Hide & Seek

And another little guy who's trying to hide from the camera...

There's a first for everything

First trout on the new (old) reel and on my complete vintage eagle claw outfit!

A Hunchback Brown From The Gunpowder River

A Beautiful Gunpowder Wild Brown Trout

The Magic Between Man And Trout

Back and forth, back and forth... the rod within my palm flexes. The extension of my forearm bending with each stroke over and over. The tip of my rod whistling through the air slightly, the vibration created and shot down the core of the rod residing within the core of the cork handle I grip gently tighter with my palm. I wave the six and a half foot fiberglass rod in the air, yielding it like a sword. Yet with grace and understanding of its delicate purpose. Gentle enough to resemble an artist painting a skyline canvas within the atmosphere. The cork within my right hand transforms my thoughts, contemplating the past artists who held her before me. Of past noble fisherman in whom she graced their skill and rewarded their patience with the gift of a trout. What trade of man, whose palms once gripped her body, did these men call their lively hood. For a brief second my mind drifts off... back to the task at hand, the perfect cast.

I glance down and witness the figure on the waters surface a man, a rod, a reel, a line and a fly. I smile creeps across my face feeling a pure connection to the past with the old rod in hand. A sense of serenity and an acknowledgment within myself that this was the life a man was meant to live. To be amongst nature, doing that in which he loves. Testing daily his skills against a worthy adversary in an element of nature. My left hand holding coils of sylk line gently upon my fingertips. With each stroke of the rod, every back cast pulling a little more line off the reel and allowing it to slide off my fingers and through the rod guides on every forward cast. The clicking of the reel as line is stolen from its spool seems to resonate within the valley. The evening air crisp and cool returning the echo of the clicker to my ears. The line's shadow and reflection upon the waters surface grows with each repeated step. With every click, and every slight whistle of line flowing through my fingertips, sliding across and out the rod guides, expelled forth within the air. The line's loop reflection grows longer and longer creating a mirror effect of what's happening within the skyline. I stand there within the river false casting, patiently anticipating the right moment. Calculating the right amount of line to unspool,  the right distance needed to achieve the place where my eyes have fixated. A perfect pool of water, the hope that it may hold a trout. The faith that casting there again and again, as long as my cast is flawless and goes undetected, will entice a fish to rise. The calculations and adrenaline of the anticipated fight ahead seem to boil the blood. Seem to cause a slight series of beads of sweat, like a small chain of pearls, to spring forth upon my brow line. "Wait!" "Wait!" I tell myself "calm down" relax in the moment, fixate on the river, and the enjoyment of this space and time. The adrenaline loosens it's grip upon my spirit, the sweat upon the skin seems to evaporate as the body cools in the calmness and stillness of the chilled river current. The breath from my lungs expelling the last bits of anxiousness in a puff of white fog as it reacts with the frozen evening air. The sun begins it's decent over the treeline, once standing immersed within it's warmth. I now reside within the shade of the hills, eyes glancing now and again at my rod tip. Still graced with the warmth of the sun. Line dancing in and out of the shadow and light with every stroke. The spot where I believe withholds a trout, the calm pool behind a boulder amongst the rapids and riffles becomes fixated within my eyes. Like tunnel vision the spot becomes clearer and the tree lines and banks along the side seem to blur.

The anticipated moment and the false casting loop length I've created gives birth to a majestic forward cast. Arms, rod, hands, reel and body snapping into action to produce and extended forward plane. A rapidly unravelling loop expelled forward. Unrolling from tip of rod to tip of line. Sailing fast through the air like a bullet yet with enough grace embodied within it as to yet be compared to that of a feather floating downward from the heavens. Forearms outreached rod in my left hand and a couple coils of line in my right reside there in front of me. Watching the magic and grace of my forward cast. Continuously outreached as a symbolic gesture, a plea to the spirit of the trout who inhabit the river to grace me with a rise. Time seems to stand still for a second as the final loop in the line turns over leader and fly in a single solemn motion. Decelerating in speed as line lays out from tip of rod, now lowered upon the water's surface, to tip of line the decrescendo ceasing as leader and tippet turn over. The final step of the perfect cast is complete as my fly descends from the sky and softly places itself upon the magic pool. A small ripple from the placement can be seen. The acknowledgement of my accomplishment I allow myself to relish in for a second, relaxing the stiff stone like stance I possessed as my fly was presented to the river goddess herself. I allowed my outreached arms to cease their pose like that of making an offering to a god, and melt them slowly against my sides.

