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 Last October Carp?

Last carp for the season...maybe? Last ones for the month of October, for sure. For me. And last aggressive fish in the shallows willing to turn on a fly and strike it like a bass. Being aware of what loomed on the weather forecast (snow, ice and cold) it was tops on the docket for the last day off before the cold front. Squeezing a few more in before the snow comes down.  

The water was low and clear and not as warm as what the sun on my neck suggested it could be. And the carp were spooky and not as stoked about a presumably easy to catch meal as I hoped. Not at first, anyway. But as the morning progressed and turned into the afternoon the sun warmed the water and the cold-blooded carp enough to boost their appetites and lube them up socially a bit. Like a generous swig from the Stranahan's bottle. Which...as I write this now (glancing out the window at a pile of snow) sounds really, really good.

Calling it Early...

 The reports from friends where good. Tons of carp with their backs out of the water all morning...two days ago. And the weather reports were good, too. Sunny, no wind in the morning with a high of 90 degrees. All was lining up for a great day off. The Broncos game started at 2:30 and I could lay waist to the September carp flats all morning and them enjoy a few Millers in the early afternoon watching Peyton lay waist to the Texan defense...

The first sign the day was not going to pan out as I had planned was oversleeping. Erin and I didn't get our boots muddy until almost 9:00 and the sky was hazy and we could not see into the water very well. Remnants of the smoldering wildfires way up north most likely. But we made due. The carp were active even if they were hard to see. And the water was way down, exposing endless flats easy to walk and land fish. Glaring into the grey, poorly lit water strained the eyes, but we found and hooked fish regularly. Things were turning around. But I decided to call it early. Decided to leave an active mud flat to go back to the cabin and watch "makeshift mountain TV" and have a cold beer.

As it turned out...we could not live stream the game on Erin's computer. I had to resort to a radio station. And then, for the second week in a row the Broncos fell apart right out of the gate. I had to shut it off and go outside and split wood just to avoid breaking something. Wish I could blame it on poor officiating...but I can't. So let my day be a learning lesson. NEVER leave feeding fish. Not ever.

Doing it Right

"There are many ways to screw up carp fishing but only one way to do it right"

Sounds accurate...and that is why I walked into Rocky Mountain Anglers and asked for a guide. It is no lie that carp fishing is ridiculously difficult. One has to be extremely stealthy and shrewed fisherman if Carp is your game. Not only one has to know how the fish behave, what he eats, what he don´t eat, how to strip (trust me on that last one, the carp stripping technique is way different than salmon stripping) and last-but not least-how to hook these bad boys. One can see a lot of carp without catching a single one, not even be close to it. But man its worth spending hours chasing these gunners when it all works out!

Contributed by: Orri Gunnarsson

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.

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…

I Spend My Sunday Mornings on the Mud Flats...

It ain't no church, these mudflats. I don't shave and press my pants, and hope to hear the word of god or anybody else. And there ain't no fish or lords gettin' petitioned with prayer...or cussin' either, for that matter. These big common carp are wild and wiley and are at least a hundred and one generations of don't give a damn. If you come to the flats unprepared, or with anything but your A-Game...you will not be forgiven. Walk too fast or wade too loudly...or cast to short. Or too close. Or too hard. Or too far. Or too late. Or too soon....and it is over. No crackers, no wine, no choir...just the fat lady barfing and groaning in the cattails. Nope, not even she will sing for ya. You suck. You failed. Nothin' left for you to do but reel in and hunt for another.

But, there is a certain bonding and camaraderie amongst those of us who elect to pass on the weekly attempts at soul saving…and submerse ourselves in the filth of the mud flats. Like chain smokers gathering out the back office exit – puffing, hacking and breathing in horrid dumpster death smells. We all rise early and there is no tolerance for those who arrive late. We all have minimal gear, but it is gear that will do the job. There is no tolerance for boots that are able to be sucked off in the mud. Nor are there excuses given for forgetting polarized glasses or extra water. You gotta have the stuff or you don’t play. We may try to lend a helping hand to our fellows, but it is all really just a shallow gesture…there is no one to rely on out on the mud flats but yourself. Your comrades may have some spare 2x or a new fly, but that is about it. No one is going to find and hook a carp for you. You are on your own and you have to do it on your own.

