You may notice that I haven't written any updates since January. Fact is, I didn't do much fishing this year.
Spring
Other priorities prevented many spring trips. Did manage a couple day trips to the Beaverkill, where a Hendrickson or two were spotted and imitated. Two nice evenings and memories from Barnhardt's Pool, where a somewhat unorthodox approach paid off. Fishing from the wrong bank, blasphemy! There was a footpath over there, so I wasn't the first...
Late Spring - Fall
Any readers in this part of the country may recall that it pretty much did not rain at all from June 1 till late September. The poor Housatonic whithered to a tepid trickle. I didn't have the heart to go and confirm with my own eyes the rumours of 90% fish kills. Charlie and I did take my old red plastic Coleman canoe down the West Branch of the Delaware on a sweltering July day. That was fun and we caught some nice wild browns at spots I'd never been able to get too by parking and wading. Also got a nice sunburn and got reminded that I ain't no spring chicken no more. Was very tired by the end of the float.
A couple early morning runs over to the Farmington with Joe and Dave for Iso and Caddis dry fly bank stalking were fun. An evening above Riverton on the Farmy when Steve took his annual dunking. On that trip the sulphurs were popping into a dense fog. The fog helped carry the voice of a non-stop chattering angler at least 100 yards upstream. A CT trooper called us ashore to ask if our truck was locked. Strange outing.
So, maybe five outings between June and September.
Fall
A work assignment from April to October with no room for time off didn't contribute any to my fishing time during the drought. The assignment and drought ended simultaneously.
Remnants of a hurricane that pounded the Carolinas brought feet of rainfall to the Northeast at the exact time I had a week off and a vagabond fishing trip planned. I was to stay in Roscoe for a couple days on the Beaverkill and Willowemoc, and then down to Coburn for some Slate Drake dry fly fishing at Ingleby and such on Penns Creek. The tropical showers forced me to postpone a week. The USGS provided enough info about stream flows for me to cancel the New York portion of my accomodations and head straight to The Feathered Hook.
I arrived at Coburn and walked out onto the bridge to see that Penns was still muddy and high. I spent the week nymphing, didn't see a bug on the water or aloft. The water cleared through the week. I caught some nice wild fish underneath. Spent most of the week entirely by myself. For a couple days, rod builder JD Wagoner was staying at the 'Hook, so got to know him a bit. Hung out in the rod shop with Jim Downes and his peeps for a couple hours. Ate at the Elk Creek Cafe, made dinner with stuff bought at Burkholder's Market (not the General from Hogan's Heroes). Other than those interactions, was out on Penns Creek from morning till late afternoon and most days saw NO ONE. It was great. I highly recommend a solo mission for quality time with one's own thoughts.
Mid Fall
Now that the water is back in the Housatonic, have gone out a couple times solo and on Black Friday with Connecticut angler's Jon and Steve. Both are great sports, puffing quality cigars whilst musing about the environs. Noticed that the fish in the Hous all appear to have been recently planed by the CT DEP.
We can only hope that those stockies will make it through the summer of 2011 and that a few might produce some offspring in the tribs.
No doubt my next update will involve encounters with floating ice....
Monday, November 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Really Cold Water
My employer forces most of us to take the last two weeks of the year off. As an angler, this is disagreeable because the cold water this time of year slows the trout's metabolism to a state of minimal feeding and movement. As a family member, its a good thing, as I get to spend more time with my family. Now that those two weeks have past I did spend a good deal of it with my family, and somehow managed to fish, too.
In fact, I fished four times over the break. The Farmington River in Connecticut was the first trip. The air temperature was well below freezing and the water only a few degrees above. My friend Dave Barletta joined me on that trip. We each hooked some trout. But the bitter wind and constantly freezing rod guides made it more of an endurance test than a relaxing respite. We found fish in a pool that, on a summer day, would hold a score of anglers, jockeying for the best position from which to cast. That day, there were only two others. They moved around a lot, probably trying to keep warm, but Dave and I stayed in the same spot, freezing, and occasionally catching a trout. The styro cups of hot gas station coffee afterwards were some of the best I've ever tasted.
