The last post for awhile as I will be off making memories casting a long line on big roaring rivers.
The moment
It is what wakes us out of a sound sleep, and fills out thoughts throughout the dark winter, as we tie flies and dream.
The take. The pull. The grab.
The first sensation of connection to an electric living thing. An unknown. An unseen. A hope.
Halfway down the gravel bar I spotted the power-lines, and smiled. There is just something about power-lines that seem to attract fish. Quite a bit of silly speculation has occurred around campfires as to this phenomenon. One angler explained to me that it had something to do with the fish’s homing sense and the magnetic field of the earth interacting with the overhead electric power. I speculated that it had to do with where the lines crossed the river; that usually being near a narrowing chute of oxygenated water.
Whatever it was, it seemed rather universal. I have found it on smallmouth bass rivers, trout streams, as well as big roaring steelhead rivers.
My fly was swinging well that morning as I cast a long line effortlessly with the two-handed rod. A size 4 autumn twilight was the offering of the moment, and confidence was at a high. I could almost feel the tension. Something was about to happen. The sun broke over the canyon walls just as I reached the power-lines, and the water began to slow and deepen. Expectation crawled up my spine like the electric current overhead.
My next cast was about half way through its swing when I felt the slightest tap. It was a delicate little pianissimo thing, like an angel alighting on the head of a pin. Twenty seconds later I almost disbelieved that I had felt it at all. Two more casts in the same place produced nothing but nervous tension, so I took a step down and cast again. Then the wind changed and began blowing upriver. “Crap,” I thought, “now I am screwed.”
It was that last long cast before the wind got me that was tapped subtly but authoritatively way out in the river.
I felt some slight resistance, dropped a loop of line, and let it tighten against the reel before lifting the rod to set the hook. A pulsing resistance raced down the line as the unseen fish began to realize that the pretty little thing he just ate had a pointy end.
The fight… the fish… all memorable.
However, it was that subtle grab, like the kiss of a small child upon my fly, way out in the river, which shines forth brightly in my memories.
It is rumored that the famous steelhead angler Harry Lemire used to cut the point off his hooks if the fishing was good. He just wanted the grab. There was a point to his enjoyment, but not to his hook.
The grab… the moment of bright connection when our dreams meet the river, and fantasy becomes reality for a tiny but sweet moment in time.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A first...
A first
Firsts… The first time you tasted a wild strawberry, your first tentative teenage kiss, the first wild brook trout on a dry fly..
We often remember these first experiences far better than those that follow. Perhaps we crave the newness. As we accumulate years and experiences, firsts are hard to come by, and like an unexpected patch of wild blackberries, are to be savored and enjoyed.
First times are refreshing and different.
This past year has seen a number of firsts for this angler. I caught my first carp on a fly. Making it even more memorable was the five-weight rod and Hardy gear and pawl reel I used. The carp was a surprise while fishing for panfish in the Kettle Morraine State Forest.
I saw my first bald eagle over my local river, a signal that the watershed is healthy.
I caught my first real wild brook trout in northern Wisconsin, a unique strain bejeweled with color: all five inches of them.
Some firsts are memorable because they are out of the ordinary. Earlier this year I caught a clam while casting for carp. The clam actually ate the fly, and I had a difficult time extracting it. I wonder how it digested marabou and crystal flash?
Then, last evening, came the all-time bizarre first.
I was fishing for smallmouth bass and casting to the occasional carp in a local river. I had some demons to exorcise, and I thought a few bass on poppers and a long walk up the river might just do the trick.
Around dusk, I began casting to a flat shallow area strewn with boulders where hungry smallmouth often ambush their prey. It was a cool evening, but a mixed hatch of black caddis and white mayflies might get the smallmouth to look up, allowing me to use a popper.
I spotted it when its back slightly broke the surface near shore in a slack water pool. I say ‘it’ because it seemed to me that it was either a carp or a large bass nosing for crayfish on the bottom of the river. If it was a smallmouth, it would be huge, and the popper would be just the trick. If it was a carp, then at the first ‘pop’ of the fly, it would spook and swim away. At this point, it was just a dark form.
I lead the fish by about a foot or two, let the popper come down on top of it, and gave it a chug.
It didn’t swim off.
In fact, what it did do was slowly follow the progression of the fly down the river and towards me. As it got closer, I knew it was no smallmouth. Instead, it looked more and more like a huge dark carp or even a catfish. Whatever it was, my popper captivated it. I cast again and began to work the popper like a wounded baitfish, skittering and chugging it seductively. It followed and quickly closed the gap.
The large head that came out of the water and engulfed the fly did not belong to a carp or a catfish. It was altogether a different species. Fifteen pounds of pissed-off snapping turtle was swimming directly towards me, my popper lodged between its lethal jaws.
What to do?
I had one thing going for me; I never set the hook. If possible, I wanted my popper back. I can be a bit sentimental and even more stubborn at times, and the yellow foam popper that I had adorned with a smiley-face was my favorite. I sort of roll-cast the line forward to try to dislodge the popper, and after two or three attempts, the turtle simply opened its mouth and the fly popped out.
The snapper just sat in the water looking at me. If it was eyeing up my gonads for an evening snack, the large rock I threw at it put it off its appetite.
Firsts can indeed be memorable. Turtle soup anyone?
Firsts… The first time you tasted a wild strawberry, your first tentative teenage kiss, the first wild brook trout on a dry fly..
We often remember these first experiences far better than those that follow. Perhaps we crave the newness. As we accumulate years and experiences, firsts are hard to come by, and like an unexpected patch of wild blackberries, are to be savored and enjoyed.
First times are refreshing and different.
This past year has seen a number of firsts for this angler. I caught my first carp on a fly. Making it even more memorable was the five-weight rod and Hardy gear and pawl reel I used. The carp was a surprise while fishing for panfish in the Kettle Morraine State Forest.
I saw my first bald eagle over my local river, a signal that the watershed is healthy.
I caught my first real wild brook trout in northern Wisconsin, a unique strain bejeweled with color: all five inches of them.
Some firsts are memorable because they are out of the ordinary. Earlier this year I caught a clam while casting for carp. The clam actually ate the fly, and I had a difficult time extracting it. I wonder how it digested marabou and crystal flash?
Then, last evening, came the all-time bizarre first.
I was fishing for smallmouth bass and casting to the occasional carp in a local river. I had some demons to exorcise, and I thought a few bass on poppers and a long walk up the river might just do the trick.
Around dusk, I began casting to a flat shallow area strewn with boulders where hungry smallmouth often ambush their prey. It was a cool evening, but a mixed hatch of black caddis and white mayflies might get the smallmouth to look up, allowing me to use a popper.
