Great Expectations

After several days of waking to teens and highs below freezing, I could tell early on it would be well into the forties, felt almost balmy. The snaking back road drive feels completely different in December than in spring or summer. The wall of green casting shadows on the road has given way to bony ragged scarecrows pointing knuckley fingers in every direction. Grey is the sky, horizon and landscape. I'm lost in thought, happy thoughts, contented thoughts, an oddity for me this time of year. Powerful is boyhood, especially at 46. Sitting on the bumper I hear Christmas carols whistled enthusiastically as I pull

on my waders. "What is this Mr. Scrooge, why the holiday cheer?"

The stream is lined in Christmas green by mossy rocks and those marvelously resilient southern mountain mainstays, laurel and rhododendron. Ice covers the backwaters and reveals the many springs and seeps feeding the creek. Cold fingers pull the fly line through the guides, feeling their way as I'm loath to take my eyes off the winter wonderland. Dim light, numb fingers and reflective-less fluorocarbon make attaching twinkling tiny nymphs something less than a labor of love. Finally a gentle roll cast has the floating ornament bobbing in the slow current. Eventually it's in exactly the right spot and the

indicator pauses slightly, creating a nano break in the current. A raise of the rod creates a bend and the ever memorable frantic tug-tug and flash of silver. I still hear the same Christmas medley whistling around the stream as I lay my rod down and kneel on the moss admiring the trout. Hundreds of dark black spots on a green background yield to silver with a crimson streak, and that little shiny nymph poking out of his top lip.

The rocks are slick, the ice too thin to walk on, but thick enough to hide the depths and contour below them. The scarecrows reach out and grab my little shiny ornaments with regularity. There are lots of fish in the run below and above the picnic table. Mostly at the back of pools and holding together in pods, look mostly like rainbows, don't see many brooks or browns. The little boy wants to just stay there until I catch every one, but I push on to scout more water. A few large ones are right there under the tree on the far bank of "slick rock". I love that hold. It's almost impossible to cast to and in

the summer I've seen big splashy rises, but don't remember ever catching one there on a dry. Finally I push up to Christian's hole and find it barren and iced all but a narrow channel in the middle where a little current still moves through.

The shadows have gotten long. For all the scheming and casting I've only landed one trout. But the melodies still whistle from my lips as I contemplate the ensuing holiday and it's vacation days- trout days. Any 46 year old little boy will tell you, it's hard to wait for Christmas, but the expectation is the thing.

Giving Thanks

The day before Thanksgiving, I set out early. Intent on fishing the whole dharvest section of Wilson, with one caveat, blowing by the deep runs where swinging nymphs and wagging streamers are the ticket. Sticking strictly to the shallower runs where a trout may well rise to a well placed wolf or caddis. The first flat run yielded a little rainbow on a yellow humpy as I recall. The air was crisp early, but held the promise of 50 degrees, and I was excited to try out some new gear, as any true gear whore would be. The new jacket I sported, at the absolute insistents of Pablo (I think he got a commission or something) was noticeably unnoticed due to it's unhindering lightness- but perfectly warm at 35 degrees, the marvels of technology.

The day progressed nicely as skipping the deep pools had me covering more water, casting more and switching flies less. I sat on a sandy bank to nibble on a cliff bar and swig back some mtn dew. Reclining with my hands behind my head, the sun shined on my face, a splashy little rise was audible above the gurgle of the stream. My heart had carried a spirit of gratitude all morning and in that instant, I could feel ma nature herself whisper, "You are welcome."

As the late afternoon shadows darkened the water, I stood at an old mill site where the remnants of a hundred year old dam towered on either side of the stream. A fat brookie shot out of the depths and inhaled the fly swirling at the head of the of the pool. I laughed out loud and told the trout how much I appreciated his native aggressiveness, and the sheer reckless abandon it took to rise to that fly from such depths. Enjoying the play of the fish and basking in the final moments of the day, I did not notice a young piscator who had come to the bottom of the pool on the bank opposite me. Undoubtedly he'd heard my silly dialogue with Mr. Brookie, and may well have rolled his eyes and this goofy old man, talking to a trout. But I was undaunted. As the trout shot back into the darkness, I clipped the fly from the line and blew on it. Turning to the young piscator, I grinned broadly, "It's all yours my friend." I said, sweeping my hand up stream and across the wooded hillside before us. "Oh, thank you" he replied. "You are welcome..... You are welcome."

