A pretty stretch of Hazel Creek.

In At the Grave of the Unknown Fisherman John Gierach says, “…the day you actually begin to wonder why you do this is the day you might as well sell your tackle and buy a bigger TV.” As I shivered under the fifth bridge on Hazel Creek sharing a small Nalgene bottle of rum with Jason Kelley while the 8th straight hour of rain, wind and lightening shelled the remote mountain valley, the thought finally bobbed to the surface. Why do I do this? For a moment I worried about myself. Was I too much of a wuss for this type of thing any more? Was I getting too old? Too soft? Should I go home, buy a bigger TV and become a middle-aged alcoholic and fan of reality shows?

Then I realized I wasn’t wondering in quite the way Mr. Gierach meant. Instead of “Why the heck do I put up with this stuff when it’d be a lot more fun watching NASCAR back at home?”, mine was more like “Why do I love this so much?” Since that’s a question Geirach has explored repeatedly, I decided he wouldn’t be too disappointed in me. But I can’t tell you the answer. I just know that I really do love it. And the rum was pretty good, too.

Hazel Creek is one of those iconic streams. You know the type. Usually overrun with people and the fishing not nearly as good as it was in all the old stories. Still you go because, well, maybe you don’t have to but it sure feels like it, and the fishing usually turns out, if not exactly spectacular, not that bad either.

Jason and I had taken the shuttle across Fontana Lake and hiked five miles to a campsite described by one popular Smokies guidebook as “arguably one of the finest campsites in the Smokies.” That may have been the case before the hemlock woolly adelgid began killing all the hemlocks, but not now. To protect backpackers, the park service cut down the huge rotting trees that once sheltered the site, leaving it with the aesthetics of a forlorn logging camp. To be fair, it only takes a bit of imagination to envision how pretty the site must once have been, and it isn’t without its merits for the fly fisher. Situated on a point between Hazel and a pretty little feeder stream, the site provides access to lots of fishy-looking water. Also, not a point to be taken lightly, the neatly cut sections of the fallen trees make fine seats and tables.

One of the better rainbows at right around 10 inches.

One of the small browns I landed.

We lost little time in setting up camp and managed to hit the water with about seven hours of daylight left for fishing. I came on a section of stream that plunged away from the trail and decided to follow it. After doing battle with the deep runs, waterfalls and rhododendron tangles I guessed that this section is lightly fished relative to other stretches of the creek. It proved to be one of the toughest stretches of wading I’ve experienced in the Smokies, and for my efforts I brought to hand a dozen or so fat rainbows and a single small brown. The roughly twice that many missed strikes suggests my hooksetting abilities suffered a setback during the winter.

The fish rose, I wouldn’t say freely, but fairly well to a variety of dries and soft hackle trailers. There were lots of bugs scattered around: a big tan caddis, a smaller caddis of undertermined color bouncing over the riffles, yellow sallies, giant black stoneflies, small black stoneflies, a March brown or two, a few tiny brownish mayflies, and hordes of bouncing midges. None were present in what you’d call a genuine major hatch. As you can tell, my bug ID skills are rather simple, but then again, so is my small stream fishing philosophy, and it all seems to work out often enough.

If the fish are eating brownish-yellow bugs of a certain size with a down wing, well then, I tie on something that looks close to that. But the truth is, most times I have no idea what the fish are eating. I usually look at the water for awhile, typically not finding any practical answers to the fish-catching problem, I see a few bugs around, mostly not being eaten by fish, and then I end up tying on an old standard. For the Smokies that means some form of parachute Adams, a parachute Wulff or a yellow palmer. I rarely start out with a nymph in anything resembling warm weather, but sometimes I will begin with a hare’s ear wet trailed behind the dry.

Tough stream for wading. Here I am fishing a particularly treacherous section. Photo by Jason Kelley.

My new foam flies failed to float as steadfastly as I’d hoped, but a false cast or two whipped them back into grand floating fashion in no time at all. In a moment of weakness, after an hour of unspectacular results, I resorted to trailing a beadhead nymph. I hate casting the things and was almost relieved when I broked it off on bottom. After that I stayed with a single dry the rest of the afternoon, and that’s what all the fish took. The fishing seemed to pick up later in the day.

