In The Mountains Of Childhood

Yesterday I traveled to the mountains. Spent the day in the northern woodland realm of upper Pennsylvania. Reminiscing with the trees, rocks, ponds, streams and rivers of my childhood past. One of the few tracks of land left that, in my opinion, is holding stead fast to the old ways. Struggling not to stray from the traditional, holding strong against the sands of time. And while the civilized economy of this land may be hindered because of this. I will forever be great full for that sacrifice. For the opportunity to be able to escape to a land pure and free. To embrace a world ten years behind that of the modern. To get lost, mind and spirit, into the forests and rivers untouched yet by the greed of man and a money sickened society.

For a brief moment I was reborn. Baptized in the crisp, cool mountain air. The colorful fall leaves in full bloom, dancing around my head. Enticing me to dance with them, for a brief moment loosing myself in space and time. The breeze blowing through my hair and against my skin. Somehow seeming to cleanse the dirt and grime off a dusty traveler, better than any bath or washing could ever provide. I stood in the sunlight in the valley of those mountains arms outreached as if begging to embrace it all. Never wanting to leave this place and return to the duties and the world of man. The slight burn from the crisp air filling my lungs, as if it were my last breath of this life. In a struggle to fill not just my lungs themselves but every crevice and cavity of my being as I drew in the breath. Hoping that the purity of the oxygen I could take with me, a little piece of this peaceful world that could last me through the week. The fog and mist in the valley surrounded me as the sun rose. Burning off the dew on the blades of grass, expelling it forth into the air. For a moment I was lost amongst a cloud on the ground. The white fog concealing me fully to the point where I could no longer see my fingertips. For a brief moment I thought I could escape. Reside in the fog and slip into the wood, becoming one with nature around me determined never again to return to the world of man. But my brief joy swiftly turned into disappointment with the sunrise. The fog and mist lifting into the sky, higher and higher away from me. My fingers outreached, grasping, begging not to be denied from the lands magic. But slowly the cloud rose leaving only a mortal man standing alone in the meadow. Facing the reality and responsibilities that he must return to. Not a sadness embodying his figure, but a sense of serenity for the blessing of the moment to be part of it all. The final step in this nostalgic transition to traditional boyhood days, I walked to the rivers edge the soles of my work boots bending and flexing over the rocks and boulders. Seeming to fit together like pieces of a puzzle, finding the familiar groove in the sole and soul again transitioning to past days. When my shoes where allot smaller, barely covering the surface of these same boulders. And my spirit still young and carefree, not yet hindered by the ways of man and the duties of the world. I sit down amongst the riverbed, my hands clutching the sandy gravel once again triggering the senses of the past. I lean forward and immerse my hands in the water, the cool, chilled current of the water slowly washing away the gravel within my palms. The final fleeting hope of remaining within this woodland kingdom disappearing with every speck of sand swept from my fingertips, carried away to reside within the river from which it came. In turn reminding the dreamer who stares at his reflection upon the surface film of the water, the skyline and trees reflection like a halo around his head creating the perfect portraiture. That it is but like any other photograph, a brief moment captured in time. That he too must return to the riverbed of society and take his place amongst the other bits of gravel and specks of sand. I cup my hands and splash my face with the water. Again and again stealing handfuls of love from the river and allowing it run over my face. The water beading off my brow line some drops soaking in the skin replenishing the soul, others slipping past my lips and replenishing my body. But most dripping off my chin and returning to the river from which they came. A few drops, returning to the masses to become something bigger. A single drop of water rejoining, to become a river. The final reminder that I must do the same, I stand slowly smile on my face. Mind body and soul, spirit of a mere man replenished to return to a world that seems so often willing to steal that purity away. I walk back on the trail, my footprints matching the placement of my prior journey that lead me here. Reborn and replenished as a man, from the trees and rocks of the past. From the mountains and rivers of my boyhood I am restored. And when the duties and responsibilities of society seem to flourish, seem to demand more than  what a mortal man can provide. When the hate and wrong of the world seems to steal the peace and purity within the soul. I know I can return, to once again rebirth myself in nature. To once again find the  love and serenity I can attempt to carry back with me, in the mountains of childhood...

I fly fish not to escape the world, but to see how truly pure the world can be

I fly fish not to escape the world, but to see how truly pure the world can be. To acknowledge the similarities within the river bed, to that of the human race. Every stone, every pebble a different shade and size. All linked to one another, teeming with life in every crack and crevice far and wide. All holding stead fast against the currents of time, changing with the flows and challenges that come our way. In reality dependent and supporting one another, although it is not always seen or recognized. Giving as much as we receive from our surroundings, in an infinite struggle to swim up stream. Facing trials, errors, life and death, all rendered from forces beyond our control. The river calls to those who will stop and listen, it will teach the life lessons we can bring forth to society. It will baptize you with all it's glory, changing the heart of stone deep within a man. To a purer  transcendentalized individual, who will no longer wilt to the masses. No longer fault his own beliefs, but rise from the depths. To receive the gift from above that the sky has to offer.

