Inner Rumblings

The inner workings of The UnGuided film crew have finally begun to move.  The long awaited production and editing of,  "~The Return~" is underway.  There is no telling how long this process will take, but regardless, the full length film will delight and appease at least 4 people.

Stay tuned.

Naknek what the Heck?

As my wife sent me off to find "such & such" at the grocery store; I passed the magazine rack and quickly forgot my errand. I noticed a fly fishing rag had fingered one of my AK haunts.  "What the heck, don't finger the Naknek"!  There it was, in full gory, some chump giving the deets on another great river.  WHY?! "Scumbucket!" I screamed to no one in particular. I quickly perused the rag article, noticing furtive glaces of hate and disdain coming my way. "I will NOT buy this rag", I muttered halfway under my breath, "how dare they".  I found a silver lining though, obviously this underpaid over-privledged, dare I say, author? had never fished it without a guide.  Hence he left out the secret of the UnGuided.  "He left out the secret!" I blurted, not caring where I was or who I was shouting at, "Heee HEE HEE".  I quickly snapped a photo with my phone and sent it off to the Gov.  He'll understand, he'll understand, I thought. "Now, what did I come here for?" I asked the redneck who stood near me as he flipped through a copy of his own guilty pleasure. "I'm in dutch with the wife".



First Tracks

I wish I could tell you that a pristine little trout stream lay at the top of the mountain and that I found many willing trout on the end of my line this day, but alas, I cannot.  When life gives you snow, you make tracks.  The trail head parking had not even been plowed yet, good sign. Not a human track was found, only deer and a coyote.  We covered several miles enjoying the cold air and dearth of people. I suppose I could have been on a trout stream somewhere, but in 22 degree weather, I'd rather be snowshoeing. Wilderness is wilderness, no matter the activity. 

Autumn

What is the feel of autumn? The canyon color is at its’ peak right now.  I've spent more time in this canyon this year, than any other year; by far.  It has all been either painting or hiking.  Possibly the record snow fall is accountable for the blaze of colors, splendid oranges, glorious reds and unearthly yellows.   At times I've hung my head in wonder at the beauty of it all, especially when I have tried to put it to canvas.  I know the color of autumn; I know the smell of autumn as well.  Today I put the brushes away, hid the hiking boots, instead I grabbed the four weight, a box of dries, a DMD and off I sped.  As I strung the rod streamside, sitting in the warm sun enjoying a slight breeze touch my face, I realized why I fish, why I’m afflicted with this disease.  I realized I didn’t even need to catch a trout. I still don’t.   “What is the feel of autumn?” I don’t mean tactile, I mean emotionally. To me it is a beginning.  Even though it may be the beginning of the end, nature seems alive. Every living thing seems bent on being alive, totally and thoroughly alive.  Just as I was; standing in the cold water.  What is the feel of autumn? It feels like a cutthroat.

Sausage

The Summer of 1985 found me on my maiden voyage to western North Carolina and to pay passage, I gained employ at a meat packing plant. Hogs rolled in from Iowa and bacon, sausage, ham and eventually scraps for the dog food plant left the building. I had the distinct honor of working on the sausage line, packing little boxes of sausage into bigger boxes. I learned first hand that summer how sausage was made, to this day, I don't eat sausage.

John Deere Gator HPX-1

I hit Wilson on a sunny morning with the first hints of fall in the air. The delayed harvest should be underway I surmised. But after slogging through my favorite runs and spying only a couple of perch, I got back in the car, confused, bemused, bewildered and began the long dirt road back to civilization. As I passed the "old mill" turn out, I spied a couple of guys and a truck with a state agency tag, sitting around a gator with a big rectangular box strapped to the back. I pulled down for a closer look. If any question remained, the large long handled shallow nets leaning against the gator subtly answered. I pulled by and backed into a parking space, still in my waders and rod stung up and stowed from the back head rest to the front passenger floor board. I sat there for a few minutes, not sure what to do and pounded out an SOS on my Ipad to Pablo, but there was no signal. A few minutes passed and an old man in an older Subaru pulled up and spoke to the men. I rolled down my window to hear the reply, "They start right up there at Harper's bridge, didn't you see them? We're waiting for them to get down here."