Jason had found similarly tough wading but not as many fish nearer camp. I found him napping away the perfect pleasantly breezy evening behind the tent mesh where he was safe from the gnats and flies.

The next day we both decided to search for less treacherous waters downstream. I found some, but I also found the crowds I’d always heard about, who descend on Hazel like locusts every spring. I guess that makes Jason and I a couple of those locusts, but as fishermen we justifiably never consider ourselves part of the “crowd.” The stretch I fished featured several nice little runs and pockets from which I managed to pluck a few more rainbows and small browns. The fish demanded a nymph. They didn’t actually tell me this. It was more of a feeling. So I gave them the standard hare’s ear (not a beadhead and easier to cast) trailed behind a tan neversink caddis. After running into a couple other fishermen, I decided to head back to camp and hit a few of the more spectacular trailside runs along the way. This proved fruitful as I hooked four nicer fish, but I failed to land all but one, a fiesty rainbow of 10 inches or so. These spots looked so good that I had assumed the fish would be too smart for me, a result of higher than normal fishing pressure, but sometimes it works out that the best looking spots really are the best. If I recall correctly, all of the fish came on the nymph.

Jason fishing a good run.

I ran into several more fishermen that afternoon as I neared camp. Things were beginning to feel downright congested, so Jason and I decided to pluck around on the little feeder stream for a couple hours. It’s a neat little stream to fish where the casting resembles cane-poling for crappies more than fly fishing for trout and fly selection is happily reduced to a Carolina Wulff or Parachute Adams. I had caught several spunky little rainbows eking out a living in the harsh conditions of the tumbling little stream when I hooked and landed a brookie. When I realized what it was I yelled for Jason and he crashed over to admire it like it was a rare jewel. I suppose it was. It was then that he informed me that I had done it; I had completed a single day Smoky Mountain Slam. Today I had caught a rainbow, a brown and a brookie. It didn’t occur to me until he mentioned it, but that’s the first time it’s ever happened for me.

That evening I caught a trout for supper from the pool near camp. My head tells me that most Smokies streams can stand to have a few fish eaten, but I still feel sadness any time I kill a wild fish. Then again, maybe that’s the way it should be. Despite the sadness, I was thankful and whispered a prayer in his honor. I always think of that scene near the beginning in the movie The Last of the Mohicans, the Daniel Day-Lewis version, just after they kill the elk. That seems a good attitude to me. So we baked the trout wrapped in heavy duty aluminum foil with black and red pepper, salt and dill. He was delicious, and afterward I wished I’d kept enough to cover our entire supper. Sure would’ve beaten the rice and couscous concoctions rounding things out.

Fishing a small feeder stream. This spot here actually provided some open casting room. Photo by Jason Kelley.

There was plenty of time for conversation. Most conversations began with Jason saying something about the fishing or the weather or good liquor and proceeded with me saying, “Huh?” or “What?” The tumbling and crashing of the creek became the only sound there was, drowning out nearly everything else. When Jason spoke I only heard the creek. When the wind blew, it was with the sound of current crashing over boulders. When the birds sang and the flies buzzed, all I heard was falling water. The sound of it filled my consciousness, and I heard it for a good day or two even after returning home. This is not a bad thing, but the constant roar did make for tough communication. Of course it could just be that I’m getting hard-of-hearing.

Saturday’s forecast called for storms and lots of them, but the morning dawned with beautiful clear skies. We decided to fish together, trading pools. We chose the same tough stretch I’d fished the first day since we reckoned no one had messed with it since then. The fish demanded a nymph once again, and I landed several before the skies darkened and the breezes strengthened and cooled. The storms came quickly and had the feeling of setting in for the evening. Before the creek swelled too high and muddy for comfort, the fish really turned on. My last cast brought a nice rainbow to hand that chased my drowned and dragging dry fly.