I like to spend my Sunday mornings like that. 

Summer Weekend (Part 1: Carp)

Hot summer days in mid July and I have the whole weekend off! I was so excited on Friday night I almost forgot to drink myself to sleep. The anticipation...oh, the lovely anticipation. But there is so much to do on the Front Range of Colorado if you have an open mind and a fly rod. Saturday's weather called for no wind, few clouds and temps into the 90's...so it was a no brainer. We would hit the mud flats for carp first thing. 

I rounded up the E-Team (Erin and Eva) at 6:00 in the morning. (OK, maybe it was the other way around. Erin rousted me at about 6:45. So, yeah...almost forgot to drink myself to sleep.) And we drove down out of the cool, shaded sanctuary of our canyon and into the already sweltering heat of the flat land.

The three of us got rods rigged on the tailgate...stout leaders, 2x and #6 Backstabbers. Everyone got ammo? Grenades? Who has the Bangalore? We double checked our sunscreen and water supply, then we hit the flats like they were the Normandy beach...

The action was fast. We all had something to add to the body count within 45 minutes...after that it was all about who could spot the next active fish, or who could capture the best photo...

Good times...good times. 

Catfish on the Fly (Another Perk of the Carp Revolution)

There was a time when ignorance pravailed. The Atlantic Ocean is spilling off the side of the world. The moon is most likely made of limberger and our destruction will come from the big-headed people on Mars. It has been true in some sectors of the fly fishing world, too. Alaskans used to claim reds (sockeye salmon) would not eat a fly. They don't eat. Ya gotta snag 'em. But now we know better. And people used to claim corn, dough balls and fiberglass arrows were the only ways to take carp. They're bottom feeders! And look at us now. Fly fishing for carp is the fastest growing and most accessible faction of the sport! (I take only a tiny, shared amount of credit for this, btw...) Now, a fair number of years into the wide-spread acceptance of carp fly fishing we are seeing great leaps forword in technique and in flies. Remember when the only good carp fly was a Clouser Swimming Nymph? Remember when Barry Reynolds book Carp on the Fly was just an oddity fly shops stocked as a joke or novalty to trigger weird conversation? Now the hardcore carp bloggers have picked up that loose ball and spiked it in the endzone. The amount of good, informative writing available online is now immense and the willingness of these fly anglers/writers to share not only their knowledge, but their favorite mud flats have finally opened this highly challanging and addictive form of fishing to the masses. And every new convert will inevitably create his or her new and better carp-specific fly pattern. It has been fun to watch and be a part of...

There have also been some unforseen perks of this carp/warm water revolution. Once the negative "trash fish" stigma fell to the wayside amongst the more advanced and enegetic fly fishers, other doors and frontiers have flung open and been explored. Gar, freshwater drum (sheephead), catfish, and bowfin are all fish to be hunted, coveted and the photos of their capture are circulated around the most devote tables. This is a fine example of a new generation taking what they have been handed, not complaining about the old or broken parts, and making it better.

Short Term Memory

I hear football announcers claim short term memory is an asset in pro quarterbacks. Your left tackle falls asleep for two seconds and you find yourself face down eating fake green grass with a 240-pound linebacker dry humping you in your own end zone...yeah, must be hard to forget. But a safety is only two points. The game is far from over...if, of course, you have short term memory and have the confidence to stand in the pocket the next go round and pick apart the corners. Maybe even win the game, despite the one embarrassing moment that will get replayed 28 times on ESPN Monday morning.

Thus it is with carp fishing. There are so many things stacked between the fly angler and reward. Granted, there are no linebackers looking to break your back...but carp are smart and carp are spooky. There are far more things to go wrong than set to go right. First there is the water temperature and weather. You want the water warm and the day hot. You want no clouds and very little wind...but just a touch. And you want the water levels to be low, but not too low. Now if you have all these cards in the right order, you still have to make the best cast and most tantalizing retrieve of your life. Then...maybe. Maybe.