I Dream Of A Trout

I dream of a trout,
I link my identity to him...
I belong on the river,
along side where he swims...
I've tried the brotherhood of man,
it simply doesn't appeal...
For a dreamer, a lover, a philosopher,
the facades of society produce nothing real...
So I immerse myself into the wood the water...
Finding a purer joy and love,
that I have ever wished to seek...
The truth, the honor surrounds me,
within this kingdom week after week...
As each eagle graces my presence
by flying over head...
As one's eyes lay witness to the birth of a fawn,
within a mist filled field upon a grassy bed...
These sights these sounds surround me,
they define the man I am...
So I frequent the river more and more,
rod and reel usually in hand...
For the scholar of these life lessons,
swims within the river in each nook, each crevice and around each bend...
In the form of a trout the adversary I seek,
matching my skill against again and again...
And when I'm far from the water,
with lack of cool breeze and crisp water against my skin and cheek...
I dream of a trout,
to get me through the week...

Fall Brown

Tis the season!!! Beautiful colored brown trout on the gunpowder!!!

There's More Than Just A Line, Leader And Fly Attached To Some Rods

So recently I purchased another "vintage" fly rod. A Wright and McGill Eagle Claw Featherlight 6 1/2 ft fiberglass fly rod and I absolutely love it! I recently took up fishing with "glass" in the sport of fly fishing and have been using a 9 ft glass road that I found in the corner of an old antique shop. It casts nicely but for anyone who has ever cast one of these rods all day, you would know that swinging nine feet of glass around can get quite tiresome!

So I'm pretty much infatuated with old fly gear and old glass rods so I figured I'd treat myself to a new "old" rod and see how the shorter glass rods handle. Now without diving to deep within the technical specifics that is the "glass class", I just want to take a moment to say there are a fine number of old fiberglass rods out there. And just like anything else there are some well known names withing the market that are reputable for their fine craftsmanship within this glass rod world.

Now like I've said before my blog isn't a fly fishing forum on technical gear, terminology and vintage gear reviews (if you would be interested in those specifics check out the blogs of some of my friends @the fiberglass manifesto & @the fiberglass fly rodders) but my blog is more centered around the feelings/experiences of a modern day fly angler reconnecting to the golden age of fly fishing through vintage and antique fly gear. So with that being said, I'm pretty sure I could've gotten a better fiberglass fly rod out there with a reputable name like fenwick, south bend ect. Although the name eagle claw is also pretty reputable in itself.

But no, none of these prior descriptions are the reasons that swayed my motion towards the rod i now hold. But like many other aspects in my life, my decision was persuaded by emotion. By the love and admiration of this rod maker that was instilled in the heart and eyes of a young boy by the admirable qualities of a fisherman father figure. And a young boys ambition to mimic that in which he saw a hero when on a stream, a lord of trout.

For even though my father was not a fly fisherman (nor was I at the time) every spring when the snows began to melt, the water temperatures rose slightly, and the afternoon sun warmed the earth as well as the soul. We as children knew it would soon be trout season. A time of year that where I grew up, only was seconded by Christmas itself. The excitement and anticipation flourished within me as each day grew closer to the eve of opening day. I remember there would always be a trip to the local mom and pop shop (that in later years would be replaced by Kmart, and then even later Wallmart) to stock up on supplies hooks, sinkers, a box full of worms, a new lure or two, and if you were really lucky a new trout rod. Usually the store special, a Zebco or something along that line with push button caster and usually accompanied with accessories themed around a childhood icon like batman or the ninja turtles.

Now as a child there was nothing better! And I probably went through a dozen of those "kits" eventually upgrading with age, loosing the themes (in which was just to impress your friends) to better equipment (a Shakespeare rod and reel perhaps) and a stronger focus on the tools that would be more precise for catching fish. But all along this journey, through the different whimsical themes that changed with childhood growth, through all the lines cast and rod tips broken. Through all the newly bought waders that changed yearly with childhood foot growth, my father had one rod. A sole rod all those years. A eagle claw 7 ft spin rod, and it was the center of admiration within my young heart and eyes.

For as I've said I'm now a fly angler and even though my father wasn't, the angler in me can appreciate all the "fisherman" lessons learned throughout life taught with patience, knowledge and angling experience from "my old man". That rod was his as far back as I can remember. I remember my brother and I sneaking into the garage sometimes just to admire it! The yellow glossy finish on the rod blanks seemed to reflect the bright eyes and smiles of a boy holding such a trophy, the feel of the weathered cork grip on my palm. My tiny hand only mimicking a third of the length from where my father frequented his grasp. The metallic rod guides and reel seat in which my father always kept routine maintenance on, slid so smoothly to tighten against the reel without squeaking like melted butter along my tiny fingertips. It was his eagle claw rod. Even the name brings a smile to my face. For back in the day as a child I imagined one could do no better, could not achieve a higher end, more desirable fishing rod than that of an eagle claw! Year in and year out my father fished that rod. At a young age teaching us with it, more lessons pertaining to life than simply catching a trout. Ill never forget the first time he let me cast it, grinning from ear to ear a young boy couldn't be happier with all the riches in the world. I knew one day I would own one of my own!

