Demons and Promises

Not long ago I was asked if I believed someone could be possessed by a demon. I shrugged and wondered where exactly the conversation was going and if there was enough wine left for me to get drunk or if I was going to have to move along. There was enough wine so I stayed for the story that followed the question. A spooky, first-hand account of a young man suddenly jumping to his feet and yelling during a Sunday school lesson. I guess the lesson was being conducted in an old, remodeled trailer and the room had gotten suddenly chilled before the outbreak...all poltergeist like...and the man's voice was deep and sinister and not his. It was a chilling story and I think I said something dumb to ruin a perfectly great ghost story, like most atheists do...did he have tourette's or something?

I then promptly forgot about the story. As most drunks do...

I forgot because I had to move on. I had a promise to keep. To take a friend out to catch her first carp on a fly rod. We had made vague plans earlier in the summer but, because her and her husband were busy running a well-known meadery in town, we just danced around the idea for so long that summer turned into November before we locked down a date. Friday morning. The day before a whopper snow storm was scheduled to slam into Colorado, so it was then or never...or, at least next spring, that may as well be forever away. But I had already hung up my carp gear for the year, at the end of October before the last bout of cold weather hit us. And I waited a bit too late the night before to go down into the basement to resurrect my carp rod and find my box of carp flies. I couldn't find it and I was tired and impatient and in a hurry and got tangled up in a pile of loosely-tied bags for recycling and next thing I know I'm curled up in the fetal position with my right leg sticking out at an odd angle.

My right knee has haunted my entire adult life. As I squirmed around on the cold, concrete basement floor trying my best not to pass out/scream like a dying rabbit/chew my own leg off...I had one of those movie montage flashbacks. My last year in an Army airborne unit, when I successfully convinced everyone around me that I was healthy, when I had only one knee. The right one had no ACL or meniscus left. I stayed drunk as much as I could and when I couldn't be drunk I would act so crazy no one noticed when I sprawled out under a log obstacle or on a darkened drop zone writhing around and making horrifying animal noises. It was just "Zee" and that fucker's crazy! Neither I nor the Army new any better and they let me back out to try to make a go of it in the civilian world as...basically a one-legged, violent drunk. My temper wrecked any relationships I made. My drinking destroyed my pickup truck and an innocent ash tree. And my intolerance for idiocy caused all of my G.I. Bill to get wasted on classes that meant nothing to employers. I did manage to survive, make enough money to eat, ending up in strange places with odd jobs. A carpentry gig for a log home company... hoisting 20-foot logs, hoping my legs would hold. Sometimes they wouldn't. Kodiak Island on a fishing boat, where I would have to tie myself to the gutting table to keep from being thrown from the fish-slimed deck into the Gulf of Alaska and a sure death.  And remote villages along the Yukon with one-armed native postmasters and dark-eyed meat thieves... guiding moose hunters.

Standing beside the Kateel—

rod in hand, wool hat on head

and chilled through to the core.

Crunchy tundra underfoot.

Snow dressed domes of beaver huts.

Frozen chunks of river foam.

The meat pole is standing bare.

The canned beans have long been had.

And the grayling won’t bite anymore.

Stuck alone with a wall tent

somewhere north of Galena—

closer to Russia than home.

It was at the end of the last moose hunt that my right knee finally ended my run. The freeze had come earlier than expected and we had to pack up camp into a couple boats and journey down a remote Alaskan river in search of a straight enough and deep enough piece of river to safely call in a float plane. In a day or two we did, but when hauling the boats up into the tree line above the high water line, to chain them to trees for the season, with the sound of our ride out getting louder and louder...my knee gave out. That demon reared its horrid head and shook me until I swore my leg had been torn completely off. As the float plane could only handle half our gear, the pilot and one passenger, I was forced to be on the first flight out, limping into the swift, frigid river with nothing but a two-piece fly rod tube for support. I was drenched, hypothermic and in total agony. But the pilot still had to taxi down river a ways, turn around and blast off back up the straight-away. It was when he tried to turn around that the floats got caught on a shallow gravel bar. He did his best to erratically gun the engine, rocking us back and forth to free us. But to no avail. The pilot turned to me and did his best to clearly explain what the situation was. It was simple; I get out of the airplane, unload gear on my own until we were light enough to rev off the sand bar…and then reload all the gear. Accomplishing this by crawling from the float plane to shore with loads of gear because I could not walk. Or I could real quick learn how to drive a float plane. He was serious. He was prepared to teach me to operate his cab. Right then and there. I considered it, but seeing as I had larger balls than a brain and that the effects of hypothermia had already begun to effect my hearing and other acute functions (and, the last time I drove I wrapped the vehicle around an ash tree) I elected to face the ice-cold river on my wounded knee. My memory of the event becomes blotched at best from this point forward. I remember being dropped off at a dock somewhere and low crawling down a dusty gravel road. And I remember attempting to bathe myself in a sink before catching a ride in the bed of a truck to the village tarmac. And being hit on by a native girl at the Anchorage airport. She was tending bar, but apparently was willing to do anything for a box of moose meat. I had no moose meat and doubt I could even understand English or Athabaskan at that point.