I felt strange, like a rubber necker at a car wreck, but I had to go,I had to see it for myself. I drove to the bridge and pulled inconspicuously off the road just before the bridge. Through the trees I saw two guys hoist nets brimming with wriggling trout from the truck's tank and jog down to the stream. I didn't actually witness the spawn, but I heard it. I heard the splashes, and saw them jog back up the bank, nets empty.

I was still sitting in my car when they drove by me. I felt ashamed and looked down at my lap. They seemed to want to pull off the road just past me, so I pulled forward to accommodate them. I pulled right where they had been parked. I waited, I waited for them to be around the corner, out of sight.

The little angel on my shoulder told me to break my rod down, peel off the waders and head for home. But some disgusting, ugly, dark part of me, the part I try to keep buried deep in my subconscious, took over and I walked, rod in hand, in their very foot steps, stream side. Never has the bend of the rod and whir of the casting line left me so flat. No more than 5 casts later, I gave into my good side and packed it in. Maybe leaving fishless could redeem me from giving in to the dark side.

MMMM GOOD!

The joyless ride home was full of questions. Profound, soul wrenching questions. Yes, I have known for years that my delayed harvest trout are not real, they are as synthetic as this keyboard, as cyber as this blog. But I had never had to see the spawn, I'd never experienced the absolutely hollowing scene I'd just witnessed and I wondered. I wondered if I could ever eat sausage again.

No Entry

after the fact, I realized I fished on Friday, not Saturday... sssshhhhhh.... don't tell.

~The Return~ trailer

It's not all about the fish

In the process of editing footage; sifting through all the poor footage (hear that Mule?) I'm sure though in the end, we'll have some stellar trailers with the possibility of a feature length film. Be patient.

The Bear that messed with us.

Gear List

Tent-   6 man

Sleeping bags                  

Therma-rests

Dry Bags for gear

Toilet seat

Matches/lighters

Fire starter

Fire Logs

Kelty Rain Tarp

Rope

Firearm/shotgun

Ammo

Bear spray 3

First aid kit?

Small shovel / hatchet

Saw

Bunji cords

Seal bombs

Air horns

SPOT (Hans)

Net (Hans)?

Kitchen

Table

Jetboil Fuel

Jetboils

Chairs 3

Cooler (with raft?)

Salt / pepper

Paper towels

spoons

TP

Binoculars

Water jug (collapsible)

Or hanging filter

Bed bag
Thermals/ long garments
Cap 4 top
socks
dry bag for night clothes

Go home clothes
Socks
Shirt
underwear

Personal
Sunscreen
Wet wipes
Bug dope
Towel/Soap/ deodorant/Toothbrush / paste pills/travel sickness
GPS new batt’s
maps
Water purification tablets
Windproof sock hat/O.R. hat/Waders-belt/Liners for waders/Socks 3 pair for wading
Shirts 2 (1 fishing 1 t-shirt)/Underwear 3
Wading Boots/ Wading / Waterproof jacket/Pants (wear)/Gloves, fingerless/Atom / vest
Cap 3
Sunglasses / Headlamp- new Batt’s
Fish equip./backpack / Rods 2, Reels 2 / License- buy online / Water bottle / Headnet
Vid camera, water proof bag reg camera / Tickets, itinerary / Cash, lots
Hand warmers, feet / Neoprene booties?
Pillow / sleeping bag?
Aquaseal for wader repair 2

Food for Thought

The preparations for AK 11 continue.  Today I shipped up the stove fuel.  Last week I bought and shipped up the tent.  Tomorrow I better buy the Bear Fence eh?  I think we should take turns rolling ourselves up in the fence.. that ought to do the trick.  I purchased the rest of the food today, will ship it up soon.  We are going with the basics: Granola bars, Clif bars, Oatmeal, dried fruit, PB&J's, Jerky, Hot Cocoa, and freeze dried dinners.  Still have to buy some licorice, and oh, Snickers.  That's it boys. It took a lot of self control not to over-buy today, probably still did, but I think we're pretty scaled down.  I'm counting on Mikey to make us up some Gorp.  Here's the menu for 8 days.

