was just outside to be outside.

I can't say I enjoyed getting double-skunked, but neither day was that bad. What it really means is that I *have* to catch fish this weekend, and I'm heading to a spot I'm not sure about how optimistic I should be. We'll see...

Fly Pattern Encyclopedia

2009-03-09T21:43:00.000-04:00

Federation of Fly Fishers, Fly Pattern Encyclopedia by Al Beatty

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars

This one's just not for me. There are some beautiful flies in here, but they're usually too complicated for my skills (and more complicated than what's necessary to catch fish). Between the complexity of the patterns and the use of unusual materials, it's not one I'll actually be using.

I'd also be interested to see some info on how/when to fish some of these flies. The backwards woolly bugger, for example -- when does this outfish the original? Some information like that, even if it meant the inclusion of fewer patterns, would have been great.

It's a book for fly tyers more than fly fishers. Good at what it is, but not for me.

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Dick Stewart -- Universal Fly Tying Guide

2009-03-05T19:02:00.000-05:00

Universal Fly Tying Guide by Dick Stewart

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars

An earlier edition of this book was the first fly tying pattern book I ever had, and that's probably where it should be. There's a decent introduction to a few techniques, and a good diagram of the proportions of some flies.

The pattern collection is pretty simple, and pretty small. Returning to it now, I don't always think these are the best versions of the flies (the hare's ear being the prime example), but there are no glaring problems here. As a cheap, concise intro, it's not a bad pick, but it won't served more advanced tiers.

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John Roberts -- Collins Illustrated Dictionary of Trout Flies

2009-03-02T16:06:00.000-05:00

Over the next week or so, I'm going to be posting my thoughts on a handful of fly tying books. Here's the first, on one that I bought out of a bargain book newspaper catalog I used to get until maybe 2000 or so:

Collins Illustrated Dictionary of Trout Flies by John Roberts

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars
This is one I just don't connect with. It's a great collection of recipes, with maybe 1000 patterns, and includes work by some great tiers. Just in the "W" section we get Whitlock, Wotton, and Wulff (and then throw in LaFontaine, Ruane, etc.).

So it's a great compendium, but that's it. There's not much instruction here, or instruction on how to fish the patterns. So I'm sort of criticizing it for being something it didn't mean to be, I admit.

It's also a bit British for my purposes, whether it's the certain terminology or certain patterns that just seem culturally off to me.

One oddity about using the book (though this is wise in terms of price and) is that the pictures of patterns are separate from the recipes, with a set of full-color plates in the middle of the book. It takes some flipping to see exactly what you're looking at and how to make it. But this is a reference volume, not an instructional manual. It's just not one that really does it for me.

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A Tail of Two Fishies (or, Best-Titled Story Ever)

2009-02-24T14:56:00.000-05:00

So a while back I mentioned the big brookie and the carp I caught by hand. They're connected by similar mysterious behavior.

The brookie was more dramatic. I was fishing my favorite trout stream, and trying to work some pocket water that I was always sure held trout but could never find any in. Something big hit my nymph and took off. I set myself for a tough fight, especially given the tricky footing and quick water. Very soon after the hookset, though, I saw my line angle toward a small boulder and then go tight under it. I could still feel the fish throbbing on my line, so I kept slack out and waded to the boulder.

I've caught fish before (usually bass) where I've had to free the line from tangles or wait for the fish to back out of weeds (sometimes you can induce this, at least on spinning gear, by plucking your line like a guitar string). This fish, though, had just cannonballed right under a boulder and stopped. When I reached it, I reached down and grabbed it near the tail and pulled it out. To my surprise, it was a gorgeous brookie about 15 inches long. Somehow it had wedged its head under the boulder and seemed unsure how to get out. I turned it loose and it seemed fine. I'm not sure how bright it was (especially given that it managed to get itself caught by me), but I'm not sure why else it would end up in such a predicament.

The carp was a little stranger, and I feel like I probably did something wrong. I was smallmouth fishing in my home county, working a stretch of water with Dad that, while productive, was more notable for the climb involved in exiting the river. I was upstream from him a ways when I caught site of a carp with its head in some weeds. I couldn't figure out how to make a cast, given that it's head was in the weeds.

I crept closer, and it didn't move. It was wiggling a little bit, or I'd have thought it was dead. I got close enough to poke it with my rod tip, but it didn't respond. I clambered up on a rock next to it and couldn't figure it out. It looked stuck. As far as I could tell, it wasn't spawning or anything. It just had managed to get its head (and gills, if I remember right) stuck on some weeds. I grabbed it by the tail and under the belly and lifted it up and back out of the weeds. I helped it revive, and watched it swim off. Then it struck me that I had perhaps intervened in some natural event I shouldn't have, but I'm not sure what that could have been (other than imminent death).

I'd be happy to hear any thoughts on this situation.

There it is. Two fish that managed to get their heads stuck. One a big brook trout in a cold, fast stream while hooked; the other an average-sized carp in a slow, warm river, apparently on its own. I still think both were a little weird.

Jack Ellis -- The Sunfishes

2009-02-13T16:46:00.000-05:00

The Sunfishes: A Fly Fishing Journey of Discovery by Jack Ellis

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars
The strength of Ellis's book is also its failing. Rather than focus on technique, flies, etc. (which he does well), he essentially constructs an argument for a particular approach to fishing, and the approach just isn't that appealing.

Ellis is a fly and trout snob. When he's forced to learn warmwater fishing, it doesn't breakdown his elitism, it just gives him one more thing to be elitist about. A fair bit of the time he's actually self-effacing, but when he mocks his snobbishness, there's no hint of regret that it's there. He's critical of boats, bass fisherman, plastic worms (which, oddly, he uses to find fish and then rationalizes -- I'll throw a live worm, but I won't apologize for it).

It is interesting to see someone developing an approach, and 15 years ago this might have been novel stuff. Oddly, he shifts focus from panfish (a word he loathes) to bass, which are technically sunfish, but not the focus for most of the book, nor what most people would expect.

Also, and this is minor gripe that just got to me because it happens twice, I'm pretty sure that a spotted bass isn't a type of smallmouth. Each are distinct species, and while a spot has a smaller mouth than a largemouth, that doesn't make it a type of smallmouth.

Recommendation: read the Wilsons' book on bluegill first, and if you're really hungry for more, then come to this one.

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Anglenook General Note

2009-02-04T19:53:00.000-05:00

I know, this wasn't supposed to turn into a reviews blog, and, don't worry, because it hasn't. I can't speak for my co-writers, but I've been swamped lately, and largely indoors. Once the fishing heats up again, I'll be posting more regularly and hopefully more entertainingly here, both about recent outings and -- as was initially the idea -- about stories from the past.

Stay tuned, I've got one coming up that involves both the biggest brook trout I've ever seen in person and a carp that I caught with my bare hands, and how the two experiences were strange and similar.

Bill Heavey -- If You Didn't Bring Jerky, What Did I Just Eat?

2009-02-04T19:51:00.001-05:00

If You Didn't Bring Jerky, What Did I Just Eat: Misadventures in Hunting, Fishing, and the Wilds of Suburbia by Bill Heavey

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Okay, I'm probably feeling a little generous giving this one 5 stars, but it's the best of its sort of thing I've read in a long time.

I think of Heavey as the F&S humor columnist. He's usually funny without being hilarious (there are touches of McManus here, but very few, and it's a pretty different aesthetic). Heavey plays the average guy well -- he's self-effacing, but he rarely makes himself into a complete idiot. He's a guy like you, except he gets to go cool places. And he also does things like forget his pants and end up hunting in his longjohns.