Cooking a freezer bag dinner under a bridge. It had only been raining for five or six hours at this point...photo by Jason Kelley

That evening found us under the bridge, the only place where we could effectively cook our supper out of the rain. A trio of fishermen from Maryville told us stronger storms were expected later. Only later did we discover that the Southeast was experiencing one of the worst outbreaks of tornadoes in years. All told it rained for nearly twenty hours straight, with the strongest storms charging through a couple hours before daylight. Neither of us slept well with the lightening bombarding the surrounding ridges, but we were happy just to make it through with a dry tent.

The hike back down to Proctor only took an hour and a half, so we explored a bit before the shuttle was due. I made the walk to the Proctor cemetery (no easy stroll, by the way) while Jason enjoyed the area around the Calhoun House. Before Fontana Lake was created the Hazel Creek watershed was heavily settled. The town of Proctor was the largest settlement on the creek and was home to over 1,000 people. They even had a movie theater. The whole area has been pretty much reclaimed by nature with only a few structures remaining. The history of Hazel Creek makes for interesting reading if that sort of thing interests you. Horace Kephart temporarily made his home in a cabin along one of Hazel’s tributaries.

Down at the lake we ran into a couple of fishermen up from Georgia. They were Texans, but like almost everyone else these days, they’d found themselves transplanted to new lands. The day was perfect, sunny and pleasantly breezy, and they shared a couple beers with us while we waited for the shuttle and talked about the fishing, our jobs and families. These fellows had done the standard Hazel Creek trip with lawn cart piled high with provisions: coolers, tarps, lawn chairs, frying pans, etc. Didn’t look like a bad way to go, but it did make me appreciate my simply-loaded 30 lb pack.

I don’t remember who started it, but on the boat ride back to Fontana Marina we got into a conversation about how tough it was to get around on the stream. The creek was high at spring levels, and it seemed every little stretch featured a treacherous channel of deep, swift water blocking upstream movement. One of the guys told how he’d carelessly stepped on a sloping rock that shot him into a chin-deep pool, ruining his iphone. I told how I’d narrowly avoided breaking my ankle when my right foot became wedged between two upwards-slanted rocks during a fall. We spoke of innocent-appearing stretches concealing deadly beds of rocks roughly the size and shape of bowling balls. Yes, it was a darn tough stream, we agreed. In some strange way, that pleased us all.

Take care,
Nathan

A few more pics:

Jason lays down some line in a beautiful pool.

Jason fishes a section of large plunge pools just as the rain began falling.

Jason at the Calhoun House.

Another typical Hazel Creek rainbow trout. Photo by Jason Kelley.

My little brook trout. Photo by Jason Kelley.

In A River Runs Through It (whether the movie or the novella I don’t remember – I sometimes confuse scenes from the two), Norman Maclean tells of how his father valued brevity in writing. Reading through my post about online fishing magazines, I realize this is something sorely missing from my own writing style.

The latest issue of Fish Can’t Read was just published. It’s full of good material. I like it. I also like Catch magazine. Between the two, you’ll find just about the best fly fishing content on the web. I’m just not sure the periodically-published flipbook style will persist. I think more regularly published high quality content will eventually prove more successful. There – that’s really all I wanted to say with that bloated post from a couple weeks back.

Jason fishing a small North Alabama stream in early morning light.

Brevity is also of use in reporting on the fishing trip Jason Kelley and I took over the weekend. The plan was to scout lots of potential smallmouth streams in our area, and catch some good fish to end up the season. We did scout several streams, some of which looked very good. We didn’t catch many fish. No smallmouth. We tried everything we could think of to no avail. The weather was great. We sampled several good beers. Dinner at Logans Roadhouse was good, and both Alabama (for me – Roll Tide!) and Arkansas (for Jason – Go Razorbacks!) won big in their games on Saturday night. We decided that we didn’t face enough adversity to deserve to catch any fish. With that in mind we plan to take our next trip during severe storms, only drink Natty Light, eat turkey dogs charred over a campfire and be Vanderbilt fans for the night. To the left is a shot of Jason fishing the first creek of the morning. I’m still editing photos, and I’ll post a few more as I finish them. I imagined how I wanted this shot to look when I snapped the photo and came pretty close to getting it there in the post-processing.

