New Year Dreams

Christmas Eve. I'm watching my wife and girls make sugar cookies, I'm stuffed by a wonderful pizza lunch; yet my mind wanders.  I can hardly stay in the moment.  It is a beautiful moment, mind you, but I'm already in AK.  I blame it on the Gov.  He has since gone underground; but he started it with forwarded emails from our bush pilot... writing about the fly-out schedule for next year.  Cuss him. We've already booked the tickets.. it's on the calendar, yet the anticipation is building early.  I've got to stop this. Anticipation is usually greater than the actual event; not counting this years expedition.  "The greatest ever", though I've heard  Gov utter that sentence before. Tonight my dreams will be filled with sugar plums and steelhead, hoping that the fat man will bring me some great piece of gear for the upcoming expedition. I know he will.. I bought it for him. 

The Base Camp and Johnny Utah

So, there it sits in the corner of my office for over a month now.  The flooded basement has been put back together for about a week, and I guess now I can "stow the gear" for another year.   I secretly know why I haven't yet.  It's my mid-life gear crisis.  Somehow surrounding myself with the adult male equivalent of "my toys" keeps me connected to the adventure even when I'm back into the most pedestrian and domestic of pursuits.  It also speaks to a little pipe dream fantasy I have.  

Sometimes when I'm driving somewhere, I will see an old house with a small yard in an old part of town with a "For Sale" sign in the yard.  And I think, "man, that would be the perfect base camp".  An old house, paid for with cash, no monthly payments, no significant yard or shrubs to care for, just a few trees and moss for ground cover, and neighbors that couldn't care less.  Swing open the front door to  kayaks and mountain bikes hanging from the ceiling in the living room.  A couple of jet boils to cook on.  In the cupboards are trail supplies, freeze dried meals, water purification systems, Nalgene bottles,  stove fuel.  Bedroom closets are filled with Nano Puffs, Down, Coreloft, Smartwool, Cap2, Windblock , Goretex, felt and Vibram.  If the living room has an open ceiling there's  climbing holds built in and a crash pad (that doubles as my bed)  The dining room is dedicated to fly rods, all strung and ready to play.

That's what you do when you are Mister Responsible, you dream about being Mister Irresponsible, living out the dream, every weekend spent on the mountain, stream, flat, tundra, bike or plane.  What do you say boys- 50 is the new 20- ready to push the envelope?!  Big poster of Point Break on the wall- "Come on Johnny Utah, What's the matter with you guys? This was never about the money, this was about us against the system. That system that kills the human spirit. We stand for something. We are here to show those guys that are inching their way on the freeways in their metal coffins that the human spirit is still alive!"   

YOU WITH ME?!!?

~Origins~ The Trailer

We are back from a successful (aren't they all?) expedition to AK.  If I can't get the trailer loaded here, click the vimeo link.

https://vimeo.com/72017303

"Origins"~ The Trailer from Pablo on Vimeo.

Back for More

The Gov's journal entry from last year's trip read, "what a horrible weather trip, I am beaten down by it all, I don't know if I can ever go back."

Oh my, how time heals all wounds!  I'm not sure the exact date, but boredom and "real" life set in upon us and we immediately began to plan our next AK trip.  We now stand on the precipice of that trip.  Back to the "mother" river, the one that started it all.  The one river that about killed us. The one where we cried (Gov did, not us) for the warmth of home and dry waders. 

That was then and this is now.  We have come miles in the last 5 years. Day and night, use any metaphor you want, we have entered Vol. 3 and are ready to embrace this river again.  Doesn't hurt that the weather forecast reads like San Diego.  I'd wish you all a good night, but I know three adventurers that will not be sleeping much tonight.. may as well be crashing on the floor of the "Ted Stevens International Airport, Welcome, the current time is 3:30 a.m., this is a non-smoking facility"..................

Winds debrief

Winds 6/27-7/2/2013:

6/27:  arrived at the Worthen meadows trail head at about 2pm.  Trail to middle fork of the Popo Agie is easy through forested section over a bit of a saddle and predominately descending to the bridge crossing.  Just before the bridge crossing,the trail forks and goes to ---- lake. ----- miles to the bridge crossing.   at the bridge crossing we stopped and fished, nice water right through there.  We turned up stream and  hiked rolling easy trail a total of 6.75 miles to a very nice med sized campsite trail right with the stream falling hard over boulders trail left.  Access to the stream was excellent via a continuous smooth Granite slab.  Through out the night as we ate dinner and lounged around we periodically heard an odd, distant woofing sound.  As it got completely dark, we sat on a slab of smooth exposed granite, straining our ears to hear the sound- trying to locate and identify it.

Maree waiting for a shower cap at Popo camp 1

We actually thought we heard two separate "buglers" one fainter and more distant and debated if they were calling to each other.  I didn't find the calls to be sequenced as call and respond, and the nearer call didn't seem to move.  Although initially it did sound like a noise like I've heard bears in AK make- a sort of woofiing, the more I listened the more it sounded like a moose or maybe elk and I felt certain it was a short, clipped momma call- like I heard one night on Ongivinuk when a moose or maybe caribou came up on our camp from the bush at about 3am.  I heard the brush cracking and then the short barked momma order to a no doubt surprised calf who'd come up on our tent- they both wheeling and crashing back into the bush.  But this call was strange in that it didn't seem to result in any movement or action that we could discern.  I think our postulates of heard calls helped the girls feel more comfortable that it wasn't an agitated bear looking for a fight.  Eventually the calls ended all together and we enjoyed our first glimpses of the night sky completely devoid of human light interference- what a glorious view of the universe from the banks of the Popo Agie.  The next morning we saw cow scat (sounds better than pie, right) and remember the trail head sign about live stock and figured it might have been a cow calling- that seemed to match as it didn't sound big enough to be a moose or elk.