Monday morning I watched from above (back up on the bank...I ain't dead yet, or that way bound) as Erin, my carpin' partner stalked a very large common carp in close on the mud flats. The fish was alone and feeding and she could not get too close...but made the first cast count and the carp turned and charged the fly. I watched the whole thing unfold in slow motion. Erin set into him and the fish exploded toward deep water. The reel shrieked and then the line came to an abrupt halt. I thought the jig was up, but her rod was still doubled over. The line's tangled on the reel! Erin shouted. And indeed it was. She yanked at the tangle with everything she had...but the big fish ran again and the 2x snapped. Game over. Her shoulders slumped and her rod tip hung motionless. I quietly prepared a pep talk as I made my way out onto the flat to join her. But, by the time I waded next to her she had shaken off the defeat and smiled. Let's find another! Short term memory. And she won the game that day. Within minutes she had an almost exact repeat...but an even larger fish. And everything went the way you would hope it would.

Bona Fide (The Carp Fishing is Good!)

Made in good faith without fraud or deceit...made with earnest intent...neither specious nor counterfeit... The carp fishing is really good right now. Seriously. We Colorado fly fishers may be having a ton of things stacking against us this year...no snow pack, no water, too warm of water (the Yampa River just closed to fishing!) and a solid third of the state is apparently on fire. I won't lie, these conditions are not fun. My home is at 7,750 feet in elevation up a sparely populated canyon and I live day-to-day with an eye for smoke on the horizon. But, like living in the inner city, a war zone or grizzly bear country, it adds a certain sense of seriousness to an otherwise bland existence. A charge in the air. A steady stream of adrenaline into the veins of a once comatose patient. It's fun to live on the edge...until--of course--you get mugged, shot, mauled or burned alive in your cabin. But it does not spell doom and gloom across the board. The local carp flats are low and wide...and the water is warm and the carp are hungry. It takes a lot of bugs and leeches to keep a ten pound carp fat, ya know. So, stock up on some of your favorite carp flies (by that I mean Backstabbers in black or grey minnow) and see ya out there on the mud flat!

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.

Welcome To The Dark Side (Another "First Carp" Story!)

Written and Contributed by Brian Shepherd


My brother and I met one of my fly fishing buddies at a lake in the Broomfield/Westminster area. My buddy had recently sent a photo of a massive carp that he landed so I knew we were in for some fun.


I woke up early that morning and quickly tied up some Backstabbers and other crawdad patterns. We suited up and were on the water by 7am. In addition to the water being somewhat murky, it was an exceptionally windy day; which made it initially difficult to see carp (and to cast with any measure of precision and grace). We eventually spotted some carp jumping out of the water so we approached and threw some crawdad patterns. No action and the carp seemed to have moved on.

I switched to a black Bouface streamer (Barr's version) and started working the edge of a weed line. After a few strips, I felt that unmistakable tug on the line and set the hook. Instead of a carp on the other end, there was a nice largemouth bass.

We moved on to a part of the lake that was somewhat sheltered from the wind and spotted a few carp tailing in the flats. We chased a few into the thick weeds where they likely stayed the rest of the day. I began working the edge of some cat tails with some long casts with the same Bouface streamer. I was about to move on when I saw bubbles come to the surface and an almost undetectable shape that was only slightly darker than the murky water. Without blinking an eye, I cast the fly to the right of the shadowy figure (this happened to be the side where his mouth was) and in a split second it was fish on.

I had my Sage 5 weight trout rod so I let him run as often as he wanted to. After 8 minutes of incredible battle and multiple runs after getting him close, the carp finally relented and let me get a photo of him before sending him back to the flats.

Looking forward to my next redneck bonefishing adventure!