Well life changes and as a boy growing into a teenager with sibling rivalry in full swing, and with the modern advances in fishing equipment and rods. The name eagle claw was slowly lost within my dreams, my pursuit to keep up with the latest trend and newest rod styles. My brother and I casting the latest and greatest that the world of spin fishing had to offer, neglecting my fathers rod allowing it to collect dust in the corner. He still used it every now and again. And despite our efforts to persuade him to upgrade to the latest newer rod models, he always stayed true to his old eagle claw that had been so reliable to him throughout the years. The old rod usually out fished us anyway, my brother and I often stood along the bank cloaked in hundreds of dollars of new rods and tackle only to see the old man time after time reel in trophies with the old trusty rod. A rod that each time with the bending from fighting a fish seemed to wrap around the silhouette of my father like a halo. And we thought for sure that each time the tip would snap underneath all the strain. But the rod stayed true and so on he fished it.

The years have passed now and I don't fish with my father as often anymore, mostly just due to life. Living in different states and leading a busy life and now I am a fly fisherman. But when I first saw this rod, this eagle claw fly rod, I was immediately transformed back to my childhood. To that boy hood admiration for the name eagle claw. I thought to myself what better way to embody both aspects of my past memories and love for a new sport. What better way to form a connection between my new passion for fly fishing and yet reminisce about the life lessons I learned alongside my father catching trout. For even though my eagle claw is a fly rod and his a spin rod sometimes there's more than just a line, leader and fly attached to some rods...

Match The Hatch

Fighting Fall fish

For those who know my local river, the gunpowder. It is a scenic, beautiful world class tail water. Seventeen miles of first class year round fishing thanks to a constant release chute at the base of pretty boy dam. The upper sections are catch and release only and have some of the prettiest wild brown trout I have ever seen in my life. The lower sections are "put and take" and stocked with rainbows in the spring and fall, brown trout can still be caught in this section of river but the lower sections are also home to many species of other fish as well.

My farm just so happens to back up to this lower section of river and while I frequently catch large wild brown trout there, who aren't as "fly shy" as their upper section brethren trout. For every trout I catch, I'm probably catching ten fall fish in between. But the photo shown here is by far the largest fall fish I have ever caught, and definitely one of the most memorable fishing excursions I have ever had.

It was late in the afternoon, the summer heat of the day still blazing and I had just gotten off work. As many hot days after work I decided to go fishing. I rounded my gear up and set out for the three hundred yard stretch of fields behind my house, and then a sloping decline of river hills to the banks of the gunpowder. As I said it was summer so shorts, a tee shirt, bare feet, and a small camera bag with as much terminal tackle in it as it could hold, was my go to setup for my frequent evening fishing excursions on the river. I waded in the emerald pool, the tips of brown boulders poking above the rivers current, like icebergs surrounding me the only ripples on the still surface film caused by them as well as my own presence. The crisp, cool water was so refreshing after a long day at work. I reached down and submerged my forearms, letting the waters life flow into my limbs. Cupping some of the water within my palms I splash my face, washing away the beads of sweat on my forehead after my heated walk. The afternoon river seemed so relaxing, refreshing to the soul. I picked up my rod, my palm finding that familiar place of memory where it had resided for countless hours on past days. My other hand stripping out line off the reel, the coils surrounding my feet residing like swirled paint strokes floating on the surface of the water. My arm extends backwards pulling along the majority of line connected to the tip of my rod, then with the flick of my wrist the rest is swiftly expelled off the water and cast backwards with a quick whistling sound. The mist of the water sprayed forth within the air. Some grazing my cheek as the line propels by. My eyes glance backwards watching the form of my back cast, the graceful unraveling of the large loop. Disappearing before my very eyes to a straightened elongated plane the tip of the line still unraveling now a tight consistent loop. The perfect moment in which my arm propels forward. Abruptly launching the cast forward, the tip of my rod accelerating the line forth at the precise moment the back cast coil rolls over my leader, tippet, and fly. My cast is perfect, like a piece of artwork, like a fine glass of wine. Something that can only be appreciated by the ones who's dreams and emotions are worn of the edge of their sleeves. The line stretches outward, reaching for far more than the goal of a trout. Unraveling an opposite coil mimicking the exact one formed within my back cast. The fly, tippet and leader seemed to descend upon the surface of the river simultaneously a slight ripple on the film created by the placement of my fly upon the deep pool. The fly line following closely behind, within the blink of an eye descending upon the water and with the quick flicking of the rod tip back and forth. Snakelike coils flow from rod tip towards fly eventually ceasing where the line began to rest upon the waters surface. The perfect cast! The perfect drift! The fly floating along the tide, the buoyant line flowing closely behind. The perfect coils I laid upon the water as not to hinder the drift of the fly begin to serve there purpose. They slowly unravel as the line and fly are pulled downstream. Mother nature seeming to help me, alluring the fly downstream like a sirens call. Drifting it within eyesight of a hungry trout residing on the rivers gravel bed, eyes fixated on the surface for the exact deception I entice.