6/28:  mick rose early, sort of- 8am, and fished the meadow below the falling section by camp.  Beautiful water with eager although small brookies plentiful.  We packed up and headed out only to stop .1 miles at another spectacular meadow.  This was only feet from the trail break off to ice lake and a few hundred fee from the popo agie crossing the point where the trail back tracks on the opposite site of the meadow and heads up Stough creek.  The girls took a shot at fly casting and did well despite our poor instruction and frustrated tones.  Just up stream of the meadow is a fantastic huge campsite in the pines adjacent to the meadow.

The Meadow at Three Forks and just before crossing to ascend

About 11am we crossed the Popo Agie, said good bye to her and started our ascent of Stough creak.  After two crossings of lower feeder creeks and skirting a small meadow, we started the gradual but continual climb of Stough Creek.  The --- mile climb took -- hours and we stopped frequently to enjoy the shade and Pablo broke out the rod on one deep pool where we spied a couple of nice brookies, one about 13".  Pretty fatigued when we hit the final crossing (via bridge) and merger with the trail from the pass that we'd taken years ago on a day hike into the first lake.  At the trail junction, the sign indicated another 3 miles to Stough lake(s).  We lowered our heads and tackled the final climb and were pleasantly surprised when we hit the saddle over looking the first lake at 5:00pm and after only a mile from the sign and trail junction.  My guess is the sign must indicated one of the higher, middle lakes as the central location of Stough creek lake(s).   The trail first lake has a big good campsite on the west side up on the knoll in the trees, was very buggie when we were there, we stopped there and dropped our packs and eventually decided to push on after Jb and Maree scouted two more open locations at the next lake up. I crossed the incoming stream to scout a campsite a few hundred yards past the stream and marked by an obelisk shaped rock.  Definitely a small, secluded camp with a great view of the lower lake could be made there, but it included the hassle of crossing the feeding stream every time you wanted to access the higher lake bound trail on the west side of the lower lakes.    

Ultimately we settled on a rocky knoll, med sized site on the lower western corner of the second lake.  The only good tent sites were right next to trees and had the subsequent bug issues.  Although the camp had lot s of small rocks, a fire pit, it was lacking a good bear bagging tree and had only one marginal rock big enough to sit on.  On the last night JB tried to build a couple of other rock seats with only limited success.  After the

The View Base Camp Left

climb and with out having eaten enough, I was fuzzy headed and had to wolf down a cliff bar to keep from collapsing.  We were at 10,500 feet- 9,500 higher than I'm used too and that certainly was a factor, but happily none of us got altitude sickness.  We ate super, got camp set up and enjoyed the setting sun and spectacular milky, JB using the illegal Chinese laser to point out constellations- big and Little Dipper being the only definitive stars he could ID.  Not wanting to be rookies, we turned in around mid night- only Beth reporting a good sleep the next morning.

6/29: The third straight cloudless day greeted us and after a breakfast of strawberry oatmeal and 100% d
Deet, we loaded up day packs with food, purification tablets, sandals and towels, expecting some pristine high lake dipping.  Literally as we walked out of camp, JB nonchalantly pulled the rain fly over his tent- "Look at the sky man, It's not going to rain."  "I know," he replied, but I'm going to do it anyway".  I decided to as well.

JB and Maree found a boulder hopping crossing of the feeder stream close the lake.  JB's reaching out for Maree and yelling, "you can do this, come on , you can make this!" convinced Beth that we needed to look for an easier crossing, so we kept moving up stream right and got separated from them.  This was actually the stream crossing for the feeder creek to a shallow, small pond just above the lake where we camped.  Beth and I ended up making the morning and lunch at the lake west of the shallow pond, catching brookies on dry flies at the exit creek and in the main lake.  After several hours of lallygagging and just enjoying the beautify of the almost above tree line lake, we began to move up lake toward the feeder stream.  Surprisingly, we ran into JB and Maree who came into the bottom portion of the lake from over a knoll which separated the "Mick and Beth Lake" from the it's eastern sister lake where JB and Maree had spent the morning.  Of course the eastern lake was reported to have bigger fish and JB was breathless with tales of monster cuts cruising the shoreline- however I don't recall that he hooked any of them.

Reunited, we moved up stream as clouds began to roll in and decided to head for a lake above and west of the two sister lakes.  AS we made our way the weather became increasingly ominous with loud claps of thunder and Beth expressed her trepidation, especially since we had no rain gear in the pack and sported only short sleeve shirts as the temp dropped.  We eventually decided to follow JB and make it over to "storm lake" where shortly it began to sprinkle and we should shelter, all be it poor, in a rock over hang for

