Dreams of fishes

Remember when we still fished? You know, back then in the spring, before it got kinda busy at work?

Yeah.

Fun times.

We miss that too.

At any rate, we have been behind the curve lately with work and assorted stuff, so...sorry. We'll try not to go another postless month.

In other news, we are now the proud owner of a bamboo rod. No, NOT the type that the Wife uses to stake the peas, but a real, honest-to-dog handcrafted bamboo rod. Not sure what came over us, but when the chance came by we couldn't pass it up - it was a hell of a deal, too. Matter of fact, it would have been more expensive to get a plane ticket down to the lower 48 just to steal this thing out of the shop...at any rate, we were made an offer that we couldn't refuse, and we didn't.

"Parabolic 16" is the taper type, and we won't argue. We're not exactly sure what a parabolic taper is (and we're pretty sure that most folks that use the word "parabolic" when talking about fish poles don't know, either...it just sounds expert), but we do know that it will throw the hell out of a flyline. 2 pieces, agate stripper guide, 8 dainty feet and one inch, with a nicely carved locking-ring reelseat.








As it turns out, the universe does not explode if you throw a plastic line with a bamboo rod. Things get a little wobbly, but the whole mishmash of space-time doesn't seem change much. We decided to push our luck an' see if we could fish with a bead on a bamboo rod...dunno, mebbe time would cease to exist, pigs would fly, Sarah Palin would be taken seriously... something like that.

In the end, things went just fine. Matter of fact, it seemed like we caught MORE fish that evening...piscine word got out that some dude had a pretty twig that you would just LOVE to see.



Eat your heart out, Tradition.

The Hard Way

After a long drive and a short boat ride, we returned to our latest folly. A few nights a week have been spent way the hell out here, donating our pound of flesh, only to lose the single fish we seem to hook every trip.

We were beginning to wonder if it was the same fish, over and over, sent by his buddies with the sole intention of messing with our head...

"You see that guy? He's been up there for HOURS...Larry, go bite his fly."

"Why do I gotta do it? I don't wanna."

"Don't worry, Larry. Just put up a good fight for about 10 minutes, then throw the hook. Just like last time."

A fella can get a little delusional, standing in a cloud of no-see-ums so thick you can't breathe through your nose. We imagine these little conversations that the fish are having, we ponder pointless questions (does our hippie bug spray really work, or does it just make hippies feel good?), and we generally zone out. The steps come, even though they aren't necessary. By force of habit, the "cast one, step two" happens, part of the now-ingrained ritual. Strip, step, set, huck. Move, mend, mind off.

We're pretty sure that the bugs don't bother us much because they think we might be dead. Slow the pulse down, don't wave and shoo them like a little girl, breath slowly and sort of shallow...let them cloud around you, but don't react. It's tough, but when you are in the fish trance it sorta comes naturally.


Each and every cast has a grab in it, somewhere. That's the way you fish it.

When that grab comes, all hell breaks loose, even though you were expecting it. The next quarter-hour becomes a dance in which you feel woefully undermatched, a bumbling spastic with two left feet trying to follow the lead of a fish with more slick moves than Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. These fish don't wear out, they seem more to give in, and their blistering runs after bumping their belly on the gravel are ample reminders that this isn't playing, this is a fight.

If you have said your mantras, washed behind your ears, and lived right, you might land your fish. More often, you will make a few mistakes and eventually the fish will swim free. If you do it right, there is a moment in the fight where your dance partner seems to offer itself up to you, a temporary lapse in the will of the fish, a recognition of a worthy adversary. Do not squander these moments.


When it is all over, you feel the flood of relief, an abdication of the stress of the dance. Dispatch comes quickly and with respect...remember, this is meat you are making. The proper rituals are observed, the fish is made comfortable, and once again you submerge below the surface, into the fish trance.

Post-Trip Depression Disorder.

*sigh*

RoadTrip '10 v4 is now in the books, and we're not really sure if things are ever gonna be the same again.



110 hours on the big river, and we got our fish on for damn near 70 of them. Thanks to Major Tom, we had a spiffy cabin with a 2-burner AND a 2-holer, plus a beer-holding thingy and a nice comfy chair. We also got the 1760 with the 60 Etec, which is a pretty skookum setup even though it steers like a wounded cow in the slightest crosswind. Once we got the Narwhal to not lean all over the boat when we were in delicate low-water channels, things were good.



Our chapped and sunburnt head is healing nicely, thanks...only a few more days and we may be able to take the bandages off and not look like Joe Merrick on a bad shaving day. We are regaining the weight that we lost on our 800 calorie diet, and the taste of Rainier is just now leaving our fuzzy tongue.



We have 107 days to fully heal, 'cause that's when we're goin' back.



Flies of distinction:

the SmoltySnack - The murder weapon when doing the dead-drift to swing that the big fish like. The biggest fish we landed chewed on this fly, and a few other hoggish specimens that we did not get to meet fin to face also took liberties with it as well.


the Feeding Tube - Not just lean n' mean, this fly is skinny and pissed. Good for choppier, faster water where profile and color matter more than detail.


the Neil Creek Slider - 142% badass skater. Quarter it downstream, make a nice upstream mend, chug it a little, and hold the hell on. Although you get a lot of players, this isn't the fly to fish if you want a high take/land ratio...Still fun as hell to raise fish with, tho - check out the teeth marks.


the Darkness - Full and wiggly underwater, comes out with t-10 like it was shot out of a cannon, this is the future.


King game is on now, dollies soon to come...but our head is still stuck in the Northland, and we have just over 3 months til we go get it back.

Can't wait, fisha.