BK- Oatmeal (with some dried fruit) and a Bagel/Cream Cheese
LN- PB&J, jerky, clif bars or granola
DN- Freeze Dried meal.

Snacks include; Gorp, licorice, snickers. That's it; probably a good weight loss program.

Unbroken Silence

Every hour or so I check for email from the spot device. Was pretty cool to get a point while they were in flight to the lake. Then got a wayward point that had them half way down the river before other points have put them in the same spot for two nights, which is possible. About every half hour I check my watch and subtract 4 hours and wonder if they've gotten any sleep or if it's raining or what Reese thinks about fighting his first 15 pound chum. About every evening I sit down at the computer and edit film for the unguided production of Pongo 2010, which puts me with them, on the river bank setting up the tent, in the moments of boyish frivolity and laughter and the moments of homesickness and wondering why for 11 months you build this up to untouchable expectation when all it is is standing in cold water with little sleep for hour after hour of casting, when even catching a great rainbow doesn't make it worth it. Of course experience has taught you that those empty moments are caused by fatigue so deep you know you could lay down on the tundra in your waders and sleep for hours, and that its all part of the adventure, part of wilderness, part of you. And when your not there, you sure wish you were. Awfully quite in the lower 48 this week.

Rituals

I know. The last trip is barely in the books (a movie not even made yet, a blog not yet written) but here I go.  Slowly beginning pre-trip rituals.  Laying out the gear...  enjoy.

Pregame jitters

Golden, that's the term Pablo used to describe the conditions we might find on the famed brown sugar creek. With high flows from dam releases necessitated by epic snow fall and subsequent run off, just now coming down and the potential of hungry browns and a salmon fly hatch, the table is set for a memorable outing. Brown sugar has been anathema to me. I've had decent days and I've had mediocre days there, while Pablo and Hondo DeMule have had hopper crushing days of satiation, seems every time I was not in company. A little added pressure comes this year as Jr. The yet unconverted prodigal son will be along, I'm hoping for that magical moment that will transform him from dutiful fishing partner to rabid trout bum, ( well, not too rabid as I am still paying his tuition).

Expectations in this game are a dangerous thing, and I know JB's delusions of gold are more driven by pent up demand from the failed black canyon expedition than any hard data, but what man ever did travel thousands of miles to done waders with out a 49ers pan full of optimism!

So, to the brown sugar gods (last time didn't we catch more rainbows?) I tip my hat and genuflect with the hopes that a trout will rise.

The Best Laid Plans of trout and men

Dang it all to heck! Teeth grinding frustration of the winter from Hades. Why didn't I have more sense than to check the snow pack before booking a flight to Boise back in march for June. I'll tell you why! Because winter does that to a fisherman. It makes him desperate and wildly optimistic at the same time, a heckofa bad combo. Now it's flipping June the summer solstice and there is too much snow to get into big creek. My calendar is a mess, I spent a horrific amount of money on gear for this trip, Wilson help me, wore out an Alaska air visa. Pablo is heading north in a month anyway so this would only be an appetizer for him. I smell the curse of the fish gods settling upon me. It was the Kvichak/ Pongo double haul last year that stoked their displeasure for sure. I figure with Pablos triple haul this summer we'll go down in a fiery ball of float plane against an ungivinuk mountainside, and that will be that. dang it all to heck. My greed has gotten the best of me! I'm being humbled. For the first time in 3 years I will spend July 4th on a merrily decorated golf cart with a pack of octogenarians and toddlers dancing to beach music, lighting sparklers and watching fireworks. Instead of in an airport come or going to the great hatchery of the north country. Dang it all to heck!

The UnGuided~ Season 1 Episode 1 The Naknek

Gov asked me to write about my experience on the Naknek; but I cannot. That whole trip was a roller coaster ride, at times I even thought of throwing up (Eddies Restaurant, don't get the Reuben).
That river, oh that river; she gives and takes away. Fickle as a ...(insert favorite noun)... her blustery moods can destroy, she can give up her jewels from the crystal water, or she can write you a $200 ticket. Either way, you'll never forget her. She will forever haunt you. There, I did have something to write.