The take! A receptive fish! The grace of an unknown underwater adversary only seen by the slight splash of a rise stirs so much emotion within my soul. The excitement rushes over my entire body but seems to congregate most prevalent within my right arm. Instantly the instinct of a fly fisherman takes over. My finger pinches down the fly line against the rods cork grip, my hand tightens and arm and rod are accelerated upwards towards the heavens. The line between rod and fish propelled likewise, expelling a line of mist upward creating a rainbow between the skyline and the waters surface. The whip and whistling sound of the line flying upward is abruptly halted by the tension of an unsuspecting fish on the other end. The fly as quickly as it was received by the fishes open mouth, is pulled outward and up and by the grace of fate is pierced within the upper or lower lip of the now fully aware of what's happening fish.

The fight! The fish dives towards the bottom, the flash of scales can be seen through the water by my hopeful eyes. Where hoping to see a slight flash of golden brown, the puzzling size of this unknown fish with a coordinating flash of silver is seen. The fish runs the line upstream, my right hand elevating rod in air. My left hand placed palm on reel properly providing the right amount of tension for the fish's fight. I pinch the line tight with my forefinger against the cork stopping the run. The fly pulled back with tension on the line, and the outburst of thrashing silver can be seen underneath the surface of the water. The anger and frustration of the fish by my abrupt halting of his retreat is felt in forceful vibrations throughout the length of the fly line, to the tip of my rod, down through the shaft of the rod and absorbed by my hand on the handle. The failed attempt to loosen the fly from his lip with his flailing twist and rolling abandoned and replaced with a swift run downstream. Another attempt at a foreshadowed battle between angler and fish persists. I strip in line with my left hand, pulling the slick and water glistening line through rod guides and forefinger. Reapplying the pressure with my fingertip after each stroke of line careful not to slip and allow the fish to regain any line, regaining ground in an essence on this aquatic battlefield. This act brought the fish closer to me, this time only feet away when the slack of the line was reached by the failed downstream run of the fish. With tension and resistance again on fly the fish once again begins the dance of trying to free the hook from his lip. The flashes of silver and sight of fins can definitely be distinguished now, not a trout my mind thought. But fall fish? My mind questioned, for this was a fairly large fish. Most of the fall fish I've encountered on the river on average range from 3" to 8" not saying they can't get bigger than that, I've just personally never caught one. The slight disappointment in my manner that it was not a trout ceased with the reassurance of the size of this particular fall fish. The rod tip bent, the tippet, leader and line bouncing in the sky as the fish pulled and tugged continuously trying to prevail in his fight to make it downstream. I waded in the pool deeper, my bare feet slightly slipping down the algae covered rocks. My toes embedding into the loose gravel and pebbles firmly planting my figure withing the rivers current. The fish's fight began to weaken, I could feel his play was starting to cease. I stripped in more line, enough to once again have an artistic display of fly line residing  at my side. As if the water's surface was my canvas and the line my brush and paint. I elevated my rod higher into the air, at the same time protruding the tip backwards behind me bringing leader and tippet forth from the depths of the river. The fish could be fully seen now, what a brute I thought! But as my confirmation in the size of the fish was confirmed by my sight. It was swiftly stolen by the panic riddled splashing and swirling of the fishes body, as it breached the waters surface. The water was propelled into the air, fins, splashes and a sole tail was all that could be seen within this mass of aquatic confusion. The fish tried to run once again, but lack of strength and denial of line held him steadily within arms length. I slowly reached around for my net, fastened at my side on a quick release clip. Smoothly bringing the net up from underneath the fish, and as soon as it was seen by the fish the whirlwind of splashing pursued. Another run! An even more failed attempt to free it's lip from the bond between fish, fly and man for the fight was truly over. The fish once denied this final flee, gently floated within the waters surface. I lifted the rod tip up once again, the fly slightly pulled above the surface film bringing along the head of the fish. As I slide my net under the fish once again, the golden eyes of the fall fish peered into my soul. Lips gasping for air while tail still resided within the water, I completed the netting of my worthy adversary. My net protruding underneath and past the fish's tail and in a smooth stroking scoop, I lifted the fish from his aquatic realm. A few wiggles of the body as the fish resided within my net, as I carried the brute out of the deep pool and closer to the shallow water of the bank. I laid my rod, net and fish down within the water, only a couple of inches deep just deep enough the gills would be covered and the fish could breath. Now I can admire this beauty. A bow of a fall fish! A king of its kind! His lips slowing opening and closing, reentering the oxygen within his body that was stolen throughout our fight. His yellow eye seemed locked on mine, following every slight movement of my hands. His large, silver scales glistened in the sunlight. Shining like a knight with armor on as his scales seemed more reflective when wet.  Briefly my mind wonders thinking of the trials this fish had faced to live this long and to grow this big. What has this fish seen in the years of it's life, and how many other aliens to his world have plucked him from the river as I have and held him within their hands. The mystery and wonder is quickly halted by my compassion for the fish itself. Concerned for the safety and well being of the fish that is that of a speedy recovery became the prevailing act at hand. So quickly I removed my fly, held him deeper within the water to let him breath a little, propelled him one final time above his aquatic kingdom, snapped a quick photo of this amazing fall fish. And waded back down within the depths of the pool fish in hand. I held the silvery god there, allowing the cool, crisp current to revive the life within his fins. One hand on belly, the other on tail as not to let him get swept away potentially afflicting further harm if he was not ready to swim and was battered against rapids and rocks. So I stood there, fish in hand the emerald waters of the pool surrounding us. Time stood still, I rocked the fish back and forth very slowly as if cradling a newborn baby and rocking him to sleep. Back and forth, back and forth the motion and the flow of the water across his body seemed to be the remedy. For a brief second I felt his scaly body stiffen up, the tip of his nose began to wiggle. And with a flash and a splash from the tail, he released himself from my grasp sliding across my palm and back to his freedom. I rose up, watching him drift across the rocks like a dream. Slowly fading with distance and depth, until my friend could no longer be seen within the emerald pool.