I spotted it when its back slightly broke the surface near shore in a slack water pool. I say ‘it’ because it seemed to me that it was either a carp or a large bass nosing for crayfish on the bottom of the river. If it was a smallmouth, it would be huge, and the popper would be just the trick. If it was a carp, then at the first ‘pop’ of the fly, it would spook and swim away. At this point, it was just a dark form.
I lead the fish by about a foot or two, let the popper come down on top of it, and gave it a chug.
It didn’t swim off.
In fact, what it did do was slowly follow the progression of the fly down the river and towards me. As it got closer, I knew it was no smallmouth. Instead, it looked more and more like a huge dark carp or even a catfish. Whatever it was, my popper captivated it. I cast again and began to work the popper like a wounded baitfish, skittering and chugging it seductively. It followed and quickly closed the gap.
The large head that came out of the water and engulfed the fly did not belong to a carp or a catfish. It was altogether a different species. Fifteen pounds of pissed-off snapping turtle was swimming directly towards me, my popper lodged between its lethal jaws.
What to do?
I had one thing going for me; I never set the hook. If possible, I wanted my popper back. I can be a bit sentimental and even more stubborn at times, and the yellow foam popper that I had adorned with a smiley-face was my favorite. I sort of roll-cast the line forward to try to dislodge the popper, and after two or three attempts, the turtle simply opened its mouth and the fly popped out.
The snapper just sat in the water looking at me. If it was eyeing up my gonads for an evening snack, the large rock I threw at it put it off its appetite.
Firsts can indeed be memorable. Turtle soup anyone?
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Gastro Fantastic
I have no idea how I came up with this, but I thought you might get a kick out of it.
Gastro-Fantastic
Copyright 2009 by Erik F. Helm
I took a shortcut through the woods. The path curved through the forest floor, and I followed it with some recollection or intent to fish a Hendrickson hatch. It was a strange wood, and under the deep beds of ferns grew colorful mushrooms and flowers that reminded me of candy-canes. It all seemed so familiar, in a bizarre way. I had been here before a long, long time ago.
As the path led through a grove of unusually crabbed and ancient oaks, I spotted a cottage.
It was a small dwelling, but lit with color. Moving closer, I realized that the structure was constructed entirely of various cans of beer. “How strange,” I thought as I found myself knocking at the door.
It soon opened, and I was confronted by an old woman with a long nose complete with warts, and wearing a big floppy black hat.
“Come in my pretty,” she said. “Have a beer.”
“No thank you,” I said, as my eyes adjusted to the brightly-lit interior. The old woman held out a can of Hamms, and with a grin that revealed her missing teeth, popped open the beer.
“Mmmm, good beer…, nice and cold!” she cackled.
As I refused her offering for the second time, I noticed that a large cage stood in the corner, and that an enormously rotund figure was seated in it drinking a beer. The floor of the cage was littered with empties.
“What’s going on here?” I asked, turning to the old woman.
“Oh never mind him,” she replied, “That’s just our Christmas dinner. We’re just fattening him up.”
“Hey,” I exclaimed in sudden clarity, “You wouldn’t happen to be a witch?”
“Of course!” she stated, “Everyone knows me. I am the wicked witch of the forest. I live here with my husband. He cooks meth in the back shed.”
As on cue, a huge figure of a man in faded and stained bib overalls came into the room through the back door. He looked exactly like Boris Karloff playing the Frankenstein monster, but sported a NASCAR ball cap. He made a mooing noise as he walked.
“Say,” I began, “ you’ve got it all wrong. The house is supposed to be made out of candy and gingerbread, and you are supposed to be eating Hansel and Gretel after fattening them up on candy, not beer. And Lester or Zeke over there, whatever his name is, is a woodcutter, not a meth cooker.”
“Oh, we used to have a candy house many years ago,’ she reflected, “But we updated it for modern times.”
A knock sounded at the front door, and I stood aside as the witch opened it to reveal a family of bears, all bearing a striking resemblance to Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead.
“Not you again!” the witch cried. “I’ve told you before a hundred times, you have the wrong house!”
“We have no porridge here.”
This was getting stranger and stranger, and a funny sort of boiling and churning feeling was coming from the pit of my stomach.
Another knock sounded at the door, and with an exasperated sigh, the old woman opened it a second time.
The three bears were replaced by a tall figure in a red cloak and hood. He carried a fly rod and creel, and looked exactly like Issac Walton in drag.
“What the ‘ell do you want?” the witch asked.
“I have come from the temple of Moron,” he stated loudly. “Have you heard about the end-times?”
He opened his creel to take out a religious tract, and out spilled hundreds of cans of chili. They were covered in hatching mayflies.
“Hendricksons,” I said aloud, waking to an aching in my gut.
I was in my tent, back in the real world. It was three in the morning and halfway through an epic trip for trout. As I unzipped the rain fly and made my way to the porta-john, I reflected that Rob was right in his warning to me late that evening.
Canned extra-hot chili and discount beer is a lethal combination.
Gastro-Fantastic
Copyright 2009 by Erik F. Helm
I took a shortcut through the woods. The path curved through the forest floor, and I followed it with some recollection or intent to fish a Hendrickson hatch. It was a strange wood, and under the deep beds of ferns grew colorful mushrooms and flowers that reminded me of candy-canes. It all seemed so familiar, in a bizarre way. I had been here before a long, long time ago.
As the path led through a grove of unusually crabbed and ancient oaks, I spotted a cottage.
It was a small dwelling, but lit with color. Moving closer, I realized that the structure was constructed entirely of various cans of beer. “How strange,” I thought as I found myself knocking at the door.
It soon opened, and I was confronted by an old woman with a long nose complete with warts, and wearing a big floppy black hat.
“Come in my pretty,” she said. “Have a beer.”
“No thank you,” I said, as my eyes adjusted to the brightly-lit interior. The old woman held out a can of Hamms, and with a grin that revealed her missing teeth, popped open the beer.
“Mmmm, good beer…, nice and cold!” she cackled.
As I refused her offering for the second time, I noticed that a large cage stood in the corner, and that an enormously rotund figure was seated in it drinking a beer. The floor of the cage was littered with empties.
“What’s going on here?” I asked, turning to the old woman.
“Oh never mind him,” she replied, “That’s just our Christmas dinner. We’re just fattening him up.”
“Hey,” I exclaimed in sudden clarity, “You wouldn’t happen to be a witch?”
“Of course!” she stated, “Everyone knows me. I am the wicked witch of the forest. I live here with my husband. He cooks meth in the back shed.”
As on cue, a huge figure of a man in faded and stained bib overalls came into the room through the back door. He looked exactly like Boris Karloff playing the Frankenstein monster, but sported a NASCAR ball cap. He made a mooing noise as he walked.