Time, fellas.

91 hours, 44 minutes and 28 seconds.

That's when RoadTrip '10 v4 kicks off...not like we're counting, anyways.

After weeks and weeks of preparation, hours of fly-tying, and entire days spent fiddling with gear, the time is now upon us. We're pretty sure we got everything, and now all there is left to do is to wait. And lemme tell you, we suck at waiting.

All we can think about is fish. Big fish.

5 days of swinging huge flies to huge trout, huckin' smolt into massive boils, and skipping sliders over tailouts to waiting mouths.

The flies are done, the lines coiled, the rods packed...only 91 hours, and it will take every ounce of willpower we have to not go insane with the wait.

Things not to do, and the Places not to do them.

The "Annual Spring Freakout" is over, a bit prematurely, and not for voluntary reasons.

Monday found us on a long boat ride with T, and after a bumpy and wet approach we were happily zoomin' up a river that was rumored to have fin. Not a hiking-friendly flow, this river is fast, high-gradient, full of logjams, slippery, and sports no trails on its brushy-as-hell banks - folks of lesser constitution generally don't see the better holes on the river.

About a mile upriver from high tide, the logjams start to wear on a fella. T had hooked a nice fish low in the system, and the prospect of "greener grass" kept us pounding through chin-high vaccinium and gnarly devil's club thickets.

We finally reached our limit...the best-lookin' water in the whole river was now downstream of us, and there was nothing but pain and misery on the docket if we chose to forge ahead upstream. Being the sensible types we are, we turned around and started down.

One of the beautiful pools, and the scene of the crime...


That's when it happened.

The dirt barely covering an upended rootwad that we were crossing decided to give way while we were on it. At this point, the options were pretty slim - fall to the right onto the rootwad, mebbe bust a rib or flip over and land upside down, or fall to the left feetfirst about 6 ft and hope we landed safely.

We went left, and we didn't land safely. The familiar "POP" sound from the ankle, and we knew that we had torn the bejeezus out of the ligaments. We yelled the appropriate expletives for awhile, then reassured T that he wouldn't need to carry us out of the woods (tho he was and is more than capable), we could probably make it to the boat - it would suck, and it would hurt like hell, but we could get there. T cut a wading stick, we laced our left boot up as tight as it would go, and started down.

The view for the next mile and a half, more or less.


Long story short, we got out of the woods. It wasn't pretty, and we probably didn't help the injury much, but after a few hours we were at the boat and got the first aid kit out.


We visited the sawbones today and according to the doc, we are the proud new owner of a grade III sprain. Not our first, so we happened to have the air-cast and braces handy and put them to good use.

Now, only 19 days to recover. We'll let you know why soon enough.


BTW - gifts, get-well cards, and beer are standard tokens of sympathy...not for our ankle, but because we can't fish for 3 weeks.

We'll expect some soon, dammit.

We got your click and pawl right here, jack.

Y'all have probably heard our stance on tradition, so we won't repeat it. But you prolly haven't heard that we HATES clickyclicky reels. Detests. Loathes. Right up there with yelling "Fish On!" in anything but an ironic manner - and then only amongst friends - or typing "Tight Lines" on innerweb message boards.

Anything that makes a racket is right out, and if our attempts to silence the reel will result in the reel not working, then we don't get it.

Every now and then, we have to make exceptions to this rule - but when we break it, the reel should sound like the purring mechanism of a fine timepiece, not some crazed French-Canadian lumberjack hopped up on meth.

Until a few days ago, we had only broken our "no dumb-sounding, Hey-Everybody-I-Got-A-Fish reels" a few times -Abel super 10 double-pawls can't be click free, but they RULE king salmon, and the Ari t'Hart triangles are just too sexy to mind that little whirring noise they make. Besides, both of those reels (and the sexy little Nautilus NV we picked up last year) are comparatively quiet, so while you might hear them close up, they don't fill the canyon with the strains of what sounds like a pile of screwing cats on acid.

So, we went and did it again. New twig, we figured, needs a new line-winder. That sexy little fish pole in the post below NEEDS a new reel, and some cat-scratch, cement-truck-sounding, "Traditional" Made in Korea reel wasn't gonna fit the bill.

Behold, the NV 10/11 G-8.


Holds fly string nicely, glints in the sunlight provocatively, has tolerances that would make an engineer heady with lust, and doesn't make any unacceptable noises.

Comin' up on less than 2 weeks, kids.

Can you feel it?

New Twig, installment #37

Yesterday we took delivery of one we've been waiting on for awhile.

Of all the two-handed twigs we have hucked in the past few years, the 6126 is the king...dunno why, but most of the 6126's that we pick up just FEEL right, with a few notable exceptions. One of those exceptions is a major rod-maker (name starts with an S) with a light-green 6126 that for some reason we just can't feel the love in - but most others, we're down with. Up until last night, our go-to 6126 was the Beulah Platinum, a sweet stick if there ever was one. Tip-light, stiff enough to move line without a lot of oomph but soft enough to let you feel it in between the hands when you are groovin', and with a very fast recovery for those tight little underhand loops.

That was then, this is now.






Went and hucked it around a little with MoneyMike before we were snowed off the crick...let's just say that with a custom 36' 430gr long-taper and about 18' of leader, you need an out-of-state license to fish this twig.

This doesn't mean we're putting the Beulah out to pasture, mind you. That twig is hard to beat for tip-work on most fish under 15lbs or so, and with a chopped Tonic 23 1/2' 450gr and about 13' of t-11, there ain't a whole lot of effort required to fish flies the size of small farm animals all day.

20 days to game-time, kids.

Can't wait.