I, again, did learn to survive. With help. The VA hospital in Cleveland spent seven hours on my knee and sent me back out into the world with crutches and a bottle of pills. But they had exorcised at least the one demon.

That was nearly a decade ago.

I remembered all of these things lying on the cold basement floor…once again not able to stand. And it terrified me. But I had a promise to keep. A girl and a carp. And some lost box of flies somewhere on some shelf to find. Because, through agonizing trials comes perseverance. And endless tribulations comes stubbornness. And the best way to deal with promises is to keep them. And the best way to deal with demons is to, well…deal with them.

Madoka Myers with her first carp on the fly! 

(Helped only slightly by her gimpy guide on crutches.)

The View from the Back Seat

Many years ago I attempted to teach myself to cast a fly rod with my left hand. I think I was in the Army at the time and must have had a brush with my own mortality. It wasn't too severe, but it made me wonder how I could function if disabled. I guess I had enough respect for the irony of Murphy's Law to know that if I were ever to lose the use of one of my hands...it would be my right. My casting hand.  So, when I held on tightly to the eight razor-sharp blades of a gifted food processor and, for reasons unknown to me now or at the time, promptly turned it on...I was at least semi-prepared for the inevitable consequences.

I came out of the mishap without too much permanent damage despite the entire kitchen and parts of the living room being temporarily transformed into the Reservoir Dogs movie set...me, of course, doing my best impression of Mr. Orange writhing around spurting the red sticky all over the warehouse loading ramp. Being of a certain ilk (tougher than I am smart and more stubborn than gifted) I elected to stay away from the ER and Camp Medicate instead. With Erin's help, we dosed my "stump" (as we are now calling it) with hydrogen peroxide and wrapped all my mangled digits up tightly with gauze and duct tape and hoped for the best. My self-prognosis, aided by large amounts of alcohol, was good. Within a day or two I fully intended to be back on a creek somewhere with fly rod in hand. My left hand, but none-the-less fishing.

As it turns out...thumbs don't completely reattach overnight. And no matter if you can out-cast the Dalai Lama with your good arm, (big hitter, the Lama) you immediately regain your newb-certificate once the rod is put in your other hand. And you can't drive stick. And you need to ask your girlfriend to tie your flies on. And...can you come take my fish off for me? Erin did drive me to one of our favorite small trout streams, but I took along no rod of my own. I exchanged fly boxes for wild mushroom identification books on loan from the library, wore work boots instead of wading boots and donned the comfortable flannel I like for around the cabin, instead of a quick-dry fishing shirt. And I settled for poking around stream-side, watching Erin fish and attempting to ID some toadstools. Occasionally she would beckon me over to a particularly promising pool and hand her bamboo four-weight over to me. Have a go! And I did manage to catch one small cutthroat and an equally small brookie. Erin did have to tie the fly on for me, as well as all the rest. A fine guide. Hey, Lama...how about a little something, you know, for the effort? But I guess eventually we all have to see what the view is like from the back seat. And, if you have good people around you it ain't so bad...

A Lake With No Name

On the first part of the journey, I was looking at all the life. There were plants and birds. and rocks and things. There was sand and hills and rings. The first thing I met, was a fly with a buzz. And the sky, with no clouds. The heat was hot, and the ground was dry, but the air was full of sound...

The entire walk in (the first part of my journey) I had this America song stuck in my head. It was early in the morning and the only other soul on the mountain was a bow hunter making his way back down. The three of us, heads down, kept up the pace. The first miles where to be on trail, but from there our travels took us on our own. Off trail. Bushwhacking up to a high-elevation lake that I had never fished before...and never heard of. I had not heard of any reports from the lake because it had no name. It was on most maps, but just that. There. A dab of blue ink surrounded by lots of thin black contours.

You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name...

As alluring as it sounds, I don't necessarily trust a lake with no name. Not a high lake that takes the good part of a day to get to and may or may not hold trout. Or even really be there. It could have just been a cartographers typo or fabulous practical joke. I don't mind little ditches in town or warm-water ponds behind barns that are too small and private to warrant a name. They will have a carp or a few bluegill, at least. If not, oh well. Drive on down the road to something familiar. But high lakes. With no names. Like guys with no names. Don't trust them. He goes by Butch. What's his real name? Dunno...just calls himself Butch. Good with an ax, though...