Ascending to Storm Lake

JB and Mar and a grouping of pine trees on a cut bank for Mick and Beth  As we huddled we heard voices and watched a troop of 15 or so young hikers blow by us.  We later learned they were a NOL's group and they told JB they had just summited one of the peaks surrounding on of the upper lakes.  We passed this group two days later on our way out.  Anyway, a break in the rain convinced M&B to make a dash for camp, some 2+ miles away.  AS we made it back to the lake were we'd spent the morning, the rain came harder and we crammed ourselves under a rock, listening to the thunder and pounding rain on the lake, but staying for the most part dry ourselves.  After 20 minutes things lightened somewhat and we crawled from under our rock, startling two women, clad in Arcteryx and Gonia rain jackets, "out wandering around".  Beth told one of them she had that exact same jacket, but it was in her backpack!  We made the most of the break and hustled across the outlet stream, finding an easy crossing that we would use the remainder of the trip and a good trail lake right (going down stream) that took us past the small pond and back to our campsite.  AS we neared camp the rain increased, as did our pace.  I quickly took the food out of the tree as those bags were getting wet, threw them under JB's ample vestibule, checked and deemed their packets safe deep under the branches of the pine trees, closed our packs and put them under tree limbs and filmed dime sized hail before ducking into our tent.  It had rain much harder at camp than at the upper lakes and I was very grateful we'd pulled the rain fly over our sleeping bags and clothes in our tent.   We dozed and kept an eye on the ground around the tent where the sheets of rain pooled and sluffed off from the fly.  It cam in spasms for about an hour and I began to organize in my mind a rescue attempt for JB and Mar, assuming it was raining as hard up there as it was down here and knowing the temp drop and soaked clothes may not be life threatening, but certainly miserable.  The only problem would be finding them.  Not knowing if they might have moved father south to upper lakes after we left and might take a different way back to camp.  As the rain lightened and I decided I'd make a shot at finding them, JB came yelling into camp, fairly dry as there was less downpour higher up and they had sheltered under a rock.

After dinner we decided to pursue the evening hatch on the sister lake where JB and Maree had spent the morning.  There were lots of rises as we worked our way around the lake to the bouldered shore line.  The girls found a "comfortable" rock and dissected the intricacies of public education as we threw caddis and Griffiths gnat at rises.  Some nice brookies came to hand and the gnat got gnarled, we definitely had not matched the hatch as we took only 10% maybe of the rises.  Seemed they were taking something small and maybe emerging as most my takes where while the fly was sinking.  I tied on a #6 Dahlia skunk and after a few casts, working the shoreline from a peninsula rock had a rod jolting slam, big fish for sure, but Nada beyond that.  JB took a nice brookie and had some knocks on a cone head muddler.  Beth was worried about hiking in the dark, so we left a little earlier than otherwise might've, but truth be told, the slow fishing had me sufficiently humbled anyway.

Back at base camp I decided to try a fire.  wood was limited, but i realized the abundant yellow pines had lots of dead branches which were perfect fire size and had been sheltered from the rain by the higher green branches.  I gathered them up by the armfuls, building s promising reserve for the evening, if only they would burn.  the dryer lent and my Alaska training by the mule yielded a nice crackling fire, the pine burned like Sterno logs.  we watched more shooting stars and retired to our sacks around midnight.

Even a fresh FFJ could yield no sleep and Another tossing and turning night was followed by a brilliant morning.  Sooner or later I've got to solve the wilderness insomnia.  I know I don't sleep in Alaska because I'm intently listening for marauding brown bears, but with no such fear in the winds I should've slept rip van winkle.  Luckily I feel no ill effects during the day, other than rising later than I'd like as what ever winks I get seem to be from 4-7am, the excitement of the mountains keeps me charged all day... And night I suppose.

6/30/13

We hit the "big fish lake" from the night before, but the water was covered with pine pollen from the storm the night before, make visibility difficult.  After an hour or so we crested the  knoll between lakes, Beth and I stopping at a snow bank and making grape slush ices in our bottles.  The girls took the rods for little brookie lake and maree in particular had great luck.  Eventually we moved up the feeder creaking, keeping to the south this time instead of west to storm lake where we'd gone the day before.  JB was working this med

sized stream and above a small waterfall declared it devoid of fish.  Moments later we started seeing rises
and stopped at a fabulous run with chuncky brookies, 8-11 inches and much thicker than in the lake were aggressively taking the caddis. Beth took several fish and seemed to have found her groove if not her passion for rising trout.  We fished a few more runs, but the hatch seemed to have slacked and we eventually hop scotched up to the lake.  A small, shallow lake surrounded by spectacular cirques tempted us to bare all and swim.  Instead we decided to bust up to a higher lake which was reported to hold goldens.  Beth was more in intrigued by a crack in one of the circs and decided to forgo the fishing for climbing.  She surmised her bouldering skills were adequate to "crawl the crack" a few hundred feet since we were sans harnesses, pitons, rope and caribeeners.    So as Beth toed and fingered holds on a fresh rock face, possibly never before free climbed, Maree, JB and I scampered over a small knoll to an upper lake. 

Beth's accent line, center crack above the snow

I found fresh legs and with a 2 hour expected weather window (clouds were building and a repeat was expected) kicked it into gear, quickly finding myself on a 40 foot cliff looking down at the spectacular stream exit.  Even more spectacular were the large gold torpedoes waving in the shallow current, it was reminiscent of the great north land.  Although 40 feet above the water, my silhouetted movement sent the 20" jetting into the depths of the outlet stream.  Stupid approach, sometimes in the wilderness you assume the fish are fearless, and small ones are, but the big boys are big for a reason, their cautious and smart.  I made my way down to the stream and took a nice brookie cruising on the seem between shallows and deep.  I was casting 30 feet to objects farther out that seem when JB appeared on the cliff.  From his perch he spotted a decent trout actually facing the cliff wall below, no doubt working off a bounce back current.  After some miscommunication and in accurate casts, I finally understood where he was telling me the fish was and launched a 50' cast to grassy edge!  "That's it man, thanks it, he's heading right for it, hold it hold it!"  The head rose and the tail splashed and I set the hook on a memorable presentation in a breath taking place.