The next trip was solo, to the Housatonic. It was a day above freezing preceded by a several bitter days. The trout were hungry. I caught the largest brown trout of my fly fishing career not five minutes after stepping into the river. "Fly fishing career"--imagine that! Over the next hour and a half I managed to catch several more before packing it in. What a great trip that was. The water was glass clear and the low flow allowed me to move about the river with ease. I used a less expensive graphite rod, a 6 weight. It helped me land that beast. Because of the clear water I used tiny flies. The big boy ate a size 20 midge larva, just a hook with some red thread and a wind of peacock herl for a head. Imagine a red mosquito without wings, legs or blood sucking needle. That's what this this fly is, simple and small. Hard to believe such a big fish would eat something so small. The other fishes ate a pink dot of poly yarn, imitating a fish egg. Same size, tiny.
Dave joined me the next day, but the conditions had changed. It rained overnight. The river rose. This broke the shelf ice along the banks free and sent them downstream. These icebergs ranged in size from what you put in your drink to a stack of drywall sheets. The most excitement we experienced was getting bumped by these little ice barges on their way to Long Island Sound. Dave hooked one fish and I landed one. Not a big day for catching, but the warmer weather made for a more relaxing experience than our Survivor Man experience on the Farmington.
And finally, on New Year's Day, the temp rose above freezing and the Housy called. I snuck out before the festivities and the arrival of my parents, for another shot at the Housy trout. I saw one other solitary angler on my drive up Route 7 and continued up to the next pool. The water was up a bit and cloudy. A new fleet of ice barges had been manufactured by the cold weather and were launched in time for my arrival. One of these struck me and capsized against my upstream leg as I played the only fish of the day, a buttery brown trout, almost bragging size.
The river at the spot I fish most runs aside scenic Route 7. During each of the outings in the Housy I was jolted from my angling reveree by the honking of car horns. I wondered why the drivers were honking at me. Was it a thumbs-up honk, a hey-get-out-of-the-river-you-nut- you'll-freeze-and-drown honk, or a leave-those-poor-fishies-alone honk. Probably a combination of the three. Whatever, I don't acknowledge these distractions.
On New Year's Day, I happened to be facing the road from mid river and while looking up, noticed a woman driver flipping me the bird. I didn't respond to the obscene gesture, but I wondered what prompted it. Was this woman a fly fishing widow, her ex-husband having abandoned her for the quiet sport? Was she a PETA psycho? Did she see my truck with NY plates and maybe she hates New Yorkers? I'll never know. A quote from the author John Gierach comes to mind: "If people don't occasionally walk away from you shaking their heads, you must be doing something wrong". My version of that is now, "If you don't occasionally get flipped off, you're a pansy".
I should mention that many respected fly fishermen hang up their rods when the normal season ends in October, or sooner, like after the fly hatches end. Some believe the trout should be left alone in the winter based on the principal that they deserve a break from angler's hooks. I can appreciate this, it has a certain poetry to it. However, the opposite argument could stand up to the same logic. Why not leave them alone when the flies are hatching and they are most vulnerable to being suckered into eating some feathers concealing a hook? About the only time I get outside in the winter is to remove snow from the driveway, or go sledding with the kids. Winter fishing is often uncomfortable and not always productive. If one can consider catch and release productive, then I guess the product is the enjoyment of being in a natural setting. Nature in the winter is something everyone should experience, I prefer to experience it while standing in a river, fish or no fish.
In fact, I fished four times over the break. The Farmington River in Connecticut was the first trip. The air temperature was well below freezing and the water only a few degrees above. My friend Dave Barletta joined me on that trip. We each hooked some trout. But the bitter wind and constantly freezing rod guides made it more of an endurance test than a relaxing respite. We found fish in a pool that, on a summer day, would hold a score of anglers, jockeying for the best position from which to cast. That day, there were only two others. They moved around a lot, probably trying to keep warm, but Dave and I stayed in the same spot, freezing, and occasionally catching a trout. The styro cups of hot gas station coffee afterwards were some of the best I've ever tasted.