Take care,
Nathan

Took me awhile to get this done. We’ve had some pretty severe illness in the family which took up a good bit of my time. This trip took place Aug 21 – Sep 5.

The Great Plains
This trip marked my third road trip to the Rockies in the last four years. The otherworldly charm of the Great Plains is wearing off. At one rest area I read that it took pioneers in covered wagons a full month just to cross Nebraska. “That’s pretty rough, but at least it wasn’t South Dakota,” is all I could think. The third day on the road found me and my sore hindquarters desperate for a sight of the mountains. That first glimpse of the Big Horns is like a drink of cold spring water on a dusty late summer day. Some day I hope to take a more leisurely tour of the Rockies. When and if I do, I will plunge into those mountains and give them a good looking over. This time we just drove right on past. The first time I went to the Rockies, several of us younger folks drove 32 hours straight (with visits to a few spots along the way) before stopping to rest. At the time, when we were desperately searching for a hotel with a vacancy before we passed out completely, it felt like a really stupid idea. This time we had parents with us who struggle to do 10 hours on the road at once. The idea was to take it easy with the trip spread over four days. I have decided I like the suicidal 30 hour drive better. Just get it all over with at once if you and your group is physically capable.

My parents and Jacqulyn at Avalanche Lake.

The Alabama Bar
We stayed our first two nights in Glacier at Lake Macdonald Lodge. I liked the place. The hunting lodge atmosphere was cool and the food was great for a national park. After dinner a few of us went to the little bar for a drink. When we walked in there were only two other people present (it was near closing time). I had on my Bama ball cap. I ordered a favorite Montana beer – Moose Drool – and the bar tender, in a distinctly Southern drawl, asked where we came from. The girls said Alabama, and the guy laughed, said he was from Birmingham and pointed at the only other person in the room, a fellow sitting at the bar who looked a lot like Tom McGuane. When he told us he was from Sylacauga, AL it became pretty obvious he wasn’t Tom McGuane, but it was almost as cool that the bar was entirely populated by native Alabamians at that point.

Avalanche Lake
The next day I had a day hike planned for everyone to Avalanche Lake. We spent a long time trying to find a parking spot. I wouldn’t recommend this trail if you want anything even remotely resembling solitude. Dad and I carried our fly rods on the hike to the lake, but when we got there we found so many people milling about and throwing rocks that we just sat on a log and enjoyed the view. I took a few photos, but the light was pretty harsh.

That's me netting a nice cutthroat.

The Good Fishing
We drove across Going-to-the-Sun Road to St. Mary Campground where we would spend the next five nights. The first full day Dad, Jacqulyn and I hiked into a high alpine lake where we found absolutely stunning scenery and abundant rising cutthroats. This was really my first experience with good high mountain lake fishing, and I loved it! 10 nice cutts between 15 and 18″ came reluctantly to my hand. It was pretty easy to spot cruising fish in the crystal clear water even though the surface was choppy. The trick was finding what they wanted. I had good luck on mayfly emergers and caddis dries. Dad and Jacqulyn didn’t have as good a luck, but both of them missed some fish and Dad caught a couple. This lake is far from a secret, but I’m not going to name it anyway. If only we’d gone back there a couple days later…

Back at camp, we drove over to the KOA for showers and a meal at the Park Cafe. Try the Park Cafe if you’re in St. Mary. Good hamburgers and fantastic pies. If you’re in a big group, don’t make the mistake of asking for separate checks. One of the girls working there was pretty rude when one of our group asked if they’d mind separating them. Still, the pies and burgers are worth a bit of rudeness.

A cutthroat trout caught in Glacier National Park.

Dad casting to cruising cutts on our lake.

I waited forever for Dad to cast for this shot, but he must have had the mother of all tangles, so I just snapped it anyway.

