How the whole thing started (part 2)

I am an information junkie. When I get interested in something, I devour as much as I can to learn about the intricacies of whatever the subject might be. I had spent several days scowering the internet on everything i could about fly fishing. I watched videos of Joan Wulff and Lefty Kreh as they showed the basic mechanics of the cast. I would sit at my desk with a thick highlighter and practice ten and two, ten and two.
So, returning from the debacle at the fly shop, I strung up my rod and went outside to practice. The one thing I remember is hearing that awful crack each time I came forward with my cast. My research had informed me that unless I carried a suitcase of flies to the river with me, I needed to fix that issue. I slowed down my ten and two and finally reached the point that I could lay down a solid ten feet of line in front of me without issue. By nightfall I felt okay with my cast much in the same way a teenage boy feels okay around a girl that he knows is way out of his league. He likes it, he enjoys it, but in the back of his mind he knows that once she sees through his charm to the large zit on the end of his nose, the whole gig is up.
I guess in retrospect, it was a blessing that we were fishing from a boat. I had fished area lakes in a boat many times so I kinda know the score. This also meant that I didn't have to buy waders, but I had seen enough about fly fishing to know that I had to have a vest to hold my gear. Downstairs, in a bag of old yard sale stuff, I found a cheap khaki hunting vest that would have looked good on Marlin Perkins or Jack Hannah, but me? Not so much. Of course I had nothing to put in it but a plastic cup of Pheasant Tails and a three pack of leaders. Minimalism at its finest.
Saturday morning. The big day had arrived. I was up and gone before daybreak. The boat ramp that was our rendezvous point was about forty minutes away from the house and as I drove I tried to run through what I had read. I was actually getting nervous! Not about the fishing part of it, I had been catching fish my whole life. I was nervous about how I was catching them. I hate being labeled a greenhorn.
Its funny how odd things linger in your memory. The first thing I noticed when I reached the boat ramp and stepped out of my ride is how much colder it was right at the river, and I thought to myself that the water would have to warm up a bunch before the fish would feed. Shows you how much I knew.
Neither my buddy nor I are small boys. Our collective weight would bring top dollar at a cattle auction, so when he showed up with our watercraft I began to get worried. The "boat" was a hard plastic kayak kinda thing that was small and light enough for him to load in the back of his truck, and when we shoved off and headed upstream it did not escape my attention that we were mere inches from taking on water, yet remarkably it moved our middle aged spreads across the surface quite well.
We rowed upstream for several minutes through a thin wisp of fog that hovered inches above the water. Occasionally I would see a ring of a fish on the surface but other than their interruption the river was smooth as glass. I was amazed at how quiet everything became as we headed toward my date with destiny.
When we stopped rowing and set the boat free, I cast and fixed my gaze on the orange stick on foam indicator. I really didn't know what to expect; then it happened. I have no real recollection of the hookset, or the fight, all I remember is that the indicator went under and then I was holding a 12" brown. I was amazed at how smooth and cold it was, and how this was the prettiest fish I had ever seen.
"Meet your mistress.", my buddy said with a twinkle in his eye.
Another boat, a real honest to God boat with room and a trolling motor came downstream to us. I knew the two guys from highschool and after a few pleasantries it was suggested that I get in with them so I could stand up and cast. That is when things started to get interesting.

How the whole thing started

  On the Clinch River in East Tennessee, west of interstate 75 as it bridges the water at breakneck speed is a mass of T.V.A. power lines that keep the City of Knoxville and points beyond supplied with electricity. The water beneath these lines is deep and clear, full of large rocks and twisted deadfall.


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  Wading isn’t an option in this stretch of the river, but the bank is often cluttered with corn cans that linger until high water flushes them further down stream. If you want to work the river from the bridge to the power lines a water craft of some sort is mandatory.

  The Clinch isn’t a world class span of water, but it does hold a respectable population of browns, rainbows, and recently they added brooks to the foray. The size of the fish caught is usually in the mid sized variety though an occasional leviathan is spotted. This river in all its normalcy is special to me because it was in this place that I discovered my love of fly fishing.

