Almost hooked a hog...no really...

A couple of years ago, I was on a weekend fishing excursion with my buddies on the Caney Fork River in Middle Tennessee.  The time of year was perfect.  Cool, Fall colors, brilliant blue sky.

My buddy Jermz and I separated ourselves from the group and were way downstream from the campsite trying our luck.  Jermz and I both relish in the solitude and make every conserted effort to have no one around...and we almost succeeded.

We were on a narrow part of the river and were well on our way to getting skunked.  Nothing was hitting, so we just took in the scenery.  On the far bank from where I was standing, an awful commotion began.  It started with several dogs barking as if Satan himself were standing them down.  Then came the sounds of brush and weeds being beaten with frenzy.  A wild hog was fighting with a pack of hunting dogs.  Yelps, squeals, grunts, and growls echoed down the river.

Then came the chase...

Feral hogs are everywhere in middle and east Tennessee.  Here is what Wikipedia has to say about them.

Domestic pigs can escape and quite readily become feral, and feral populations are problematic in several ways. They cause damage to trees and other vegetation, consume agricultural crops, feed on the eggs of ground-nesting birds and turtles, and can carry disease.[45] Feral pigs often interbreed with wild boar, producing descendants similar in appearance to wild boar; these can then be difficult to distinguish from natural or introduced true wild boar. The characterization of populations as feral pig, escaped domestic pig or wild boar is usually decided by where the animals are encountered and what is known of their history. In New Zealand, for example, feral pigs are known as "Captain Cookers" from their supposed descent from liberations and gifts to Māori by explorer Captain James Cook in the 1770s.[46] New Zealand feral pigs are also frequently known as "tuskers", due to their appearance.



Wild boar/domestic pig hybrid, displayed at Rothschild Museum, Tring, EnglandA very large swine dubbed Hogzilla was shot in Georgia, United States, in June 2004.[47] Initially thought to be a hoax, the story became something of an internet sensation. National Geographic Explorer investigated the story, sending scientists into the field. After exhuming the animal and performing DNA testing, it was determined that Hogzilla was a hybrid of wild boar and domestic swine.[48] As of 2008[update], the estimated population of 4 million feral pigs caused an estimated US$800 million of property damage a year in the U.S.[49] The problematic nature of feral hogs has caused several states in the U.S. to declare feral hogs to be an invasive species. Often, these states will have greatly-reduced (or even non-existent) hunting regulations regarding feral hogs. In Missouri, no hunting permit is required for the taking of wild boar; hunters may take as many as they like with any weapon. The Missouri Department of Conservation requests that hunters who encounter feral hogs shoot them on sight.[50]


So they go racing down the river bank (from my right to my left). and the sound fades.  Shortly thereafter, our day was saved as I tied on a redruM (size 12) and started hooking into browns.  The fishing became glorious as vibrantly colored trout were coming to hand with nearly every other cast.

Then another sound.  Slow and subdued.

Then the slight parting of the weeds across from me.

And then, jumping into the river in front of me was a very tired hog.  And this hog was swimming right for me.

I moved.

It moved.

This pig had his sights set right on me, and much to the humorous pleasure of Jermz.  My fishing was interupted by the fact that this pig was coming my way.

He found land not six feet from me and just stood there shaking.  Exausted.  I couldn't fish for having to keep an eye on this thing.  He wasn't Hogzilla by any stretch, but when you have an animal that is under duress within the length of a fly rod, you keep watch.

Eventually this kritter chose to slip into the brush.  And I was very happy.

Yours truly trying to make enough noise to turn the hog elsewhere. -Photo by Jeremy

My life as told by water...

I haven't been fishing in quite a while.  We are under some construction at our home which has had us living with my in laws for going on two months so as you could imagine...things have been in quite an uproar.

So what do you do when you have a fly fishing blog but aren't fishing?

You rehash the past!!!!!!

1989...

I am on the banks of Lake Norris.  Summer.  Late at night.  We were catfishing (yea, I know it isn't fly fishing but like I said I haven't been in a while so work with me here!).