The Wisdom of the Old Chief

NEW TATONKA

Tooling back from meetings in Winston suddenly realized I was in the vicinity (or could be) of Steveos Mitchell River, and miraculously had gear in my truck (don't ask me!) Raised Steve on the phone in route and got critical intel- like where the heck it is and which exit to take. Unfortunately didn't follow his specific river intel to fish the lower sections. Instead drove to the upper reaches and fished for a couple of hours with nary a trout. It was a gloriously beautiful day with the leaves in full color and enduring one big deluge, eventually found a run (under the Bridge, Steve where the one road crosses) where I took one on a sanquan worm (sp) and two on a little bead head nymph. Saw trout rising above the bridge so scurried up there and tied on a dry. Haven't cast a dry in a while. After being ignored I realized they were taking an emerger so tied on little dropper and took two. Unfortunately, with fish swirly all around the pool I tangled up my flies trying to release both trout and spent precious time tying up and trimming a dry down to a dropper, just in time to watch the last swirl and the pool go as empty as my vacant stare.

Never the less, new aqua is always fun and Steve was right, is exactly 64 miles from my house, 70mhp all the way. Thinking of wilson this week. Intel says they (the fish gods?) have birthed more trout in wilson now that water levels are up.... "When the buffalo are gone, we will hunt mice, for we are hunters and we want our freedom" Sitting Bull

"When the wild sea run trout are gone, we will fish stockers, for we are fishermen and we want to fish" Sitting Govna

The Lottery

As I crossed the border into Idaho I always stop at La Tienda to purchase an out of state license ("he don't even have a licese Lisa" name movie). As I walked in I was assaulted by throngs of people, never had I encountered these type of crowds at La Tienda. I silently mused that fishing must be really good for all these folks to be purchasing licenses. As I was elbowed out of line, cussed at, ignored by the cashier, I looked around and realized that NONE of these people fished. Or if they did, it was with live bait or other evil sundries. I then noticed the crowd scratching cards furiously, then tossing used up unlucky lottery cards pell mell around the store. LOTTERY time.. I inwardly, or was it outwardly?, smiled and chuckled at these desperate folks. Finally garnering the attention of a butch hair cut cashier, I purchased my license and bolted for my car. I was laughing at my superiority as I blasted down the highway heading to my river. It then struck me as lightning does a metalheaded man, that I was no better than the hordes I had just witnessed. Had I not purchased the ultimate lottery ticket? Was not chance my date to the dance? I wondered if my numbers would indeed prove lucky today, or was I wasting my hard earned cash on a frivolous adventure? Maybe I was the fool in this story. Nope. Even if I had been skunked that day, I would have still been the luckiest man alive.

fine day on the BC from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hello to BC

I'll continue to add vid's and pic's of this trip as I can, for now, this will get you started.

Hog Johnson III from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hondo & Hog Johnson II from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hondo & Hog Johnson from John Berry on Vimeo.

'bow on BC from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hall of Fame from John Berry on Vimeo.

What is WRONG with me?!

Eyes are blearing and mind unstable. A long day of work, a long week of work, home late, eat a little dinner, home work, play with kids, a little Wipeout on TV, perfect for fatigue humor. Must get sleep... but NO! Must gear whore. Go back to the same dang web sites I've looked at the last 17 consecutive nights, look at the same stuff and make the same non decision. Can't buy a sleeping bag when you can't feel it. Isn't that like a law of physics?

Not sure what I need (nothing). Read THE list, but too far away to shop for Alaska, surely I need something.... If analyzing the wieght and zipper formation of five sleeping bags on 3 sites isn't lame enough, I've gotta blog about it on a blog that only my dumb brother reads and already knows what I'm doing cause we've been talking about it every day on the phone...