We hit the lake and JB decided to go south on the other side of the outlet stream, I heard an inlet streaming gurgling in from a grassy area on my side of the lake and decided to head that way.  Turned out to be the right idea, but the wrong inlet stream.  I caught on avg brookie while JB will have to write about his

JB's choice of inlets paid off big

experience on the opposite shore line at the larger I let stream. 

It grew windy and clouds increased.  I thought to fish the outlet stream and did take a brookie there, but worried about Beth possibly stuck somewhere up that rock face with weather building and with no sign of JB and Mar I decided to bust it back to the lower lake.  I found Beth fresh of her accent and relaxing by the lake, no worse for the wear.  She'll have to write about her escapades on the wall.  We decided to fish the creek back, taking our time, seems the climb had taken more out of her that she wanted to admit, maybe she doesn't climb as effortlessly as she did in her twenties when we first met on the north face of El Cap. 

Hard to say goodbye to this

We hit the same fabulous run we'd plumbed on our way up stream, but this time our fly wasn't getting it done, they'd either "learned today" or we weren't matching the hatch this time.  I tried a few different flies, even clipping down a crimson bodied humpy to look like a midge, and only took a a couple of trout.  Don't think Beth took any this go round.  I fished the stream down, enjoying the Rambling diversity of the runs.  Eventually we cam to the lower braided section, shallow and inviting and toyed with bathing although a little skittish being so close to the trail.  We soaked our feet and from a sitting position I drifted a fly to my first and only cutthroat, measuring him against my bare foot in the cool water.  Eventually JB and M showed up and although intermittently sunny and hot and cool and cloudy, it didn't rain and we made it back to camp around dusk.  JB and M had dipped at the upper lake and Beth and I decided to hit the outlet stream just below our camp.  our tub was trail visible but we hustled and I remembered and employed the Jordo Vinuk plunge where you got to push up position in shallow water, worked great and the water was only 10 second cold, better than the 5 second cold of the upper stream.

Another fire, more stars a new neighbor of three who'd unknowing set up camp in what had been our latrine, hope they didn't move a lot of rocks around.

The Crew already contemplating the next time

The next day dawned with that miserable anticipation of the end.  Wile still in the wild and with work to do its possible to stay in the moment, but the last day blues are right on the edge after such a perfect trip.  The back track up the pass was simple enough, sans a couple of rock slide crossings.  We recruited at the pass with photo ops and bouldering the adjacent 20 foot outcroppings to view the panorama of the trails we'd hiked.  We chatted up a nice young couple from Fort Collins and on the switch backs down- the ones that made Beth thankful we'd chosen the three forks/ middle popo agie route to the lakes, we met two other groups for who's lives we feared.  A couple from Chicago, wearing little fans to keep the skeeters off their faces, a new 70lb Kelty pack with a broken strap and riding right on the good gentleman's shoulders and accompanied by two old couch dogs who's epitaph Beth pronounced as we left them, 

"hear lie the chihuahua and the sharpie, 

whose city slicking owners the wind river thought said dogs could slay 

but alas all table scraps and ample double chins 

cost them their lives on the slopes of the mighty Winds." 

The second outfit was a young family we passed on the meadows, before nary a switch back.  Three small kids with little packs and rods, hiking in sandals and the good natured dad already carrying lil sissy's back in his free hand.  It may not end up on "I shouldn't be alive" but it could end up in divorce court.  But maybe we're wrong, maybe they have the patience of Job and backs of the mule.

Our pace was slow as we savored the last few miles, it was only 7 miles or so down, but it took us a full 6 hours- what's the rush, right?  Beth and I stopped at a small bridge of a small stream just past the the big meadow bridge and soaked our tired dogs and taped our tender toes one last time.  We crossed the shallow roaring river just below roaring lake, exactly at a spot where I'd photoed Hondo in full waders casting to eager 4" brookies some 8 or 9 nine years ago.  The final push to the truck was easy peasy and with in the hour we were bathing in the sink of _____ while our burgers, pizza and nachos were cooking and we toasted a successful maiden trip for the lasses and another notch in the belt of the Unguided. 

Midnight Sun

Don't ask a man to tell you about his recent river escapades when he has just touched down at 7 am MST from a 5 hour red-eye flight from Alaska.   You may not get the truth.  

What is it about the Naknek that draws one back?  This trip was undertaken with some reservation.  Intel from Mikey was that the fishing was "sub par", but this was primarily a graduation trip for my son.  It may have ruined him.  It may have ruined me. Sum total?  Not many fish. Mostly all under 14".  Isn't this the famed NAKNEK??  The Alaskan jewel, one of the best Rainbow fisheries in the Last Frontier? Not this time, nor ever again for me.  We did land 4 fish over 16", and one about 27". (footage will be posted on Vimeo soon, or if you're an "insider", then in the "box")  A couple of consolation prizes to mention.  Great company was enjoyed, some wonderful pizza, learned way to much about golf, and we did NOT sleep on Easy Ed's floor.  We actually had beds and hot showers along with Satellite TV, all was not lost. 