  It was the summer of my 40th birthday. Up to that point in my life I had been a basic bank fishing worm dunker. The most exotic angling I ever ventured to do was cast a Jitterbug or Hoola Popper to pond bass. The overall vision of river fishing in my mind was sitting on the bank pitching chicken liver for catfish.

  My best friend had been fly fishing for a while and despite his persistent urging that I give it a try, I remained resistant. It seemed like to much work to catch a tiny fish, and frankly it just looked to hard to be fun. His consistent assurance that I would love it was respectfully dodged till my birthday.

  With some money I had been given as a gift, I bit the bullet and purchased some gear. The rod was a nine foot five/six weight Phlueger combo with double taper line that I got for thirty five bucks at Wal-Mart. This seemed to me like a total waste of money, but I guessed that I could put a spinning reel on it and bluegill fish.

  When I got home I called my buddy and set the fishing trip for the following Saturday. He told me to pick up some flies, we set the time, and my fate was sealed.

  Selecting flies for my first trip was the equivalent of trying to translate the Magna Carta into Mandarin. The Friday before my trip, I went to a fly shop on the west end of town. It was a small place tucked at the very back of an old strip mall. Several trucks were parked out front, I pulled in along side them and peered through the mosaic of stickers adorning the window.

  Gathering my nerve, I walked in the door and was immediately greeted by and old black lab who bumped me with his graying muzzle. I rubbed his head and walked on in, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. I am quite sure that I looked as lost and out of place as a Nascar fan at a performance of Swan Lake.

  “Can I help you?”, the guy behind the counter asked. He was polite enough, but his voice held a hint of indifference which implied either I had walked into the wrong store, or I was as lost as a ball in high weeds. It didn’t take him very long to get me figured out.

  “I’m heading up to the Clinch. What are they hitting?” Let me just state now for the record that if you go into a fly shop and ask that question, you might as well have a red flag dangling over your head. I am sure the guy behind the counter could see the donkey ears and buck teeth protruding from my face.

  “Pheasant Tail”

  He may as well have said Pig Ears.

  “Do you have any?” Oh, this was getting bad. By now the donkey tail had emerged from my back and a Hee-Haw was welling up in my throat.

  “Over there in the flies.”

  “What size?”

  “Twenty.”

  I looked around and found the tray that said Bead Head Pheasant Tail size twenty. It was the only slot that was nearly empty. Just a small was of very small hoods with tiny gold beads.

  At this point I was sure that this guy was playing me. I could hardly see the eye of the hook let alone try to fish with this thing.

  Embarrassed, I picked up a few, put them in a cup, paid my money, and walked out with my donkey ears drooping and my fly swatting tail tucked meekly between my legs.

  The lab looked up at me sympathetically from his spot by the t-shirt rack. I felt like he had seen this all happen many times before.

To be continued…

Brush with death on the SoHo

We had anticipated this trip for weeks. Three days with my buddy Brad on the South Holston River, camping and fishing. It was late summer and the reports had told us that the large browns were feeding actively on surface patterns. The thought of hooking into a 20+ inch brown on a dry fly is something that any red blooded fly angler lives for. This was going to be our weekend for greatness.



We arrived at the camp and set up our site which was right on the bank of the river. Drift boats came by one after another and with just about every one that passed, a fish was caught. It was late in the afternoon and the generation schedule was going to make the river unwadable till morning so we loaded up our pontoons and headed upstream with the thought of floating back down to the camp site.

We went to a put in that was about two miles from the camp and shoved off. The water was pushing pretty hard and I remember thinking to myself that it would be a quick float back to the camp. I had cast my line out as I rounded a bend in the river and saw a huge elm tree that had fallen into the water directly in front of me.

I tried desperately to row away from it but the current was to swift and I hit it head on.

What happened next seemed like an eternity, though it was mere seconds. When the pontoon hit the tree I was thrown into its branches, being plunged down into the water. I remember opening my eyes and seeing the bubbles rolling round my head and hearing that awful submerged roar of the water. To make matters worse, my legs were bent at the knees and wrapped under the trunk of the tree.