I SUCK! Gotta get something on the calendar, can't survive in the endless wilderness of unspecific adventure lust much longer!

Kvichak Bow

Kvichak Bow from John Berry on Vimeo.

Kiwi Style Mule

Kiwi Style! from John Berry on Vimeo.

THE List

There we were, at the confluence of the pungo and togiak, rain pounding the canopy we put over the tent's rain fly. Pablo has dispensed muscle relaxers and in a haze of damp, fatigued brilliance, we analyzed and I catalogued in the fish journal all the gear needs from what had been a gear challenging trip.


Verbatim:

"1. Dry fleece top and bottom to wear in tent at end of wet days. 2. someway to keep water from come down from wet right hand/glove to elbow/sleeve of rt arm. 2. water proof down jacket to wear after fishing. don't need down vest- the layer I had this trip (base layer, wind stopper zip fleece, wading jacket and HH) kept me warm. 3. Extra set of wading wool socks and liners for when first set get wet. 4. 4 weather, heavy duty rain tent so don't have to put kelty over tent- that way you can use kelty for cooking and gear could back it up for back door of tent and store gear und in rain [bring tent and bag in AK airs free checked bag (seperate dry bag)- bigger wheeled dry bag. Put clean dry garments etc into zip lock bag (by day?) stowed in the personal dry bag. 6. LED lantern to suspend from top of tent and kelty (?) for light. 7. and may need 3 meltal bowls, 3 mugs and tops to bowls and 1 pot for water and larger frying pan- eat off paper and burn do no dishes- only mugs and spoons. Jet boil could replace stove, unless you want fish. Back packing food was good- still 2 much food. Bring the clear water jug (7 gallons - purify once and done). Way to pee at night in tent- Pablo says cam more has a "privey" that works. 6. Bear spray holster. 7. Hero cam or other h20 proof hd vid- 8. lace up back support- (jared had one on kvichak)... Since your bringing a check bag- check a 44 cal. Jb's buddy randy has the type. Light, stainless steel 16 clip with hollow points and shoulder holster. and or flare gun... does a flare round exist? Bear fence with better battery? 8. Better reel! 9. fly boxes, one spool of 10 or 15 lb. get a sersa tip so IF you want to go away from dolly you can get other flys down. just jet boil (2) and table, mugs and spoons- paper bowls thats it? No fishing shirt- only one for sunny, warm day. Water proof video camera- hero cam on hat w/ easy on-off button, zoom in. better camp chairs w/ wbbing bottom and backs/ better towels (tech towels?). Could a better Kelty have bug enclosures on sides? oar rights put in if needed and take off and store for next trip. Better balaclava- wind stopper fleece like clazier glove- mesh around ears so you can hear bears. better ear plugs- those rubber type / round ones. - night bag for everything in tent. New ply pro thin liners, back up rod and reel with versa tip- don't even un pack, only if bear front line rod. Fish w/ dolly lama on floating line (versa tip). Lot less med stuff and better organized stuff that likely wont use. Separate bag in dry bag w/ stuff not likely to use. Propane dryer or heater thing"

THERE YOU HAVE HER! Unfortunately I can't remember the brilliant idea Hondo had when he woke up at 3 am and was showing me how his droid had a flashlight application on it. It may have been the propane dryer or heater thing. Funny to see how the hand writing keeps getting worse. Definitely need to add muscle relaxers to the list- Pablo, better renew that prescription.

Definitely need to bring only 2 fly boxes and just a few types of flies. I definitely only want one spare reel and keep it packed away, sheesh, had like four reels rolling around the bag the whole flipping time. I'm definitely definite about those changes.

Ok, so I've got the new liners, but now realize I need another pair for in the tent and JB's got a new balaclava- other than that, it's every Whore for himself and only 11 months to go, better get out your mice an click or start frequenting the fish/ outdoor supply stores late at night that are not on your way home.

Oh, and if we end up taking some rookies- no sharing gear lists- got a have few laughs when they break out their stuff!

Untitled from Mick Berry on Vimeo.

AK '10 snippet

Thought I'd post at least a short snippet or two of our recent excursion. May be awhile before the full length film is released.... anybody.. anybody..