Here it is.. Episode 1

The UnGuided: Pilot (unedited)

Here's the Pilot episode for the upcoming (after editing) new reality show.  Anyway, this is a quick peek at some raw footage. I'll see if I can put something together in a few weeks, or at least wax poetic (Guv'na's raison d'etre), till then.. enjoy Naknek Chrome! Narration courtesy of Mikey.

Sometimes the Dog bites your Behind!

I only write this to document the conditions of BC on 5-5-11. The feelings are still to close to the surface, for me to speak or write about the events of that day.

Every Dog has it's day

It seemed to happen so often I can't now exactly remember the details, but the memory is basic. I'm at work, toiling away, in another meeting, grinding out an existence. The phone rings, and it's Pablo and the Mule. They are drunk with a cocktail of exhaustion, satiation and red bull. The signal is broken up because they are just now on the saddle above brown sugar, overlooking the Reservoir.... "Greatest..... huge browns..... man o man.... super slow motion..... monster head rising...... just tore down to the backing..... best day.... huge browns.... best day..... man o man..... just sucked in the fly..... saw this behemoth... behind rock....." Eventually the signal would drop and I'd feign throwing my phone through a window.

There is balance in the universe as Pablo and the Rook (need to change his nick to "facilitating SOB") got blanked for 6 hours on BC and two days later, on a lark really, I head out to JFork for a quick jaunt and bust chops. You know it's good when your royal wulf's ears are hanging off his butt from the mauling.

I won't rub it in, cause heaven knows I've spent many hours with tired legs stumbling aimlessly over rocks and aching shoulder with nothing to show, and I'll have another of those soon enough, but for now, the sun is shining on this dogs elk hair behind!

Best Fish, Worst Story

The story, our lives are about the stories. I wish this trout had a better story, it deserves a better story. It deserve a brutal slog through a torrential downpour, a long wait to spot it, an even longer cast and perfect swing to elicit the take and then the epic battle. What it got was a guide (yah, I know, how can there be a story with a guide on the unguided- my head is hanging in shame) motoring Steve and I over the "glory hole" with 8" spoons trolling 20 yards behind the boat. No sooner had we fixed our lines I started to tell about the last time I trolled for Stripers on Smith Mountain lake with a foul mouthed, idiot of a guide (there it is again) in a bitter wind for 8 hours....as soon I said, "I hate trolling" the rod in my hand jolted like I'd snagged a tree and instantaneously this rainbow began an acrobatic display fit for the cirque du soleil. It was incredible, and I admit I gave Steve STRICT instruction that his filming must not show the bait casting rod in my hands or the guide at the helm. Of course those were impossible orders and in the one shot you can even hear him say, "your going to have to SENSOR that, I think I got the pole in it". That is hysterical, Steve- what a great sport.

Ok, well, I guess this biggest 'Bo of mine does have a story- just not the one I would have like, but the one I got. And such is life- at least my life.

Midnight on the Kvichak

Funny when the year mark is creeping up on a trip, all pain, sorrow and suffering is forgotten, all fish are big, the weather is great, the companionship unparalleled and you want to go back in the worst way.. THEN you watch the footage! Not even that snickers bar (number 26 as I recall) could improve Pablo's mood. THIS, THIS is why we are the UNGUIDED.

I'm reading my fish journal from before and after this trip. I am hoping that all this experience is teaching me to slow down, enjoy the moment, whatever it may be and just let it flow. I've spent so many years and trips all keyed up and anxious- creating totally unrealistic expectations in my mind which must invariably be dashed and only in hindsight can I appreciate what did happen.

It's a Sockeye! Pt. 2

It's a Sockeye! Pt. 1

 The Adventures of the UnGuided. The behind the scenes footage of the outrageous antics of the bumbling crew. Join them as they try to get "the shot" and end up with comical results instead. Part 2 will bring it all to a shocking conclusion.

Overheard at the Watering Hole

I tell you, strange things are said at the watering hole... I cross my heart this is the whole truth and nothin but the truth as I hear it;

Piscator 1: "Dang it, dad gum it all together. Turned the wrong way this morning. Should've stayed straight heading to "unnamed river" but turned right to work"

Piscator 2: "now why you wanna do that?"