I do not wish to wish-away any trip, especially to AK, it was what is was.  I hope my son tasted a little of the AK adventure, but for me it was not the remote wilderness experience that I travel great lengths to enjoy.  Goodbye mighty Naknek.... Goodbye.

AK Season Begins

WHEN AIR... Next Stop, King Salmon 5:34 pm June 12

So, it's déjà vu all over again... June, I'm sitting at home and Pablo is right about now in king salmon, staring down the barrel at 4 days on the naknek.  But, it's 10:35 pm in NC, I've been up since 5 am, taking a daughter to the airport for her mission, won't see her for a year and a half.... I'm emotional as a pregnant woman, exhausted, the thought of slogging around in waders till 2 am in the land of the midnight sun (4am EST) doesn't sound appealing.. Nor does the concrete floor of uncle eds "cabin".... So right now, I'm happy to be sleeping in my own bed with only dreams of naknek bows... but tomorrow is another day.

From AK With Love

The Journal Paradox

The cover is battered, the pages smudged, but here in lies the truth.  The thoughts of the piscator while in the very act of joy, exultation, suffering, cold, pain- whatever that day or trip held.  No benefit of the rose colored lenses looking back, the pure, unvarnished truth we can learn from for this year:

September 6, 2012 (Trip Analysis)

WEATHER:  thank goodness for 2 1/2 good days at the beginning and 1 at the end.  Middle 4 were horrible combo of rain and wind that we'd never seen.  The blow out Monday night was awful- meaning the river being muddy, high- unfishable.  I can take all the weather- as long as I can still fish- but if I can't fish- despondent.
TIME OF YEAR:  silvers are fun- no doubt.  But it's obvious that the bows and Dolly's leave the river after the influx of chum and reds.  so go earlier (mid July-early Aug) that's prime or go to a huge silver river.
TAKE A YEAR OFF: This year wasn't up to par, such is Alaska fishing- a big gamble.  But taking a year off should make me want to come back and enjoy it that much more in 2014.
TIME TO FIND NEW WATER:  Yes, I love the familiarity of O*****uk and want to go back- sometime, but a new river- new adventure would be best for next time.


Read it and weep!  I suppose like child birth (our female readers will love that one- except we have none- readers) you forget the pain and only remember the joy.  So at some point in AK 2013 I'll be bent over an unwieldy rain shelter, back aching, physically exhausted, emotionally bear weary, shoulder sore and think- why didn't I heed my own advice?  I should've taken this year off!  But a mouse will skitter across the foam line- an aching shoulder high sticking his gurgling, sputtering swim for his life when an 28" rainbow with dark green back, leopard spots and a fierce red striped lateral line will shoot from under the bank and smash Mr. Hinky and then go airborne and I will know that my Journal of 2012 was full of deceit, falsehood and lies!  No way I could sit a year out.

JB- update the gear list, let's get this show on the road.  Yipee Kiyah!

Man of a Hundred Flies

I know a man. Not in the Biblical sense; but in the sense that I could tell you what fly he had on the end of his line at any given time.  I'm talking Alaska here, but even if it were Idaho, it'd be the same fly. A purple Egg Sucking Leech.  Gotta love the name. I'm no stranger to that fly, but this man had an intimate knowledge of the thing.  Through several float trips in AK, even 3 full days on the Kvichak, the only fly he ever had on was an ESL.  The SAME ESL.  I've been known to tell a few fish stories in my lifetime, but not here.  This man would tie that on, and it'd never come off.  Fast action, slow action didn't matter. At times we'd discuss what was working or in the slow periods what may work. He never made a switch.  I know we are creatures of habit, but this was beyond  habit, this was.... well, I don't know what this was.  So you can imagine my surprise when he sends me an email saying he had a friend tie him up 100 different flies. Who is he going to Will those to?

The Next Generation

So yesterday morning Beth, hopefully, took a big step toward her own fishing blog, obsession with gear, Alaska air miles and yearning for a second career as a guide.  (Well, a man can dream can't he?).  So fresh from that success on a cold, raining afternoon, I hazarded taking Travis for his first trout fishing outing.  You would think that I would have learned my lesson from dragging my oldest son, Jordan, through all types of difficult weather and terrain, usually with limited fish, and only his good nature preserving the experience- that I should choose better weather for Travis- but it should be clearly established by now, that, I aint that smart.

All Ready Tasting Alaska

With snow flakes mixing with the rain, after the first hole and several casts Travis confides, "I'm cold, and to be honest this isn't really that fun." Here we go again, another son ruined.  I took him up to the truck (more on that later) and filled him full of hot chocolate and then we drove over to the pool where Beth had so much success.  I positioned him right in the sweet spot- you can see/ watch the rest.... Yes, that is a lure hanging from the trout's mouth- come on, the scriptures say milk before meat, line upon line precept upon precept, here a little and there a little.

Wait for the Hondo style release.....

What a Catch

Dave looked up from his tying desk, "You wont be able to teach her" he said matter of fact.  "I've taught lots of women to fly fish but I could not teach my own wife."  Like all advice from the guru and owner of Hickory's one and only fly shop, I listened and seriously considered.

With Beth and the kids' Easter break coinciding with the April spawn of Wilson and Jacob Fork Creeks, I determined to "tie on a dropper" by melding my family time with my river time.  Hazardous venture, fraught with peril.... I know.  But I am a risk taker- well, not really, but I will try anything to get more time on the water.