Beauty Day on the Blank River from John Berry on Vimeo.

Release from John Berry on Vimeo.

Copy That

I'm suffering bro's. Can't handle reality. (is this reality? I doubt it) Reality was on the river, nothing in my head except the next cast and surviving the bears. No worries. I am amazed at the power in that. I forget all when I'm out there.
Now I'm back, no rushing river outside my tent to fall asleep to, I kept hearing the distant roar of the Beaver engine.. I'm am slowly going insane.....

Alaska Blues

No matter how bad the weather, how invasive the bears, even how poor the fishing (it was great this year) I suffer the Togiak blues when we get back from the great wilderness.

Exercise in Patience

Yes, Gov, I did go fishing today. Took the boys up Blacksmith. Enough said. landed one nice Cutt. Need nicknames for the boys. Pablo out.

South Fork Revisited

As the foolish man that I am, I accepted an invitation to fish the S. Fork again. Remember last time? Took the old man down the river in a raft, fishing stunk. This time I was tricked into thinking a monster hatch was taking place and the fish were crazy drunk. After buying a couple of the "magic" flies at the "Rip OFF Fly-Shop" on the river (never again! 2.50 a fly), we headed out in my friends nice jet boat. That was the highlight.
The hatch of "homo-erectus" was in full swing.. with drift boats evenly spaced about 50 yds apart. For our part, we zipped around the river looking for open riffles and rising fish. We found a few, let me repeat, a few. The massive hatch (not counting homo E) never materialized, though a few bugs here and there along with the occasional salmonfly kept a few fish active.
All told, it was enjoyable to blow by drifters and have the freedom to go up or down river at will, but again, the fishing left me cold, just like that gorgeous river. Is there a next time? Only if I get a free ride in a jet boat.

Fish Hunter: Appalachian Killers

Fish Hunter: Appalachian Killers from Mick Berry on Vimeo.

The Proselyte

I've got a young friend I'm trying to mentor in life. Seems like anyone who's a father of two at the ripe old age of 21 could use a mentor. I thought is was about time my mentoring included fishing, as I knew my friend enjoyed fishing because he told me once of catching a nice bass in a farm pond somewhere. Time to put away the worms and learn the fine art. In spite of or maybe because he had just lost his job (the one I'd helped him get) and been sleeping on a friends couch and everything in life seemed hopeless, it must be a good time for me to take him fly fishing.

We got to the stream about 4:00 on Friday afternoon. I figured a big deep pool would be a good place to start. I'm sure the other piscator we passed did a double take at my asian buddy with his flat billed ball cap, loud t-shirt, baggy shorts and strangely laced chuck taylor con's - it was like hip hop meets orvis. I've forgotten how difficult it is to watch someone truly, truly flail a fly rod. "slow down, slow down, don't drop your rod tip, let the line straighten out behind you, like this...." I realized much like any 21 year old, he wasn't going to listen to me, so I put him into the big pool and eased to the side where the current picked up. Before I had a fly tied on, he'd missed a rainbow chasing his fly in the slow pool and he was into it, whipping that line harder and faster, piling yards of it 5 feet in front of him, but I kept to my business and shortly was pulling out brookies at will. He did alright. He eventually took two bow's in that hole and a third, nice brookie in the big hole above us.

Later that evening I watch him in the fading light, sitting on his heels like I've seen day labors do for hours smoking cigarettes in front of "able body" waiting for work. He'd cast from that sitting position and strip it in slowly and I wondered, hoped that the current of the stream and the focus on the fly had pushed from his mind the real worries and troubles that were threatening to wash him away. I hoped that like me, he could find peace for a few hours on a trout stream in the midst of life's struggles.

Nobody goes there anymore cause it's too crowded

After hearing about the opening day fiasco on Wilson Creek a couple of weeks ago, when I realized I'd be in trout vicinity and have an open afternoon, I was afraid to return to Wilson and ruin that wonderful relationship we've had. I just knew the shore line would be littered with empty blue worm containers and the nice runs pilfered of trout. So I decided to head back to last years spring fling, optimistic I'd have the place to myself.