“Say,” I began, “ you’ve got it all wrong. The house is supposed to be made out of candy and gingerbread, and you are supposed to be eating Hansel and Gretel after fattening them up on candy, not beer. And Lester or Zeke over there, whatever his name is, is a woodcutter, not a meth cooker.”
“Oh, we used to have a candy house many years ago,’ she reflected, “But we updated it for modern times.”
A knock sounded at the front door, and I stood aside as the witch opened it to reveal a family of bears, all bearing a striking resemblance to Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead.
“Not you again!” the witch cried. “I’ve told you before a hundred times, you have the wrong house!”
“We have no porridge here.”
This was getting stranger and stranger, and a funny sort of boiling and churning feeling was coming from the pit of my stomach.
Another knock sounded at the door, and with an exasperated sigh, the old woman opened it a second time.
The three bears were replaced by a tall figure in a red cloak and hood. He carried a fly rod and creel, and looked exactly like Issac Walton in drag.
“What the ‘ell do you want?” the witch asked.
“I have come from the temple of Moron,” he stated loudly. “Have you heard about the end-times?”
He opened his creel to take out a religious tract, and out spilled hundreds of cans of chili. They were covered in hatching mayflies.
“Hendricksons,” I said aloud, waking to an aching in my gut.
I was in my tent, back in the real world. It was three in the morning and halfway through an epic trip for trout. As I unzipped the rain fly and made my way to the porta-john, I reflected that Rob was right in his warning to me late that evening.
Canned extra-hot chili and discount beer is a lethal combination.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Handmade fly reels by Stefan Brusky
At a meeting of local steelhead fishermen last year, I was introduced to Stefan Brusky. Stefan is a near neighbor of mine here in Wisconsin. For the past ten years or so, Stefan has been building, testing, and perfecting bench-made fly reels in the classic American style of Bogdan and Vom Hoffe. I took a tour of his basement workshop and I must say that few machine shops could hold a candle to his. His reels are works of art, as well as functional. His hollowed s-curve handle is his trademark. Stefan makes the reels in all shapes and sizes and configurations. He produces gear and pawl as well as disc-drag models for both single hand rods and two-handers, all the way from trout to salmon.
Milwaukee used to be known as “The machine shop to the world” for its skilled machinists, factories, small shops, industries, tool and die makers, etc. Stefan has brought Old World tradition through to the modern world.
In a time in which quality classic reels are running up to $1,200 for a factory production model, hand made reels are becoming a choice for the discriminating angler. Why not own a piece of art?
You can view Stefan’s reels at his website here.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
We are One!
Well, one year old…
It was one year ago today that I began this little effort at self-expression, examination, humor, rhetoric, short literature, and criticism. As usual, with anything I love, I overdo it. Ecclesiastes says “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
For those that think this blog was all planned out; not a chance. It just happened.
It has been a joy and inspiration for me to see like minded people comment and come together with appreciation for traditional fly fishing.
In the past year this blog has;
Said goodbye to a friend.
Examined why we fish.
Advocated for wild fish.
Fought for removal of a dam on our local river.
Openly criticized the attitude and direction of the next generation of fly fishers.
Offered five or six pieces of short fiction to inspire.
Showcased some fine tackle.
Stumbled around rivers, sometimes even catching a fish or two.
Thought about the disconnection from nature of modern man and its implications.
Wrote some original lousy poetry/prose.
Quoted some famous poets and authors in regard to fly fishing and nature.
Exhibited classic salmon and steelhead flies and their histories.
Criticized the modern tackle industry.
Praised the modern tackle industry.
Laughed at ourselves.
And many other subjects…too many to mention.
People often ask me what I write. I usually answer “Words…mostly words.”
One of the great joys of blogging is finding other blogs that are in the like spirit of yours. I have linked to as many as I can find that fit.
Some have wondered why I don’t try to run advertisements on this blog. The answer is that unless I have total control of the advertisements, I don’t want them here. Imagine a post about the philosophy of fly fishing sponsored by Sierra Trading Post. Doesn’t quite work does it? Art and literature should be free. If we work under constraints we lose something special.
Everything changes. This blog, which really had no direction, has sort of morphed into a place for the examination and appreciation of the art and philosophy of angling. I don’t know where it will go from here. I hope to continue to be both inspired and to inspire. I hope to continue to promote critical thought.
As usual, you comments are very appreciated.
Fly fishing does not matter a hill of beans in the long run, but the analogies we see in our angling pursuits can enrich the other aspects of our lives. I often think as fly fishing as “All of life is within the loops, if we will just look for it, we can find ourselves.” Original quote by moi.
So, I wonder what is ahead for this blog. Many excellent bloggers burn out after a year or two. I hope I am not one of them. Ideally, I would like to publish some of the finished pieces contained here. If there are any prospective publishers out there, I am for hire!
Perhaps if you will allow me to be overly romantic for a moment, I may quote Browning…
“Grow old with me… the best is yet to be.”
Thank you for reading... all seven of you ;)
The Classical Angler, Erik F. Helm
Happy birthday. Now go fishing!
It was one year ago today that I began this little effort at self-expression, examination, humor, rhetoric, short literature, and criticism. As usual, with anything I love, I overdo it. Ecclesiastes says “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
For those that think this blog was all planned out; not a chance. It just happened.
It has been a joy and inspiration for me to see like minded people comment and come together with appreciation for traditional fly fishing.
In the past year this blog has;
Said goodbye to a friend.
Examined why we fish.
Advocated for wild fish.
Fought for removal of a dam on our local river.
Openly criticized the attitude and direction of the next generation of fly fishers.
Offered five or six pieces of short fiction to inspire.
Showcased some fine tackle.
Stumbled around rivers, sometimes even catching a fish or two.
Thought about the disconnection from nature of modern man and its implications.
Wrote some original lousy poetry/prose.
Quoted some famous poets and authors in regard to fly fishing and nature.
Exhibited classic salmon and steelhead flies and their histories.
Criticized the modern tackle industry.
Praised the modern tackle industry.
Laughed at ourselves.
And many other subjects…too many to mention.
People often ask me what I write. I usually answer “Words…mostly words.”
One of the great joys of blogging is finding other blogs that are in the like spirit of yours. I have linked to as many as I can find that fit.
Some have wondered why I don’t try to run advertisements on this blog. The answer is that unless I have total control of the advertisements, I don’t want them here. Imagine a post about the philosophy of fly fishing sponsored by Sierra Trading Post. Doesn’t quite work does it? Art and literature should be free. If we work under constraints we lose something special.
