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.

Great Expectations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Giving Thanks

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

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

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

The Wisdom of the Old Chief

NEW TATONKA

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

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

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

The Lottery

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

fine day on the BC from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hello to BC

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

Hog Johnson III from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hondo & Hog Johnson II from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hondo & Hog Johnson from John Berry on Vimeo.

'bow on BC from John Berry on Vimeo.

Hall of Fame from John Berry on Vimeo.