The next trip was solo, to the Housatonic. It was a day above freezing preceded by a several bitter days. The trout were hungry. I caught the largest brown trout of my fly fishing career not five minutes after stepping into the river. "Fly fishing career"--imagine that! Over the next hour and a half I managed to catch several more before packing it in. What a great trip that was. The water was glass clear and the low flow allowed me to move about the river with ease. I used a less expensive graphite rod, a 6 weight. It helped me land that beast. Because of the clear water I used tiny flies. The big boy ate a size 20 midge larva, just a hook with some red thread and a wind of peacock herl for a head. Imagine a red mosquito without wings, legs or blood sucking needle. That's what this this fly is, simple and small. Hard to believe such a big fish would eat something so small. The other fishes ate a pink dot of poly yarn, imitating a fish egg. Same size, tiny.
Dave joined me the next day, but the conditions had changed. It rained overnight. The river rose. This broke the shelf ice along the banks free and sent them downstream. These icebergs ranged in size from what you put in your drink to a stack of drywall sheets. The most excitement we experienced was getting bumped by these little ice barges on their way to Long Island Sound. Dave hooked one fish and I landed one. Not a big day for catching, but the warmer weather made for a more relaxing experience than our Survivor Man experience on the Farmington.
And finally, on New Year's Day, the temp rose above freezing and the Housy called. I snuck out before the festivities and the arrival of my parents, for another shot at the Housy trout. I saw one other solitary angler on my drive up Route 7 and continued up to the next pool. The water was up a bit and cloudy. A new fleet of ice barges had been manufactured by the cold weather and were launched in time for my arrival. One of these struck me and capsized against my upstream leg as I played the only fish of the day, a buttery brown trout, almost bragging size.
The river at the spot I fish most runs aside scenic Route 7. During each of the outings in the Housy I was jolted from my angling reveree by the honking of car horns. I wondered why the drivers were honking at me. Was it a thumbs-up honk, a hey-get-out-of-the-river-you-nut- you'll-freeze-and-drown honk, or a leave-those-poor-fishies-alone honk. Probably a combination of the three. Whatever, I don't acknowledge these distractions.
On New Year's Day, I happened to be facing the road from mid river and while looking up, noticed a woman driver flipping me the bird. I didn't respond to the obscene gesture, but I wondered what prompted it. Was this woman a fly fishing widow, her ex-husband having abandoned her for the quiet sport? Was she a PETA psycho? Did she see my truck with NY plates and maybe she hates New Yorkers? I'll never know. A quote from the author John Gierach comes to mind: "If people don't occasionally walk away from you shaking their heads, you must be doing something wrong". My version of that is now, "If you don't occasionally get flipped off, you're a pansy".
I should mention that many respected fly fishermen hang up their rods when the normal season ends in October, or sooner, like after the fly hatches end. Some believe the trout should be left alone in the winter based on the principal that they deserve a break from angler's hooks. I can appreciate this, it has a certain poetry to it. However, the opposite argument could stand up to the same logic. Why not leave them alone when the flies are hatching and they are most vulnerable to being suckered into eating some feathers concealing a hook? About the only time I get outside in the winter is to remove snow from the driveway, or go sledding with the kids. Winter fishing is often uncomfortable and not always productive. If one can consider catch and release productive, then I guess the product is the enjoyment of being in a natural setting. Nature in the winter is something everyone should experience, I prefer to experience it while standing in a river, fish or no fish.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Why I like Bamboo or What is Fischereivergnugen
Occasionally someone I'm fishing with will see me using a bamboo rod and ask why I use it. Some of these guys are old enough to have learned to fish using bamboo. They've participated in the progression in technology from bamboo to fiberglass to graphite. Some of them have the very latest models of graphite rods. I'll bet they have a stash of rods that would represent each new generation of fly rod technology. I don't doubt that each model is in some way better than the previous. I know a lot of them have owned dozens of rods over the years. I'm sure that buying a new fly rod brings them much pleasure. Who doesn't like to collect gear?