Everything changes. This blog, which really had no direction, has sort of morphed into a place for the examination and appreciation of the art and philosophy of angling. I don’t know where it will go from here. I hope to continue to be both inspired and to inspire. I hope to continue to promote critical thought.
As usual, you comments are very appreciated.
Fly fishing does not matter a hill of beans in the long run, but the analogies we see in our angling pursuits can enrich the other aspects of our lives. I often think as fly fishing as “All of life is within the loops, if we will just look for it, we can find ourselves.” Original quote by moi.
So, I wonder what is ahead for this blog. Many excellent bloggers burn out after a year or two. I hope I am not one of them. Ideally, I would like to publish some of the finished pieces contained here. If there are any prospective publishers out there, I am for hire!
Perhaps if you will allow me to be overly romantic for a moment, I may quote Browning…
“Grow old with me… the best is yet to be.”
Thank you for reading... all seven of you ;)
The Classical Angler, Erik F. Helm
Happy birthday. Now go fishing!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Some tales from a flyshop
A few tales from a flyshop:
I am a bit of a collector of humorous true stories of folly. My sense of humor can be rather ironic, or sardonic. Fictional stories of human foibles are always amusing, but when they are true tales… ah, now we have a real gem.
My time running a flyshop often included bizarre encounters with a variety of customers. There were those who took themselves way too seriously, individuals that would not listen, people that always asked me the same three questions, homeless people killing a few hours, customers who would never speak to me… well, you get the idea.
I don’t want to give the impression that all my customers were eccentric, indeed, most were wonderful persons, and I still call many ‘friend’ to this day. However, just like the stories of personal mishaps, strange individuals stick out in my mind like characters out of Chekov or Joyce.
Here are a few examples of those individuals and incidents burned into my memory.
Pedro and the line
In the department store that my fly shop was part of, we had an employee whose job title was “Cleaning.”
Pedro always smiled as he went about his tasks. He had the joy and innocence of a child. He also spoke little comprehendable English. He had been in the country for quite a few years, but only spoke Spanish and a few jumbled English phrases. Conversations beyond “Hello, how are you?” turned into comedies of errors.
One day, a customer came into the shop to have all 300 yards of his salt water backing replaced. I mentioned that it would take me a half-hour at least, and he decided to take lunch. “I will be back to pick it up at two o’clock sharp, my plane leaves for the Bahamas at four.” Two hours should be plenty of time I thought.
Half way through the process of removing the backing to an awaiting plastic garbage pail in the back room, I was called back into the shop to aid a customer. When I returned, the sight that greeted me was one of horror. There stood Pedro with the fly line all tangled in a heap by his pile of trash. “Erik… Que?” he asked, holding up the pile. “NO QUE!” I responded, rushing forward to grab the line. Alas, it was in a hopeless tangle. You probably wonder why I coiled the line into a cardboard box instead of using a line-winder. The company I worked for was notoriously cheap, and we had no line winder. Indeed, even the reel-winder was defective, and ran backwards.
Suffice it to say I was covered with terror sweat when I wound the last coil of line on the customer’s reel just in time for him to pick it up and drive to the airport. Untangling that fly line added a few gray hairs to my head.
Midwest cutthroat
Every once and awhile you get a person who is convinced that he or she is right about an observation despite being told by experts that they are incorrect. Such a customer walked into the shop one day and wanted to buy flies for cutthroat trout. “Where are you fishing?” I asked. The answer was on the warm water tributary of Lake Michigan that is our local river. He went on to explain that he had been fishing the day before, and he had spotted some fish that ran about four or five pounds spawning in the river. He had thrown every fly he had at them, but could not get them to eat. He described the fish as having a sort of red coloration to their pectoral fins. Finally, the light went on in my brain. “Those are redhorse,” I explained. “A kind of sucker.”
“They were cutthroat,” he argued. “I know my trouts!”
I didn’t argue further. He obviously “Knew his trouts.” Ever since then, it has been a joke to me when asked what I am fishing for, to reply “Wisconsin Cutthroat!”
Of glo-bugs and hoppers.
The most annoying time of the year for me was the season when salmon ran our river to spawn. Dark and nasty, these Chinook salmon were often covered with fungus. Their appearance in the river caused all sorts of fools to come out of the woodwork to attempt to catch them in only inches of water. The preferred method of ‘fly fishing’ for these boots is to use glo-bugs and split-shot.
Every phone call at this time of year was the same: “Are the salmon runnin?”
Every customer likewise asked the follow-up question, “What color glo-bugs are them salmon taking?”
Despite my best efforts to interest anglers in changing their tactics and using streamers, it was always the glo-bugs that sold.
So one day, when the 999th customer was explaining to me that the fish would only take pink glo-bugs, I said to him, “That’s not what the last guy said. He was catching them on grasshoppers.” The guy looked at me incredulously for a few seconds before I broke into a smile, and told him that I was just kidding.
He walked out the door with a bag of hopper patterns, despite my protests again and again that I was just kidding.
The bigwig.
Some people have an inflated view of themselves. This was obviously the case with one very prominent lawyer that was also a former bigwig with a prominent fishing and recreation organization. They say that fly anglers can be arrogant. How true that was became apparent when I approached this gentleman one afternoon to ask him if he needed any help. “Do you know who I am?” He asked with a rather haughty inflection.
“Do you know who I am?” I responded before I could catch myself. His eyebrows rose with incredulous shock at my lack of groveling.
I never saw him again.
The lawyer and the deceiver
The lack of chartreuse tying thread for deceivers led me to suggest to yet another lawyer that many tiers simply used white thread, and covered the head later with colored fingernail polish.
“Do you even TIE FLIES?” he asked.
“No, actually I just walked in from the street,” I responded. “That’s why I came up to you and asked if you needed any help with the thread.”
I never saw that guy again either. I have got to work on my people skills.
What weight is it?
The sheer number of fishermen that came into the shop looking to buy fly line and yet not knowing what weight rod they had was simply baffling. I kind of wondered what kind of goofy setup they were fishing with. Which leads us to the next customer…
The lawyer and the backwards line.
More lawyers. It is not my intent to pick on lawyers, but I knew that these customers were lawyers because they told me so.
Me: “Hi, can I help you?”
Them: “I’m a lawyer.”
To this day I am unsure if this was supposed to be some kind of warning, or simply an introduction. It reminds me of a giant grizzly wandering wild the woods with a wooden placard around his neck that reads “Bear.”
Two gentlemen in suits came into the shop during the lunch hour on a Friday, and I approached to see if I could help, or simply direct them to anything.
“Were lawyers.”
The taller lawyer explained that he was an ‘expert’ fly fisherman, and that he was going to take his friend fly fishing for the first time on a trout stream.