Sure enough, I put in at the ranger's house, nary a piscator or anyone else in sight. The first run held one skittish little trout as did the second and third- I was going to have to get serious if I wanted to avoid a skunk. With the warmer weather I assumed there'd be top water attention but the royal wolf wasn't doing much. I took the first Brookie of the day when pulled the fly under water to start the retrieval. That was all the encouragement I needed to repent of my dry arrogant ways and go back to the "double dutch"(various woolly buggers flanked by small droppers drifted, swung and then stripped) method which has enticed so many trout this spring. There were still not a lot of fish, but as I hit the more overlooked seams and micro channels, I produced specks with some regularity.

Shortly after I'd removed the royal wolf, I casted into a slow deep run I've named the gorge. Although I'd had hits on the first two casts, my eye was not on my dancing green bugger working it's way against the languid current, but on a large, no, gigantic white mayfly that had just crash landed on the water and was flopping about furiously. On the third flutter a trout darted in and snapped the mayfly up. At that very instant, from the corner of my periphery I saw an underwater flash and realized a large, no, gigantic rainbow had just slammed my unattended woolly and was hauling it back to the black depth of the pool. My chuckle at the mayfly turned to a wail as I jerked my rod sky ward and felt two hard tugs and a pop. How is it that the most exciting part of the day usually entails a miss?

The final tally: 75 degrees with drifting cumulus clouds, three hours in the water, 0 people, 12 trout released and one blithe angler.

Combat Fishing

Fine day out. Gorgeous weather (60 deg). walked into LH Fork. fished great section. take a look.

June Trip List

Alright boys, this is just my rambling start to get me thinking. We're less than 60 days out, so ordering gear, etc, time will be of the escence in a few more weeks. Add to this accordingly.

Fishing Gear

waders (need to fix micro seat leak in mine)

boots

rods: 5wt, 8 wt

reels/ lines: 8wt verasitip, 5wt float and sink tip

leaders: sink, 15 lb test monofiliament ("These fish are not leader shy", Mike Larson July 5, 2008)

weights: split shot varieties, puddy weight

Flies: JB-Put in the email from Mike- can't find mine (Mikey says: wooly buggers, sculpins, smolt patterns, leeches of all sizes and colors. weighted for sure, strong current, deep holes. egg patterns and some big pink things that look like hat pins. bring a mouse or two. easy to fish over their heads, make sure you can go deep.)

Small chest pack

polarized glasses

Net: big net

Loon UV wader repair (couple of tubes, a must)

Clothing

Heli Hanson or other pvc raincoat (the breathable stuff doesn't cut it in a downpour)

waterproof hat

sock hat or baliclava

gloves (waterproof w plypro liner is ideal)

down coat

base layer top/ bottom

200wt or better wader liner

wool socks

poly liner socks

regular pants (same pair as wear on the plane)

water proof boots (same pair as wear on the plane)

Personal items

bug dope, head net

wet wipes

tooth brush/ paste

shampoo/ soap

ear plugs (Mick and Mike snore)

Misc Gear

Cameras: video, still, underwater, mini-tripod, wireless mics (?)Set clocks on cameras to AK time

waterproof camera bag etc (sucks to drop it in the river or get it rained on)

Ideas from Past Trips

Better way to carry video camera. Kept in top of waders last trip in a waterproof bag. Fairly good access for the unexpected shots and always having it available, but hassle to work around.

Some type of counting devise. After a few hours you totally lose track of how many fish you've caught. We've always thought it would be nice to have an accurate count, and we could pretend we are doing some scientific thing!

Have you met my girlfriend?

Brooke Wilson, I call her Brookie for short. Her full name is Brooke Rainbow Wilson. Yeah, her parents were hippies I guess. This time of year she pretty much owns me, I'll do dang near anything to spend time with her and so far this season, we seem to really be hitting it off.

I've noticed some other fishermen, and spoken with a couple and I get the sense that most of them just don't know how to court Ms. Wilson. One guy today was fishing a dry fly down stream! I stood and watched him fish the top end of this run I had taken 15 trout from on my last outing and couldn't resist stepping into the pool below him and on my third role cast hooking a rainbow that jumped like his fins were on fire.