What I hadn't remembered about Heavey is how well he does serious, too, whether it's tackling the death of a kid (in an article I did remember very well, even if I'd forgotten the byline), a sad but unforgettable mountain lion hunt, or a Hunt of Lifetime trip.

This book was supposed to kill some time between bigger works, but it ended up being my favorite read in sometime, and one I could barely spread out properly.

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Flyfisher's Guide to Virginia - David Hart

2009-01-17T12:05:00.000-05:00

Flyfisher's Guide to Virginia: Including West Virginia's Best Fly Fishing Waters by David Hart

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
It's a very impressive overview of fly fishing opportunities in Virginia. From 2006, it seems pretty up-to-date (at least well matching the areas I've fished and even providing accurate directions to the locations). The hatch guides are useful, and while the quick run-down on necessary equipment is a bit perfunctory, the guide to assembling a basic fly assortment makes a good, quick intro to the subject. The takes on each fish species are very brief, but somewhat idiosyncratic, adding a nice flavor. This book would be pretty indispensable in exploring VA's fishing options.

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Bluegill... -- Roxanne and Terry Wilson

2008-11-29T12:55:00.000-05:00

Bluegill Fly Fishing & Flies by Roxanne Wilson

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Essential reading for the warm water fly fisher.

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A Semi-Perfect Day

2008-11-20T20:12:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I went out for what might be my last warmwater fishing outing of the year. I headed again to the lake, and I can't tell if I had a good trip or a disappointing one.

Here's the thing: this time of year, I don't expect to catch many fish. What I was hoping to get into was some really big bluegill. They fatten up this time of year, and some of my biggest sunfish have come in Octobers past. So I was only hoping to catch one or two fish, but of a quality sort. My day turned out a little differently.

I went to my favorite spot, and before long a massive 'gill hit just a few feet out from the bank. It easily would have been my biggest of the year, but (as my grammar gives away) the fish came off. I was fishing a tiny crankbait, and those little hooks are prone to pulling out.

No big deal, especially when a little while later, I started seeing bass strike at my lure. They wanted an exact angle and depth of retrieve, and when I could replicate that path, I'd get a strike. Finally a big one hit, maybe 15 inches. He didn't fight at all and I gave him a slow pump. Then he came up and didn't even shake his head, but just gave a real slow back-and-forth motion. The lure popped out.

I was a little disheartened, but I persisted in that spot until I was convinced that nothing else was going to hit. I moved to the spillway and finished the tiny pool between the lake and the creek. Remarkably, I started getting hits on nearly every cast. I took six or seven fish, including one little bass and one chub. The rest were typical undersized sunnies.

Now, had I known before arriving that I'd catch six or seven fish, I'd have been pleased with that prospect, but to have missed the two I was after was disappointing. While the brief flurry in the pool was fun, it also meant that all my catching over the course of a couple hours happened within a span of maybe 15 minutes. Had I been able to throw those first two fish that came off into the mix, I'd have called it a perfect outing, especially for October. Instead, I'm not sure how to feel.

The good thing, at least, is that catching the chub allowed me to figure out what the silver-flashing fish I had hooked and lost earlier in the spring were. I wouldn't have thought there were chubs in that lake, so I never considered it.

Okay, how I feel: I caught fish. That never feels bad. Let's take it at that and head into fly-tying season (minus cold-weather brookie fishing as soon as the spawn's over, of course).

Dick Sternberg - Panfish

2008-11-13T20:28:00.000-05:00

Panfish: The Complete Guide to Catching Sunfish, Crappies, White Bass and Yellow Perch by Creative Publishing international

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
It's a solid intro to the sport, with some extra detail and spots in too little in others. I got it largely for the photos (which are, for the most part, pretty impressive, esp. the underwaters shots), but I picked up some ideas here and there, too.

The odd thing about reading this book is that it feels a little like a time-warp, or at least a remove from what I normally read. There's no concern with catch-and-release here, which isn't too surprising given that it's a book on panfishing. Some of the techniques are just things I haven't seen discussed in a while, like peeling live crayfish, using chunks of perch to catch perch, etc.

All in all worth the read, and more worth the pics, but not groundbreaking or anything.

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Btw, we'll be back soon with more stories. This site hasn't turned into a reviews mag.

Lefty Kreh -- Fly Fishing for Bass: Smallmouth, Largemouth, and Exotics

2008-10-30T19:26:00.000-04:00

Fly Fishing for Bass: Smallmouth, Largemouth, and Exotics by Lefty Kreh

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Excellent at what it is, a quick look at what you need to know to chase bass with a fly rod. It's heavy on the instruction, with spare storytelling and few wasted words. It's simple enough for a beginner (but you'll have to go elsewhere for knots and other true intro stuff), but even more experienced anglers should find useful material here, even if it's just a necessary refresher.

The book's worth at least a library grab for the last chapter alone, where Kreh talks about chasing the exotics. The peacock bass isn't that odd these days, but the New Guinea fish (black and spot-tail bass) are pretty amazing, and Kreh's depictions of his adventures with these monster fish are the book's high point.

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Patrick McManus -- Kerplunk!

2008-10-28T16:17:00.000-04:00

Kerplunk by Patrick F. McManus

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
At one point I might have called McManus my favorite writer. Now I remember why.

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Bugs and Stuff

2008-10-03T15:54:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I headed up to one of the mountain streams, mistakenly thinking that water levels would be high enough to make fishing enjoyable. I was wrong, but still had an interesting day.

First, I wandered off the path early. The trail, easily wide enough for two people to walk side by side, crosses the stream. I forgot this (despite its obviousness) and headed up a steep bank on what eventually turned into just a deer trail. I had to scramble over rocks and fallen trees and try not to slide in the mud and fall of the cliff. When I finally found my way back down to streamside, I realized quickly what had happened, as I reconnected with the main trail after it re-crossed the river. I've rarely felt so foolish while hiking.

Had I gotten into some nice fish, it might have been worth it. Instead, I only caught two fish all day, totalling about 6 inches between them. The only adult trout I saw all day came after I made a perfect cast into a little nook, saw the dry fly stop, and set the hook, hoping to feel some weight on the nymph below. The fish wasn't there, and I saw him swim for cover after my hookset.

I did manage to catch a spider at one point, which marked a first. I was leaning over a boulder, trying to flip my flies into a tiny pocket. It was an awkward angle, necessitated by the fact that a large spiderweb was blocking my casting from downstream (and was too close to the hole to risk knocking it free). Finally a cast flipped too far onto the opposite, head-high boulder and slid against the web. As I brought my line in to clean it off, I noticed that my leader had not only the web on it, but also the spider. I did not panic, but the spider was removed.

Later I also did not panic when I saw a snake drop into the water a few feet upstream from me. I calmly said "Oh baby!" and jumped onto a rock.

Walking out, I stopped and considered that it couldn't be a terrible day. It was a gorgeous place, and even if I had sweated through not only my t-shirt but also my vest without catching a fish, I didn't care.

On the way out, I got my final treat, my first sighting of a millipede, of a size that I thought only existed in the tropics. I didn't have a camera, but it looked something like this:

I didn't touch it, but I stood next to it, and it was about half the length of my wader boot.

I assume this is why we write stories: to give fruitlessness a meaning.

A Tale of Two Great Expectations

2008-09-05T17:19:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I headed out on two brief excursions with different expectations, and discovered that neither trip matched up at all. Sunday morning I headed out at down to a local lake with my 4'10" ultralight and 4-lb test, partly to test out a new panfish lure I had picked up. I didn't have expectations to catch much -- if anything -- but it's always fun to have the ultralight out, and I hadn't done so all year. Things started off slow (accept for getting to see an odd little bird -- a baby heron maybe?), but then I got into a batch of thick bluegill, and one nice crappie. I lost one large fish that burrowed into some algae, and another big one that was most likely a bass, but that I only got a quick glimpse (and was surprised to see it flash silver).