Joe had promised there at least used to be trout up there. Good trout. Big cutthroat. Back in the day. What does that mean, exactly? How long ago? Five years, maybe? Oh...that's not so bad. Now how far off trail is this again? There did turn out to be fish, the same big cuts Joe had seen before. And there was no trail in, and no sign of other fishermen--or climbers, or hikers. Just the one bow hunter. So it ended up being perfect and totally worth it...which, really, doesn't take that much. But the trout did not show themselves at first. It was many hours after we arrived before the first rise was spotted. Later, as we were picking our way down the scree fields on our way back to civilization, Joe admitted to Erin and I that for awhile he was afraid something bad had happened and there truly were no more trout. Winter kill, or something. But Joe (and Erin, too, for that matter) persisted and never gave up hope that it was weather or time of day keeping the trout down deep and that given just the right turn of events a big, red-bellied cutthroat would point its nose at the surface and attack your fly. Which is exactly what did happen and it was fitting that it was Joe's fly being targeted. Because he had been the one keeping on. Not me...I tapped out early in the second round. Poor conditioning? After a few hours of casting into this lake with no name and not trusting it and not seeing hide nor hair of a trout (or should I say skin nor scale?) I got distracted by the the boletus mushrooms and the bouldering possibilities for those of my friends looking for new problems. Like the little boy I once was being distracted by the butterflies and pretty rocks when Dad wanted me paying attention to the end of my catfish pole.

So, I did feel a bit silly and juvinlie when, out of the deep blue, big cutthroat began to rise...

Double Digits, Mirrors and Other Milestones



Every life has milestones; eighteenth birthdays, first black eyes and retirement parties. Some just come along with age and these are more a tribute to your ability to stay alive or gainfully employed, but they can be equal when held up to the other achievements in life that are actively sought after. Other milestones are really more rites of passage, maybe inevitable pitfalls that come only if you are doing the right things for long enough...even if it means taking a nightstick to the face from time to time. In fly fishing things are more straightforward and usually less muddled by arguably misguided acts of civil disobedience. Many of the achievements in the sport are those that are a result of any number of things; skill, patients, persistence or just dumb luck. But time alone means not much. No one is impressed by the man who claims to have been fly fishing for forty years...yet can not cast well, tie a knot or tell the difference between a caddis and a crane fly. The first brookie caught on a big, bushy dry fly that was tied by your own hands...is cause for high fives at your local fly shop, even if you are not thirteen. There are a lot of these milestones in trout fishing. Landing a 20-inch trout on a #20 dry fly. A grand slam (taking a brown, brookie, cutt and rainbow all in the same day!) And, of course, taking a trout on a fly you tied yourself. These waypoints are well known and commonly recognized by trout fishermen around the world...as well as other, more regionally excepted achievements in fly fishing.


In carp fishing things are a bit different. Taking carp on the fly is not necessarily a new thing, but certainly newly excepted as an integral part of mainstream fly fishing, on equal footing as steelhead and redfish. But, because it has only recently become common practice amongst a larger portion of fly anglers across the country, it has been fun to witness and be a part of the rapid evolution of the sport...and watch the Carp Culture begin to emerge. With any new culture comes new language...often borrowed bits and pieces from similar tribes. The language of saltwater flats fishermen have made its way into the conversation (which makes sense as they have such similar styles). But there is some other very colorful terminology in carp fishing that is new and very unique. "Counting leans" is a phrase we use, usually in the spring when the water is still cold and no fish are hooked, but a couple carp turned on the fly ever-so-slightly by god! So, when asked how the mudflats were that day we say we got a couple hard leans! Another favorite is getting "bass blocked". This happens when you have spotted an actively feeding carp, made just the right cast, but before the carp can intercept your fly a young largemouth zips in and steals the show. Now every serious carper is also an unapologetic bass fisherman, as well...and would, under any other circumstances, celebrate the catching of a bass regardless of size. But not in lew of a sure shot at a carp. Dammit! Got bass blocked!

Then, of course, with the budding culture comes the creating of the milestones, the way points along the far bank that one strives toward. There is the landing of your first catfish on the fly, your first koi, your first mirror carp (a genetic mutation in a common carp that leaves the fish with a bazaar scale pattern), your first grass carp, your first double digit day on the mud flats and hands down my personal favorite, the carp slam...which is a bit different than a "grand slam" in saltwater. A carp slam is is achieved when you take a carp in three different bodies of water in one day. Fun...only if self punishment isn't masochistic enough.

Back to the Wheelhouse

I don't care how long you have been fishing, how many fish you have landed in your lifetime...or how many memorable days you have nailed to the den wall. Bad days still hurt. A skunking can make you feel pathetic and depressed. Maybe these days hurt me more because I make my living teaching others how to catch fish. After a horrible day on the water I must march right back into the fly shop and do my best not to miss a beat. I will be asked technical fly fishing questions by hundreds of other fishermen, some who are undoubtedly better anglers than I am. But, it is my job to help and I do it as well as I can. On these days following a solid nut punch, however...I feel more like saying, "Hell, I don't know what fly you should have been using! I didn't catch shit either!"