Tax Day Carp

Written and contributed by Dana Stephenson

On my way to meet my accountant and to pay my taxes all that was on my mind was the weather. There were no clouds and no wind--a perfect day to go carping. As I passed a favorite lake I gazed forlorn at the waters edge...and saw a tail at least three inches out of the water. Instinctively, I pulled over and popped open the back of my ride. Finding only a four weight trout rod I strung it thinking, "pretty sure this rod has a warranty." I hurriedly walked to the waters edge and found the carp still feeding. I yanked out some line, cast and a few strips later POW! Fish on! I kicked off my shoes and had to wade into the lake to land the fish, but lucky for me a father who had taken his daughter to the park noticed the commotion and walked over to be witness to the spectacle. I got him to snap a picture. This grim morning had suddenly turned into as good of a day as it could be, taxes and all...

Punching Samantha

Sometimes, when I am frustrated and am having a bad day, I will punch Samantha right in the eye. Not technically, but in some un-written guy code she belongs to a good friend of mine…but he is usually off running a Mexican roofing crew up in Cheyenne or somewhere. He leaves her alone and unattended. So, I slip in on a week day and look for her out back behind all the apartment buildings…minding her own business somewhere along the bike path. I already have my carp rod strung up and riding in the bed of my pickup truck—so I jump out and sneak up without her knowing. She is small. Petite, I like to think. And the carp that live in her water are numerous, but small in frame as well. But I am there because I have been shot down at other, larger and more challenging lakes. I am at Samantha’s Pond to somehow make myself feel better about myself in some weird, dirty-trailer court-domestic violence sort of way. So I sneak in while my buddy Patrick is away at work and I punch her in the eye! Then I cackle and punch her in the eye again! The small carp there are so gullible and they will eat a fly almost every time. It just ain’t fair. So I catch a few, reel in and do my best to apologize. It’s been a long day. You know I don’t mean it. Really…I love you. Now go wash up and put some ice on that eye…

Sunday Morning Movies

Carpaholic from 7 Weight on Vimeo.

Skinny Water Carp (i.e. Late Season)

As a fly fisherman I look forward to Autumn. Not because the aspens are changing up the canyon, or the Kokanee or the big browns running up the Dream Stream...but because the carp fishing is always at its best. There are several reason the local carp fishing will improve later in the season. The nights are getting cooler, thus the water temperature is steadily dropping. These cooler water temps mean less bug and critter activity...the bitty creatures are beginning to go dormant for longer periods of time every day. Less of this means carp are needing to hunt for food longer--so it is much more probable you will find hungry and vulnerable fish. Approach the mud flats cautiously and try to get as close to the wallowing carp as you can. (Proper colored clothing helps!) They will often be very easy to spot...because they will be up in water so shallow their backs will all be out of the water. But, again...be cautious! You need to get in close and make a short, but accurate cast past them and twitch the fly past their nose. Keep your rod tip high so the leader doesn't touch their back!

Carpin’ From A Canoe

They say if you start a small business or build a house together it will either destroy a relationship or make it unbreakable. True. And I would like to add fly fishing for carp from a canoe to that list. You have to be able and willing to communicate properly—not just to avoid a spill, but to effectively stalk the carp. And things will get intense and not always work according to plan. Actually, things will seldom go right. You have too many variables working against you for things to go well. If you escape the ordeal with no broken or lost equipment, dry clothes and still on speaking terms…consider the outing a success. Hooking up on carp should almost be considered unlikely. But do-able! Definitely can be done. And, if you and your partner sync-up on more-or-less the same page…the canoe can turn into a deadly carp tool. One caveat being, you both have to have “bus legs”. What I mean is you have to have balance enough to not fall over while standing on public transportation. If the train at the Denver International Airport can turn you into a four-appendaged, flailing cannon ball…then, no. Not for you. What I am saying is that for this to work you must be able to stand up in your canoe. Often both of you will need to be standing up—one steering with the tip of a paddle and the other casting. See? It can make or break a couple!