For me, owning the latest model of anything isn't a big thrill. I think that as a culture, we've been duped by the marketing geniuses into thinking that we should replace a perfectly serviceable thing with the newer version of that thing. Cars, TVs, microwave ovens, fly rods: you name it. Anyone reading this knows that we are a consumer culture that throws lots of good stuff in the garbage. But I've only been flyfishing a few years. Starting fresh, nothing old to replace. I don't have a closet full of old bamboo or fiberglass rods. Why jump back to bamboo?
Speaking of marketing, remember the 1989 Volkswagen marketing slogan "Fahrvergnugen"? Translated, that term means "driving enjoyment". VW's pitch was that their cars are fun to drive. I happen to agree. I get the most enjoyment in driving from driving the cars Volkswagen sold twenty years before that ad campaign. I think the cars VW sold in 1989 were a hell of a lot less Vergnugen giving than the ones they sold in 1969. So when I think of driving enjoyment, the experience that comes to my mind is getting in my '70 Bug and taking it for a spin with no particular place to go. When I drive that car I know I am driving a car. I understand it mechanically, its a simple thing. I feel the road. I feel its limitations and its strengths.
Newer cars shield me from the experience of driving. I don't have to shift, I can always steer with one hand. I never feel the cold wind my speed is creating while inside them. I might not drive the Bug in all conditions and most people wouldn't feel safe in one, but I savor every minute behind the wheel. It would be difficult to replace this car and I want it to last a very long time, so I only take it out occasionally, in good weather.
For me, using a bamboo fly rod is very much like driving an old Volkswagen. Bamboo rods are still made and cost less than a Volkswagen. So I can use the cane rod more often without fear of losing it forever, or for suffering a lot of expense should I have a mishap. Its appeal is that it gives fishingvergnugen. Forget the fact that its old for a minute. What is it about cane that gives me enjoyment? The casting motion is slower. Doing anything fun slowly, generally prolongs the pleasure of doing it. Enough said on that thought? When you get a fish on with a bamboo rod you feel every movement the fish makes. It is more forgiving in casting and playing a fish than a graphite rod, at least in my hands. And it is prettier than anything made of plastic.
When I get in a modern car after driving the Bug, or switch to a graphite rod after fishing a bamboo rod, the sensation is similiar. I feel like I've lost touch with what I'm doing, like I'm missing something, not enjoying it as much as I did just then.
The bamboo rod has other draws for me. It was perfected in the part of the country where I now live. I could be standing where the shops of Leonard, Dickerson, Edwards worked in an hour from now. Each one was made by hand by a skilled American craftsman from a piece of natural material. The only parts that aren't organic are the ferrules and guides. Grass, wood, and cork are nice materials to hold in your hand. Yes, they are more expensive than graphite fly rods. But if I'm not caught up in the "gotta have the latest model" mindset, I suspect I'll end up keeping and using the rods I buy, not replacing them with the latest whiz bang high tech thing. So I'll be spending less on rods over my remaining days on this planet.
I guess you could call me a ludite or nostalgic, but I don't think enjoying driving an old Bug or using an old fly rod makes me either. In the case of the VW, its not practical or safe to drive the thing much, but it is fun as heck. In the case of the fly rod? Well, fishing is a past time, something done for the pure enjoyment of itself. So why not get the most out of the experience? I don't count fish and I don't carry a tape measure in my vest. If I counted fish, I doubt a graphite rod would catch me more of them, and I can't think of very many occasions in the water where casting further would have caught me more fish. In fact, I can only think of one place. I'll write about that place another day.