Sometimes we are spared some of your embarrassments and allowed a shot at redemption. Sometimes we have another full day to fish following one of these bad days. A day to brush off the dust, tighten up the saddle and  fling our leg back over the horses back. Now, I don't recommend gearing up and trekking back to that same high-elevation lake that beat you down the day before (as was my case) or into the same river that showed you no color...or the same mud flat that shut you down. Because it most likely wasn't you who caused your bad day. It sounds like a carpenter blaming the hammer for not driving a nail straight, but more often than not it was the weather, the water temperature, the bugs or some other fisherman pounding the water a day or an hour before you arrived. Some of these factors that cause bad days are totally unforeseen and can, at best, only be speculated about. So, choose a fresh pony. One that has yet to be beaten raw by your own riding crop.

Today I needed a feel-good day after suffering absolute humiliation yesterday. I could not take any chances, though...so, I decided to go back to the wheelhouse. The sweet spot in my strike zone where I know I can ding one into the seats almost at will. Callin' my shots like The Babe. A high pocket water trout stream. It is not one particular creek I like going back to when times are tough and moral is low, it is just how I feel about these types of waters. I absolutely love them. There is a certain treacherous and physically demanding aspect to this type of fly fishing. It caters to the fish obsessed or the overly hungry angler...one that, for whatever reason, feels like they have something to prove and the only thing to quell the burn is to hook as many trout as possible. Picking these high mountain pockets is like stealing wallets on the subway when the lights go out...it ain't a matter of how good you are, just how damn fast and nimble. And the rewards are countless and beautiful. And you can't help but feel good about yourself again at the end of the day...and toasts will be raised at the dinner table. Good fish. Good day. Good times!

A Mountain Ghetto Good Time

This is the busy season in the fly shop. The rivers are easy to wade and the heat is pushing everyone who owns a rod up into the high country—first with a pit stop into their favorite Boulder shop to see me and Randy. So, our hours “on stage” start piling up fast.  By the time my days off roll around I have put up close to sixty hours rigging reels, teaching fly tyers and doing cast work in the turn lane out front. And doing my best to keep a straight face when asked, You know of any lakes up near Breckenridge where I can go and let my girlfriend flick it around a bit?  You mean a fly…right? Uh…yeah. Why, what did I say?  (Insert a Beavis and Butt-head chortle).

Most free days I am up at the ass crack (of dawn) and off with Erin and Banjo (the dog) with rods in hand. Off to find adventure and maybe some fish. Even longer hours. No rest for the wicked…or the addicted. But today I treated myself with a proper sleep-in. You always feel so good to catch up, but this moment of blissful relaxation is only short lived. Soon you are laying in bed feeling like the worst sort of garden slug. You have missed the best fishing. Your buddies have been on the water for hours and are undoubtedly having their best day of the season so far… Your self loathing festers until you feel like a forgotten single uncle rotting into his mattress. TODAY is gonna be a GOOD DAY!

I jumped out of bed and did my chores. Watered the tomatoes and split some firewood. Winter in the mountains is creeping up on us…crouched on top of the Rockies waiting for the day to jump down on us while we are still hanging laundry outside in t-shirts.  Now, adding to the wood pile does work up a good sweat (heats ya twice, they say) but, more emotionally important, the work erases any guilt about not being the first one on the river or at the mud flats. The carp are for sure long off the flats by now…damn. But, as I swung the maul I got to thinking. I know a hidden and mostly secret flat way outta town that is so good it can sometimes fish well even in the rain or the middle of the hottest day in August. TODAY is gonna be a GOOD DAY!

Erin and I geared up and drove down out of the mountains at about noon. We stopped at a grocery store and bought some grub. She went with a bag of organically grown grapes (and washed them with a bottle of water right there in the parking lot…weirdo!) I, on the other hand, sprung for a plate of cold crispy fried chicken and a 32 oz. Miller…’cause I was lookin’ for a piece of the High Life…yeah! TODAY is gonna be a GOOD DAY!

And it was a damn good day. We rolled the windows down, basked in the wind and the sun and blasted some Dylan…people are crazy and times are strange…I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range…I used to care, but things have changed…The mudflats were baking in the sun and the carp were lurking in close…eager to chase down anything that moved. Erin and I wet waded through the thick cattails and swampy muck and hunted carp like they were Viet Cong…hooah!  Lot of water under the bridge, Lot of other stuff too…don't get up gentlemen, I'm only passing through…

Small Stream Assault (Family Version)

Small mountain trout streams are perfect for the solitary fly fisherman on a week day off of work. The remoteness...the peace and solitude. Nothing but miles of mysterious pocket water and plunge pools to pick and work over until the sun sets or it gets late enough in the day to warrant thoughts of dinner and home. Rarely are creeks or small streams a family affair--lakes and ponds are far better suited for such things. Everyone can stay together along the banks and talk and laugh and share in each-others stumbles and hook-ups. Group photos can be taken and the dog never gets lost. Good times. Trout streams, on the other hand, can be difficult enough with two people. But it can be done well...as long as the fishermen involved are familiar with each other and are not greedy. They can fish together, taking turns at each pool, or switching out after every fish. Or, the two anglers can continually leap-frog each other, being sure to stay within sight and give the other several untouched pools or good runs to fish. Add a third angler and all plans fall apart, like having your girl and your dumb roommate in the car at the drive-in movie.