People talk about their lives flashing before their eyes; this was one of those times. I knew that panic was not the thing to do so I first oriented myself by letting my arms go limp so that I could detect the surface. My arms floated upward so I knew that I was upright, but still completely submerged. I thrust my hands out of the water and felt the sweet warmth of the air touch my hands. It was then that I felt a branch of the tree and in what could only be attributed to the assistance of the divine; I pulled my 250 pound body up enough to free my legs and get my head above the water.

When I finally oriented myself, I saw that I was thirty feet or so from the bank, and several drift boats were trying to rescue me.

For over an hour I clung to the branch as icy cold water filled my waders and tried to pull me under. To make the problem more severe, the front of the pontoons had lodged under a branch about six feet in front of me and was loosening. It was obvious that they were going to break free, and when they did, the metal frame of the craft would hit me square in the face.

Luckily I was rescued and brought to shore. Not ten minutes after I was saved, the pontoon broke free and totally ripped the limb I was clinging to to shreds.

Just like falling from a horse, I knew I had to get back in the water, which I did, with much success. But without a pontoon.

A rod for Andrew

Never thought I would be a dad. Always wanted to be, but life sometimes has its own course and we find ourself drifting into waters that are moving in a different direction than we planned.

At 35 I had my first daughter, then at 37 another daughter.

Then at 42, a screaming boy came bounding onto the scene. His first toys were two toy trout (a brown and a rainbow), and they lay on either side of him in the hospital. The toys were of the magic 20 inch variety and so was he. All three were keepers.

Move ahead a few years. Now this boy is 4 which is the magic number at my house. When you are four, you get to go on your first fishing trip with dad. No toy rods for this bunch. In my house it is fly fishing or nothing. This spring will be my first fishing trip with my son, which is why I am writing this.

I have plenty of rods to cover just about every situation, but I want Andrew to have one that is his. One that he can use as the years go by. One that will bring back memories of me long after I have hung up my waders.

To have a rod that your father built especially for you. One that has your name on it, written by your fathers hand. I can’t think of a better gift.

And so, I submit this post hoping that the folks at Fly Fishing the Southern Blueridge and Hook and Hackle will agree that the heirloom, and the next generation of fly fishers in my family will have a rod made by “The Old Man”.

http://southernblueridge.wordpress.com/

http://www.hookhack.com/

Winter

Cold. Teeth cracking, bone numbing cold. And where, you might ask, was I? Right where I needed to be; standing in the middle of a stream with a couple of friends.

I think the air temperature was around 16 which seemed even colder with a foot of snow on the ground. But I was fishing and as we all know, fishing even in the harshest of conditions is a worthwhile endeavor.

I selected my rod with strong intent. An 8 foot 6 weight bamboo marvel that has been dubbed the grass cannon because of its power. This is one of those rods that feels like an extention of my hand. I feel at home when I use it, and after two months without a trip to the water, it just seemed like the right rod for the occasion.

I would love to say that I caught fish, but I didn’t. Probably came closer to catching pneumonia. But the day was beautiful and I was out in it. Sometimes that is enough.

So far this winter has proven to be one of significant snows and that means little fishing. I don’t see a window of opportunity for some time to come, so how do I satisfy the fishing jones?

Tying flies would be an option, but right now the tying area is blocked by construction downstairs. Haven’t tied anything in weeks. Of course, if you aren’t fishing, it is hard to get really motivated unless you are stocking up.
I have received a few catalogs in the mail and looked through them to the point that I know them by heart. I have “window shopped” so much that I think I have put together three or four entirely new setups for myself.
The one cool thing I have used to guide me through the fly fishing doldrums is a video called Eastern Rises. To sit in my chair and watch trophy sized wild rainbows fight over a mouse pattern is awesome. I don’t think the rest of my family would agree, but I have learned that most people in general don’t get it. I am okay with that. In fact I like the fact that one of my passions in misunderstood by the majority.

So…

I will continue to watch the Eastern Rises, and try to plan a way to dig through to the tying bench. Midges are the fly of choice right now and I think I only have a dozen of each type. Overkill is not an option when the shack nasties come to call.