When the fishing slowed, I moved to another section of the lake that I'd had good luck on in the spring. I took a few more big bluegill. I lost one more big silver-flasher and headed back to the car, satisfied with a very fun outing.

The next morning I got up a little later to hit the river at a park that only opens at 7am. I was the first one at the river, as far as I could tell, and I was excited. The last time I had been here was the trip where I had done so well with Dad. Given that it was Memorial Day weekend, I tempered my expectations a little, figuring the fish had been pounded throughout the weekend. Still, I was hoping to catch a smallmouth in the two-pound range, maybe around 15 inches.

Everything was lazy, or at least tentative. I stuck with it, tossing nightcrawlers and hoping as the water warmed the fish might become more active. I took a few little bluegills, and then some decent chubs. I took one smallie about seven inches. I covered a reasonable amount of water, watched the sole of my shoe unpeel, tied it together, and still couldn't find fish. I went home after a couple hours for a big family breakfast.

The thing was, the fishing had been pretty similar. Day one: six or seven fish in three hours, lost a few, and went home very happy. Day two: six or seven fish in two hours, none lost, and went home disappointed. The batch of fish from the first day weighed more and struck on top, but the real difference was my expectations and my equipment. Expect nothing and take an ultralight, and you're likely to be content; expect much and take a heavier rod, and you'll have to do better not to be disappointed. I'm not saying to lower your expectations, but maybe a little after-the-fact revision of what the day was like isn't actually so bad.

Carp

2008-08-26T17:47:00.000-04:00

I've caught very few carp in my life (although here's photographic evidence to prove it's happened at least once):

There was a point, though, where I was obsessed with trying. On my home river, the fish would gather annually for unknown reasons in massive schools. They rarely contained the largest carp I'd ever seen, but the sheer numbers made me think I could catch one. I tried all kinds of bait, even cooking up doughballs from a special recipe, but with no luck. I even had a friend claim at a local lake that one bit him on the finger, but we still couldn't get them to hit worms, corn, or anything else.

Still, I managed to go from no luck to bad luck. I hooked a nice one out on the lake with my dad. As I fought it, Dad frantically hoisted anchor. The carp, of course, still managed to wrap itself around the anchor line and come off.

On another occasion, one took my bait in a different stretch of the river. At the last minute, he wrapped himself around a submerged tree and snapped the line.

I felt cursed. What I didn't feel -- and should have -- was that I simply didn't know how to catch carp. [I still don't, and one of my plans for the winter is frantic reading and video-watching on this subject.] I plugged away, sitting motionless on the bank watching fish motionless below me.

Eventually I had my moment. We were smallmouth fishing, having a decent day, when I caught sight of a monstrous carp in the shallows. Unlike most of the ones I fished for by sight, this one was actively feeding, and I knew I had a chance. I crept as close as I dared, and cast my nightcrawler just upstream of him. I couldn't see the bait, but I focused on where I knew it must be. I never felt the take, but when the carp opened and closed his mouth in just the right spot, I set the hook.

Never before nor since had I felt such power at the end of my line. I had 6-lb test on my Ugly Stik lite, and I had never been happier to have a properly set drag. The fish took off across the river, angling downstream. While the drag gave it line, I ran down the bank, trying not to lose the fish. He took me up and down the river a few times and I was wearing out.

Then we spot the main hazard. A large tree limb complete with a full set of branches and twigs, was in the river, and the carp was angling past it. Dad rushed out into the river and moved it, dodging my line. I finally turned the fatigued fish to shore and brought him in.

I couldn't even guess his weight, but he went about 33 inches, as measured to a mark on my rod. I put my gear down and revived him, and he swam off. I was thrilled, tired, and shaking.

Oddly, that afternoon, the situation almost replayed itself a few miles away, as I just missed another (not quite as big) feeding carp. Not too long later, I'd repay the carp world when I found one that had wedged itself into some vegetation. I'm not sure how or why it had happened, but I actually had to help the struggling carp back out of crevice between two rocks in the weeds. I hesitated to intervene, in case there was a reason it was behaving that way, but it seemed concerned, so I did.

I haven't caught a carp in a number of years, although I tried just last weekend (and every time bass or bluegill took the lure, I tensed, hoping to set the hook on a carp, or even one of the big cats I saw every few minutes). Hopefully the next one will be as exciting -- although not as long in coming -- as the first one.

Charles R. Meck -- Fishing Small Streams With a Fly Rod

2008-08-24T18:40:00.000-04:00

Fishing Small Streams With a Fly Rod by Charles R. Meck

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
It's a decent read as an introductory guide, but not as informative as I had hoped. The ideal audience for this book are anglers who haven't fished small streams, as it's more about what to expect that anything else (if you've been on small streams, you've already realized you need to cast backhand, roll cast, etc). Some good discussion of fly selection and while it doesn't come up much these days, good arguments about catch-and-release and general conservation.

View all my reviews.

Bob Clouser's Fly-Fishing for Smallmouth

2008-08-18T15:54:00.000-04:00

I'm posting not because this is especially interesting, but because I felt like testing out this Goodreads review set-up:

Fly-Fishing for Smallmouth by Bob Clouser

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
A pretty amazing book by one of the key figures in the fields. Somehow he manages to make it feel like both an intro guide to the sport and one-volume resource for everything you need. Of course, it's not quite either -- the beginner would have to go elsewhere for knots, casting tips, etc; and the expert would want more details on presentations and the opportunity to consider other flies and techniques (although the last chapter does this somewhat) -- but it's pretty remarkable, running from fly and tackle selection to how to focus on trophy bass.

On top of it all: fantastic photographs.

View all my reviews.

The Pond, The Bass, The End

2008-08-14T15:20:00.000-04:00

We simply called it The Pond, and it was one of my favorite places to fish as a kid. You'll probably hear plenty about it in this blog.

The Pond was most notable for the absurd variety of fish it contained. I've caught at least nine species of fish out of it, and I know at least one more -- carp -- swims in it. It's quantity and variety of fish made it a great place to learn to fly fish, with fish taking on most casts, and a surprise result always possible.

What The Pond wasn't especially notable for was the size of its fish. Bass ten inches long were rare, and even though I once took a foot-long perch out of it, I never expected anything too exciting (unless, of course, I could ever tie into one of the carp cruising by without ever seeming to eat).

Of course all such places have their mysterious depths, and we were certain big fish must lurk in them. We'd try various tactics at night for catfish, always with no luck. We also tried some big bass lures, thinking that hours of casting for one monster fish would pay off, and that these guys had probably never seen such gargantuan lures. Nothing ever took. Then one summer I had a pair of encounters that would change how we viewed The Pond.

I was out with my fly rod, content to catch some panfish and whatever might bite. I set the hook on a small sunnie and started bringing it in. Suddenly, not more than 10 feet away, a monster bass came up and engulfed the little fish, completely. My rod bent in half and my body quit functioning. Then, just as quickly the bass was gone. I dragged in the sunnie and took a good look at it. Scales had been knocked off and it looked, well, chomped on. I don't think it was just my imagination that it was a little unnerved. Never has a fish been so happy to have been landed by an angler.

After that, I repeatedly plied the same area with flies (never once thinking to toss something that looked like a sunfish). I also threw nightcrawlers and typical bass lures, but it seemed like the fly rod was the way to go, and a little fly of my own design with elk hair and black dubbing was my primary choice. Eventually, the persistence paid off.

The tug on the end of my line wasn't anything special, but the immediate response was. I'd never had a fish this big on a fly rod before, and I'm not sure that I have since. Several times I got him in close enough to shore to get glimpses of a staggeringly big fish, and my friends were almost as overcome as I was. Twice he made long runs into the middle of The Pond, and twice I turned him back, thinking I had worn him out (as he had me), only to be disappointed. The third time, he headed for a brushpile more than halfway across the water. I knew if he reached that, I'd lose him.