This situation is very difficult to handle. The novice or beginner will often overlook advice in favor of his buddy’s. The ‘expert’ buddy doesn’t want to be contradicted, so I was often forced in these situations to stand back as poor decisions were made on the novice’s behalf.
Sensing from body language that I was not wanted, I remarked that the reel that the ‘expert’ was holding was quite nice and “May I see it?”
“Help yourself’” he said.
I noticed that the line badly needed cleaning, and after getting his permission, I started stripping it off the reel. It seemed to be some sort of level two or three weight line. Then, after fifty feet of line lay at my feet, it got a lot fatter.
“What weight line is this?” I asked.
“Five weight. My spare reel. Gonna lend it to my buddy here.”
Please forgive me dear reader. I could not help myself.
“You know,” I began. “The fly line is on backwards.”
He looked up, and realizing that I had effectively removed his mantle of ‘expert’, mumbled “I guess that’s why it never cast right.”
While I reversed the line and cleaned it, the novice listened to his friend’s advice with, if I read his facial expressions correctly, a bit of apprehension.
Match the hatch (cork handle)
A very accomplished local fly fisherman came to me one day with a rod to send back to the manufacturer. This was a service that we offered free as a courtesy, and was a weekly occurrence.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He pointed to a deep hole in the cork handle, and told me a story.
Apparently, he was fishing the rod when some sort of insect decided it was time to hatch… from the cork of his rod! It squirmed its way out of the cork, hatched, and flew away, leaving behind the large hollow home of his larval stage.
On the line entitled ‘Defect or issue,’ I wrote. “Bug hatched from cork. Please replace.”
I often wonder what the manufacturer thought when they got that one, but sure enough, they replaced the rod. Wonder where the cork-eating bug ended up…
Fly reels and bourbon don’t mix
Calmer heads prevailed when a guy who was obviously stinking drunk came into the shop spitting with anger at the Orvis Battenkill reel that he had bought from us. My colleague Bill handled the situation perfectly. I, on the other hand, was in favor of placing the reel far up his anal region.
His complaint was that the reel spool was scraping and bent. This, of course, was due to the fact that he had clearly fallen on it in a drunken stupor, a fact that he never told us. His anger should have been directed inward, as it was obvious that he was at fault. There are some people in this world for which any sense of personal responsibility did not exist. Here was a prime example.
Bill calmed me down, placated the customer, and motioned me into the back room to escape the booze fumes as well as replace the reel. He then bent the reel back into shape with his bare hands. Returning to the customer, he told him that he had replaced the reel with a new one. The goon was drunk enough that he probably could not see properly to determine that it was the same reel, and had enough of a distorted sense of time to not notice that it only took us five minutes to ‘replace’ the reel. He yelled a few more threats our way about defective expensive gear and then staggered out of the shop. We never saw him again. Thank God.
“Its on sale!”
Human psychology is a funny thing, especially when it comes to sales.
Like most retail establishments, I held an annual sale. In this case, it was a store-wide sale in all departments. It attracted all kinds of goofy bargain hunters. Early on, I found that if you reduced the price of something far enough, it would sell. I sold two trout priests at 70% off to a guy who didn’t fish and had no idea what they were. A pair of size 13 wading boots that were discontinued sold to a short woman that wore a size seven. When I stated that I thought that they would never fit her, she exclaimed with big eyes “But they are on sale!!”
Old flylines placed in a discount bin always sold as well. An ancient seven weight level line found in the back room sold to a guy who was intending to fish for bonefish. I did try to explain that it would not work, but it WAS ON SALE!! He bought it anyway. His expensive dream vacation to Belize would be torpedoed by trying to save twenty bucks on a line.
Getting rid of spare spools became a chore. I had a whole shelf of discontinued spools in the back room. I finally put a sticker on each spool that read “Was $900.00… Now only $15.00!!”
They sold like hot cakes. Elderly woman purchased them as gifts. If you got one, then I am truly sorry.
“You know… a spey line!”
One of my customers came in one day to show me the incredible ‘deal’ he had purchased in the bargain cave of a local big-box sporting goods store.
It was a two handed spey rod that he paid fifty bucks for. He had an old Pfluger reel to go along with it.
“What weight line did you get for it?” I asked, observing that the rod was marked as a 6/7.
“You know, a spey line,” he answered.
I looked at the line. It was a long belly 10/11 weight.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Might make a good weed-whacker,” I replied, handing the rod and line back to him.
This is a funny local phenomenon. People here seem to take great pride in a bargain without realizing whom they are speaking to. Kind of like a guy who sits for hours in a doctor’s office in order to show the doctor how much money he saved by performing his own surgery using an old pair of sewing scissors.
Saving money can lead to wasting money if you are not careful.
I learned this the hard way when in sixth grade. I pestered my mom to bid on an ancient trumpet in the school’s blind auction. For ten dollars, we took the thing home. I thought I was pretty smart. I already had a nice student trumpet, but for only a few bucks, I now had another one. Then I took it to the local musical instrument store. The brass expert examined it and handing it back to me, explained all the myriad defects. Just repairing the valves would set me back by six months of paper route earnings. “What should I do?” I asked him.
“Make a lamp out of it,” he replied.
Or a weed-whacker…
Ultra-light brain
A customer came in one day looking for a one-weight rod. Due to lack of sales in super heavy or ultra light rods, I did not stock any one-weights. The guy was disappointed, and told me that he used a one-weight for all his fly fishing. I though he was referring to trout, but when he took me over to the bragging board, sure enough, there were several photos of him with large steelhead.
“Wow, that must have been some fight,” I said.
“Yea… it took me an hour to land it, and by the time I got it to the bank, it had died.”
The gentleman
I got the call at home on my day off. My coworker Eric was excited. “Wait till you see what this old guy left on your desk!” he said.
The next day a large bag greeted me that was filled with ten or twelve Hardy perfect reels in various sizes.
The customer wanted new lines placed on all the reels and spare spools, and for me to tighten, adjust, and fix any defects. Who was he? Who was this guy with such a collection? Who was this who trusted me to service his reels?
It turned out that he was a customer that years before had brought me a hardy reel to get a line placed on, and remembered that I had fixed the handle on his reel, and washed, cleaned, and oiled it for no charge. He had a better memory than I did.
When he came in to pick up his reels he was well dressed and had manners of a European gentleman. I had saved him some money by cleaning one line instead of replacing it. He thanked me kindly and profusely.
It was an honor to meet him, and an honor to service his reels. His sincere thanks still resonates with me.
I am a bit of a collector of humorous true stories of folly. My sense of humor can be rather ironic, or sardonic. Fictional stories of human foibles are always amusing, but when they are true tales… ah, now we have a real gem.