 The higher your line of sight, the better you can see into the water. Simple. And carp fishing is reliant on line of sight. You need to see the fish to cast to the fish and get your fly in front of the fish. Carp rarely go out of their way to make your day. You must earn it. They make you. So…once you combine all these things, you end up looking like some odd breed of native Hawaiian fisherman—standing in a canoe, paddle in hand, then quick switching to a fly rod…bombing a cast… OK, sure, neither you or I are sporting romance-novel-cover brown abs and flowing mane, but damn…you still can feel pretty studly cool. But, you know…be sure to have your wallet and cell phone safely stashed in a sealed freezer bag. Your Fabio ass may just face plant into two feet of dirty brown water. So, you know…you always got that goin’for ya…

Banjowood Seeds

I would make a very poor father. I know this. Not true, some may say…you’re so good with kids! Sure. And I love dogs too. But they both annoy me to no end. Kids and dogs. They are both loud, eat things they shouldn’t and shit everywhere. But, so do I…so I can’t help but feel an odd sort of kinship. Kinship in chaos and crap. So it is ironic, I guess, that those who like me the most are years younger than I, and I am now living with a dog. I guess I am left with—with some comfort—the teachings of my older and wiser sister: kids are better than adults because at least kids still have the chance not to be idiots…and if you fuck with a dog it will eat your face. Simple. And I appreciate simple.

 So now I live with a dog named Banjo. Love him. Have no idea what sort of dog he is. People always feel the need to ask what is he? At work…at the fly shop, I get asked that on the hour it seems. Not about Banjo (I leave him up the mountain) but about coworkers dogs hanging around the shop. Still alive, I usually answer. Until I get too hungry. Yes. I just made a joke about eating a friends dog. Pales in comparison to the things I have said about friends children. Find a way to deal. OK…moving forward. Banjo has long, shaggy white hair that ends up stuck to everything. The couch is now uninhabitable by humans in dark clothing. The door jams have fringe. And it sticks to my facial stubble like a fake Santa beard when we wrestle in the living room.

 His hair gets saved, though…in a big plastic freezer bag in a random cupboard. Clumps get coveted from the carpet, picked from the couch and my chin. Saved in a bag. Looks too much like fly tying dubbing to be discarded. Gotta be a use for it…gotta be! There have been vague plans to do some dye lots. You know…black, olive and brown. The trifecta. The triple threat—the three best colors of good, course dubbing. His hair is naturally white (well, just perfectly off-white) so that base is already covered. But he also has this really awesome, long tail hair. It just begs to be made into a pike fly! Add a little flashabou…amazing!

 But it did not take long. See enough clumps of shed hair on the floor and sooner or later any serious carp-head is going to see the possibilities. Clumps of off-white hair on the un-swept floor. Carp lazily cruising the muddy flats. Springtime. Cottonwood seeds. The cruising carp zeroing in on particular scraggly, white clumps on the surface…

Yes…it all becomes clear…

Some Tractor Tires Bite (The Hazards of Carp Fishing)

The trout fishing here on the Front Range of Colorado has been a bit shitty. The runoff has been intense and drawn out. It is mid-July and no one has seen the bottom of Boulder Creek since…well, early May probably. Good grief. I even heard a native use the word drought in conversation without the usual sinister overtones the other day. Bazaar. But I am not complaining, or concerned…the rivers are all bound to drop sometime. And the carp fishing is just now reaching its prime! Erin Block, Brian Schmidt and myself met up yesterday morning and hit some of the local mud flats. The water is still a tad high in the reservoirs, as well…this does not impact the carp fishing to the same degree as the trout streams, but still can cause problems. When the water is high the carp can burrow into the submerged cattails like a feed trough whenever the munchies strike. Content carp are difficult carp. Hungry, hunting carp are the vulnerable ones. Like the advice an old friend once bestowed me—never be desperate for love or money…’cause then you will get taken advantage of!  True. True.  So, I like it best when the farms and cities start calling for water and the reservoir levels begin to drop, forcing the carp out of their dense, green feed-bag sanctuaries and turn them out on the flats to scrounge like street people. Hungry and willing to take a chance. A chance that will inevitably get them into trouble.

So…we had a good day. Beached almost two dozen decent fish between the three of us. Then Erin sees what she thinks is another mudding carp, casts and sets the hook into a tractor tire with claws and a beak…

                                                   Read Erin's Story Here!