All that advice is good and all, but what to do when the family comes? The whole fishing family. As it was this past week...for me. Erin and I had both our families in town at the same time for a day or two (to compare notes, I suppose) so we did the wise thing and took them all out to a favorite bass and carp lake where, as I outlined earlier, we could have a grand ol' time and not loose the dog. But, my own family was in town for a longer period of time and there was no avoiding the inevitable ventures to the favored and more remote trout streams. It was just gonna happen....and there was going to be more that two people fishing. Way more. My dad was chomping at the bit. My sister was mad keen. Banjo (the dog) was spinning in circles. And Erin and I have our own fish addictions needing constant tending to. Luckily my mother was content to leave the fly rod and carry only pencil and paper, being an artist first fisherman second. So it came to pass. Four rods and one crazy dog all on one tiny mountain stream

I had been eyeballing this particular stretch of creek for years without actually fishing it. One of those slim bands of water you catch glimpses of as you are hiking up to one of several high alpine lakes and always threaten to sample...you know, on the way back down. Just has to be some decent trout in there! Finally Erin fished it and brought back a glowing report. You thought it might be good? Well, it was! So the family fishing party assaulted it with gusto. And, believe it or not, the day worked out smashingly. Everyone did their best to spread out, but maintain a line of sight with at least someone up or down stream. And we took turns leap frogging as we ventured farther up. The last person in line would get out of the water and hike up past the other three letting the last in line know they were the "last man"...like an airborne jump command. And it worked. Sometimes I had to pass up the best looking pools and settle with an eight-inch brookie from a pocket the size of a dinner plate, other times I got the honey hole. But, regardless, I knew someone was going to find the prize 16-inch wild cutthroat and I would have to be content to drop my rig and rush down to get the photo.

At the end of the day Banjo, being part herding dog, was thoroughly exhausted. Mom was eventually found hunkering next to some wildflowers back where we had started. And the four of us excitedly compared the detailed notes of our success. It reminded me of one of the final happy scenes in A River Runs Though It when Paul and Norman are laughing and comparing creels with their father along the Big Blackfoot. Of course, it is only one of us who gets the parting shot..."It's just that He has been particularly good to me!" 

The Longest Day

This sounds familiar to you because your grandpa made you watch the edited for TV version when you were growing up. It was a 1962 war movie featuring John Wayne, who played the Lt. Col. leading the 2nd Battalion, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment--arguably the most bad-ass battalion to drop out of the night sky...both then and now. The story centered around the D-Day invasion of the Normandy beaches and was a precursor to, and undoubtedly an influence on the making of the much later Saving Private Ryan. This blog post has nothing to do with that long day in American military history. I thought up the heading of the story because it seemed fitting for a story about taking advantage of the Summer solstice. Yesterday. The longest day of the year. 14 hours, 59 minutes and 19 seconds of daylight. If there was any day to go fishing after work...it would have been yesterday. Given, of course, the assumption that the more time you have the higher the odds are you--as a fisherman--can make something really good happen. No matter who you are or how high-end or crappy your fishing equipment...given enough time you can catch state records and make millions off of tackle endorsements and finally quite that 9 to 5 that kept you locked up in a monkey suit until 6. But on the first day of summer you had almost a full 15 hours of sunshine to cook the local bass ponds to perfection and leave you just enough time to shed the monkey shuck and go fish. Give me my nineteen seconds! I am no different. Sure, I work in a fly shop and I love my job...which sucks, because I can't complain about work to anyone. No one listens. But I spend 53 to 57 hours a week at my dream job. Talking about fishing. Not actually fishing. So, given an opportunity to bail early and fish until it is too dark to tie a knot...I will take it. Which Erin and I did on this fine June solstice. And we fished until we could not see...just to make a point of squeezing out the last drop of summer before it really had a chance to start.