Wednesday dawned bright and sunny, though chilly, and we bundled accordingly, she excited, me worried but hopeful that my fantasy of melding the two things I love most in life could be more than a pipe dream.  My hope seemed to dwindle as every turn in the road revealed a vehicle and piscators where I suspected fresh trout.  Finally we came to a vacant turn out accessing a series of deep pools and previously productive runs.  Twenty five feet from the water the trout were so thick even she could spot them and gasp- surely this pool would achieve her object, "I just want to catch fish, lots of fish like you do".  I had chuckled at that comment.  "Honey, how many years have I been fishing, I mean, I'm sort of an expert, I always can catch fish, but that doesn't make it easy.... or mean you will"  as she frowned I quickly added, "But I bet you will.  You will."

At the risk of sore chastisement and criticism,  I confess that I started her off with a spinning rod and meps lure.  I position her at the head of the pool where she could retrieve the spinner against the current and directly through the strike zone.  Her first cast was an utter failure, sailing wide right and only 10 feet.  But the current picked up the light tackle and with the first turn of the spinning reel the tip of the rod jumped, "You got one!"  I yelled and she squealed with delight.  A little brookie came to hand and was released.  Second cast, a little better throw and same result!  This was money in the bank, the Govna had delivered.

My Second Entry on the Drakes' Page Six Chicks!

In thirty minutes she had mastered the spinning rod and wanted the fly rod.  I was hesitant, but, the fish were plentiful and eager, the weather warming, the sky a sharp blue, the water clear and her confidence high, if ever there was a day to make the leap, this was it.  I rigged up a nymph and strike indicator and standing behind her with my right hand on hers and the rod, line in both our left hands, I swung her through a little roll cast that put the fly in the feeding column.  I stayed wrapped around her directing the rod for a quick mend and the indicator shot under.  Her hand followed mine skyward as we raised the rod and set the hook before I turned loose and she played the fish with the line in her left hand.  She did it very naturally.  "Ok, that didn't really count because you were helping me."  So I gave her some more advice and about the time I was going to start over coach and aggravate both of us, I just walked to the bank and began to string up my rod in silence.  She made some nice roll casts and the requisite failures to launch.  She sought my judgement on whether she had a "dead drift" and shortly she took a trout (I did SHOUT, HE'S ON!) before she realized it was a fish tugging the indicator and not just the current.

Somewhere in that spell, she was landing and releasing her own fish and I moved down stream and found my own dry fly action.  Enjoying watching her take and land a couple of fish completely on her own.  When her feet got cold she laid out on the bank like a sun bather and napped.

Maybe next time I am in the shop I will offer Dave some advice.

Conflicted

During trout season here in the Carolina mountains, I keep all of my gear in the trunk of my car- luck favors the prepared.  I never know when the day will hand me a free hour or two and if I can divert directly to the water, that hour can go from tedium to tranquility.  I admit that on Thursday it was a calculated move.  Staring down the barrel at the three day weekend and with family all in Atlanta for a volleyball tourney I was sprinting through work Thursday morning, scheduled a lunch meeting at a cafe in the same complex as my local fly shop- a quick stop there and I'd be free to fish all weekend.

The weather was cooperating nicely, cool for spring in these parts, but flat out balmy, at 58, for my brethren in Connecticut, Jersey, Utah and Alaska   This would be a good day!  I pulled into the parking spot, blissful to see no other vehicles.  Backed up to a nice flat piece of granite, chunked the phone and Ipad in the drivers seat and popped the trunk- my phone booth- where I make the transition from mild manner city manager of metropolis to wilderness super hero.  As I pulled out my waders, I became disoriented  cryptonite? something in the gear bag was amiss, something was not where it should have been!  Like the good people of metropolis trying to comprehend how a man in a cape could fly, I stood staring in the trunk, mind unable to comprehend how there was only one wading boot.  I instinctively began rummaging through the gear, then even went and looked in the backseat of the car- all the while knowing that I had dropped off the boot for repairs on Monday and had even put on my calendar today to pick it up- but there I was, ready to start my fish-a-thon weekend and only one wading boot, but knowing I had in fact two feet.

I felt sick.  The responsible thing to do would be to drive back to the office and go back to work.  I wondered for a moment if I could wade in my neoprene booty.  Sometime I had an old pair of running shoes in the car or my work out bag with running shoes, but not today.

Dressed for Success

To appreciate this little crisis, you have to understand it in the context of the bigger crisis of my life.  Ok, not really a crisis but certainly conflict.  Too much of my very limit mental capacity is spent trying to determine if I am a trout bum or a respectable father of five, manager of a large organization, and leader of my community and church.  The two can never seem to peacefully coexist.  And while fishing certainly gives needed respite and makes me better, I hope, at all the other stuff, the desire to be on the stream is constantly battling with all the important stuff, even sometimes ripping the "important" off the "stuff" - exactly as our blog mission has been so perfectly stated by Judge Traver, "And sometimes he fishes not because he regards fishing as being so terribly important but because he suspects that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant."


So as I snapped a picture of my solution to the problem, I knew that I had captured exactly the conflict I often experience.  I also knew I had taken a real and metaphorical step to resolving the conflict.
Twenty years from now this will be part of the lore and legend my grand kids will know about me.  They wont care what I accomplished in my career, but they will know that their grandpa loves to fish so much that he once waded the trout stream wearing a $150 dress shoe- which was ruined of course!