My time running a flyshop often included bizarre encounters with a variety of customers. There were those who took themselves way too seriously, individuals that would not listen, people that always asked me the same three questions, homeless people killing a few hours, customers who would never speak to me… well, you get the idea.
I don’t want to give the impression that all my customers were eccentric, indeed, most were wonderful persons, and I still call many ‘friend’ to this day. However, just like the stories of personal mishaps, strange individuals stick out in my mind like characters out of Chekov or Joyce.
Here are a few examples of those individuals and incidents burned into my memory.
Pedro and the line
In the department store that my fly shop was part of, we had an employee whose job title was “Cleaning.”
Pedro always smiled as he went about his tasks. He had the joy and innocence of a child. He also spoke little comprehendable English. He had been in the country for quite a few years, but only spoke Spanish and a few jumbled English phrases. Conversations beyond “Hello, how are you?” turned into comedies of errors.
One day, a customer came into the shop to have all 300 yards of his salt water backing replaced. I mentioned that it would take me a half-hour at least, and he decided to take lunch. “I will be back to pick it up at two o’clock sharp, my plane leaves for the Bahamas at four.” Two hours should be plenty of time I thought.
Half way through the process of removing the backing to an awaiting plastic garbage pail in the back room, I was called back into the shop to aid a customer. When I returned, the sight that greeted me was one of horror. There stood Pedro with the fly line all tangled in a heap by his pile of trash. “Erik… Que?” he asked, holding up the pile. “NO QUE!” I responded, rushing forward to grab the line. Alas, it was in a hopeless tangle. You probably wonder why I coiled the line into a cardboard box instead of using a line-winder. The company I worked for was notoriously cheap, and we had no line winder. Indeed, even the reel-winder was defective, and ran backwards.
Suffice it to say I was covered with terror sweat when I wound the last coil of line on the customer’s reel just in time for him to pick it up and drive to the airport. Untangling that fly line added a few gray hairs to my head.
Midwest cutthroat
Every once and awhile you get a person who is convinced that he or she is right about an observation despite being told by experts that they are incorrect. Such a customer walked into the shop one day and wanted to buy flies for cutthroat trout. “Where are you fishing?” I asked. The answer was on the warm water tributary of Lake Michigan that is our local river. He went on to explain that he had been fishing the day before, and he had spotted some fish that ran about four or five pounds spawning in the river. He had thrown every fly he had at them, but could not get them to eat. He described the fish as having a sort of red coloration to their pectoral fins. Finally, the light went on in my brain. “Those are redhorse,” I explained. “A kind of sucker.”
“They were cutthroat,” he argued. “I know my trouts!”
I didn’t argue further. He obviously “Knew his trouts.” Ever since then, it has been a joke to me when asked what I am fishing for, to reply “Wisconsin Cutthroat!”
Of glo-bugs and hoppers.
The most annoying time of the year for me was the season when salmon ran our river to spawn. Dark and nasty, these Chinook salmon were often covered with fungus. Their appearance in the river caused all sorts of fools to come out of the woodwork to attempt to catch them in only inches of water. The preferred method of ‘fly fishing’ for these boots is to use glo-bugs and split-shot.
Every phone call at this time of year was the same: “Are the salmon runnin?”
Every customer likewise asked the follow-up question, “What color glo-bugs are them salmon taking?”
Despite my best efforts to interest anglers in changing their tactics and using streamers, it was always the glo-bugs that sold.
So one day, when the 999th customer was explaining to me that the fish would only take pink glo-bugs, I said to him, “That’s not what the last guy said. He was catching them on grasshoppers.” The guy looked at me incredulously for a few seconds before I broke into a smile, and told him that I was just kidding.
He walked out the door with a bag of hopper patterns, despite my protests again and again that I was just kidding.
The bigwig.
Some people have an inflated view of themselves. This was obviously the case with one very prominent lawyer that was also a former bigwig with a prominent fishing and recreation organization. They say that fly anglers can be arrogant. How true that was became apparent when I approached this gentleman one afternoon to ask him if he needed any help. “Do you know who I am?” He asked with a rather haughty inflection.
“Do you know who I am?” I responded before I could catch myself. His eyebrows rose with incredulous shock at my lack of groveling.
I never saw him again.
The lawyer and the deceiver
The lack of chartreuse tying thread for deceivers led me to suggest to yet another lawyer that many tiers simply used white thread, and covered the head later with colored fingernail polish.
“Do you even TIE FLIES?” he asked.
“No, actually I just walked in from the street,” I responded. “That’s why I came up to you and asked if you needed any help with the thread.”
I never saw that guy again either. I have got to work on my people skills.
What weight is it?
The sheer number of fishermen that came into the shop looking to buy fly line and yet not knowing what weight rod they had was simply baffling. I kind of wondered what kind of goofy setup they were fishing with. Which leads us to the next customer…
The lawyer and the backwards line.
More lawyers. It is not my intent to pick on lawyers, but I knew that these customers were lawyers because they told me so.
Me: “Hi, can I help you?”
Them: “I’m a lawyer.”
To this day I am unsure if this was supposed to be some kind of warning, or simply an introduction. It reminds me of a giant grizzly wandering wild the woods with a wooden placard around his neck that reads “Bear.”
Two gentlemen in suits came into the shop during the lunch hour on a Friday, and I approached to see if I could help, or simply direct them to anything.
“Were lawyers.”
The taller lawyer explained that he was an ‘expert’ fly fisherman, and that he was going to take his friend fly fishing for the first time on a trout stream.
This situation is very difficult to handle. The novice or beginner will often overlook advice in favor of his buddy’s. The ‘expert’ buddy doesn’t want to be contradicted, so I was often forced in these situations to stand back as poor decisions were made on the novice’s behalf.
Sensing from body language that I was not wanted, I remarked that the reel that the ‘expert’ was holding was quite nice and “May I see it?”
“Help yourself’” he said.
I noticed that the line badly needed cleaning, and after getting his permission, I started stripping it off the reel. It seemed to be some sort of level two or three weight line. Then, after fifty feet of line lay at my feet, it got a lot fatter.
“What weight line is this?” I asked.
“Five weight. My spare reel. Gonna lend it to my buddy here.”
Please forgive me dear reader. I could not help myself.
“You know,” I began. “The fly line is on backwards.”
He looked up, and realizing that I had effectively removed his mantle of ‘expert’, mumbled “I guess that’s why it never cast right.”
While I reversed the line and cleaned it, the novice listened to his friend’s advice with, if I read his facial expressions correctly, a bit of apprehension.