Another of the cutts I brought to hand.

(more…)

Some weekends start with a dull groan. Some start with a bang. And some start with 500,000 lbs of liquid oxygen and hydrogen igniting in a fantastic, internal-organ-shaking, controlled explosion.

Bet my Friday night was a bit more ‘moving’ than yours was, huh?

At 11:57:38, my family and I watched the space shuttle take off from Kennedy Space Center. We were about as close as you can get without dodging smoke clouds, debris and terrified animals – so close that, once it cleared the pad, we felt the launch as much as heard/saw it. An incredible experience I’ll always cherish, as I got to share it with my youngest two kidlets – my son yelling “YEAH! GO!GO!GO!” was the highlight for me. After the excitement wore off and I was driving home, serenaded by the sounds of EVERYONE in the van snoring, I realized the entire evening only had one small drawback for me – I knew I had to get up at 0430 the next morning. See, I finally got invited to go fishing…

As most of you know, we moved to Satellite Beach, Florida, about a month or so ago. Since that time I’ve battled mortgage agents and banking figures for the privilege of giving them money every month for the next 15-30 years, and engaged in a ferocious war against boxes stacked throughout my house. Thankfully we defeated the mediocrity and ambivalence of the banking and mortgage community (why on Earth they fight so hard to restrict my ability to give them all my money I’ll never know), and have the cardboard menace on the run now – we’ve conquered and laid claim to all lands but the garage. I plan on storming the last stronghold of the hated enemy when things cool down.

Just before we actually moved in, the master builder for the community came by to do our walk through. Bill Segall, a 58 year old guy with a mountain of experience in the construction arts, has one of those faces you know is about to break into a grin at any moment. Engaging and entertaining, with little eyes smiling out from behind small, wire rimmed glasses, I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t instantly like him. At one point in the walk through, Bill made a comment about fish possibly lurking in the pond right behind my house (a pond I cannot get to/fish in, by the way), and we struck up a conversation about fishing.

Bill’s been freshwater fishing Florida’s canals and backwaters for decades and told me the one thing I was dying to hear; “I love going fishing but can’t seem to find anybody that wants to go with me.” I think Angie’s ‘Oh my God, here we go’ exasperation rumbled the walls.. (more…)

and a smorgasbord of other stuff!

I taunt Insane with my first bass of the day! Yes, my friends, that is a tequila sunrise Culprit worm.

Yes, fishing in a muddy creek. That’s all the fishing I’ve gotten to do in the last couple weeks. Insane and I hit the little creek he features in his Lunchtime Angler series last Friday. I had stubbornly persisted in trying to fly fish this thing, but finally gave up. Bow and Arrow casting isn’t my specialty, and certainly not with gar flies and big bass poppers. That’s about all one has room for. The banks are heavily forested and steep. The creek is only about 15′ wide, and it’s full of downed brush. I pulled out the dusty spinning rod, found my stash of plastic worms, lizards and sinkers and rigged it up. It all came back to me surprisingly well. Fly fishing is my true love, but snaking a plastic worm through brush is still fun. And, on a hot day with a muddy creek in front of me, it felt, somehow, right.

I managed to catch four small bass and the hawg of the trip, a 7 lb bowfin. It was a handful on the light spinning rod. Sorry, no photos. The typical technique for actually getting your hands on a fish out of this creek is to “cane pole” the little beasts up to yourself. Not an option with a 7 lb bowfin. Insane manned the camera while I tried to ease the fish up the bank by pulling the line hand over hand. I somehow managed to wrap my right index finger in the line, nearly pinching it in two, and while trying to save that valuable appendage (read “while screaming and cursing at Insane to help”), the line finally broke. Too bad. I really wanted a photo of that fish, but I wanted the tip of my index finger even more.

Insane fishes the muddy creek in a photo I heavily altered just for the heck of it.

In other news, I heard from Andy Whitcomb last week. He got another article published on ESPN Outdoors. This time he talks about bait. So, I might have been reduced to plastic worm fishing, but at least I haven’t descended to the depths Andy has. Seriously though, Andy’s a good writer. In fact, I’d go so far as to say this particular article is, well, “cute.” Check out this one and his future articles on ESPN Outdoors.