I waded to the edge of the bank picked up my rod and gear and decided to head home. Proud and honored with my encounter on this rivers eve, satisfied enough with the balance I struck between nature, man and fish that I was content enough to let all other potential receptive fish be free for the night. To rest within their kingdom, and greet the king who has returned. Now to many this encounter may be silly, that to be excited for the battle of a fall fish, a junk fish be anything but a nuisance in their pursuit of a worthy trout. I have no begrudging, only a sense of pity. For I feel that then they have truly lost something that is the essence of the fishing experience, the bond between a fish and a man. The feeling of their souls connected however briefly through a line and a fly. The magic that the river has to offer. And while one day I dream of moving up in the fly fishing world, on to more challenging endeavours and bigger fish. Possibly a life's dream of mine, of one day fishing a great northern stream casting a spey rod and fighting a gigantic salmon. I will always remember and hold dear in my heart my adventures on the gunpowder. My evenings on the river, fighting fall fish...

A River Rescue

So lately I've just been busy unable to find the time to be on the water, to be inspired by the beauty and wonder of all my local river has to offer. I feel a need and a desire to post something though so I thought it be an appropriate time to tell you all a story from my past. Many of my close followers have heard this story already but since I started my blog I feel obligated to share it on here as well.

Now when I say my past this event that took place really just happened this past spring. But when one frequents the gunpowder river as much as I do the minutes become hours, the hours become days, the days flow into weeks, the weeks into months and the months broken down into seasons. All my excursions on the river are so precious to me and with to many to count between now and last spring. It feels a lot longer ago then it actually was.

One day in early spring right after the winter snows had melted and the frequent sunny days began to warm the water temps. I decided to strike out across the fields on the farm I live on and hit the water. So I grabbed my rod, put on my waders, and invited my dog (a 120 lb male german shepherd) Manassas to join me as he frequently does. So we walked through the fields, through the woods, and sloped down the banks to the emerald river. We reached a spot that was familiar to me with some deep pools on the opposite side that I knew from experience held some big fish. Now rather than wade right in the river there for fear of spooking the fish, I decided to cross over to the other side, walk upstream along the bank, and wade back downstream into the deep pool. So off we went, now here is where I should've been more cautious for as I said it was spring, the days were getting warmer, we recently had allot of flooding in this section of the river and the banks in this section are mostly dirt and silt. So Manassas and I waded across downstream and got up on the bank slipping and sliding, small footprint sized sections collapsing into the water as I got up out of the water itself (which should've been a warning to me) so then Manassas and I started walking upstream along the bank. We reached the spot where the deep pool was and I foolishly thought ill just walk to the edge of the bank to see if I happen to see any bows swimming around (now the bank I'm standing on was ten feet above the rivers surface and what I didn't know at the time was the edge I was about to walk out on was severely undercut from all the flooding) so simultaneously as soon as I crept to the banks edge a huge section of the bank gave way, probably fifteen feet in length, plummeting myself and the massive landslide right within the deep pool of the river.

Immediately when the shock of falling was over I found myself sinking (very quickly) I had no footing, couldn't touch any surface of river bottom with my feet. And trying to kick in a massive dirt, becoming silt, becoming mud, becoming like quicksand the act only seemed to quicken my descent into the depths of the river. I fell forward onto my stomach deciding to try to actually use the action of swimming to reach some form of solid bank. But I was unable to move my legs in the proper motion, my waders quickly started to fill with the muddy water mix. And now my upper body began to be sucked down under the surface. Panic struck, my arms and head were the only things left above the mud. I tried desperately! frantically to grasp what looked like a more solid clump of back residing amongst the water and mud in front of me, but it was just beyond my fingertips length. My head began to sink, spitting out mud, trying to gain one solid last breath of fresh air as my lips, my eyes went under the surface. My arms outstretched towards the heavens, pleading! praying! panicking! That this was not the way I was going to die! Fear and sadness overwhelmed me, the final image of my wife's face flashed across my mind and I began to give up!