When I tried to turn him away, my line went slack, and I was done for. I reeled in my line, with the fly still on. I was too rattled to think clearly, but, ever the optimist, promptly made plans to meet my cousin at dawn the next morning to try again. My brilliant plan: casting the same fly in the same spot less than 15 hours after this encounter.

Unfortunately, the next morning was one of the worst fishing experiences I've had. After trying unsuccessfully to rouse my cousin with the old pebbles-thrown-at-the-window trick, I reached The Pond while the mist was still heavy on it. I made a couple casts, when a man appeared at the dock to my right, drinking his morning coffee. The short version of the short conversation was that he -- and not the person we had asked permission for to access this side of the pond -- was the rightful landowner, and we were only allowed to stay on the other side of the pond.

I had no legal ground, I think, but I was frustrated. We had done what we thought was right by asking the resident of the house nearest The Pond, the one whose lawn bordered The Pond, if we could fish. We always could, and had discovered that we even knew the lady's grandson, so we would occasionally stop to chat (for teenagers anxious to fish, this was a kindness, but also a pleasant part of the experience). Throughout several summers of fishing we'd never had an incident, and I still suspect if the doctor hadn't seen an idiot in an saltwater hat interrupting his morning, the arrangement would have lasted.

I still don't know the full story concerning ownership and access rights. I assume the doctor who owned the land rented the house to the lady. I should think that would still mean she had the right to say who did or didn't use her ground, but maybe they had some sort of agreement about pond usage. At any rate, it killed our enthusiasm for the place, restricting our access to maybe half of what it had previously been (and making us generally uncomfortable to be there, even legally).

Starting the following summer, people began decorating the side of The Pond we did have access to, limiting fishing even further. The last time I was by, it looked as if it might now be impossible to get to the water, and certainly the intent is that no one walk near it. I can't help but think that, restricted to solely aesthetic value and given what feels like an aggressive stamp of ownership, a once great place has gone to waste. All I needed was one more morning, but I could have done with a few more years.

Why Dad Should Visit More Often

2008-08-08T11:20:00.000-04:00

My hiking boots were destroyed. I'd never wear them again. Both thumbs were raw and I had two cuts on my right hand. I hadn't had as good a day fishing as this one in a long time.

The day didn't start out promising. Dad was visiting, so I took him to a spot that was accessible, and which I expected to hold a few fish but nothing remarkable. When we got to the river, my opinion of the place was confirmed. Two guys had driven a pick-up down the sandy trail and backed the rear tires into the water. They sat on lawn chairs in the bed, drinking from a case of Keystone Light and sharing the use of one surf rod while country music blasted out of the speakers. We headed upstream.

Dad stopped at a pool, and I went up to the start of the slow water, just below a short, but quick set of riffles. Another angler appeared in the brush behind me. We chatted and he, after asking if I'd mind, took up a spot halfway between me and Dad. Before he had a line in the water. I took two little smallies and a bluegill on nightcrawlers.

I was efficient with the nightcrawlers, pulling fish out regularly, with nothing going over eight or nine inches. Then I saw some kids in swimming trunks fishing their way upstream. They waded through Dad's pool, bungling along fishlessly and their leader reached me. We had a chat about river etiquette. I don't know if it took, but it was worth the breath. They were high schoolers new to fishing, and I don't think they knew any better (if they had, they wouldn't have been so friendly about invading my space). Later one of them was stuck 15-20 feet above the water trying to situate a rope swing.

After catching a few more fish (and adding the first river chub of the day, on what I hoped was a bass to teach them a lesson), I walked down to Dad. He'd only taken one bluegill, so we headed downstream, to a spot I knew where the water pooled just off from a weedbed, near some algae (the type I always referred to as "sea weed" as a kid, and which I still can't identify). Then things got interesting.

I continued getting hits on nearly every cast, but the size of the fish increased. I waded out as far as the algae would allow, to allow my casts to reach close to the far bank, under the shade, assuming that the fish, like me, would be wanting someplace cooler in the 90 degree day. I wasn't wrong, and when the sun lowered enough to extend the shadows out to the middle of the stream, the fish really turned on.

I pulled two surprising fish out of the river. First, a largemouth I was sight-fishing for. Not a big one, he simply surprised me by being there. I know now it's not uncommon, but I didn't realize the largemouths were in this river. The next one I caught a flash of after I set the hook, and thought it was a chub, except for it strong fight. When I got a second look at it, I realized it was a cat, and I quickly landed my first ever channel catfish, only about 12 inches, but still a treat.

Things kept getting better. I took one largemouth and one smallmouth that were 14 inches or more. The first I led quickly through the open water around the algae, but the second burrowed into the stuff, and I had to maneuver him out, and then nearly missed netting him in the thigh-deep water. After that, the 10-12 inchers were plentiful. The sun dropped lower, a goose arrived, and the fishing slowed.

Dad, on the other hand, had an okay day, but nothing like what I had, and there seemed to be one key difference in our approaches. He used the traditional pre-snelled Eagle Claw hooks, and I was using Matzuo red-colored baitholder hooks pre-snelled on fluorocarbon leader. I had become convinced that the thickness of typical snelled leaders was too big, and was costing me fish, but this was my first time putting the theory to the test. The Matzuo didn't hold the nightcrawlers as well, but the fish seemed less shy of the leader. I even took one bluegill while reeling in an empty hook.

When the fishing's that good, it's usually hard to leave the water, but today I just felt like I had received so much more than expected that I was content to leave. We hiked back to the car, sand filling our shoes. My hand was bleeding from where a smallie had finned me, and I had another cut I couldn't remember getting. When we reached home, I took off my boots and realized they had made their last trip. They'd given me 15 years, and while I'm sad to see them go, at least they'd gone out as part of an incredible trip.

Temptation

2008-07-24T14:05:00.000-04:00

You'll forgive me if I have the heebee jeebies. I spent the morning fishing in a place where humans weren't meant to go, and I'm sure of this because Nature has erected the proper defense. Primarily, according to my scientific study, the defenses stem from the fact that the area as more spiders per square mile than any other temperate location on earth. The spiders are also bigger, and there's at least one large black one that will crawl on your arm and make you realize that you're unable to identify black widows, and that you don't even care so much about necrosis, you just want it off you.

The trek's worth it, of course, even if I doubt it when I stumble off the path yet again, dodging brush or webs. At the end of the trail -- or at least as far as I take it -- is some good smallmouth water, and that's why I'm scraping through with a fly rod in hand. I've only hit this spot twice before, but I'm aware that I could possibly catch the biggest bass I've ever taken on a fly today.

When I reach my spot I realize two things I'm going to have to compensate for: the water is much lower and it's much slower than I had expected. This means longer casts and stealthier wading, neither of which is my forte. My strength in fishing, as you might guess, is my willingness to go into ridiculous places to catch fish; my strength isn't actually being skilled.But I've still got a plan today. I'm fishing a smallish popper trailed by a soft hackle hare's ear. It's not a perfect bass set-up, but it's ideal for catching something, and I'll be happy with that today.

Before I tie on, though, I realize this day could be turning into a struggle. My leader has somehow snuck through the side of my reel (while sitting unused), and I've developed such a backlash that I've got to pop the spool out to fix it. No real problem, and I'm rigged up quickly enough.