I also recently heard from Matthew Crampton, our friend from Scotland who just loves taunting us with photos of huge brown trout. I found sadistic pleasure in Matthew’s latest note as it turns out he had a tough trip on his favorite island of South Uist. Just kidding, Matthew. If I can’t catch fish, I at least hope my friends can. Make sure to check out the book Matthew and his friends put together about their favorite fishing lodge on South Uist. I’m still reading the book, and it’s been great. (Note: I’ve been reading the book now for about two months, but as always my problem is that I have four or five books going at once and never seem to finish them…) You can pick up a copy of the book at www.muddlerbooks.com. Matthew sent the excellent photo below of the dog Bee who is apparently an excellent fishing companion – so long as you don’t miss any takes.

The fishing dog Bee on a recent South Uist fishing adventure.

David Knapp over at The Trout Zone has been posting articles about his adventures out West this summer. David’s blog is where you need to look if you want to read a fly fishing blog where people actually catch fish and, well, fly fish as opposed to dredging muddy creeks with plastic worms and whining about not getting to fish.

I finally got in my new tying desk! I’m trying to get the catastrophe that is my tying materials organized. As soon as that’s accomplished, I’ll post a photo. It’ll be the last time ever the desk will look that good.

I’m WAY behind the times here, but I finally saw the first Trout Bum Diaries DVD. Perhaps surprisingly, I actually enjoyed it. The narration was pretty cheesy, but a lot of the remainder was enjoyable. The filming was well done. If I was doing a similar movie, I’d do it a little differently, maybe with a little more structure, maybe toss in a few of the witty observances I’m famous for, etc. If you’d like to fund me in this effort, please email me right away. The DVD wasn’t bad at all. It made me really want to go to Patagonia.

I suppose that’s all I can ramble about. I apologize for neglecting the site so glaringly over the last month or so. Hopefully that’s about to change. Later in the week look for, finally, another TVangler classifieds item. Take care,

Nathan

Well, I managed to have four and a half days off work over the holiday weekend and only get in a barely noticeable amount of fishing. I suppose a little fishing is better than none, but my hunger for a big (and successful) fishing trip is gnawing at my gut. This not catching much thing is growing old.

On Thursday Insane, his brother Justin, Jason Kelley, and I went fishing for a few hours before dark on the Flint River. On my second cast I had a smallmouth nearly kill itself trying to eat my popper, and somehow I still managed to miss him. That was it for me. Not another bite from anything large enough to eat a bass popper. Insane and Justin fished a feeder stream while Jason and I fished in opposite directions on the Flint, Jason going up and me down.

Ankle-biting slime on the Flint River.

After a couple hours of fruitless casting and fighting the long strands of bright green slime-like weeds that rejoiced in wrapping around my ankles, I headed back to see how Jason was faring. I arrived to find him working a big flat pool full of rising fish, none of which he was fooling. I sat on a log and watched. We decided that a size 8 Adams would probably have done the trick, but we had only brought the typical gaudy warmwater flies. I got up with my big bass popper to give it a try. After only a handful of casts, I decided it was pointless and began practicing distance casting, succeeding only in scaring the remaining fish into the next state (it’s funny what you’ll resort to when the fish aren’t biting – don’t think Jason was amused). I simply cannot get as much distance as I’d like with a big bass popper. They just catch so much wind and seem to die mid-way through a long cast. Actually I can work out a decent bit of line and shoot some distance, but I can’t hold much line in the air. A few times I let the popper hit the water surface on a double hauled false cast, and from the sound of it, I hauled the thing straight to the river bottom. Sounded like someone dragging an anchor behind a motor boat. I finally gave up, cursed a few last times at my casting arm, vowed to practice on the lawn, and trudged back to meet Jason at the truck. (more…)

Ah, the family/group vacation. For some it conjures images akin to the Griswolds on their hapless voyage across the continent. For others, like myself, the memories are mostly good ones. I mean, there was that time I nearly died in the Smokies of a migraine so severe it was suspected of being a brain tumor. And there was the time everyone on the deep sea fishing boat got sick. Oh, and yeah, there was that first manic roadtrip to Yellowstone when all my closest friends became my bitterest enemies at various points depending on our blood-caffeine levels and body odor. But, mostly, the memories are good ones. I went on such a trip last week, and indeed most of the memories are good ones. In time, I’ll forget the ridiculous heat, humidity and crowds and just remember that first fly-caught saltwater fish.