Match the hatch (cork handle)
A very accomplished local fly fisherman came to me one day with a rod to send back to the manufacturer. This was a service that we offered free as a courtesy, and was a weekly occurrence.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He pointed to a deep hole in the cork handle, and told me a story.
Apparently, he was fishing the rod when some sort of insect decided it was time to hatch… from the cork of his rod! It squirmed its way out of the cork, hatched, and flew away, leaving behind the large hollow home of his larval stage.
On the line entitled ‘Defect or issue,’ I wrote. “Bug hatched from cork. Please replace.”
I often wonder what the manufacturer thought when they got that one, but sure enough, they replaced the rod. Wonder where the cork-eating bug ended up…
Fly reels and bourbon don’t mix
Calmer heads prevailed when a guy who was obviously stinking drunk came into the shop spitting with anger at the Orvis Battenkill reel that he had bought from us. My colleague Bill handled the situation perfectly. I, on the other hand, was in favor of placing the reel far up his anal region.
His complaint was that the reel spool was scraping and bent. This, of course, was due to the fact that he had clearly fallen on it in a drunken stupor, a fact that he never told us. His anger should have been directed inward, as it was obvious that he was at fault. There are some people in this world for which any sense of personal responsibility did not exist. Here was a prime example.
Bill calmed me down, placated the customer, and motioned me into the back room to escape the booze fumes as well as replace the reel. He then bent the reel back into shape with his bare hands. Returning to the customer, he told him that he had replaced the reel with a new one. The goon was drunk enough that he probably could not see properly to determine that it was the same reel, and had enough of a distorted sense of time to not notice that it only took us five minutes to ‘replace’ the reel. He yelled a few more threats our way about defective expensive gear and then staggered out of the shop. We never saw him again. Thank God.
“Its on sale!”
Human psychology is a funny thing, especially when it comes to sales.
Like most retail establishments, I held an annual sale. In this case, it was a store-wide sale in all departments. It attracted all kinds of goofy bargain hunters. Early on, I found that if you reduced the price of something far enough, it would sell. I sold two trout priests at 70% off to a guy who didn’t fish and had no idea what they were. A pair of size 13 wading boots that were discontinued sold to a short woman that wore a size seven. When I stated that I thought that they would never fit her, she exclaimed with big eyes “But they are on sale!!”
Old flylines placed in a discount bin always sold as well. An ancient seven weight level line found in the back room sold to a guy who was intending to fish for bonefish. I did try to explain that it would not work, but it WAS ON SALE!! He bought it anyway. His expensive dream vacation to Belize would be torpedoed by trying to save twenty bucks on a line.
Getting rid of spare spools became a chore. I had a whole shelf of discontinued spools in the back room. I finally put a sticker on each spool that read “Was $900.00… Now only $15.00!!”
They sold like hot cakes. Elderly woman purchased them as gifts. If you got one, then I am truly sorry.
“You know… a spey line!”
One of my customers came in one day to show me the incredible ‘deal’ he had purchased in the bargain cave of a local big-box sporting goods store.
It was a two handed spey rod that he paid fifty bucks for. He had an old Pfluger reel to go along with it.
“What weight line did you get for it?” I asked, observing that the rod was marked as a 6/7.
“You know, a spey line,” he answered.
I looked at the line. It was a long belly 10/11 weight.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Might make a good weed-whacker,” I replied, handing the rod and line back to him.
This is a funny local phenomenon. People here seem to take great pride in a bargain without realizing whom they are speaking to. Kind of like a guy who sits for hours in a doctor’s office in order to show the doctor how much money he saved by performing his own surgery using an old pair of sewing scissors.
Saving money can lead to wasting money if you are not careful.
I learned this the hard way when in sixth grade. I pestered my mom to bid on an ancient trumpet in the school’s blind auction. For ten dollars, we took the thing home. I thought I was pretty smart. I already had a nice student trumpet, but for only a few bucks, I now had another one. Then I took it to the local musical instrument store. The brass expert examined it and handing it back to me, explained all the myriad defects. Just repairing the valves would set me back by six months of paper route earnings. “What should I do?” I asked him.
“Make a lamp out of it,” he replied.
Or a weed-whacker…
Ultra-light brain
A customer came in one day looking for a one-weight rod. Due to lack of sales in super heavy or ultra light rods, I did not stock any one-weights. The guy was disappointed, and told me that he used a one-weight for all his fly fishing. I though he was referring to trout, but when he took me over to the bragging board, sure enough, there were several photos of him with large steelhead.
“Wow, that must have been some fight,” I said.
“Yea… it took me an hour to land it, and by the time I got it to the bank, it had died.”
The gentleman
I got the call at home on my day off. My coworker Eric was excited. “Wait till you see what this old guy left on your desk!” he said.
The next day a large bag greeted me that was filled with ten or twelve Hardy perfect reels in various sizes.
The customer wanted new lines placed on all the reels and spare spools, and for me to tighten, adjust, and fix any defects. Who was he? Who was this guy with such a collection? Who was this who trusted me to service his reels?
It turned out that he was a customer that years before had brought me a hardy reel to get a line placed on, and remembered that I had fixed the handle on his reel, and washed, cleaned, and oiled it for no charge. He had a better memory than I did.
When he came in to pick up his reels he was well dressed and had manners of a European gentleman. I had saved him some money by cleaning one line instead of replacing it. He thanked me kindly and profusely.
It was an honor to meet him, and an honor to service his reels. His sincere thanks still resonates with me.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Rest is Noise
Recently, while exploring fly fishing blogs and adding to this sites collection of preferred links, I started pondering what I and others were adding to our sport. Then while browsing further an answer slowly came to me:
The rest is just noise.
Sounds arrogant, doesn’t it? Read on…
The early exposure I had to fishing and hunting literature was by reading back issues of Outdoor Life from the 1960s and 1970s that my father collected and saved. In those days, short stories, both fiction and non-fiction, and adventure tales actually had substance. People actually read back then. Substance and quality were appreciated more than flash, and people had attention spans long enough to digest a two thousand word article. Twitter would have been laughed at.
I remember lying on my dad’s bedroom floor for countless hours imagining what mountains must look like, or what I would do if I were treed by a grizzly. The short stories were imaginative also. They had a way of engaging the reader and drawing him into the story. In my imagination, I traveled the world fishing, hunting, and exploring.
Then I lost track of the natural world as I grew older and pursued other things.
When I took up fly fishing, I began to read everything I could get my hands on. I subscribed to multiple magazines, bought how-to books and destination guides, and began reading John Gierach, Nick Lyons, Seth Norman, Thomas McGuane, Roderick Haig-Brown, etc. Here were real treasures.
