Monday, May 17, 2010

Few Fish, Much Fun

My good friend John and I had lost touch after high school in the typical way you do without any reason. A year or so ago, after two of our parents ran into each other, we discovered we're now only living about two hours apart. We emailed a few times and saw each other at a reunion, but it wasn't until John wrote to ask me if I fly fished that we managed to get some firm plans down.

He described his skill level as being that of the guy with the coffee can of worms in A River Runs Through It. I wasn't sure what to expect, and didn't really care (but, for the record, he acquitted himself admirably).

We elected to hit a trout stream I'm somewhat familiar with for our first outing (although I planned to get into a new stretch of it). We rigged up, and on my second cast, I had a hit. Just as I realized there were a number of stockers in the pool, a spinfisher came around the bend. We got to chatting, and as I missed a series of strikes, I offered to share the pool with him. He declined, instead offering a suggestion on my angle of approach.

A few casts later and he was netting a nice brown for me (and I was discovering my camera was next to the front door at home -- I'd wish for it later). We looked up as I released it and saw John releasing one of his own. I thanked the man and left the hole to him so John and I could keep moving. We probably spent more of the morning hiking and talking than we did fishing.

The fishing wasn't stellar -- the only other fish being a native brookie that I dropped back into the stream before being able to show off its bright orange -- but we kept finding interesting things around us.

We got an close look at a garter snake, saw two salamanders (one a subdued brown and the other that neon blue sort of color that you'd swear fishing manufacturers had made up if you hadn't ever seen these things), and took a break at a waterfall.

On the way out, though was the real treat. John stopped me, and as I was just thinking how it sounded like cicadas, we saw the rattler moving from his sunny spot on the trail up into the brush. He didn't go far, and we had to cautiously make our way out around him. It was the first rattlesnake either of us had encountered, and later we laughed at how we made sure to bring it up in almost every conversation we had.

After that we had to get home. We didn't catch many fish, but I'll trade a high-fish day for the sort of day we did have.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Rise Forms

I've got some exciting news today. I'm one of the peole launching a new literary fly fishing magazine. Read some more details below and then check out the site. I'd love to get some early feedback.


Launching a new digital fly fishing magazine these days is nothing new—it seems every couple of months one goes online. Many cover the “how to,” “where to” or “what to buy” of the sport. Others are for the eyes: slick images of fantastical locations and gorgeous fish.

While some magazines are for the angling libido, we are pleased to announce a magazine that stimulates the heart and mind of the angler. Rise Forms: Fly fishing’s literary voice, seeks to publish work that conveys both the passion and contemplative nature of fly fishing through high quality, literary articles.

Our website is under development but you can get a flavor of it from the About Us page (http://riseforms.com/about/) and learn about the editorial board and more on both the general philosophy of the magazine as well as the specific topics we hope to cover.

We are in the process of soliciting articles from a wide range of authors covering an array of topics. If you would like to be considered for publication, please read the Submission Guidelines (http://riseforms.com/guidelines/).

If you have any questions or comments about Rise Forms, please use the contact page (http://riseforms.com/contact).

We anticipate launching in the fall of 2010. We look forward to reading your submissions.

Justin cober-Lake
on behalf of the Editorial Board
Rise Forms: Fly fishing's literary voice

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Rough Day

I’ve rarely been in the outdoors and just felt ready to come home. There must be times I no longer remember, when I was frozen or wet or just worn down. There’s one hike gone bad, and there’s the time I dropped my rifle in the snow. That’s about it.

But yesterday was a rough one. When I saw the forecast for high winds and a cold front moving in, I probably should have stayed home (especially considering it had been a night of rocky, newborn-era sleep), but I was anxious to see if the smallmouth were active yet, and to test out the new bass taper fly line I’d just gotten. So as soon as I had the baby back to sleep, I grabbed my gear and was off.

The first problem became obvious quickly. The trail had suffered from the harsh winter, and what had once been an annoyingly brushy hike had now become one full of fallen trees, lost paths, and the like. Upon reaching the river, I discovered the second problem: the river was higher than I had anticipated (so much my ability to read USGS reports), just enough so that some of my wading routes would be cut off. It’s a tricky wade even in August, and as it would turn out, it would be especially problematic now.

The first stretch I wanted to fish requires a reasonably deep wade out to a sandbar. The bass hangout in the deeper area just beyond that. Yesterday I had to go in nearly to my sternum to get there. I had promised myself a wading staff this year, but haven’t gotten around to it. Once on the bar, I was alright, but then the wind picked up.

Mostly it was the kind of wind where you just direct your false cast a little offline, keep the flies away from your head, and work with it. At times, though, it was bad enough I had to just stand and wait for a gap to cast between. I did manage a couple bluegills (one being the first fish proudly caught on a self-tied popper) before deciding to head downstream.

I just couldn’t wade it. Unwilling to give up, I climbed the bank and started on what might have been a trail. At points it turned into a game trail, then disappeared. Through wood and then through water, I got to where I was going. And found a creepy gray spider in my hair. Shortly after the wind would blow enough that my hat wouldn’t stay on, so it went into my pocket, got drenched, and made the return trip that much more itch-inducing.

I did land my first smallie of the year, a feisty little guy who gave me one good jump and a couple short runs. I took a few more bream. On my way out, I encounted a four-foot watersnake (dark enough I briefly thought, “Cottonmouth?”) and watched a channel cat eat a carp that had died and bloated.

By now I was tired from fighting brush, wind, current and sleeplessness. I was daunted by the prospect of my return journey. The going back was no easier, as I had to work to find ways up and down the bank, and at one pointed wondered if I should hold rod and chest pack aloft and sidestroke for it (I didn’t dwell on the idea). Eventually I reached the sandbar. And couldn’t quite leave without catching one more ‘gill.

Walking out, I noticed some fish near shore, inaccessible to a fly cast without more work than I had left in me. I directed a father-and-son combo to head that way. Finally nearing my car, someone asked me where I’d been and how I’d done. Then he explained that they’re building a trail on the far side of the river that can get you most of the way to where I was going.

Now I know for next time.