Took a second trout and then felt bad for showing the poor guy up and eased out of the pool, giving him a simple nod as we passed on opposite banks. As I moved up to the run above I kept an eye on this fellow and watched him switch sides and wade out to where I had been, but still, never saw him take a trout while I took 3 more from the small run above him. I spoke with another angler who shared that he'd only caught two fish. He boasted of his fly tying prowess and that he had "put a buddy on a 20" at the Davidson yesterday"- maybe so, maybe so. I didn't divulge what I'd done so far, or that I'd landed one probably bigger than his buddy's.

I did see one piscator in a group of three who took two small trout from a nice run while I sat slightly out of view and ate my sandwich. His one buddy must've been frustrated at the pool he was fishing because the "catcher" kept calling instructions out to him and as I got up to leave the novice moved over and stood right next to his pal, lessons I guess. The third guy was flailing like crazy in a run I had taken trout on 5 consecutive casts on opening week. I didn't see him take anything and he slogged quickly upstream, passing two or three nice looking runs. Ok, I feel like I'm boasting now, and pride goes before the skunk. On any given day the fish gods can fill our hubris with wind knots. I think most of Ms. Wilson's suiters are committed to nymphing, while I spend most my time drifting to a swing and then stripping it home- don't see any reason to change up an effective strategy.

Ms. Wilson had a bit of a cold shoulder today with some nasty gusts. But after cruising through some familiar sections I eventually worked my way up to new water and ended up at about 3:00 in a flat upper section with little structure. I took a spill and sat out for a bit to dry off, had a couple of hits but no takes in this so-so section and just for good measure, hoofed it back to the run where I took the big girl at the beginning of the day and took a few more from that section just for good measure before turning for home about 4pm.

After seeing a medley of fishing dog pictures in the Drake I decided I should take my mongrel and give her another try. She did much better this time. Oddly, for being a lab mix she doesn't like water, which is perfect. She only wades out to stand right by me and other than trying to retrieve a fish I'm landing, she was a good companion.

I wonder if it's too soon to call and ask Ms. Wilson for another date. Were becoming quite an item.

Lil' Bear

A Day on the Lil' Bear from John Berry on Vimeo.

Jumping the Gun

Just too nice to stay indoors any longer! Shoulder be damned! I decided to take a quick trip up BSF. Nice water, will go back when the water levels are lower and there's a hatch. It took actually putting on a dropper to get any action. Missed one very nice brown (lack of attention on my part), then hooked a couple smaller brownies. Looking forward to today (the 17th).

In Full Swing

15 days since season opened and I'm in full swing... caught mostly rainbows but since Brookies are the natives, they get the airtime. Oh yah, and I caught a little small mouth just for good measure. Missed a shot a very large trout- tell ya about that next time after I land the great beast.

A Weekend in Rhythm

AKA- The Journey to Excellence.

After my near fishless outing Monday, I'm texting Pablo while driving girls to volleyball practice (a misdemeanor in NC as of January 1st- texting, not volleyball). "I want to be a great fisherman" Doubtless this comment prompted a snort and chuckle from the Pab, watching snow melt and perusing unneeded gear on-line while waiting for his future in 4-6 weeks. He couldn't take it and rose to the offering with a phone call.

Here I articulate my mid trout-life crisis: I'm good at a lot of things in life, but I've never had the mindset and drive to be really great at anything. And of all things non-celestial, the thing I love the best on this earth is fishing. So it follows, if I'm going to climb the mountain of temporal excellence in the remaining years of my mortal sojourn, it oughta be on the river. With 15 years of fly fishing under my belt, I am still a late bloomer- I didn't spend my early years as a trout bum or guiding in Alaska- but I can make a good run for the next 30 years.