My first cast provokes a strike, and my second takes a bluegill on the popper. The first hour or maybe 90 minutes continues like this. I'm wondering now if I should have left the 7wt at home and brought the 4wt, but I remind myself that I'm going to be throwing bigger streamers in a little while and should remain optimistic about big bass. Then, as I pull in a small bluegill, a giant smallmouth takes a swipe at it. My faces does all the cliched googling and dropping, and I bring in the very lucky panfish. [Note: soon I'll put up a story about the bass I once actually hooked like this, leading to the question: are there flies that look like sunnies?] A few minutes later, I do take a fair-sized bass on the surface, and he gives me one good jump and plenty of fight.

After that the day quickly fizzles, trying to cast next to a stump, I bounce the popper off it into the water, which would be perfect if the hare's ear hadn't snagged the wood. Too deep to wade, I eventually break my line, unfortunately at the leader/tippet knot rather than at one of the flies. I'm mad at myself, because I'd forgotten extra leaders and because I couldn't get the new 5X tippet unfurled, so I had 4X both to the popper and to the dropper, meaning I couldn't break off just one fly.

I switch to a variety of streamers after that and flail around a while without getting a single strike. I fish some riffles for a while and then clip off and head out. I'm cutting it close to being on time for work, so I hurry.

Then I'm stopped.

Below me a school of carp fins in some shallow water. Not only do I see carp going an easy 20-24 inches, I see some nice bass following them, looking for easy prey that carp might root up (as the Bob Clouser book I'm currently reading repeatedly mentions) as well as bluegill and suckers. I'm late for work, but I'm tempted.I've got three challenges (let's not dwell on my considering going home without casting -- that'd be nuts). First, I'm not sure how to get to the water, but that's always manageable. Second, I need a good approach. The only options I see are from straight downstream, or to come in from far upstream, cross the river and work from a ledge that reaches about halfway across. That path would test my casting range and accuracy. Finally, in the midst of the carp is a big brush pile that I'd have to turn any fish away from quickly. I'll just have to chance that one.

I head downstream, find a drop-down to the streamside and take out my fly box. I'm stumped. Nothing looks good, and I couldn't figure out what they were feeding on. I should, perhaps, tie on something bass-y and focus on one of the foot-plus smallies I saw. Instead, I'm an idiot. I tie on a glo-ball, which I've never caught a fish on. I've heard about a vaguely similar pattern taking carp, but it's not smart. It's not a terrible choice, but I'm in an utterly new situation using a fly I don't trust (and that I probably selected because somewhere deep down my subconscious was thinking carp like orange), which isn't good.

I wade upstream carefully, away from the bank, and realize two more problems. First, I'm in over the bottom pockets of my vest, soaking my streamers and pliers. Oh, well. Second, I'm so close to the water level that I can no longer see the fish. I marked their range with some objects on shore, but I wanted to sight fish, since a carp's mouth opening can be a key signal. I cast blindly.

A few casts and absolutely nothing. I'm just about to leave (now thoroughly late for work) and take the typical "one more" cast. I watch the drift, twitch it a little, and the fly just halts. I set the hook. It doesn't even move.

Because, of course, it's not a fish, but a snag. Again I break off, again at the tippet connection. I've tight the double surgeon's knot differently this time, based on the Orvis guide rather than my old learning. I can do without the glo-ball but it irritates me. I head up into the woods again, ready for the spiders.

I pause when I reach the fish again, and this time I nearly lose it. The carp king has now come in. He's the type of fish that just looks like a different species. I take five steps and see a drop-down to the river right there. I won't be able to backcast, but I might be able to roll cast, or at least shoot some line out bow-and-arrow style...

No, I go home, shower, and start my workday. I have this sort of relationship with carp, but I'll talk about that another day.

Colorado Spinner

2008-07-18T15:42:00.000-04:00

My Aunt Phyllis was a wonderful person. She instilled in me the love of fishing. She made me aware of not only the thrill of catching a fish, but the joy of sharing the beauty of God’s gift of nature. My first fishing pole was made of bamboo. It was not truly a bamboo fishing pole; it was a piece of bamboo that had come with a piece of carpet wrapped around it. Aunt Phyllis had cut it to a length of approximately five feet and tied twenty feet of 8 pound test line to the end. She added a size 6 hook, a lug nut off of a fifty-five Chevy, and a red and white bobber the size of a tennis ball and I was ready to go fishing.

Aunt Phyllis and I fished almost exclusively using worms as bait. We used a wide variety of worms, grub worms, night crawlers, mealworms, just about anything that was slimy and wriggled. I was convinced that this placed serious limits on both the size and variety of the fish we were able to catch. On my tenth birthday she bought me a fishing rod and reel. It was not just any rod and reel; it was a Zebco 202 spin casting rod and reel. I had coveted this particular fishing outfit for months. Every time we went into town I had insisted that we go to the hardware store so I could see it. Now that I had a quality rod and reel I would definitely need to upgrade the rest of my equipment. I had saved some money, one dollar and fifty cents, and I used it to purchase my first artificial lure. It was a Colorado spinner. I tied it to my line and began practicing casting in the backyard of Aunt Phyllis’ house. I would press the button on my reel lean back and then whip the rod towards a variety of targets -- a maple tree, a plastic bucket, and once at my grandmother’s cat. Thank goodness I missed.

It seemed as if I had waited for months to go fishing, but it was only a few days after I had bought my spinner that Aunt Phyllis agreed to take me fishing. We would be going to our favorite place, the Indian, which was located approximately ten miles from the house. There was a place along the river that for some reason I never understood there had been a statue of an Indian erected. I never saw the original Indian statue because someone had stolen it shortly after it had been dedicated. Something else that I have never heard an explanation for: why would anyone, except my brother, which is another story, want a ten foot, concrete Indian statue?

We arrived at the stream shortly after dawn. The air was heavy with humidity and the sun had begun to creep across the water, obscuring the view of the trophy fish I knew were waiting to do battle. I watched my Aunt tie on a night crawler and cast her line a few feet from the river’s edge. I felt a misguided sense of superiority as I prepared to make my first cast with the new reel. I leaned back as I had practiced and whipped my arms forward. The reel screamed in protest as my spinner lodged securely in the tree behind me. My aunt Phyllis attempted to stifle a chuckle and pretend she hadn’t noticed my pitiful attempt. I quickly unfastened the spinner and with great care cast into the water. I was not sure how to fish with the lure so I simply cranked the handle of the reel as quickly as I could. Suddenly there was a flash of silver behind the lure and a large fish grabbed my spinner. I heaved back on the rod in an attempt to land the fish in one motion. I was both confused and dismayed when my line went slack and I realized that I had lost the fish! Not only had I lost the fish, but it had kept my spinner. I was inconsolable, even though Aunt Phyllis pointed out that we had plenty of bait and tackle and I could still catch fish. I sat by the river and pouted. Finally, even Aunt Phyllis’ infinite patience wore thin and we gathered our things and went home.

I spent most of the afternoon engrossed in self-pity, but when evening came my thoughts shifted to the container of night crawlers on the porch and the spot below the house where a strip of fast water ended in a deep pool. I received permission from my aunt, grabbed my rod and the worms and hurried to the river. I cast to the end of the riffle and was rewarded immediately with a strong strike on my line. I set the hook and was thrilled at the weight at the end of my line. It was a big fish. The fish tired rather quickly and I lifted it from the water. It was a huge fallfish, at least a foot in length. I admired the fish and noticed a flash of silver below its jaw. It was a Colorado spinner!

Part Two

2008-07-16T11:32:00.000-04:00

You saw the first part of this story, which amounts to me catching few fish and getting lost. So let's get to the meat of it, with the appearance of an archetype out of the proverbial mist and the catching of a large fish by me.

