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.