Just then the thud of a foreign object above the mud's surface near my forearms kind of snapped me back in reality. Within an instant like a flash I began feeling pounding, beating against my arms! Scratches from the paws of my dog, frantically swiping the mud away from my would be grave. It all happened so fast! But I remember the smacking of his paws against my arms at first. It seemed to clear away allot of the mud that eventually led down to my head. His paws continuously slapping against my head, my shoulders! And then its kind of a blur but then I remember the tugging began. Along with the tugging, a bite around the back of my neck that every now and again would pinch my skin and the hair on the back of my neck. I remember I could now breath! Spitting out mud and water from my mouth and at the same time I could breath, I guess my ears opened back up so I could hear the whining. For like a true old yeller, a modern day rin tin tin, my dog Manassas had jumped down to the solid section of bank in front of me, and dug, pawed, bitten on to, tugged and pulled me by my shirt collar as well as a chest fly pack I had on. Enough for me to use my own arms and grasp some solid roots, and pull myself (along with Manassas who never stopped tugging until I was more than up and safe of the solid bank) the feeling was unreal! I sat there in disbelief! The joy, the happiness, the great fullness I had in my heart for god and my dog for saving me from what could've been a terrible end. I laid there still frightened and exhausted, still in shock and disbelief by the act that had just happened. But I could focus on that aspect for long, for the next thing to follow was showering array of dog kisses! Whining, licking and rubbing his face and whole body against mine. Wincing, and nudging, trying to snuggle underneath me and show me I was his dominant master that he wanted to take his place along side me as a pack member. I hugged and kissed and returned the affection on all counts but he deserves all the credit and honor of being called the alpha male in our two boy pack.

Everything passed by the next couple of days with kind of a haze, a fog about it. My wife and I forever great full and with full intentions of spoiling our beautiful dog everyday for the rest of our lives. Our family has never been closer, it was something that changed us forever. And I pray I will never let down, never disappoint my best friend, my dog Manassas and never will I forget our day on that river, and a river rescue...

(The photo/graphic novel strip shown here is from the August issue of Outdoor Life Magazine, they did an interview with me and I told them the story of how Manassas saved my life)

To fling flies or arrows?

Saturday September 7th 7:06 am second day of Maryland archery season. The sun has just risen up over the tree line. The warm rays kiss my face and melt away the chill of the cold. I sit elevated twenty feet closer to god, concealed in this leafy canopy kingdom. The dropping of acorns can be heard throughout the forest, alongside the chirping of songbirds inspired by the morning sunrise. The two sounds are so different yet somehow blend together so well to form a forest symphony. I sit as one with the tree, a concealed camouflage stillness as if an extension of the trees limbs. I sit waiting for a deer, the lords and masters of this woodland realm. Hoping for the velvet racked king of this kingdom to by chance, fate, or luck walk down a trail that leads him my way. I sit here and with the hunter part that's inside of me I'm in heaven. Within this forest surrounded by all these sights and sounds of nature and wildlife, the fresh smell of the soil and the moss on the trees. The crisp air rising up the ridge line swirling, lifting the fog off the river's surface and ascending it towards the heavens.... alas the river. For as I sit here the battle within my heart, between the wood and the water begins. For there is another part of me, the fisherman. Sitting here within this tree, within eyesight of the emerald pools amongst the rocks and boulders. Only longing for the hour in which to descend from this skyline and immerse myself withing the current and flow of the river. Sitting here wishing I only had another type of stick and string within my hand. Wondering which trout I am missing rising to a fly, which pool and log jam is holding that golden speckled river beauty today. Longing to maneuver over the rapids and riffles and break my stone like stillness that numbs the limbs. Dreaming of the river in all it's glory. But for now I sit, the battle of the passions within my soul continues. A never ending struggle seems persistent with no resolution in sight. For when amongst the trees I dream of the river. When wading in the river I dream of the trees contemplating the deer, the massive river hill racked brute that will surely pass by as soon as my passion for fishing eludes the trees. These are the predicaments of a sportsman, the curse of a man who wants to experience it all. A lover of all things wild and free, must choose between river and tree, and to fling flies or arrows.

Reflections

A trout on the wall but forever in my heart

When I look at this mount, this fish up on my wall. Various contradicting emotions come to mind. Thoughts and feelings of pride, guilt, happiness and sadness. The nostalgic memoirs of a childhood come to life. A feeling of pride and excitement, a lingering emotion from a young boy long ago. For be it the first trout of size, a brute, a bow, a "wall hanger" I had ever caught. A childhood graced by the adventures of fishing and trout derby's (which one almost looked more forward to every year than their own birthday) every spring. Year in and year out this boy as he grew watched his family, his friends one by one successfully achieve the ultimate goal of a fisherboy hooking up and landing one of these beautiful stream trophies. Not in dismay nor jealousy, but in the admiration and dream of one day himself being the lucky lad whose powerbait ball or glob of worms might be accepting by the king of the stream and be honored to experience the fight of a lifetime on a simple spring creek. This boy still lives within me and a part of me will always still feel "giddy" and have a found memory of my fish up on the wall.