So Pab and I discussed in laughable (especially to Morgan who overheard the conversation) detail the mental and emotional demands of fly fishing excellence. Obviously this quest must be with in the bounds of father Adams curse (aka still have to earn a living), and I have no interest in anything competitive (competitive fishing is an absolute oxymoron) or a braggy exotic travel log. My quest for excellence is within; focused mind, stilled emotions, peaceful heart, precision cast- the rhythm of the river.

Fortunately instead of ruminating on the concept, I was back on the creek the next day. In the spirit of taking our writing to the next level, I'll hoard the details, that's for the fish journal, but I found the groove. Granted, these are hatchery fish, they are plentiful, but never the less, I found the rhythm of the stream and became the ultimate predator- although a meek and gentle one, expressing my gratitude to the fish gods with every release.

The average fisherman would've called it good and spent Saturday on the numerous household chores, but the questing piscator tied up flies on Friday night and rethought his strategies. Then, in the midst of the weekend crowds, stripped streamers to the delight of girthy rainbows in deep over worked pools and found the brookies in the current with the deft swing of tiny flash backs riding behind big bead heads. With the sun still shining, but the rhythm indicating impending gluttony, eased out of the water with a smile and a nod to the tail of the last trout and eased back to civilization with no clear fin count or desire to gloat, but the simple humility and gratitude for another step on the inner quest for constant rhythm.

Spring in the Appalachians

Even after 20 years, the word Appalachian seems foreign. I'm native to the high desert ranges of the west, years later I'm still a transplant, like the rainbows and browns of my adopted riparian home. But I've followed their lead and adapted.

Snow falls of the winter of 2009-10 are reported to rival the banner year of 1960 and March may yet be a lion. I've felt slightly dirty this early spring as I've anxiously participated in the NC Hatcheries delayed harvest. A steady winter diet of "The Drake" will do that to you. But the smudges on my fishy heart didn't keep it from accelerating as I stood high on a bank and spotted the hypnotic gentle motion of a 20 inch trout drafting behind a rock in flat water no deeper than my knees and right below my high vantage point. The best part of the day was the 20 minutes dry on a elevated bank watching the trout as I switched up leaders and tied on a small Adams and plotted my taking of the first very nice fish of a new decade.

I'll blame it on rust, but after a day of nonchalantly flinging nymphs and streamers to deep oblivious trout, the entire cast felt like an air ball from the free throw line. With no sense of timing and the pressure of a nice fish in slow shallow water, I dropped the cast hard with the end of the fly line landing about at the dorsal fin busting the previously relaxed fish from it's lair, scattering smaller trout in an impressive surface wake as it shot out of sight.

In my days in pursuit of trout I have experienced those deeply satisfying periods on the water when I am in the zone. A skilled predator reading the movements, temperament and environment of the prey. Joyfully lost in the hunt and capture of these colored writhing beautiful works of art. I'm mystically in rhythm with everything around me, a part of the system. These moments are surrounded by hours of stumbling, slipping, flailing, mumbling and chucking and feeling as foreign to the wild rolling water as a 3 piece suited Philadelphia Lawyer in a rain forest. I analyze the cause of this contrasting experience. Rarely when I'm off the water, but always when I'm in the heat of failure and frustration. "What is going on? You are better than this!" I've not found the secret inner formula but the solution is typically a foolish trout that isn't where it should be and for some unknown reason (rebellion, piscator compassion, youthful exuberance?) assaults a poorly placed fly and in the very act of instinctively setting the hook and being connected with wilderness through a length of monofilament and tiny tuft of feather and fur I'm transformed from alien to native. Synapses, capillaries and muscles twitch in synced rhythm with the environment and I stand on the threshold of top predator.

Nice One..

I thought this was great! enjoy the pitcha show boys!

Garmin Salmon from Darrin Hofmeyr on Vimeo.

Mystery Solved!

Ok Boys, after many a month, and finally actually really reading (instead of just looking at the illustrations)"Trout & Salmon of North America"; it is Pablo's unofficial declaration that the mystery salmon ole Hondo caught near the confluence with the ##### River, is indeed a Sockeye, in pre-spawning glory.

