Lost and Found

The following thoughts flowed as a result of a good friend mentioning that he had lost his love for fishing along the way. The larger context is how we find pleasure in the activities that we have chosen or perhaps have gotten a hold on us. We all have things that we enjoy and the aspects of a given activity that get most of our attention can change over time. I’ve attempted to put into words, my own experiences along those lines.

I think I get carried away at times with a notion. Hopefully this makes sense to somebody.

I’ve lost and found a ‘love’ for things that I’ve enjoyed.
Fishing is one of them. Its difficult to describe in adequate terms what is largely intangible, but what the heck.
I have recognized over the years that there are two aspects of activities that I’ve enjoyed. Two aspects that have provided a means of or anchor for the pleasure derived, but with a common ground in each. Its when one aspect begins to unbalance the two taking a stronger part and in a manner of speaking effacing the other that the trouble begins…for me.

Starting with traipsing in the woods as a boy collecting frogs and snakes, exploring mysteries and pushing the boundaries of the known, to overnight camping and watching celestial bodies, to backpacking and covering greater distances, climbing about on rock and ice, kayaking through deep places with a landscape both below and above, mountain biking for pleasure or placement, fishing with worm or minnow to bench made bait, and finally to appreciating a companion dog chasing birds in the same landscapes. A companion to give and get a hug while carrying on or having a sandwich on a rock or stump in the morning sun.

Being human, I like and find some pleasure in owning things. Nice things. Cool things. Things that work well for the task at hand. There is pleasure to be had there. But that is a fleeting pleasure and the search for and anticipation of acquisition often the longer lasting part.
That aspect and the pleasure of use for the task, I’ve found to be grounded in a thirst that is never quenched–it has just changed flavor.
I get bored easily– with things, if the focus is on the things and the activities themselves.
Whether its been the physical exertion to accomplish the difficult for degree or distance or mental effort required to overcome discomfort when pushing limits, when done its done and the pleasure is diminished. When the focus is there.
What those activities have had in common is the landscapes and the sights, sounds and smells but mostly the wonder and contemplation of those surroundings.
Further thought brings to mind another way to articulate the parts. Tools, task and surroundings. For me, the pleasure derived from the first two have been diminished with time and use and the last never. Never because the greatest natural gift of all is employed in the appreciation..the mind and the imagination. And when put to use in the observation and wonder of the layers and depth of meaning; and yes the beginnings of the natural world, that is so vast in its interwoven complexities and simplicities, represent a gulf that can only be partly crossed.
I’ve never been bored in that place. The pleasure derived there, has never diminished. In fact, has only increased with time and more so during those periods when the other aspects fall out of focus.
Perhaps in part because of age…in some cases the tools aren’t swung as hard or as fast. I think that this has served to swing the balance more easily back to the things that were once less tangible.

To stand in a river and think of the wonder of reflected light dancing on a hard and fluid surface, with creatures buzzing and swishing, singing and mating. Watching the loop of a flyline as it performs according to laws of perfect geometry and gravity and other forces only guessed at. Laughing with a simple pleasure when a fish takes. Where does that particular pleasure stand when separated from the others? The gift of the ability to observe and wonder–yes and hope.
A man can lose the love of some aspects of a thing, but how can he lose the love of the other when there can be no end to it in this life.

I’ll never tire of sitting a stump and letting the cares of the world sift as a colander does unneeded fluid, leaving only the important.

I’ve found that the mundane things hold just beneath the surface–so much more. Its the territory of wondering and imagination.
Though I love the dogs and what they give at home and afield (although there is much more that our dogs offer that would make this post a long one), the feel of carrying an old hand worn double, the sudden flush of a bird, the feel of cork and graceful loops of line and the tug when a trout takes–when the brightness of any of those things might fade, the landscapes will keep me.
Yup–those activities have been vehicles and at times the vehicle has been given more attention than the journey or the landscape.

My friend–take that rod and step into a river.

………………………………………………………..

My point could have been made with just three or four sentences, but what would be the fun in that.

Before and After

I have been looking through some old pictures and considering local covers and what to hunt when and such and realizing in the process that even in the twelve years that I have been upland hunting, how my covers have changed. Some better and some not so much better. Alder runs have aged, sumac have become to tall and stringy and nice holding patches of birch and poplar that haven’t so much lately.

All things age and change. I don’t recall the author, but I once read a story about an old barn with dust motes and grouse that were there and gone.

This old apple orchard barn stacked with old wooden apple crates reminds me of that story.

An image of age and change.

The First

How many seasons? Are there more ahead than behind. Can the seasons be counted in numbers?