Piscator 1: "I can't explain it.. just a weak moment, felt like I better get some work done. maybe if I worked harder while I'm at work instead of pissin around on the email and text I'd get more done and have time to fish..... nah.... prob not."

Piscator 2: "I tell myself the same thing, oughta work harder then be free to fish.. who am I foolin?"

Piscator 1: "It ain't our fault. Look at our grandpa's, both sides, we got us a double barrel full of screw around the woods and water genes. Heck, we're doing pretty good considering how hard we be fighting the deep genetic encoding... come from a long line of outdoorsman and frontier types."

Piscator 2: "Darn straight, I'm all teary eyed thinking of it"

Piscator 1: "No wonder I feel like I'm in a dammed cage when I'm in this office. It ain't my natural habitat... sheesh.. what am I, a dang zoo specimen?! They don't want to be fed, they want to hunt and kill! Or catch and release... a more modern, kinder gentler frontiersman."

Piscator 2: "No animal deserves to be in a cage!! It ain't right!"

Piscator 1: "Heck ya! I wanna see some dang "outdoorsman rift group: outside my office picketing for me to be set free. Throwing reams of white copy paper on passersby and screaming, "YOU CALL IT AN OFFICE, TO HIM IT'S A CAGE!!

Piscator 2: "SET HIM FREE, LET HIM FISH!"

Piscator 1: "Aw crap! I just realized this FRS healthy energy drink I kyped from Atlanta and had been swiggin this a.m. has 65mg of caffeine... no wonder I'm all freakin.,. better shut my mouth before I fire or give raises to everyone"

Piscator 2: "That's too funny"

Piscator 1: "You know we got that dang alcoholic gene too. We're trouble man. You know cousin whatshisname is on trial... sheesh.. we really like steelhead fightin up stream all the way"

Piscator 2: "Dang cousin whatshisname should've taken up fly fishing instead of shooting roomies"

Piscator 1: "See, that's what I'm saying, it's fly fishing that's kept me outta prison all these years!"

Piscator 2: "IT'S THE GOSPEL TRUTH!"

Piscator 1: "Sheesh, I think we got us a sitcom here. I'm going to write us up a pilot. We gonna be negotiating with NBC and people will watch it cause it's on TV!"

Piscator 2: "What's your drink called? I gotta get me one"

Piscator 1: "FRS natural energy, all lumped up with blueberry skins and spider saliva- natural antioxidants, but come to find out it's really the caffeine that's energizing you.. dang blueberries and spiders are just marketing hype. Lance Armstrong swears by it... I gotta whole backpack full for free in Atlanta, unfortunately, that was the same weekend I swore off caffeine.. no wonder I didn't mind dropping 75 $ at the Coke cathedral.... it's all making sense now.. sheesh, I gotta dump this stuff, I don't care what Lance says, probably gave him cancer"

Piscator 2: "Yah, he lost some testicles"

Piscator 1: "I need some Tylenol"

Fishing Village and River Club

A couple of weeks ago as I was hurrying up to the DH on Wilson, I realized I had no food stuff to sustain me through 6 hours of fishing. I had noticed the transformation taking place at "the old campground store" at the entry way to the Pisgah. For at least 20 years and probably much longer, this area had been a campground. That's Appalachian term for a place where people of modest means have their second home, or travel trailer or tent as it be. But basically its private property on some body of water, where a group of people lease a spot of ground where they can erect or drag some type of living structure. They then come with family and friends during the scorching days of summer and find cool respite. The camp ground also provides amenities- a small store, picnic areas, and sometimes even water slides and some improvements to the "swimming hole". Such is or was the campground at the entry to the wilson creek gorge.