The plan was to spend a week with family and friends, thirteen of us in all, in Destin, FL. A few of us schemed that we could fit in a bit of fishing early in the mornings. We spent our first day gearing up. I bought a TFO Pro Series 9′ 8wt rod, a Lamson Konic reel, and a matching Scientific Anglers Saltwater fly line. I had long planned to buy such an outfit for a future trip to the Keys. All componenents worked beautifully. I was really impressed with the rod and line combination. For one with my poor casting skills, I certainly could work out some line, given enough backcasting room. I’ve used Lamson reels before, and I’ve liked every one I’ve tried. The next morning we were ready to hit the water.

Go ahead and laugh. I know this is perhaps the worst photo I've ever taken. I look bald and toothless. Still, it does document my first saltwater fly rod catch. Photo courtesy my brother's cell phone.

It was hot. Damned hot. And humid. We got up at dawn three straight mornings, and it was already hot. It was difficult to tell when the sun actually rose above the horizon. The days just oozed into being, with everything, the air, the water, your skin, moving through progressively cleaner pastels until suddenly you realized the sun was high in the sky, and you were experiencing dehydration and possible heat stroke.

The first two mornings found us fishing shallow flats and inlets that we could reach from shore. We spotted no redfish. Occasional schools of baitfish scattered chased by schools of bigger fish. On the second morning I caught two ladyfish on my fly rod, my first two saltwater fish on the fly. Later we discovered that ladyfish are generally considered “trash fish,” but at the time they sure were fun. In fact, I’d go so far as to say they are excellent and perhaps underappreciated fly rod quarry. But, then again, I don’t know jack about fly fishing saltwater. They aren’t supposed to be challenging, but they sure seemed picky to us. A couple casts over them, and they moved far out of range. Of course, my poor casting skills might have played a part there. Fortunately, the casting has improved to the “Hellaciously Sucky” level, so that I was able to net at least those two fish. I think that, maybe, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll always be a sucky caster and fisherman in general. That’s not to say I’m happy that I have trouble catching the trash fish of the open seas. It’s just that I’ve come to accept it, and I’ll forge ahead, grimly, occasionally engaging in a bit of healthy self-deprecation. There was some satisfaction in that none of the other three guys caught anything at all, and they were using conventional casting gear. (more…)

Got back from the beach late yesterday. We went to Destin, FL for a quick vacation with family and friends. Fishing wasn’t a major part of the trip, but I managed to catch my first two fish on a fly rod from the salt. Who cares if they’re commonly referred to as trash fish? I sure don’t. We had hoped to find some redfish or sea trout on a few flats we had sniffed out, but all we found were schools of unusually picky ladyfish. I caught a couple on a popper, and they displayed plenty of fight. We also did some fishing from the pier in Ft. Walton, but that wasn’t very productive either. I’ll provide more details later, but don’t expect many photos to go along with the story. I didn’t even get my camera out. Not sure why. Just didn’t feel like lugging it along. I bought a new rod and reel for the trip, and I’ll provide a brief report on those with my write-up. Although the fishing wasn’t very productive, we’ve already started planning a return trip to concentrate more on the fishing and less on the beach-lounging and dining out. It was a nice break from work. Take care,

Nathan

This is my accounting of the backpacking and fly fishing trip I took on Memorial Day weekend. I wrote it in a different style than normal. Hope you enjoy!

My camp on the river that shall not be named.