I reckon many of us have had these same thoughts. Sort of inevitable, given the limited time both our dogs and us humans have in healthy bodies.

I have a great hope for what comes next, and yet I find myself thinking the same thoughts regarding spending time in the molding woods of autumn and the streams, that I love so much; places I’ve spent a great deal of time walking since a small boy…enjoying the stars above, the springs that run hidden under and everything in between. Things that still echo with the sound of their beginnings. Our hearing catches echoes soft and loud and our eyes remnants of light– always telling a story. I’ve learned a lot. Or maybe I should say a little. A little piece of a large whole.

I came to upland hunting and these four footed friends that are so perfectly suited–late in life. I was 43 twelve years ago for my first season and my first bird dog. Connor was a lab and taken from us far too soon. I’ll never forget our first grouse. Our first grouse. Its funny how some things surface as new, even though so many more layers are piled on. How can I forget how new and excited we both were that afternoon.

How Many Guns…? Gene Hill

Are Enough? And–did it back fire? 17th wedding anniversary morning and it occurred to me that a fine gift of understanding might be appreciated by my lovely wife and partner. This came in the form of her reading the chapter in ‘Mostly Tailfeathers’; the same as mentioned above. Over our coffee and the dogs twitching anxiously in an uncharacteristic manner, the pack witnessed tentative and suspicious smiles as pages turned until the part on a fine side lock being the best possible divorce preventive, where we all three were relieved to hear soft laughter. The kind of laughter that will assuage fears and satisfy a desired outcome. As the coffee and the chapter finished and the book lowered, a smiley sigh was heard and the following comment emerged piercing the only somewhat weakened tension felt by dogs and man–”You know honey, you could have a new gun every month, if you just planned it right”. Now at the first (I think I can speak for the two with tailfeathers), this sounds like a very good result of a risky but well meaning gambit, but as the seconds rolled by through my agape silence–a sneaking suspicion of mistake has occurred. Now I’m not very bright as regards the oft confusing matter of the female mind, but prior experience suggests when I discover the reason for this sub-conscious unease mayhaps could be a discrepancy of appreciation of cost–which case, may point to my historical lack of full disclosure. I need advice as to just how to proceed. Please.

Mysteries Hidden

From the time I was a little boy, I’ve been fascinated with the mysterious and reachable only with the imagination. During my tad pole and critter tracking to the den days as a very young boy I learned that there were such things. There was one such on my gramps’ property. A river spring that came up under a big flat rock. I could hear it. I could smell it and nearly taste it, but the rock was far too big and heavy for a small boy to move. IF I could have moved it, the mysteries that I would have uncovered. I searched high and low in trying to figure out where it came from or where it went, but I never did. I’ve since gone back to see what brook or such might be nearby in the neighborhood–in places that I couldn’t go of an age. The mysteries remain un-delved. Since then, I’ve found many more. Spring seeps, gurgling mysteries from an otherwise untelling hillside or the most intriguing of all–that place in a small mountain side where a small brook flows from under and behind large glacial boulders embedded into the mountain side. Where do they come from. IF I could get inside and somehow follow its course. Maybe it would open up into a cavern large enough to paddle a small boat. What critters and what fish have made their way to those hidden spots for home and hunting. What fine things would be revealed if a light was struck. Would the waters be sweeter for being deeper. The thoughts still give me shivers…just like they did in the imagination of a little boy.

NY Steelhead and Browns Comin’ Up

I’ve been a bit busy and distracted with both work and replacing my home computer system.

The old Apple G4 mirror door Dual Core 1 gig was getting tired after running nearly 24/7 for 7 or 8 years. A faithful machine, but as many know the software tends to outstrip the hardware before too long.

We planned on a new imac this past week and just as though we planned it, Apple came out with significant enhancements on a new release on the very day that we had planned to pic one up. I’m now typing from the bluetooth keyboard of a 27″ quad core imac that screams. The previous version was a great machine, but this new imac has 70% more processing power and 300% faster graphics handling. Fabulous for what we do . Comparing it to our retired G4 is to compare two different worlds.

OK–enough of that.

I am looking forward to early Friday morning when I’ll be leaving the driveway to head to NY steelhead country and friends. I’ll meet the one fella in Pulaski to fish nearby for the day and then the two of us will head north to darken the door of a mutual friend and spend the next two or three days fishing for Browns in West Canada Creek.

Good friends, good company and the opportunity to throw a line at some mighty fine fish.

The reports are good and I just may link up with my very first steelhead.

Hopefully, I’ll return with a tale to tell and some pictures.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mothers with two feet and four.