Left Hand Turns (Or: Thoughts on Dad, Daniel Boone, The Army, Organized Religion, Politics, Finding One's Way and Brook Trout in Left Hand Reservoir)

I learned from my father how to find my way in the woods. Said another way; my dad showed me how to be lost comfortably. We would spend weeks deep in untraveled National Forests every deer season with bows in hand like a small family band of Merry Men...and mom. "How can you ever be lost," my father would say, "When you want to be right where you are?" I have taken his reasoning and adapted it into a life's mantra of sorts. The lesson being something along the lines of home is were you hang your hat...or better yet, your back yard is the bottom of your boots. Because of these influences of my father I have been able to pick up and move or completely dismantle my existing life and take great gambles on something new. Or somewhere. Or someone. But, in hindsight (as my father has firm roots and has always been there for his family) I believe he may have just been misquoting Daniel Boone. I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several weeks.

It wasn't until I was older and in the Army that I learned to navigate the land properly. An infantry soldier walking point has a platoon or even a company spread out behind him relying on his skills and compass function. (This was before any reliable GPS units found their way into the military.) And he has to know on a map where he is...sometimes just to avoid lying to a battalion commander over the radio, but other times to act as the forward observer for an A-10 pilot with an itchy trigger finger.

The most difficult part of always knowing where you are is the ability to walk in a straight line. You may plot a straight route and you may never look away from the fine needle hovering over that moment's magic number. 144 degrees...for 400 meters. But you still have to walk that straight line. Just as it is easy to be moral and riotous standing behind a lectern with a clean robe and full belly before a flock happily marinating in ideals and air conditioning, it is easy to have an unwavering stride on a sidewalk. Add rocks and trees and mountains and your straight line becomes crooked. Blend reality into the recipe and watch the fairytale curdle. Choose one from the flock and follow them out past the big wooden doors...back out into the heat and the real world. Throw that honey badger into the happy nest of bees. Like hunger in The Heart of Darkness which fear can not stand up to...and which turns principles into 
less 
than 
chaff 
in
 a
 breeze. Introduce adversity and obstacle and watch things get interesting--because every protagonist must have the conflict or the story falls flat. And remember...that honey badger just doesn't give a shit!

So, it was somewhere in Georgia or North Carolina on an Army land navigation coarse that I learned to maintain direction despite rocks and trees and unexploded ordnance. It came down to left hand turns. It is instinctual for a right-handed soldier to always veer right to avoid an obstacle, be it a tree or large hunk of metal with fins protruding ominously from the red mud and poison oak. Choosing a path around something and then immediately maintaining the course is how we get though our lives as well our enlistments. The problem is we rarely return fully. Every argument alters a marriage. Every heavy-weight punch to the temple makes you more likely to think a face tattoo is a good idea. Just as every right button hook around a Georgia pine puts you another degree or two off asthmus and away from the way point. And these way points, like truth or salvation or happiness or even just cash money, are very thin metal pickets placed in really thick parts of the forest. So, go right a few times the camouflaged instructors instructed...and then go the other way a few times around. It will most likely even out in the end.

We met our friend on the fisherman's trail

We were headed to where he had been

He was coming from where we where headed

He had the stories and we had the dreams

Our faces where bright and his very nearly blue

Any luck up high? Brookies abound? 

Nope...just iced up guides

Then with peppered chips, cheese and elk exchanged

Our forces bound and like when the major asked the last Mohican

There is a war on. How is it you are heading west?

We and our fishing friend faced north and, real sudden-like

Turned left.

Water and Women

Fly fishermen have had this almost trite compulsion to compare the rivers they have known to beautifull young women they have known, or hope to know. It is understandable...the clear, moving water in a trout stream is intoxicating. The hemlocks or cottonwoods along the banks are graceful and inviting. And the pools and boulders are sultry, hidden and mysterious. Fishermen are attracted to these places just as men are attracted to beautiful young women and there is a large overlap there, so the overuse of the comparison is understandable. As a man and a fisherman I am no different, but I prefer to compare the waters I have known to older, matriarchal women...both real and imaginary. Especially the homewates I have had in my life. The bass ponds that, like caring mothers reminded me that I was still a clever boy even after a bad day in the confines of a public school house. Or the rivers like strong grandmothers who rein in our sanity when home on leave from the Army. Or the oceans that remind us when we are at or worst that life is not always clear and still has limitless possibilities. Yes, homewaters are like beautiful women...old, wise and there for us.

Ten Ways to Increase Your Time on the Water

It is customary in a fly shop to ask someone if they have been getting out fishing lately. I ask almost everyone who walks into the shop…just to get conversation going. It’s a bartender asking, “what’ll it be?” The overwhelming trend in replies to this question is not positive. More often than not it instigates a gripe session about not being able to get out on the water nearly enough. Now, I am aware that this response is sometimes just the weekend worrier or nine-day-a-year superstar attempting to sound like their incredibly hectic and busy life is keeping them from spending every waking moment on a trout stream…purely for the benefit of the committed trout bum asking the question. I get it, and thanks. But this article is for those seriously trying to devote more time to fishing.