Now to the reality of it. Throughout the years I have grown emotionally, spiritually, and well literally. I have now become a fly fisherman, I have developed thoughts and feelings throughout my new outlook on the sport that makes the above text a sinful story in the eyes of fly fishing scholars. For if one looks at the black and white, the reality of the situation. There should be no honor in it. No sense of accomplishment, no sense of happiness should exist especially in the end result of a dead trout. For the stream was small, deep pools holding as many as up to fifty trout at a time. One could see the brutes, bloated breeders spent at the hatchery and expelled to the fate of the dinner plate or as the one that I had caught with so many others, a trophy on the wall. One could in parts simple step across the stream without any fear of getting wet. There was no adventure, no journey to take to reveal the hiding place of the fish. In hindsight one could describe the whole matter as a complete mess! A congested crowd of families, fathers, and children lining the banks thicker than the slight fog floating along the surface of the stream in the early morning light. At the sound of a whistle, hundreds of tossed lines flung in the same direction. Like an exploding spiderweb which usually ended in the same literal description. Through tangled lines if a trout was caught it usually ended in a child's tears. For the fish that rightfully be hooked on their line be stolen from an adversary on the opposite side of the bank. And all this ended in hundreds of murdered fish, trout flopping along the bank. Or hanging by the dozens on stringers, struggling for their life's breath.

Now as the new fly fisherman I am, this saddens me greatly. But as I said I have grown in many ways. And I'm smart enough now to see, admire, and respect the reality within the reality of it.

For these trout were solely raised for this purpose. They would never be smart enough nor physically tolerable enough to survive within the elements or along side the predators within a natural stream. The brutes were spent after years of the spawn and were most likely going to pass within the following season. So if these fish could be used for happiness to bring a smile across the face and the eyes of a child that would solely be enough. But possibly, as it did in me, if it inspired/instilled the love of trout and all the essence of fishing, stream conservation, and preservation of these aspects to protect these virtues for future generations, then it was worth all the effort involved. It became/was a tradition that many families in the area looked forward to year after year. And brought those families as well as the community together with faith, love and fishing rods in hand. And definitely most important to me it was an act of a fathers love. All the shenanigans and improper fishing ethics had its place in the heart and soul of a child, as it did for me. I didn't see it as any of the things at that age, wisdom and a sense of fishing ethics translates the experience to now. I simply saw it as an act of my fathers love for me. As well as many other sons and daughters did within the area. It became a tradition, an exciting feeling the night before. Like waking up Christmas mourning and running downstairs to view countless presents under the stream. One hurried holding their fathers hand to the edge of the bank to view a stream full of trout. These acts of a fathers love made me who I am today. They instilled the basis from which I've built on to make this modern day naturalist, conservationist, catch and release fly fisherman that I am today. Those actions and life lessons I will forever carry with me. And I'm reminded of them when I see my trout up on the wall that will forever be in my heart.

Fall, Around the bend...

The bright sunny summer days fade on the gunpowder, the scorching humidity of the afternoon reduces. One can again draw a full breath of the crisp cool river air. The mist and purity within the air seems to flow throughout my veins to every tip of my body. Filling every crevice of my lungs with that familiar sting of chilled freshness. The senses become heightened this time of year. What seemed like numerous smells of wonder from the forest hindered by the heat and humidity of summer, seem to appear more and more recognisable and frequent every day. Standing along the boulders of the bank, one can smell the rivers tide. The teeming life within it, one can almost smell the trout that lure you to step forward. To wade, to immerse yourself within the emerald pools to match your skill against that of their own. The air becomes different this time of year. It fades, no longer carrying the fire blazing breeze as if from the gates of hell itself. But it engulfs the fog floating along the waters surface, the song of the birds flying in the air. It's embedded with the colors of the changing trees, and it twirls around you dancing with your soul, mind and spirit. This is my kingdom, the gunpowder river in all its fall glory. Before the forest colors fade through this season right when all the colors of leaves are in collaboration, is definitely when the river reveals most of it's life. You can hear the silence and serenity this time of year. Almost hear every leaf break way from it's branch. One's anticipation grows for those days standing within the river's forests kissed by leaves on the surface of the skin, like snowflakes descending from heaven itself. The crisp, cool sensations fill the body with cold chills upon the skin. The anticipation for boots, jeans, hats, gloves and that old reliable fly jacket begin. The seasons are complete for it has returned to my favorite time of year. Fall is just around the bend I know, I can't wait for it to be here.

     

Nose Nymph

How bright, how beautiful you are
You honor me by accepting my fly
We dance, we play, within the river we reside
The ties that bind us, be a thin leader and line
I only pray I can bring you to hand,
That for a brief moment, I can call you mine
Your elegance, your grace, as you twirl within my grasp
One can only hope, this meeting we not be our last
But now my friend, our lives must part
My hand and admiration on you must cease
For the flowing trickle of the rivers grace
Is the life and serenity you seek
Dart, dive, my friend
Return to the emerald waters of your peace...

Salvation Through Trout

Fishing for me, used to conssist of tossing a glob of worms bigger than the hook itself into a stocked stream for the biggest bow i could see. Full intension on hanging the brute on the wall, a display to my brethern of my "manliness" my acomplishment.
A boastful bragging right i possesed that in hindsight im ashamed of.There was no respect for nature nor fish, there was no honor in it. For years i continued this path, always thinking there was something missing. Something better, but for fear of being out of the norm my silence was kept. A hard outter shell created around the heart of this angler who died a little with each flopping fish along side the bank. And so was my angling experiance for years and my love and passion for fishing lost somewhere along the way.