A Walk Through The Woods of NH

The wife, the pups and I had a great time on a beautiful day–April 17. We even ran into some woodcock and had a couple of nice points.

We found some very promising brookie water, too. What do you think?

Sorry, but the wife was behind the camera. She loves her new Canon digital SLR.

Old Hemlock Bromley Standing Tall

My wife was lucky enough to catch this image out back the other day.

I thought some folks might get a kick out of it.

Icing Guides and Hibernating Trout

Yesterday morning I met up with a friend before sunrise with air temp at 20 degrees and water at around 35-36.

The stars were bright and it felt like a hunting morning in November as I drove to our rendezvous. Although the river we chose is just calming after giant blocks of ice had passed, leaving the most perfect looking trout water, we knew that very few if any stocked trout would remain after such a long and fiercely dry summer past.

Nevertheless, the one had a brand new custom rod to toss and the other freshly acquired boots and waders to douse. Just as the morning gloaming appeared, we hit the water. Immediate icing, stuck reels, no fish and big smiles followed. Soon, we opined–maybe a couple weeks and those pods of hibernating fish will cooperate.

The undisclosed wielder of a new rod, just as the night turned to morning.

Unfishable

I love her dearly and she gives a great deal of herself and what she contains to me, but there are times when she is inaccessible.

She seems angry and even hostile in seasons, but I remember that this is just part of who she is.

Best to just let it pass by and wait a while.

Are they riding the same piece of water? Or Gliding over the top?

 

“Together we flow like the river and together we melt like the snow”–Traffic

Snowshoes, Setters and Winter Brook Trout Prospecting

The wife and dogs and I headed out this morning for a much needed stretch of the legs and lungs. We covered about five miles in a beautiful loop through classic New Hampshire hill country. I had been thinking about this brook I’d ran into while hunting grouse last season and wondering if it might hold native brook trout. It flows out of a spring fed pond and was nice and cool even at the end of a hot dry summer. The pond is completely iced over and covered with 2 or 3 feet of snow and I imagine that pond holds some brook trout, although I don’t know for sure. My attempts brought no strikes, but it was nice to scratch the itch to wet a line. I need to return later this spring and fight black flies and perhaps catch a fat brook trout or two. Toni took a couple of pics in between helping me keep the dogs away from my line.

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Comparaduns

A few weeks ago I tried to tie a Comparadun and had a difficult time managing the early season elk I was using. I mentioned this to the guys down at Stone River Outfitters and was told I was using the wrong stuff. They sent me off with some deer hair meant for the pattern.

I finally got around to giving it a whirl and although these first four attempts are far from acceptable, I’ve begun to get a handle on handling the materials. Seems like I’ve got to get the amount of deer hair down to where its right and at the same time make so the ball formed by the cut butt ends isn’t so big. That will get me closer to having a cleaner body and better taper.

These are tied on a size 14, white hackle tail and 8 light cahill thread. The first ones are a tan sparkle dubbing and the last an olive super fine.

These flies are fun to tie once the deer hair is figured out.

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March Brown Wanna Be

The medicine I need is around the corner and at least in name, I thought I’d pay homage to that time and what drifts on by.

A friend suggested the pattern I’ve been tying of late might make a facsimile of the bug if tied a wee larger. A twelve to be the target.

The one is quilled with the same peacock and the other with red rooster streamer quill. Local Ruffed Grouse for the hackle and a bit of hare’s ear dubbing. They look awful buggy to my eye. As to a match–I dunno. Maybe they would fool a half blind hatchery raised trout.

Maybe.

Mouse it for trout vision.

March Brown Red Quill and Ruff

March Brown Peacock and Grouse

121 Year Old Trout

Click the link for the entire article.

I’ve copied a bit of it. Bids anyone?

The Courier – Perth taxidermist’s 121-year-old trout up for auction.

Perth taxidermist’s 121-year-old trout up for auction

A record-breaking trout is set to go under the hammer during the Bonhams sporting sale in Edinburgh in November.

The cased fish was prepared by celebrated Perth naturalist and taxidermist Peter Malloch and is expected to fetch between £2000 and £3000.

The 29lb specimen was caught in Loch Stennes on mainland Orkney in March 1889 and for over 100 years held the record for a wild trout caught in British fresh water.

It was eventually overtaken by a 31lb Ferrox brown trout caught in Loch Awe in Argyll and Bute in 2002. The sale also offers three of Malloch’s cased salmon for sale at estimates of between £1500 and £3000.

A keen naturalist from childhood, Peter Malloch started his taxidermy business in Perth in 1871 at the age of 18 and it remained a fixture in the town until 1981.