Back to the Desert

So what do you do in the frozen Northland when the itch to fish grabs hold, and you would rather not break ice out of your guides? You head South, and South it was. I headed down to Dixie, (work related, wink wink) and was greeted by 60 deg weather. I rattled off some lame excuse to my wife, slipped quietly away and drove to the little ole cutt creek that I had visited in years past. Suffice it to say, after a long hike in, and an inability to even cast a fly rod, I hung my head for the hike of shame, back to the car. What was I thinking? Oh well, felt good to at least feel the sun on my face and have even a modest amount of hope that a fish would rise. Take a gander at my little stream....

Hope or Insanity

Inadvertently in December I had planned a meeting for this Friday morning in Morganton. How could I have possibly known that the Arctic grip my southern mountains had been under for over a month would loosen that very day, with a hopeful forecast of sunny and sixty degrees. How could I have known that my meeting would go spectacularly and at noon I would have a fly rod in my trunk and be wide open to hit Wilson Creek. OK, maybe I did put my gear in the trunk the night before, but never the less, it looked like the fish gods were smiling.

Ice lined the boulders of the gorge section and flat shallow pools boasted massive thick sheets in the deep shadows where the sun couldn't penetrate and the nip in the air reminded me that it was still January. As I pulled off at the ancient mill ruins two old piscators, complete with cigars walked by me. I stopped and rolled down the window, "Gents, how are you today?" "You don't look like your goin fishin, look like your supposed to be on a sales call." He responded. I smiled, "you haven't seen what's in the trunk" we chuckled as I eased by. The location and nature of the large stream with easy casting and not much need to wade around makes this delayed harvest on Wilson a veritable mecca for the more senior or otherwise unoccupied immobile casters of Western NC. And they were out in force.

They say hope springs eternal and they also define insanity as doing the same thing and expecting a different result. I'll let you decide which applies. The fish seemed to be stacked up in the big deep pools and I spent most the afternoon at one deep hole watching nice trout swim around my various bottom bouncing offerings avoiding them with disdain. It doesn't take much of that before you stop "fishing" and start hypothesizing why the fish aren't biting while you switch flies and techniques. "Waters just too cold" came the answer from a big rock above me in a distinct country accent which belied the decked out fishing gear. So we chatted and lamented our luck and analyzed the reasons we hadn't caught anything. I was surprised when he told me these fish were acting like the bull trout he'd fished for in Idaho. "Oh yeah, where abouts in Idaho?" Big Creek was the response. I was simultaneously surprised and disappointed. I didn't think Big Creek was that well known, certainly didn't expect to run into someone on Wilson Creek who'd been there. Come to find out he's got a place out there and has fished it many times. His favorite section is below monument where the river snakes back and forth a lot. He also said people float it and that we could float the whole thing down to the middle fork. Camp at the confluence and then you'd float the middle fork out about 20miles to a take out.

So, the day wasn't a total loss and I admit that I'm insane, I've never caught a fish in January, probably February either, but I'll probably try again next year when the weather clears a bit and the corner office feels more like a coffin. In fact I'm already trying to justify going tomorrow. Maybe insanity springs eternal.

The Winter Maliase

Consulting my fishing journal, I have fished 4 times on New Years Day. Pablo can testify of one resolute trip to the Smith River in VA where our directions stated, "put in just past the empty mirror factory." We duly froze our empty creoles off. Every trip has yielded the same result- nada. Yet every Christmas Vacation would end with me pining to get out of the house and away from the traditional Christmas morass. This year I had the 'xact same pine, "I've been off work for 7 days and haven't wet a line". My father seemed to sense my doldrums and asked if I wanted to go fishing the day we got home. Boy how I wanted to go. But the temp was forecast for a biting 40 degrees with a Jack Daniels stiff wind and I foresaw a replay of years past save the added bonus of my 70 year old father's freezing hands clutching his new spinning setup while chunking a spinner endlessly through a probably fishless pool while I sloggged around up stream, drifting egg patterns to finicky if existent planters. So maybe I am gaining some wisdom. Instead of chalking up New Years skunk number 5, I took the trash out and felt that wind cut clear to the bone and slunk back into my easy chair by the gas logs and dreamed of my future trout adventures just a few months into this new decade.