But things are a changing in these mountains. A few years ago I noticed that another "campground" further up the stream, one of decided ill repute and marked by a tattered rebel flag, had been completely torn down and refurbished to a more natural state- making lost canoers feel much safer I'm sure. So I think last year, I noticed a sign go up on the campground store, "Got flies"- that was interesting, since most of the wilson creek patrons don't care if the zipper in their cut-off blue jeans works or not. So on this hurried day with out food stocks I decided to stop in and see what was going on at the old camp store. The wooden trout over the door, orvis, simms and other logos plastered to the windows was only exceeded by the person inside. After years of chasing new waters, I've been in my share of little country stores all over Appalachia- I have never seen a fit, patagonia wearing, running shoe clad woman of 45 in such a store, let a lone running it. She gave me the low down. She and her husband were managing the place and turning it into a "fishing village and river club", complete with weekly stay cabins, private water here at the "village" as well as guided trips into the wild waters feeding this federally designated "wild and scenic river" as well as open fishing in the Delayed Harvest section. WOW. I was amazed. She was super nice and actually gave me a prepacked salad for lunch and showed me the petition they were taking to dissuade the county government from building a public park up in the DH section where the old mill structure sits. As I was leaving her husband drove up and explained to me more about the vision they have. I made the mistake of saying, "Yah, I was wondering what was going on with the campground"and he replied very seriously, "campground is a term we don't use around here." He invited me to come back and fish the private water where he has a variety of trout stocked- including cutthroat in some "very technical water". I don't know exactly what technical water is, but I think I will take him up on the offer the day after the DH ends and every cutoff wearing, egg piercing, meat head officially takes every trout out of the stream.

I don't usually like things to change. I'm not real crazy about all of the exclusive second home communities that until the economy stopped, where sprout up all around my stomping grounds. But I also must concede that the typical campgrounder and drunken wilson creek skinnydipper are not exactly my cup of tea. So, maybe I need to withhold judgement and see how this "fishing village and river club" works out.

Fortress of Fishability

Much has been said lately (among the two of us that actually read this drivel or care about the art of the angle) concerning our "Fortress of Fishability". I "LQTM" as I read the Guv'na's comment on my last post. Knowing he had just laid another brick around the foundation of his Fortress, and what a price he paid for that brick. BTW, how was that fried coke?

My Fortress is built mostly on ignorance. Many of my "outings" are done not so much secretively, but when others are doing things of more importance. All the better for me. As Guv'na said, and I quote, "Can't rush it, it takes time. My fortress of fishability still wobbles at the foundation from time to time." So take it where you can, built it brick by brick. By and by no one will care what you are doing with your fairy wand, you'll be left alone to wade the waters of wisdom.

Speaking of fairy wands, I took mine, the new 5ft 2wt up LHF on the Fool's Day. (great day to fish) I christened the wand on many a mighty trout. well, even those little 10"ers had their way with me once I had them hooked to my wand. I do tell you though, using the little rod with a bow 'n arrow cast was deadly. I could sneak up to within about 6 feet of those little trout that were hanging out under willows and sticks, punch a little bow 'n arrow cast right under the obstacles (use O' Brother dialect) and hook me a trout, and we'd be off to the races. It had me wondering what a 16" trout would do to me.....

Sweet Stink of Success

FINALLY. The planets aligned. I made it up LHF. Even parking next to a petrified pungent painted pest, could not keep the excitement at bay. Finally. I cannot count how many times I've fished this stretch of stream, but it changes every time. No man can step into the same river twice. I am enthralled at the capacity that standing in rushing water, casting a small tangle of feathers and fur with a graphite stick has in making one forget all else. A single minded focus takes over, time, space and bodily functions cease to matter. What could be greater? Possibly the DC you stashed in a snowbank for the walk out. Possibly. Will try again tomorrow.

Kodachrome

It's all about the pictures. The visual images that adhere themselves to the dendrites in our grey matter. I can't remember things I said in a meeting last week, but in a nano second with perfect clarity I can see my first fly fishing run on Jones Hole. Flipping a monstrous rubber band based crane fly larva through the mossy run, trying to distinguish the take from the moss on the bottom. The blue of the sky contrasting against the massive red rock wall rising above the stream. Looking up to a circling bird till I lose my balance. The image has no meta data, can't remember what year it was, or even what time of year, but it was early and unforgettable. I remember how it looked and felt.

Volumes of these images reside in some random order in my mind. When I return to a familiar body of water, the images become even more detailed and specific. Looking at a particular run on Wilson's creek brings back the cast, the drift, the mend, the rise, the take, play and release- all like it just happened and I feel connected to that place and that moment, but especially that place, like we shared something special together that neither of us will ever forget.