It is Memorial Day weekend, and the lower stretches of the watershed along the paved road are glutted with tourists and local families and teenagers and fishermen. Once I turn off the main roadway and onto the gravel Forest Service road, I enter a different atmosphere. For the first three miles I see no one else at all. I roll down the windows to feel the air cool as I climb higher into the mountains. I turn off the radio which had been blaring the latest Brad Paisley country song. I love the sound of a gravel road under the tires of my truck and the deep silence of the ancient mountains beyond, broken only here and there by a lonely song bird. I’m always surprised at the silence of the deep woods. There are many more songbirds in my tiny backyard. A large pileated woodpecker flushes and leads me down a hollow toward the river for a good half mile. To the chorus of the tires and the gravel and the birdsong is added the melody of flowing water, my favorite music.

I don’t see the well-concealed trailhead the first time I pass and end up on an impossibly narrow dirt road, trying to squeeze by another truck whose driver appears unhappy to see me and my big Dodge. I finally find a spot wide enough to turn back toward the river and park at a bridge. I find the trailhead on the right side of the bridge and there meet a golden retriever attended by two humans, a father and son out for a short hike. They will be two of only five people I will see during my three days on the river. Not bad for a holiday weekend, one traditionally viewed as the beginning of summer in these parts.

My pack feels lighter than in the past. I use an old Kelty Trekker external frame pack, both for its efficient load handling and its versatility in strapping on gear. I worked hard this time to eliminate extraneous gear, and I’ve just bought a pair of waist-high waders which weigh about half as much as my old chest-highs. The work is paying off, although I already miss my pipe and my journal. I don’t plan to go far, maybe a mile or two. It’s getting late, I’m not familiar with this trail, and I don’t trust the pack to feel light for long. (more…)

I was supposed to post the report from my backpacking trip today, but I’m having trouble retrieving some of my photos, so in its place I’ve got a couple quick notes. I hope to have the report ready for Wednesday.

We had a big crawfish boil this weekend, which is sort of an annual event for us assuming we can hit it right. If you live in North Alabama and know when and where to look, you can catch crawfish by the truck load. It’s a messy affair and nothing short of hard work, but the reward is delicious. Plus there’s something in my self-reliant nature that’s attracted to the idea of food that’s out there available for anyone willing to put in the work to get it. I’m not giving away our secret location for gathering these tasty little critters, but I have included some photos. We worked for about two hours with cast net and rakes. I’d guess we caught somewhere around 30 lbs worth. We boiled them up with plenty of strong spices. We used Old Bay seasoning and lots of it, a good handful of red pepper flakes and some lemon and lime juice. Most excellent…

This is a filthy Hawgdaddy after wrestling crawfish for a couple hours.

The fruit of our labor. I'd estimate this to be about 15 lbs of crawfish, and we had two coolers with this many.

This is the beginning of the purging process. You place the crawfish in salt water for a time to purge them of impurities.

Tying desk (well that's what I'm using it for) found at a bargain furniture store.

We’ve been looking for a sofa for our living room. With that in mind, we visited a few furniture stores this weekend. We didn’t find a sofa, but we did have some interesting experiences. The most eventful event was shaking hands with an honest-to-goodness real-live monkey at one furniture shop. But the second coolest thing was Jacqulyn buying me a new tying desk! We found a great deal on the desk pictured to the right. I have no idea why we bought it. We must have been overcome by shopper’s frenzy. I was perfectly content with my $20 converted retail store children’s computer desk as my tying station. Of course I have been known to lust after those really nice desks built specifically for fly tiers, but we could never afford one of those. The price on the desk pictured was just about too good to pass up. I decided not to buy it, but Jacqulyn said, “Well, if you’re not buying it, then I will.” And so she did. Even though we probably shouldn’t have spent the money, I’m absolutely thrilled to have it. Plus it’s giving me the motivation I need to clean up my tying materials and workspace. The desk is designed for a computer, but it looks to be ideal for tying flies. Really never thought I’d have something like this, and I plan to cherish it for the rest of my life.

Take care,
Nathan