After awhile, the magazines began to bore me. There was a conspicuous lack of substance and quality writing. They were all flash, or ‘noise’ if you allow me. The articles began to repeat themselves: “Hopper Tunity!”, “Midge Magic!”, “Five-weight shootout.”, yada, yada, yada… They seemed to be written by the same people that produced motor-sports magazines. Pictures replaced words. I would eagerly turn to an article, misled by the front cover blurb into thinking it was going to be a feature story, only to find some sophomoric and cursory treatment.
So, I dropped the subscriptions, and began to collect old magazine articles from the 1970s again.
Then I began this blog, and discovered like-minded persons out there that wanted and demanded quality. They keep blogs on fly fishing as varied as our fishing is. Conservation, wild fish, history, literary reviews, fine quality gear, river journals, and adventure tales are covered with taste. Here was a whole new world.
Browse down the links on the right side of this blog.
The Quiet Pool, where Shane often covers conservation and details Oregon’s trout and steelhead fisheries. He writes beautifully, and is a traditional angler with respect and reverence.
Singlebarbed, which is some of the most humorous and yet very inciteful writing on the subject.
Cutthroat Stalker, where Scott writes about his favorite trout and their habitat, as well as excellent literary reviews on the subject of fly fishing.
Dr. Andrew Herd’s exhaustive history of fly fishing site. I get lost here for hours at a time.
Colin Innes, who keeps the very important research site Vintage tackle and Salmon Flies of Aberdeen. A source of original research and history painstakingly and lovingly assembled.
Tony, who created the site Stream Thought about fishing and thinking, complete with book reviews, trout science and more.
Eccles over at Turning over Small Stones is an Englishman living in Pennsylvania. He writes deep meditations and observations about our sport.
Jeff Kennedy and his fly paintings and drawings is another site dedicated to fine art. Jeff is a professional illustrator who paints beautifully.
The Angler’s Life List, a site dedicated to wild salmonids.
Tom Chandler at the premier site The Trout Underground never fails to inspire or call our attention to something interesting or important.
These are just a few examples of what is out there somewhere. Each site has several things in common that tie them together. First is quality content. Second would be some artistry. This can be in many forms. The third is respect and passion. On these sites and many others that I have yet to discover, one can find gems of writing, art, philosophy, and thought that are often missing from many other blogs and publications. I found these sites through accident, as well as other blog links, and comments on this blog.
I have not linked to the large commercial fly fishing blogs. I am tempted to, but then comes a post full of foul language, boasting, or some other odious trait that I doubt if readers of The Classical Angler would appreciate. The bigger something gets and the wider the circulation, the more scrubbed over or dumbed down the content has to be in order for it to sell.
So, for those that long for the days when the Art of Angling Journal showed up in their mailboxes, or who cannot wait for the new Gray’s sporting Journal to arrive, these blogs will help fuel your fire between hookups with epic fish. Enjoy.
The rest is just noise.
Sounds arrogant, doesn’t it? Read on…
The early exposure I had to fishing and hunting literature was by reading back issues of Outdoor Life from the 1960s and 1970s that my father collected and saved. In those days, short stories, both fiction and non-fiction, and adventure tales actually had substance. People actually read back then. Substance and quality were appreciated more than flash, and people had attention spans long enough to digest a two thousand word article. Twitter would have been laughed at.
I remember lying on my dad’s bedroom floor for countless hours imagining what mountains must look like, or what I would do if I were treed by a grizzly. The short stories were imaginative also. They had a way of engaging the reader and drawing him into the story. In my imagination, I traveled the world fishing, hunting, and exploring.
Then I lost track of the natural world as I grew older and pursued other things.
When I took up fly fishing, I began to read everything I could get my hands on. I subscribed to multiple magazines, bought how-to books and destination guides, and began reading John Gierach, Nick Lyons, Seth Norman, Thomas McGuane, Roderick Haig-Brown, etc. Here were real treasures.
After awhile, the magazines began to bore me. There was a conspicuous lack of substance and quality writing. They were all flash, or ‘noise’ if you allow me. The articles began to repeat themselves: “Hopper Tunity!”, “Midge Magic!”, “Five-weight shootout.”, yada, yada, yada… They seemed to be written by the same people that produced motor-sports magazines. Pictures replaced words. I would eagerly turn to an article, misled by the front cover blurb into thinking it was going to be a feature story, only to find some sophomoric and cursory treatment.
So, I dropped the subscriptions, and began to collect old magazine articles from the 1970s again.
Then I began this blog, and discovered like-minded persons out there that wanted and demanded quality. They keep blogs on fly fishing as varied as our fishing is. Conservation, wild fish, history, literary reviews, fine quality gear, river journals, and adventure tales are covered with taste. Here was a whole new world.
Browse down the links on the right side of this blog.
The Quiet Pool, where Shane often covers conservation and details Oregon’s trout and steelhead fisheries. He writes beautifully, and is a traditional angler with respect and reverence.
Singlebarbed, which is some of the most humorous and yet very inciteful writing on the subject.
Cutthroat Stalker, where Scott writes about his favorite trout and their habitat, as well as excellent literary reviews on the subject of fly fishing.
Dr. Andrew Herd’s exhaustive history of fly fishing site. I get lost here for hours at a time.
Colin Innes, who keeps the very important research site Vintage tackle and Salmon Flies of Aberdeen. A source of original research and history painstakingly and lovingly assembled.
Tony, who created the site Stream Thought about fishing and thinking, complete with book reviews, trout science and more.
Eccles over at Turning over Small Stones is an Englishman living in Pennsylvania. He writes deep meditations and observations about our sport.
Jeff Kennedy and his fly paintings and drawings is another site dedicated to fine art. Jeff is a professional illustrator who paints beautifully.
The Angler’s Life List, a site dedicated to wild salmonids.
Tom Chandler at the premier site The Trout Underground never fails to inspire or call our attention to something interesting or important.
These are just a few examples of what is out there somewhere. Each site has several things in common that tie them together. First is quality content. Second would be some artistry. This can be in many forms. The third is respect and passion. On these sites and many others that I have yet to discover, one can find gems of writing, art, philosophy, and thought that are often missing from many other blogs and publications. I found these sites through accident, as well as other blog links, and comments on this blog.
I have not linked to the large commercial fly fishing blogs. I am tempted to, but then comes a post full of foul language, boasting, or some other odious trait that I doubt if readers of The Classical Angler would appreciate. The bigger something gets and the wider the circulation, the more scrubbed over or dumbed down the content has to be in order for it to sell.
So, for those that long for the days when the Art of Angling Journal showed up in their mailboxes, or who cannot wait for the new Gray’s sporting Journal to arrive, these blogs will help fuel your fire between hookups with epic fish. Enjoy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
