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...