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.