10: Get Fired. Right? Who has more time to fish then the dudes under the bridge with the dirty stocking caps and abandoned shopping carts? I always stop and ask if anything is biting…and they spit and cuss at me. Then ask for change. Alright, in all seriousness, loosing your job is not a fun time, but if you do find yourself in a “between jobs” part of your life take advantage of it! It could be the lag time between a change of jobs, or the free-wheelin’ month after high school or college or military discharge. Don’t waist time stressing out…do what you can or need to do and spend the rest of the time fishing. Trust me, it will do you good. But, most of you are not at any of these young stages of life anymore and jumping up onto the conference table and doing the chicken dance with your suit pants around your ankles at the next Monday morning meeting to insure unlimited amounts of fishing time is not really a good life option. Sure, I understand. But you don’t have to take these suggestions to any extremes. Maybe you can find a way to let your fishing habit infiltrate the office. Throw up a flag with your colors in the prison yard, so to speak…hang your best “grip and grin” photo on the wall or on your desk. It will attract fellow addicts and let them know you are one of them. Or take your boss fishing. Convert those above you. If you can pull this off there are untold treasures that await. In the end, weather it be reducing your overtime hours or taking a lower paying job in a state that has better fishing opportunities…it is quality of life that trumps all else.

9: Convince Yourself Golf Balls Are Evil. Because they are…they will suck out your soul and your will to live, not to mention countless hours you could have spent floating down an amazing river casting fat grasshopper flies to hungry browns the size of footballs, or hiking to some high lake above tree line in search of your first 20-inch cutthroat! A lifetime’s worth of this given up for what? A single digit handicap? Really? Do you wake up in the middle of the night obsessing about the seventh hole at your local manicured golf course? Are your den walls covered in framed score cards and grip and grin photos of you holding a slightly scuffed Titleist? Sure, I poke fun for fun’s sake…and in the end remember fly fishing is a needy mistress and needy mistresses are only happy if they are the only needy mistress.

8: Get Better Friends. Keep your single, non-golfing friends and do your best to alienate those friends who invite you to church breakfasts or their kid’s high school plays. Get rid of them FAST…they may smile a lot and say encouraging things, but they are not out to help you. They want to see you married and driving a mini-van with dumb bumper stickers as soon as possible. Misery can’t stand that you get to go fishing on the weekend. On the other hand, veer away from those friends who pull into your driveway on a week night and do everything they can (to the dismay of your recently sleeping neighbors) to loudly goad you into going out on the town to “find some trouble”. These people—although they are a great deal more fun than the former—are equally counter productive to the fisherman. Foster the relationships with those who show up at 4 A.M. with fly rods already strung, coffee for two in a thermos and a wild look of possibility in their eyes!

7: Become a Teacher. Seriously…don’t they get the entire summer off? Well, they do, but most are paid so little they have to take part-time jobs during their off time. What I meant was become a teacher of fly fishing. You will be surprised at the increased motivation and drive you have when there is someone under your wing. You want to show them all those favorite spots that you may have unintentionally become bored with years ago. And you want them to see for themselves the sun rise on that one particular lake where the trout start rising like popcorn. Teach a best friend, or a new loved one…or, good grief, your kids.

6: Time Management. This I write mainly for myself…as it is the bain of my fishing life. Some of the tricks I have learned over the years of attempting to wedge as much time on the water as I can are deliberately prioritizing things I have to get done vs. what can wait until…well, whenever. And learning not too agree to anything on the spot. “When will you be arriving at your best friends wedding?” Yeah…I’ll try to make it… “But, you’re the best man!” Yeah…so…like I said… You really should be showing up for that one, but…it still allows for an out if you suddenly get word on some good fishing. You know, priorities. Besides, if “the word” is that good your best friend may join you! There are other things that will undoubtedly increase your time on the water. They are small things that eat up large chunks of time…hangovers and television. Do whatever you need to do to minimize or eliminate both of these monsters from your life. Get used to waking up early (sober) and not instinctively flipping on the idiot box. Remember boredom, above anything else, is what breeds fishermen.

5: When Nature Calls. This might be a delicate subject…I don’t know. If you are squeamish and never actually admitted to having a bowel movement, then maybe this section is not for you. Outdoorsmen, as a whole, tend to be fairly open about the subject. It is something we all have to think about and prepare for if we spend any amount of time more than a short, awkward jog back to the luxuries of indoor plumbing. You need to become comfortable taking the crouch behind a tree…sorry, but ya just gotta. Nobody is going to be putting up with you making a sudden run back to town. If you are in a drift boat all day this can cause even more severe time nuisances. Some “locker-room” advice I have heard being passed around is Limit Your Morning Coffee Intake and Jam Yourself Up With Pepto. Take these tidbits for what they are…and good luck.