Until by chance, possibly fate one day in the pursuit of another bragging right. Another badge of recognition and approval from my outdoorsy social club i stumbled upon the sport of fly fishing. And through this, in time i have "reveald" the "art" of fly fishing to myself. Slowly but steadily through hours of reading and researching. Through trial and error and countless excursions on the water and with each trout caught i was transformed. Each time i stepped into the water, it seemed to wash away a layer of the hard exterior for years that i had surrounded myself with. Each new challenge an accomplishment taught to myself, seemed to reinstate that confidence in self that was lost somewhere along the way. The sights and sounds of the river melted away the goal in my eyes of having only to take something from this world and display it on a wall in my humanly one. Each sunrise over the ridge line, that warmed the skin from the cool crisp night air of the river. Reinstated a warmth within the soul of me. A glow, a flicker of that flame of passion that seemed so lost long ago.

Ode to trout...
The most rewarding concept to this sport, this passion, this art, this lifestyle is the trout. The object most pursued, or possibly not pursued at all, within this sport. A trout that takes your fly is the most rewarding experience that I've ever had throughout my entire life. A simple thing as a trout, beautiful wild, weary, agile and illusive has saved my life. A trout, has restored that young boys forgotten love and passion for all things wild and free. A trout, has redefined my view and knowledge on the virtues of love, respect, honor, loyalty, obligation, passion, and commitment within sportsmanship. The act of matching ones skill, all the knowledge you have taught yourself embodied and presented within a single fly and the perfect cast. And to have a wild trout accept that, to be convinced into thinking that your perfection on something artificial is something it sees and is apart of its everyday life is the greatest feeling of accomplishment. But that is but one part of it, to accept your fly and then battle and test your angling skills amongst its physical maneuverability within the water in which it knows every nook and cranny in which to allude you and escape is another sense of accomplishment. To battle a trout, truly battle, not just reel in a line having your modern equipment compensate for human error in which other wise would result in a lost fish. But to play the fish, to embark within that delegate dance between yourself the trout and the current. To watch his beautiful colors glide across the rocks and boulders, can only be described as watching a sunrise or perhaps a rainbow unfold. To play the trout and at just the right moment of fatigue as not to harm the fish any further or hinder a swift recovery, you bring that beautiful trout in hand to relish in all its glory. One stands, squats, or crouches there amongst the current, rocks, trees and river surrounding, producing such a wonder, such a vibrant specimen within your hands. To ponder the story of the fish, to ponder its wild life and the trials that faced it that led him to accept your fly. To relish in its beauty and get lost in its majestic ness for a moment one feels fully in tune with its world. And then to place it back within it's kingdom. To let it reside within your palm until it's strength has revisited its body and spread to every tip of it's fins. And allow the trout to decide when it is ready to discard your presence, and with the flick of a tail and the twist of the body glide off into the emerald depths from which it rose. That is the ultimate sense of rewarding accomplishment that I have discovered within the art of fly fishing. That I can outsmart, admire, and release a trout unharmed back into its natural wild environment. That concept has redefined my life. That concept and all its attributes have restored my faith, love and confidence within myself, god, other people and the wilderness. It is something I refer to as...
My Salvation Through Trout...

You can teach a new dog old tricks...

I am fairly new to fly fishing, I have only been practicing the art for three years now. In no way do I claim or call myself a master. If you want to read a blog about catching hundreds of fish, giant trophies, or boastful accounts and decrees of terminology and skillfulness than one need not read on with my words. For I am a dreamer, I speak of what I feel be it right or wrong. My words are inspired by my surroundings and my experiences and I apologize for none of them. I wear my heart on my sleeve and the tip of my line.
That being said I truly love this sport! Its something that is completely mine, something I discovered and taught myself. A bond between myself, nature, god and trout that only we understand. Life is tough and unforgiving but all those worries seem to fade when I'm on the river searching for a trout, or perhaps myself.
Ever since I became a fly fisherman I have been completely fascinated with "vintage" or antique fly gear and equipment. But up until now I've been a collector not a partaker. But my old fashionedness recently got the better of me and I took up my old 60's glass rod, old teton fly reel and old cortland sylk fly line and hit the water. Determined to discover if this art, this sport, that can humble even the most expert angler with the most modern equipment can be accomplished with the tools from the days of old.
I have never felt a truer, purer, more rewarding experience in all my life. To be standing in the river, a kingdom from which men, lords and masters of the fly in the past once waded and fished for the same wild fish that spawned forth the same wild weary trout I match my skill against today. And to be connected to them on that median, of fishing with the same tools I toss my flies with today as they did years ago. I have never been more honored and humbled in all my life. I may not catch as many fish as if I used a modern rod, reel and line. But I promise the memory of each one I land and hold in my hand with my old glass rod in the other, will last an eternity within my heart, soul, and mind.