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.

What is WRONG with me?!

Eyes are blearing and mind unstable. A long day of work, a long week of work, home late, eat a little dinner, home work, play with kids, a little Wipeout on TV, perfect for fatigue humor. Must get sleep... but NO! Must gear whore. Go back to the same dang web sites I've looked at the last 17 consecutive nights, look at the same stuff and make the same non decision. Can't buy a sleeping bag when you can't feel it. Isn't that like a law of physics?

Not sure what I need (nothing). Read THE list, but too far away to shop for Alaska, surely I need something.... If analyzing the wieght and zipper formation of five sleeping bags on 3 sites isn't lame enough, I've gotta blog about it on a blog that only my dumb brother reads and already knows what I'm doing cause we've been talking about it every day on the phone...

I SUCK! Gotta get something on the calendar, can't survive in the endless wilderness of unspecific adventure lust much longer!

Kvichak Bow

Kvichak Bow from John Berry on Vimeo.