The routine was the same on each trip we took that summer.  Get there about dark, start a good fire, chum up the water, and load multiple rods with chicken liver.  Now...here was the trick.  After casting out the line, we would take a bottle with just enough water in it to keep it upright, and wrap the line around the lip.  After rigging all the lines like this, we would go sit by the fire and shoot the bull.  Shortly you would hear one of the bottles fall over.  Get up, walk over and pick up the rod, line moves again, set the hook. You got yourself a catfish. This "bottle fall method" worked like a charm all summer and we caught a bunch of catfish.

Many mornings I have watched the sun rise over the mountains of my hometown while sitting on a lake bank with my buddies.  We would come dragging in the next morning, smelling to high heaven; woodsmoke, fish, chicken livers.  Not exactly a sweet smell.

Times are much different now.  Lives go different directions.  People move.  Hobbies are redefined, or in some cases dropped altogether.  Yet time and time again I go back and relive these moments...and though I know I can never go back, I often wish that the pace of life as I live it now were a little closer to the days when I was younger, thinner, and for some reason more at ease.

Now I sit in a sterile office amidst stacks of paper, a few drawings my kids have made, and a photo of My Jill which is always in view.  And on the wall above my desk is a photo of myself and my oldest friend.  Fly rods in hand, river flowing wild behind us.  I can hear it, I can smell it...I just can't get to it...and that is probably the most difficult memory of all....

The liquid of life

Here I sit on the back side of a three day weekend.  I made some very loose plans with Jermz, J.B., and Brad to sneak out early Saturday morning to do a little fishing.  The issue I posted last week about over stressing fish in extremely hot conditions prevailed.  So I acquiesced in favor of spending the day in blistering heat as My Jill and I took our oldest to her first University of Tennessee football game.

The heat index had to be at least 110.  Hot. No clouds. A throng of 90,000 orange clad people meandering as if it were the zombie apocalypse. Bottled water prevailing over stronger libations.
That was the situation until gametime.  Then came the rain.  And it has yet to stop.  And it will not stop for at least another 24 hours.  Flooding will no doubt follow, which will in turn blow out the rivers and turn them into a chocolate milk of churning rolling water.

From the heat and hardly any water to early fall temperatures and flooding.

An angler just can't get a break.

I try to convince myself that the water will be good for the health of the fish around here.  Rain will replenish that which the sun has depleted, and things will get back to normal.  But in the mean time, I sit in the sun room listening to the percussive white noise of rain on the roof and picture better days, dancing line, and healthy fish.

I have thought today about my long distance fishing buddy Steve.  He's been in Alaska for the past few days and I bet he hasn't had to deal with tripple didget heat and no water. He has had one heck of an adventure I am sure, so I choose to sit here and imagine myself standing downstream from him with my backing searing off the reel as one of Alaska's speed boat fish tears downstream with my fly firmly imbeded in its jaw.

I also have four kids who are stuck inside.  This could get very interesting.

I have a tip section of an old broken fly rod that I built a handle on out of old wine corks.  To the tip of this "rod" I have tied a four foot section of yellow yarn.  To the end of the yarn I have made a "fly" out of a foam strike indicator.  In the floor I have placed several plush toy trout that I belong to my son.  Seated comfortably on the couch, we will fish.  if the indicator hits the mouth of the stuffed trout, it is a catch.

Sometimes the liquid of life isn't the stream, or the rain.  Sometimes the liquid of life is improvising with a house full of kids.  Quality time spent honing skills that might pay off when better weather prevails.

Even when you can...maybe you shouldn't

We all love to fish.  I'd say most of us would say that we don't get to do it enough...myself being the ring leader of that crowd.  But what if you can, but you shouldn't?

Here is our problem.

It is the first weekend in September, and a three day weekend at that, however, we haven't seen rain in maybe a month or close to it so the water levels have dropped.  The temperature of these waters has, at the same time, risen substancially.  When you face those kind of conditions as a trout fisherman, you have one big moral delima on your hands.

You COULD go fishing.  You PROBABLY would catch some trout.  You WOULD put undo stress on the fish and the chance they wouldn't survive is pretty great.

So...

I have a three day weekend, have not fished in a while...and it will be a while more.

I just don't like being a hinderance to a sport I truly love and a fish that makes it all worthwhile.

Got one heckuva trip coming up soon though...

Now, for some odds-n-ends...

The last video is by Shawn Madison who, if he is fishing, odds are he's on the Clinch.