On my way out from the river that evening, I ran into another fisherman. The fact that he was older than me and black wouldn't matter except that he gave me advice and I'd later feel like it was the type of story we'd only read politically in lit classes these days. I asked casually if the fishing was usually any good around here, expecting "Eh. It's okay." Instead, the man told me how great it was just downstream, and what lures I should use, where I could buy the right kind of minnow, etc. It was a miraculous gift. I thought it looked good, so I knew I'd be back, but finding fish is at least half the challenge, so now I was psyched.

Just a few days after that initial adventure, I returned to the last place I had fished on the river, this time dragging my dad along on a hike that was longer and brushier than I had remembered. I dropped Dad off at the top of the run (his request) and I headed downstream to where I had caught the little bass before. I stepped out of the brush, and there was my new friend, waiting on the bank.

I squatted down next to him and we chatted a bit. He'd been there a while, and was taking a break waiting for the topwater bait to pick up. Rather than guard his hole, though, he pointed out a few spots on the far side of the river I should try, then encouraged me to take over his area. This is not the common behavior of anglers.

I waded across and made a few casts with my nightcrawler. I took a couple average fish, then I noticed the spot downstream, a place where a little eddy curled out of the main current behind a boulder, with an overhanging tree nearby. My first cast didn't quite get in far enough, and I took a decent smallie. My next one got back in the eddy and I let it drift. No big hit, just a change in the feel of the line.

I set the hook, and it was like a fantasy. I was tied into another kind of smallmouth. One full of fight and intent on frequent jumps. I panicked about my drag, which I hadn't checked, and my several-years-old line. Everything held. I considered how I had chosen to leave my net at home. I reached out and lipped the fat bass and raised him up. My friend wasn't watching. I measured him against my rod (he'd turn out to be not quite 17 inches) and put him back.

That was the most fun I'd had with a fish in a long time, but the preceding conversation really set the stage, talking about the challenge of fishing around family time and how to get out more. We exchanged our names at the end of the talk. My new friend is known simply as Monte Carlo.

Part One

2008-07-11T15:02:00.000-04:00

If it were fiction, I wouldn't like the story. For starters, it features a reasonably experienced outdoorsman doing something stupid. This part, of course, is believable, and probably as many veteran explorers get lost from overconfidence as novices do from lack of skill. The real problem, though, comes with the appearance of an archetype, a Bagger Vance-style wiseman who saves the day. More on him in part two.

Even so, it's how it happened, so here it is. I was heading down a new piece of water. I started at a trailhead and quickly got down to the river. Where I came in was a small divergence from the main stream. My plan was to fish my way down this side portion and then work my way back up the other side of the large island. I'd be able to find my way back to the trail simply by heading straight uphill from the upstream tip of the island.

When I got to the downstream end of the island, though, I discovered the main stream was too deep and too fast to wade safely. I decided to work my way downstream a little, and then pick up the trail. I did that fine, and started hiking downstream. I found some nice spots, and I saw a huge fish jump in the middle of a shallow run. I couldn't catch him, and I finished my day with nothing but a little smallie, some bluegill, and a handful of river chubs.

I started back upstream, which is where I ran into the older black man who would be my guide. More on him later, but for now it just matters that he convinced me I was in the right area for some big fish. With that in my head, I took a few more casts. I took no fish, but something enormous surfaced, possibly a gar. It was unlike anything else.

Finally I had to go, and I hopped the trail and headed back. The plan is simple: follow the trail back to where I started, walk up to the main road and get in the car. Of course, I hadn't paid enough attention on my way downstream, as I didn't realize that near where the island ends, a little feeder stream runs in. It's about the size of the river section I had waded down. So when I was hiking back and began following a narrow stream, I thought I was still on the main river.

Quickly things looked unfamiliar. There were the train tracks I had passed on my way in, and there were the orange moving vans. Both, though, seemed to be placed oddly. I hadn't crossed the river (and at any rate could orient myself by the stream's flow). I couldn't imagine how I could be lost, because I was simply following the trail. It became harder. I had to crawl at one point, and I knew this was wrong, but I couldn't figure out my error.

For the first time in a long time, if ever, I felt the beginnings of real anxiety in the woods. I was close to town, yet hopelessly lost. I didn't want to spend the night going back and forth on the trail. Worst-case scenario: I call for help and get rescued, probably within city limits. Eventually I figured out I could climb up the bank to the train tracks above me and get an aerial view. From there I could see what had happened, and, while it took me some time, it was easy enough to get back on the right trail.

The lesson was obvious: pay attention. I still don't know if I saw and forgot the feeder stream, or if I simply missed it while carefully fishing the end of the island. Fortunately I was someplace where I was in danger of nothing worse than embarrassment. I could even have followed the tracks back to town. Even so, I took the lesson to heart. I've been out of the woods for a few years, and I shouldn't act like I haven't. Given that nearly outing for me is new territory now, it's time to get back to the basics of planning and observation.

I don't mean this post to be didactic. If you're reading Anglenook, you probably know all this already. Mainly I just wanted to tell a story in which I'm an idiot. It's also a set-up for the big fish and mysterious stranger that come in the next installment.

The Fish

2008-07-04T16:57:00.000-04:00

Is there anything in this world more completely satisfying than being somewhere you should not be, at a time you should be somewhere else, and doing something you should not be doing? Of course, I am speaking of playing hooky. The pleasure gained from this endeavor does not diminish with age; at least in my case it hasn’t. One of the most memorable and exciting times I have ever experienced while playing hooky occurred when I was fifteen years old.

In the middle of April, in Pennsylvania, life becomes decidedly better, if you are a fisherman, especially if you are a fisherman who is too young to worry about the IRS, but old enough to go fishing without adult supervision. This is the time of year when the Pennsylvania streams and rivers are stocked with trout.

My best friend at the time was a boy named Miles and our friendship was almost solely based on our shared love of fishing. We had heard that the local fish commission had stocked the river, where we usually fished, for a second time. The problem was they had stocked it in the middle of the week and we just knew that most of the big fish would be caught while we were learning who discovered aluminum foil, which were the seventeenth President and other useless information. We decided the sensible thing to do was to forego the rigors of learning and go fishing.

Miles and I had hidden our fishing gear the night before in some bushes that were conveniently located between the school and the river. The bus that took us to school always stopped on the other side of the street from our houses. It provided a shield for us from prying eyes for perhaps one minute. We had perfected the art of simply running into the adjacent woods before the bus pulled away.

Miles and I arrived at the river around eight o’clock and were dismayed to see several adults already fishing. Who would have guessed that adults could play hooky too? We were using night crawlers, the only bait we knew how to fish with. I thought I noticed a few smiles among the men as we quickly cast our lines into the water. I was standing on a small overhang about six feet above the level of the river. My impatience was growing as cast after cast resulted in nothing more than a more miserable looking night crawler. I noticed a log below me at the water’s edge and concentrated on bringing the worm over it so not to get snagged. The log suddenly moved and I realized it was not a log, but a huge fish. I guessed that it was five feet long.

There was a calm arrogance about him that comes with being the biggest, baddest fish in the water. I had been fishing this river for years and had never imagined there was a fish of this size living here. My hands were shaking as I presented my worm to it. I was not surprised when it showed absolutely no interest in my soggy worm. The fish continued to lie almost at my feet. I needed something bigger and more tasty-looking. I searched frantically through my vest for my only lure. It was a four inch Daredevil that I had found stuck in a tree. I wasn’t sure how to tie it to my line, or how to use it. I cast the lure far into the river and retrieved it right past the huge fish’s mouth. It must have startled him into striking. The fish exploded out of the water in a display of strength and anger. He rode his tail across the top of the water like fish I had seen only on Sunday morning fishing shows. Immediately I was besieged with shouts of encouragement and advice from the other fisherman. I had never played a fish. It is hard to compare this with the rock bass and sunfish I usually caught. The battle raged upstream and down and people graciously made a path for me as I frantically tried to keep my line taut. After approximately thirty minutes the fish tired and I was able to guide him into the shallows. Miles jumped into the water and wrestled him onto the bank. People gathered around to admire the fish and congratulate me.