By the way, the shoe did ok on slick rocks, I'm thinking about using that soft rubber dress shoe sole for a new line of feltless boots.  Fishing was tough, but didn't matter, I was out there, doing what I loved and caught a few fish in places other piscators must of over looked.

Expecting the Unexpected

The thing about being the early bird is it's freaking cold first thing on a March morning, even in the south.  A slip leads to wet hands and the chilly trickle down the leg.  Frozen fingers don't work for tying tiny flies to strands of hair and clearing ice out of the guides.  About the time I was thinking this whole thing was a big mistake- it happened, the unexpected.  The unexpected is one of the reasons we fish- you can always expect the unexpected, sometime bad, sometimes fantastic, sometimes inexplicable, sometimes unrelated whatsoever to the act of fishing- but you can count on the unexpected.

I had decided to take a gamble and wade across a sandy area of the big pool I was fishing to give me a better presentation to some finicky or maybe cold and sleepy trout.  The sandy area had at the front deep water and at the back tree limbs hanging over the flow, so I was ducking and maneuvering, eyes intent on the area where I knew fish held.  I looked down to see if the depth of the water was changing and just beyond my cold feet was a dead fish, laying on its side, silvery and lifeless, but just past that, under a low hanging branch was an armada of trout, sitting in formation like F14s on an aircraft carrier.  I had a flash back to a mangrove flat of Puerto Rico where a mask and snorkel brought me face to face with a school of juvey bone fish tucked up under the protection of the overhanging bank.  Suspended in formation, swaying in unison with the tide.  Those fish were uncatchable because I didn't have a rod, but these trout, in the same formation feeling smug under their low hanging branch were fair, if not challenging game.  How do you get a fly to fish right at the end of your rod with out spooking them and both of you surrounded by branches.  A slow cold morning suddenly had my heart beating, this would be fun!  I tied on a big nymph so I could see the take underwater.  I pointed the rod horizontal to the waters surface and with fly between thumb and index finger of my left hand, used the tension of the leader to bend the rod tip back- bow and arrow style.  Pop- I launched the fly perfectly into the tree branches-aimed high.  Afraid another move would spook the school, I used the end of the rod tip to untangle and retrieve the fly, all the while, one eye on the school hovering 3 feet to my left in 2 feet of water.  I lower the rod tip to 6" above the surface, and this time shot the fly perfectly in front of me, where the current would carry it right to my quarry.

Just as it drifted into the kill zone, I realized I had no leverage to set the hook and if the fish bolted, I'd be wrapped up in branches and probably snap my brothers new Orvis.  Love those ah ha moments!  I could just make out the fly drifting past the lead fish- come on.... I lost the fly but saw a fish move with purpose and open it's mouth- I swung the rod quickly right simultaneously stripping quickly and felt the lovely familiar tap tap while also seeing the fish shake it's head and try to bolt to deeper water.  I had just enough room and leverage to keep him in place and pull him toward me, out of the school.  I turned my back to the school and let him run, shake and splash in the water to my right in a window about 4x4 feet where I could raise the rod with out branches over head and bring the fish to hand.

Ended up hooking an equal number of branches and trout, all the while tucked into these over hanging trees, completely hidden from the main body of the stream.  I imagined if another piscator had come upon me I'm sure I would've started them and they'd have thought "is he fishing from a tree stand, what the heck?"  If they'd have seen me at all.  Eventually the ache in my feet overcame the thrill of hand to fin combat and I back tracked to dry ground and warming sunshine.  The morning had turned on a dime and the momentum and confidence was now squarely with me.

After a change of gloves (wet for dry) and some serious stomping of ice blocked feet, I decided to head to the flats- a favorite place, but one that skunked me last week.  I'm not sure if it was the result of having brought fish to hand in a tight spot or the residue of volume 3, but instead of attacking the flats with reckless abandon, I stood for a long time on a boulder and peered through the water like a giant behooded heron- red hooded.  The cool thing about the flats is it's all sight fishing, but one lined fish can be a pin ball bouncing off every other fish churning the entire football field sized flat into a frenzy of fins and tails and you might as well move up stream.

I made out the shadow of a single fish.  The soft 2 piece 4 wt Orvis was new to me, but felt familiar and I fed out line with false cast until I put the fly 10 yards above the fish and in the same current column, one quick mend and I should get a good drift to the target.  Three more spot on drifts of the green body caddis and the fish remained unimpressed.  Must be a brookie- brookies rarely take a dead drifted fly, for whatever reason, they like movement.  I wondered where the other fish were, surely this section of the flat held more than a single trout.  Again I stifled my urge to "throw and go" and waded down stream to the rapids and crossed to the other side, well below the holding water and up a steep bank where I could scan that entire section of the flat.  Even with polarized eyes and relatively flat water, it took a few seconds for the dark shapes to come into focus.  One, two, three, four, five, six.... there's a bunch of nice fish in this hold, all calmly pointed up stream, largely ignoring the skittish little pups frantically zooming around.  The movements up and side to side were the tell tell signs of feeding trout, though none broke the surface.  The problem would be presenting a fly with out spooking them.  If I went back to my original perch, I'd be casting across at least two current speeds and any fly movement would be across their bows and brookies like to pursue a fly running directly away from them.  I stayed on the high embankment and moved up stream.  The fish thinned out in number and size as the water become even shallower and flatter.  Sixty feet above my targets I eased into the water, spooking a solo fish.  10 feet from the bank were two rocks shoulder width apart that would give me a partial elevation where I could just make things out.  I swung a side arm cast to within a foot of the bank and used the rod tip to stage excess fly line in the current, giving the fly a clean drift in front of the leader on a collision course with feeding trout.