And it's a little disappointing when that run doesn't hold a fish on this day, but the image isn't tarnished, expectations simply increased for the next time.

I read once, years ago, of Traver pining over lost brooke trout water in his beloved UP (upper peninsula)- decimated by logging. I didn't then, but I do now, understand that losing the creek meant losing those images, losing those feelings, losing part of himself.

So I returned to a favorite run, one with multiple vivid images. And this day, certain holds were empty, but high water created other opportunities and I stood high on a rock and surveyed flat, shin deep waters, slow, but not pooled, difficult to fish and I imagined standing on a flat searching for a bonefish. Eventually a feeding brown was spotted. A gentle cast left him oblivious until the fly tumbled into his view and he shifted to and took it in. Another day, another trout, another visual image for a favorite spot, not competing with other fond images, but standing on it's own, providing it's own reward and adding to the depth of connection to this place.

A Winter Month and The 74 Vikings Quietly in the Books

I don't think I've ever landed a trout in January. I think the precedent was set in 1991 or 92. A few months after Pablo and his crew, at that time a paltry crew of 3 skinny boys, relocated to Oxford NC we decided to start the new year off right. On the stealthy intel of a neighborly lawyer and equally effected piscator whose name I believe was Norman, first or last, I can't recall, we learned of the Smith River, which flowed along the NC- Virginia border. With detailed directions which included, "turn left by the vacant mirror factory" we set out on a bleak, cold new years day. I only recall the cold and greyness of the day and the large, slow water, and being skunked. Seems we drove a lot and fished a little. A pattern that marked the early years, whether east or west. Doubtless if we had the gear we now possess, especially after 6 weeks of unprecedented splurgery, we'd have stayed in the water if nothing else to test our gear.

Every year since that maiden January 1 voyage, I've fished sometime in January and never even whiffed a trout. Analyzing why I continue this pepe le pew, I think it's the Santa Clause effect. After several days of bleary eyed gluttony, stumbling around the house over scads of new toys, clothes, shoes, gadgets and wrapping paper, after hopefully taking down every visible indicator of the winter fest which I've cursed since Halloween, I've flat out gotta get out of the house and into the water. Doesn't really matter if there are fish in the stream or if those fish ignore me and all my little deceptions. I just gotta get out, gotta start of the year with cold clear water running around my legs.

But now alas, the most stingy and dreary of all winter months, January is now quietly in the books of 2011. Used to be that the Super bowl was in January, but one year January lost it to February. Speaking of which, I was just reminded by a high light that all through my childhood, I pulled for those Minnesota Vikings that could never win the big one. Fran the Man, the Purple People Eaters. Why is that? Why didn't I switch over to Snake, Biletnikoff and the Raiders like all my buddies or the Cowboys like all those fair weather geeks. Why was I content to wear an Ahmad Rashad jersey (yah, he played for the Vikings before he married Mrs. Huckstable and he was #28, cool number for a wide out) when everyone had Lynn Swan. Need to share that with my therapist, probably something to that one. Ok, where was I....February is upon me and that usually means a day or two of spring will poke it's head into the month and fill me with hope. And, of course, February is the quickest of it's twelve brothers and March marks the glorious dumping of thousands of test tube trout in two creeks within an hour of my house. Yes, the Minnesota Vikings of trout- they get no respect, they are not the sexy, gear marketing spring run steel head. Patagonia isn't going to name their next line of waders after Wilson Creek. But, I was Viking fan, so I'll take these runner ups, take em on dry fly, nymph or streamer, whatever it takes. I'll be finding little pockets of time when I can watch the trees green up and the light dabble the current through their shadows. I can bring my stupid non-hunting, hunting dog mix (Minnesota Vikings??) in my hand-me-down little truck and maybe have a new reel to try out.

Heck Fire man, January's gone, February's working it's way through, Ahmad Rashad is from Oregon- WHOA, now this is really getting freaky... I'll be hooking stockies (sounds cooler huh) till June and then, and then, well everyone know what happens then, we head north, and I don't mean Minnesota! Though I hear they got some nasty musky up there, fish for em with a fly called the purple people eater.