4: The Spouse Situation. My best advice to you is stay single! Short of this…do your best to marry rich. Ha. Ha. Ha. Okay…we have that out of our system, moving forward. Assuming you have already upset all your best fishing buddies and gone and done the unthinkable…let’s make this all work out. The best and fastest way to get permission to spend time away from the house and family is to get on your spouses’ good side. Do favors without being asked (nagged) and go out of your way to make their day easier. This will usually make them more receptive to your follies. Also, regardless of how the fishing trip turned out, always come home in a good mood. Up until now I have been writing under the assumption you have not married a fellow fly fisher. That, of course, is the ideal situation. If you can find someone who really digs you and wants to spend every day off on the water…well you obviously have it all figured out, don’t you? But it doesn’t have to be that perfect to be that perfect. If your “significant other” has a reason to join you a field and you make them feel unobtrusive in doing so, you will end up having a much happier relationship and spending a good deal more time fishing. I have a friend whose wife got into nature photography. He goes fishing a lot now. He is happy. And he always has great photos of himself with fish!

3: Be Brave, You Sally. When you boil it down there are really only two types of fishermen: those who own fingerless gloves and headlamps, and those who don’t. Yes, I do mean there are hard-core fly fishermen and there are fair-weather fly fishermen. If you are serious about getting more time on the water you will consider the merits of going out at night and during the winter months. Fly fishing at night presents its own set of challenges. The biggest hurdles to overcome are the casting and line management. All your casts will have to be done by feel. There is no turning your head to watch how your back cast is doing. The best practice is to stand out in an open yard blindfolded and flail about. The upside is it will make you a much stronger caster. You will be forced to cast correctly; by feeling the rod load and knowing when to bring the back cast forward and when to release the line to shoot it ahead on your final forward stroke. Winter fly fishing is an entirely new bag of awful and in many cases—because of location—the average fisherman is spared the opportunity to subject themselves to the full brunt of awful. But, if you live within a days drive of a tailwater (created by a bottom-release dam) that offers year-round trout fishing…well, get yourself a pair of good gloves.

2: Become a Homer. Fish local. Easy as that. Too many fishermen have the idea lodged in their heads that they are not fly fishing unless there is at least a two hour drive involved. I guess it is the notion that fly fishing is done only in remote, or scenic, or somehow exotic places. Many times a guy wakes up next to an amazing little trout stream or bass pond, packs up all his gear and heads to a larger, more famous (and way more crowded) river—driving over a half dozen pristine, un-touched creeks—to have a mediocre day on the water and a long drive back home. The biggest problem with this scenario (even if the fishing had been great) is that it involved the entire day. If this is what every day on the water entails, then you are loosing out on all those half-day trips and after-work special places. You will most likely have to check your ego and settle for smaller water and smaller fish, but you will often find your favorite new place. And that is another thing…if you want to improve your fishing and increase your time out, you really ought to diversify. Chase whatever fish species you have available to you. You will be amazed by how a new twist in your long-practiced sport will infuse new excitement and enthusiasm. Be open to bass…and even carp. Don’t snicker. Carp are arguably the most challenging and addictive freshwater fish, not to mention most numerous and available. A fly fisherman with healthy species diversity can let the time of year, time of day or the weather direct the days’ fishing to improve the odds of success. If the weatherman is calling for an overcast, dreary day…head to a trout stream! If it promises to be a bright, bluebird day with no wind…stake out the nearest mud flat—you can sight cast to 10-pound cruising carp while pretending they are bonefish and that you are in the Bahamas, not a reservoir in Longmont. Or, maybe it is the end of a long, blistering summer day and you finally have a couple hours free from yard work. Bet the bass are hittin’!

1: Be Better Prepared. Always expect to have a chance to fish…and you will. Carry your rod and gear with you to work, on business trips and vacations. You never know. You can even plan your family vacations strategically. Hey, who knew our hotel was going to be right next to a trout stream? And hey, ho…I packed my rod! There are other, less conniving ways to be prepared. Dress more appropriately when heading to the river. Just because there is no wind and rain being called for doesn’t mean the weatherman don’t lie. It can shorten your day and cut into your fishing time…unless you’re prepared. Also, pack a lunch. This saves you some money for gas and flies, as well as coveted fishing time. You will always fish better and more effectively when you have energy. With a lunch in a bag up at the truck you can stop as soon as you start feeling weak from low blood sugar and get your grub on. And be back at it soon as you see the next trout rise! Unarguably, the best way to increase your time on the water is to live longer. So, prepare for the long run. Prepare to be healthy enough to fish hard when you retire. Do whatever it takes…get better sleep, quit smoking, exercise and eat better. The immediate upside to a healthier lifestyle is increased energy and ambition. Just don’t let this new-found enthusiasm get you killed during high water.

(Look for more stories like this in Jay's book The Top Ten Guide to Fly Fishing, Lyons Press. Click Here to Order a Copy!)