I was emotionally and physically exhausted. My hands were shaking and I was drenched in sweat. Someone mentioned calling the local newspaper to get a picture of me and my trophy. I thought of the trouble I would be in when my parents as well as school officials learned I had skipped school. So what, this was well worth any punishment I might receive. Then one man in the crowd burst my bubble by informing me I would have to release the fish because musky season did not begin for several months. We measured it at forty-seven inches and then I turned away as Miles gently returned it to the river. The fish remained within sight for a few moments and then with an air of dignity disdain and a powerful thrust of his tail he disappeared into the depths.

Cooperation

2008-07-02T09:20:00.000-04:00

Sometimes everything goes right. Casts are smooth. Line lays out upon the water. Leader and tippet unfolds without memory and the fly settles slowly, only a dimple upon the surface.

Sometimes the conditions are right, too. The water unstained. The sun not so hot. The breeze a breeze and not a gust of wind.

And then there are times when the casting is right and the weather is right and the river is right. And there are times when the fish are right, cooperating by doing what they should be doing, which is feeding actively and aggresively, taking from the top in the early morning and late afternoon; feeding from the middle of the water column in the early afternoon; foraging from the silty bed after lunch and then lazing static above the river rock. Sitting, shining, beautiful color in flashes of sunshine.

The hatches were happening. Stoneflies. Blue-Winged Olives. Caddis. We were using flies we'd only ogled. Stuff we never thought we'd tie on and toss. Sometimes I'd throw a stone as a joke in the 'hooch, just to see what it felt like. The traffic blaring from 75 ruined the illusion. It sure aint the West. It aint even close.

Reliance, TN sorta felt like the West. Green humps of mountains. Greener hills. Sunshine settling in patches over the rocks. Clackacraft creeping by with thick bearded guides rowing, pointing, spitting chaw over the side. The water was clear. It was cold. The beds were smooth accumulations of rock, round as prehistoric eggs. We could see the fish in their holes before we slipped into the water. We could see them rise and thrash and smash the bugs lighting upon the surface.

I saw osprey and beavers take rainbows from the river. I saw a big doe trample down the side of a hill and buck and splash in a hole and clip-clop back up the hill. I saw copperheads and thick swarms of mayflies. I saw crows and buzzards and hawks. I watched the spiders creep over the picnic table while the fire pulsed thick gray smoke into the air.

We caught a lot of fish. We caught nearly all of them on dries. Big dries. Royal Wulffs. Adamses. Stimulators. Trudes. Stoneflies. Caddises. BWOs. PMDs. Yellow Sallies. I shoulda tried Clousers or lightning bugs. I shoulda used bigger flies. Like when I saw that brown; he was the size of my calf. I watched him bump my BWO. And then I watched him dart back into a clump of submerged wood. I didn't have to watch my fly; I watched the fish. I watched them react and I tried to counter. I missed a lot of fish.

After a long day of fishing, we wrapped the ribs in foil and drowned them in some awful "NASCAR" BBQ sauce we picked up at the local Piggly Wiggly. We settled them into the fire. Had a few beers. I tied on a big Stimulator and slipped back into the river.

Pulled a lot of line out, watched it settle upon the water in long green loops. I picked the line up and pulled back, shot it out over the river to my left. The false cast swished, swished, and then to the right it fell. I watched the line drop through the air. I watched the the leader settle, the tippet settle. The fly standing upon the water and sailing across out in front of me. I watched the chunky rainbow soar up and tear it off the top. There was a splash and my reel ran.

Fish on!

I was laughing.

Awesome... Was that your first cast?

Tim was on the bank, tying on.

Yup.

Man, I wanted to play this fish for years. I wanted to tug and give him line and let him run and get him on the reel over and over again. Instead, it was over in seconds. I popped the hook from his lip. No clip on the adipose. He was wild. Gorgeous color. I kissed that fish. I kissed him on the head. And then I held him in the water and let him gather his strength. I watched him swim back into the dark. And then I cast again.

A Team Effort

2008-06-28T23:55:00.000-04:00

I took a day off work so my wife and I could go canoeing up in this mountain lake. I took along a spinning rod and a small amount of tackle, but I didn't have plans to fish properly -- to work structure diligently, to key in on certain areas. I just figured as long as I was on the water, I might as well fling some lures about. The lake is supposed to have brookies, rainbows, largemouths, catfish, and bluegill in it, so I took some general stuff and figured something would hit.

No luck early on, so I tied on one of my favorite crankbaits, a little blue-and-silver job that has teeth marks all over it from Pennsylvania pike. Still no luck, so I suggested to Nicole that we try a little trolling. She could row as fast as she could, and I'd let out about 30 or 40 feet of line and drag the crankbait behind us. I didn't feel very optimistic as I'd never done this from a canoe, but we set off across the lake. When the lure reached the middle of the lake, I felt a hit, and we slammed on the brakes. Or, rather, we coasted, then spun a funny way, and the bass politely hung on.

Fishing from a canoe is a fun way to go about it. It's not easy, but when you're bringing in a fish, you feel as if you're at eye level with it. Nicole was thrilled to see the fair-sized bass coming up. I boated him and turned him loose, and we resumed cruising about the lake. We didn't have a single hit the rest of the day, but I didn't care that much.

I hadn't ever caught a fish that had been so much a team effort. The closest I can remember is working the trolling motor while a friend threw bait against a bank in a bass tournament. The weather was lousy, and the fish only wanted to hit if we were moving the right speed at the right angle. The fish we took that day (none big enough to enter in the tournament) felt like a team effort, but the catching wasn't nearly as fun as this one fish, taken high in the mountains with my wife as captain. I think she's hooked, and I couldn't imagine a better way to spend the day.

Unless I had used a little more sunscreen on my knees...

What's a Catch?

2008-06-19T13:08:00.001-04:00

In my first post, I mentioned I lost a brookie when I hoisted him out of the water. There's no way I'd call this a catch; it fits the description of what I recently heard termed a "jack fish," as in you jack it out of the water if you set the hook with any force (sorry I can't credit whoever's writing I read this in). It did get me thinking about what constitutes a fish being officially "caught".

We all like to pretend that it doesn't matter whether or not we catch fish, and to a point, at least on certain days, that's true. But at the same time, when you get back and someone asks you how many you caught, it's nice to have an honest answer. Sometimes it's hard to say.

When I was in high school, I learned two things that changed how I thought about a catch. The first was that some saltwater anglers -- and I don't know if this was simply for tournaments or not -- consider a fish caught if they can reach down and grab the leader, partly because it wasn't practical to lift big fish out of the water. Second, I read in one of my magazines, almost certainly Field & Stream or Outdoor Life, that if you reel in a little fish, you can often release it by simply holding onto the eye of the hook. The fish gives one wriggle and he's free. It lets you release your catch with virtually no handling. [Note: this is a far cry from Tom Waits's "catch, put it in your pants, and release" program.]

My fishing buddies and I always had contests. "Most Fish" was the key category, but we'd also break it down into whatever categories favored the person behind: "Biggest Fish," "Most Bass," "Most Unusual Fish," "Most Unusual Way to Catch a Fish," etc. Integral to all categories was determining what was and what wasn't a catch. We finally came to the conclusion that if you touched the last six inches of line with the fish under control, it counted. This made everyone, including the fish, happy, and I don't think count totals went up any because of it.