Its fishing, why not enjoy every minute of it?
For me, owning the latest model of anything isn't a big thrill. I think that as a culture, we've been duped by the marketing geniuses into thinking that we should replace a perfectly serviceable thing with the newer version of that thing. Cars, TVs, microwave ovens, fly rods: you name it. Anyone reading this knows that we are a consumer culture that throws lots of good stuff in the garbage. But I've only been flyfishing a few years. Starting fresh, nothing old to replace. I don't have a closet full of old bamboo or fiberglass rods. Why jump back to bamboo?
Speaking of marketing, remember the 1989 Volkswagen marketing slogan "Fahrvergnugen"? Translated, that term means "driving enjoyment". VW's pitch was that their cars are fun to drive. I happen to agree. I get the most enjoyment in driving from driving the cars Volkswagen sold twenty years before that ad campaign. I think the cars VW sold in 1989 were a hell of a lot less Vergnugen giving than the ones they sold in 1969. So when I think of driving enjoyment, the experience that comes to my mind is getting in my '70 Bug and taking it for a spin with no particular place to go. When I drive that car I know I am driving a car. I understand it mechanically, its a simple thing. I feel the road. I feel its limitations and its strengths.
Newer cars shield me from the experience of driving. I don't have to shift, I can always steer with one hand. I never feel the cold wind my speed is creating while inside them. I might not drive the Bug in all conditions and most people wouldn't feel safe in one, but I savor every minute behind the wheel. It would be difficult to replace this car and I want it to last a very long time, so I only take it out occasionally, in good weather.
For me, using a bamboo fly rod is very much like driving an old Volkswagen. Bamboo rods are still made and cost less than a Volkswagen. So I can use the cane rod more often without fear of losing it forever, or for suffering a lot of expense should I have a mishap. Its appeal is that it gives fishingvergnugen. Forget the fact that its old for a minute. What is it about cane that gives me enjoyment? The casting motion is slower. Doing anything fun slowly, generally prolongs the pleasure of doing it. Enough said on that thought? When you get a fish on with a bamboo rod you feel every movement the fish makes. It is more forgiving in casting and playing a fish than a graphite rod, at least in my hands. And it is prettier than anything made of plastic.
When I get in a modern car after driving the Bug, or switch to a graphite rod after fishing a bamboo rod, the sensation is similiar. I feel like I've lost touch with what I'm doing, like I'm missing something, not enjoying it as much as I did just then.
The bamboo rod has other draws for me. It was perfected in the part of the country where I now live. I could be standing where the shops of Leonard, Dickerson, Edwards worked in an hour from now. Each one was made by hand by a skilled American craftsman from a piece of natural material. The only parts that aren't organic are the ferrules and guides. Grass, wood, and cork are nice materials to hold in your hand. Yes, they are more expensive than graphite fly rods. But if I'm not caught up in the "gotta have the latest model" mindset, I suspect I'll end up keeping and using the rods I buy, not replacing them with the latest whiz bang high tech thing. So I'll be spending less on rods over my remaining days on this planet.
I guess you could call me a ludite or nostalgic, but I don't think enjoying driving an old Bug or using an old fly rod makes me either. In the case of the VW, its not practical or safe to drive the thing much, but it is fun as heck. In the case of the fly rod? Well, fishing is a past time, something done for the pure enjoyment of itself. So why not get the most out of the experience? I don't count fish and I don't carry a tape measure in my vest. If I counted fish, I doubt a graphite rod would catch me more of them, and I can't think of very many occasions in the water where casting further would have caught me more fish. In fact, I can only think of one place. I'll write about that place another day.
Its fishing, why not enjoy every minute of it?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Blog starts here.... December 15, 2009
Not exactly prime fly fishing season now. Today is an unseasonably warm day, high of 50 expected. Its Tuesday. Have to work. No chance on ducking out early to the Croton or Housatonic. Cold air on the way from Canada. Hopefully will have something to write about here in the next week!
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