The fly passed over the first three or four fish with out incident, as it approached the tale of the holding water I pulled the line tight and slowed then stopped the drift.  The fly bobbed quickly under then with a slight down stream move of the rod, pop back to the surface.  The water exploded, the fly vanished and the rod tip shot up with a shout and a ping- sending tippet flying back toward me.  Cleaned my clock but good, that one did!

But the technique worked, the puzzle was solved and two or three healthy robust flies met their fate leading fly line down stream to fierce little brook trout teeth.

The reward of a good day on the water is two fold, instant gratification for a problem solved and the subsequent mental imagines of lighting captured in a bottle- every sliver perfectly unique and indelible.  Secondly, complete mental and spiritual clarity- when the mind can only focus on the moment at hand, perfectly clear and calm, and God's creations, you included, melding together in a communion that fills the your soul.

Judge Not

My mind was in that odd space of thoughts with out thinking.  The road so familiar, the rising sun illuminating the mountain tops growing larger before me.  No blaring music or raging impatience- that was opening day in volume two.  Just the familiar turns in the road and the gazing down into the tannin stained water.  It's been said you can never step in the same river twice and the rains of  the previous few days gave the familiar flow an entirely new dimension.

The old mill walls are so out of place- a relic of a past civilization- one of the few remaining evidences of a center of commerce and industry in a now pristine watershed.  At the turn of the century  the furniture mills at the base of the these mountains sucked the lumber out of every accessible valley and holler.  They clear cut the entire region and built saw mills and even cotton mills right in the valleys to bring more finished products to the growing cities and towns below.  They clear cut the ancient hardwood forest and endured epic flooding which washed away the homes, towns and mills- finally in 1930 the last flood and the national depression won out and the area was never built back.

There's a sharp breeze that squelches the forecast of shirtsleeve fishing as I back up to nice flat slab of granite that outlines the crude fish parking area in the shadow of the concrete walls.  A perfect place to sit and wrestle neoprene booties into stiff wading boots.  As usual, I'm the first person here- its a week day and I make it a point to arrive early and get my pick of honey holes.

The old mill pond is favorite spawning ground, and as NC Wildlife.gov had predicted, the spawn had taken place on Monday and Thursday morning found a veritable armada of brook trout stacked gill to gill and head to tail at the back of the mill pond.  The first two casts connect, as does the fifth and six, eighth, tenth and eleventh and then I've lost track.  I'm in that zone of reading and reacting, oblivious to all things above the surface and talking gently to fish when a voice startles me from behind just as the fly disappears in a splash, "I was going to ask if you were having any luck. "  An involuntary spasm brings me upright and I spin around faster than I mean to- trying to hide how startled I am.  I just smile and nod.  He's a gray haired man in his late sixties or early seventies.  What looks like a hand carved wading staff in one hand and a long fly rod in the other.  He inquires about what I'm using and how many I've caught and asks if it would be OK if he crossed the stream well below me and then decides maybe he'll throw a streamer up here above me if that's OK.  I'm usually pretty territorial given that spin fisherman will appear out of the willows and step right into your back cast, throwing a panther martin a foot above your fly.  But this morning I'm into fish to start the spring season and I'm certain I will catch fish on every cast, all day, every day.  "Yep, that's fine, you'll slay em with a streamer."

A few more hits and misses and I've forgotten about him.  When I come back to reality 30 minutes later, he is still bent over his rod messing with line and streamers or whatever.  I"m not sure he has even cast yet.  15 more minutes pass and I'm becoming bored with this spot.  Same presentation, same result, same size fish, too easy, need to explore and try some other things.  As I turn around and make for shore my companion has walked down and greets me.  Turns out he is a semi retired judge from Charlotte.  Fished up on the South Mills on Tuesday after he had court on Monday.  I shared my locale and occupation and told him I worked my schedule around the spawn as best I could.  He smiled when I said, "I can be back to my office in an hour for meetings this afternoon, but, I may not make those meetings today."  He asked again about crossing down below me and I said that was fine, I was heading up stream and he decided he'd just jump right into my spot there, seemed that had worked out pretty good for me.  I watched him fiddle with a bobber style indicator and understood why he'd been wrestling with gear the whole morning.  I don't look forward to the day when fingers don't feel and eyes don't see.  "Well, good luck your Honor" I offered with no mirth.  With out looking up he shot back, "Don't worry, I never saw ya."   Our laughter instinctive as the rise.

A New Chapter

I've heard a lot of talk and chatter lately concerning a "New Chapter".  What does that mean?  Is it just some nonsense some high ranking official (Gov) has taken to saying, just some sound bite?To each, I'm sure, it may have a different meaning.  To me, it means each new experience should be embraced, savored, enjoyed for what it is.  This is very difficult to do.  I find myself always looking forward to the next "fix", the next big trip. It's always what's "next".  Last years (can't believe it is already "last years" trip) trip was on the surface a disappointment.  A struggle, endurance.  If I really ponder that trip, I can find the silver lining.  I can see it for what it was, a great trip.  A new experience, a new taste.  Did I realize that during the trip?  Possibly.  One day at a time. That, to me, is the New Chapter.