But it's not always so clear, and here's my real story: I was trout fishing alone in a special regulation stream in PA. I had usually caught a few fish there, but nothing huge, although I had seen some big fish. This day I was in a run that I always knew held fish, but had never had so much as a hit, when something big grabbed my nymph. The trout took me up and down the river, and my skills then (and probably now) weren't up to it. I was trying to keep tension on my line and making it up as I went along. When he ran past me just a few feet away, I was sure I would lose him, but I didn't.

Eventually I tired him and brought him in. An enormous rainbow, bigger at that time than any fish I had ever caught (and still bigger than any trout), finned at my feet. I bent down to pick him up, and discovered he was so thick I couldn't get my hand around him. He launched himself back into the river. I got him back under control and tried -- with a horrible tactic -- to net him. He was longer than the opening of my net, I bungled it, and one of the flies became tangled in the net, breaking the line as the fish drifted away. I lunged for him, but he was just out of reach. I still feel bad that I didn't have the chance to revive him.

I crawled up onto the bank and sat down. It's one of only a few times I've been so excited that afterwards my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding and I don't know that I could have moved. Eventually I tied back on and started half-heartedly fishing again, more stuck in that moment than in what I was doing. I felt exhilarated, but a little disconcerted by the ending of the encounter.

I ran into a young angler about my age on the way back to the car. We chatted a few minutes and I told him my story, hesitant to say exactly that I "caught" the fish. He felt bad about it and consoled me for losing a big one, but that didn't feel quite right either. Landing a fish is part of the deal, but the fact that I had picked the fish up out of the water and just couldn't hold him still to unhook him seemed to count for something. At this point, I can't say I'm entirely concerned with what the officially ruling would be on it, but it would be nice to feel confident in saying that this trout was the biggest one I ever caught.

[Note: Yes, we'll eventually start having pictures here.]

Catching is Seeing

2008-06-12T22:20:00.000-04:00

You gone tear them up lil man?

I guess so.

Aw you got to meanit lil man. You got to see yo self catchin fish befo you can catch them fish.

Papa laughed and the crown of his cigar ash tumbled down his shirt. We had loaded up on crickets and minnows. Papa had grabbed a carton of worms, a few artifical lures that we'd probably never use. The man behind the counter was twice the size of Papa and he burst from his Liberty overalls. His neck hung thickly in rings as a dog's and his wide veined hand rubbed at his beard, white and wiry as a scrub brush.

Aw hell, he laughed. You gone tear them up, lil man. You mark my word. You watch.

We got back in the El Camino and drove. I watched as the sky went from black to indigo. I watched as it went to navy to thin blue to white with light. The sun splinttered though the cracked windshield. The AM radio crackled and stilted voices spoke of things that did not concern me. We stopped to get gas and Papa bought Tampa Nuggets and Cokes and pre-packaged sandwiches and chips. He bought cans of Vienna sausages and Chunky candy bars.

It won't be long, Sturt, he said.

I was fine with it. I danced my arm in the warm wind. The air was hot and the cicadas sawed and screeched and sounded as the summer itself, alive and humming. I thought about the bugs that I did not see as Papa backed the boat up into the pond. The boat slid silently into the warm green water. Bugs lit thickly in the air. Swarms of them danced in pockets over the water. Papa parked the El Camino and we pushed the boat on.

We rowed. We baited up. I watched Papa grab a minnow and slip the hook under his throat. The barb winked from its silver belly. I tried. The minnow danced from my fingers. Plop. I watched as the silverfish vanished into the green water. I tried again. I watched it as I dug the hook into its throat. Its eye widened as the barb woke from its tail. It straightened and then twitched, adjusting to the hook. I picked the rod up from the boat and raised back and shot the line out over the bow. I watched as the bait and bobber tumbled in air and then splashed upon the surface and steadied.

Nice cast, Sturt.

Papa lit a Nugget and the gray smoke puffed over his face and shrank away. He cast one rod and then another. He watched their bobbers steady and then he baited a third with a worm. I watched as the thin red line danced and throbbed about the sting of the hook. He shot the line towards the bank and its bobber steadied and a dragonfly set upon it.

I reeled in. I checked the minnow. Its eyes held quiet, spooked. It was dead. I cast out and watched the line straighten and fall.

You aint gonna catch any fish castin and reelin, castin and reelin. Let it set in there, Sturt.

I watched the bobber. I imagined a fish surging from the bottom to ravage the bait. I thought about how I might set the hook, how playing that fish might go, how I would get him on the reel and let that Zebco do the work. Maybe I'd get a largemouth. Maybe it'd be a record Crappie. Two-hands. Two adult hands. Bigger than a teenager's calf. Maybe it would be.

I watched the bobber. Down and over, down and over. It seemed like the line moved. But it didn't. I thought about that fish surging again and I thought about what I'd do. Papa threw me some Fritos and a Coke. I watched the bobber. The salt of the chips and the sugar of the Coke was good. I burped.

That man at the shop was right you know, Papa said. You got to see yourself catchin fish before that line'll go tight for you, Sturt. He aint lyin.

I watched the bobber. And then I thought of that fish.

Tying On

2008-06-12T16:31:00.001-04:00

I like the drive out. It's just after dawn, and I pass the spot where my wife and I, when were still dating, took hot chocolate and our sleeping bags into someone's farmland to watch a meteor shower in the middle of the night. After that the white lines disappear from the road and I go by the church with the handwritten sign that reads PRAY FOR ASHLEY WALTON AND HER FAMILY EVERY DAY. I turn off the main road and start to see the "Road Narrows" and "One Lane Bridge" signs. It feels good to be someplace like this. I used to fish on a daily basis, but after I moved to Virginia, I got away from it. It means something to me now to take the road that's barely wide enough for two cars.

I'm not too optimistic today. I'm out primarily to test my new 4wt rod. I'm not expecting quite the fun I had last week, when on my first time in the mountains I took four fish, three of them native brookies, while exploring new terrain, climbing over boulders in what felt like true backcountry, admiring the string of waterfalls, and wondering at how I could walk within ten feet of a whitetail. The smallest brookie came entirely out of the water for my fly. The biggest was seven inches, full of blues and oranges, and pretty near perfection.

But today I'm fishing the other fork of the river, the one that isn't catch-and-release water, and that I know gets hit. We've just come out of a long heatwave and the water is low. I know there are some brookies and 'bows up this stretch, but I'm not confident I can catch them. In fact, I don't do too much, even though the new Cabela's Stowaway casts beautifully. I land two tiny fish that I assume are juvenile rainbows, but I'll admit I'm not positive. Then I lose a little brookie. I hoisted him out of the water and he flopped off. I miss two more fish, one pretty nice, and that's it for the day.

Still, I'm satisfied, and when I reach the car after a lengthy hike (far enough going in that I was worried I had missed a turn-off) I see another car has arrived. A van unloads some kids with swimming trunks and towels, destined, I'm sure, for the hole where I just missed the nice fish. There's a rope swing there, and I remember jumping in a few years ago, the water so cold that my back clenched as soon as I went under. I considered stripping to my shorts and jumping in today.

I'm still learning the area. Figuring out that last week my leader was longer than necessary. That I shouldn't leave the floatant at home. That if I wonder if I tied a bad knot, I probably have. More important, I'm learning the river. The pool last week that I approached from the wrong direction, not realizing how the river splits and comes back in from the side. Or the spot today where I spooked a trout by coming down from the trail just above a little hole I didn't know was there. It's getting very late in the season for this water, and I'm not sure I can wait until October to use this new knowledge.

With that in mind, I pull away from the water. The drive home's nice. Coming in last week I had turned the stereo off once I reached the forest, unwilling to let anything else in with me. This week I left it on, and turn it up when I get back to the main road. I roll down the window and let the cows get a listen to "All My Friends" and remain reasonably satisfied even after I come to the slow-moving traffic. I'm late for work, but not in any hurry.