Hatch’s Emerger IV–Partridge Sans Wire

Well I know I said that I was about over tying this pattern for now and ready to move on, but…

I decided to leave off the wire and I was having so much fun, I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop I tell ya. This pattern has a hold of me. I might need some intervention before its over.

I’m thinking that ‘Hunter’s Best’ head cement will be enough to hold these babies together long enough to catch several fish each.

Different colored thread gives a wee variety. These are all tied on 16 dry fly Mustads.

I think I’m done! Maybe.

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Hatch’s Emerger III – Partridge

I reckon its winter and there is lots of snow on the ground. Its not a good idea to run the dogs in the woods because when a crust forms as it has with semi-thaws and night time freezing, a dog can break a leg and or get cut up pretty bad. Not quite ready to go fishing yet, so that leaves shooting clays now and then when the mood hits and staying in reading a book, watching a movie and tying flies.

I’m almost ready to take a break from this pattern, as I’ve got enough for the ‘fly swap’ I joined with some left to give to Ted up the street and to fish myself. Its been fun and although these are just barely fishable samples, I have learned some important technique and material handling.

Yesterday’s ties.

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Hatch’s Emerger II

So as not to just drop the ongoing saga into the place where non-going sagas end up…an update.

This nearly fishable version is one of the latest using wood duck. It marks an end to a chapter of sorts in this particular apprentice fly tiers career.

I’m moving on to tying some using partridge hackle instead because when last at Stone River Outfitters, Nate showed me a couple tied by the inventor himself. Mr. Hatch tied his with partridge hackle and still using wood duck as the tail, I figured I’d best do the same. Besides–its much easier than this infernal twirling of wood duck. I plan to get to the bench over this weekend, so for a chuckle and a smile. See ya in a day or two.

 

Hatch's Emerger--Wood duck style

 

 

Is it Sleeping, or Catatonic

After running the dogs on snowshoes, I drove to my home waters to have a look see. I had been harboring a rising notion to throw a line into a particular run in order to shake hands with a certain rainbow trout of monstrous proportions that stole one of my flies last year. I know he’s still living there lurking beneath the surface and tree fall shade and certain he knows I’m still thinking about him and our last encounter. I figure that because just as I had him in my hands that day and just before a mighty twist broke that stressed tippet–he looked into my eyes with one of his and telepathized me with, “nice try fella, but it will take more than that to own me”. I’ve only been telepathized one other time by a trout, so it took me back a bit, to the point of doubting the experience for a few days, until my reason returned and I quit the denial.

Anyway, it may of been his suggestion that changed my mind or the fact that the river is so iced in, but I decided against it and took a few pictures instead.

Deadlocked in a New Hampshire winter is my home waters. Sleeping nearly catatonic and yet still suggesting the warmer weather, open water and awakening that is to come. When I look at that uninviting cold dark water within a fortress of ice and snow, I still can’t help but see in my minds eye, the green and warmth of spring and the first swimming nymphs, flatheads, the speedy isonychia, crawling stones and the tiny blue winged sulfers.

My mind reaches through the remaining months; into still cold fast water, to turn a stone for finding the plentiful grannom. The river is sleeping now and maybe catatonic, but the wakening is soon to come and my home water will be inviting once again. And maybe between now and then, I’ll overcome the suggestions of my friend the rainbow and brave the fortress that keeps him safe and sleeping.

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Little Miss Cutthroat

I seem to be on a roll here with these guys, so I’m roll casting another one out to you.

I hope you enjoy this one from ‘Fishing Music II‘.

Fishing Music

Click on the Graphic For a Treat

A blending of things that delight is really what this blog is all about, so it seems more than a little bit appropriate to point you to this corner of the web universe and what is found there.

I have long been enamored of acoustic music. It started with 60′s folk sitting around a camp fire at summer camp and listening and singing along with the camp counselors and on to the rush of singer songwriters. I spent some years learning to flat pick fiddle tunes (never did get good enough to play at speed smoothly) and old timey and bluegrass music and now back again recently to singer songwriter stuff–kept mostly free of over production where the song and sweet string work is lost in a cacophony of noise and effects. A bit of a rant–sorry.

During my bluegrass phase, I was introduced to the music of John Lowell and Ben Winship in both their duo ‘Growling Old Men‘ and the band ‘Kane’s River’. That was oh some ten or so years back. These guys are really good–writing wonderful and fresh home made music and song lyrics to delight.

Its only serendipitous that I was in Montana about the same time learning to fly fish in their very back yards. For that reason and others I’d like to introduce you to these fellas and their music.

Fishing Music