I watched my fly dance upon the rivers surface the tippet pulled in and out again of the small pool by the rapids at it's side. My fly twirling upon the surface film hackle and feathers remaining true to keep it dancing and dry. The rise of a trout!!! The small tip of the nose breaks the waters surface accepting the fly, swallowing river and fly in one swift sip rippling the waters surface film ceasing as quickly as it appeared. Like a lightning strike, in the blink of and eye, my body reacts arms expelled from my body towards the sky. Rod propelled, ascended towards the heavens, bringing line plunging forth from the river. Accelerated by the rod tip leaving a mist like spray of a water trail as it accelerates from water to air. Faster and faster the line is cast upwards, leader to follow, tippet then a halt! The abrupt stop is all to familiar with me, for be it a fall fish,  a creek chub the fish would've surely assailed forth into the air with my intrusive plunge from the river. But no, the line held stead fast like hooked to a rock in the river, it was a trout! The immediate run downward to the sanctuary of the river bed confirmed my pondering. The tension of the pull accelerated from the depth of the river, running through the line, down the rod and was absorbed by the handle and my palm. I could almost feel the hook set in as the trout made his flee from this masqueraded insect, the deception of my fly. I had a fight! He ran and dove, leaping forth within the air, each time in an elastic furry of twisting, rolling and thrusting his body trying to set his jaw free from the hook. A spray of air was cast forth each time like aquatic bombs were being released just below the river's surface. Upstream, downstream he ran, each time my triumph gain of line was abruptly ceased by another powerful run. Stealing my trophy in which I had just achieved in every plunge back down towards the gravel bed. The sweat drew on my neck line, the adrenaline increasing with every leap that may shake loose my fly. I kept my rod accelerated in the air, raising and lowering it from the left to the right to match his actions. Dancing with him amongst the pools and boulders, like playing a game of chess with him. Each move careful planned and thought out before it was executed upon the board of the river. I waded forward and backward, every once and awhile catching a glimpse of color as he bolting past me, unwilling yet to yield and give up his fight. I played the line with my right hand, mending and stripping with every resting phase and re-energized run. At last a breach! With the slowing of the fight, the weakening of his body, the diminishing use of his agility I was able to entice the trouts head out of the surface of the water using the elevated tip of my rod. Filling his lungs with air (or lack there of) to complete the final ceasing of his resistance. He wiggled and tried one last final run but my forefinger held the line tight against the cork, denying this final attempt to be free. He resided within the current gently floating on his side, his beautiful colors radiant, glistening within the water. Bobbing there his face elevated just out of the waters surface, propelled in the air with my fly in his lip and line in the air. I gently moved my net under him. Completely and slowly capturing the brute from tail to head.  Once again his figure began to twirl, twist and wiggle now trying to free his whole body from this foreign webbing that restricts his movement. That holds and plunges him forth from the water, a captive, no longer residing within his world.

The trout was surely a beauty his colors shown bright, beaming spots of different variety's like all the vast stars within the universe. His fins were radiant, resembling his power within the fleeting moment of the past fight. And his eyes were pure, I'm sure astonished and frightened by this terrestrial figure crouched over him now, fear and mystery embracing his sole not knowing the outcome of the next passing moments. The life disappearing from his gills as he gasps for breath, and so my next actions must be swift and gentle. I remove the hook slowly from his lip and gently slip my hands underneath his belly, he rocks back and forth upon my palms. I raise him up as if carrying a newborn child cradling him close as not to drop him from his resistance upon the gravel and rocks. I lower him and ease his gills back within the river, at last a breath! I move one hand backward holding him now with palm under belly and palm secured around his tail as to not let him slip away in the current before all the strength regains his fins. I crouch there in admiration of this river beauty, rocking him back and forth within the tide. Allowing the crisp, cool water to flow over his body, inviting him to come and play again amongst the pools and riffles. I feel him tense up, slow back and forth wiggles seem to come from the depths of his soul. His head first swaying back and forth and then in a sudden outburst and splash of water sprung forth into the air. His body and tail flick and twist free from my grasp. He sails off, gliding upon the surface film, slowly deeper and deeper as he returns to his aquatic home. Amongst the depths, rocks, and boulders he disappears a brief memory within my mind now. I stand up above the waters surface, the water that briefly graced his presence still dripping off my fingertips. And I stand there knowing that I just experienced something special, something that'll bring me back to the river again and again. Something that I can only describe as the magic between man and trout...

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.